The Red Sea (19 page)

"Stop it!" Blays shouted. "This is your last chance to not be killed. After that, I turn you over to Mr. Guy You Consider a Demon here."

Taking the cue, Dante spread his palm, enfolding his hand in darkness. The men backed deeper into the room. After a brief discussion, they handed over their swords. Dante marched them to the ladder. While the soldiers were still ascending, the ship swayed, pulling away from the dock.

With all of the sailors engaged in the business of shoving off, Dante and Blays saw to the new prisoners, binding their hands and stuffing them in one of the cabins. The ship cut downstream toward the middle of the river, the pier shrinking behind them.

"You got us out of there in record time, Mr. Naran," Dante said once the man was unengaged from his duties. "Or should I say Captain Naran?"

The man tugged on the hem of his jacket, straightening it. "I never wished for this responsibility. I liked what I did, and what Captain Twill did as our commander."

"Given that I'm hundreds of miles away from the city I govern, maybe I shouldn't be handing out advice about responsible leadership. But I think you're the right man for this. You have a sense of justice and your men respect you."

"Is that all it takes?"

"It also helps to smite your enemies," Dante said. "But that will have to wait until later."

Naran gazed at the gray waters rolling out before them. "Yet you have more than that. You have a second set of eyes. A voice that's not afraid to speak up when you've stepped outside the path."

"Oh, you're free to borrow him if you like. Especially if there's barnacles that need scraping."

"But you see, the role of adviser was once mine. And I'm discovering it's much easier to question orders than it is to give them."

"Well, now that you have your own command, I can let you into the Secret Leaders' Club. The only truth we've managed to confirm is this: none of us has the faintest idea what we're doing."

Naran gave him a look. "I can't tell if you're joking."

"Think about how much confusion your own life provides. Now multiply that confusion by the number of lives under your leadership—and consider that your morass of confusion is just one of thousands bumping through the fog of the world."

"This comparison may be less inspiring than you think."

"It's frightening to sail into such dark seas," Dante said. "But there's comfort in it, too. All you have to do is keep both eyes on the way ahead and a firm hand on the tiller."

Commotion arose along the shore, with blue-capped men running down the esplanade, but the caravel soon put the soldiers behind it. It threaded through the central arch of the Titansbridge and swooped past a number of barges beginning the day's journey upriver. As the sun cleared the trees and buildings, the horizon of the sea spread out before them.

They loaded the captive soldiers into one of the ship's two longboats. Blays untied their hands. The caravel slowed enough to lower the longboat. Once it was clear, they rehoisted the sails and left Bressel behind.

The pressure in Dante's head continued to point south. He didn't have a precise gauge of the distance between them and the
Sword of the South
, but guessing it would be several hours before they closed the gap, he retired to a cabin to grab what sleep he could.

Shouts summoned him from slumber. As shouts went, they sounded excited, but not entirely happy. Out on the deck, the sun stood at roughly 10:30. Men scrambled about, trimming the sails.

Blays strolled toward him, yawning as if he'd been asleep, too. "Guess that head of yours is good for something after all. Naran thinks we've spotted the ship."

Dante touched his forehead. The strain within it had increased significantly. He spotted Naran on the aftercastle and climbed up to meet him. White sails shined on the fringe of the horizon.

"That's the
South
," Dante said. "I have no doubt."

Naran smiled grimly. "Me neither. I'd know it anywhere. I know its limits, too. With this wind, we'll be on them in two hours."

"Do you think they'll fight?"

"We'll offer them the chance to surrender. Given the recent fanaticism in Mallon, I don't think they'll take it."

"What then?"

"We're faster. We'll come up beside them, lash ourselves together, and board them." Naran rested his hand on the grip of his saber. "I'll be glad to have you with us. A boarding action is like an entire war compressed into the space of a ship's deck."

Bit by bit, they gained on the
South
. Naran asked Dante to follow him belowdecks. There, several armed crewmen stood watch over the pressganged slaves they'd found aboard the vessel.

"As of our taking of this ship, you are free men," Naran announced. "You may leave the next time we make port. In the meantime, if you expect to eat, then I will expect you to work."

The indentured crewmen exchanged looks. A gray-bearded man said, "Pardon me, sir. But I couldn't help overhearing that we're headed into a battle. That wouldn't be the work you have in mind, would it?"

"This is our fight, not yours. However, we're about to find ourselves with two ships rather than one. This will necessitate expanding our crew. If you wish to join us, we'll welcome any man who will aid us in the fight."

