The Southern Trail (Book 4) (9 page)

“Marco, you were magnificent!” Fyld shouted as Wilh cut his bonds, while the third rescuer began to set the prince free.

“And Sergeant Hearst, it’s good to see you again!” Fyld said to the third member of the group that had rescued the captives.

“What do we do now?” the prince asked as he sat up, and the other captives were released from their bonds.  “How do we set the others free?”

“Begging your pardon your highness, but we need to keep ourselves alive first before we try to save anyone else,” the sergeant said.  “The young warrior there saved a handful of us already and we’ve got a safe place for the moment.  Let’s get there and then think about the next step,” he said as he cut the bonds on the duchess.

The freed captives all stood up within moments.

“Thank you Marco.  Are you okay?” the princess asked him, gently touching the bloody patch of cloth on his shoulder, where he had been injured.

“It’s nothing, your highness,” he replied, astonished that a member of the royal family would even notice a wound on a common soldier such as himself.

The group started moving forward, as the sounds of conflict continued to reverberate from other battles taking place throughout the ship.

“How did you break these holes in the hulls?” Fyld asked Hearst.

“The warrior did it,” Hearst shrugged, just before they all turned at the sound of more Corsairs entering the compartment.  The new arrivals looked at the escapees in astonishment, then started to run towards them.

“Over, get over there, hurry!” Wilh urged the prince first, as others in the Corsair ship awaited his arrival.  The prince jumped across the gap, followed by his daughter.  The Duchess went next, then Wilh and Captain Fyld.

The Corsairs reached them and began to engage the sergeant and Marco in battle, then quickly pulled back as Marco injured two of them badly.

“I’m afraid to jump,” cried the maid, who clung to the wooden hull behind Marco.

The two soldiers looked at one another.

“You carry her across,” Marco urged.

“You’ll defend us better than I would,” Hearst realistically admitted.  “Hold on tight,” he told the dark-eyed Gielle, as he swept an arm around her waist and carried the screaming woman safely over into the hull of the Corsair ship.

Just as Marco prepared to make the jump there was a shout, and a perceptible, strange movement of the ship he was on.  Over his shoulder he saw a sudden brightness, felt a gust of the wind changing direction, and to his horror, the Corsair ship began to pull away from the ship that had carried the Docleatean prisoners, moving quickly to broaden the gap between the two ships to several yards, and leaving Marco without an escape from the surrounding Corsairs.

Chapter 10

The Corsairs that circled around him looked at him with a new expression in their eyes, a wary confidence that suddenly, victory over the great Docleatean warrior was in reach – now that he was isolated from assistance or escape.  One of them shouted something, and four blades simultaneously thrust forward at him.

Marco’s body twisted to the right, as his sword also launched itself to defend him against the attackers on the right.  One unfortunate Corsair on the left found that without any contact from Marco or his blade, the man was unable to stop his momentum, and he thrust his way forward past Marco and out the hole in the hull, causing him to plummet cleanly through the air on his way down to the sea.

Marco’s sword blocked two other attackers cleanly, but the third man tried to do something different and thrust his sword low.  Marco’s sword chopped down in reaction once the first two attackers were repelled, but it proved too late to be fully effective, and Marco felt a slice open up on the front of his thigh.

Marco flinched, and he partially collapsed, but raised his sword in time to protect himself from a second series of attacks.  He tried to rise, but then a third series of attacks came, and Marco found himself suddenly confused, in pain, and off-balance as his sword flew crazily about to try to keep him alive.

And then he realized he was falling towards the water.  He hit the water, and he thought he heard himself speaking in an outlandish series of clicks and squeaks, as he desperately asked for help, though he knew none was coming.  The water was warm, and the mid-morning sun was bright, but his heavy sword was dragging him down, and he refused to release the weapon, struggling instead to hold on to it and still return to the surface with the efforts of his free hand and uninjured leg.

