The Falcon and The Wolf Page 4

  “Where are we?” Madislav asked.

  “Ghoere lies on the south bank, and Alamie on the north,”

  Viensen replied. “I’ve got surer soundings on the south bank.”

  The other men looked to Gaelin. He folded his hand of cards on the table, thinking. “We’d prefer it if you stopped on Alamie’s bank tonight, captain,” he said, “unless there’s significant risk to your boat involved.”

  Viensen shrugged. “M’lords, if it was that difficult, I wouldn’t have asked your opinion. I can put us ashore now, or we can try for a landing in a town about an hour downriver, but it’ll be pretty dark by then.”

  “Put us ashore, captain,” Gaelin said. He didn’t really think that stopping in an Alamien town would be a problem, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful.

  Viensen brought the keelboat into shore skillfully and tied it up on a deserted stretch of riverbank. After checking on the horses and scouting the area around the boat, Gaelin and his companions took the deckhouse for the night, while the keelboat’s crew slept belowdecks. The captain posted two sailors as deck watches, and despite the dropping temperatures he ordered no fires above decks. After a bland meal of fish and hot porridge from the crew’s galley, the travelers settled down for the night. Gaelin drifted off almost immediately, the lapping of water against the boat’s hull soothing him to sleep.

  He was awakened some time later by a touch on his shoulder.

  Madislav’s whisper came from the darkness beside him.

  “Something is happening,” the warrior said. “Another boat approaches. The captain’s sentries are speaking to them.”

  Gaelin rose quietly and picked his way past the sleeping Daene and Ruide to peer from the cabin’s porthole. The moon was setting, so a thin silver gleam illuminated the decks and the water. Nearby, a yellow lantern shone over the river, bobbing up and down. He could make out the shape of a dark hull gliding nearer, but no one seemed to be on deck. While it was not unusual for boats to pass each other in the night – after all, the Maesil was the busiest river in all Anuire – piracy was also common, especially in the river’s lonelier stretches.

  “What do you think?” Madislav asked.

  “It’s probably routine,” Gaelin replied. “Boats like – ” Suddenly, Gaelin heard a muffled snapping sound as black-clad shapes rose from the other boat’s decks, firing crossbows. The aft watchman clutched at a bolt in his chest and crumpled to the deck without a sound. From the bow, Gaelin heard the forward lookout cough once and then topple over the side, splashing into the icy waters. The pirates’ boat veered toward them, its blunt bow aimed for the middle of the keelboat.

  Gaelin ducked out of sight before someone thought to shoot at the cabin’s porthole.

  “Get ready for a fight,” he told Madislav. “Wake Daene and Ruide. I’m going below to wake the crew.”

  Madislav’s eyes flicked toward the door, which led directly to the exposed deck. “Stay low when you go out,” he said, and then turned to shake the others awake. Gaelin bent double, opened the cabin door, and threw himself flat on the deck just outside. The air was cold and clammy, and a dense fog wreathed the water.

  “There goes one!” The twang of a crossbow sounded just as a bolt struck the cabin’s side, mere inches above Gaelin’s head. The other boat was no more than twenty yards away, near enough for the keelboat’s decks to be illuminated by the lanterns the pirates carried. Gaelin glanced fore and aft. Their weapons and armor were on the boat’s foredeck, where the horses were tied up, but the ladder leading down to the crew’s quarters was back by the keelboat’s helm. Muttering a curse, Gaelin scrambled aft, crawling and slipping over the damp deck. Several bolts hissed across the space between the boats, striking around him. With one last lunge he dove headfirst into the ladderway, tumbling into the crew’s quarters with a deafening clatter.

  Around him, the boat’s crewmen began to wake, some faster than others. “What in Azrai’s hells was that?” one said.

  “Someone took a tumble down the ladder,” another voice replied.

  Gaelin regained his feet and started shaking the closest men. “Wake up! We’re under attack! Pirates are coming alongside!”

  A dozen oaths filled the air as six men in a tiny compartment jumped out of their hammocks and pallets at once. A small door on the after bulkhead popped open, and Viensen emerged from his cabin, heading toward the ladder with a battered old cutlass in his hand. “Up and at ’em, lads!” he roared. “We’ll not lose our boat tonight!” Sailors seized any weapons near to hand and swarmed up the ladder after their captain.