"Who exactly are we fighting?"

Naran smiled grimly. "The Mallish."

This drew a number of hard looks. Of the fifteen indentured sailors, six volunteered on the spot. Naran instructed his men to arm and prepare them, then climbed back to the deck.

He glanced at Dante sidelong. "Was that all right?"

"Perfect."

"You're sure?" He lifted his chin. "I felt a little stiff."

"Yet six of them signed up to risk their lives in a battle they know nothing about. You must have done something right."

The gap between themselves and the fleeing ship narrowed. Yellow-brown hunks of kelp speckled the waves, as if a recent storm had churned up the sea bed. White birds rode the undulating swells. Around the deck, men strung bows and donned boiled leather armor. Others dragged up ropes and grappling hooks from the hold.

As they came up on the
South
's starboard side, Jona moved to the prow, signaling with a white flag and a red one. From the
South
's aftercastle, a white flag answered, indicating surrender.

"Stay ready!" Naran called. "And remember Captain Twill."

The
Sword of the South
let its sails droop, slowing. The caravel did the same. As they neared bow range, Dante cut his arm, holding the nether close.

White light streaked through the briny air and smashed into the caravel's mainmast.

"Ethermancers!" Dante shouted. "To arms!"

Splinters showered to the deck. A deep gash had been gouged into the middle of the mast. A second bolt of whiteness darted from the
South
. Dante met it with a stroke of shadows, sending the bolt careering off into the sky. Naran's archers dropped to one knee, steadying themselves against the roll of the ship, and fired onto the deck of the opposite vessel.

Arrows answered in return, clapping into the caravel's boards. One landed six inches from Dante's foot, prompting him to dash toward the base of the aftercastle. As he ran, he deflected another bolt of ether, then a third. A gray robe fluttered behind a hastily erected wooden barricade. Dante lashed at it, dashing it apart in a storm of shards. The monk stumbled back.

As he did so, two glittering spears of light stabbed from the fore of the
South
. Both hammered into the wounded mast. Men cried out. The mast groaned like a feverish giant. With a deafening pop, it gave way, thundering into the railings on the caravel's starboard side.

The ship sighed against the waves, slowing. Blays rushed toward Dante, ducking as arrows whisked through the air.

Blays slid in beside him. "Have I ever mentioned how much I hate you guys?"

"I can't protect the sails and attack the sorcerers," Dante said. "It's one or the other."

"And if we try to board while their monks are out and about, our people will be reduced to a salty puree."

Dante paused to knock down an incoming whirr of light. The boat tilted, jarring him into the wall of the aftercastle; the mainmast was dragging in the water, listing the entire boat. Men hacked at the rigging tying it to the ship. The
Sword of the South
's sails went taut. It began to pull ahead.

"Can you slow them down?" Blays said.

"If I knock out their mast, we'll never make it to the islands before the sickness takes me."

"Then tear down their sails, fool. We can repair those."

"I'd better be able to do that much. If I can't, we'll never see them again."

"Get us close enough to toss a rope across." Blays stood. "I'll take care of their priests."

He jogged toward Naran, who was yelling and pointing, stirring his demoralized men back into the fray. Dante waited for the next bolt of ether to lance forward. He parried it and answered it with a flock of blade-like shadows. These swooped into the
South
's rigging. Sails dropped to the deck with a whoosh of canvas. With a lurch, the
South
slowed.

Volleys of light flashed toward the larger of the caravel's remaining masts. Dante drew shadows from all sides, dissipating the attacks in a blizzard of sparks. A vest-clad sailor skipped toward the port railing, twirling a many-fluked hook over his head. He let loose. It arced between the two boats and held fast within the railing of the
South
.

Blays vaulted onto the railing, arms windmilling. He steadied himself, stepped onto the rope, and vanished.

Dante was too preoccupied by another flurry of ether to concern himself with trying to cover Blays. On the
South
's deck, a sailor ran toward the grappling hook, sword in hand. Naran yelled at his archers. Arrows pounded into the other ship, knocking the sailor down.

Sunlight flashed on steel. Blays materialized behind a monk, thrusting both swords into the man's back. The monk screeched and tumbled forward. A second monk stood from behind a bench. Dante splayed his palm, reaching into the nether within the man's heart. The man jumped back, gesturing furiously, severing the cord Dante had sunk into his chest.

