Scimitar War (3 page)

“No!” the admiral barked, rage flowing from him like a wave. He banged his hand on the table, rattling all the cups and saucers. “I will
not
give you
Flothrindel
or any other craft! That is
final
!”

“Den you don’t need oua help dat much.” She stood, and Tipos followed suit. “Sorry, Admiral, but dat’s da deal. We track dis murderer down, and you give us
Flothrindel
. Maybe afta you lose a few more men, den you come talk to us.”

“I could have you both clapped in irons for treason!” he seethed.

“And how dat gonna help you?” she asked, shaking her head at the empty threat. “You got so many men, maybe you not miss a few more.” She nudged Tipos, then turned her back on the admiral and strode out of the room. They left unmolested, and she relaxed, whispering sweet nonsense to Koybur to calm the boy’s fussing.

When they were well down the corridor, Tipos murmured to her in their own language, “That was dangerous, Paska.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking at him and shrugging, “but it was the only thing he was going to listen to.”

≈

“The natives of this island are not your enemies, Admiral!” Camilla insisted. She reflexively picked up her teacup, feeling its warmth through the delicate porcelain, and raised it to her lips. The smell was nauseating, and she set it down again untasted. “You should consider Paska’s offer.”

“It’s extortion!” Joslan snapped, his face still flushed and radiating more heat than the teapot. She could see the pulse hammering at his temple. “I will not be blackmailed into giving them the means to bring their entire tribe down on us.”

“You can’t expect them to help you when you won’t help them, Admiral,” she reiterated, though she didn’t really expect him to back down now. Before Paska and Tipos were summoned, she and Emil had tried for an hour to make the man see reason, and he had stonewalled their every attempt. The vein at his temple pulsed strongly, and she felt like she could almost hear his pounding heart. She licked her lips unconsciously. “They only desire to free their kinsmen.”

“So you say,” Joslan countered, draining his cup. The steward refilled it. “Well, we are not without resources of our own. I daresay Master Upton and his people will be able to track down this fiend. Am I not right, sir?”

“Unfortunately, Admiral, woodcraft is not my forte.” The little man shrugged. “I will certainly accompany any search parties, but in such terrain and dense growth, I hold little hope of success.”

Camilla didn’t like Upton; she liked him even less than she liked Huffington. The two were cut from the same bolt of cloth; they saw too much, always lurking and spying, like rats in the dark. She remembered the skittering claws in the dungeon and shivered.

“We have nearly seven thousand men in our armada. I daresay there are some with tracking skills.” Joslan scrawled a note and handed it to his steward. “Give that to Captain Donnely for Commodore Henkle.”

Ah, the brute force and ignorance approach,
Camilla thought as she shifted in frustration. Emil had been right about this man; not a subtle bone in his body. Joslan was a warrior, and though skilled in his trade, he had no guile whatsoever.

“Such an approach will put your men at risk, Admiral,” Upton warned.

“I agree,” Emil said. He patted Camilla’s leg under the table to calm her. Instead, she trembled with a thrill of sudden and unexpected desire. She forced it down, trying to focus on his words. “You have lost one man, Admiral. Risking more in an attempt to track down the murderer on unfamiliar terrain is ill-advised.”

“Yet we must do something,” Joslan insisted. “A man has been killed; a lack of action shows weakness, inviting another attack.”

Idiot!
Camilla thought, slipping one hand under the table to grasp Emil’s. It was warm…so warm.

“This was not an attack, Admiral,” Upton said, “at least not in the military sense. It was an isolated incident, and may have been motivated by any number of things. Simple precautions should preclude further incidents. Private Yarel was killed because he was alone and the murderer was able to silence him before he could raise an alarm. It would not have occurred if he had not been alone.”

“It
might
not have occurred,” Joslan said, glaring at the master of security. “We will double the guard as you suggested, but we will also hunt the culprit by other means.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “May I say once again how pleased I am to see you well and safe, Miss Camilla.”

Camilla stood and accepted his proffered hand. “Thank you, Admiral.” She repressed a shudder at the sweaty clasp, the slick film of exudate redolent of meat and blackbrew. His pulse beat against her palm as he brought her hand to his lips. Oddly, she thought she could sense a faint flutter in its cadence, a flutter that would eventually kill him, unless something—or someone—else killed him first.

An image flashed in her mind—blood gushing from an open wound, sweet and hot, cascading down…Her attention snapped back to the here and now as he released her hand, her own heart pounding in her ears. Despite the cold terror of the hallucination, she managed to smile at the admiral. She had thought her nightmares of blood were over, soothed by Emil’s gentle love. But now, as she took Emil’s arm, she wondered,
What the hells is wrong with me?

≈

“Enough, Cyn.” Feldrin’s huge hand rested on her shoulder, solid as stone, comforting. “Comin’ on eight bells, and the first dog watch is ready at the sweeps.”

