Dreamlands (20 page)

The
enemy loomed dead in our sights; we would fall upon her in a matter of moments. 
I bounded past Huspeth, who clung to the mast as if weathering a storm, for the
hatch.  In the next instant Erik and I were bellowing all hands on deck.  There
was no time for the crew to question the supernatural swell that drove us, for the
Peregrine was already easing directly alongside our quarry.  The black galley’s
oars stopped their methodical sweeping and were smoothly shipped.  Their deck
was empty.  No man was posted, not even a lookout.

As
the hulls knocked together, I called the order to board.  Our grapples and
ladders came down like a row of falling axes and as the Peregrine's men leapt
to the enemy's deck, theirs began to boil up from the black square of the main
hatch like angry hornets from a smashed hive.  Here was the galley's tireless,
wilted crew, muscles in stark relief on gaunt frames, eyes rolling in the
gouged out hollows of their sockets like marbles in a dish.

I
recognized the first of them, wielding a hammer and stripped to the waist to
better display his hulking frame.  Marthin recognized Gorice as well and
instead of shooting his ridiculous crossbow hesitated, to his ruin.  In that
instant, the blacksmith leapt forward and caved in Marthin’s ribcage with his
first blow.

Before
I could so much as exclaim at Marthin’s death, Erik and I were pushed aside as Jome
rushed to meet the galley’s crew.  He had always been one of the best fighters
in Zij, but in that battle became a man possessed.  Gorice blocked twice, but
his counter-swing may as well have been sent parcel post.  Jome opened his
throat to the spine and the blacksmith’s hammer flew over the rail.

In
the ensuing pandemonium, I forgot Jome and Marthin and my world was reduced to
the reach of my dagger and sword.  Erik, Ajer and I fought close together, I
stabbing with the pearl-handled knife when I hadn’t room to swing a sword in
the press of straining fighters and clashing weapons.

The
galley slaves fought as if driven by the Devil himself, but bled as readily as
any man, and though we began evenly matched, our side had the advantage.  The Wilted
fought without discipline or cooperation, as if they were strangers meeting for
the first time on the field.  As their numbers thinned and we pushed forward
from midships, I saw their masters in a group at the prow.  There were four of
the yellow-eyed ones in their bumpy turbans alongside a bloated grey humanoid,
a brother to the worm-faced thing I had shot down in St. Mary’s Hospital.  This
creature stood intimately near to the last of them, Trout, who still held his
satchel.  For some reason, the boy was looking beseechingly in my direction.

With
the fight all but decided in our favour, our remaining opponents began to
break, falling to the deck and begging our quarter.  They were ignored or
kicked aside as we advanced on the officers and their monster, but three of the
Men of Leng chose not to fight us.  These ones stepped gracefully up onto the rail,
and with a single pirouette dropped feet first into the sea, sinking with
barely a splash into the green depths.

Seeing
his masters go over the side, our treacherous swab tried to break towards us,
but was seized about the chest by the abomination.  The never resting nodules that
served it for a face grazed upon the boy’s hair as it clutched him close, until
with a powerful spring it carried them both likewise into the sea.  From Trout’s
expression as he disappeared over the rail I gleaned he’d sooner have run full
upon my sword.

The
final galley master remained standing at the prow, unarmed and at ease, as if he
had come on deck to enjoy the sun and intended to do so until more pressing
matters arose.  He made no move to defend himself as Ajer swept his feet out
from under him.

The
surviving Wilted cowered against the gunwales, and though they had surrendered,
no man of the Peregrine had lowered his weapon.  Ajer had interposed himself
between our other prisoner and the crew.

“Orders,
Captain?” Erik shouted, knowing as I did that we must move quickly before our victory
turned into a slaughter.

