Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (82 page)

"On me!" Abeleyn cried. "To me, all of you! Repel boarders, damn you - stand fast!"

A knot of desperate men gathered about Abeleyn as the King took up position at the bulwark, setting a foot on it and swinging with his sword at the black shine of the enemy boarders. Men fought to their feet and clustered along the ship's side, ignoring the fire, their own wounds, the inevitable death of the ship beneath them. For a few moments they battled there, holding back the tide of enemy, Abeleyn's face transfigured in their midst, like that of a warrior saint out of legend. Then he went down.

Hawkwood did not see what became of him - he was too far away, in the midst of that maniac crowd of terrified men. The King's fall broke them. Resistance splintered, became a thing of individual survival, all higher aims forgotten. Their King was gone and, with him, the last of their hope.

Crowds of the beetle-warriors swarmed across the
Pontifidad
like cockroaches crawling over some great putrefying carcass. There was no escape for the survivors of the ship's company still on deck. They stampeded for the hatches. Hawkwood found himself in the midst of a crowd that bore him along towards the quarterdeck companionway. He fell to his knees, buffeted by the frenzied sailors, but elbowed a space and laboured upright. His numbed mind followed him down the companionway with the others, and at the foot of the companionway he paused, looking about him.

Battle-lanterns still burning in the tween decks, though they hung at an angle with the list of the ship. It was suffocatingly hot, and the smoke smarted his eyes, racked coughs out of his heaving chest. He opened the door that led to the officer's quarters aft, and was met by a hungry rush of flame that tightened the skin of his face and shrivelled his eyebrows. Nothing could live there. He slammed shut the smoking door, and headed forward with no thought in his mind except to escape the flames below and the carnage above.

He passed clots of wounded men who had dragged themselves down here to die, and slipped in their blood as the ship listed further. They must have holed her below the waterline somehow. Then the space between decks opened out into the middle gun-deck. Hawkwood found himself in a dark nightmare lit by battle-lanterns, crowded with panicked figures who were setting off the great guns in a disorderly broadside. They had something to fire at now, but their elevation was too high; the shot was passing over the hulls of the enemy craft grappled alongside. Hawkwood screamed at them to depress their pieces, and when they stared at him blankly he seized a handspike himself and wedged the nearest culverin up with a quoin so that the muzzle tilted downwards. It was loaded, and he stabbed the lighted match into the touch-hole with a savage joy. The gun jumped back with a roar, and beyond the port he glimpsed a spout of broken timbers.

But up through the gunport there squeezed now a glinting mass of the enemy, their pincers splintering wood. Hawkwood clubbed them back with the handspike, but they were squirming in through every port on the deck. Men left the guns and began fighting hand-to-hand, crouched under the low deck-beams. It looked like a battle fought far below the earth, in the subterranean chamber of a steaming mine.

Part of the deck about the mainhatch above their heads collapsed in a cataclysm of burning timber. It came down on the guncrews like a wooden avalanche. With it fell a mass of the glinting enemy. The beetle-warriors rolled like balls, righted themselves, and began laying about with hardly a pause. The awful pincers lopped off men's limbs and the black armour was impenetrable save at the joints. The guncrews fell back. Hawkwood tried to rally them, but his voice was lost in the tumult. Stooping under the deck-beams, he struggled forward again. Another hatch leading downwards. He followed it, borne along by a terrified mob of gunners with the same end in mind.

The orlop. They were below the waterline now, close to the hold
.

I will die down here
, Hawkwood thought. When a ship's crew was forced below the guns, she was finished.

There was water sloshing about his ankles. Somehow the enemy had holed the ship, attacking from the sea as well as the air. The
Pontifidad
was dying, and when she gave up the struggle against the pitiless waves she would take hundreds of trapped men with her. The pride of Hebrion, she had been. Hard to grasp that such a great vessel could be destroyed, and not by gunfire or storm, but by - by what?

