The Night of the Swarm

33

28 Modoli 942

360th sailing day from Etherhorde

Burned, battered, weary, leaking, lost. And for all this, a ship united. The other Turachs followed Sergeant Haddismal’s lead, and few appeared to regret it. Many even looked relieved to be siding with Pazel and his allies, and nodded to them when they passed, as though they’d been conferred some honorary rank. Corporal Mandric was let out of the brig.

Marila said that the ground had been shifting since Ott’s murder of Captain Rose. ‘For a while everyone pretended not to know. If you said out loud that Ott had killed him, the Turachs might kill you.’ Now even the Turachs began to speak of Ott with contempt. Something in Pazel felt healed. The Chathrand was one ship, and this time no one had died for her.

Thanks to Darabik, moreover, they were not lost for long. The commodore knew with some accuracy where his ship had gone down: just fifty or sixty miles south of the Baerrid Archipelago, and some eight days west of Bramian. Fiffengurt kept the Chathrand on her northern course, and by six bells land was in sight: two tiny islands, little nuggets of tree-crowned stone, the serpent’s vertebrae. Yes, these were the Baerrids. Fiffengurt had seen the island chain several times over the years — from the north side, of course.

‘You haven’t lied about our position, anyway,’ he told Darabik.

‘I rarely lie,’ said the commodore, ‘but perfect honesty — well, that is a luxury reserved for those who suffer neither want nor pain. I have suffered both. After Maisa launched her rebellion, we divided our naval forces into thirds. I said goodbye to Thasha’s father in Ormael, and sailed east across the Nelu Peren. On the third day, a huge force of warships from Etherhorde surprised us, and decimated my squadron. My own quarterdeck was blown out from under my feet. I fell into smoke and darkness, and when I awoke I was in the hands of the Secret Fist.

‘For months they tortured me, body and soul. I prayed for death. I told them lies, then truth. At last I confused the two myself, and said whatever I thought would make them stop. Nothing made them stop. I tried to starve myself; they injected me with a poison that left me limp, and forced gruel down my throat.

‘But a day came when I was delivered from agony. Only then did I learn that I had been taken to Etherhorde, and tortured in the bowels of Castle Maag itself, somewhere beneath those pretty walks and gardens. Word of me had reached the admiralty, and Emperor Magad surrendered me to my brothers-in-arms. Above all he feared a soldiers’ revolt. He got it anyway, of course.’

‘It’s gone that far, has it?’

‘Much further, in fact. Burn the Lord Admiral and his son to death in their kitchen and you’ll pay, even if you do wear the crown.’

‘Night Gods, Commodore!’

Darabik shook his head. ‘A shameful tale, and a long one. The point is, there was a revolt: nearly a third of the Home Forces abandoned the Usurper, fled west, and joined Maisa’s campaign. I went with them, and have been fighting ever since. In that time I have won more battles than I have lost. But things have changed recently, and not for the better. Captain, you must make for Serpent’s Head.’

The gathering of Maisa’s forces was to occur on the fifth day of Teala, barely one week away. They could still make it, said Darabik. Fiffengurt reminded him that their task was to rid Arqual of the Nilstone, not the Emperor of Arqual.

‘Yes, the Nilstone,’ said Darabik uncertainly. ‘Prince Eberzam spoke of it with dread. I still don’t know what exactly it is.’

‘And you don’t want to,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘You’ve got the Gods’ own luck anyway. We’ll take you to Serpent’s Head, by way of the archipelago. There’s no safer course to Gurishal from here.’

Darabik had gone suddenly rigid. ‘To. . Gurishal?’

Fiffengurt grinned the grin of a suicide.

‘But that is madness, man. You cannot hope to slip past the Mzithrinis.’

‘Hope? What’s that? But you’re right, Commodore. That’s why Ott sent us off into the Ruling Sea to begin with, you know: to get around the White Fleet, and come up on Gurishal from behind.’

‘Madness,’ said the commodore again. ‘Perhaps before the war, the western flank of Gurishal was left unguarded. But not today. The Sizzies know Ott wanted to give the Nessarim back their Shaggat — we told them, we announced it to the world! Every harbour is watched, and every approach. The whole island is under quarantine.’

Fiffengurt’s grin was melting away. ‘You can’t quarantine an island that enormous,’ he said.

‘Can’t you? If it’s bursting with fanatics awaiting the return of the greatest mass-murderer in history?’

‘Trouble is, Commodore, we have to go to Gurishal.’

‘You can’t.’

Darabik said no more, and Fiffengurt was left blinking at the sunset, and trying to calm his nerves. But when darkness fell, Pazel and his allies gathered in the wheelhouse and spoke to the commodore again. Darabik’s mood had also darkened. He asked that they light no lamp. On that moonless night they could barely see his face.

‘I told you we numbered ninety thousand a year ago,’ he said. ‘That is true, and I might have said more: we took Opalt, for a time, and held the mainland all the way to the banks of the River Ipurva. But this year the fight has gone poorly. Magad has turned the east into a war-making machine. We sink a ship, and two more launch from the Etherhorde shipyards.’

‘North and South begin to mirror each other,’ said Kirishgan sadly.

Darabik took no notice. ‘The Mzithrinis are willing to sell us ships, but our coffers are empty,’ he said. ‘Without gold we are nothing to the Black Rags. Lately they have seen fit to drive us from their waters, into the teeth of our enemies. And. . there is another rumour, though I do not know whether to believe it.’

A deep note of worry had entered his voice. ‘Tell us,’ said Ramachni.