She opened her eyes and looked up into her husband’s concerned face, his dusky skin stark with the light of the afternoon sun lowering in the sky. “I’m really not that tired. I could go longer if…”

“Nay, lass. You take enough on yer shoulders doin’ the day watches with the sun so bloody hot. Let the crew take the night. Come on.” She let him pull her up from her seat beside the cuddy cabin, then twisted and stretched out the kinks that had settled during the long day. The ship’s bell chimed eight times, and Horace called the watch change. Feldrin cast a casual salute to his stalwart first mate. “The deck’s yours, Horace.”

“The deck is mine, Captain,” he said, returning the salute with a grin. “And the crew’s compliments and thanks to you, Mistress. We made good miles today.”

“My pleasure,” Cynthia said as the steady cadence of the coxswain’s chant began, and twenty-four sailors began pulling long strokes with the twelve sweeps.

She relinquished her connection with the winds, and the sails went slack. Feldrin smiled up into the rigging as his crew pulled in the flapping canvas, and held out his arm to her. She took the support and accompanied him below, though she maintained her bond with the sea and kept a steady pressure on the hull of
Orin’s Pride
. It took little effort, and that much more water would pass under their keel before Cynthia finally succumbed to sleep. What her husband didn’t know, she figured, wouldn’t hurt him.

“How’s Kloe?” she asked as they entered the cuddy cabin and negotiated the steps.

“Hungry as usual,” he said with a grin, “and fussy, which is normal in babies, I’m guessin’.”

“I’ll feed him before supper, then.”

“Not before you’ve had some water and a nibble. You’ve been outside all day.” He diverted her to the galley and called for the cook. “Water and a biscuit fer the nursin’ mommy, if you please.”

“Straight away, Captain!” The man bustled around the galley and produced a large pewter mug and a plate with two ship’s biscuits and a wedge of white cheese. “I saved a bit o’ that last wheel o’ cheese for ya, Mistress. It won’t keep and there’s not enough to go around for the whole crew, so you go ahead and eat up. Yer still eatin’ fer two.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia said without argument. They were on short rations, since they had the combined crews of
Orin’s Pride
and
Peggy’s Dream
aboard. She’d supplemented their stores with fish, easily caught using her seamage skills, but they were still short. She sat on the hard wooden bench, took a bite of biscuit; it was dry and tasteless, and she had to take a sip of water to wash it down, but it filled the void in her stomach. The cheese was better, so soft and creamy that it melted on her tongue. How long had it been, she wondered, since she’d enjoyed—really enjoyed—a home-cooked meal? She washed the bite of cheese down with another sip of water. “How’s the water holding out?”

“Not good,” Feldrin admitted. “Not enough for the seven days it’ll take us to raise Plume Isle. Might have you whip up a downpour tomorrow.”

“Happy to.” She ate mechanically, knowing she needed it, but feeling ashamed that she received the extra rations while others went hungry. The least she could do was provide water, though coaxing up a shower took time away from propelling the ship. Well, if they were going to stop for a while, perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone. “I’ll do a bit of fishing while I’m at it.”

“Which brings up somethin’ I been meanin’ to ask you about; how’re yer fishy friends doin’?”

Cynthia glanced curiously at her husband. Only days ago he had been prepared to condemn the entire mer race; what was his concern with them now? Perhaps Kelpie’s aid in their escape from Akrotia had shown him that not all mer were intent on her destruction.

“They’re tired but well enough. Considering that Tailwalker and Chaser were the only two mer to survive that we know of, I think they’re just happy to be heading home.” She could see from the look on his face that he had more on his mind. “Why?”

“Just wonderin’ how you planned to handle them. With Eelback dead, and him bein’ behind the whole plot to make war on the emperor’s ships just to put you on the spot, there ain’t much left fer you to be mad about.”

“You think I should talk to Broadtail?”

“Maybe not right off, but maybe send word back with Tailwalker that you don’t plan on smashin’ their home to rubble anymore.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Might smooth tensions a bit.”

“A truce?” She finished her snack and washed it down with the last of her water. “I’m not sure if the emperor would like that, after they sank his warship.”

“Well, that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, love.” He rose with her and returned the empty mug and plate to the galley, nodding his thanks to the cook. “But dealin’ with His Majesty might be easier if you can use peace with the merfolk as a bargainin’ chip.”

“Not a bad idea,” she said, following him out of the galley and toward the aft cabin. “I never thought of you as a politico, Feldrin.”

“Just one of my many charms, lass,” he said with a smile as he ushered her into the cabin. They were greeted by a sleepy seasprite and the grunting protestations of a fussy baby, which to Cynthia’s ears was the most glorious sound in the world. “He’s all yers. If you can make
him
happy, an emperor should be easy!”

