Naroin kept counting estimates of the reaver ship’s approach. The ketch was under a thousand meters from the raft. Then eight hundred, and closing.
The situation on the raft grew more desperate. One agitated figure began pushing boxes of provisions off the deck, as if to lighten the load. They bobbed along behind the raft, very little distance growing between them.
“Six hundred meters,” Naroin told them.
“Shouldn’t we get closer now?” Brod asked. He seemed oddly relaxed. Not exactly eager, but remarkably cool, considering his earlier confessions to Maia. In fact, Brod had insisted on coming along.
“Lysos never said males can’t ever fight,” he had argued passionately, last night. “We’re taught that all men are reserve militia members, liable for call-up in case of really big trouble. I’d say that describes these bandits!”
Maia had never heard reasoning like that before. Was it true? Naroin, a policewoman, ought to know. The former bosun had blinked twice at Brod’s assertion, and finally nodded. “There are … precedents. Also, they won’t be expecting a male. There’s an element of surprise.”
In the end, despite gallant protests by some of the others, he was allowed to come along. Anyway, Brod would be safer here than on the raft.
“Be patient an’ clam up,” Naroin told the boy, as they fought choppy currents. “Four hundred meters. I want to see how the bitchies plan on doin’ it.… Three hundred meters.”
Brod took the rebuke mildly. Looking at him a second time, Maia saw another reason for his relative quiet. Brod’s complexion seemed greenish. He was clamping down on nausea. If the youth was trying to show his guts, Maia hoped he wouldn’t do so literally.
It was getting near decision time. Plan A called for battle. But if that looked hopeless, those on the skiff were to try fleeing downwind, keeping the bulk of the island between them and the raiders. Only in that way might those sacrificing themselves on the raft get revenge. But, given the enemy’s possession of radar, Maia knew the unlikeliness of a clean getaway. For all its flaws, the ambush scheme still seemed the best chance they had.
“Three hundred meters,” Naroin said. “Two hundred an’ eight.… Bleedin’ jorts!”
Her fist set the rail vibrating. This sound was followed almost instantly by a roll of pealing thunder, anomalous beneath clear skies.
“What is it?” Maia asked, turning in time to glimpse, on the viewer screen, a sudden spout of rising water that just missed the little raft, splashing its frantic crew.
“Cannon. They’re usin’ a cannon!” Naroin shouted. “The Lyso-dammed, lugar-faced, man-headed jorts. We never figured on this.”
Guilt-panged because the plan had been her idea, Maia craned to watch, fascinated as Naroin switched camera views of the approaching reaver boat. At its prow, a flash erupted through smoke lingering from the first shot. Another tower of seawater almost swamped the wallowing raft. “They’ve got ’em straddled,” Naroin snarled, then snapped at Maia. “What’re you lookin’ at? Mind yer oars! I’ll tell what’s happenin’.”
Maia swiveled just as a tidal surge washed their tiny craft toward a jutting rock. “Pull!” Brod cried, rowing hard. Heaving with all their might, they managed to stop short of the jagged, menacing spire. Then, as quickly as it came, the bulging sea-crest ran back out again, dragging them along. “Naroin! Turn!” Maia cried. But the preoccupied bosun was cursing at what she saw in the screen, taking notice only when a mesh of fiber cables suddenly stitched across the water, stretched to their utter limit, and abruptly snatched the electronic display out of her hands. The spy device flew some distance, then met the waves and sank from sight.
The policewoman stood up and shouted colorfully, setting the boat rocking, then quickly and forcibly calmed herself as more echoes of discrete thunder rounded the cliffs. Naroin sat down, resting hand and arm on the tiller once more. “No matter, it won’t be long now,” she said.
“We can’t just sit here!” Tress cried. “Lullin and the others will be blown to bits!”
“They knew it’d be rough. Showin’ up now would just get us killed, too.”
“Should we try running away, then?” Charl asked.
“They’d spot us soon as they circuit the island. That boat’s faster, an’ a cannon makes any head start useless.” Naroin shook her head. “Besides, I want to get even. We’ll get closer, but wait till the last shot before settin’ sail.”
Now that they were away from the rock face, the swells were smoother. Maia and the others let the current carry them northward. More booms shook the thick air, louder and louder. Maia felt concussions in her ears and across her face. As they approached, an accompanying sound chilled her heart, the faint, shrill screaming of desperate women.
“We’ve got to—”
“Shut up!” Naroin snapped at Tress.
Then came a noise like no other. The closest thing Maia remembered was the breaking of bulkheads aboard the collier Wotan. It was an explosion not of water, but wood and bone. Of savagely cloven air and flesh. Echoes dissipated into a long, stunned silence, moderated by the nearby crash of surf on rock. Maia needed to swallow, but her mouth and throat were so dry, it was agony to even try.
