The Night of the Swarm

35

‘Just bring it, Hercol.’

Thasha plunged down the Silver Stair, not once looking back. From her tone Pazel knew she expected to be obeyed. He and Neeps raced after her, fighting through the press of sailors dashing to their stations. Over the drums and the bellowing of the officers, Neeps said, ‘She’s right this time. We all wanted her to drink off the wine, save herself from the poison. She said a day might come when we needed her to use the Nilstone again. Well this is the day, mate.’

Just before they entered the ladderway, Pazel felt Neeps grip his arm. The tarboy was gazing off to starboard at the dark shape of Gurishal. Or rather, above it.

‘By the Pits, mate: those are stars!’

Pazel’s heart leaped at the sight: ten, no, twelve stars, exquisitely normal, unbearably lovely, from a patch of naked sky. After a moment Pazel’s eyes could make out the edge of the gap, round and ragged, in the fabric of the Swarm.

‘That’s a big hole,’ he said. ‘More than a hundred miles, I expect.’

Neeps looked at him soberly. ‘It’s big. . unless it’s all that’s left. Unless the rest of the world is already under the Swarm.’

Pazel snorted, incredulous. Then he looked at the gap again, and shivered. Neeps could be right. But if that hundred-mile hole was all that remained, why would it just happen to be here, so close to them? Could the Swarm be avoiding Gurishal by some sort of instinct? He remembered how it had leaped from the River of Shadows in the heart of the Forest, at the moment Arunis brought it into the world. And there on Gurishal the River surfaced again, before it poured into death’s kingdom. Could that portal be exerting some force that actually pushed the Swarm away? And if so, what effect might it have on the Nilstone?

Such questions would have to wait, he knew. They fought their way down the Silver Stair to the upper gun deck. Somewhere in the crowd, the Mzithrini commander was shouting: ‘Why this panic? We are three warships, and she cannot manoeuvre with her back to the cliffs! Is the maukslar so very deadly?’

Neeps and Pazel stepped through the invisible wall and raced along the aft-leaning corridor to the stateroom. Most of their friends were already here. Thasha had gone straight to her cabin, leaving the door ajar.

‘Macadra!’ shrilled Felthrup. ‘She is every bit as vile as her brother! But is she mindless, too? Can she be blind to the abomination above us?’

‘No,’ said Ramachni, from the bench by the gallery windows, ‘but perhaps she believes that with the Nilstone in hand she can simply banish the Swarm. If so, she is deluded. The Swarm is close to swallowing Alifros, as a snake gulps down an egg. No spell will affect it now.’

‘But how did they manage to repair the Death’s Head so quickly?’ asked Marila. ‘They needed two masts just for starters.’

‘They did not act quickly,’ said Kirishgan. ‘Don’t you see, Marila? The sorceress needed only to choose a better moment than we did to plunge through the gap in the Red Storm. It was weakening, after all. For every day she waited, she could expect to reach this side earlier, not later. The Death’s Head may have spent a month in some sheltered harbour in the Island Wilderness, cutting and fitting those masts, and yet arrived well ahead of us.’

‘They made short work of the Mzithrini patrols boat, in any case,’ said Bolutu. ‘Who knows? Perhaps they have driven the Shaggat’s worshippers inland, if there were any nearby.’

‘Or enlisted them,’ said Neeps.

Pazel moved to the gallery windows. The Arrowhead Sound. It was a great fjord, wide at its mouth but narrowing as it pierced the towering cliffs of southwest Gurishal. And right in the mouth of the fjord stood the Arrowhead itself: a truly monstrous stone, the size of five hundred Chathrands. It had evidently once been part of Gurishal, for it stood as tall as the cliffs. But the rock had eroded from the waves upwards, leaving the base much thinner than the crown. The arrow was balanced on its tip.

He thought of his sister’s words. The rock that ought to fall, but doesn’t. The place the old masters went to die.

And from atop the Arrowhead, he knew, the maukslar was watching them. It had flown there, clutching a half-eaten Mzithrini sailor, when the burning patrol ship finally sank. You could see the demon plainly through a telescope, though not with the naked eye. The Chathrand stood four miles out, and Fiffengurt was keeping them here until they chose their next move. Pazel could see the Death’s Head, however. She stood at anchor beneath that massive stone, as though tempting fate. They could not possibly enter the sound without confronting her.

Hercol arrived and made at once for Thasha’s chamber. Pazel and the others followed. Thasha had opened the outer door of the hidden cabinet. The bottle of Agaroth wine stood on her desk beside the Polylex. On her bed lay the two halves of Big Skip’s steel box and the gauntlets from Ularamyth. Thasha looked straight at Hercol and held out her hand.

Reluctantly, Hercol passed her the silver rod. Neeps was right: they had no choice but to prepare. Thasha had used the Nilstone twice already and survived. Once more and it would all be finished: the wine, the poison, the temptation.

Thasha turned the key in the round hole, then seized the handle and gave a fierce tug. With a shriek of metal the iron slab slid out into the room.

Everyone winced: the Nilstone was throbbing, blazing with an energy so fierce it was like the heat of a bonfire. And yet there was no heat. Pazel shielded his eyes. Was it because they were so near their goal, so near the end of the River of Shadows, so close to death’s kingdom? Was the Nilstone reaching out for the land it came from?

Thasha returned the key to Hercol and put on the gauntlets. ‘What do you mean to do, Thasha?’ asked Felthrup.

‘Show Macadra the Stone,’ said Thasha. ‘If she clears out I’ll let her go. But if she so much as aims one cannon our way, I’ll hit the Death’s Head so hard she’ll have nothing left to repair.’

‘Alas for my brothers aboard,’ said Bolutu. ‘Some of them serve only out of fear or hunger, I expect.’

‘Like soldiers everywhere,’ said Kirishgan. ‘But Lady Thasha, hear me a moment. Macadra will have mighty telescopes, and things more powerful than telescopes, trained on us. I do not think you should show her the exact location of the Nilstone.’

