Then someone near the prow of the ship gave a shout. As heads turned in that direction, other voices rose as well. Cuillioc swerved around to look too.
A pair of ships had been sighted to the south, past a ridge of high cliffs forming a partial barrier between the restless waves of the ocean and the placid sapphire waters of the Bay of Mir. As the galley left the cliffs behind and Cuillioc gained a wider view, it seemed to him, for a dizzying moment, that the whole surface of the water, north, west, and south, was covered with sails: sun yellow, tiger orange, peacock blue. A great fleet of two-masted feluccas and xebecs, along with more formidable vessels of three, four, and even five masts, was closing in from both sides—and every deck on every ship was crowded with armed men whose shields and weapons flashed white fire in the sunlight.
In that incredible proliferation of masts and sails, it was difficult to get any clear idea of the number of enemy ships. One thing only was obvious: Cuillioc and his thirty-eight galleys were vastly outnumbered.
“But where have they come from?”
“In all probability from Persit and Meraz,” answered Iobhar, appearing beside him. “Though how they managed to exchange such swift communications with Xanthipei remains a puzzle. One can almost admire their cunning,” he added with a snarl, “how well they have executed the entire plan from first to last.”
And suddenly, Cuillioc was able to see the whole complicated plot with bitter clarity. Everything that had happened was part of the scheme: The slow months of poisoning. All of the beguilements and distractions that kept him and his men in the city until the time was ripe. Followed in due course by the swift events of the night just past, beginning with the fiery destruction of almost half of his galleys, and yes, even the hour when the servants became willing to tell his little page everything they had kept secret for so long.
The timing of each individual step had been calculated with the utmost precision, all meant to bring him and his ships out on the water at this present time, in their present weakened state, just to provide sport for the Mirazhite navy.
Even for people as indolent as these there could be little amusement, and certainly no glory, in cutting the throats of invaders while they lay sick and dying in their beds, but in attacking ships manned by the walking dead, doing battle with a fleet crippled and in disarray—it seemed there was glory enough.
Yet, oddly, the Prince felt a surge of gratitude. “I would never have expected this last favor,” he said under his breath.
There was a flutter of scarlet cloth, and the priest’s white face rose up directly in front of him. “Favor? I do not think I understand you.”
“No? Then I will explain. Instead of slinking back home in humiliation and defeat, we’ve been given the chance to make a good end.” He started toward the bridge in order to take command while the battle lasted, but Iobhar slipped around him to block the way.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Great Prince: I can summon a wind that will enable us to outrun the fastest ship in the Mirazhite navy. They have cut off our galleys inside the bay—but this ship, and possibly the ones just ahead and behind, may yet escape. Not so romantic, perhaps, or so compatible with your peculiar idea of honor as going down with the rest of the fleet, but it would be wise—it would be expedient.”
Cuillioc flashed him a look of contempt. “No,” he said, stepping around the priest and continuing on toward the bridge, so that Iobhar was forced to follow if he meant to hear the rest. “They have given us an opportunity to die like men, and I’m not minded to refuse.” Nor was he willing to take two or three ships back to Phaôrax to serve as scapegoats for the entire debacle. He owed his men much more than that.
“They may have chosen us for their sport, but I intend to give them a battle they will long remember! We stay and fight. In the name of Ouriána—for the honor and glory of Phaôrax.”
14
By dint of much clumsy maneuvering and a fair degree of luck, Cuillioc’s inexperienced oarsmen managed to ram one of the Mirazhite vessels, and Iobhar’s sorcery accounted for another, consuming it in a cold, unearthly fire, before one of the enemy ships drew near enough to cast out grappling hooks and catch the Prince’s galley in a virtual death grip.
Then there was an exchange of missile fire, in which the taller ship had all of the advantage. Arrows, lances, and rocks rained down on the galley, while Cuillioc’s men, retaliating with slings and crossbows, could scarcely see their targets. Even in the first few minutes the slaughter was tremendous, and it might have ended swiftly had not the glittering Mirazhite warriors, eager for glory in hand-to-hand combat, leaped down from their own ship to the deck of the galley.
Then the Pharaxions, fueled by desperation, overcame their weakness and the blood flew in every direction. The Prince himself seemed to be everywhere at once, hair flying, sword running red. One man after another fell before the fury of his onslaught, and all around him the deck was littered with the bodies of men he had killed.
Reckless of his own safety, determined to account for as many of the enemy as possible, he nevertheless knew that he could not last much longer. With the tide in his veins alternating between fire and ice, his pulse pounding like a drumbeat in his ears, he could feel his strength failing, his movements growing heavier and slower, his cuts and thrusts less and less accurate. Sometimes it felt as though the sky was falling down on him, the whole weight of it threatening to crush him. Already several men had gotten past his guard and landed glancing blows. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead, and his whole left side was wet and burning under his armor and padding.
Up on the bridge, Iobhar and his acolytes had been defending themselves with greater success. Omair and Maël waged a furious battle with swords and round shields, for the poison had not much affected them as yet, and the priest fought with chanted spells as well as a long knife. The knife was the lesser weapon, and whoever suffered the touch of his left hand died shrieking.
Suddenly, in the midst of dispatching a tall Mirazhite warrior, Iobhar became aware of dark shadows gliding one after another across the wooden deck. Risking a brief skyward glance through eyes watering with the smoke, he caught sight of a great flock of wyvaerun passing immediately overhead. He had no time for more than a bare glimpse; two more men (refusing to profit from the example of their fellows) closed in on him from either side. But now as he slashed and ducked he was chanting a new spell.
In the sky overhead, the wyvaerun began to wheel about. Minutes later, a dozen of the snake-bird hybrids came plummeting down in a rush of dark wings, striking with beaks, claws, and scaly prehensile tails. For a moment the sun went out like a windblown flame. As the Mirazhites were beaten back, three of the creatures, many times larger than the rest, descended on the furiádh and his servants, hooked their iron claws agonizingly into flesh and muscle, and rose into the sky, carrying Iobhar, Omair, and Maël with them, lifting them back into the searing light.
On the galley below, Prince Cuillioc finally fell beneath a shattering blow from a two-handed axe and moved no more.
Most of that day passed in a delirium of pain before the wyvaerun set the priest and his acolytes down, none too gently, on a barren stretch of shoreline, then soared back into the sky to rejoin their flock.
They left their passengers torn and bleeding, almost more dead than alive. Maël was unconscious and fell in an awkward heap, where he remained for many hours, while Iobhar and the other acolyte lay panting and moaning on the hot sand. Only at moonrise, with the heat of the day beginning to fade, did they recover enough to look to their own welfare, ripping their outer garments into strips to serve as bandages, then lurching painfully to their feet to search for water. Of the three, the furiádh had suffered by far the worst, for the skin of his face and hands had been scorched by the fierce southern light while he dangled in the air helpless to cover himself.