Goddess of the Ice Realm (6 page)

“Is it aimed?” she shouted to the captain, his face only inches from hers. He stood with the release cord in his right hand. “Will it hit the thing?”

“Yes, but mistress—” the man said.

Sharina jerked the cord out of his hand. She started to whisper a prayer to the Lady, but the Lady brought peace and good harvests; she had no place here. Instead Sharina murmured, “Nonnus, help me and help my brother. . . .”

She didn't bother bending so that her eyes could follow the line of the bolt; she didn't have the skill to second-guess the captain, nor the time either. She pulled the release cord.

When the trigger claws released the thumb-thick bowcord, the balista's arms slammed forward against the leather-padded stops on the frame. The double
Bang!
shocked a cry from Sharina; she'd seen balistas and catapults in use before, but she'd never been so close to one when it loosed.

A crash like that of a wedge splitting oak rang on top of the balista's release. Sharina looked toward the stern. The bolt was buried to its wooden vanes in the monster's head where the left eye had been. The impact had distorted the whole long skull like the hull of a rammed warship.

Garric staggered backward, unharmed. None of the thronging soldiers had been touched.
Nonnus, may the Lady show you the peace you did not find in life.

As her eyes took in the scene, the patrol vessel with Ilna aboard drove into the monster's body alongside the
Shepherd.
The bronze ram bit deep with a sound like an axe chopping
into a hog's carcass, but so much louder that it overwhelmed all other noise.

The creature's nostrils spurted a mist of blood high in the air. The patrol vessel's mast cracked and tilted forward, breaking some of the decking ahead of the mast step. The
Shepherd
shook violently; Sharina might've stumbled over the wooden battlements if a balista crewman hadn't steadied her.

The patrol vessel continued to slide forward, pulling the monster along with it. Timbers crashed and the
Shepherd
rolled upright with a shudder. The great jaws spasmed open as the carcass rolled onto its back.

Cashel was flying through the air, still holding his quarterstaff and gripping a broken post with his legs. Sharina didn't have time to cry out before he landed in the sea thirty feet from the quinquereme's stern.

Cashel couldn't feel anything, not even the water when he belly flopped with a splash that would've been immense under most circumstances. Since the sea still roiled with the creature's death throes, he guessed nobody'd notice even that.

He plunged beneath the surface. The cold shock of the sea hadn't revived him, but not being able to breathe did. He tried to flail his arms and realized he was still holding his quarterstaff. He let go with one hand and paddled. Though he still couldn't feel anything and he knew he was very weak, his face lifted into the air again and he was able to gasp in a breath.

Like the whale,
Cashel thought and might've laughed, but his nose dropped underwater. Breathing salt water seared his lungs worse than near suffocation had moments before. He
kicked to the surface again, knowing that he'd shortly drown.

The water was red with the whale's blood and blotched with crimson froth. The monster lay on its back between Cashel and the
Shepherd,
floating low. Rhythmic spasms rippled down the creature's belly muscles; its underside was a pale contrast to the blotched gray-black of the upper surfaces.

A huge flipper lifted, then slammed back into the sea only inches from Cashel's face. He grabbed it instantly. He could feel bones beneath the slick, gristly surface.

The whale would probably sink also; Duzi, he could see that it was already sinking! But it didn't sink quite as fast as Cashel alone—all bone and muscle, with no fat to buoy him up in the water—so he clung to it and waited.

He might be rescued after all, though he didn't care much. Struggling with a monster the size of a ship had burned all emotion out of him. How long had the fight gone on, anyway?

Because Cashel lay so close to the whale's carcass, all he could see of the
Shepherd
was its mast top. The ship had continued on ahead after Cashel and the whale tore loose, swinging in a wide circle to port. It was so big that it kept going for a long time, even after the oars'd stopped.

Cashel could see and hear fine, and his muscles did what he told them—though not nearly as well as he expected. The numbness in his body was passing too, though of course all he could really feel now was pain.

Something was going on to Cashel's other side also. He'd have to turn his head to see what it was. With a real effort of will—it meant ducking his face underwater again—he did.

