The Tunishnevre did not acknowledge him overtly, but there was a shift in the air that in his heightened awareness he could not help but note. They seemed to whisper, sounds that were like groans from deep in the earth. He sensed the sounds, but he could not say he actually heard them. Each time he paused to listen, there was naught but dead silence. Only when he formed words enough to fill his head did the chamber seem to echo with comments thrown at him, indecipherable though they were. Laced with malice. He felt himself threatened with extinction, with complete obliteration. But for all of this he could not pinpoint one true sound, one true motion as small as an exhalation of breath in the entire chamber.
So strange, the power of them. Haleeven could not say he understood it completely. He had never been blessed with that knowledge. They were dead. He was in a massive tomb, bodies stacked row upon row, as cold and lifeless as the earth around them, incapable of effecting change upon the world. In truth, they were a mystery to him. Had circumstance been different he might have communed with the Tunishnevre himself. He had only been one step away from the chieftaincy in his youth, one dance. But it was an enormous step, one that he could not manage. No one could say that Haleeven was a coward; yet he would never have been able to commit to taking the life of someone he loved. Because of that he never grasped for his rough people’s throne.
Looking at the shadows above him, he knew the vagaries of his path did not matter. He was proud to have served his brother, and he was proud to follow his nephew’s leadership now. He believed himself to be the young chieftain’s main confidant. Maeander officially held that post, but Haleeven sensed the unacknowledged friction between the two. Perhaps Hanish did not even recognize it. This seemed unlikely, sharp as he was, but we are often blind to animus in those closest to us. It nagged at him that he had not brought these things up with Hanish before departing for the north, but there would be time after he returned. Maeander would not harm his brother before the Tunishnevre were satisfied. And the Akaran princess…well, whatever Hanish felt for her, it would not stop his blade from slitting her neck. He had spent his entire life striving to please the ancestors. Haleeven was confident Hanish would not fall short now.
But he should not be thinking any of these things now, not in this chamber. He whispered words of temporary parting. He rose to his feet, spun slowly on his heel, and moved for the portal. Nothing stopped him. Of course not. Powerful as they were, they were also helpless without him.
CHAPTER
They stripped naked. It was an awkward procedure, each of them balanced on one leg or the other. The boat beneath them pitched in the chop. They shook off all clothing and stood a moment in the starlight, glancing at each other and getting used to their nudity. They would swim better this way. Moisture slipped more quickly from flesh than it could be wrung from cloth, and this would matter when they reached their target. And then they began to strap their weapons, water flasks, waterproof wrappings, and a few supplies to their naked torsos. They were each some time fastening bands tight around their wrists and ankles. Metal fishhooks had been sewn into the leather in such a way that they protruded outward, sharp barbs over an inch long.
“All right,” Spratling said, once he had slipped his bow diagonally over his shoulder, short sword at his hip, dagger strapped to his lower leg, “let’s get these festivities under way. Be careful not to snag yourself or anybody else. And be careful with that pill, Wren. We’ll need it to medicate the giant.”
A short time later he dove headfirst into the warm, heaving sea. Ten others followed him: all veteran raiders, eight men and two women skilled at close-quarters death. One of the women-Wren, who carried the “pill” strapped to her back, a round object about the size of an ostrich egg-had shared his bed since the winter months. But he would not think of this during the mission. If either of them died during it, they could mourn afterward. Right now, this moment and those immediately following were all that mattered. He welcomed the danger because the focus it required would allow no thought but the present. He had almost come to desire turmoil. Quiet moments found him mulling over Leeka Alain’s claims. This family of his…those responsibilities…a future calling him that bore no resemblance to the life he had grown into…he felt increasingly that he could not avoid those things, but neither was he ready fully to take them on.
The current at this time of the year still flowed up from the south. The air temperature, however, was chilly with early spring. They swam away from the sloop that had transported them out to the point. Within moments it was but a shadow behind them, a patch in the dark, soon lost to them altogether. The ship bore no lantern. It would not do so until they were on their way back. Then the few crewmen left there would light a beacon to guide them in. The swimmers’ destination, however, was obvious to them all, lit as it was by rows upon rows of shining lights.
Whether by night or day the league warship was an impressive vessel to behold. As they swam it loomed in the distance, as still as a land mass in its deep water anchorage. It was a monstrosity, twice as long as a trading barge, stacked level upon level like the tall housing complexes of Bocoum. Along each tier ran hundreds of baskets for crossbowmen and slots for archers. The enormousness of it was meant to overwhelm with its martial scale. There was no doubt that it achieved this.
So far, the four of these vessels that the raiders had faced had torn them to bits. Their prows were reinforced by massive trees, cast in metal, large and solid enough to shatter normal vessels. The decks were so high that boarding was impossible. Spratling’s nail was rendered obsolete, nothing but a pin trying to prick a whale’s hide. These warships were not things to be pierced and rushed upon, as had been Spratling’s technique. They were floating fortresses that dealt out death from behind an unassailable bastion. They were larger by far than their wolf ships, and they suggested an aggressive intent the league had never shown before. Without the slightest warning one of them had beached itself on the shallows off the shore of Palishdock and disgorged an entire army. They overran the place, wreaking instant vengeance that caught the raiders by surprise.
The raiders had fled Palishdock with the few things they could carry. They had lived in transitory hiding ever since. Fortunately, the raiders never kept all their wealth in one place and never housed much of it at all at their main outpost. Dovian had taught Spratling that when he was still a boy. Bit by bit, from island after island, Spratling withdrew coins and treasure from the soil. With it he funded ventures such as the one he was on this evening. The war between the raiders and the league had begun in earnest. Spratling thought of it as a personal vendetta, especially as Dovian withdrew from a leadership role. He spent most of his time whispering with the old Acacian soldier, the two of them full of import Spratling did his best to ignore.
Swimming toward one of the warships, Spratling had to remind himself again and again that there was a deadly logic to his attack. He was not here to destroy the mountain rising out of the water before him. There was more than one way to strike a blow. It just seemed obvious-the only course, really-to meet such overwhelming strength with the unexpected.
The warship was anchored at four points, four ropes as wide around as mature pines, shooting down into the ocean depths. The raiders arrived at one of these near the rear of the ship. They trod water with their mouths open to suck in air, riding the swells, spitting out jets of water between breaths. Anxious though he was to grasp the rope, Spratling knew it needed to be a well-timed action. Each passing wave crest lifted them up and down, moved them from one spot to another. It took some time for him to get into position. He was third, actually, to find his belly pressed against the rough cords at the high point of a wave. He threw his arm around the ridges of the weave, slammed his ankles hard against it, and felt the barbs sink in. It took some effort to pull each one out, but as he reached higher, one limb at a time, he hooked them in again. Thus he inched slowly away from the waves. He soon found a tempo and ease in the motions, but still it was slow work for him and the others, each of his party like ants creeping toward a banquet laid out on a table high above.