Darabik hesitated, then his dark shoulders gave a shrug. ‘A cloud that kills. They say it is as large as Bramian, and that in movement it is less like a cloud than a living thing. Nonsense, probably. Tall tales sprout like weeds in wartime.’

The allies sat in rigid silence, barely breathing, until Darabik asked them what was wrong.

All through the night the Chathrand sped west. With the first glimmer of dawn Fiffengurt sent men aloft to spread more canvas, indeed all the canvas she could bear. More rain fell, lashing and cold. More jagged islands appeared off the starboard bow. The ship followed these Baerrid Isles, tacking along one side of the snake. No one who had heard Darabik’s words repeated them — the crew was close enough to despair as it was — but they could not stop themselves from glancing at the sky. The Swarm was here already, and it had grown huge.

The days passed, grey gloomy light. Between the wave-tortured islands the lookouts spotted ships, plying the calmer waters of the Nelu Rekere, but they were too distant to be identified. Darabik was confident that they were Maisa’s forces, but Fiffengurt took no chances, and lit no flares. The nights were cool, but Pazel could not sleep. When he closed his eyes he felt the darkness crushing him, drowning him, a black wax pouring down from the sky.

In the outer stateroom Neeps and Marila shouted at each other, and some of the last dinner plates were smashed. The dogs howled and Felthrup wept. But late at night Pazel would creep out and find Neeps and Marila sleeping under the gallery windows, curled up together like children, arm in arm.

They are children. They were. All of us were, so recently.

Lying awake one night, Pazel saw a flicker of red in the window glass. He reached out a hand: the glass was trembling in its frame. Quietly, he left Thasha’s cabin. In the outer stateroom he found Felthrup staring out at the Chathrand’s wake.

The rat crept to his side. ‘You saw it too,’ he whispered. ‘We are almost there, Pazel. I can smell the reek of the volcano.’

They went above. The rain had stopped and the night was clear. There off the port bow stood Serpent’s Head, a tall black mountain-mass, spitting fire in great arcs over the western ocean, like a queen throwing riches to a mob. Pazel could smell it now, too: the rotten-egg smell of sulphur, the world’s carbolic breath.

The burning mountain terrified Felthrup. ‘Why would anyone choose to hold a gathering there?’ he asked.

‘Because no one lives on Serpent’s Head,’ said Pazel. ‘No villagers, no fishermen.’

‘No one to talk about you later, to an enemy?’

‘Or be tortured for their silence. That’s my guess.’

For the rest of the night they watched the strange island grow nearer. Several times ash fell from the heavens, a black sticky snow. But Serpent’s Head was not all smoke and fire: steep hills dominated the eastern half of the island, and at daybreak Pazel saw palm trees silhouetted against the sky.

There was also a ring of jagged islets about Serpent’s Head: spires of magma, coughed out by the volcanoes over the centuries. By the growing light, Pazel saw that their course would soon take them between these islets and Serpent’s Head.

‘I’ll be damned,’ he said to Felthrup. ‘Someone aboard knows this place. Look there, off to starboard. Do you know what that is?’

‘A seagull?’

‘A beach, Felthrup. Not much of one, but definitely a beach. And these little islets, they’re as good as a sea wall.’

‘Meaning that we could land a boat there?’

‘We could try.’

A moist hand dropped on Pazel’s shoulder. ‘We will be trying, lad.’

It was Mr Druffle: stone sober, grinning. ‘Don’t look so shocked. The twenty-foot launch can handle these waves. At least that’s the captain’s expectorant.’

Pazel and Felthrup blinked at him. ‘Expectation,’ corrected Felthrup.

Druffle shrugged. ‘Go roust your mates,’ he said. ‘Them as want to go ashore should assemble in ten minutes flat.’

‘Ten minutes?’ cried Pazel. ‘But Mr Druffle, they’re not even awake!’

‘Tough blubber, my Chereste heart. Empress Maisa’s officers are already landing on the north shore. It’s five Teala: her war-council starts today. And sure, the waves are becalmed here, in the lee of them lava-isles. But there’s a ripping strong current too. We can’t hold position, unless we anchor, and what fool would anchor here? No, the ship’s better off out in the Nelluroq, where she’ll have no company. She’ll circle round and collect us tomorrow, after we learn what Maisa’s rebels can give.’

‘But why not just head to the north shore ourselves?’

‘Because we’re a weird sight, that’s why. Think, Pathkendle! This ship was at the heart of Magad’s blary conspiracy, and no one’s seen her in six years! We can’t just pop up like the provisional weasel.’

‘Provisional!’ shrilled Felthrup. ‘Sir, your imprecisions are disastrous. First of all, the word is proverbial. Second, there is no proverb; there is only a nonsense rhyme.’

‘A school-master rat,’ muttered Druffle. still grinning. ‘Riddle out this one, then: Froggy and field mouse walked to the fair. Froggy said to field mouse, ‘Tie back your hair-’

‘Impossible!’

The argument was cut short by the peal of the ship’s bell. At once boots began to pound, and orders began to fly: mainsails in, capstan teams to their stations! Fegin blew shrill notes on his whistle. Mr Druffle slapped Pazel on the back.

‘Get your mates on their feet! Bite ’em, pour soup on ’em, kick ’em ’til they curse! We’re going ashore!’

The landing was dismal. The twenty-foot launch flipped in the breakers. Groping at the hull in the icy froth, Pazel watched their food parcels sink like stones. The next wave lifted him, thrashed him down, ground him between the boat’s gunnels and the sand. Pazel just waited; the sea shrugged the boat aside. When he stood the wind’s bite was colder than the sea’s.

