The Night of the Swarm

help us now.’

Still in shock, Thasha hauled herself up the ladder. She took the signal-flags from Coote and mimicked his Desist and withdraw signal, her movements jerky, her face a blank. But the Nighthawk held its position, cannon at the ready, men-at-arms upon her deck.

The rescue effort, meanwhile, was well underway. The first lifeboats were already reaching the Mzithrinis. Dlomu had swum ahead of them, seeking out the wounded and the weakening, pulling them towards the boats. And now the Chathrand herself was drawing near. Jervik was standing by with a stretcher- team. Accordion-ladders snaked down the hull.

Then the Death’s Head fired again.

‘Cover, cover, fore and aft!’ howled Fiffengurt.

The fireball rose from Macadra’s ship. But once again they were not the target. ‘That one’s for the Nighthawk!’ shouted Coote.

It was all so swift. The fireball closed. Thasha cried out, the sound of a heart breaking if Pazel had ever heard it. And then, explosions — eight, twelve, sixteen cannon, booming from the stern windows of the Arquali warship.

Mere yards from the Nighthawk, the fireball disintegrated. Its flame swept on, parting like water around both sides of the hull. But it had not exploded. It had been torn to bits, and the Nighthawk emerged from the short bath of fire apparently unscathed.

‘What happened?’ cried Ensyl, from Hercol’s shoulder.

‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘Grapeshot! The admiral filled his stern chasers with grapeshot, and took that blary projectile apart! Rin’s gizzard, he’s a tough old bird!’

The ‘old bird’ did not need more urging to withdraw, however. As Thasha wept with relief, the Nighthawk’s mainsails rose and billowed, and the warship began to glide away from shore.

Pazel turned to face the Arrowhead, and the small, menacing shape that was the Death’s Head. One ship had been driven off, another destroyed. And Macadra’s vessel hadn’t even moved.

Corporal Mandric appeared on the quarterdeck. ‘Captain,’ he said to Fiffengurt, ‘my sergeant’s advice is that we fall back too. Approach Gurishal from somewhere else, get the Nilstone ashore that way, carry it overland to this death-portal, wherever it is.’

‘No, Mandric, we cannot withdraw,’ said Ramachni. ‘Have you forgotten how Dastu taunted us at the beginning? How he said that even those who studied Gurishal, and lived here, had never heard of that portal? We have no time to go searching, to fight our way up cliffs and through mountains, to say nothing of battling the Nessarim. It is darker today than yesterday. Tomorrow, the darkness may be complete. And remember that Macadra, too, must act before the Swarm kills us all. I do not think she will permit us to sail away.’

Ramachni looked at Hercol, Fiffengurt, and the youths in turn. Pazel gazed into his black eyes, breathed deep, and nodded.

‘Captain-’ he said.

‘Save your breath, Pathkendle, I understand,’ said Fiffengurt. Then, raising his voice to a roar: ‘Mr Elkstem, bring us around if you please. Fegin, Coote, to your stations, and lit matches on the gun decks. This is it, gentleman: we go forward, or we go down.’

They were a ship of lunatics, thought Pazel, and so much the better for it. The men perhaps only dimly grasped what they hoped to do in the Arrowhead Sound. But they knew the goal — to wipe away that hideous cloud — and they knew that death alone would follow, if they failed.

He and Neeps helped set the mizzen topsail. The Chathrand turned neatly, despite her wallowing stern, and began to plough straight for the Death’s Head. From four miles out, it appeared that they could enter Arrowhead Sound on the opposite side of the great rock, avoiding Macadra altogether. But that would only have told the sorceress that she had nothing to fear — and a bluff, Hercol noted grimly, might be their only chance.

‘But is it even a chance?’ Neeps whispered to Pazel, tightening the sword-belt he had just strapped about his waist. ‘Last time Thasha was here with the Nilstone in her hand, and Macadra saw her, sure as Rin makes rain.’

‘I know,’ said Pazel, sliding his own sword half out of its sheath. ‘This may not fool anyone, but there’s nothing else we can do, unless we bring Thasha up on deck waving a pumpkin.’

The tarboys were on the forecastle, gazing straight ahead. Thasha had agreed to stay below until the charge was over. As it would be, soon: the Chathrand was gaining speed. And now at last the Death’s Head too was spreading canvas. Macadra had no intention of being pinned down against the cliffs. She was sailing out to meet them.

Three miles between the ships, now. Fegin blew his whistle, hustling a crowd of gawking steerage passengers below. Lady Oggosk stood alone by the mainmast, the high wind tearing at her hair and shawl. Refeg and Rer, for once, were already on deck, pacing, breathing like bulls. Someone had had the foresight (and courage) to wake them. Niriviel wheeled in circles overhead.

Pazel glanced around the deck. ‘Where’s your wife, mate?’

Neeps jumped, looked at him sharply.

‘Pitfire, what’s the matter with you?’ said Pazel. ‘Didn’t you marry her? Didn’t you want to?’

‘Don’t talk rubbish. Of course.’ But Neeps’ voice was bitter, and his eyes were cross. After a moment, he said, ‘If you had to die for someone — no, forget that. If you had to die next to someone, are you sure you know who you’d choose?’

‘Yes.’

Pazel’s certainty did not help his friend at all. ‘Well good for you, damn it, but I’m not such a — never mind, you can’t — oh, Gods damn it.’

Neeps shut his mouth. Two miles. Pazel went to Hercol and borrowed his telescope. There were dlomic soldiers crowding the deck of Macadra’s vessel, and standing thick upon her spars.

‘They could be an amphibious unit, like the ones we fought at Cape Lasung,’ said Hercol. ‘That would be one way of taking the Chathrand without sinking her.’

‘I guess we’ll know,’ said Pazel, ‘if they start diving into the sea. But that’s not what I’m worried about. Our stern is riding lower than ever. If they strike us there, who knows how fast we’d flood and sink? And it can’t be the crack in the keel that’s causing it — we’d already have sunk if the keel were that far gone. In fact we don’t have a clue why it’s happening.’

‘I have a clue — or a guess at least.’ said Ramachni. Pazel jumped: he had not heard the little mage approach.

‘Tell me, then,’ he demanded.

‘Later, Pazel. Right now, I must ask you to remember the clock. Thasha’s clock. If we should have to evacuate this ship, do not leave it behind. Remember that it belonged to my mistress.’

‘That’s a good reason to leave it behind,’ said Pazel.

‘Pazel,’ said Hercol.

‘Many things have failed to go as Erithusme hoped,’ said Ramachni, ‘but that does not mean that she acted without reason. She always had a reason.’

Pazel looked away. He could not bear to think of Erithusme. She was here, even now, a soul within Thasha’s soul. And she could save them, slap the Death’s Head away like a gnat. But it wouldn’t happen. A wall no one could see or touch or explain had thwarted her, and now they stood alone.

‘We will take it, Ramachni,’ said Hercol.

‘Good,’ said the mage. ‘And now I’d best be on my way.’

‘What?’ shouted Pazel. ‘You’re leaving now, by the festering Pits? Leaving us again?’

Ramachni just looked at him, unblinking. Then the cry went up: ‘The demon, the maukslar! It’s taken to the air!’

Pazel whirled. He could see it, a moving speck in the half-light, swooping towards them from the summit of