While the monk was still flailing, Blays turned, wheeling his swords. The man gestured more, scrabbling back. Blays blinked out of being. The man spun side to side. Blays sputtered in and out. Ether flared past him. The next time he appeared, his right-hand sword was already mid-swing. It cleaved through the monk's neck. The head hit the deck, tumbling toward the railing with the roll of the ship. It caromed into a baluster and splashed into the sea.

Naran's crew threw grapples across the gap, snarling the rigging and the rails. As archers exchanged fire from both sides, the sailors heaved, pulling the ropes tight.

Another bolt of ether winged toward the larger remaining mast. Dante flung a hasty counter and the bolt clipped the mast a third of the way up, spraying bits of wood. He pointed to the monk hidden behind the
Sword of the South
's mainmast. Blays nodded and sprinted forward, leaping off the aftercastle and rolling across the deck. He sprung to his feet, swords in hand, blinking out of sight.

Ether plowed from the monk's hands. Blays winked back into being, driven backwards by the raw strength of the attack. He hit the railing and toppled over. With a vexed look on his face, he plunged into the churning sea.

Blays hit the water with a spume of bubbles. Dante watched helplessly as the two crippled boats continued forward. At last, Blays broke the surface behind them, pawing at the water.

At the railings, Naran's sailors pulled hard on their ropes, drawing the two ships nearer. It would be impossible to untangle them now. Blays was being swept further away by the moment. On the deck of the
South
, the remaining ethermancer dropped his hands to his side, summoning pure light from the air.

Lacking the finesse to brush the opponents' attacks aside, Dante had been clubbing them down with sheer force. His control of the nether was beginning to waver. If he expended any more, he would be vulnerable to the monk.

Yet if he waited another moment, Blays would be lost amidst the churn of the waves.

Shadows gushed toward him, coating his arms. He channeled them into a ball of kelp floating just beyond Blays. Arms shot forth from the mass, spraying foam into the air. Dante was a piss-poor Harvester, so he made up for this in the only way he knew how: by pouring as much nether into his work as he could summon. Within a blink, a rubbery raft grew beneath Blays, lifting him above the surface. As the two boats cleaved closer, drawn by the sailors' grapnels, Blays raised his arm and waved.

Dante staggered, collapsing onto his rear. His vision went gray, blackening at the edges. Motes of light squiggled across his eyes. On the deck of the
South
, the enemy monk shaped the ether into a spear and swept up his hands.

A barrage of arrows flew from Naran's archers. Distracted by his opportunity to kill Dante, the monk didn't see them coming until the missiles were buried in his body. He dropped to the deck, trying to patch the bleeding with the light, but the ether dispersed into the air, returning whence it had been summoned.

The boats clashed together, rocking Dante's head back. With a roar, Naran led the charge onto the
Sword of the South
. Before the captain landed his first blow, Dante's eyes went dark.

* * *

Water dashed his face. He sputtered, pawing madly to get his head above the sea—unconscious, he must have slid over the edge—but his hands waved through empty air. Blays stood over him, laughing. Dante cocked his fist and punched him in the ribs.

Blays rubbed his side. "If that's how you're going to celebrate our victories, remind me to throw the next battle."

Dante lay in a familiar bunk. He was in a cabin on the
Sword of the South
. He wiped water from his face with his blanket. "We won? And you're alive?"

"Quick thinking with the kelp-raft. Naran's retaken the
South
. They came around for me once the melee relented. If you're feeling up to it, Naran's people are sporting a few injuries which I'm sure they'd appreciate being magically erased."

Dante sat up, taking stock of himself. He felt hollow, with a tingling that verged on pain, like a burned finger in the moments after it's removed from the water that's been cooling it. He brought the nether from the corner of the dim cabin. As it neared him, it began to sizzle. He jerked his hand, dispersing it.

"I'm a little thin at the moment," he said. "They're going to have to rely on traditional treatment until tomorrow."

"I'll let them know. Oh, more good news: Naran left some of his crew to patch up the caravel, but we're underway. He expects to reach Kandak within the week." Blays patted him on the shoulder. "So try not to die before then, all right?"

Dante fell back asleep. When he woke, it was still light out—or rather, it was light again. He'd slept for an entire day. He felt much better, but the dark specks within him signifying the sickness' progression had doubled in size. He only had a few days before the symptoms began again in earnest.