‘Kirishgan’s right,’ said Pazel. ‘Remember the Promise. She wants to take the Stone, not sink it to the sea floor. That may be the only reason she hasn’t-’

A howl cut him off: a cry of abject terror from the topdeck, on five hundred throats.

‘It’s started,’ said Hercol simply, leaping for the stateroom. The others followed. Through the gallery windows, Pazel saw that a ball of red fire had risen from Macadra’s ship. It was hurtling towards them, slower than a cannonball but still very fast, illuminating the black underbelly of the Swarm.

‘Away, away from the windows!’ howled Felthrup. ‘Thasha, call your dogs!’

Neeps was standing on the window bench. ‘Get down from there, idiot!’ screamed Marila, hauling at his arm. Neeps tugged his arm fiercely away.

‘Look! That ball’s off-target. It’s going to miss us by a mile. Unless-’

The fireball screamed by the Chathrand to portside. There came a boom and a blinding flash. Literally blinding: Pazel groped forward, seeing nothing but white-hot stars. As his vision returned he saw that someone had thrown open the door to the reading room, which had a view to portside. Through the doorway he saw the Mzithrini ship in flames. The ball, it seemed, had exploded against her stern.

The ship was devastated. Her sternpost split in two. The decks above the waterline were pulverised; the quarterdeck collapsed into the inferno below. Already the sea was gushing in through the shattered hull.

Oh Gods. All those people.

There were two hundred men on the Mzithrini ship.

‘Now we know what happened to all those Mzithrini patrols,’ said Marila.

Thasha looked Pazel straight in the eye. Her face was set, her look beyond fury. She removed the selk gauntlets, let them fall to the floor.

He almost stopped her, almost said Wait — but how could he? The next target would be the Nighthawk. What exactly were they waiting for?

They followed her back into the cabin. Thasha lifted the bottle from her desk and stepped in front of the pulsing Nilstone. Then she tore open the stopper, tilted the bottle to her lips and drank it dry.

Her gaze softened. She lowered the bottle and passed it to Marila. In the sudden silence Pazel heard Fiffengurt giving orders for a rescue operation. Thasha placed a hand on her chest.

‘I’m. . cured,’ she said. ‘The poison is gone. I can feel it.’

Pazel threw his arms around her, undone with relief.

‘And if I touch the Stone again, I will die.’

The feeling of doom that gripped Pazel in the next few minutes was unlike anything he could recall. The dregs of the Agaroth wine had done their work, but had given Thasha no last moment of fearlessness. She would never use the Nilstone again — not as Thasha, at any rate. And now they were helpless. Macadra had weapons they could never hope to match, and the maukslar as well. Pazel glanced at Neeps and saw an echo of his own shame. They had never admitted it, but they had counted on Thasha to save them once more.

‘Say nothing about this,’ urged Hercol. ‘Let the men hope: if they cease to, we are finished.’

They sealed the Nilstone in the cabinet and returned to the topdeck. All was mayhem. Eight or ten lifeboats were already in the water, and the rowers were pulling with all their might for the Mzithrini ship, already more than half submerged. ‘Hard to port, Elkstem, bring us up behind them,’ shouted Fiffengurt. ‘Mr Coote, the Nighthawk is following in our lee! Where’s your blary signal?’

‘Already sent, Captain. They ain’t listening, is all.’

‘Gods damn the old fool!’ bellowed Fiffengurt. ‘Does he want his people killed as well?’ Then, seeing Thasha, he cried, ‘Get up here, Missy, and show yourself to your father! He’s watching us through a scope this very minute. Wave him off, for Rin’s sake, before Macadra fires on the Nighthawk. One more boat can’t help us now.’

Still in shock, Thasha hauled herself up the ladder. She took the signal-flags from Coote and mimicked his Desist and withdraw signal, her movements jerky, her face a blank. But the Nighthawk held its position, cannon at the ready, men-at-arms upon her deck.

The rescue effort, meanwhile, was well underway. The first lifeboats were already reaching the Mzithrinis. Dlomu had swum ahead of them, seeking out the wounded and the weakening, pulling them towards the boats. And now the Chathrand herself was drawing near. Jervik was standing by with a stretcher-team. Accordion-ladders snaked down the hull.

Then the Death’s Head fired again.

‘Cover, cover, fore and aft!’ howled Fiffengurt.

The fireball rose from Macadra’s ship. But once again they were not the target. ‘That one’s for the Nighthawk!’ shouted Coote.

It was all so swift. The fireball closed. Thasha cried out, the sound of a heart breaking if Pazel had ever heard it. And then, explosions — eight, twelve, sixteen cannon, booming from the stern windows of the Arquali warship.

Mere yards from the Nighthawk, the fireball disintegrated. Its flame swept on, parting like water around both sides of the hull. But it had not exploded. It had been torn to bits, and the Nighthawk emerged from the short bath of fire apparently unscathed.

‘What happened?’ cried Ensyl, from Hercol’s shoulder.

‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘Grapeshot! The admiral filled his stern chasers with grapeshot, and took that blary projectile apart! Rin’s gizzard, he’s a tough old bird!’

The ‘old bird’ did not need more urging to withdraw, however. As Thasha wept with relief, the Nighthawk’s mainsails rose and billowed, and the warship began to glide away from shore.

Pazel turned to face the Arrowhead, and the small, menacing shape that was the Death’s Head. One ship had been driven off, another destroyed. And Macadra’s vessel hadn’t even moved.

Corporal Mandric appeared on the quarterdeck. ‘Captain,’ he said to Fiffengurt, ‘my sergeant’s advice is that we fall back too. Approach Gurishal from somewhere else, get the Nilstone ashore that way, carry it overland to this death-portal, wherever it is.’

