The Night of the Swarm

life.

Ensyl leaped for the mast and began to climb.

‘Sister,’ said, Ludunte, a pleading note in his voice, ‘just give us a moment, please-’

‘I have something else to give you,’ said Ensyl. In all their trials and danger together, Pazel had never heard her like this, enraged to the point of madness, longing to kill. ‘Hercol!’ she shouted, almost snarling, ‘did you love her or not? Is her memory sacred to one of us alone?’

Hercol set a hand on the mainmast. Pazel saw the struggle on his face. He too wanted to kill, and was making a terrible effort to restrain himself.

‘Something is not right, Ensyl,’ he said.

‘Nothing is right! She died, they live!’

Ludunte! thought Pazel. Of all the ixchel to show his face, after so long. And what in Pitfire did you say to Myett?

A third ixchel, on hands and knees, appeared at the spar’s edge and looked down. He was clearly wounded and quite feeble. As he struggled to rise Saturyk noticed him and cried out: ‘My lord!’

Too late. The man’s strength gave way, and he toppled from the spar. Hercol lunged, but the distance was too great. The tiny figure struck the deck and lay still.

Pazel and his friends rushed to the spot. Hercol was already kneeling. He lifted the figure, cradling him in both palms. His eyes filled with wonder, and new pain.

It was Lord Taliktrum.

He was struggling to breathe. He wore the remains of his old robe of office, the swallow-suit. But the plumes were scorched, almost melted, and so caked with blood that Pazel doubted the suit could ever again be removed.

‘Fiffengurt,’ he rasped, bloodshot eyes blinking.

The captain appeared moments later, pushing through the crowd. He had already removed his hat.

‘You told me,’ murmured Taliktrum. ‘Not to leave the clan for ever. Not to swear I’d not come back. You were right, in your way. Ah, Olik: well done. The dogs never caught up with you. I am glad.’

‘Warrior and friend,’ said Prince Olik, ‘what last thing would you ask of one who owes you his life?’

Taliktrum only shook his head feebly. Then, with a startling whoosh, another ixchel dived into their midst: Lord Talag. He wore the other swallow-suit, but he bore no weapon, nor even a shirt beneath the robe. His face, nearly always stoic and severe, was like an open wound.

He alighted, and fell to his knees beside his son. They spoke in their own language, and none save Pazel could hear them.

‘Father-’

‘Hush, my child. I wronged you, wronged the clan from the start. Don’t say you forgive me: there are sins too deep for pardon. Only know I love you, and will work no more evil in this world.’

‘I set four charges in their hold, Father, and all four exploded. It was easy. Under all that metal the ship was a twin of the Chathrand. And such an arsenal. They never missed the black powder.’ He managed a ruined smile. ‘And they’d never had an ixchel problem before.’

Talag closed his eyes. His voice when he found it was low and strained. ‘Four charges. Well, I suppose you’re proud of yourself.’

‘The last one caught me. I was burning as I flew. If the falcon hadn’t seen me I’d have drowned along with the giants. You would have done better, sir.’

‘No!’ Talag’s eyes snapped open. Then, more gently, he said, ‘That isn’t true, my son.’

Taliktrum paused, and the smile played again upon his lips. ‘It was glorious,’ he said. ‘It was a work of art.’ His eyes passed over the crowd of humans, and once more he bent his voice for their ears. ‘You say so much that’s vile and ignorant about my people. But one thing you say is true enough. We know how to sink ships.’

He rolled on his side and coughed a little blood.

‘Lord Taliktrum!’ cried Felthrup, in sudden desperation. ‘Do you have no word for Myett?’

Taliktrum raised his head, and his eyes lit briefly at the name. Then they closed, and the young lord lay still. From above, Saturyk called out, his gruff voice full of sorrow:

‘For whatever it’s worth, rat, he told her. For all the good it can do her now.’

The black force that was Macadra swept through the mass of fallen rigging that clogged the tonnage shaft. Myett, suspended within the whirlwind, could hear the mage’s voice in her mind.

What are you? Are you magically cursed, to be so small?

‘I am an ixchel,’ said Myett, ‘and no, I’m not cursed.’

And at last she believed it.

You will be worse than that if you dare lie to me. Which way?

‘To the orlop deck, then forward. The Nilstone is in the brig.’

Locked away from fools who would try to master it, and kill themselves in the bargain!

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Myett. ‘Take the starboard passage. Will you spare me, Mistress?’

Which way, you louse?

Myett pointed. She had never been more frightened, or more certain of her choices.

‘There’s the door ahead. The small green one.’

It stood slightly ajar, exactly where Saturyk had promised she would find it. Her clan still existed, still studied the Chathrand, still knew where to find a door that came and went like a mirage. But Macadra was instantly suspicious.

Just there, unguarded? Behind that crumbling door?

‘I’m not lying, Mistress.’

The whirlwind surged down the passage. Around Myett there was a sudden crackle of excitement.

I feel it! The Nilstone! You spoke the truth!

The Green Door flew wide. Myett felt herself carried down the black, cluttered hallway, towards the antique lamp whose glow increased as they approached. Now came the greatest terror. Now she would win life or everlasting torment. It didn’t matter, so long as she won.

The black whirlwind paused in the centre of the chamber. Two of the four cells stood empty. The third held an ancient corpse. And in the last, seated on a chest, was the human being Myett hated most in the world. Sandor Ott.

‘Crawly, is that you?’ he said, squinting at the sudden light.

Myett felt cold fingers take shape around her: Macadra had resumed her natural form.

At the sight of the ghastly figure, Ott shrank back with a squeal of fear. ‘Mercy, mercy!’ he cried. ‘Where did you come from? Don’t punish me, I’ve done nothing to anyone! Don’t hurt a poor old man!’

‘It’s there, there in his chest,’ said Myett. ‘Will you protect me, Mistress? Let me serve you in the life to come? I may be small, but-’

The mage flung her viciously to the ground. She advanced to the cell in two strides and flung open the door. ‘Back away, old man!’ she shrieked.

Ott was only too happy to oblige. As he leaped away, Macadra threw herself on Captain Rose’s sea chest. When she raised the lid, a black light bathed her face.

She made a fist of her bone-white hand. She closed her eyes and mumbled a spell — or could it have been a prayer? Then her hand plunged into the chest, and emerged holding an orb that burned darker than the soul of midnight.

Cackling, triumphant, Macadra lifted her prize. ‘It does not kill me! Can you see me, Arunis? I am its mistress — not you, brother, never you! It will be Macadra Hyndrascorm, not Arunis, who takes her place in the court of the eternal ones, who disposes of worlds as she sees fit, who-’

A harsh clang, metal on metal. Sandor Ott had stepped out of the cell and closed it behind him.

Macadra took in his changed expression: the terror and the simpering were gone. The little louse-woman’s face had changed as well. Then she knew. An enchanted brig, of course the Chathrand would have one, why hadn’t she guessed? But what of it? No magic in the world could stand against her now. She lowered her hand, grinning despite herself, and summoned the power of the Stone.

Nothing happened.