The Spectre Cycle

Chapter two

Chapter two“Shanks!”

The very name itself was enough to drive terror into the hearts of the simple folk of Paz. And, by Krun, truth to tell many a grizzled veteran who had fought in the wars and bore his scars would far prefer to fight any other foes than the Shanks. The Fish-heads from over the curve of the world were by many degrees far, far worse than even the Katakis.

The converging forces looked to be evenly matched. Any commander of sense would like to go into action against the Shanks with odds in his or her favor of two to one at the very least.

The brilliance of Zim and Genodras still smiled in streaming ruby and jade radiance across the sea. The clouds drifted, high and white and fluffy. Gulls pivoted on cranked wings and screeched their cries. The world of Kregen still existed as it had only moments before.

Yet now I felt a chill as though the Ice Floes of Sicce reached out to seize me up in their frozen embrace.

“Look at those three!” snapped Seg. Instantly I was brought up short, facing the prospect ahead and to a Herrelldrin Hell with all morbid thoughts.

All but three of the Fish-heads’ vollers sped straight on over the argenters, heading directly for our main force, dark and powerful and ominous. The three airboats dropped down. They were obviously of a different design from the others, bulkier, and with a lot of cargo space between decks.

By the slime-filled nostrils and dangling putrescent eyeballs of Makki Grodno! I saw at once what they were and what they intended.

They were slave vollers. The evil plan was laid bare. The Katakis rounded up the slaves for the Shanks who kept off the coast to avoid detection. Now they were dropping down to load their holds with the miserable folk taken up by the Whiptails.

“Now I owe you gold.” Seg looked savage. That fierce expression was not because he’d lost our little wager. No, he, like us all, saw the diabolical scheme and what it meant.

Moving with deliberateness, I looked back. The force of airboats drove on as though broomed by a hurricane. The two skyships made directly for the main body of Shanks. Aboard that little armada were men and women who understood politics, warfare — and the fishfaces. As that thought crossed my mind three fast vollers swooped down in a long slanting rush towards the three slave argenters.

“Your gold’s safe, Seg.” I spoke, I confess, with a kind of grunt. “Praise Opaz it be so.”

Swiveling around to face front I gave Seg a hard stare. Now Seg Segutorio as the Grand Archbold of the Kroveres ran the Order without questions from me. He took advice and then made up his own mind. The two forces of airboats drew closer together. Time was running out. Now it was up to Seg to make the decision.

Easy enough for me, by Krun, to decide what I’d do. The advent of our main body had changed everything. My utter faith in my blade comrade was never in question. After all, he was Seg Segutorio, in my opinion the best archer of two worlds.

He spoke with a hard metallic snap to his voice.

“The Brotherhood is saved. The Katakis with their damned Shank customers overhead won’t dispose of their merchandize now. We go down on the furthest argenter. Our lads coming on can take the other two. There will be, as Zena Iztar is my witness, enough time.” To Rollo: “Take her down!”

So down we plunged, hurtling through thin air, plummeting full on our target. Good old Seg Segutorio!

Air screamed past. The flags stood out stiff as best starched linen. The slave ship bloated in size. The glitter of the sea, the heave of the waves, the white scuds breaking, all roared up to us in a welter of scattered impressions.

With the speed of our descent the ship appeared to leap up at us. A quick glance back showed me that Seg’s appreciation of the tactical situation was askew by a small point; but that point a matter of honest human emotion. Seg had said our three vollers would go for the other two slave argenters. The men and women aboard those airboats knew the people who were aboard Pink Lily. As I expected, two fliers went hell for leather for the other two sailing ships. One dropped down swiftly in our wake.

Oh, yes, by Zair! Those grim warriors of ours were not about to let their friends and commanders go into action unsupported.

Seg nodded briskly. “Yes, I expected that.”

Inch laughed. “By the flags, Alten Schongar commands.”

“A fine fellow.” Nath Javed delivered himself of the verdict with relish. “He can Hack ’n’ Slay with the best.” Then, because he was who he was, he added: “Indubitably!”

In that all-embracing glance back and up I saw the rolling banks of clouds boiling in to cover the sky. The dun gray masses cast a pall on all the bright sea in our wake. Ominous, unhealthy, they spread a chill into the brilliance of the Kregish afternoon.

A last fleeting glance upwards before we struck showed the three Shank slave vollers hovering. Clearly, they were uncertain with the swift Pazzian airboats lunging into the attack. Bad cess to ’em!

In a whirlwind of erupting action Pink Lily smashed heavily down onto the fat deck of the argenter bringing down the mainmast in a rending welter of splintering timbers and lashing rigging. We went over the sides as leems leap on their prey by the waterholes. The Shanks faced us. Oh, yes, those Fish-heads from around the curve of the world have courage. They fight. Now we had to overcome them without thought or pity. That was the duty laid on us, the Brothers of the Kroveres of Iztar.