‘No, Mandric, we cannot withdraw,’ said Ramachni. ‘Have you forgotten how Dastu taunted us at the beginning? How he said that even those who studied Gurishal, and lived here, had never heard of that portal? We have no time to go searching, to fight our way up cliffs and through mountains, to say nothing of battling the Nessarim. It is darker today than yesterday. Tomorrow, the darkness may be complete. And remember that Macadra, too, must act before the Swarm kills us all. I do not think she will permit us to sail away.’

Ramachni looked at Hercol, Fiffengurt, and the youths in turn. Pazel gazed into his black eyes, breathed deep, and nodded.

‘Captain-’ he said.

‘Save your breath, Pathkendle, I understand,’ said Fiffengurt. Then, raising his voice to a roar: ‘Mr Elkstem, bring us around if you please. Fegin, Coote, to your stations, and lit matches on the gun decks. This is it, gentleman: we go forward, or we go down.’

They were a ship of lunatics, thought Pazel, and so much the better for it. The men perhaps only dimly grasped what they hoped to do in the Arrowhead Sound. But they knew the goal — to wipe away that hideous cloud — and they knew that death alone would follow, if they failed.

He and Neeps helped set the mizzen topsail. The Chathrand turned neatly, despite her wallowing stern, and began to plough straight for the Death’s Head. From four miles out, it appeared that they could enter Arrowhead Sound on the opposite side of the great rock, avoiding Macadra altogether. But that would only have told the sorceress that she had nothing to fear — and a bluff, Hercol noted grimly, might be their only chance.

‘But is it even a chance?’ Neeps whispered to Pazel, tightening the sword-belt he had just strapped about his waist. ‘Last time Thasha was here with the Nilstone in her hand, and Macadra saw her, sure as Rin makes rain.’

‘I know,’ said Pazel, sliding his own sword half out of its sheath. ‘This may not fool anyone, but there’s nothing else we can do, unless we bring Thasha up on deck waving a pumpkin.’

The tarboys were on the forecastle, gazing straight ahead. Thasha had agreed to stay below until the charge was over. As it would be, soon: the Chathrand was gaining speed. And now at last the Death’s Head too was spreading canvas. Macadra had no intention of being pinned down against the cliffs. She was sailing out to meet them.

Three miles between the ships, now. Fegin blew his whistle, hustling a crowd of gawking steerage passengers below. Lady Oggosk stood alone by the mainmast, the high wind tearing at her hair and shawl. Refeg and Rer, for once, were already on deck, pacing, breathing like bulls. Someone had had the foresight (and courage) to wake them. Niriviel wheeled in circles overhead.

Pazel glanced around the deck. ‘Where’s your wife, mate?’

Neeps jumped, looked at him sharply.

‘Pitfire, what’s the matter with you?’ said Pazel. ‘Didn’t you marry her? Didn’t you want to?’

‘Don’t talk rubbish. Of course.’ But Neeps’ voice was bitter, and his eyes were cross. After a moment, he said, ‘If you had to die for someone — no, forget that. If you had to die next to someone, are you sure you know who you’d choose?’

‘Yes.’

Pazel’s certainty did not help his friend at all. ‘Well good for you, damn it, but I’m not such a — never mind, you can’t — oh, Gods damn it.’

Neeps shut his mouth. Two miles. Pazel went to Hercol and borrowed his telescope. There were dlomic soldiers crowding the deck of Macadra’s vessel, and standing thick upon her spars.

‘They could be an amphibious unit, like the ones we fought at Cape Lasung,’ said Hercol. ‘That would be one way of taking the Chathrand without sinking her.’

‘I guess we’ll know,’ said Pazel, ‘if they start diving into the sea. But that’s not what I’m worried about. Our stern is riding lower than ever. If they strike us there, who knows how fast we’d flood and sink? And it can’t be the crack in the keel that’s causing it — we’d already have sunk if the keel were that far gone. In fact we don’t have a clue why it’s happening.’

‘I have a clue — or a guess at least.’ said Ramachni. Pazel jumped: he had not heard the little mage approach.

‘Tell me, then,’ he demanded.

‘Later, Pazel. Right now, I must ask you to remember the clock. Thasha’s clock. If we should have to evacuate this ship, do not leave it behind. Remember that it belonged to my mistress.’

‘That’s a good reason to leave it behind,’ said Pazel.

‘Pazel,’ said Hercol.

‘Many things have failed to go as Erithusme hoped,’ said Ramachni, ‘but that does not mean that she acted without reason. She always had a reason.’

Pazel looked away. He could not bear to think of Erithusme. She was here, even now, a soul within Thasha’s soul. And she could save them, slap the Death’s Head away like a gnat. But it wouldn’t happen. A wall no one could see or touch or explain had thwarted her, and now they stood alone.

‘We will take it, Ramachni,’ said Hercol.

‘Good,’ said the mage. ‘And now I’d best be on my way.’

‘What?’ shouted Pazel. ‘You’re leaving now, by the festering Pits? Leaving us again?’

Ramachni just looked at him, unblinking. Then the cry went up: ‘The demon, the maukslar! It’s taken to the air!’

Pazel whirled. He could see it, a moving speck in the half-light, swooping towards them from the summit of the Arrowhead. When he looked for Ramachni again the little mink was gone, and a black owl was climbing into the sky above the Chathrand, making for the distant enemy.

‘I’m a blary idiot,’ he said aloud.

‘But we tolerate you somehow,’ said Hercol.

The maukslar was closing with frightful speed. Pazel could see the broad, leathery wings, the searchlight eyes, the sputtering glow of its fire-spittle. The owl that was Ramachni looked smaller and smaller as the two forms converged.

‘Motion on the Death’s Head,’ said Hercol, his eye to the telescope again. Then his voice rose to a warning howl. ‘Dlomu in the water! They’re diving, diving by the score! Ah, Denethrok, take cover! They’re aiming those Plazic guns!’

