The soldiers cheered, and the sailors joined them. Lyrilan motioned D’zan to hold up his sword. The Prince lifted the red point of his blade toward the sky. The cheers grew louder. “Hail the Princes!” someone shouted. This burst into a general chaos of bellowing approval.
Vireon yelled an order that every soldier, crewman, and laborer be checked for painted skin before they cast off. There could be more of these assassins hiding in their midst. His words were cut off by Alua’s sudden scream.
The first man to die, his spine cracked against the mast, shambled through the crowd like a drunken devil. By some prevalent instinct, some innate disgust of the supernatural, men drew back from him and he ran crookedly toward D’zan, blood leaking from his lips, eyes blank and filled with death. Vireon’s head turned to the dead man just as a steelustupery grip caught his ankle. The man he’d sliced in two had grabbed him and crawled legless toward D’zan, a green dagger still in his other hand.
The rushing dead man wrapped his fingers about D’zan’s throat, squeezing with the inhuman power of death. D’zan fell backward against the railing. Vireon speared the half-man to the deck with his Uduru blade, dodging the sweep of its jade dagger. Sailors fled in terror while soldiers stepped back or fumbled for their blades. The other two dead men, one gushing red from the base of his skull, the other bleeding from his severed heart, stood and lunged gracelessly for D’zan. The Yaskathan Prince brought his greatsword down one-handed on the skull of his strangler. Brain and bone exploded, but the strangler was already dead, so did not release its grip. Lyrilan watched the dead men strive to kill the living men, feeling helpless and caught in the middle of a dreadful storm. He longed to run, but his feet would not move.
Vireon’s heel crunched the skull of the dead man he had pinned to the deck. The other two swung daggers clumsily at D’zan, striking the dead strangler instead, which D’zan used as a shield. The smell of corruption, filth, and blood replaced the fresh sea air. Vireon chopped at the man he had killed; headless, its arms still grasped and writhed, and the legs twitched like blind worms. Vireon’s eyes glowed with primal terror as he sliced the grasping limbs to pieces. D’zan finally cut the strangler in half with his greatsword. The legs and hips fell backward, spewing fresh gore across the deck; but the torso and arms hung from his neck now, entrails sliding like red ropes from its ribcage as it continued crushing his throat.
An Uurzian soldier came forward with a longblade and swept it across the strangler’s arms, severing them from the torso. The disembodied hands now choked D’zan by themselves, and one of the dead men stabbed the Uurzian with its poisoned blade. The valiant man crumpled.
Now Alua cast a white flame at the two stalking dead men. Their garments and skins ignited. They ran crazily about the deck, flaming, jaws snapping, until a group of sailors pushed them over the railing with poles. They fell sizzling into the sea. The stench of burned flesh lingered horribly about the decks.
Lyrilan tried to tear the killing hands away from D’zan’s throat. D’zan’s face had gone from red to purple. He was almost unconscious when Lyrilan finally pulled one of the hands free. He tossed it, unthinking, across the deck. It rolled a bit and then scrambled like a spider until someone brought a barrel down upon it, crushing it to pulp. Vireon grabbed the other strangling hand, removing it instantly from D’zan. It writhed in his grasp. He placed it carefully into Alua’s blazing palm, where it withered into black ashes.
Lyrilan helped D’zan regain his breath. Rough nails had torn the flesh of his neck. The dead soldier, whose name was Farimus, was to be honored for saving the Prince’s life. His comrades carried his body away, for the southern poison had killed him instantly. A burial at sea would be most proper, they decided, for the first soldier to die in the war against Khyrei.
“Our enemy plays tricks on us with sorcery,” Vireon told the warriors. “Still we stand strong! This is Alua, Sorceress of the Northlands. She sails with us. She will burn this black magic from our path with the white flame of justice!” a›Again the crew and soldiers rallied, though not as fervently as before. Some eyed the water where the burning dead men sank, expecting them to crawl up and kill some more. Word soon spread through the entire ship, and across to the ‹em›Cloud‹em› and the Sharkstooth, that the enemy had already struck. Non-essential personnel were carefully searched and removed from the ships. No more brown-painted Khyreins were to be found.
Tyro brought a Sky Priest onto the Cloud with him, and this man blessed the three ships before they cast off. He walked the planks of each ship, casting rose blossoms and burning incense. By the time he reached the Spear, the crew had just finished washing the blood and offal from the decks. Now only dark stains remained where the assassins had fallen, and fallen again. The priest’s ceremony restored the courage and certainty of the cohort. Tyro had known it would, Lyrilan reflected.
Before the sun reached its zenith, Dairon’s Spear left the dock, the two lesser ships following in its wake. A strong winter wind out of the north filled their sails. D’zan rested in his cabin, neck treated with salve and bandaged. His wounds were superficial. Lyrilan sat on the second bed, watching him. D’zan’s hands were wrapped around the hilt of the greatsword, as they always were when he lay down to rest. It was, ironically, the traditional pose of a fallen warrior. Lyrilan had brought him a flask of wine, and waited for him to wake.
“It was Elhathym,” said D’zan. He wasn’t asleep after all.
“D’zan?” asked Lyrilan.
“I’m awake. It was Elhathym who sent those… things.”
“But they were men from Khyrei… Death-Bringers, like the ones in the palace. Servants of Ianthe the Claw.”
“Yes, and no,” said D’zan. “While they lived, they served Ianthe. As soon as they died, they became the servants of Elhathym. Like those in the palace, they waited for me. Like the shadow at the edge of the mountains. The Serpent beneath the ruins of Steephold. All sent by him . All waiting for me.”
“Fearsome things,” said Lyrilan. “But here you are. You survived. Yours is the just cause. The Gods are with you. The Gods and many good Men. And at least one Man-Giant with a sorceress.”
D’zan raised himself to sit on the side of his bed and looked at Lyrilan. The golden light of noon poured through a round porthole. The bandage around his neck was dotted with red spots.
“Yes,” said D’zan. “All these are good. And I no longer fear this tyrant’s magic.”
Lyrilan poured a cup of wine for him. He handed it across the small cabin and D’zan took it gratefully, wincing as he gulped it down.
“But what other horrors are out there?” D’zan asked. “What else is waiting for me?”
Lyrilan drank his own cup of wine now, and he shivered. Not from the drink, for it was warm as seawater. He said nothing, but soon took out the manuscript. There was much updating to do.
D’zan drank another cup, then lay down again on the bed behind him. He snored gently while Lyrilan scratched his quill across the bound pages.
The floor of the deck rocked and swayed gently, creaking in a woody voice.
What else is waiting for me?
The words echoed in Lyrilan’s mind.
What else is waiting for us?
It was a question that had no answer. Yet.
He ignored it, scribbling madly, enraptured by the orderly rows of black ink spreading across the parchment.
23
Dairon’s Spear sliced the open water. Vireon stood behind the great hawk fronting its prow, peering past the golden wings. The sixth morning broke clear and pristine over the purple sea, and Alua lay sleeping in the cabin. He inhaled the briny wind, tasted its salt on his tongue. Tapestries of blood and saffron hung along the horizon as the sky filled with daylight. The western horizon was flat and keen as a blade, while the eastern showed a thin line of coast, yellow and brown in the light of dawn.
Vireon had never ridden the sea before. It took no time at all for his feet to grow accustomed to the ship’s constant movement. He enjoyed the freedom of the waves, the ultimate rush of water toward mysterious sky. What lay beyond the endless western waters, across the unexplored realms of the Cryptic Sea? Perhaps continents and
