97

The Loryow King

"If they want to talk," yelled back Captain Marlow from the Bright Terror, "tell them to untie you."

Ansel wondered what would happen when the chain of command, that thin veneer of discipline that held them back from absolute chaos, snapped. He blinked. A bead of sweat threatened to trickle into his eye. He resisted the urge to wipe his face and concentrated his line of sight on the savages atop the dune. The glare from the sand made it painful.

"Steady," muttered Boaz, as the line of barrels bobbed. Ansel could feel the nerves of the men on either side of him. One wrong move and someone would fire.

One of the savages stepped forward. He was a great ugly looking fellow with broad muscles and a jangling collection of bones hanging from his scraggy blond beard. He pushed Kurtz forward. Ansel’s pulse quickened as the savage raised a blade overhead. It was black, with a bone handle tied on with a few leather straps. Before Kurtz could scream the savage brought it down in a swift stabbing motion, slicing through Kurtz’s bonds, rather than his flesh. Ansel breathed out a ragged breath. Kurtz stood up, rubbing his wrists. He spared one baleful glance for the savage before turning to the ships.

"I'm free," he shouted, holding up his hands. "They want to know if you will come down and talk."

There was silence. The wind shuddered across the dunes, riding grains of sand round and round in little whirlwinds. The chain of command was hazy here. Kurtz was Marlow’s senior, and would be again, if he survived. But Kurtz was clearly under duress so, as per fleet code, Marlow would be the one to make decisions. At least until Kurtz made it back onto his ship.

Ansel began to wonder if his fingers would fall off, so tense were they on his gun. Besides him Ezra’s shaking was beginning to rattle his arquebus. Ansel leaned over to him, casually nudging him with one shoulder. Ezra glared at him, but his breathing quietened.

“We will parley,” shouted Marlow, after a long moment. "Captain Boaz!"

The Sky Lion’s captain started. Collecting himself, Boaz straightened and saluted the Bright Terror where Marlow stood.

"Captain Boaz from the Sky Lion and Captain Kurtz!” yelled Marlow. “They will meet you and negotiate on behalf of the fleet. But only if they free the lot of you. There –" He pointed at a spot halfway between the group of savages and the settled ships. Well within gun range. "Boaz and Kurtz will meet them there. Boaz can bring a man. Kurtz tell your savages to do the same. Don’t let them bring the whole ruddy lot."

Discussion broke out amongst the savages immediately. Ansel strained his ears trying to hear, but their words drifted in snatches over the sands, guttural and indistinct. He couldn’t understand anything. How did they understand Marlow? Or Kurtz, for that matter?

After a short and lively debate, the savages seemed to reach consensus. The remaining members of the landing party were set loose. The airmen took no time at all scrambling across the sands to the safety of the ships. They ran up the gangplank to the Unsparing and collapsed on the decks. No one had eyes for them though. Kurtz stood alone, waiting.

"Mange," said Captain Boaz, shouldering his matchlock, "with me, good sir."

Mange blanched and snapped his heels together. The first mate scrambled after Boaz. He practically fell down the rope ladder, missing the last rung and landing in an embarrassing heap. Once Mange had picked himself up, they traipsed across the shifting sands.

Three savages separated from the larger group. Kurtz, Boaz and Mange came to a stop opposite them.

"All-Mother preserve them," breathed Ezra. Ansel nodded his agreement, eyes sliding between the savages on the dune top and the small group below. The group that were in bullet range. Just.

Kurtz and Boaz had a brief conversation.

Then they turned to the savage with the largest, most ornate headdress. Boaz made a flamboyant bow, as if he was meeting royalty. Perhaps he was. The chief of the savages replied with low pitched gibberish, gesturing with his stick. It was hard to see what he looked like under all the tattoos, warpaint and feathers but Ansel got the impression of a middle-aged man, handsome in a barbaric sort of way, with dark eyes and a thicket of blond hair.

His companions were a woman and some kind of slave who held a large umbrella over the pair, shielding their pale skin from the beating sun. The savages’ skin, Ansel could see from this closer angle, was almost luminous white. It was paler than the white–skinned northerners of Aron, like Kip. The lad still had a tendency to turn lobster-red under the harsh southern sun, if he didn’t keep covered. But even Kip’s skin was brown compared to these men and women.

The slave was meek and cowed. Desperately straining to keep the others covered, and naked apart from a skin loincloth and a plethora of interlinked tattoos. The woman was strikingly beautiful –in an alien way. Young, with eyes of vivid blue, her hair and eyebrows were so fair they looked white, and her skin was moon-pale. She was also displaying a lot more skin than Ansel was used to in feminine company. Unlike the other savages, her skin was unmarked by tattoos.