A powerful thrust from something beneath him suddenly bumped him up to the top of the water, giving him an opportunity to gasp for air.  He saw the side of the ship’s hull nearby, and the side of the Corsair ship two dozen yards away.  There was a rope ladder hanging down the side of the Docleatean ship; it offered the opportunity to hang on to something and to climb back into the onboard battle.

“Look out!  A shark!” he understood the high-pitched voice that squealed in the water.  He flipped over and saw that a dolphin was with him, providing the support that kept him buoyant, and he saw the rapidly approaching dorsal fin of a shark, drawn by the smell of the blood that was seeping from his various injuries.

His sword cut through the water, the slender, finely-honed edge meeting no resistance as it swept upward into position to allow him to defend himself.  “Let me fight it,” he spoke in a garbled tongue to the dolphin, then thrust off from his savior, using his free hand to push himself in front of the friendly sea creature, while his sword was extend straight forward.

Marco’s head dipped below the surface as he left the dolphin, and his view of the shark beneath the water was clear, and frightening.  The mouth was full of teeth meant to cut and slice flesh, while the eyes were black holes that pointed forward at him.  And the monster was only yards away and rushing onwards while the point of his sword wavered minutely, anticipating the arrival of the creature.

The shark came closer still, gliding in silently, then suddenly dove down towards Marco’s legs, mouth opening wider as it prepared to seize him with its powerful jaws.  But Marco’s sword flipped and spun in his hand then stabbed downward and plunged into the shark’s skull, a split second before it seized hold of him.  The powerful thrust of the sword pierced the animal’s head, while also nudging it to the side, so that it missed striking Marco directly, through its tail struck him a hard blow when it began to thrash in its death throes as it glided past him.

Marco flipped in the water from the shark’s strike, and grew momentarily disoriented as a cloud of shark’s blood in the water around him prevented him from seeing or orienting himself.  The dolphin suddenly nudged him in the stomach, and drove him to the surface of the sea.

He gasped for air while he looked around.  “Human friend, you did it!  You killed that shark!  Now we have to hurry away before others come to eat the carcass,” the dolphin told him.

“I need to climb back about the ship.  Can you help push me towards that trailing rope?” Marco asked.

“We must hurry,” the dolphin told him, as it began to pull towards the rope ladder on the hull.  Seconds later they reached the rope, and Marco grabbed hold of it.

“Go now, and be safe,” Marco told the animal.  “Thank you for rescuing me; you are a friend.”

“We are friends with one another.  Take care,” the dolphin told him, and it disappeared into the depths of the water.

Marco shoved the sword into his belt, then strained with his weary arms to lift himself up the first rungs of the unsteady ladder.  He was worn out, suffering from the long shift at the oars, the battle with the Corsairs, and the plunge into the sea.  He felt driven beyond his capacity as he hung motionless on the side of the boat.  A glance down at the water showed him the carcass of the shark he had killed, floating limply on the surface of the sea, and then there was a sudden raging explosion of splashing water and red blood and snapping teeth as multiple sharks began to feast on their former companion.  It was a horrific view, and Marco turned away, unable to imagine anything else as frightening as the sight.

And with that thought, a picture flashed in his consciousness of a great monster, one that was huge – part woman and part snake, sharp teeth providing a dangerous threat.  He pictured himself standing in a cave, facing a daunting battle with the creature.  It was the Echidna, he knew, and he had seen it, had seen something more frightening that the sharks below.

Then, spurred on by the single remembered event, his repressed memories burst forth.  He limply clung to the ladder, astonished at the improbable revelation of who he was, what he was.  He was the Golden Hand, the hero of the forces of good, fighting for the benefit of the men and women and spirits and God of the lands of the old empire of Clovis.  Yet he discovered himself to be assigned to this role as a member of the army of Docleatae.

Iasco.  The Lady Iasco had sent him on a mission, without his true memories.  He remained in place, hanging on the rope ladder, soaking in the mystery and the meaning of his newly realized identity.  It was in some ways a repeat of the feeling he had experienced when the geas of the River Lethe had been broken.  Yet that had been a consequence of drinking the water, a known and understood reaction.  In this case, Iasco had placed him under a spell for some reason; she had wanted him to not be himself, to not act as he was inclined to act, to not do things he would have done otherwise.

