Foreigner Page 25

  “The hak-al is still inside you?”

  “Hak-al?” said Afsan.

  “It’s an Other word. A piece of metal, fired from a weapon.”

  “Oh.” Afsan groaned. “I think I prefer a society that doesn’t often use locks, and has no word for such weapons.” He winced as his fingers probed his wound. “It’s stopped bleeding.” He shuddered. “How long…how long until they attack Land?”

  “They’re only a day’s sail away now,” said Toroca. “But they’re not used to real darkness; I suspect they’ll attack early in the morning of the day after tomorrow.”

  Afsan grunted, but whether in pain or acknowledgment, Toroca couldn’t say. Soon, he slipped into unconsciousness. Toroca leaned back against the opposite wall and watched Afsan’s shallow breathing.

  Much later—Toroca had lost all track of time—he heard footfalls in the corridor outside, and the sound of metal against metal again. It was now quite dark; only pale moonlight filtered in through the skylight. Cautiously, Toroca got up and walked across the room. He tried the door again. It swung open. He peered out into the corridor. No sign of anyone.

  Jawn, he thought. Jawn understood not wanting to die away from home. Toroca hurried over and touched Afsan’s shoulder. No response. He shook it lightly. Again nothing. He placed a hand on his father’s chest. It was still warm, still moving up and down with respiration. Toroca let out a sigh of relief, and gently shook Afsan once more. If Afsan had been well, he never would have woken him thus; he could have regained consciousness startled, jaws snapping. Soon, though, Afsan did slowly lift his muzzle.

  “The door,” whispered Toroca. “It’s open. Come on, let’s go.”

  “A trap?” said Afsan weakly.

  Toroca shook his head. “A friend, I think.” He reached a hand out and grasped Afsan’s arm, helping him up. “Hurry.”

  Toroca looked out the corridor again, then, cupping Afsan’s elbow, led him up on deck. The nighttime breeze was cool. Clouds covered about half the sky. The sound of water slapping the ship’s hull and of the sails rippling in the breeze masked their footfalls.

  Toroca jogged ahead to look over the edge of the ship. The rope ladder was still there leading down to the Stardeter. He looked back at Afsan, who was walking slowly, a hand clasped over his wound. Toroca hurried back to him, once more cupping his elbow, and led him to the ladder.

  “I’ll go down first; you’ll need help getting aboard. Give me about twenty-five beats, then follow me down.”

  Afsan grunted in pain. Toroca slipped over the side of the ship and started the descent. The rope ladder was wet, having been in the spray kicked up by the ship’s movement for many daytenths now. Finally, Toroca made it into the boat. The Stardeter had taken on a small amount of water, either from spray or rain. Toroca almost slipped as he stepped off the ladder. He looked up. Afsan was coming over the side of the ship now. The ladder seemed to sag under his weight, and at one point, Afsan missed a rung and almost fell the remaining distance to the ship, but he managed to steady himself and make it down the rest of the way. Toroca could barely discern Afsan’s face in the darkness, but his expression was one of agony, as if with each movement of his arms or legs, spikes were being driven into his body.

  At last the older Quintaglio was aboard. Toroca unfurled the tiny ship’s sails. Afsan collapsed against the Stardeter’s stern, holding the tiller with one hand and his chest with the other. The ship slipped away into the night.

  Doubtless at least one of the ships in the armada would have a lookout on duty, but hopefully that person would be scanning the horizon, not the waters close by. “I can’t take you directly back to Land,” said Toroca. “For one thing, we can’t outrun their ships, and for another, they’ll be watching the waters ahead carefully. Will you be all right if I sail south for a bit first, and then takes us in near Fastok?”

  Afsan grunted. His voice was faint. “I’ll be fine.” In the dim light, though, there was no way to tell if he was speaking the truth.

  The next morning, Afsan and Toroca were still out on the water. The night’s rest seemed to have done Afsan some good. Toroca had briefly gone swimming to catch some fish, and although Afsan had trouble swallowing—further evidence that the metal pellet had clipped his windpipe—he seemed to regain some strength after the meal.