  Suddenly, the whole compartment pitched violently to one side, throwing everyone off their feet, as timbers creaked and popped in protest and the horses abovedecks whinnied in panic. Gaelin crashed into the opposite bulkhead, stunned a moment before he realized that the pirates’ vessel had rammed and grappled them. Viensen and his deckhands scrambled to their feet and started up the passageway again.

  Gaelin joined the press. He could hear shouting and the clash of weapons above. At the top of the ladder, the man immediately in front of him screamed and fell, curled around a quarrel buried in his belly. Gaelin picked up the man’s blade – a Rjurik fighting knife – and hurled himself into the fray.

  The keelboat was pitched over on her side, pinned against the bank by the larger vessel. It was a two-masted ketch, a common merchantman on the Maesil, and a dozen cutthroats had already boarded the keelboat.

  Men shouted and cursed all around him. In the moonlight, it was difficult to tell Viensen’s sailors from the boarders.

  Gaelin ducked and bobbed along the shore ward rail, sliding past the press of struggling men. He was almost clear of the fight on the afterdeck when a beefy Rjurik wielding a leaden maul struck him a glancing blow across the left shoulder, spinning him against the gunwale and numbing his arm. He gasped in pain as the world went hot and white before his eyes.

  “He’s over here!” the bandit called. “This is the prince!” He raised the maul again for a blow that Gaelin could not block.

  Gaelin wheeled and slashed at him with the knife, driving him back a step, and then Daene appeared. Roaring, he threw his body into the Rjurik bandit, crashing into his legs and knocking him down to the deck. The cutthroat rolled to his hands and knees to scramble to his feet, but Gaelin stepped forward and kicked him under the chin as hard as he could.

  The man’s head snapped back and he collapsed, unmoving.

  “Thanks, Daene,” Gaelin said. He reached down to haul the squire to his feet. Daene started to stand, but at that moment a dark-clad bandit lunged forward and buried his cutlass in Daene’s back. Daene grunted and sagged to the deck.

  “Daene! No!” Gaelin reached past his squire and ripped a long, deep cut up the sword-arm of the bandit before he could pull his blade from Daene’s body. The man screamed in a highpitched voice and released the hilt, dancing backward. A moment later, one of Viensen’s sailors stabbed him in the belly, and the brigand reeled to the side and went over the rail into the dark water. Gaelin grabbed Daene’s arm and dragged him forward along the side of the deckhouse, getting him clear of the fight. He propped the squire against the bulkhead and knelt beside him. “Hang on, Daene! Let me see what I can find to bandage the wound and stop the bleeding.”

  “I think it’s too late for that, Lord Gaelin.” Daene said in a weak voice. He coughed and shuddered. “It’s cold.”

  Gaelin tore a strip from his shirt and moved around to tend to the squire’s injury. The back of Daene’s shirt was soaked with blood from a deep wound between his shoulder blades.

  Gaelin looked away. Daene was right; Gaelin had seen enough battles to know a mortal wound. He laid his hand on Daene’s shoulder. “I’ll avenge you. They won’t get away with this.”

  “Watch out for yourself, Gaelin. I heard the big one say they were looking for you.” Daene smiled, a trickle of blood starting at the corner of his mouth. “I showed him, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.
You saved my life, Daene.” Gaelin bowed his head, closing his eyes. When he looked up again, the squire was gone. He sat back on his heels, trying to think of what he should do, but the decision was made for him. From the bow of the boat, a wild-eyed brigand in ragged clothing appeared ahead of him, a short axe at the ready. The pirate flashed a yellow-toothed grin in his dark face as he advanced.

  Eyes narrowed, Gaelin stood and set his feet, waiting. The pirate’s axe hand was hindered by the cabin beside him, while Gaelin’s own blade was free, but the axe was a much more formidable weapon than the dagger Gaelin had appropriated.

  The pirate brought the axe across his chest in a backhand cut, lunging forward to swing at Gaelin’s head. Gaelin ducked, and the axe bit into the wooden bulkhead and stuck, just long enough for Gaelin to step forward and stab his opponent underneath the breastbone. Gaelin unceremoniously shouldered him over the side, snatching the axe out of his hands as the pirate lost his balance and fell. “There’s another one for you, Daene,” he breathed. He ran forward and peered around the deckhouse at the open bow.