The
Flying Fish
was nosing back toward the whale, its prow smeared with blood and its ram skewed upward. Cashel had a vague recollection of the little ship hitting the whale at the moment everything let go in his mind and the world around him. Now its oars were backing to bring it to a halt in the crimson water.

Ilna stood in the bow with a coil of rope in her hand. “Can you catch if I throw this to you, brother?” she called. Her voice would've sounded unemotional to somebody who didn't know her as well as Cashel did.

“I can catch,” he croaked, the first words he'd spoken
since he shouted a warning as the whale arrowed up from the depths. Ilna tossed the coil underhanded, landing it in the water so close that Cashel could've grabbed it with his teeth if he'd needed to.

He used his right hand instead, letting go of the whale's flipper. Just then Ilna's man Chalcus dived off the bow, stripped naked and holding the end of another coil of rope.

“I'm all right!” Cashel said, but Chalcus cut the water cleanly and didn't reappear for long moments. Ilna didn't look worried so Cashel figured things must be all right, but where
was
the fellow? A sailor on deck continued to pay out rope; a second coil was spliced onto the first.

The
Flying Fish
halted, drifting slowly toward Cashel. IIna'd tied her rope to a stanchion, but Cashel wasn't quite ready to clamber up the ship's sheer side. The fight with the whale had taken a lot out of him; almost more than there'd been. He tried to remember exactly what'd happened after he thrust the staff into the monster's jaws, but it wasn't so much a blur as tiny broken pieces of a scene painted on glass.

Sailors at the stern of the
Flying Fish
were dragging a fellow dressed like an officer from the sea at the patrol vessel's stern. Had he fallen from the
Shepherd
the way Cashel had? There might've been more things going on than just the whale too.

“Hoy!” somebody shouted. Cashel turned his head. Chalcus stood on the whale's twitching body, spinning the end of his rope overhead; it must have been a lead line, loaded to sink quickly to check the depth. He'd gathered a triple loop in his left hand. “Ready?”

“Read—” called the sailor on deck. Chalcus loosed the line in an arrow-straight cast that took it into the hands of the waiting sailor. As soon as the fellow caught it, Chalcus jumped feet-first into the sea and bobbed up beside Cashel.

Cashel had begun to shiver. Not from the water, he thought; the sea wasn't nearly as cold as nights he'd watched his sheep through storms of early winter with no shelter but his sodden cloak. He'd strained even his own great strength; it'd be good to get some food in him, if he could keep it down. Or at least a mug of ale to sluice the foul dryness out
his mouth. Right now it tasted like an ancient chicken coop.

Conversationally Chalcus said, “We'll be towing our prize in with us; the harbor's not so far, after all, and I've never seen or heard of a creature like this one. Have you, friend Cashel?”

“I never saw anything like it,” Cashel muttered. “It's a whale, but it's nothing like the ones that pass in spring by Barca's Hamlet.”

Talking helped; he suddenly understood why Chalcus paddled beside him in the bloody water, chatting like they were relaxing on a sunlit hillside. The sailor's tone was cheerfully mild, but his eyes missed nothing. If Cashel suddenly lost consciousness, Chalcus would grab him before he sank and keep him up till he could be hauled on deck like a netful of cargo.

“Neither have I seen its like,” agreed Chalcus. “Nor heard of such, more to the point, for my dealings have been more in southern waters and the east than in these western wastes.”

He grinned wickedly. His arms floated motionless on the surface, but his legs must be windmilling to keep him so high in the water. Chalcus's nude body looked like a deer skinned at the end of a hard winter. There was no fat on his scarred frame, none at all. His muscles stood out like the individual yarns of a hawser.

“Though perhaps I shouldn't say that, you being a western lad yourself,” he added.

Cashel shook his head. “I'm from Barca's Hamlet,” he muttered. “I don't know anything about oceans. As for Carcosa, if we get there—”

“Indeed, we'll get there, lad,” the sailor said, bobbing like a child's toy in a puddle.