The argenter bore on, slowing as the drag of the mainmast tangled in its web of rigging overside slewed her. The deck felt hard underfoot. Under the gloom of the stormclouds there was no gallant glitter of blades. The steel looked gray, honed to penetrate guts and lop heads. The Shanks screeched: “Ishtish! Ishtish!”

A single savage bellow of: “Iztar!” and we were into them.

There were, indeed, more of them than us. That we expected.

The Fish-heads know how to fight. Normally their name is enough to make fellows who do not have the steel up their backbone run off. The misfortune of this bunch was to come up against the bonny lads with me. Screams burst up. Blood spurted. Swords thrust in the short lethal jabs of close combat. Shank tridents darted for our stomachs or throats and were met and parried on good Vallian steel.

All the time above the staccato sounds of combat there rose the long dreadful moans of the slaves chained below decks.

If anything, that dolorous sound drove our blades into quicker action, our muscles into more ferocious onslaught. The battle swayed across the cumbered deck. We held them; but for the moment could not make headway against their numbers. Very well, then! By the Blade of Kurin! If there were more than us we would have to cut them down and so reduce the imbalance.

Cold, impersonal words for strife and blood and death!

Death spread his dark wings above that blood-stained deck. Death’s companion, Destruction, plied her gory trade with every s***h of blade. We struggled and the gloom about us deepened. The glory of the Suns of Scorpio dwindled and died in the encroaching storm clouds.

Spots of rain began to hiss onto the deck. Footing became treacherous. A neat backhanded s***h aimed at the scaly head of a fishface thrusting his trident at me missed as I slipped. The argenter’s motions in the sea, checked by the mainmast overside, were unpredictable. Recovering by the expedient of ducking away I managed to deflect the trident.

A sword sliced in above my head and the Shank screeched and toppled away.

“Here’s another, my old dom.”

No need for me to gasp out a thankyou to Seg; we’d done this before, and, by Vox, we’d do it again. I took the newcomer with a straight pass as Seg switched around to chop another.

No need, either, for us to prattle on about “Warm work!”

The combat was warm, and would grow hotter.

The ship surged sluggishly and again I nearly lost my balance. Me, an old Sailorman! With more than a trifle of irritation I took the next Shank, chopped him, glared around for some more.

The darkness swooped as the thunderclouds rolled above. Rain thickened into a gray sheet, bouncing off the deck. Water ran down our faces. Lurid lightning split the sky. Thunder drenched everything in noise.

The vollers flying up there must be having a ball, by Krun!

The Pazzian voller coming down to our assistance showed as a mere shadowed blot against the dimness. She bore in, her bows touched the foremast, brought that down in a welter of confusion, and she crunched full onto the forecastle. Warriors leaped out, the steel naked in their hands, roaring unheard in the din.

Now we’d have the damned fishfaced reivers!

The fight edged towards the ship’s stern. We were now pressing our enemies back with a relentless wall of steel. Just about then the rigging holding the mainmast to the vessel’s side chafed clean through. Unable to see the mast surging away among the waves, I could feel the instant change in the way the ship gyrated. A number of men staggered and fell. The Shanks let out their screeching: “Ishtish Ishtish” audible above the uproar of the gale.

The deck went up and down like a roller coaster. The ship twisted herself in the sea gyrating like one of those abandoned dancing girls of the desert tribes of Dordre-Um, hostile to strangers. My left fist fastened on the rail and for a moment I, like everyone else, clung on for dear life.

Those poor unfortunate slaves chained below must be going through hell right now. The Kataki slavers were bad enough; the Fish-heads who had dropped down to take over were far far worse — and now the slaves were being thrown about like apples in a barrel rolling downhill over bumpy cobbles. Still, feel for them though we did, we knew that it would be disastrous to free them and bring them up on deck. The chaos that would cause didn’t bear thinking of.

In the ranks of our foes, Katakis had fallen with commendable regularity and their Shank customers were not now likely to rejoin their confounded slave voller. All in all, this little fracas could be going a lot worse.

Now we had to hold on, clear the rest of the slavers out, ride through the gale, and then jury-rig the argenter enough to sail her back.

This was late afternoon of a Kregan day when the Suns of Scorpio should be beaming their ruby and emerald rays to turn the sea into a fairyland of glitter and color. Instead the pall lay dark and dense and the rain lashed viciously in long battering streaks and the lightning crackled and the thunder roared.

In one lacerating lightning flash it was just possible to catch a fleeting glimpse of dark forms leaping into the sea off the poop. The Shanks were abandoning the vessel!