The chief spoke again, letting loose that string of guttural gibberish. It was obvious, even from onboard ship, that the whole group was nervous, the savages, the slave, the airmen. Everyone but the woman. The translator had no nerves. For that was what she was.

"Greetings, Captain Boaz," she said, clearly, to the shock of everyone present. She spoke loudly, a smile twitching at her lips, as if she was enjoying herself. Her perfect Lochlanach carried across the dunes, in a rasping cadence that was both appealing and disquieting. She addressed them all, flinging out one milk-white arm. "We have been waiting for you!"

“You have?" stuttered Boaz, clearly taken aback by this barbarian beauty with perfect diction. But he recovered himself with admirable speed. "Greetings, ma'am," he said, eyes sweeping up and down her frame.

Kurtz coughed.

"How is it you know our tongue?" he asked.

"I encountered one of your countrymen a few years back," the translator said lazily.

The chief besides them started to babble urgently, gesturing with his hands. He banged his stick in the sand and she watched him, as if he was some exotic pet. A mildly amusing pet. When he had finished, she waited a few seconds, regarding him with raised eyebrows. When she was sure he was done she turned back to Kurtz and Boaz.

"King Vine, his divine highness, bids you welcome to our lands. We are here to help you."

Kurtz snorted, rubbing at the bruises that were freshly formed on his wrists.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he said.

"Who are you?” said Boaz, “Why would you offer to help us?"

The woman flashed her teeth at them. On the decks above the crews shifted uneasily. One wrong word, Ansel thought, and the sand would be stained red.

"My name is Mammon," said the young woman, "and I am but a humble servant here to translate. This man is Vine, King Vine, the Loryow King, the God's representative of the Night Nation on earth, the ultimate descendant of the Children of the Moon, of the Clan Teurek.” She paused. “My people. Our Ancestors said we would find you here at this time on this day, and so we have made haste to meet you. This is an auspicious day."

Mammon sounded bored, her manner not matching the grandeur of the words she spoke. Ansel wondered if she had learned them by rote, or if she truly understood their import. He did not understand their import but he resolved to commit them to memory so he could think about then later.

Mammon’s movements were lazy, in contrast to the man beside her who spoke in incomprehensible babble, bashing his spear into the ground in emphasis. Mammon cocked her head on one side as she listened.

"The Loryow King wishes to discuss an alliance of our people. An exchange of information, and of goods, if you will."

"Your highness," said Kurtz, with a polite bow, "we are listening."

Mammon spoke to King Vine in that indecipherable babble. The King replied.

"We wish to learn of your magic,” said Mammon.

"Magic?" Boaz repeated, his brow furrowed. "We have no magic! We are men of reason and science!"

Mammon looked back at the gathering Teurek and spoke rapidly. King Vine and the savages all started speaking at once. Mammon examined a nail, thoughtfully. At length the savages subsided and Mammon deigned to reply. She gestured towards the ships, and then at Boaz's matchlock.

"Your metal magics. Your weapons. Your flying ships – your great machines that work in the rain, yes? We would learn of these things."

“These are not magic,” said Kurtz, stiffly. Even here in the desert, he needed to guard his soul, thought Ansel. “These are science.”

“Whatever you choose to call it,” said Mammon. “They work in the rain? The ships? The weapons? Yes? This is important.”

"Yes of course, they do,” said Boaz. “Well the runes do, if they are prepared right, and the guns, yes, if you keep the powder dry but –"

"And you can kill many, unexpectedly. I have seen this."

"Well, yes–"

"Teach us these things, and we will provide you with food and water."

"I'm afraid these things are not simple, they can take a lifetime of study–"

She stared at him, expressionless, those unsettling eyes fixed on his face.

“Do you know what it is like to die in the desert?” she asked him. “Do you know how long it takes before you are clawing at your own eyeballs, sobbing for death and biting the sand?”

Boaz opened his mouth to protest but King Vine started to babble. He rattled his stick at her. Mammon sighed.

“You are seeking...moonsilver?” she said. “Cavorite? Yes?"

Kurtz, Marlow, and all the watching Lochlanach sucked in a collective breath. She looked at them and smiled.

"Yes, we are seeking cavorite," Boaz said calmly. But it was too late. The savages knew how badly they needed it.

“We have cavorite,” Mammon said.

King Vine spoke.

