The Night of the Swarm

Roars of war-engines, howls of fear and rage. Some of those manning the ship’s terrible arms were still trying to bring them to bear on the Chathrand. There were more wild cannon-shots, even as the Death’s Head wallowed deeper.

Pitfire, what’s happening to her?

Gradually the frenzy on the Chathrand subsided; her crew stood transfixed. The vessel’s stern was sinking fastest. On the topdeck, men were fighting, shoving forward and backwards at once. Suddenly, by dint of greater numbers or greater panic, the forward-pushing mob prevailed, and the whole throng moved in a rush. But the shift in weight was catastrophic. On the next wave, the bow came thundering down, and the sea flooded in through the chaser gunports.

The deck was awash. Some dlomu were making for Gurishal; many simply vanished into the swirling sea.

‘They were getting ready to board us,’ said Thasha. ‘They’re in armour. Gods of death.’

Not one figure was swimming for the Chathrand.

Pazel had never seen anything like it. Their deadly enemy had foundered. A ship the size of the Chathrand, lost in ten minutes flat.

Hercol approached, with Ensyl on his shoulder. ‘How did it happen?’ Thasha asked her mentor. ‘We never managed to scratch her, did we?’

‘Not through that armour-plating,’ said Ensyl. ‘I cannot guess what breached her, but that iron hastened her sinking, beyond any doubt.’

‘Along with the weapons heaped on her like scrap,’ said Hercol. ‘Still, she must have been seaworthy. She did not fly over the Nelluroq, and-’

His voice trailed off. He gazed at the vanishing wreck, suddenly quite still. Then he exploded, leaping up and catching the mainmast shrouds, and bellowing over the heads of the crew:

‘On guard! On guard! She is coming, the sorceress is coming! It can only be her!’

Pazel never saw it coming. It was simply, suddenly there: a coagulating black smoke that moved like a flock of blackbirds, all around them, touching them with a horrible chill, then pulling together into a low column between the mainmast and the forecastle. The apparition shimmered, formed a torso, limbs, a face.

Macadra stood upon the deck.

Instantly Hercol lashed out with Ildraquin. But just as the blade reached her head, the figure became smoke once again, tunnelled through the air, and reformed closer to the quarterdeck.

She loomed over them: tall and bone-white and deathly. ‘Where is it?’ she shrieked. ‘Bring it to me. Act quickly, and I will let you land this carcass of a ship.’

Nolcindar lunged, faster even than Hercol. This time Macadra did not vanish, but merely shouted a spell-word so powerful it crackled in the air. Nolcindar’s knife shattered like a thing of glass. The selk warrior fell upon the deck, rigid, unable to move a muscle.

Then something rather astonishing happened. The entire crew attacked the sorceress. No one called for it, no one shouted Charge! But charge they did, from every side, and not a soul held back.

Macadra threw up her arms. A pale white light swept away from her. Pazel felt it strike him in the face, and then he felt himself fall, along with scores of others. He was conscious, but his strength had suddenly vanished, and so had that of everyone within ten yards of Macadra. The sorceress stood alone in a wide ring of bodies. She laughed.

‘Come, see reason,’ she said. ‘I could kill you as easily as I have lain you flat. But what if I could not? Suppose you drove me from the Chathrand, what then? Do you know how close you are to death? Thirty hours: that is how long you have before the Swarm seals this world beneath its pall. Shall I tell you what will happen then? It will drop from the skies, and become the death-skin of Alifros. And still it will grow, deeper, thicker, until it is nine miles thick, and the last cold bacterium has perished at the bottom of the Ruling Sea. Then the Night Gods will declare my brother one of their circle, and free him from the kingdom of twilight. But for you it will be too late.

‘I alone can prevent this. Frail creatures like yourselves die at the Stone’s touch, but I will use it to put an end to death. I can do it. I can banish the black horror that even now is destroying your minds. You can feel it, can you not? The madness claiming you, the madness born of too much fear? Come, I am your only saviour. Give me the Nilstone, and live.’