They fought the vessel ashore, counting heads. Druffle, Darabik, Thasha, Neda, Neeps, Bolutu, Hercol, Kirishgan: no one was missing; everyone was bruised. Neda spat a mouthful of sand and blood; Neeps kicked the boat, then cursed and grabbed his foot. Darabik cursed with more flair and passion than Pazel had ever heard in an officer. It was his second dunking in a week.

Only Ramachni was dry: he had leaped from the boat in owl-form, glided to the beach, and resumed his normal shape. He watched their struggle from atop a warm-looking stone.

‘I did call for the forty-footer,’ he said.

‘Go to the Pits,’ said Thasha.

Hercol laughed aloud. ‘No harm in a brisk morning swim. But for the sake of our more delicate comrades we should get out of this wind.’

‘And across this mucking island,’ said Darabik. ‘Her Majesty’s council is surely already convened on the north shore. If you truly mean to attempt this lunacy involving Gurishal, you will need all the help we can provide.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, it will not be enough.’

‘Walk now, and mope later,’ said Druffle. ‘Follow me, shipmates! Never mind your little bumps!’

His good spirits did not flag as he led them inland. He claimed to know Serpent’s Head — it was a famous stop for smugglers — but could that account for his glee? Now that Pazel thought about it, Druffle had been grinning since the rescue of Darabik’s men. Now he walked along laughing softly to himself, and making a happy buzzing sound in his throat.

It was an exhausting morning. Though not mountainous, this end of Serpent’s Head was mostly desolate, criss-crossed with dry rivers of lava twisting down like mammoth tree-roots from the heights. There were cracks and fissures and bare bulbous hills. Above them, the volcano moaned and hissed.

But the trees Pazel had seen were real too: they stood in clumps like islands in the dead landscape, oases spared by chance. There were young palms and rugged tree-ferns, vines and sprays of scarlet flowers, hummingbirds and ants. Pazel found them all the more lovely for their delicate, doomed courage. As for Mr Druffle, he ran up breathlessly to each oasis, studying the treetops. Each time this happened his smile faded, only to break out again as his eyes moved to the next clump of trees.

Thasha was questioning Darabik for the twentieth time about her father. ‘Yes, m’lady, I do expect him,’ said the commodore. He allowed himself a grudging smile. ‘Needless to say he won’t be expecting you.’

‘Will he be coming ashore?’

‘Will he! I’d like to meet the man who could stop him! No, the admiral never waits for us to secure an island. With the deepest respect, Lady Thasha, your father is an impossible man.’

‘It runs in the family, Commodore,’ said Pazel, dodging Thasha’s fist.

For five hours they trudged and scrambled. When they grew thirsty Druffle showed them how to suck dew from the fern-fronds. There were no trails, but now and then they passed small mounds of clam shells. Druffle claimed they were trail markers, and over time he was proved correct: the mounds led them sensibly enough through the lava-maze.

‘I can hear the surf on the north shore,’ said Kirishgan. ‘When we pass over that next hill I think we shall see it.’

The hill in question was large and crowned with a particularly lovely stand of trees. They began to climb, drinking in the birdsong. Pazel turned and looked back to the south. He could see the coast in the distance, but not the Chathrand: she was gone until tomorrow at the earliest.

Suddenly Druffle exploded: ‘There! There! D’ye see it? Sweet teacups in heaven, my darlings! It’s honey!’

He dashed up the rest of the hill, and before anyone could stop him began to scale a palm. In his manic state he had found the agility of a young man, if not a monkey. Pazel shielded his eyes: near the fronds at the treetop, bees were boiling. The others saw them too, and they all shouted warnings. But Druffle paid no heed. Up the tree he went, straight to the hive, and when he reached it he plunged in his hand to the wrist. Drawing it out again, he held up a mass of something sticky and pale. He took a great bite of it and hooted with joy.

‘What did I tell you? Island honey! Straight from the fuzzy arses of the gentlest creatures in Rin’s green earth. Stingless bees! What do they need stingers for, eh?’

Pazel was laughing in spite of himself; most of the others were as well. ‘Blary lunatic,’ said Neeps.

‘Come and taste, come and taste! They don’t need stingers. No bears in the islands to steal this gold. Only me, only lucky Druffle, whose dream just came-’

A sharp sound. Druffle’s back arched terribly. He fell forward, the honey-hand still raised, and as he dropped Pazel saw the arrow buried deep in his ribs.

‘Oh Gods, no!’

Pazel and Neeps raced up the hill, deaf to the shouts of those behind them. It occurred to Pazel that he might be running towards his death. He could not stop. Druffle, the hapless fool, lay writhing on the ground. The arrow had passed through him. It was holding his chest off the ground like a stilt.

As the boys reached the man, a dark-robed figure burst from the underbrush. Pazel saw the flash of the falling sword and tried to dive away. Too slow. This was death.

Steel met steel with a clang.

Hercol. He had stopped the killing blow with Ildraquin, and now he leaped and dealt the man a lashing kick to the chest. The dark-robed attacker was no clumsy fighter, however; he absorbed the blow and spun around to strike again, expertly, his sword making an arc for Hercol’s chest.

Once more Hercol was faster. Ildraquin flew up, inside the arc of the other weapon. Hercol’s sword barely slowed as it severed the man’s arm. Pazel did not see the downward stroke that followed. But he heard it, and saw the man fall headless to the ground.