“Good riddance!” said Seg, breathing hard through his nose.

“Aye.” Old Hack ’n’ Slay grasped the rail with one massive fist. “Indubitably.”

We were experienced enough in warfare to be thankful when our enemies ran off, or, in this case, jumped into the sea when there was no need to chase after them.

Others of our people, those from the voller, ardent in their detestation of Kataki and Shank alike, determined to carry on the fight to the bitter end. Half a dozen of them ran and staggered aft.

Seg let rip a: “By the Veiled Froyvil!” and started after them. Between lightning strokes he vanished into the gloom.

Shouting with extreme venom, I bellowed into Nath Javed’s ear: “D’you go down and see to the slaves, Nath!” Without giving him time to expostulate, I hared off after Seg, sliding and lurching across the deck. Water broke green and white in a lightning flash, foaming over the bulwarks. For an instant waist deep in the swirl I thought I was done for, washed overboard. But the level sank, a desperate grasp at the rail and I hauled myself on after Seg.

Even in that instant of cursing the idiots who so tempted fate, I spared a wry thought for poor old Hack ’n’ Slay. Still, there was no doubt he would obey, mumbling away to himself in baffled fury. What the huddled slaves would think of his enormous frame, black with water, girded for war, suddenly appearing before them like a spectre devil from Cottmer’s Caverns I didn’t care to dwell on. Forcing myself on I followed Seg as fast as I could.

Not all the Fish-heads were jumping overboard.

The shards of lightning piercing the darkness flashed more frequently. The thunder melded into one continuous uproar. In that stark illumination the Shanks battled our impetuous folk.

The deck gave a tremendous heave as a giant wave hit the ship. Skidding with flailing arms I was pitched headlong into the starboard door under the poop. My head rang with the impact, and I saw enough stars to populate the heavens.

A savage grasp of the ladder and an even more savage wrench around set my foot on the second rung. Up I went in no mood to be polite. If the situation was not so fraught the scene on the poop would have been farcical.

Pazzian and Shank staggered about like loons, trying to strike their opponents. Swords went swishing about Fish-heads and tridents stabbed into the deck. “By Makki Grodno’s diseased left nostril and fungus-infested armpits!” I said to myself. “What a bunch of clowns!”

That macabre scene luridly illuminated by the strokes of blue fire presented a conundrum. A flicker of motion in the corner of my eye swung me about and in the next flash I saw that however bizarre the scene was, it must be left to sort itself out. There was work to my hands, here and now, over by the poop rail.

The lightning sizzled less frequently and the intervening stretches of dimness lengthened. I must be quick. Damned quick!

I had seen what I’d seen and I knew what I’d seen. The brief flare of electrical discharge showed me two men — a Kataki and a Shank — ferociously attacking a Pazzian. By the slim lissomness of the figure, by its shape, that Pazzian was a girl, a young girl warrior desperately battling for her life.

“Sink me!” I snarled, hurling myself forward, sword in fist. “I’m not having this!”

The lunge of the ship skittled me off a direct run and the general dimness hampered a clean thrust — but! But, all the same, my brand skewered into the Kataki as his wicked bladed tail swished around in a slanting cut at the Jikai Vuvushi’s head.

Right fist gripping the sword stuck through the Whiptail I brought my left hand up, wrapped my fingers around the fellow’s tail and hauled back. In the contortions of the vessel the two anchorages on the Kataki maintained my balance, the six inches of daggered steel strapped to the end of his tail missed the girl and he toppled back. His screech broke clearly above the clamor of the gale.

The ungainly motions of the vessel, the Kataki’s twist as he went back, together with the urgent need to grab onto the rail, tore the hilt of the sword out of my hand which in the next instant fastened on the poop rail. I swung about. Letting go of the tail I crashed heavily into the rail. A bolt of light showed me the girl’s back a pace away as she swirled her sword facing the Shank.

The Fish-head had lost his trident and now wielded a sword with a double-curved blade, a nasty looking object. The Jikai Vuvushi’s thraxter, a straight cut and thrust weapon, glanced off her foeman’s steel and I saw that in a twinkling of an eye that double curved length of death would transfix her. A single leap, a savage heave back with my arm wrapped round a slim waist, and she toppled away to slide across the deck into the darkness.

The Shank let out a hissing I could hear and so sharp and fierce had been his attack he smashed into me, body to body, the double-curved sword going past my side — as I then thought.

Locked together we struggled. Locked together as the ship rolled we went over the side together. As a single item we plunged into the hostile sea. Black waves enveloped us. The argenter vanished. Washed away, we struggled for life in an empty sea. In that fraught moment, from somewhere, I heard — did I hear or was it merely a fevered figment of imagination? — a shrill voice call: “He’s fallen in the water!”