the Arrowhead. When he looked for Ramachni again the little mink was gone, and a black owl was climbing into the sky above the Chathrand, making for the distant enemy.
‘I’m a blary idiot,’ he said aloud.
‘But we tolerate you somehow,’ said Hercol.
The maukslar was closing with frightful speed. Pazel could see the broad, leathery wings, the searchlight eyes, the sputtering glow of its fire-spittle. The owl that was Ramachni looked smaller and smaller as the two forms converged.
‘Motion on the Death’s Head,’ said Hercol, his eye to the telescope again. Then his voice rose to a warning howl. ‘Dlomu in the water! They’re diving, diving by the score! Ah, Denethrok, take cover! They’re aiming those Plazic guns!’
The warning swept the ship. There were curses and terror, but no panic: the men had left that emotion behind. Pazel and Hercol stood their ground. Above them, the maukslar spat a huge glob of liquid fire, straight at Ramachni, but some unseen power summoned by the mage parted the fire in a wedge to either side of him, and the owl flew on.
The maukslar gave a sinuous twist. Ramachni swerved in answer, but he was too late: the creature was past him, hurtling for the Chathrand. Behind him, Neeps was shouting: ‘Clear the deck, clear the mucking deck! It’s going to burn us to a crisp!’
Sudden flashes from the Death’s Head. Pazel and Hercol threw themselves flat as the thunder of cannon smacked the ship. But no fire or cannonball followed, no burning tar. Pazel rolled over to face the sky.
Oh, Gods.
Ramachni was diving, closing the gap. Even as Pazel watched he reached the maukslar, fanned his black wings — and exploded into eguar- form.
The maukslar screamed. The huge black reptile seized it with jaws and talons, and the two spun flailing in the air. No fire, demonic or otherwise, could harm Ramachni now. He tore at his foe, merciless and deadly. But he had not counted on the force of the maukslar’s own dive. They carried forward as they fell. Men screamed and dived for any cover they could find. The two creatures struck the deck just astern of the forecastle, like a bomb.
Fire and ruins were everywhere. Shrouds and bracelines snapped; the longboat was crushed like an eggshell; the jiggermast collapsed into the sea. The two foes roared, rolled, twisted, an impossible writhing mass of flame and fangs and talons and blood. Sailors ran for their lives, hurling themselves down the hatches, even leaping over the sides. Pazel, Neeps and Hercol stood pinned against the bowsprit. Suddenly Pazel recalled the mage’s words at Stath Balfyr, after the killing of the sharks: You must not depend on me if it comes to fighting again.
That was exactly what they were doing. But how could they help? The eguar’s fumes alone were so strong that men were dropping senseless at thirty feet.
The warring creatures rolled to the portside rail, splintering it to pieces, nearly toppling into the waves. Then the maukslar tore itself away from Ramachni and leaped upon the forecastle. Its tail crushed a sailor against the foremast, then wrapped around another and began to squeeze.
Hercol looked at Pazel, a strange twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re not a bad diver, Pathkendle,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Prove it again. Hold your breath.’
He took a great gulp of air and leaped to the attack. Terrified, Pazel knew he must find a way to do the same. He circled left. The maukslar was spitting fire at Ramachni, still below on the main deck, but its tail seemed to have a mind and malevolence all its own — that long, lethal tail which had plucked Big Skip from the bridge over the Parsua Gorge. The sailor tried to stab at the coils, but they tightened, crushing his chest. The tail let him drop and groped for another victim.
What it found was Ildraquin. Hercol brought the dark sword down in a flashing arc, biting deep into the flesh.
With an infernal scream the maukslar turned its fell eyes on Hercol. Bleeding but still serpent-quick, the tail circled his waist, raised him high and dashed him down against the deck. Hercol fought on even then, hacking with his one free hand.
Ramachni, seizing the moment, began to haul his elephantine body onto the forecastle. The maukslar tossed Hercol away and closed on him, hissing. Pazel saw his chance. He leaped once, twice, over the whiplash tail. Just as the maukslar crouched down to leap upon the eguar, Pazel stabbed downwards with his sword, two-handed, and pinned the demon’s tail to the deck.
The maukslar’s lunge fell short. Recoiling with a scream, it tore Pazel’s sword from the deck plank, struck him aside like a trifle, and spread its wings.
A roar. The eguar pounced. Its crocodilian jaws snapped shut on the demon’s snake-like neck. Its talons shredded the wings, then gripped the creature’s torso. It ripped. With a gush of black blood the maukslar’s neck parted from its body. It fought on, biting and snapping, as Ramachni thrashed it against the forecastle. At last the red eyes went dark, and the thing lay still.
Pazel fell on all fours, gagging. Everyone left alive on the forecastle was struggling to breathe. The eguar looked at the devastated ship, the burned and dying men. Its eyes turned last of all to Pazel. Then it leaped at him.
Pazel was knocked off his feet. The creature landed almost atop him, its toxic vapours like a blow to the stomach. Pazel’s vision dimmed. Ramachni, he thought. You’re killing me. Why?
A monstrous crack rent the air, followed by the pop and zing of snapped cables. The foremast fell and shattered across the eguar’s back.
The creature’s legs buckled. With a groan of agony, it shrugged off the mast to one side of Pazel. It was bleeding, black blood that sizzled where it fell. One white-hot eye passed over Pazel, Hercol, Neeps, the whole of the ruined ship. Then the eguar leaped over the starboard rail.
Pazel tried to stand up, and failed. He crawled, and burned his hands and knees. Then Hercol loomed over him, wheezing, bloody from scalp to shoulders. Pazel felt the warrior lift him and begin to stagger away. The two most terrible languages his Gift had forced on him — those of the eguar and the demon itself — were roiling and seething in his brain:
I will never (ITHAPRIGAL codex of hatred heartsblood burning blistered eater of life) speak another (IMGRUTHRIGORHIDISH realms of damnation codex of pain) word (CURMASINDUNIK nine Pits nine lairs nine soul-shattered Gods Arunis among them eater of worlds kill the fair kill the gentle the morning mountains minerals rivers forests insects oceans angels newborns hope) for as long as I (codex of misery) live.
Hercol slapped him. ‘Breathe, lad! Get that poison out of your lungs!’
Pazel gasped and bolted upright. The battle raged on. From the Death’s Head, bursts of fire were still leaping, and now the Chathrand had opened up with her own forward guns. Along the rails, Turachs and ordinary seamen — and Mzithrinis, by Rin — stood with pikes in hand, ready to repel boarders, gazing down into the waves. They looked hurt and tired. How many had just been killed?
He became aware that his whole body was one agonizing itch. He turned and saw Neeps beside him, reeking, vomit-covered. Simply disgusting.
‘Hold still.’
Someone began to douse him repeatedly with seawater. Feeling stronger, he looked up to see Swift and Saroo, his old antagonists, gazing down at him with concern.
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
The brothers looked at him, a bit shamefaced. ‘Yeah, Muketch, I reckon you are,’ said Swift. They leaned down and helped Pazel to his feet.
The Chathrand’s guns were deafening: Fiffengurt was throwing everything they had