The hilltop was suddenly swarming with men. Druffle wheezed. Blood was foaming about the wound: a pierced lung, Ignus would have said. Pazel pressed his hands about the wound, and Druffle raised a weak hand as if to help him. The honey-coated hand. A few harmless bees still crawled on his flesh.

Druffle lay still.

Pazel wondered at his own dry eyes. This man who had purchased him from slavers. Who had been a slave himself, to Arunis. Who had played the fiddle like an angel and swilled liquor like a fiend. Who had escaped all his tormentors, tasted sweetness one last time.

He looked up. No one was fighting. Sixty or more dark-robed fighters stood about them in a circle, swords pointing inwards. Men and women, with kohl dabbed on their cheekbones and tattoos on the backs of their necks. The Mzithrinis had been lying in wait.

The landing party was disarmed and made to kneel. Their hands were tied behind them, and their ankles bound fast. Six guards surrounded Neda, who was face down in the dirt, with a female soldier’s boot on her neck. The Mzithrinis retrieved the severed arm and head of the man Hercol had killed, washed them with oil and bore the corpse into the trees. Druffle’s body they left where it lay.

Pazel glanced around. Ramachni was nowhere to be seen.

Their captors still had not addressed them, but they stared with frank astonishment at Bolutu and Kirishgan. Pazel caught their whispers: ‘What in the black Pits of damnation are they? Demons in the flesh? Can they work curses with those eyes?’

‘Brothers, listen to me-’ Neda began in Mzithrini. Their captors barked at her to be silent, and one kicked her in the side.

An hour passed. They were given water and moved into the shade. Despite their shock at encountering a dlomu and a selk, their captors actually paid them little attention: they appeared somewhat preoccupied. About half had vanished into the trees atop the hill.

The sun sank low. The volcano moaned and rumbled. At last Pazel heard footsteps approaching, and a Mzithrini officer in a spotless black-and-red uniform stepped out from among the trees. His face unreadable, his movements precise. The guards snapped to attention: the man was evidently of some rank. An aide approached and handed him a ledger-book. The officer glanced from the book to the captives and back again, several times. Then he nodded and walked up to Pazel’s sister. The female soldier took her boot from Neda’s neck. The officer pointed at Hercol.

‘This man killed our brother in fair combat, and to save his friend. That is no dishonour, and he need fear no special punishment. Inform him.’

Neda looked up at Hercol. ‘He says-’

‘I understand you, sir,’ said Hercol in Mzithrini.

The officer whirled. ‘You as well! Do you all speak our tongue?’

‘No, brother,’ said Neda. ‘Only he and-’

The officer spat in her face.

‘Call me brother, will you? A rebel sfvantskor gone over to the Arqualis!’

Neda’s eyes blazed with fury. She tried to rise, but six sword-tips jabbed at her, and the female soldier pressed down again with her boot. Neda spoke through the mud and grass about her face. ‘I serve no Arquali, now or ever-’

‘Bitch in heat. You lie.’

‘I was sent to kill them,’ said Neda. ‘I failed. They took us prisoner.’

‘Which is why you laughed at the fool in the tree, and gazed at this swordsman with open lust. Keep silent, vow-breaker, or I will cut those ensigns from your flesh.’

He meant her tattoos, Pazel realised with horror. Neda twisted beneath the soldier’s boot, glaring up at him fearlessly. But she held her tongue.

Hercol’s eyes were no less deadly, though his voice was controlled. ‘You call her vow-breaker,’ he said, ‘and you are right: she is that. But it is a greater crime to raise youths in a windowless cell, and then demand vows pertaining to the world beyond. Those who break such vows may be many things, but they are never weak.’

‘Where did you learn Mzithrini?’ demanded the officer.

‘In my own windowless cell. From my old masters, and your arch-enemies, the Secret Fist. I too broke certain vows. I was expected to use my life to kill your people, to destroy your country from within.’

The officer held his gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and studied their faces one by one. ‘What are these creatures?’ he said.

‘The black man is a dlomu. The other is a selk. They are no more your enemies than-’

‘Shut up.’ The officer pointed at Druffle’s corpse and addressed his men: ‘Bury this one. Mark the spot.’ Then, speaking once more to Hercol, he indicated Darabik.

‘That man is too old to fight. He was not guiding you, like the idiot in the tree. He carries himself like a general. Is he in command?’

‘We have no commander ashore,’ said Hercol.

‘Then you have no commander at all.’

Hercol frowned.

‘You doubt me?’ said the officer. ‘Very well: untie their legs. Hold the swordsman and the traitor-girl like the deadly snakes they are. All of you, get up.’

Legs freed but hands still tightly bound, the captives rose stiffly to their feet. The officer led them into the greenery, along a trail beneath the palms. Within, the evening shadows were already dark, but Pazel caught glimpses of many warriors: resting, eating, sharpening their swords. The captives filed past them in silence, nudged on by the blades of their guards.

When they emerged from the oasis they stood on the hill’s far shoulder. The officer stood aside, and the captives gasped. The whole north side of the island spread below them, all the way to the coast of the Narrow Sea, and there-

Aya Rin!

Ships beyond counting, slaughter beyond words. At first Pazel could see no order in any of it. Large vessels, smaller ones, burning, blasting, listing, going down. Flashes of fire, wreaths of smoke.

‘Startling, isn’t it, how little one hears?’ said the officer. ‘Blame the west wind for that, and the volcano of course.’