‘Never,’ said Captain Fiffengurt from the quarterdeck. ‘You’ll not divide us, and we’ll not give the Nilstone up. We’ve not sailed round this blary world for nothing. We mean to remove the Stone from Alifros.’

‘By floating it away down the River of Shadows, into death’s Kingdom?’ said Macadra. ‘Has Ramachni truly made you believe it can be done? Simpletons! If only I had time to watch you try!’

Pazel felt a tingling in his toes. His strength was trickling back. Around him, the spell’s other victims were also stirring. That spell cost her. She’s not as strong as she wants us to believe.

‘You fear to land on Gurishal, is that it?’ said Macadra. ‘You fear the Shaggat’s lunatics will come upon you in the night and slit your throats? Well, I will not pretend there is no such danger. But the one who speaks up, and tells me where the Stone is secreted — him I will bear away on wings of sorcery, to a land of his choosing, or to my fair court in Bali Adro, if he prefers, where he will know ease and pleasure and the thanks of Macadra. Only speak. Even your shipmates will thank you, when the Swarm departs the skies.’

She turned in a circle. Only now did she appear to realise that the whole ship had fallen silent, and that hundreds of eyes were upon her.

‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Who will tell me where they keep it? Who among you wants to live?’

No one moved, no one spoke. Pazel was breathless with pride and gratitude. Every soul on the deck was standing firm.

Then a voice said, ‘I will show you.’

Pazel looked up, and wished he could die. The voice was Myett’s. The ixchel woman stood on the main yard, thirty feet above their heads. And she was not alone: at least one other ixchel was crouching near her, all but hidden by the spar. Further out along the timber crouched Niriviel, eyeing the sorceress with hate.

From the tangle of bodies, Ensyl cried out, heartbroken: ‘Myett! No, sister! You can’t!’

‘It’s the only way,’ said Myett.

‘Be silent, you up there!’ snapped Fiffengurt. ‘That’s an order!’

Macadra was staring up at Myett, perplexed and doubtful. ‘I’ll show you!’ Myett repeated, with a note of desperation. ‘Only don’t let them punish me, and don’t leave me here! I don’t want to die!’

The paralysis ended; Macadra’s victims began to struggle to their feet. ‘Mucking crawlies,’ said Haddismal. ‘Every Gods-damned time.’

‘Myett, who’s up there with you?’ shouted Thasha.

‘Another back-stabbing, ship-sinking louse with legs, that’s who,’ shrieked Oggosk. ‘Kill them!’

Someone hurled a broken timber. Myett dodged, but a hail of objects followed: boots, bottles, hammers, knives. The falcon shrieked: ‘Stop, fools, stop!’ but no one heeded it. Myett leaped for the mast and began to climb. Then a well-aimed chisel struck her in the legs, and she fell.

She never reached the deck. A whirl of black smoke passed under her, lifted her, and bore her away at great speed along the deck. Roaring, the sailors who were still on their feet gave chase. But Macadra was too fast. Pazel saw Myett lift a hand to indicate the tonnage shaft. The black whirlwind flowed over the rail and down into the ship’s dark depths, and Myett went with it.

All was still. The crew stood trapped between confusion and despair. Pazel looked at Thasha. Thasha looked at Hercol. Neeps looked down at Felthrup, and the rat, for once in his life, held stock-still, too mystified even to squirm.

Then, of all people, old Dr Rain spoke up. ‘It isn’t that way, silly crawly. Everyone knows the Nilstone’s in Thasha’s cabin. You should have used the Silver Stair.’

Hercol was looking up at the main yard.

‘You there! Show yourself at once!’

To Pazel’s surprise his command was obeyed: two ixchel men rose and stepped to the edge of the massive beam. One of them was Saturyk, Lord Talag’s enforcer. And the other-

‘You,’ said Hercol.

It was Ludunte: Diadrelu’s former disciple, and the one who had lured her into the trap that took her