  “I feel like one whose shell had been too thick,” said Toroca. “I was so sure we could convince them. Now they know our weakest point. I’ve doomed our people.”

  Afsan’s voice was raw and faint. “You knew the docks were undefended because you’d heard that at that briefing just before we left.”

  “Yes. If only we’d missed that briefing.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know: you were right in insisting we attend.”

  “Indeed,” said Afsan. “Didn’t you find the choice of who was giving the briefing unusual?”

  Toroca, paying out rope to change the angle of the mainsail, nodded. “At first, yes. But then I figured Dybo was no strategist. I assume this other fellow had a flair for that sort of thing.”

  “Actually, Dybo’s contributions were invaluable. But do you know who that other fellow was?”

  “I recognized him, of course: Det-Edklark. We’d had our share of run-ins over my theory of evolution.”

  “He’s the Master of the Faith.”

  “Yes.”

  “A priest.”

  “Yes.”

  “He can lie in the light of day.”

  “What?”

  “I said, he can lie in the light of day.”

  “I heard you. That’s not possible.”

  “It is for him. It is for some priests.”

  “Then why have him give the briefing? I mean—oh! Afsan, no.”

  “What he told you about the docks being our most vulnerable spot was a lie. We are in fact waiting in ambush for the Others there.”

  “My God. It will be—”

  “A slaughter, I suspect.”

  “But how did you know the Others would force information from me?”

  “I didn’t know it for sure.” Afsan shifted slightly, a grimace crossing his face as he did so. “You said you trusted this Jawn completely. But I’d been in a similar situation once before myself.” He paused, catching his breath. “I had trusted my friend Dybo. That had cost me my eyes. Dybo was pushed aside by Yenalb, the High Priest at that time.” Another grimace as the boat was rocked by a large wave. “I was concerned that your associate, Jawn, would be only one voice.”

  “A slaughter, you say?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  Toroca looked sad. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “Nor did I, which is why I went with you on your mission of peace.” He paused while pain worked its way across his face. “But as I once admonished Dybo, a leader rarely has any choice in what he or she does.”

  “But how did you know I’d talk, even if the Others tried to coerce me? You didn’t recant, despite Yenalb’s threats.”

  “No, but back then no one I cared about was being directly threatened. Your kindness was your weakness.”

  “You’re wrong, Father,” said Toroca, his voice firm. “It is my greatest strength.”

  Afsan shrugged. “Regardless, if this works, at least Mokleb will be happy.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Toroca.

  Afsan’s muzzle scrunched as he fought again against raging pain. “She thinks I’m The One, and as Lubal said, ‘The One will defeat demons of the land and of the water.’”

  Chapter 29

  The first wave of Other ships was sailing in toward the harbor of Capital City. Emperor Dybo had already ordered all Quintaglio vessels removed from there. Even if the Others hadn’t fallen for Afsan’s trick, the target would be too tempting; the docks provided easy access to the city itself via ramps carved into the rocks.

  Standing on the top of the cliffs just north of the docks, Dybo used a far-seer to watch the approaching vessels. He was amazed at how their decks swarme
d with the yellow beings. They were approaching at a good speed, the steady breeze toward Land driving the strange triangular sails of their ships.

  Closer. Closer still. At last, Dybo raised his left hand, just like a hunt leader about to give a command. As he did so, the three metal bracelets he wore that indicated his rank slid down toward his elbow. And then, at last, he brought the hand down in a chopping motion, signaling the attack.

  The Lub-Kaden, one of the small fleet of gliders built based on Novato’s plans, swooped over the edge of the cliff, sailing high above the ships below. The glider resembled a wooden-frame replica of a giant wingfinger, with a wide triangular canopy and a small hollow undercarriage containing a Quintaglio lying on her belly. The pilot could steer the ship by moving her tail; a harness connected it to the glider’s pointed prow which could move left or right on hinges.

  The pilot did much better today than Novato had done a few kilodays ago when she had become the first Quintaglio to take to the air; this female had no trouble staying on her planned course, and she could keep airborne for an extended period, taking advantage of the upcurrent as the wind blowing against the cliffs was deflected toward the sky.