Pazel’s eyes began to sift what he saw. There was a huge force of heavy warships pressing south, towards Serpent’s Head and the westernmost isles of the archipelago. It was easily the largest flotilla Pazel had ever seen in the Northern world, and it was decimating a force about one-third its size. The latter ships were in disarray. Some were tacking west, into the wind; others had turned to engage their enemies head-on. A few were fleeing south between the islands, towards the Ruling Sea. The fight was not completely one-sided: vessels on both sides were burning, sinking. But Pazel could see no hope for the lesser fleet.

‘You are witnessing the end of an insurgency,’ said the officer. ‘The smaller force is trapped between the Nelluroq and Magad’s great flotilla. They have been dying all morning, and will go on dying through the night.’

No one in the landing party could speak. Pazel could hear the cannon-blasts, now, just barely, over the rumbling of the volcano. He felt dizzy, defeated. On his left, Commodore Darabik’s face was ashen, and Hercol too looked appalled.

‘They fight bravely,’ said the Mzithrini officer. ‘They have stung Magad’s fleet, and will keep on doing so until the very end. Yes, they certainly have heart. Everything else, of course, is against them. Wind, numbers, ammunition, luck. Some have managed to reach the shore, after their boats were pulverised. They will die tomorrow. Magad has men enough to flush them out like rats, once the sea battle ends. And do you know who they are, those rats? Maisa’s rebels. The remains of her naval forces. They were planning to gather here, to regroup and try once more to topple the cannibal-king. But then you know all this. You’re Maisa’s agents too.’

No one denied it. Commodore Darabik walked forward, dragging his feet. ‘We were betrayed,’ he said. ‘The Usurper knew about the gathering of our forces. He knew.’

Hercol looked at the officer. ‘Magad’s land forces will find you as well, tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ said the officer calmly. ‘We may be forced to surrender to the cannibals. For an hour or two.’

He turned and pointed to the northwest. There was rain and haze in the distance. ‘You cannot see it, yet, even with a telescope-’

‘I can see it,’ said Kirishgan. ‘Another fleet, even larger than this one. They are fierce vessels, all painted white, and bristling with cannon, every one. There are many men aloft, but they have spread no canvas. The fleet is standing still.’

Once more the officer was stunned. ‘Feather eyebrows and eagle eyes,’ he said. ‘Yes, our White Fleet is coming. Not to rescue Maisa’s rebels — that is no task of ours — but to destroy the Arquali navy, which is a force for evil in this world.’

He gestured at the hill nearest to where they stood. It was barren, but at its peak lay an enormous mound of sticks and palm fronds. ‘Soaked in chemicals, special chemicals that burn long and bright. We will watch the battle, and when Maisa’s rebels have done us all the good they can do, we will light this beacon and summon our fleet. By then it will be past midnight, and Arqual will be wounded, tired, short of ammunition. Then it will be Arqual’s turn to be caught between the hammer of a stronger enemy and the anvil of the Ruling Sea.’

‘You did this,’ said Pazel. ‘You told Arqual where Maisa’s forces were gathering.’

‘Fool,’ said the officer. ‘We will not shed our blood for your rebellion, but why should we help Arqual to crush it? No, the Secret Fist learned of this gathering all by itself. After years of blundering along without Sandor Ott, it seems they are once more a functioning spy agency. You can’t lay the blame on us. Now then-’ he turned and raked them all with his eyes ‘-tell me how you came to be here, and who exactly you answer to in Maisa’s ranks.’

There was a long silence. Darabik broke it at last. ‘I serve under Her Majesty’s royal husband, Prince Eberzam Isiq. This girl is his daughter, who was the Treaty Bride. They are all crew on the Great Ship, the Chathrand, which has just returned from across the Ruling Sea.’

At first the Mzithrinis just stared at them, lost. Then as one they roared with laughter. Even their commander gave in. ‘Of course,’ he wheezed, drying his eyes. ‘Why didn’t I guess? And this explains why so many of you speak our language. And why a lapsed sfvantskor travels with you. And why the idiot was hooting and signalling from the tree.’ He waved at his men. ‘Go on, search the island. Maybe Empress Maisa herself is down there somewhere, wandering among the rocks.’

‘I’m Thasha Isiq!’ shouted Thasha, enraged.

This nearly finished them. ‘She got the name right, Captain!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘It was Thasha, the girl who died in Simja-

‘No, you ass, that was Paca, Paqui, something-’

‘Syrarys! Syrarys Lapadolma!’

‘How can you be so ignorant?’ bellowed Thasha. ‘Syrarys was my father’s consort, and she tried to kill us. Pacu Lapadolma was my maid-in-waiting, who took my place when I was nearly strangled. Have a look at my Gods-damned neck; you can still see the scars!’

Silence.

‘Well, come on! It’s not that mucking complicated!’

She had shouted in Arquali, of course. None of the Mzithrinis had understood her, but they had sobered nonetheless. ‘She sounds just like him,’ muttered one of the soldiers.

The officer rubbed his chin. He ordered Thasha gagged, and then walked away into the trees. Pazel could not see what was happening within the oasis, but a few minutes later he heard a number of people approaching, and the officer’s voice.

‘Turn him. The old fool’s looking the wrong way.’

Then a deeper voice boomed from the trees: ‘Oh Tree of Heaven! Oh sweet and merciful Rin!’

Crashing, stomping, and then out he came: a bald, barrel-chested man, trailing leg irons, trying to run in them, holding out his arms to Thasha. His tattered uniform trailed leaves and vines. He didn’t notice. With a flick of his hand he tore Thasha’s gag away, then knelt and embraced her. Thasha, hands still bound, laid her cheek atop his head and wept.