“—all I could say about it is, I've passed through the city and I was glad to get to the other side.”

The mild banter was bringing Cashel back from the abyss his struggles had taken him to the edge of. He was aware of himself as a person again. Raising his head, he tried to find Sharina; the huge carcass was still a quivering wall between him and the
Shepherd.

“Come on, you lazy buggers!” Chalcus bellowed at the crew of the
Flying Fish
as they tugged on the rope he'd tossed them. They were using the light line as a messenger
to draw an anchor cable around the whale just behind the flippers. “The sun'll have set before we've got this brute to land, and where's the honor if folk can't see our trophy?”

“Can you really carry this on the
Flying Fish?”
Cashel asked, pitching his voice low so that no one on the deck above would hear the question. “It looks to me like it's as heavy as the whole ship.”

“Aye, as heavy and more,” Chalcus agreed. “But we'll be all right towing the toothy devil, so long as he doesn't sink; which may happen yet, if they don't make that hawser fast some time soon. I think perhaps I . . .”

He looked sidelong at Cashel, judging how far he'd recovered.

Cashel laughed, snorted salt water from his nostrils, and laughed again. “I think I'm ready to go aboard, Master Chalcus,” he said. “I may not have all my strength back, but I think what remains will prove an aid to hauling that rope.”

He looked at his sister on the deck above. “Ilna?” he said. “See to it that this line is snubbed off, will you? I'm coming aboard, and I don't look forward to spilling myself in the water again because something slipped!”

Cashel tugged to test the line himself, then walked up the side of the vessel using his left hand on the rope to steady him. Oh, yes; he was ready for work again!

Sharina swung down from the fighting tower's battlements with a great deal more care than she'd displayed climbing it. She'd sheathed the Pewle knife; it hadn't been required as a weapon but its smooth steel weight had settled her mind at a time she needed that. Now that she had leisure and both hands, she worried that her billowing robes would catch a projection and she'd break her neck as she fell.

“Mistress?” said the balista captain as he bent to grab her hand. “Princess, I mean! Let me—”

“No!” Sharina said. As if she didn't have enough problems already!

She dropped to the deck with no problem except that her robes flew up. She smoothed them and looked around to see if anybody was laughing at her. They weren't, of course:
quite apart from her being Princess Sharina of Haft, everybody aboard the
Shepherd
was too shaken to laugh at anything for the moment.

Tenoctris had a hand on the railing, but she'd recovered to her normal state of indomitable fragility. She said, “Your Cashel is really quite remarkable. What he did just now was . . .”

She shook her head, then grinned wryly and added,
“Our
friend Cashel, and very definitely the world's friend Cashel. The wizard who made that attack won't have expected anyone to be able to block it.
Quite
remarkable.”

“Yes, he is,” Sharina said, a smile of contentment spreading over her face. She hadn't had time to be frightened till it was all over. Before she hopped down from the tower, she'd seen Cashel catch his sister's line. Now with the
Flying Fish
at a wobbly halt beside the monster, there was nothing to worry about.

“Was it a demon, Tenoctris?” she added, then frowned.
“Is
it, I mean. It's still there, after all.”

“Not a demon,” Tenoctris said, shaking her head. “It's an animal, but one that doesn't belong in this world or time. The wizard who could bring such a thing so far could have opened the way for a demon, of course; but demons are hard to control. Generally impossible to control. Though there's no end of fools with more power than sense who might have tried it anyway.”

The old wizard smiled with a mixture of humor and disdain for those who had the great powers that she lacked, but who themselves lacked her judgment and knowledge. Sharina stepped close and hugged Tenoctris. She was inexpressibly glad to have a friend who
understood
the powers that were threatening to overwhelm the Isles.

The forces that turned the cosmos were neither good nor bad; but when they were at their peak, human evil and human error had an immense capacity for causing destruction. Mistakes as much as malice had shattered the Old Kingdom; similar mistakes and malice could grind the slowly-rebuilt civilization of the present too deep into the mud to ever revive.

“Sharina?” Tenoctris said, touching the back of the girl's wrist.