  Dybo could see the tiny yellow beings on the deck pointing upward. He hoped it was in astonishment; flight was so new to the Quintaglios, he was betting that the Others hadn’t yet discovered it. Indeed, Novato hadn’t been able to work it out until she had actual bird specimens to work from, and they could only be found in the blue ark, something the Others had no access to.

  Dybo could see some Others trying to maneuver the heavy weapon tubes on their decks, hoping to aim at the airship swooping above. But these tubes weren’t designed to point that far overhead; their rear ends butted into the deck before they could swing that high.

  Some Others were firing their handheld sticks up at the flyer, too, but so far, no shot had connected.

  The Lub-Kaden was circling now over the lead ship. Dybo watched as the first bomb dropped from its central chassis: a heavily weighted ceramic container, divided internally into two parts by a wall, each section containing a different chemical. When the container hit the deck of the ship—which it did now—the ceramic shattered and the chemicals mixed, bursting into flame.

  Dybo watched as a ring of fire widened on the sailing ship’s foredeck and soon began climbing the mast. Fire touched the triangular lead sail, and the whole thing went up in flames. Several Others dived into the water, but their big weapon tubes and supply of other devices on this ship would soon be lost.

  The Lub-Kaden was now over a second ship. It dropped another ceramic canister, but this one missed, plunging beneath the waves. The pilot circled around again and dropped her third bomb. This one actually hit the top of the mast, and fire spread down the triangular sail in a widening path toward the deck.

  Dybo made a chopping motion with his arm again and a second glider soared off the cliff. This one, the Irb-Falpom, sailed straight and true farther out from the docks, toward some of the ships in the rear. In a beautifully executed arc, the glider dropped bombs in rapid succession onto the three farthest ships. They started to burn slowly but persistently, and soon yellow beings were trying to get away in lifeboats or by swimming.

  From a nearby ship, one of the Others had scrambled up to the lookout’s perch atop the mast and was carefully aiming his weapon tube. He squeezed off three shots. One missed completely. The second tore an insignificant hole in the leather covering of the Irb-Falpom’s wings. But the third hit one of the ceramic bombs directly. A chain of liquid fire dribbled downward from the craft toward the waves, but enough had splashed up as the canister blew open to set the whole glider ablaze. Burning brightly, like an apparition from one of the sacred scrolls, the glider pilot bravely took aim on an Other ship and let her flaming vessel plow into its decks, the fragile glider breaking apart like kindling wood as it skidded along, finally smashing into the base of the foremast. Within moments, the Other ship was engulfed in flame.

  A huge explosion split the air. Dybo brought his hands to his earholes. Below, a giant ball of fire was expanding upward, and thick smoke was everywhere. One of the ships must have been carrying a supply of blackpowder, and the fire had set it off all at once.

  Three Other ships had turned now and were heading out of the harbor, desperately trying to get away.

  Dybo launched a third glider, the Sor-Denkal, but it failed to catch the wind properly, and, spinning wildly, it spiraled down toward the waves. As it hit the surf, one of the Others’ big weapons blew it and its pilot apart, sending a huge spray of water onto the Quintaglio docks.

  With another chop of his arm, a fourth glider, the Jal-Tetex, took to the air, swooping out to drop a series of bombs.

  Meanwhile, the Lub-Kaden had bombed four more ships; the water was now thick with flaming timbers and yellow backs swimming for shore. The glider swooped up once more, catching the air current perfectly, and swung around to drop the last of its bombs in a neat series—plink! plink! plink!—onto three more boats. The pilot then swung her glider back in a giant arc that swept her over the cliff tops, buzzing Rockscape before coming in for a smooth landing on an open field.