“Right,"
I coughed at the reek of spilled blood.  "Gavrel, get our wounded back to
the Peregrine.  Erik, sit the prisoners in a row starboard and get a couple of
fellows to watch them.  The rest of you, put the dead slaves over the side.”  I
would for many nights wish I hadn’t seen the bodies of the Wilted drifting in
the waves, nor their twisted faces, which showed no peace even in death.  The remaining
captives we would later put ashore to survive or not as chance willed.

When
minor wounds had been tended and our own dead set aside to be burned, everyone began
to drift back to the galley foredeck, but not too close to Ajer, who would
gently reproach nosey colleagues with his staff.  I took note of Jome for the
first time since he had felled Gorice.  He cradled Marthin’s crossbow in his
right arm; the other hung useless and running with blood.

“Where
have the blackguards got to then?” someone asked, peering over the side.

“To
drown,” Erik said gruffly, “where else.”  But I did not believe this.

“Where
have your comrades gone?” I said to their captain.  He did not shift where he
sat at Ajer’s feet, cross-legged and again at ease, nor indicate he had heard. 
“Share your plans with us, and if I’m satisfied I will put you ashore with the
others.  If not–”

“Put
him to the question, Captain,” Jome cried.  For all his talk of Fate, tears coursed
down his cheeks.  “Let me do it.  I’ll get to the root of their mischief.”

This
suggestion met with approval on all sides.  Though my first thought was
naturally to search for Isobel, part of me feared what the search would reveal,
and I would not leave the prisoner to the mercy of bloodthirsty sailors.  I
looked to Huspeth, who at some point had recovered enough of her strength to join
us.  A spray of brown weals had ruined one side of her face, part of the price
she had paid for the conjuring.

“This
one will tell you nothing,” the soothsayer said.  “These beings only masquerade
as humans.  Quartermaster, show them what are the Men of Leng.”  I nodded to Ajer
and he tore the prisoner’s headdress free.  Everyone stepped back at what was
revealed:  beneath a mane of glossy chestnut hair, twin black horns curved back
from a bony brow.  The captain of the black galley glowered at us, and even
Ajer could not hide his apprehension at those murderous eyes, burning as if a
furnace raged inside his skull.

“Have
him spend the night in the lower aft hold,” I said.  He would find no rest in
that space, barely high enough for a man to sit upright, and always awash in
bilge.  To him, I said, “And pray that I find Isobel.”

I
had already turned my back when
Ajer gave a hoarse cough, the
loudest sound he could muster, but too late.  The yellow-eyed villain had
produced from his sleeve a long black needle, like a wasp’s sting the size of a
dirk.  He was already lunging towards me, but halted in the middle of the
motion, and with a
thunk
fell back to the deck.  He was pierced through
the hip and held in place by a long wooden shaft.  Jome lowered the crossbow,
resting its tip at his feet, his expression inscrutable.

Our
captive scrabbled frenziedly to get free, until snagging himself somewhere on the
point of his own blade.  His reaction made the crowd step back yet again.  The
captain’s whole body convulsed once, every sinew stretched quivering to its
extremity, then collapsed.  I supposed him dead at that point, but his form
began incrementally to contract around the quarrel pinning him down, limbs
seizing up like the legs of a dead spider, until finally he stilled.

Ajer
and Erik wrenched the carcass free of its catch, and the captain of the black
galley was sent to join his crew.

“That’s
settled at least,” Erik said.

I
pushed past him and the others, making for the main hatch and ladder.  Taking a
proffered lantern, I descended to the sweeps deck and found it empty.  Initially,
I thought the next level deserted as well, but a hushed sobbing guided me aft, where
I had to hold a sleeve over my mouth against the stench.  The rear compartment
was strewn with empty cages, devices plainly designed for men.

“Over
here,” came her voice, “I’m here.”

I
hastened my steps, unwilling to believe my ears.

“Are
they all dead?” Isobel asked.  Then she saw me clearly.  “Isaac?  No, it’s not
true.  It is just a dream.”  Tears were washing the filth from her face as I
reached for the door.  It was unlocked.  I lifted her out of the cell and we
made our way up to the first level, and back to the galley captain’s quarters. 
It was a queerly luxurious space, hung with embroideries and lined with unusual
books.  She stopped me.