“One hundred weapons," Mammon said, pointing to Boaz's matchlock, "in exchange for food and water for your men."

Kurtz and Boaz exchanged worried glances.

"I'm sorry, that's just too many," said Kurtz.

"Ten for each ship," said Mammon, and she gestured back up the dune to where a collection of barrels and boxes of food had appeared. "And I will lead you to fresh water and the cavorite."

Boaz and Kurtz looked up at Marlow who was standing at the railing of the Bright Terror. He shook his head slightly.

"Forgive me," said Kurtz, "but how do we know you bargain in good faith? How do we know the cavorite is really there?"

“You drive a hard bargain,” said Mammon. She sounded bored. “Smart men. Adventurers. I like adventurers.”

King Vine barked something and the smile slipped from her lips.

“Here,” she said. She unfolded her hand to reveal a large chunk of unrefined cavorite ore. Kurtz and Boaz leaned in greedily. “It’s yours,” said Mammon. “Take it.”

She handed it to Kurtz who almost dropped it in the sand, his arms dipping wildly.

“It's heavier than it looks,” he muttered.

"That is from the site,” said Mammon. “The place we can show you. Consider that a token of faith. Do we have a deal?”

Boaz and Kurtz looked up at Marlow, who nodded, once.

"We have an agreement," said Kurtz.

“Good,” said Mammon.

"Mange,” said Boaz, briskly. “Go and organise the matchlocks. Ten from each vessel, as the lady said."

Mange, who had been standing there awkwardly, watching the meeting unfold, scurried away on bow legs. Ansel breathed a sigh of relief, but made sure he did not relax his aim. Things could still go wrong.

“Hold your aim,” said Audric, in his low, cultured voice. With Boaz and Mange both off ship the scribe was technically next in command. The row of guns dipped and steadied as everyone fought straining muscles to keep the weapons steady.

Down on the dunes Mammon was speaking to the savages in clipped tones. Several of them ran forward with the crates and left them in the sand in front of Boaz and Kurtz.

The exchange was soon made.

"So how do we find the cavorite?"

"I will travel with you," said Mammon. "To be your guide and to learn the magic of flight."

Kurtz coughed in surprise, disapproval clearly showing in every line of his face.

"I'm not sure that would be appropriate, a woman unchaperoned...."

Mammon smiled, and for some reason the sight made Ansel's blood run cold. The Loryow King said something, a tone of query in his voice. Mammon answered and the Teurek all started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked Boaz.

"I told him the old man fears for my safety. But please understand – I am quite able to defend myself."

Kurtz bristled. Mammon’s gaze swept over the men above in a predatory fashion, and her lips curved as her gaze came to rest on Boaz's weapon. She reached out with one hand and casually bent the shaft of the matlock in two, mangling the metal as if it was putty.

Boaz and Kurtz leapt back, swearing.

"Witchcraft," Ezra muttered, and the sound went round the decks in a low rumble.

King Vine started speaking rapidly, gesturing with his hands intently.

"What is he saying," asked Boaz. His eyes were wild, as he stood, holding the remains of his useless weapon.

"He says farewell," said Mammon, still smiling.

Ansel glanced sharply, at the king. Mammon's tone did not seem to match the man's tone of voice. He spoke again rapidly, gesturing angrily at Mammon. She ignored him. He turned and spoke to Kurtz and Boaz but of course they were unable to make out a word. Mammon strode towards the ships.

Casting worried glances behind them Boaz and Kurtz hurried after her.

“The command ship is the Unsparing,” said Kurtz, gesturing to the largest of the remaining ships. While not a flying castle on the scale of the Trillium, the Unsparing was impressive indeed. It housed a hundred guns and a thousand tons burthen. Pre-runeage of course. Ansel had never liked the Unsparing finding its build unwieldy and its shape displeasing. Apparently, Mammon agreed.

“No,” she said. And turned to look at the other ships.

“No?” said Kurtz, turning red. He choked down his anger.

“That one,” said Mammon, pointing to the little Sky Lion.

“Shit,” said Ezra.

“My lady may travel however she wishes,” said Boaz, “of course. But would she not be more comfortable on one of the larger vessels? The Sky Lion hardly has space for men aboard her, let alone for a lady of your, um, station.”

“No,” said Mammon, again. She set off across the sand leaving the men arguing in her wake.

“Why?” asked Kurtz, running after her.

“Small vessel is more agile,” she said. “More likely to survive the journey. The monsters will go for the bigger targets. I do not want to die in the sea. So. I travel with this one. You will soon see.”

And she climbed on board.