Outside the cabin, stretches of railing had been smashed, temporarily replaced with ropes. The rigging had been mended with far greater care. Large, wine-dark spots stained the decks. A young man scrubbed at the blood, but judging by his expression, he knew it was futile. Where life was extinguished, you couldn't erase the stain.

It was a sunny day with a strong northerly wind, propelling the ship through the waves at a steady clip. Dante didn't see Naran anywhere, so he headed belowdecks.

Jona swung out of a hammock. A bandage swathed his left arm. "Look at that. The Shipwrecker's up and out of his cave."

He was grinning. But some of the men recruited from the caravel were watching Dante the way they would if a crated bear had escaped its cage to wander about the hold.

"The Shipwrecker?" Dante said. "All I did was cut a few sails. Taim's priests were the ones who knocked down our mast."

He kept an eye on the strangers as he said this. One of the men softened his expression, but the others remained leery. Dante knew the Mallish had always been hostile toward Arawn and anything connected to him, including the use of the nether, but he'd been away from his home nation for so long that he'd forgotten how deep the prejudice ran.

He had shrugged it off like a sheer robe, but that didn't speak to his broad-mindedness so much as the fact that pursuing the nether had allowed him to rise from nothing to a position of great power. In Mallon, worship of Arawn was banned outright. Now, it seemed as though nethermancers were being hunted down like rabid dogs. Dispelling the crew's ingrained suspicion would take some work.

"I wouldn't discard a nickname as fine as that so easily," Jona replied. "Most people wind up with ones that are far worse." He glanced toward an older man. "Isn't that right, Toothsome Jim?"

The older man sucked in his wooden dentures, scowling.

Dante chuckled. "I didn't come down here to argue nicknames. I heard some of our people were hurt. If they'll allow it, I'll tend to them."

Jona gestured him on. The rear of the sleeping quarters had been cleared out to serve as a makeshift medical station. It smelled like sweat and bandages. Men lay in hammocks, eyes shut tight, brows furrowed in pain. There were seven casualties in total, with wounds ranging from deep cuts, to a broken leg, to two severed fingers.

As he approached the sailor with the broken leg, the man's eyes opened. Seeing Dante, his hands tightened on the hem of his blanket.

"I'm here to fix your leg," Dante said. "Unless you think that would be unnatural."

The man sat up. The movement made him go rigid with pain. Sweat popped up along his greasy hairline, but he forced himself not to make a sound. "You think you can patch it up?"

"In less than a minute, I can make it as good as new. But if you have a problem with what I do, please let me know so I can save my abilities for your peers."

A fat bead of sweat slipped down the man's sun-cracked face. His nose was crooked from an old break and he had heavy, protruding brow ridges, giving him the thoughtful, wary look of a large bird. His eyes hopped skeptically between Dante's. As the man hesitated, Dante's resentment swelled. He said nothing. The only way to change his mind was to show him that the nether could bring good as well as pain.

Besides, they'd had to split the crew between two ships. If Dante was going to make it back to the Plagued Islands, he was going to need every able-bodied crewman they could get.

"Will it hurt?" the sailor said.

"For a moment. Then it will be as if nothing had ever happened."

His eyes lowered to Dante's right thumb, which was still stained black by the time he'd summoned so many shadows it had nearly killed him. "And when the darkness comes…will it leave a mark?"

Dante smiled thinly. "Don't worry. No one will know that I helped you."

The sailor pressed his hand over his mouth, then nodded sharply. "Do it."

He moved to expose his leg, but Dante stopped him. "I have no need for my eyes."

Hearing this, the man's expression grew warier than ever. Dante laughed inwardly and sucked the shadows from the wood of the hull. A dark mist hung over the sailor's extended leg. Eyes bulging at the manifestation, he began to hyperventilate. Dante let the mist linger another moment, then sank it into the man's leg.

The bone came first. It was shattered, but the nether remembered the shape of how it wished to be. As the shards fit together, the sailor screamed, head lolling. Bone knit to bone.

The man straightened his neck, blinking hard. "The pain. It's…"

"I told you it would leave," Dante said. "Now hold still. One wrong move, and I might accidentally merge your legs together. I'm not sure you'd enjoy life as the world's ugliest mermaid."

The suggestion ran counter to Dante's goal of knocking some sense into the man, but the aghast look on his face was worth it. Dante moved the nether through veins and flesh, tying each strand back together. The man's leg jerked. Seconds later, Dante stepped back from the eagle-browed sailor.

"You're finished?" Gently, the man pulled the blanket free from his leg. "I don't feel a thing."