  Madislav stood there, roaring like a wounded bear as he held off three more pirates with his heavy sword. Two huddled forms on the deck attested to the Vos warrior’s success so far, but he was bleeding from a long gash across his ribs.

  Despite Madislav’s skill and strength, he was in trouble – the brigands had him surrounded and were waiting for a fatal mistake. None of them had seen Gaelin yet, and one had his back to the prince. Gaelin stepped forward and brained him with the axe. Distracted by Gaelin’s appearance, another man took his eyes off Madislav at the exact wrong instant and lost an arm to Madislav’s blade.

  “I’ve got the prince up here!” shouted the remaining pirate, backing away from Gaelin and Madislav. “Crossbows! Quick!”

  Madislav cursed in Vos and looked at Gaelin. “Excusing me,” he said. He grabbed Gaelin’s axe out of his hand and hurled it at the pirate with all his strength, at a range of only four paces. It wasn’t enough for the blade to turn over, but the blunt side of the iron axehead struck the fellow right between the eyes. From the way he went down, Gaelin suspected that would do for him.

  “Where’s Ruide?” Gaelin asked.

  “I left him in the cabin. Daene followed you.” Madislav stepped forward to peer around the deckhouse at the pirate’s ketch, and quickly drew his head back. “Two with crossbows on the other boat, coming this way.”

  “We’ve got two of our own with the horses,” Gaelin said, nodding at the saddles and bags stowed on the deck. He dashed over, avoiding the stamping horses, and crouched down behind them while he fished out a dry string and readied a bow. Madislav followed him and started on the other bow. He finished stringing the bow, set his foot in the weapon’s stirrup and cocked it. Three brigands clattered onto the bow of the keelboat, shouting, while Gaelin noticed dark forms appearing at the ketch’s rail. “Damn,” he muttered.

  “The prince! Get him, lads!”

  Madislav stood and leveled his bow at the cutthroat leading the charge, dropping him with a quarrel in the throat.

  Gaelin stood a moment later and fired at the second man. His bolt took the wretch between the eyes, and the fellow staggered back three steps before falling over the side with a cold splash. Gaelin discarded his crossbow and stepped forward to meet the attack of the last man, a fellow fighting with knives in each hand. The prince parried the first cut, blocked the second with his wrist, slashed at the rake’s face, and then twisted away as the man riposted and nicked his side.

  Madislav worked furiously to reload his crossbow before the bowmen on the ketch could fire.

  Gaelin dodged away from the knifeman again, taking two quick steps to get clear of his opponent. That was a mistake.

  For a moment, he was standing on the open deck, and a brigand on the ketch fired a crossbow at him. A heavy blow struck him low in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and Gaelin looked down to see a quarrel’s fletchings jutting out of his belly, an inch or two left of his navel. The strength drained from his legs, and he went to one knee, cupping a hand around the bolt as warm, red blood ran through his fingers.

  He looked up and saw the knifeman moving close to administer the killing blow. “Madislav!”

  There was another snap of a crossbow. A few feet away in the fog, Gaelin heard a choking cry and the sound of a body falling to the deck. Distantly, he realized that Madislav had just shot the man who had shot him. A burning, sickening pain was growing in Gaelin’s belly, and he gasped in shock.

  Looking up, he saw the knifeman poised to finish him. But a moment later, Madislav bellowed a Vos war cry and slammed into the fellow like a blood-maddened bear, hacking at him with a berserker’s fury.

  “Fall back, lads! The prince is dead!” A hoarse voice called out from the ketch. Gaelin’s knees failed, and he toppled to the deck, landing heavily on his side. With a curious detachment, he noticed that the sounds of the fighting aft had died down. The ketch was drawing back, and a handful of the pirates were climbing back aboard their own vessel. With a creaking of rope and timber, the keelboat righted itself, the canted deck returning to the horizontal.

  Cursing bitterly, Madislav picked up the fighting axe from where it had fallen and hurled it across the widening gap of water. A shriek of pain and a splash rewarded the warrior’s parting effort. The yellow halo of lantern light faded into darkness as the brigands’ vessel vanished into the fog.