His hands were agony to him now. Hawkwood staggered out of the way of the crowd coming down the hatch and fell to his side. The salt water scalded his burns. He crawled behind one of the great wooden knees of the ship supporting the deck-beams, and there halted. The water was rising fast.

The ship shook with a dull boom and the men below wailed helplessly, realising that their doom was not far off. There was a deafening, creaking roar, and then part of the very hull gave way. It burst inwards, admitting an explosion of spray. Hawkwood thought he saw a massive black snout in the midst of it for a second.

The water rose at an incredible rate, thundering in through a breach some eight feet wide. Men were clawing their way back up the hatches they had so lately fought to get down. The ship lurched further to starboard with a moan of overstressed timbers. Hawkwood slid towards the breach and was enveloped in foam. He went under, sucked into a storm of swirling seawater. Fighting to see, he found broken timbers under his nose, and beyond them, darkness. He clutched them with his skinless hands and fought against the push of the water, levering himself over them. Splinters raked his belly, his thighs. Then he was spinning freely in open water, a chaotic turbulence sucking him down. He struck out in the opposite direction, knowing that the ship was going down, and trying to bring him to the depths with it. Something struck him on the forehead and he lost ground. His lungs felt like cinder-filled bags about to explode. His torso convulsed with the need to suck in air, water, anything, but he fought against it, kicking upwards. His vision turned red. He bared his teeth, tasted blood in his mouth, but kept struggling.

At last his head burst clear of the water for a second. He exhaled and gulped a cupful of air, then was sucked under again.

Harder this time, the fight against the undertow. His arms and legs slowed. He looked up and saw light above him, but it was too far. His limbs stopped. He drifted slowly downwards, but still would not give up, would not breathe in though his body screamed for him to do so.

Damn you. Damn you!

Something became entangled with his legs. It caught there and spun him around, then began to tug him upwards again. A dark blob against the light, leather straps wrapped around his ankles. He was floating towards the surface feet first. He looked down past his wriggling fingers, down into the depths, and saw there a sight he would never forget.

Scores of men, dozens of other faces turned up to the light, some calm and otherworldly, others still fighting the sea like himself. They were suspended in the clear water below, trapped and dying. And behind them, the awesome dark bulk of the
Pontifidad
sliding towards the seabed like some tired submarine titan going to her rest. Broken, mastless, but still with one or two lights twinkling. She turned over and the last lights went out. Her black hulk slid soundlessly down into the deeper blackness beyond.

Hawkwood was still rising. He broke the surface and shouted the dead poison from his lungs. He flapped his weary legs free of the thing that had saved him, and found it was a leather-strapped wineskin, half-f of air. Grasping it in his arms he sobbed in great gouts of the cold air knowing only that he was alive, he had escaped. His ship was gone, and her crew had ridden her into the depths, but her captain remained. He felt a moment of overpowering shame.

Wind on his face. The mist was clearing, and the sun was riding up the morning sky. In the east it set light to a wrack of distant cloud and turned it into a tumbled melee of gold and scarlet and palest aquamarine. Hawkwood raised his head. There was a slight swell, and when it lifted him on its crest he saw he was surrounded by a horrible wreckage of bodies and parts of bodies, broken spars, limp cordage. To the west a bank of fog still lay stubbornly upon the water, but it was thinning moment by moment. Through it the ships of the enemy could be seen as a forested crowd of masts, and the early sunlight sparkled off milling hosts of armoured figures on their decks. Larger hulks, low in the water and bearing only the ragged stumps of their lower yards, drifted everywhere in and out of the fog, some burning, others appearing wholly lifeless and inert. And in the brilliant blue vault of the sky above a flock of the winged creatures was wheeling in a great spiral. Hawkwood watched as it descended, and lit upon a sinking galleon. Faint over the water came a series of shots.

Ships everywhere, looming like islands out of the mist. Hebrian galleons built to his own designs, Astaran carracks, Merduk xebecs, Gabrionese caravels. But all of them were dismasted, ablaze and sinking. The waves were thick with flotsam and jetsam, the wreckage of the greatest naval armament that history had ever seen. In the space of an hour it had been annihilated.