The warning swept the ship. There were curses and terror, but no panic: the men had left that emotion behind. Pazel and Hercol stood their ground. Above them, the maukslar spat a huge glob of liquid fire, straight at Ramachni, but some unseen power summoned by the mage parted the fire in a wedge to either side of him, and the owl flew on.

The maukslar gave a sinuous twist. Ramachni swerved in answer, but he was too late: the creature was past him, hurtling for the Chathrand. Behind him, Neeps was shouting: ‘Clear the deck, clear the mucking deck! It’s going to burn us to a crisp!’

Sudden flashes from the Death’s Head. Pazel and Hercol threw themselves flat as the thunder of cannon smacked the ship. But no fire or cannonball followed, no burning tar. Pazel rolled over to face the sky.

Oh, Gods.

Ramachni was diving, closing the gap. Even as Pazel watched he reached the maukslar, fanned his black wings — and exploded into eguar-form.

The maukslar screamed. The huge black reptile seized it with jaws and talons, and the two spun flailing in the air. No fire, demonic or otherwise, could harm Ramachni now. He tore at his foe, merciless and deadly. But he had not counted on the force of the maukslar’s own dive. They carried forward as they fell. Men screamed and dived for any cover they could find. The two creatures struck the deck just astern of the forecastle, like a bomb.

Fire and ruins were everywhere. Shrouds and bracelines snapped; the longboat was crushed like an eggshell; the jiggermast collapsed into the sea. The two foes roared, rolled, twisted, an impossible writhing mass of flame and fangs and talons and blood. Sailors ran for their lives, hurling themselves down the hatches, even leaping over the sides. Pazel, Neeps and Hercol stood pinned against the bowsprit. Suddenly Pazel recalled the mage’s words at Stath Balfyr, after the killing of the sharks: You must not depend on me if it comes to fighting again.

That was exactly what they were doing. But how could they help? The eguar’s fumes alone were so strong that men were dropping senseless at thirty feet.

The warring creatures rolled to the portside rail, splintering it to pieces, nearly toppling into the waves. Then the maukslar tore itself away from Ramachni and leaped upon the forecastle. Its tail crushed a sailor against the foremast, then wrapped around another and began to squeeze.

Hercol looked at Pazel, a strange twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re not a bad diver, Pathkendle,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Prove it again. Hold your breath.’

He took a great gulp of air and leaped to the attack. Terrified, Pazel knew he must find a way to do the same. He circled left. The maukslar was spitting fire at Ramachni, still below on the main deck, but its tail seemed to have a mind and malevolence all its own — that long, lethal tail which had plucked Big Skip from the bridge over the Parsua Gorge. The sailor tried to stab at the coils, but they tightened, crushing his chest. The tail let him drop and groped for another victim.

What it found was Ildraquin. Hercol brought the dark sword down in a flashing arc, biting deep into the flesh.

With an infernal scream the maukslar turned its fell eyes on Hercol. Bleeding but still serpent-quick, the tail circled his waist, raised him high and dashed him down against the deck. Hercol fought on even then, hacking with his one free hand.

Ramachni, seizing the moment, began to haul his elephantine body onto the forecastle. The maukslar tossed Hercol away and closed on him, hissing. Pazel saw his chance. He leaped once, twice, over the whiplash tail. Just as the maukslar crouched down to leap upon the eguar, Pazel stabbed downwards with his sword, two-handed, and pinned the demon’s tail to the deck.

The maukslar’s lunge fell short. Recoiling with a scream, it tore Pazel’s sword from the deck plank, struck him aside like a trifle, and spread its wings.

A roar. The eguar pounced. Its crocodilian jaws snapped shut on the demon’s snake-like neck. Its talons shredded the wings, then gripped the creature’s torso. It ripped. With a gush of black blood the maukslar’s neck parted from its body. It fought on, biting and snapping, as Ramachni thrashed it against the forecastle. At last the red eyes went dark, and the thing lay still.

Pazel fell on all fours, gagging. Everyone left alive on the forecastle was struggling to breathe. The eguar looked at the devastated ship, the burned and dying men. Its eyes turned last of all to Pazel. Then it leaped at him.

Pazel was knocked off his feet. The creature landed almost atop him, its toxic vapours like a blow to the stomach. Pazel’s vision dimmed. Ramachni, he thought. You’re killing me. Why?

A monstrous crack rent the air, followed by the pop and zing of snapped cables. The foremast fell and shattered across the eguar’s back.

The creature’s legs buckled. With a groan of agony, it shrugged off the mast to one side of Pazel. It was bleeding, black blood that sizzled where it fell. One white-hot eye passed over Pazel, Hercol, Neeps, the whole of the ruined ship. Then the eguar leaped over the starboard rail.

Pazel tried to stand up, and failed. He crawled, and burned his hands and knees. Then Hercol loomed over him, wheezing, bloody from scalp to shoulders. Pazel felt the warrior lift him and begin to stagger away. The two most terrible languages his Gift had forced on him — those of the eguar and the demon itself — were roiling and seething in his brain:

I will never (ITHAPRIGAL codex of hatred heartsblood burning blistered eater of life) speak another (IMGRUTHRIGORHIDISH realms of damnation codex of pain) word (CURMASINDUNIK nine Pits nine lairs nine soul-shattered Gods Arunis among them eater of worlds kill the fair kill the gentle the morning mountains minerals rivers forests insects oceans angels newborns hope) for as long as I (codex of misery) live.

Hercol slapped him. ‘Breathe, lad! Get that poison out of your lungs!’

Pazel gasped and bolted upright. The battle raged on. From the Death’s Head, bursts of fire were still leaping, and now the Chathrand had opened up with her own forward guns. Along the rails, Turachs and ordinary seamen — and Mzithrinis, by Rin — stood with pikes in hand, ready to repel boarders, gazing down into the waves. They looked hurt and tired. How many had just been killed?

He became aware that his whole body was one agonizing itch. He turned and saw Neeps beside him, reeking, vomit-covered. Simply disgusting.

‘Hold still.’