Marco looked at his right hand, the golden emblem of what he had done, what he had become.  The golden hue was invisible, and as he studied his hand carefully, he thought he saw a very faint line slightly above his wrist.  As he flexed the fingers, he imagined that the hand felt slightly tight, as though barely constricted in some fashion.

The cause of the hole in the hull suddenly became clear to him.  The stress of the fight against the Corsairs had triggered some part of him to bypass his false memories and lost memories, and ignite the power in his hand to blow open a way to escape.

He grabbed hold of the ladder with his right hand and switched his attention as he freed his left hand and stuck his enchanted finger in his mouth.  The sweet water of Diotima’s spring flowed refreshingly into his mouth, giving him energy, and a feeling of relief from the pain in his shoulder and his leg and his back.  His legs felt stronger.

Just then there was a wailing shout of despair from the deck of the ship above him.

Marco pulled his hand from his mouth and grabbed the rung above him, then started climbing the ladder with new vigor.  He clung tightly to the ladder, as it was anchored to the hull that angled slightly outward before climbing straight up and then curving slightly inward.  The further Marco climbed, the louder the sounds of the battle grew.

When he reached the last rung below the deck level, Marco stopped and took a deep breath, then climbed up and swung his leg upon the deck, rolling onto the surface and yanking his sword free.  He looked around, then spun and extended his sword as he heard someone approach him from behind.  His sword sliced across the stomach of a Corsair, and he saw that the man had a pair of companions.  As his first adversary fell, Marco let his sword take command and stab wickedly at the other two, making them jump back off-balance, so that another poke of his sword as he closed on the two men caused them to step back to the edge of the deck, to the opening in the railing that Marco had just scrambled up, and the men fell backwards off the ship.

Marco whirled and looked around, trying to get his bearings.  There were few black uniforms apparent, and even fewer of the sailors of the ship that had carried the paroled prisoners towards home.  The Corsairs of two ships, the one still firmly attached on the far side and the one that had floated away with a handful of Docleateans aboard, were together overwhelming the original crew of the ship.

He could defeat them all.  His hand and the power it provided him, with the control that he was gaining over it, would allow him to turn the tide of the battle.  Yet he hesitated, for Lady Iasco had hidden his identity, tried to hide it even from him.  If there was anything he could do, it would have to be subtle, not a revelation of his powers.

Corsairs had spotted him, and were approaching him en masse.  There was one thing to do before they arrived, to divert the attention of the Corsairs.  He momentarily closed his eyes, then gave a flick of his right hand towards the Corsair ship attached nearby, as he imagined flames and smoke breaking out from a pair of barrels on the far side of the deck.

He opened his eyes, and saw the flames become reality.  “Fire!  Fire!” he screamed as he pointed at the ship, then began to engage the first of the Corsairs that reached him.  Marco backed up against one of the sturdy masts, and let his sword keep him safe from the ring of attackers who hemmed him in.  He kept an eye on the fire that was burning, and watched with satisfaction as numerous Corsairs crossed back over to their own deck to try to fight the fire instead of the Docleateans.

Marco continued to fight well enough to protect himself, while waiting until he thought that the maximum number of warriors had left the battle.  He swung his blade with vigor, and cut a hole between Corsairs that he darted through, avoiding injury as he ran to the far railing, and chopped his sword down on one of the great ropes that bound the two ships together.  He fought another momentary battle, then ran to chop at the second rope, and ran again as more Corsairs started to realize what his goal was, and began to rush towards his next destination, running across the decks of both ships.

Marco waved his hand as he ran, calling for a wind to start to blow down from above, striking the surface at the point where the two ships were joined, so that the inexplicable breezes began to rush downward and then outward.   The sails of the two ships began to fill with the air that was driving them in opposite directions, straining the one last rope that held them together, and the men who were near the ropes, or trying to reach the ropes, struggled against the force of the wind.