Deadhouse Landing

Yells of surprise and alarm from the cargo hatches. ‘Soldiers!’ someone screamed.

The sailors laughed, parting, and from behind them surged forward armoured troopers bearing bucklers and helms who immediately began slashing on all sides.

Cartheron retreated frantically for the rail, parrying for his life. Chaos erupted as the soldiers broke out to take the deck. He caught sight of Bezil falling, run through. ‘Trap!’ the man bellowed, then gasped, ‘Retreat.’

Cartheron locked blades with one soldier and kicked him backwards. Turning, he took hold of a line, waved all nearby to follow, and leapt overboard. He descended hand over hand until the knotted line shook, then suddenly he was falling with it.

The sea took him like a blow to the stomach. A shockingly cold punch, yet he held on to the line, and even continued to climb – though now through churning frigid darkness.

A trough in the waves allowed him one quick breath. He now hung suspended low from the side of the Honest Avarice. It had broken free of the merchantman, trailing countless lines, but wallowing without headway. Cartheron forced his numb hands and arms to move. A peak washed over him, tugging at him, but at last he reached the rail to roll over on to the slick deck.

Dazed, he glanced about at the chaos around him. Oil flames burned in the rain amidships. What few hands remained fought the canvas to keep the ship upright in the storm. He staggered to the stern, found Griff pinned upright to the tiller-arm, shot through by crossbow bolts, yet somehow still alive.

‘I’ll get us home, old man,’ Cartheron whispered as he hugged the fellow to heave the rudder over.

‘Closer to the wind,’ the old man told him in a gasp, and he flashed bloodied teeth in a death’s grin. ‘She can take it.’

‘Closer it is.’ Cartheron looked to the canvas. ‘Don’t reef the mains’l!’ he bellowed. ‘Keep her taut!’

‘Aye, aye,’ came the faint wind-whipped answering call.

The continued ferocity of the lightning storm lit the men-o-war. They were surrounded now by merchantmen, like wolves amid a pack of leaping hounds. Cartheron frankly thought them lost until a lightning strike came sizzling down to blast right through one of the merchantmen, which burst into an expanding cloud of shattered timbers and flame.

He blinked, shielding his eyes from the conflagration.

Hugged to his chest, Griff chuckled, almost inaudibly. ‘That’s our lass,’ he murmured, grinning through the blood.

‘Who?’ Another lightning strike blasted yet another vessel, leaving behind an after-image in Cartheron’s vision of light escaping through every seam in its side before the timbers flew apart. ‘Who?’

‘Our Tattersail…’ The man’s head sank to his chest. ‘She’ll see them through…’

‘That’s one ferocious battle-mage you have there, old-timer … Griff?’

Cartheron peered at him; the man now hung limp, pinned to the arm. Yet Cartheron did not relinquish his grip, legs braced, a hand either side of the corpse.

A bloody marine bearing a number of slashes climbed to the stern deck. Leaning close, he yelled above the storm, ‘Fire’s out! We’re hands short and you’re taking us into deeper waters?’

Cartheron recognized the burly squat fellow from among the boarding crew. ‘You fought your way clear of the trap?’

‘Aye.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Call me Dujek.’

‘Very well, Dujek. Lay on more canvas. I plan to get us home.’

The fellow roared a laugh. ‘Might as well. I counted us dead a while back.’ He stamped down to the midship deck, bellowing, ‘Tighten the fores’l! Watch the sheets!’

Cartheron kept his weight on the tiller-arm and Griff’s cooling body. The Honest Avarice responded like a leaping colt. They sped past a caravel closing to cut them off, its decks teeming with soldiers who shot salvo after salvo of arrows after them, all of which flew wide in the raging winds. Steadying the arm, Cartheron sent them deeper into the teeth of the storm.

*   *   *

At dusk, Dancer took to the streets to find Wu. He hadn’t seen him all that day, which was quite unusual lately. It was overcast, as he was finding drearily normal for the island – even in the summer.

He was no mage and so couldn’t track the fellow down, or sense his direction, or anything preternatural such as that. However, as they’d become partners he’d come to know him quite well – perhaps better than he’d prefer – and one thing he’d noticed was that when out for walks the mage had a strange affinity for a certain quarter of the old town, just behind the waterfront. He set out to survey that quarter and sure enough, he soon found him – standing right out in the open too, like a damned bloody fool. A troop of scruffy kids were watching from a little way down the cobbled street.

He had his walking stick out before him, hands planted on it as he rocked back and forth on his heels before the overgrown iron gate of an old house that commanded an unusually large area of wild and tangled grounds. Dancer came up beside him, hissed, ‘You’re in the damned open.’