  Gaelin found Madislav and Ruide standing over him. The valet bled from a long, shallow cut across his hairline, and to Gaelin he seemed a little incoherent. Madislav knelt beside him. “Gaelin, I am sorry. If I had shot a moment sooner…”

  Grunting in effort, Gaelin struggled to prop himself up against the gunwale. Madislav helped him. “Pull out the quarrel,” he said between his teeth.

  “That could kill you!” Ruide exclaimed. “Gaelin, we need to find a physician. Maybe there’s one in that Alamien town.”

  Madislav reached out to lay a hand on Ruide’s shoulder.

  “No, Gaelin is right.” When the old gods of Cerilia had been destroyed in a mighty cataclysm at the battle of Mount Deismaar fifteen hundred years before, their dissipating powers imbued the ancient heroes who fought in the battle. An ancestor of the Mhoried line had been among these heroes, and as a scion of that house, Gaelin had been born with the blood gift of accelerated healing.

  “No! You could make the injury worse!” Ruide protested.

  “Gaelin is right,” Madislav repeated. “I have seen him recover from wounds before. Is best to let his gift repair the injury.”

  He looked at Gaelin. “Although I have never seen you hurt this badly, Gaelin. You are sure you want to be doing this?”

  Gaelin gasped and nodded. Madislav met his eyes. He set his hand on the bolt, took a moment to be certain of his grip, and pulled the quarrel away with one swift motion. Gaelin screamed and fainted from the pain, the world spinning away into harsh white light. He drifted in a dark void, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

  After a long time, he opened his eyes again. It was still dark, but he could tell dawn was near. The keelboat was underway again, drifting slowly down the river. I survived, he realized. He was lying in one of the deckhouse bunks, with Ruide nodding asleep in a chair beside him. He lifted the covers and looked down at his stomach; there was a dark, puckered depression where the wound had been. It ached horribly, and he could feel that the injury was still fragile. He guessed it would be several days at least before he completely recovered. I would be dead now, if not for the Mhoried blood, he thought. I never realized how fortunate I was. Groaning, he swung his feet out of bed and rose, moving carefully. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he stepped outside, trying not to disturb Ruide.

  The keelboat was listing to the port side, and it moved more awkwardly than before. Leaning against the deckhouse, he pushed himself aft and found Madislav and Viensen back by the boat’s helm. The deck was still slippery with blood, but the bod
ies of the sailors who had fallen were wrapped in sail canvas and laid carefully to one side of the deck. The bandits’ bodies were gone; Gaelin guessed Viensen had committed them to the river with little ceremony. Madislav grinned widely as he saw Gaelin emerge from the cabin. “Gaelin!

  How are you feeling?”

  “M’lord Gaelin?” said Viensen. He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

  “I feel weak as a child. I’ve barely the strength to stand,” Gaelin replied. It was the truth – his limbs trembled, he shivered with cold, and his head floated with dizziness. “Where are we?”

  “About twenty miles downriver from where we stopped,” Viensen said. “I thought it wise to keep moving, but we’ll have to make for shore soon. We sprang a seam when they rammed us, and we won’t be able to continue until we make repairs.”

  Gaelin frowned. “At least we were able to move. They’ll have a hard time finding us again. How did your men fare?”

  The captain grimaced. “Not well – I lost half my crew, but without your warning it would’ve been worse. They’d have cut our throats in our sleep.” He glanced at Gaelin, and shook his head again. “I can’t believe you’re standing here talking to me, m’lord. The only reason the brigands fled is because they thought they’d killed you.”

  “Is good they were wrong,” Madislav said.

  Viensen hooked one arm around the topmost spoke of the helm and tamped tobacco into his pipe. “M’lord, those were no common river bandits. They knew you were on board.”

  Gaelin leaned against the rail. “I know, I heard them. And the first thing they did is go after the deckhouse, where you’d expect to find passengers. They knew I was here, no doubt of it.”

  “Rivermen don’t kill nobles, m’lords. It’s bad business. First, they miss out on ransom. Second, nothing riles the constables like a dead noble.” Viensen paused. “Someone wanted you dead and sent these men after you, m’lord. This was no coincidence.”