“Oh, Kloe,” she cooed, sitting beside the squirming infant and lifting him into her lap. Mouse perked up and fluttered to her shoulder, grinning down at the baby. “What? What is so upsetting? Are you hungry? Okay, then.” He squirmed while she fumbled open the buttons of her blouse, lifted her chemise and let him suckle. He immediately stopped fussing. Mouse made a face and flew out of the skylight hatch.

“That’s my boy; only got one thing on his mind,” Feldrin said with a huge grin. “Seriously, though, Cyn, we need to figure out how to deal with the next bunch of warships that come down to visit.”

“You mean besides surrendering and begging forgiveness?”

“Well, that might be a good start, but I was thinkin’ of what to say to keep our necks out of the guillotine.”

“That, dear, will indeed be the hard part,” she said, holding her son close. She wondered what would happen to him if his parents were executed for treason.

Chapter 2

Blood Trail

A stream of shouted gibberish woke Dura from a fitful sleep, and she groaned. Today, another of them would die. She opened her eyes to see several cannibals yelling and gesticulating beside her cage, their backs turned to her. They had found Pica.

The sting of tears pricked Dura’s eyes. Pica, who had shown so much promise as a carpenter’s mate in the shipyard, had slashed her wrists two days ago, overcome by despair. The stench and the flies were so thick in the offal beneath the cages that the death had gone undetected. Now, enraged by their discovery, the cannibals dragged the young woman’s stiff corpse from her cage and began hacking and bashing at it with their knives and clubs as they argued.

“Leave her alone, ya filthy, pig-buggerin’ bastards!” Dura bellowed. The sight of them despoiling the body of her friend set her blood boiling, and she gripped the bars of her cage and rattled it as she cursed them. “Slimy bunch of pox-ridden whores! Let her be!”

The shouting subsided, and curious eyes shifted her way. Ice chilled through Dura’s veins.
This is it
, she thought.
My turn
.

Several of the cannibals dragged Pica’s corpse away, while others inspected the now-vacant cage. It didn’t take them long to discover the thin sliver of obsidian that the girl had used to open the arteries of her wrists.

“Oh, there’s gonna be all Nine Hells to pay now,” Dura muttered as the cannibals argued again, pointing at their captives. They moved to the first cage at the far end of the line and made ready to open it.

If the cannibals had one skill, it was handling prisoners. They formed a cordon around the cage, which held a stout fellow by the name of Quada. One opened the cage, then two strong warriors reached in, grabbed Quada’s wrists, and hauled him out. Two others held long bamboo poles fitted with nooses of braided leather, which they slipped over Quada’s head and quickly tightened by pulling on the leather strung through the hollow poles. Quada struggled, but with the two nooses around his neck and two men holding his arms, he was completely immobilized. A woman approached him then, holding out a keen dagger.

“Hold fast, lad!” Dura shouted over the din as she realized the cannibals’ intentions. “They don’t mean to kill ya! Least ways, not yet!”

Just as she thought, the woman simply cut away Quada’s loincloth, his only clothing, and cast it aside. She looked him over, poking and prodding, then nodded, apparently assured that he secreted no hidden blades or tools. To Dura’s relief, they shoved Quada back into his cage, mother naked and panting with rage, but alive.

The next cage held a young woman named Silla. The cannibals repeated their search on her, then returned her to her cage. And so they went down the line. Knowing that it was not yet their turn to die, the captives remained passive, enduring the humiliation and hoping not to call attention to themselves, for this afternoon, someone would be chosen for the feast. The cannibals grew complacent, even seemed to be joking in their harsh language. They didn’t hold the captives as tightly now, and the nooses didn’t choke as they had when Quada fought back.

Dura watched as they worked their way toward her cage, and formulated her plan.

She offered her wrists easily, and didn’t struggle when the nooses were looped over her head. She rose from her permanent crouch in the small cage with unfeigned stiffness and a grimace as a muscle cramped in her back. Pitiless, her captors pulled her up and held her immobile.

Dura was shorter, stockier and more thoroughly clothed than any of her fellow prisoners, and the woman with the knife hesitated. One of the noose-holding men barked some unintelligible words at her, and she snapped a reply. She approached and cut the sleeves of Dura’s shirt from wrist to collar, then from neck to hem. The loose-fitting shirt fell away with a tug, and the woman with the knife hissed in surprise.

“They didn’t know you were a woman,” one of Dura’s fellow prisoners said.

“Figured as much,” she muttered.

Dura wore a thin linen undershirt, but even so, her feminine attributes were obvious. The man holding the noose urged the woman with the knife, and when Dura’s undershirt had been cut away, raucous laughter broke out among her captors. Dura shoved down the shame, replacing it with hot rage, but held her temper in check. She knew that her dwarven body—thicker and more muscular than most humans—must look peculiar to these savages. But peculiar or not, there was little fat on her, and she probably outweighed all but the stoutest of them.