Someone began to douse him repeatedly with seawater. Feeling stronger, he looked up to see Swift and Saroo, his old antagonists, gazing down at him with concern.

‘I’m all right,’ he said.

The brothers looked at him, a bit shamefaced. ‘Yeah, Muketch, I reckon you are,’ said Swift. They leaned down and helped Pazel to his feet.

The Chathrand’s guns were deafening: Fiffengurt was throwing everything they had into the forward batteries. Still the Death’s Head came on: Pazel could see her white sails looming beyond the wreckage of the forecastle. ‘How many dlomu are attacking?’ Neeps bellowed in Swift’s ear.

‘Lots of ’em. Hundreds.’

Hundreds? Pazel looked at the ship’s defenders, strung out along the rail. Where was his own sword? No time for it: he found a cutlass in a tangle of rigging, the hilt still smeared with the blood of the man who’d dropped it. Then he pushed his way to the rail.

The sea was full of dlomu, swimming as only dlomu could. The fastest were already close to the Chathrand’s pitching hull. The Death’s Head, barely a mile off, was firing its regular guns, firing with a will. But something strange was happening: all the shots were falling hopelessly short. And some of the Chathrand’s defenders were putting down their pikes, and casting about the deck for other tools.

‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.

A face glanced up at him: Mandric. ‘Don’t ye blary see, they-’

BOOM.

A great fireball rose from Macadra’s ship. ‘Oh hang me from Heaven’s Tree!’ snarled Mandric, as they dropped below the rail. The fireball screamed, then detonated — twenty yards from the Chathrand. The flame licked her hull, but there was nothing left in easy reach to burn.

Except the dlomu in the water.

Pazel looked at Mandric and the others near him: they were holding ropes and life preservers. The dlomu were deserting Macadra’s ship.

They stood up. The sea looked empty. Then a black leg surfaced. Then a body without a head.

‘That hag,’ said Mandric. ‘She don’t want to sink us and lose the prize, but she’s fine with killin’ her own. She just slaughtered a third of her mucking crew.’

Beside the Turach, Bolutu’s eyes were bright. ‘They almost made it. We could have pulled them aboard.’ He looked at Pazel in sudden wonder. ‘There was a selk among them.’

‘A selk?’ said Pazel. ‘A selk aboard the Death’s Head?’

Cries from the opposite rail. Confusion, then wild urgency, pointing fingers, laughs. The dlomu were surfacing on the far side of the Chathrand. The protected side. Nearly all had dived in time to escape the fireball, crossed under the Chathrand’s belly, risen unscathed.

Pazel sprinted for the far rail. Neeps was there ahead of him, beckoning. ‘Pazel, look!’

He leaned out over the rail. Among the two hundred or so black-skinned, silver-haired dlomu, one pale olive face stood out. It was Nolcindar.

Nolcindar!

‘Macadra didn’t kill everyone on the Promise,’ said Neeps. ‘She took prisoners. And that means-’

‘Olik!’ cried Bolutu. ‘Prince Olik!’

There he was, stern and serene as ever, helping a wounded dlomu seize the accordion ladder someone had just sent clattering down the hull.

Pazel could scarcely believe what he was seeing: Arqualis and Mzithrinis, helping dlomu (and one selk warrior) out of the waves.

A second ladder appeared. Once on deck, the dlomu knelt in surrender, unbidden. Some kissed the humans’ feet. Prince Olik, among the last from the water, knelt as well.

Sergeant Haddismal pushed forward. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘Captain Fiffengurt’s just spoken. You have the freedom of the ship, but these sailors crewed a boat that’s attacked us twice. We’re to bind them, at least until the fighting’s done. We’ve been double-crossed too many times.’

‘Then bind me also,’ said the prince.

‘And me,’ said Nolcindar. ‘None of these men are officers. They served like slaves on the Death’s Head, and risked their lives to free us from the brig where we were held and tortured. Some leaped overboard and swam to the beach inside the Arrowhead Sound. Those Macadra did not slay fled into the mountains, chased by savage-looking men with tattooed necks.’

The Nessarim, thought Pazel.

The dlomu were holding out their wrists. ‘Bind us!’ they said. ‘Tie us, lock us up. Only do not send us back to her, back to the White Raven. Better to die than to return!’

Something, a surge of anguish, made Pazel turn. The main topsail was gone: the Death’s Head had struck it dead-centre with one of the burning tar projectiles it had used during the chase along the Red Storm.

‘Tree of Heaven, what does it matter if they’re on our side or not?’ said Saroo. ‘There’s enough of ’em still manning those blary weapons. Just look at this ship.’

‘He’s right, Your Highness,’ said Mandric. ‘You should have taken your chances ashore. We’re beaten, and she’s still comin’ on.’

‘We are not beaten,’ said a sharp, high voice.

It was Felthrup. Pazel turned and saw him standing on Captain Fiffengurt’s shoulder. And beside them, between her dogs-

‘Thasha Isiq,’ said Hercol sternly, ‘you promised to stay below.’

‘For as long as it made any difference,’ said Thasha. ‘But it doesn’t, not now. Macadra’s not a fool. She knows I’d have used the Stone to save the Chathrand if I could. And if it comes to a fight — well, I killed her brother. I can kill her too.’

‘Macadra does not have the Nilstone,’ said Felthrup, ‘and while she lacks it, we still have a card to play.’

‘Rin’s truth,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘She’s hurt our rigging, not our hull. We may be dead in the water, but we’re blary far from sunk. Change of orders, Sergeant.’ He waved a hand at the dlomu. ‘These men don’t need shackles, they need swords in their hands. Get busy!’

The crew raced back to their stations. The dlomu who were able leaped up and cried out their readiness to fight.

Pazel put his arm over Thasha’s shoulders. He looked across the dwindling space between the vessels. The deck of Macadra’s ship was a confusion of fires, gears, struggling men, clouds of smoke.

