Child of a Dead God (30 page)
Wynn rushed for Magiere, looking for any way to get to Leesil. Then her feet left the deck again.
Osha swung her back with his arm around her waist.
“Put me down!” Wynn shouted. “Leesil cannot see. He needs help!”
“Bith-na!”
Osha shouted in her face, then shoved her into the corner between the aftcastle and rail-wall.
Osha shouted in her face, then shoved her into the corner between the aftcastle and rail-wall.
“No” to what? Wynn struggled against him. What did he mean?
Another bright red-yellow light grew in the air. Gasping, she saw the burning mainsail sagging toward the deck.
“Magiere, look up! Get back!” Wynn called, choking on her words.
Cargo hold. Now!
Chap’s voice erupted in Wynn’s head.
She saw him racing along the far rail-wall from the forecastle . . . running on top of the rail. His shimmering fur glinted with red and yellow firelight.
Wynn writhed in Osha’s grip. “Come on! Below . . . we meet Chap below!”
Osha released her, shaking his head, and she grabbed his wrist, pulling him. She stopped at the hatch stairwell and shouted as loudly as she could.
“Magiere, come on! Chap says to go to the cargo hold!”
But Magiere either did not hear her or would not leave. The burning mainsail writhed in the wind, like a living thing of fire that coiled down to snatch her in its grip.
Magiere cried out like an animal, reaching through the flames for Leesil. Her gloved hand began to smoke, and she snatched it back. She let hunger fill her and shut her eyes against the fire’s brightness. She tried stepping into it.
Heat instantly seared her face and hands, and she leaped back.
Wynn shouted over the roar—something about a cargo hold—but Magiere couldn’t take her eyes from Leesil’s blurred shape amid the blaze.
Another flickering blur raced toward him from the ship’s far end. It loped along the burning rail-wall, and then brightened by firelight into a silvery canine form.
Chap leaped high through the flames.
His forepaws struck Leesil’s shoulder. Both toppled upon the burning cargo grate, and it shattered beneath their sudden weight.
Firelight surged around Magiere as she screamed.
Leesil was gone. And Chap with him.
More light descended from above her.
She saw the first whipping corner of the burning sail coil around the mid mast. She threw herself backward, rolling away as the descending inferno swallowed the midship.
Wynn had shouted something about the cargo hold.
Magiere turned on all fours, knocking aside a deckhand as she lunged toward the hatchway. A blur of gray-green cloak disappeared down the stairs, and she rushed in behind it, nearly falling over the first step.
Osha turned with wide eyes, and Wynn stood below the last step.
“Chap said we must get to the cargo hold!” she shouted.
Magiere understood now.
“No!” she growled back. “You . . . get off the ship! I’ll . . . get to Leesil and Chap.”
Wynn opened her mouth to argue.
“Take her!” Magiere shouted into Osha’s face.
She shoved him against the stairwell wall, grabbed Wynn by her shift’s shoulder, and nearly threw her at the young elf. Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Magiere ran down through the ship’s passages. At the bottom, she followed the only narrow corridor that headed toward midship. There was a door at the end.
Magiere didn’t even slow. She hit it with her shoulder at full speed, and the door crashed open, dangling in pieces from its hinges.
“Leesil!”
Water sloshed knee-deep around her legs as she slogged in. The hold was filling with seawater through a hole torn in the hull’s far side. And then she heard splashing that didn’t come from her own steps.
Leesil broke the water’s surface, rising up, and Chap half-waded and half-paddled toward him.
Magiere struggled forward, her boots already heavy with water. She was breathing too fast and couldn’t say anything as she pawed frantically at Leesil, searching for injuries.
Runnels of water left soot-smudged streaks on his face, but his expression melted in equal relief at the sight of her. His was still holding on to his one winged blade, and he grabbed her wrist with his other hand.
“I’m all right,” he said and then looked down. “Your hands!”
Her gloves were charred and blackened. She hadn’t even noticed the sting in her hands.
Fire around the grateless cargo hatch above filled the hold with flickering light, and seams of flame began spreading along the ceiling.
“We have to get out of here,” she said.
“We won’t survive onshore without our gear,” Leesil argued, and headed for the shattered door.
Magiere almost grabbed him from behind, ready to throw him over her shoulder and flee—but she knew he was right. He led the way with Chap right behind as they all trudged through the water in the outer passage.
They hurried to their quarters, grabbing what they could—weapons first. Leesil found their coats, and then hesitated for breath. He took up his new winged blades, but Magiere’s dagger was still missing. Sgäile had not brought it back yet.
“Forget it!” Magiere snapped, and jerked him toward the door.
They slogged back for the stairs, and then an elf they’d never seen before came through the passage’s other end. He was dressed in a plain canvas tunic and breeches, and his feet were bare. He carried a large barkless root almost too heavy to hoist, smooth and round and dully pointed.
Magiere froze. The root’s long tail trailing behind the man moved on its own—like the ship’s tail that Wynn had spotted so many days past.
The elf stopped at the sight of Magiere, and then crouched to set down the strange squirming bulk. He glared up sternly at Magiere and then Leesil, and spoke quickly in Elvish. It sounded like a question.
Magiere could only shake her head and point toward the hatch stairs.
“We have to get off,” she said. “So should you.”
She had no idea if he understood.
He lowered his head, muttering in Elvish, and reached around his back to fling something toward her. The long white-metal dagger fell in the shallow water near Magiere’s boot.