‘Prahba.’

‘My darling girl, my beauty-’

Eberzam Isiq. Pazel had thought of him many times since the Red Storm. The admiral had looked old and unsteady since Pazel’s first glimpse of him on the quay in Etherhorde. But now if anything he looked six years younger, not older. His flesh had colour; his limbs looked strong and hale.

He’s free of the deathsmoke, Pazel realised. No one’s poisoning him any more.

‘Thasha, Thasha,’ said Isiq. ‘I let them hurt you, take you from me, I’ll never ask you to forgive-’

Thasha shh’d him through her tears. Pazel wished he could blow everyone away from the spot, give them this moment, let them be alone together for a time. Isiq rose to his feet and pressed her cheek against his breast. Only then did he take in the rest of them.

‘Stanapeth! Undrabust! Pazel Pathkendle! Bless you, Darabik, you found them!’

‘They found me, Your Highness,’ said the commodore.

The Mzithrinis were wonder-struck. ‘You really are Thasha Isiq,’ said the officer. ‘Is the rest of your mad story true?’

Isiq was looking straight at Pazel. Uncertainly, he extended a hand. Pazel stepped forward and gripped it, not a handshake but a tight, fierce clasp.

‘You gave me your promise,’ said the admiral. ‘In Simja, on the road from the shrine. I asked you to protect her-’

‘I remember,’ said Pazel.

‘I meant her body. I thought it was a dead girl you were carrying away.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ve stayed with her. You all have. You’ve kept my angel safe.’

‘Oh, Prahba,’ said Thasha, laughing through her tears.

‘We’ve helped each other, sir,’ said Pazel, ‘and Thasha’s done more than anyone.’

‘We feared for your life as well, Admiral,’ said Hercol. ‘For a time, Neda and Pazel’s dreams brought us glimpses of you, or at least of their mother’s thoughts of you.’

‘Many thoughts,’ said Neda, in her broken Arquali. ‘Always good thoughts, loving.’

Isiq looked at her, and seemed astonished both by her words and by the fact of her existence. ‘If Rin takes me today, I will die a happy man,’ he said.

Then the distant explosions reached his ears. For the first time he raised his eyes to the battle, and Pazel watched horror change the admiral’s face. His lips trembled. He shook his head, imperious, helpless: this thing must not be.

‘Now he knows why I kept him away in the palms,’ said the officer, not without sympathy.

Isiq looked at the officer, then at Pazel. ‘He must stop this. Tell him, Pathkendle. If Maisa’s navy is destroyed she will never recover, never take the throne of Arqual. Emperor Magad will be stronger than ever, and so will his will to destroy the Mzithrin. Tell him I’m begging, begging him to signal his fleet.’

Pazel took a deep breath, and repeated the admiral’s words in Mzithrini. The officer shook his head. ‘I have lived to see things beyond the visions of the seers,’ he said. ‘Admiral Isiq himself, begging the White Fleet to destroy the Arquali navy. Tell him not to worry: destroy it we will. But as for his rebellion: too late, too late. Even if I lit that beacon now, there would be little left of Maisa’s forces by the time they arrived.’

‘You wouldn’t have to arrive,’ said Pazel. ‘Just bring your fleet close enough for Magad’s forces to notice. They’ll have to break off fighting the rebels and sail north to face you. Or turn and run.’

The officer smiled. ‘Ah, but we don’t want that, do we? You are forgetting the hammer and the anvil. Magad’s forces have your rebels where they want them: we will engage Magad in the same place.’

‘There is more at stake here than one victory at sea!’ said Hercol. ‘If Empress Maisa fails, so too does the best chance for peace between the Empires. Maisa has sworn to end the conflict, to make peace once and for all.’

‘The famous Arquali hunger for peace,’ said the officer. ‘Perhaps she will suggest another treaty-signing on Simja. Enough! You will tell the rest of your story to my lieutenant. Your presence here changes very little — although I grant you have made this day. . stranger.’

‘Things are even stranger than you suppose,’ said Ramachni.

The soldiers whirled; blades whistled from sheaths. The mage was seated on a rock some ten feet away. The red rays of sunset glowed in his eyes. ‘Hold your fire,’ he said. ‘I make a much better friend than foe.’

‘A woken animal,’ said the officer, ‘what next? Come down from there, little circus-freak, before we put a shaft through your heart.’

Ramachni stood up slowly, eyes locked on the commander. ‘If you think that you will slaughter me as you did our harmless companion, you are mistaken,’ he said.

Nothing obvious had changed, but somehow Ramachni seemed larger, and in his stillness there was something of a threat. The Mzithrinis glanced nervously at their commander. He too looked shaken, but he stood his ground.

‘If you’re not a woken animal, what in the Black Pits are you?’

‘An ally, if you will permit it,’ said Ramachni. ‘Our tale is true, Commander, and the Chathrand has returned. You must have heard of the conspiracy that sent her forth. But you cannot possibly grasp the doom that calls her back. The Swarm of Night has been unleashed on Alifros. To defeat it we must make a landing on Gurishal, at a place marked by a sea-rock called the Arrowhead.’

The officer shook his head in disbelief. ‘That is a declaration of lunacy.’

‘I am quite the sanest person you are likely to meet,’ said Ramachni.

‘You’re not a person at all,’ said the officer, ‘and Gurishal is sovereign territory of the Pentarchy, despite its occupation by the Shaggat heretics. We do not let enemies parade through our waters.’