“Not
here,” she said.  “For a time the captain would keep me in his quarters.  He
did not mistreat me, only kept me nearby to look upon, like a pet from a
distant land.”

We
settled in a less opulent compartment.  Isobel had been roughly used –her legs
would forever show the scarring of shackles– but she showed no permanent injury
and her eyes were clear.  Before I could think of anything sensible, she began haltingly
to speak.

“My
father,” she said.  “I was trying to find out how he ended up in the coal
burners’ camp.  Those men didn’t kill him.  It was the yellow-eyed merchants.”

“He
found something then?”

“Solomon
knew why the galley masters were gathering gold.  It’s for some kind of rite.” 
She began to grow excited and I held her tighter, telling myself again she was
real.  “It will take place on a nameless island.  There is a magic circle
there, engraved in stone, which they mean to fill with purest gold.  That is
why they have been collecting gold.  All they are missing is some kind of
fetish, a deformed skull hidden in the temple of some other cult.”

“What
do they hope to do with their gold-filled symbol?”

“None
of it makes sense to me,” she said with a shiver, “but they want to open a door
to another place.  The name is unpronounceable, but I am sure anything they
wish must be horrid.  When this door is open, their master shall come through
and rule over them.  That is all.”

“But
an isle with no name,” I said, "in these waters.  We'll never find it.”

“Most
of what I learned was from their human servants.  But there is one other thing,
their dearest secret.  The turbaned ones spoke freely before me, for no one understands
their tongue, but they didn’t know I could read the nautical charts in the
captain’s quarters.  Their granite island is not far from Dylath-Leen.  I can
tell you the coordinates.”

“That
is marvelous,” I said, “but we will discuss it later, away from this prison. 
Can you stand?”

The
two of us ascended to the deck, where the men waited, tense and unhappy.

“Take
an hour to rest or scavenge the ship as you will,” I said.  “Whatever spoils
you find are yours.  Then it will be the pyre to burn our dead.”

I
took Isobel back to the Peregrine and the captain’s cabin, where I was glad to
see Huspeth had not yet returned.  I sat by her until she had fallen asleep, when
I reluctantly decided I must update the mystic on what I had learned.  We took
what privacy was available in the forecastle.

“If
what Isobel says is true,” Huspeth said after considering my news, “then the
skull must be the relic recovered in Dylath-Leen, and the last requirement of
their ritual.”

“When
they jumped into the sea, they looked nothing like men going to their deaths.”

“No,
they would never be so wasteful.  The skull must have been in their possession when
they magicked themselves away.”

“But
what do they intend?”

“They
intend to submit this world to the will of their master.”  Her face fell when
she said this.  “And he is no warlord or ship’s captain.  Do you understand
what it is I speak of?”

“I
have some idea, yes.  Will we have time to stop them?

“They
will not move until the full moon, six days hence.  If their destination is as
close as Isobel says, then yes, we have time.”  She bowed her head to think.  “But
do we have the will?”

Thinking
of all I had learned of my enemies since inhaling the sweet smoke of a fisherman’s
pipe in a Kingsport tavern, I chose to reserve my answer.

When
the crew had finished picking over the black galley, and her pitch barrels had
been tipped and set alight, we sailed again for Dylath-Leen.

* * *

“How
many have we lost?” I asked.  Back in port, after dividing up the booty from
the galley, a troubling number of men had picked up their kit, taken their
payout, and left.

Erik
shook his head, unwilling to lift it from where he scanned the manifest.

“With
the dead from battle and those leaving for brighter shores, a full third.  There
is plenty of work to be had in Dylath-Leen.  Best speak to them now, or we
might lose more.”

On
deck the men went about their few remaining duties silently.  I called a break,
and once everyone was settled with their pipes or drinks, or arms crossed and
scowling, I addressed them.