Their captors still had not addressed them, but they stared with frank astonishment at Bolutu and Kirishgan. Pazel caught their whispers: ‘What in the black Pits of damnation
‘Brothers, listen to me-’ Neda began in Mzithrini. Their captors barked at her to be silent, and one kicked her in the side.
An hour passed. They were given water and moved into the shade. Despite their shock at encountering a dlomu and a selk, their captors actually paid them little attention: they appeared somewhat preoccupied. About half had vanished into the trees atop the hill.
The sun sank low. The volcano moaned and rumbled. At last Pazel heard footsteps approaching, and a Mzithrini officer in a spotless black-and-red uniform stepped out from among the trees. His face unreadable, his movements precise. The guards snapped to attention: the man was evidently of some rank. An aide approached and handed him a ledger-book. The officer glanced from the book to the captives and back again, several times. Then he nodded and walked up to Pazel’s sister. The female soldier took her boot from Neda’s neck. The officer pointed at Hercol.
‘This man killed our brother in fair combat, and to save his friend. That is no dishonour, and he need fear no special punishment. Inform him.’
Neda looked up at Hercol. ‘He says-’
‘I understand you, sir,’ said Hercol in Mzithrini.
The officer whirled. ‘You as well! Do you
‘No, brother,’ said Neda. ‘Only he and-’
The officer spat in her face.
‘Call
Neda’s eyes blazed with fury. She tried to rise, but six sword-tips jabbed at her, and the female soldier pressed down again with her boot. Neda spoke through the mud and grass about her face. ‘I serve no Arquali, now or ever-’
‘Bitch in heat. You lie.’
‘I was sent to kill them,’ said Neda. ‘I failed. They took us prisoner.’
‘Which is why you laughed at the fool in the tree, and gazed at this swordsman with open lust. Keep silent, vow-breaker, or I will cut those ensigns from your flesh.’
He meant her tattoos, Pazel realised with horror. Neda twisted beneath the soldier’s boot, glaring up at him fearlessly. But she held her tongue.
Hercol’s eyes were no less deadly, though his voice was controlled. ‘You call her vow-breaker,’ he said, ‘and you are right: she is that. But it is a greater crime to raise youths in a windowless cell, and then demand vows pertaining to the world beyond. Those who break such vows may be many things, but they are never weak.’
‘Where did you learn Mzithrini?’ demanded the officer.
‘In my own windowless cell. From my old masters, and your arch-enemies, the Secret Fist. I too broke certain vows. I was expected to use my life to kill your people, to destroy your country from within.’
The officer held his gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and studied their faces one by one. ‘What are these creatures?’ he said.
‘The black man is a dlomu. The other is a selk. They are no more your enemies than-’
‘Shut up.’ The officer pointed at Druffle’s corpse and addressed his men: ‘Bury this one. Mark the spot.’ Then, speaking once more to Hercol, he indicated Darabik.
‘That man is too old to fight. He was not guiding you, like the idiot in the tree. He carries himself like a general. Is he in command?’
‘We have no commander ashore,’ said Hercol.
‘Then you have no commander at all.’
Hercol frowned.
‘You doubt me?’ said the officer. ‘Very well: untie their legs. Hold the swordsman and the traitor-girl like the deadly snakes they are. All of you, get up.’
Legs freed but hands still tightly bound, the captives rose stiffly to their feet. The officer led them into the greenery, along a trail beneath the palms. Within, the evening shadows were already dark, but Pazel caught glimpses of many warriors: resting, eating, sharpening their swords. The captives filed past them in silence, nudged on by the blades of their guards.
When they emerged from the oasis they stood on the hill’s far shoulder. The officer stood aside, and the captives gasped. The whole north side of the island spread below them, all the way to the coast of the Narrow Sea, and there-
Ships beyond counting, slaughter beyond words. At first Pazel could see no order in any of it. Large vessels, smaller ones, burning, blasting, listing, going down. Flashes of fire, wreaths of smoke.
‘Startling, isn’t it, how little one hears?’ said the officer. ‘Blame the west wind for that, and the volcano of course.’
Pazel’s eyes began to sift what he saw. There was a huge force of heavy warships pressing south, towards Serpent’s Head and the westernmost isles of the archipelago. It was easily the largest flotilla Pazel had ever seen in the Northern world, and it was decimating a force about one-third its size. The latter ships were in disarray. Some were tacking west, into the wind; others had turned to engage their enemies head-on. A few were fleeing south between the islands, towards the Ruling Sea. The fight was not completely one-sided: vessels on both sides were burning, sinking. But Pazel could see no hope for the lesser fleet.
‘You are witnessing the end of an insurgency,’ said the officer. ‘The smaller force is trapped between the Nelluroq and Magad’s great flotilla. They have been dying all morning, and will go on dying through the night.’
No one in the landing party could speak. Pazel could hear the cannon-blasts, now, just barely, over the rumbling of the volcano. He felt dizzy, defeated. On his left, Commodore Darabik’s face was ashen, and Hercol too looked appalled.
‘They fight bravely,’ said the Mzithrini officer. ‘They have stung Magad’s fleet, and will keep on doing so until the very end. Yes, they certainly have heart. Everything else, of course, is against them. Wind, numbers, ammunition, luck. Some have managed to reach the shore, after their boats were pulverised. They will die tomorrow. Magad has men enough to flush them out like rats, once the sea battle ends. And do you know who they are, those rats? Maisa’s rebels. The remains of her naval forces. They were planning to gather here, to regroup and try once more to topple the cannibal-king. But then you know all this. You’re Maisa’s agents too.’
No one denied it. Commodore Darabik walked forward, dragging his feet. ‘We were betrayed,’ he said. ‘The Usurper knew about the gathering of our forces. He
Hercol looked at the officer. ‘Magad’s land forces will find you as well, tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ said the officer calmly. ‘We may be forced to surrender to the cannibals. For an hour or two.’
He turned and pointed to the northwest. There was rain and haze in the distance. ‘You cannot see it, yet, even with a telescope-’
‘I can see it,’ said Kirishgan. ‘Another fleet, even larger than this one. They are fierce vessels, all painted white, and bristling with cannon, every one. There are many men aloft, but they have spread no canvas. The fleet is standing still.’
Once more the officer was stunned. ‘Feather eyebrows and eagle eyes,’ he said. ‘Yes, our White Fleet is coming. Not to rescue Maisa’s rebels — that is no task of ours — but to destroy the Arquali navy, which is a force for evil in this world.’
He gestured at the hill nearest to where they stood. It was barren, but at its peak lay an enormous mound of sticks and palm fronds. ‘Soaked in chemicals, special chemicals that burn long and bright. We will watch the battle, and when Maisa’s rebels have done us all the good they can do, we will light this beacon and summon our fleet. By then it will be past midnight, and Arqual will be wounded, tired, short of ammunition. Then it will be Arqual’s turn to be caught between the hammer of a stronger enemy and the anvil of the Ruling Sea.’
‘You did this,’ said Pazel. ‘You told Arqual where Maisa’s forces were gathering.’
‘Fool,’ said the officer. ‘We will not shed our blood for your rebellion, but why should we help Arqual to crush it? No, the Secret Fist learned of this gathering all by itself. After years of blundering along without Sandor Ott, it