The
Pontifidad
had been at the forefront of the fleet, the tip of the arrow; and hence it had gone down some distance from the main body of ships. Hawkwood realised that he was drifting eastwards with the breeze, away from the lingering fog-banks and the terrible tangled mass of broken hulks to windward. Where they burned the water was still relatively calm; the weatherworking spell was fading last at its core. But here, scarcely half a sea-mile away, the wind was picking up. Hawkwood studied the sky and watched the clouds grow and darken in the west, heralding a storm. They were leaving nothing to chance, it seemed.

Had anyone else escaped from the flagship? Again, the choking sense of shame. Seven hundred men and two Kings. Lord God.

But he could not give up. He could not will himself to die - it was the same stubbornness that had kept him going all those years ago in the west. Without conscious volition he found himself scanning the pitching waves for something, anything, that might enable him to hold on to life a few hours longer.

Half a cable away a mass of wood rose and fell slowly on the swell. Deadeyes and the rags of shrouds clung to it still. Hawkwood realised it was what was left of the maintop. He struck out for it, leaving his wineskin, and for half a despairing hour fought the steeping waves with what was left of his strength. When he reached it he had not the strength to pull himself atop it, and so hung there, shivering and listless, his hands become rigid claws which no longer obeyed him. Above his head the clouds thickened, and on the wind he heard the screaming of gulls as they settled down to feast on the bounty of disaster, but he shut his eyes and hung on, no longer caring why.

A
GONY IN HIS
hands. He tried to cry out as they were constricted in a merciless grip, their blisters bursting, the charred skin flaying off. He was hauled out of the water, and fell with a thump to the sodden wood of the maintop wreckage. He lay there, awash, and a scream died in his salt-crusted mouth.

"It's all right, Richard. I have you."

He opened his eyes and saw only a shadow, limned black against the sky.

Six

T
HE
Q
UEEN'S CHAMBERS
were a shadowed place. Despite the spring warmth of the air outside, there were fires burning in every massive hearth, and the ornate grilles that flanked each window were shut, letting in only a pale, mangled radiance that could barely compete with the blare of the firelight.

The ladies-in-waiting had all an attractive flushed look, and their low-cut gowns afforded an intriguing glimpse of the perspiration that gleamed in the hollows of their collarbones. Corfe tugged at his own tight-fitting collar and dismissed them as they hovered around, curtseying. "Go on outside and get some air, for God's sake."

"Sire, we -"

"Go, ladies; I'll square it with your mistress."

More curtsies, and they whispered out, white hands flapping fan-like at their faces, long skirts hitched up as though they were tiptoeing through puddles. Corfe watched them go appreciatively, then collected himself.

"It's like a Macassian bath house in here!" he called. "What new fad is this, lady?"

His wife appeared from the inner bedchamber. She had a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and she leaned on an ivory cane.

"Nothing that need concern a loutish peasant up from the provinces for the day," she retorted, her voice dry and clear.

Corfe took her in his arms as carefully as though she were made of tinsel, and kissed her wrinkled forehead. It was marble-cold.

"Come, now. It's Forialon these two sennights past. There are primroses out along the side of the Kingsway. What's with this skulking in front of a fire?"

Odelia turned away. "So how was your jaunt up the road of memory? I trust Mirren enjoyed it." She lowered herself into a well-stuffed chair by the fire, her blue-veined hands resting on top of her cane. As she did, a multi-legged, dark, furred ball skittered down the wall, climbed up her arm and nestled in the crook of her neck with a sound like a great cat's purr. A clutch of eyes shone like berries.

"It would do you good to take a jaunt yourself."

Odelia smiled. Her hair, once shining gold, had thinned and greyed, and her years sat heavily in the lines and folds of her face. Only her eyes seemed unchanged, green as a shallow sea in sunlight, and bright with life.