  Besides the three ships that seemed to be making good their escape, there were only two Other vessels left below. Dybo had just one glider left: the Tak-Saleed, Novato’s original flyer, salvaged from the waves and rebuilt after its first flight. It was smaller and less sturdy than the others, and Dybo had hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but there was no choice. His arm came down in a chopping motion again, and the Tak-Saleed soared over the cliff’s edge. The glider shuddered visibly as it rose higher and higher, and Dybo thought briefly that it was going to fall apart. The pilot seemed to be having some trouble with the harness that controlled the prow—it had been seizing up in tests, but Dybo had been assured that the problem had been corrected. The prow oscillated left and right, causing the ship to waver in its flight. Soon, though, the pilot had the craft under control and she swooped out over the waves, overshooting the armada, then executing a turn and sweeping back in.

  In the meantime, one of the remaining sailing ships had been taken care of. Another ship, engulfed in flame and completely abandoned, had careened into it, the second ship having been unable to get out of its way in time. Not only had the impact ripped open both ships’ hulls, but both were now burning brightly.

  The Tak-Saleed was completing its final run, but its pilot had been too intent on the spectacle below. Dybo shouted, “Look out!” but there was no way for anyone to hear him over the wind. He watched in horror as the rickety Saleed collided in midair with the Jal-Tetex. For a brief moment he thought they were going to just lightly touch, but no, the Saleed crumpled, its wings folding up into a corrugated mess, the wooden slats of its undercarriage snapping like twigs. For its part, the Tetex’s left wing snapped off and began spiraling in toward the waves while the rest of the ship was pushed sideways through the air for several beats by the force of the impact with the Saleed. The Saleed had been carrying four bombs. Two dropped free of the ship, their amphora shape providing little air resistance as they fell. They hit the waves and simply kept on going down. Moments later, the two aircraft crashed into the water as well. Dybo dipped his head in silent prayer. Surely the two pilots were dead.

  But no—a green form was slicing through the waves. One of them still lived; it looked like Quetik, the pilot of the Saleed. Her airship had impacted not far from the one intact Other ship, but Quetik wasn’t swimming toward it. Nearby was another ship whose decks showed sporadic fires but whose sails had not yet burst into flame; Quetik’s tail whipped through the water, propelling her toward that vessel.

  Three Others on the intact ship tried to fire at her; the big cylinders couldn’t be aimed that fast, so they were using handheld tubes. Through the far-seer, Dybo saw Quetik gulp air, then dive beneath the waves. When he next caught sight of her, she was climbing up a rope ladder dangling over the side of the burning boat, a ladder it
s crew of Others had used to escape into the water. Moments later, she was on the deck.

  Quetik used her jaws to chomp through a rope tying off a boom. The sail swung around, and the ship swung, too. She then found the massive tiller and threw her shoulder and back against it, pushing, pushing, steering the ship. The neighboring Other vessel, the only one in the harbor still intact, was desperately trying to turn as well, but its options were limited; the harbor was full of ships aflame. The fire on the deck of Quetik’s ship was spreading, and—there!—it leapt onto the sails. But the ship was moving under inertia and a good wind now, and Dybo watched as the inevitable collision played itself out, the burning ship ramming into the one remaining target vessel. Flame spread to the intact Other ship, and Dybo saw Quetik slump to the deck of the one she was on, perhaps overcome by fumes.

  And then the air was ripped apart by another deafening blast. This last ship, too, had had holds full of blackpowder. The explosion tossed wooden boards and bodies high into the air. Quetik had completed her objective at the cost of her life.

  The sun had set by now, but the harbor blazed more brightly than at high noon as the thirty hulks below continued to burn wildly. Ships had drifted into the wooden docks by now, and the docks, too, were aflame. The three Other ships that had fled earlier were sitting on the horizon; they’d have to be dealt with separately.

  Surviving Others were straggling onto the rocky shore far below, but with no weapons they presented little threat to the twenty-five Quintaglios who had been waiting on the beach for them to arrive. Dybo left them to their business.

  Chapter 30

  Pal-Cadool and several butchers were riding atop their running-beasts. That they were skilled in handling animals was clear: the runningbeasts were terrified of being crushed under the giant feet of the thunderbeasts, and yet they moved with precision, responding to the gentle tugs on their harnesses, the subtle proddings with heel spurs into their bellies, and their riders’ shouted instructions—shouted, because they had to be audible over the deafening footfalls of all those thunderbeasts.