‘Nolcindar!’ Kirishgan raised his kinswoman and embraced her warmly. But Nolcindar’s eyes were grave.

‘The humans are valiant,’ she said in the selk tongue, ‘but if the White Raven closes, all is lost. That ship is full of killers and madmen. They will burn the crew off the topdeck, and kill them below with canisters of gas. Any survivors will be torn apart by athymars, or simply left to drown once she takes the Nilstone and staves in the hull.’

‘We can barely move,’ said Kirishgan. ‘How are we to prevent her from closing?’

Nolcindar had no chance to respond, for at that moment a bird of prey cried just overhead. It was Niriviel, of course. They looked up: the falcon crouched on the main yard, leaning forward, gazing intently at the Death’s Head. Then he shrieked: ‘By the Throne of Arqual! That one!’ He shot away towards Macadra’s ship. ‘What was that about?’ asked Thasha. ‘What in Pitfire did he see?’

Kirishgan narrowed his eyes. ‘There is something. . a small bird, I think. But it flies as if wounded. Yes, that is what Niriviel is aiming for.’

Then both selk winced. ‘Too late,’ said Nolcindar. ‘The bird has fallen into the sea. Unless — well! Your falcon dives better than a fish-eagle. He has snatched the little bird up in his claws.’

Dimly, Pazel saw the falcon returning. Then his eyes were dazzled by several concurrent flashes from the Death’s Head. Three fireballs streaked skyward. But what sort of attack was this? One shot climbed so high that it entered the Swarm, where it vanished without a trace. The other two, wildly off-target, exploded over the empty sea. Cannon-fire followed, but it too was erratic.

Then Pazel saw why.

The Death’s Head was sinking.

Roars of war-engines, howls of fear and rage. Some of those manning the ship’s terrible arms were still trying to bring them to bear on the Chathrand. There were more wild cannon-shots, even as the Death’s Head wallowed deeper.

Pitfire, what’s happening to her?

Gradually the frenzy on the Chathrand subsided; her crew stood transfixed. The vessel’s stern was sinking fastest. On the topdeck, men were fighting, shoving forward and backwards at once. Suddenly, by dint of greater numbers or greater panic, the forward-pushing mob prevailed, and the whole throng moved in a rush. But the shift in weight was catastrophic. On the next wave, the bow came thundering down, and the sea flooded in through the chaser gunports.

The deck was awash. Some dlomu were making for Gurishal; many simply vanished into the swirling sea.

‘They were getting ready to board us,’ said Thasha. ‘They’re in armour. Gods of death.’

Not one figure was swimming for the Chathrand.

Pazel had never seen anything like it. Their deadly enemy had foundered. A ship the size of the Chathrand, lost in ten minutes flat.

Hercol approached, with Ensyl on his shoulder. ‘How did it happen?’ Thasha asked her mentor. ‘We never managed to scratch her, did we?’

‘Not through that armour-plating,’ said Ensyl. ‘I cannot guess what breached her, but that iron hastened her sinking, beyond any doubt.’

‘Along with the weapons heaped on her like scrap,’ said Hercol. ‘Still, she must have been seaworthy. She did not fly over the Nelluroq, and-’

His voice trailed off. He gazed at the vanishing wreck, suddenly quite still. Then he exploded, leaping up and catching the mainmast shrouds, and bellowing over the heads of the crew:

‘On guard! On guard! She is coming, the sorceress is coming! It can only be her!’

Pazel never saw it coming. It was simply, suddenly there: a coagulating black smoke that moved like a flock of blackbirds, all around them, touching them with a horrible chill, then pulling together into a low column between the mainmast and the forecastle. The apparition shimmered, formed a torso, limbs, a face.

Macadra stood upon the deck.

Instantly Hercol lashed out with Ildraquin. But just as the blade reached her head, the figure became smoke once again, tunnelled through the air, and reformed closer to the quarterdeck.

She loomed over them: tall and bone-white and deathly. ‘Where is it?’ she shrieked. ‘Bring it to me. Act quickly, and I will let you land this carcass of a ship.’

Nolcindar lunged, faster even than Hercol. This time Macadra did not vanish, but merely shouted a spell-word so powerful it crackled in the air. Nolcindar’s knife shattered like a thing of glass. The selk warrior fell upon the deck, rigid, unable to move a muscle.

Then something rather astonishing happened. The entire crew attacked the sorceress. No one called for it, no one shouted Charge! But charge they did, from every side, and not a soul held back.

Macadra threw up her arms. A pale white light swept away from her. Pazel felt it strike him in the face, and then he felt himself fall, along with scores of others. He was conscious, but his strength had suddenly vanished, and so had that of everyone within ten yards of Macadra. The sorceress stood alone in a wide ring of bodies. She laughed.

‘Come, see reason,’ she said. ‘I could kill you as easily as I have lain you flat. But what if I could not? Suppose you drove me from the Chathrand, what then? Do you know how close you are to death? Thirty hours: that is how long you have before the Swarm seals this world beneath its pall. Shall I tell you what will happen then? It will drop from the skies, and become the death-skin of Alifros. And still it will grow, deeper, thicker, until it is nine miles thick, and the last cold bacterium has perished at the bottom of the Ruling Sea. Then the Night Gods will declare my brother one of their circle, and free him from the kingdom of twilight. But for you it will be too late.

‘I alone can prevent this. Frail creatures like yourselves die at the Stone’s touch, but I will use it to put an end to death. I can do it. I can banish the black horror that even now is destroying your minds. You can feel it, can you not? The madness claiming you, the madness born of too much fear? Come, I am your only saviour. Give me the Nilstone, and live.’

‘Never,’ said Captain Fiffengurt from the quarterdeck. ‘You’ll not divide us, and we’ll not give the Nilstone up. We’ve not sailed round this blary world for nothing. We mean to remove the Stone from Alifros.’