She reached down and picked it up. Its hilt was now thick and wrapped tightly with leather. By the time she looked up, the elf was gone, then she spotted the tail of his wooden burden whip as it slid up the hatchway stairs.
“Put it away and let’s move!” Leesil growled.
Magiere shoved the blade in the back of her belt. They emerged to find the deck engulfed in flames feeding upon remnants of sails, rigging, and crumpled masts. Magiere looked about for the tall, barefooted elf.
He stood at the seaward rail-wall just below the aftcastle, the only place on that side not blocked by fire. Magiere saw no sign of the moving root he’d been carrying.
“Come on!” she shouted. “Get to a skiff!”
He never even turned around. The tall, barefoot elf just stood there. Beneath the crackle of fire and splitting wood, Magiere heard a low rolling hum, like a song without words. He slowly lifted his head, as if watching something moving in the open water.
The deck creaked beneath Magiere’s feet.
Chap barked sharply as he scrambled toward the shoreward rail-wall.
Magiere had no choice but to follow him.
Sgäile’s arms grew heavy in the cold water, and despair began to mount.
Where was the woman?
He swam back along the Ylladon ship’s course, but through one swell after another he found nothing. And both ships had drifted onward behind him. Then he saw something swirling upon the surface.
It was too light to be kelp or debris. Then it sank again, gone from sight.
Sgäile thrashed forward. When he reached the spot where it had gone down, he dove under.
Beneath the surface, the water was so dark that all he could do was hold his breath and grasp about. His hand struck something rough and thin—a rope. He grabbed hold, winding it around his hand and wrist, and kicked for the surface.
Sgäile’s head broke through. Before he even sucked in a breath, he pulled. Twice he sank under, reaching down, hand over hand along the rope. Until his grip closed on soft, cold fingers. He grabbed hold and kicked back up to the surface.
She came up, gasped for air over and over, panic-stricken.
“Float,” he managed to say. “Relax yourself.”
He kept an arm under the middle of her back as they both rolled over the crest of another swell. The woman tried to turn her head, blinking water from her eyes so she could see him.
“Sister,” she choked. “My sister . . . is on the ship.”
Sgäile grew even colder.
Another of his people was on that human vessel? Still holding her atop the waves, he looked back. The elven ship—the Päirvänean—was burning in the night.
By now, the hkomas would have ordered the crew into the skiffs. The Ylladon vessel had been damaged as well, and listed deeply to one side. It was so far away, how could he do anything to save this woman’s sister?
A thundering crack rolled across the night swells.
The Ylladon ship rocked, and its stern shifted suddenly toward the open sea.
“No . . . ,” Sgäile moaned.
Another thundering impact filled the night. The marauder ship’s prow dipped sharply into the sea and did not come up again. It was sinking.
The hkœda had released his
shävâlean
—the “swimmers.” They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.
shävâlean
—the “swimmers.” They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.
Sgäile looked away as the woman tried to lift her head to see.
“Do not,” he said.
He pulled a stiletto to sever the rope, then grasped the back of her tunic and towed her as he swam. Another crack sounded in the distance from the hull of the Ylladon ship.
All Sgäile could do now was try to reach the shore.
Chane watched helplessly as oil globes struck the elven ship and flames erupted across its deck.
“Wynn,” he whispered.
He lunged across the ship, searching to slaughter whoever had flung those globes.
“Stop!” Welstiel shouted.
Chane turned, sword in hand.
Sabel came behind Welstiel, along with the other ferals, all laden with canvas and ropes and packs.
“You said they would have time to escape!” Chane rasped, and his throat turned raw.
Welstiel’s lips curled angrily. He opened his mouth to spit a response, but Chane never heard it. The sound of wood smashing filled his ears.
The Ylladon ship lurched sharply, and seawater sprayed over the rail, driving debris across the deck. Welstiel clutched the mast, glancing about as half the ferals were thrown from their feet.
“Take the packs and gear from her,” Welstiel said, pointing to Sabel. “Tie the canvas to your back.”
Chane glared at him and did not move.
“We have to swim,” Welstiel snapped, “as far north as possible before going ashore. We cannot risk Magiere or the dog sensing us.”
“Swim?”
“We will be too visible if we take a skiff,” Welstiel answered. He turned to Sabel and the others. “Leave no one here alive, and then follow us.”
Another thundering crack sent the ship spinning sideways, and the bow dipped sharply.
Chane grabbed the rail to keep from sliding. The ferals snatched at anything they could hold on to. For once they showed little eagerness for feast or slaughter. And Chane’s own hate faltered under his instinct to survive.
“We all go now!” he hissed. “Any crew left would never let themselves be caught by the elves. We are hardly in danger of them revealing you!”
He pulled himself up the slanting deck and took Sabel’s bundled canvas. He tried to wrap it tightly about his own pack, to protect the precious texts from the monastery, before tying the bulk across his shoulders.
Welstiel never answered him, just threw his own pack full of arcane objects over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he shouted, “Come!” to his monks and vaulted the ship’s rail.
Another loud crack exploded into the hull. Chane clutched the rail, waiting for the ship to settle, and then jumped overboard.
In a brief glimpse of the burning elven ship, his thoughts filled with the image of Wynn’s oval, olive-toned face. Then he sank beneath the cold, dark water.
“Sgäile!” Leesil shouted from the skiff’s front, one hand gripping its upturned prow.
He searched the ocean swells with Osha crouched beside him.
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