‘You could help us,’ said Pazel.

‘Certainly,’ said the officer, ‘if I were a traitor, and in want of a swift execution.’

‘They could help us, you know,’ said Pazel, glancing at Ramachni. ‘They must have a vessel hidden somewhere. They could escort the Chathrand.’

The soldiers laughed again, and even the officer smiled as he turned away. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I have a battle to observe.’

‘The carnage below means nothing,’ said Ramachni.

The officer glanced at him again. ‘Nothing, eh? You jabbering freak. By dawn tomorrow, the balance of power in this world will have shifted for ever.’

‘Yes, I fear so,’ said Ramachni.

His unblinking eyes remained fixed on the Mzithrini commander. On the next hill, a spark leaped to sudden life, and with a whoosh the oil-soaked mound of brush went up in flames.

The officer’s response was commendable, Pazel had to admit. He did not kill anyone. Indeed he ordered no reprisals, although it was clear that his prisoners were somehow to blame. His only command was to attack the beacon-fire, to smother it, drown it, snuff it out. The task proved impossible, however. The ‘special chemicals’ were everything the man had claimed. The fire roared like a blast furnace; the soldiers could do nothing but watch. From out at sea it might have appeared that a new and tiny volcano had erupted in this quiet end of Serpent’s Head.

Kirishgan looked into the distance. ‘The White Fleet is setting sail,’ he said. ‘Already the vanguard is heading this way.’

‘They were prepared,’ muttered the officer, snapping open his telescope. As he studied the horizon, he ordered his men to break camp. ‘The Arqualis will see the fire too, and mark the spot. No sense waiting for them to come ashore and investigate. We’ll sleep tonight at Yellow Cliff.’ He turned to Ramachni. ‘Well, mage, you’ve proved you can light a match at fifty paces. Any other tricks at your disposal?’

Ramachni just showed his teeth.

‘Do you intend to fight eighty soldiers of the Pentarchy? For that is the only way we will give your prisoners up.’

‘I will not hold you to that boast,’ said Ramachni, ‘but I will not fight you either — yet.’

The officer shrugged, then gestured at the prisoners. ‘Get some food in their mouths, unless you want to carry these lunatics.’

Once more Pazel was amazed by his calm. The soldiers brought them meat and bread, and then marched them, at the centre of the battalion, down the hill and back into the maze of rocks and lava-flows and gullies. The soldiers walked in single file. Ramachni scrambled alongside the column, always safely out of reach.

Darkness came quickly. Hands still tied, the prisoners stumbled often on the rugged ground. They were marching generally uphill, but avoided peaks or vantage points of any kind, and Pazel soon lost all sense of where they were. He slogged on, footsore and anxious. He thought the commander had probably ordered Druffle’s killing in the same casual way with which he had called for his telescope. The only passion the man had shown was his contempt for Neda, whom he had looked ready to kill.

Hours passed. Pazel’s wrists and shoulders went from painful to numb. The moon rose but vanished at once into dense clouds. Occasionally, by the light of particularly powerful lava-bursts, Pazel saw that they had indeed climbed much higher into the volcanic foothills. He never once glimpsed the sea, but at some point late in the night Ramachni called out to them softly in the tongue of Arqual:

‘Do not give up! Magad’s forces spotted the White Fleet before darkness fell, as I hoped. They have ended their attack on Maisa’s ships, and are regrouping to face the new threat. Alas, most of their work was done. Many lives have been saved, but the Empress has lost her navy, or the bulk of it.’

‘What about the Chathrand?’ Pazel whispered. But the soldiers hissed for silence, and Ramachni said no more.

One more weary hour, and they reached a stand of tall pines, and pitched camp. It could not have been more than an hour before dawn, but the darkness was nearly absolute, and the Mzithrinis did not so much as strike a match. The prisoners were chained together by the ankles, and the ankle-chains secured to the trees. Only then were their wrists untied. Pazel collapsed among his friends, and thought the pine needles beneath him the most perfect bed he had ever known. He heard the soldiers murmuring, something about the war’s approaching end, but before he could consider just what they meant he was asleep.

Drowning. Sinking. Buried alive.

Pazel woke with a gasp. A dream, horrible and vague, a sense of being crushed beneath some monstrous weight. He sat up. There was daylight, but it was dim and strangely sidelong. In the trees, birds sang uncertainly. Was it morning or not?

The air was distinctly cold. His friends were waking, moving slowly in their chains. All the soldiers were on their feet. Something was very wrong. They were peering up at the sky, and even by the faint light Pazel could see that they were afraid. He stood, felt a cold claw in his stomach. The weight of the air. The pressure, the chill.

Neeps rose beside him, steadying himself on a tree. He gave Pazel a look of knowing dread. Beside them, Thasha’s father was fumbling on hands and knees. ‘What is it, boys, tell me!’ Not a prince or an admiral in this moment, just an old man in chains.

‘The Swarm is here,’ whispered Pazel. ‘I think it’s just above our heads.’

‘The what?’

Ramachni crept from the shadows. ‘Death has come between us and the mountain,’ he said, looking up. And Pazel realised it was true: he could no longer hear the volcano. Only birdsong — that, and the pines, which were bending and creaking, although there was no wind.

The others were all awake now and struggling to rise. Murmurs of terror were spreading among the troops. Pazel could see their breath, white and ragged in the unnatural cold.