‘By floating it away down the River of Shadows, into death’s Kingdom?’ said Macadra. ‘Has Ramachni truly made you believe it can be done? Simpletons! If only I had time to watch you try!’

Pazel felt a tingling in his toes. His strength was trickling back. Around him, the spell’s other victims were also stirring. That spell cost her. She’s not as strong as she wants us to believe.

‘You fear to land on Gurishal, is that it?’ said Macadra. ‘You fear the Shaggat’s lunatics will come upon you in the night and slit your throats? Well, I will not pretend there is no such danger. But the one who speaks up, and tells me where the Stone is secreted — him I will bear away on wings of sorcery, to a land of his choosing, or to my fair court in Bali Adro, if he prefers, where he will know ease and pleasure and the thanks of Macadra. Only speak. Even your shipmates will thank you, when the Swarm departs the skies.’

She turned in a circle. Only now did she appear to realise that the whole ship had fallen silent, and that hundreds of eyes were upon her.

‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Who will tell me where they keep it? Who among you wants to live?’

No one moved, no one spoke. Pazel was breathless with pride and gratitude. Every soul on the deck was standing firm.

Then a voice said, ‘I will show you.’

Pazel looked up, and wished he could die. The voice was Myett’s. The ixchel woman stood on the main yard, thirty feet above their heads. And she was not alone: at least one other ixchel was crouching near her, all but hidden by the spar. Further out along the timber crouched Niriviel, eyeing the sorceress with hate.

From the tangle of bodies, Ensyl cried out, heartbroken: ‘Myett! No, sister! You can’t!’

‘It’s the only way,’ said Myett.

‘Be silent, you up there!’ snapped Fiffengurt. ‘That’s an order!’

Macadra was staring up at Myett, perplexed and doubtful. ‘I’ll show you!’ Myett repeated, with a note of desperation. ‘Only don’t let them punish me, and don’t leave me here! I don’t want to die!’

The paralysis ended; Macadra’s victims began to struggle to their feet. ‘Mucking crawlies,’ said Haddismal. ‘Every Gods-damned time.’

‘Myett, who’s up there with you?’ shouted Thasha.

‘Another back-stabbing, ship-sinking louse with legs, that’s who,’ shrieked Oggosk. ‘Kill them!’

Someone hurled a broken timber. Myett dodged, but a hail of objects followed: boots, bottles, hammers, knives. The falcon shrieked: ‘Stop, fools, stop!’ but no one heeded it. Myett leaped for the mast and began to climb. Then a well-aimed chisel struck her in the legs, and she fell.

She never reached the deck. A whirl of black smoke passed under her, lifted her, and bore her away at great speed along the deck. Roaring, the sailors who were still on their feet gave chase. But Macadra was too fast. Pazel saw Myett lift a hand to indicate the tonnage shaft. The black whirlwind flowed over the rail and down into the ship’s dark depths, and Myett went with it.

All was still. The crew stood trapped between confusion and despair. Pazel looked at Thasha. Thasha looked at Hercol. Neeps looked down at Felthrup, and the rat, for once in his life, held stock-still, too mystified even to squirm.

Then, of all people, old Dr Rain spoke up. ‘It isn’t that way, silly crawly. Everyone knows the Nilstone’s in Thasha’s cabin. You should have used the Silver Stair.’

Hercol was looking up at the main yard.

‘You there! Show yourself at once!’

To Pazel’s surprise his command was obeyed: two ixchel men rose and stepped to the edge of the massive beam. One of them was Saturyk, Lord Talag’s enforcer. And the other-

‘You,’ said Hercol.

It was Ludunte: Diadrelu’s former disciple, and the one who had lured her into the trap that took her life.

Ensyl leaped for the mast and began to climb.

‘Sister,’ said, Ludunte, a pleading note in his voice, ‘just give us a moment, please-’

‘I have something else to give you,’ said Ensyl. In all their trials and danger together, Pazel had never heard her like this, enraged to the point of madness, longing to kill. ‘Hercol!’ she shouted, almost snarling, ‘did you love her or not? Is her memory sacred to one of us alone?’

Hercol set a hand on the mainmast. Pazel saw the struggle on his face. He too wanted to kill, and was making a terrible effort to restrain himself.

‘Something is not right, Ensyl,’ he said.

‘Nothing is right! She died, they live!’

Ludunte! thought Pazel. Of all the ixchel to show his face, after so long. And what in Pitfire did you say to Myett?

A third ixchel, on hands and knees, appeared at the spar’s edge and looked down. He was clearly wounded and quite feeble. As he struggled to rise Saturyk noticed him and cried out: ‘My lord!’

Too late. The man’s strength gave way, and he toppled from the spar. Hercol lunged, but the distance was too great. The tiny figure struck the deck and lay still.

Pazel and his friends rushed to the spot. Hercol was already kneeling. He lifted the figure, cradling him in both palms. His eyes filled with wonder, and new pain.

It was Lord Taliktrum.

He was struggling to breathe. He wore the remains of his old robe of office, the swallow-suit. But the plumes were scorched, almost melted, and so caked with blood that Pazel doubted the suit could ever again be removed.

‘Fiffengurt,’ he rasped, bloodshot eyes blinking.

The captain appeared moments later, pushing through the crowd. He had already removed his hat.

‘You told me,’ murmured Taliktrum. ‘Not to leave the clan for ever. Not to swear I’d not come back. You were right, in your way. Ah, Olik: well done. The dogs never caught up with you. I am glad.’

‘Warrior and friend,’ said Prince Olik, ‘what last thing would you ask of one who owes you his life?’

Taliktrum only shook his head feebly. Then, with a startling whoosh, another ixchel dived into their midst: Lord Talag. He wore the other swallow-suit, but he bore no weapon, nor even a shirt beneath the robe. His face, nearly always stoic and severe, was like an open wound.

He alighted, and fell to his knees beside his son. They spoke in their own language, and none save Pazel could hear them.

