First island. Nothing from high up, going closer, some birds objecting, no beaches, no sort of anchorage. Going on to the next.
Silence. The listeners wait without fuss, quietly working, not talking.
Second island. More trees. Don’t see any sign of surface water. Definitely deserted, quiet enough to hear a rat scratch.
Silence. Sammang gazes at Brann wondering what she is thinking.
Third island. This one’s the lucky dip. A dozen proas drawn up by a stream cutting through a bit of beach, apparently water’s the main attraction. Maybe a hundred Djelaan, war party, clubs, spears, throwing sticks, long knives, war axes. A clutch of them cheering on a tattooed man who’s throwing a fit. Ah, the fit’s over. Look at them scoot. Anyone want to wager the tattooed gent wasn’t telling them about this fine fat ship passing by? Get a move on, folks, you got trouble rolling at you.
THEY RACED WEST and south, carrying as much sail as the rigging would stand, the Girl groaning and shuddering, fighting the drag of the weed on her hull. In spite of that she sang splendidly through the water. She popped rigging and staggered now and then, but the crew replaced and improvised and held her together as much by will as skill. Sammang was all over the deck, adding his strength where it was needed, eyes busy searching for breaks. He heard laughter and saw Brann beside him, her gyeen eyes snapping with sheer delight in the excitement swirling about her. For a breath or two he gwzed at her and was very nearly the boy who’d run to the wider world confidently expecting marvels. Then he went back to nursing his Girl.
The wind dropped between one breath and the next. The Girl shivered and lost way, the drag of the weed braking her with shocking suddenness. Sammang cursed, stood looking helplessly about. The crew exchanged glances, dropped where they were to squat waiting, hands busy splicing line, one man whittling a new block to replace one that had split.
Brann touched Sammang’s arm. “Jaril says the proas are about an hour behind us.”
“How many?”
“Twelve. Traveling in two groups, the tattooed man-that has to be the weatherman, Jaril thinks so and I agree-he’s hanging behind with a couple boats to guard him. The other nine are riding a mage wind at us, really flying, Jaril says.”
“How many men in each boat?”
“Nine or ten.”
“Eighty maybe ninety, not counting the bodyguards.” He scowled at the limp sails. “A wind, even a breath…”
“Jaril’s thought of that. He’s been trying to get at the weatherman but he keeps bouncing off some kind of ward, whether he comes at the proa out of the sky or under water. Only thing he can think of is a pod of mid-sized whales he spotted a little way back. When he broke off talking, he was going to find them. He plans to drive them at the proas. Spell or no spell, a half dozen irritated whales are going to swamp that boat. He figures a weatherman will drown as fast as any other breather. And once he’s gone, you should have your wind. Thing is, though, he doesn’t know quite how long it’s going to take, so you should be ready for a fight.”
Sammang nodded, touched her arm. “Our witch,” he said, felt rather than heard a murmur of agreement from the crew. “You’ll fight with us?”
“In my way.” She grimaced, looked around at the circle of grave faces, raised her voice so all could hear. “Listen, brothers, when it starts, don’t touch me. I am Drinker of Souls and deadlier than a viper, I don’t want accidents, I prefer to choose where I drink.”
Sammang nodded, said nothing.
Yaril tugged at his sleeve. “What do you want me to be, Sammang shipmaster? Serpent? wildcat? falcon? dragon? It’d have to be a small dragon.”
Sammang blinked at the not-child. “Falcon sounds good. You wouldn’t get in our way, and you could go for their eyes.”
She considered a moment, nodded. “Be even better if I make some poison glands for the talons, then all I have to do is scratch them.”
Sammang blinked some more. “Be careful whom you scratch,” he said after he got his voice back.
“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.” She stretched, yawned, went to curl up by the mast; a moment later she seemed sound asleep.
He turned to Brann, raised a brow.
“Don’t ask me,” she said.-Before they came here, probably; that’s something I haven’t seen.”
SAMMANG WENT BELOW and dug out his war ax, a steel version of the stone weapon he’d learned to swing as a boy in the godwar dances, his father’s passed on to him, an ax that hadn’t been used in a real war since his great-grandfather carried it against Setigo, the next island over. After he’d shipped out a few years, he got very drunk and nostalgic and spent most of his remaining coin hiring a smith to make a copy of the bloody old ax, describing it to him as a curving elongated meat cleaver, point heavy with a short handle carved to fit his grip.
Zaj and Gaoez, the bowmen of the crew, climbed on the cabin’s roof and sat waiting, arrow bundles between their knees; Hairy Jimm was swinging his warclub to get the feel of it, a long-handled lump of ironwood too heavy to float; other crew members were using hones on cutlasses or spearpoints, razor discs or stars, whipping staffs about, making sure clothing and bodies were loose enough to fight effectively. Djelaan never took prisoners; either they were driven off or everyone on the ship died. The Girl wallowed in the dead calm. Close by, several fish leaped and fell back, the sounds they made unnaturally loud in that unnatural silence. Yaril woke, fidgeted beside Brann. “I’m going up,” she said suddenly. She dissolved into a gold shimmer then was a large Redmask falcon climbing in a widening spiral until she was a dark dot high overhead circling round and round in an effortless glide. Brann stood still, looking frightened and uncertain.
The hour crept past, men occupied with small chores fidgeting with their weapons.
The Redmask left her circling and came swooping down, screaming a warning, found a perch on the foresail yard.
Silence a few breaths, the sea empty, then the Djelaan came out of nowhere, yelling, heating on flat drums, proas racing toward the Girl, their triangular sails bulging with the magewind, a wind that did not touch the Girl’s sagging canvas.
Zaj and Gaoez jumped up and began shooting, almost emptying the first proa before the mage wind began taking their shafts and brushing them aside. They shot more slowly after that, compensating for the twist of the wind, managed to pick off another half-dozen before the Djelaan bobtail spears came hissing at them, propelled with murderous force by the throwing sticks. They hopped about, dodging the spears and getting off an ineffective shaft or two until Hairy Jimm began batting spears aside with his warclub. The rest of the crew darted about, catching up those that tumbled to the deck and hurling them back at the proas, doing little damage but slowing the advance somewhat.
Then grapnels were sinking into the wood of the rail, the Djelaan attacking from both sides. Sammang and others raced along the rails, slashing the ropes until there were too many of them and they had to fight men instead of rope. Yaril screamed, powered up from the yard and dived at the proas, not a falcon anymore but a small sun searing through the sails. The weatherman was holding the air motionless, trapping the Girl but protecting her too; in seconds she was swaying untouched in a ring of flames as the proa sails burned and began to char the masts and rigging. With shouts of alarm half of the attackers turned back and began to fight the fires that threatened to leave them without a means of retreat.
The rest swarmed over the rails and the Girl’s men were fighting for their lives, cutlass ax and halberd, warclub staff and all the rest, flailing, stabbing, slashing, a ring of men tight about the foremast holding off the hordes that tried to roll over them. Yaril flew at Djelaan backs, stooping and slashing, her razor talons moistened with the poison she and her brother could produce when inspired to do so, keeping the Djelaan off Brann as she walked through them, reaching and touching, reaching and touching, each touch draining and dropping a man. A spear went into her side; she faltered a moment, pulled it out with a gasp of pain, sweat popping out on her face, a trickle of blood, then the wound closed over and she walked on.