Suddenly all the birds fell silent. The Mzithrinis were whispering prayers. Then came a curious sound: a soft thumping, as if small purses were raining down on them by the score. It lasted just seconds. Pazel stretched out a foot, felt the tiny body, and knew: the birds had fallen dead from the trees.

A soldier bolted. Seconds later dozens of others followed his example, their comrades cursing and shouting Come back, come back, you whimpering dogs! Then the ones who had been shouting began to run.

For a terrible moment the prisoners were left alone, still shackled to the bending trees. Then a pair of soldiers came crashing out of the gloom, and one of them began to unlock their leg-irons. ‘You must go to the commander,’ he shouted. ‘This way, near the overlook. Run!’

Soldiers and captives blundered through the pines. Ahead the light was a little stronger — and the hideous underbelly of the Swarm more plain to see. It was combing the treetops, flowing north like a suspended tide. A black tide, pulsing, animate, a tide of worms and flesh.

‘Don’t look, Admiral!’ shouted Hercol, as he and Thasha supported Isiq by the arms.

The trees ended, and they stumbled out into a barren stretch of earth scarred with ashes and yellow, sulphurous stones. Pazel saw that they were on much higher ground than yesterday’s hill. Just ahead, the commander and some twenty of his men were crouching near the top of a cliff.

In their eyes, naked horror. The hideous mass stretched for miles in every direction, over land and sea. It had flowed around the volcanoes to the west of them. South and east Pazel could see no clear border, just a pale glow near the horizon to prove it did end, somewhere. Only the Swarm’s northern edge was plain to see, and this too was growing swiftly away from them.

‘Now do you believe us, Commander?’ asked Pazel.

The officer just stared up into the Swarm. He appeared to have lost the power of speech.

‘Gods above, it’s as big as the whole Rekere!’ said Darabik.

‘It has feasted on death since last we saw it,’ said Ramachni, ‘and it will soon do so again.’

They reached the cliff where the soldiers stood. Pazel looked north, in the direction the Swarm was growing: dark island, dark coast. The limping remains of Maisa’s forces. Ten or fifteen miles of empty sea-

And there it was: the Swarm’s prey.

Under vast clouds of cannon-smoke, the two greatest navies in the Northern world were blasting, pummelling, burning, and hurling every manner of deadly ordnance at each other. The Arquali loyalists had no intention of being pinned against the anvil of Serpent’s Head. They had sailed out into the Nelu Rekere, engaged the Mzithrinis head-on. The scale of it. There was so much fire, so much flung iron and splintered wood, that Pazel wondered that the clash did not end instantly, each side torn to pieces by the other’s onslaught. But in truth neither was prevailing. The Mzithrinis were more numerous, and the wind was still at their backs. The Arqualis had heavier armour, longer guns. Their attack formations had crossed, splintering. Masts had toppled; rigging burned in sheets.

‘Commander, the mage is here!’ said the soldier with the keys. Still the Mzithrini officer only stared into the Swarm.

‘Mage,’ said the soldier, ‘did you summon this cloud? Banish it; banish it and name your price!’

Ramachni looked sorrowfully at the man. ‘I did not bring it here,’ he said, ‘and nothing I can do will prevent what is to occur.’

The Swarm passed over Maisa’s forces. It was accelerating as it neared the battle-front. Pazel felt its cold in his bones. He wondered how many of the sailors had noticed it, through that pall of cannon-smoke.

‘Turn away, soldiers,’ said Ramachni. ‘Do not force yourselves to see this thing.’

Pazel reached out instinctively, pulling Neeps and Thasha close. He would not shut his eyes. How could they fight something they could not bear even to see?

The soldiers had forgotten them. They stood in a line along the cliff’s edge, staring. The edge of the Swarm reached the first of the warships.

‘No,’ said the commander, suddenly coming to life. He gave a sharp gesture, then shouted: ‘No! Men, men! This isn’t going to happen, what you think is going to happen cannot possibly-’

The Swarm dropped.

It was a river pouring over a cataract, a curtain of gore, a great formless limb of the floating mass above. It fell to sea level, swallowing forty or fifty miles in an instant — and the battle was gone. No light or sound escaped. From the edge of the mass, dark tentacles groped across the waters, snatching at the few boats that had fallen outside the initial onslaught, dragging them within. Pazel couldn’t move. He’d thought he was hardened to horror but this, but this. Someone was laughing, a sick sound like the whinny of a goat. Their commander buckled at the knees. A man was violently sick. The blackness throbbed and quivered; it was a diseased muscle, it was clotted death. Pazel heard his friends swearing, weeping, almost choking him with their arms, and he was doing the same, bleeding inside; was it over, was he allowed to look away? The Swarm twisted, writhed, and fragments of ship began to leak from it like crumbs through teeth. Make it stop. Make it end. From the men around him came sounds of lunacy and damnation; a soldier was eating gravel, a soldier flung himself over the cliff; others were crawling, fighting, shouting blasphemies, their faces twisted like masks.

The Swarm rose again into the sky.

Beneath it sprawled the remains of the warring fleets. Gigantic, mingled, dead. Some vessels were crushed and sinking; others were intact but drifting like corks. Not a gun sounded. The pall of smoke had disappeared. Every fire had been extinguished, and every life.

The commander had curled into a ball. He was pale and utterly still; perhaps he too was dead. Perhaps you, Pazel, are dead. No, no. Your mouth is bleeding, you’ve bitten your tongue and the blood is warm and trickling. You can taste it. You can kiss your friends and see your blood on their foreheads. You’re alive.

The commander turned to look at Ramachni. ‘Tell me exactly what you need,’ he said.