‘Father-’

‘Hush, my child. I wronged you, wronged the clan from the start. Don’t say you forgive me: there are sins too deep for pardon. Only know I love you, and will work no more evil in this world.’

‘I set four charges in their hold, Father, and all four exploded. It was easy. Under all that metal the ship was a twin of the Chathrand. And such an arsenal. They never missed the black powder.’ He managed a ruined smile. ‘And they’d never had an ixchel problem before.’

Talag closed his eyes. His voice when he found it was low and strained. ‘Four charges. Well, I suppose you’re proud of yourself.’

‘The last one caught me. I was burning as I flew. If the falcon hadn’t seen me I’d have drowned along with the giants. You would have done better, sir.’

‘No!’ Talag’s eyes snapped open. Then, more gently, he said, ‘That isn’t true, my son.’

Taliktrum paused, and the smile played again upon his lips. ‘It was glorious,’ he said. ‘It was a work of art.’ His eyes passed over the crowd of humans, and once more he bent his voice for their ears. ‘You say so much that’s vile and ignorant about my people. But one thing you say is true enough. We know how to sink ships.’

He rolled on his side and coughed a little blood.

‘Lord Taliktrum!’ cried Felthrup, in sudden desperation. ‘Do you have no word for Myett?’

Taliktrum raised his head, and his eyes lit briefly at the name. Then they closed, and the young lord lay still. From above, Saturyk called out, his gruff voice full of sorrow:

‘For whatever it’s worth, rat, he told her. For all the good it can do her now.’

The black force that was Macadra swept through the mass of fallen rigging that clogged the tonnage shaft. Myett, suspended within the whirlwind, could hear the mage’s voice in her mind.

What are you? Are you magically cursed, to be so small?

‘I am an ixchel,’ said Myett, ‘and no, I’m not cursed.’

And at last she believed it.

You will be worse than that if you dare lie to me. Which way?

‘To the orlop deck, then forward. The Nilstone is in the brig.’

Locked away from fools who would try to master it, and kill themselves in the bargain!

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Myett. ‘Take the starboard passage. Will you spare me, Mistress?’

Which way, you louse?

Myett pointed. She had never been more frightened, or more certain of her choices.

‘There’s the door ahead. The small green one.’

It stood slightly ajar, exactly where Saturyk had promised she would find it. Her clan still existed, still studied the Chathrand, still knew where to find a door that came and went like a mirage. But Macadra was instantly suspicious.

Just there, unguarded? Behind that crumbling door?

‘I’m not lying, Mistress.’

The whirlwind surged down the passage. Around Myett there was a sudden crackle of excitement.

I feel it! The Nilstone! You spoke the truth!

The Green Door flew wide. Myett felt herself carried down the black, cluttered hallway, towards the antique lamp whose glow increased as they approached. Now came the greatest terror. Now she would win life or everlasting torment. It didn’t matter, so long as she won.

The black whirlwind paused in the centre of the chamber. Two of the four cells stood empty. The third held an ancient corpse. And in the last, seated on a chest, was the human being Myett hated most in the world. Sandor Ott.

‘Crawly, is that you?’ he said, squinting at the sudden light.

Myett felt cold fingers take shape around her: Macadra had resumed her natural form.

At the sight of the ghastly figure, Ott shrank back with a squeal of fear. ‘Mercy, mercy!’ he cried. ‘Where did you come from? Don’t punish me, I’ve done nothing to anyone! Don’t hurt a poor old man!’

‘It’s there, there in his chest,’ said Myett. ‘Will you protect me, Mistress? Let me serve you in the life to come? I may be small, but-’

The mage flung her viciously to the ground. She advanced to the cell in two strides and flung open the door. ‘Back away, old man!’ she shrieked.

Ott was only too happy to oblige. As he leaped away, Macadra threw herself on Captain Rose’s sea chest. When she raised the lid, a black light bathed her face.

She made a fist of her bone-white hand. She closed her eyes and mumbled a spell — or could it have been a prayer? Then her hand plunged into the chest, and emerged holding an orb that burned darker than the soul of midnight.

Cackling, triumphant, Macadra lifted her prize. ‘It does not kill me! Can you see me, Arunis? I am its mistress — not you, brother, never you! It will be Macadra Hyndrascorm, not Arunis, who takes her place in the court of the eternal ones, who disposes of worlds as she sees fit, who-’

A harsh clang, metal on metal. Sandor Ott had stepped out of the cell and closed it behind him.

Macadra took in his changed expression: the terror and the simpering were gone. The little louse-woman’s face had changed as well. Then she knew. An enchanted brig, of course the Chathrand would have one, why hadn’t she guessed? But what of it? No magic in the world could stand against her now. She lowered her hand, grinning despite herself, and summoned the power of the Stone.

Nothing happened.

Macadra stared at the throbbing black orb. Sandor Ott turned to Myett, spread his hands and smiled with what looked almost like beneficence. Myett scowled at him.

‘It wasn’t for you,’ she said.

‘You do not love me, then?’ said Sandor Ott. ‘Not even a little, after all this time?’

His smile widened into something unpleasant. But Myett stared him down. ‘Love,’ she said at last. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to speak the word.’

She ran from the chamber. Ott started to follow, then paused and turned to face the cell with the corpse.

‘Thank you for the intelligence, Captain Kurlstaff. And my compliments to Rose, if you should see him. It seems his trinket was good luck after all. Madam-’

He bowed mockingly to the sorceress, then raced down the passage and through the Green Door, a free man and a patriot, without a moment to lose.

Macadra stood staring. The Nilstone felt heavy in her hand. She closed her fist about it, tightly, commanded it to obey her, to reveal all its secrets.

And it did. The black light went out. In her hand lay a small glass eyeball, a panther’s maybe, or a leopard’s. A folly. A trinket. Macadra hurled it away, flew at the door that had no lock, that did not open, that would never open again. The lamp grew dim. And as the darkness deepened, Macadra heard, very faintly, the laughter of invisible men.