"That's the point. If you'd prefer, I can re-break it for you even faster than I put it back together."

The sailor stared at him long enough to conclude he was joking. He unwrapped blood-caked rags from his splint, revealing smooth tan skin and a straight shin. He swung his legs off the side of the hammock and slowly extended his leg. He pressed the ball of his foot to the floor, then laughed in disbelief. The other wounded men watched in awed silence as he stood and reeled across the bunk room.

"I'm—" He clapped a hand to his mouth and burst into sobs.

Dante rushed toward him, sprawling forward as the ship pitched down a wave. "What's the matter? Does it hurt?"

The sailor shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "A break like that would never have healed right. Climbing rigging with a warped leg, why, you might as well have asked me to leap over the moon. I've been with the
Sword of the South
for fifteen years—and I thought this voyage was to be my last."

Before Dante could respond, the man hugged him hard. After the battle, the injury, and his subsequent time in the hammock, the sailor smelled gamier than a sack of badgers. Then again, Dante was sure he didn't smell much better.

"Anything I can do for you," the sailor said, withdrawing. "You have only to name it."

"I'll take you up on that," Dante said. "But let me see to your friends first."

After the display put on by the healed man, whose name was Benny, all but one of the other wounded enthusiastically accepted Dante's aid. The single holdout was a young blond man with a deep cut on his forearm. Dante was afraid he'd suffered ligament damage, but the boy shook his head, muttering something about witchcraft.

Dante didn't press him. With his work concluded, he ascended abovedecks with Benny. Compared to the hold, the air was chilly, but much cleaner.

Somewhat sheepishly, Benny grinned, gripping the railing and gazing out to the blue-gray sea. "Now that the moment's passed, I'm not sure what a man like me can do for a fellow like you. But my offer remains."

"You said you'd been with this ship for fifteen years?"

The sailor nodded proudly. "Since Captain Dackers. He's the one who showed Twill—smooth seas for her soul—the passage to the Plagued Islands."

"Has Mallon had a presence there all this time?"

"Not hardly. Now and then you'd see a ship flying the king's colors, but back in those days, they feared the sickness too much. It was mostly outfits like us."

"What changed?"

Benny chuckled darkly. "What else? The Shadow Rebellion."

"The Shadow Rebellion? What was that?"

"The Chainbreakers' War." Blays appeared behind them, speaking around a mouthful of springapple. "That's what they call it down here." He frowned at the sea, then waved to the stern, northward toward Mallon. "I mean, up there. Pretty cool, eh?"

Dante grabbed the apple and took a bite. "What, you knew about this?"

"The giant war that almost killed us on twenty different occasions? If I think very hard, I can recall a detail or two. Now unhand my apple."

"I'm starving. And I mean the timeline. Mallon only started plundering the islands after the war."

"I don't know anything about that. I spent some time in Whetton afterwards, but I didn't hear of the Plagued Islands until you did."

"Then maybe you can quit interrupting the person who
does
know what he's talking about." He turned back to Benny. "Do you know why the crown suddenly took an interest in the islands after the war?"

Benny shrugged one shoulder. "They haven't exactly been champing at the bit to explain. Sorting through the tangled nets of rumor, though, I'd say they were looking to strengthen their fleet. And leverage it to dump a new stream of silver into the coffers."

"I see. Well, if you remember anything more concrete, I'd very much like to hear it."

"What is it that brought you to the islands, anyway?"

"A man named Larsin Galand. Do you know him?"

"Name rings a bell. But I'd bet a week's rum rations that my pal Juleson knows him." Benny gestured up at the rigging. "He's on duty at the moment. Want me to bring him around once he's done?"

"Please."

The sailor smiled, flexed his leg, and did a little jig. "Thanks again for what you've done for me. I won't forget."

He bobbed his head and jogged down the deck, presumably in search of Captain Naran. Blays smirked.

"What?" Dante said.

"I'd accuse you of growing an interest in philanthropy, but I think you just enjoy showing off what you can do."

"How dare you. I would never abuse my powers for anything as petty as vanity. This was for the morally righteous goal of extracting information from people who wouldn't otherwise give it."

Blays' amusement dwindled. "The Chainbreakers' War is the reason Mallon is interfering with the islands, isn't it?"

"It must have scared them. Showed them what a resurgent Narashtovik looks like. They must have feared they were next."

"And moved to secure a supply of shaden to fight us with."