Naroin spoke through powerfully controlled anger. “They’ll stand off an’ look for a while, before movin’ in. Charl, get ready. The rest o’ you, set sail and then duck outta sight!”
Maia and Brod stood up, together releasing the clamps holding the furled sail, and drew it to the clew outhaul. The fabric flapped like a liberated bird, suddenly catching the wind and throwing the boom hard to port, catching Brod and knocking him into Maia. Together, they fell toward the bow coaming, atop one another.
“Uh, sorry,” the youth said, rolling off and blushing. “Uh, it’s all right,” she answered, gently mimicking his abashed tone. It might have been funny, Maia thought, if things weren’t so damn serious.
Tress joined them in the bilge, below the level of the gunwales. As the skiff rounded the northern verge of their prison isle, Charl took over the tiller, letting Naroin crouch down as well. Only Charl remained in view, now attired in a white smock that was stained around the neckline. She had put on a ragged, handmade wig that made her look vaguely blonde.
“Steady,” Naroin said, peering over the rail. “I see the raft, or what’s left of it … Keep yer heads down!”
Maia and Brod ducked again, having caught sight of an expanse of floating bits and flinders, logs and loosely tethered boxes, along with one drifting, grotesquely ruined body. It had been a nauseating sight. Maia was content to let Naroin describe the rest.
“No sign o’ the reaver, yet. I see one, two survivors, hidin’ behind logs. Hoped there’d be more, since they knew it was comin’.… Eia! There’s her prow. Get ready, Maia!”
They had argued long and hard over this part of the plan. Naroin had thought she should be the one taking on the most dangerous job. Maia had responded that the policewoman was just too small to make it believable. Besides, Naroin had more important tasks to perform.
You asked for this, Maia told herself. Brod squeezed her hand for luck, and she returned a quick smile before crawling aft.
From the moment the reaver vessel entered view, Charl began waving, shouting and grinning. We’re counting on certain assumptions, Maia thought. Foremost, the reavers mustn’t instantly see through the ruse.
It makes sense, though. Inanna wouldn’t stay on the island after the raft was destroyed. She’d come to ferry a cleanup squad of killers through the secret passage, to finish off any survivors remaining above.
It was brutal logic, borne out by recent events. But was it true? Were the pirates expecting to see a blonde woman in a little sailboat? Maia ached to peer over the side.
Charl described events through gritted teeth. “They’re maybe a hundred fifty meters out … sails luffed … still too damn far. Now someone’s pointin’ at me … waving. There’s somebody else lifting binoculars. Let’s do it, quick!”
&nb
sp; With a heavy intake of breath, Maia stood up suddenly, and pretended to launch an attack on Charl, throwing an exaggerated punch the older woman evaded at the last moment. Charl shoved her back, and the boat rocked. Then they closed and began grappling, hands clasping for each other’s throats. In the process, they managed so that Charl’s back was to the reaver. All the enemy would be able to make out now, even through binoculars, would be a big blonde woman wrestling an adversary who must have climbed out from the wreckage of the raft.
Shouts of excited dismay carried across the water. They’ll finish us with the cannon if they suspect, Maia knew. Or if they’re bloody-minded about the value of their spies.
Even feign-fighting with Charl was a grunting, intense effort. Bobbing movements of the boat kept forcing them to clutch each other for real. Minutes into the contest, Charl’s grip tightened on Maia’s windpipe, setting off waves of authentic pain.
“Maia!” Naroin hissed from below and aft, her hand on the tiller. “Where are they?”
Maia pushed Charl back and affected to punch just past the woman’s ear. Looking over Charl’s shoulder, she saw the reaver turn and fill its jib enough to gain some headway. “Under …” Maia gasped for breath as Charl shoved her against the skiff’s mast. “Under a hundred meters. They’re coming.…”
The next thing Maia knew, Charl had picked up an oar and aimed an awfully realistic swipe. Ducking, Maia had no chance to mention what else she had seen. Among the crowd of rough women gathered at the bow of the ketch, two had brandished slender objects that looked chillingly like hunting rifles. The only thing saving Maia right now was her close proximity to a figure the reavers thought to be their accomplice.
“Eighty meters …” Maia said, elbowing Charl in the ribs, knocking aside the oar and lifting her locked hands as if to deliver an overhand blow. Charl staved this off by ducking and grabbing Maia’s midriff.
“Uh!… Not so hard!… Sixty meters …”
The ketch was a beautiful thing, lovely in its sleek, terrible rapacity. Even with jib alone, it prowled rapidly, striking aside flotsam of its victim, the ill-fated raft. Logs and boxes rebounded off its hull, wallowing in its wake. The sheer island face now lay behind the skiff. There was no escape.
“Fifty meters …”
In their wrestling struggle, Charl’s makeshift wig suddenly slipped. Both women hurried to replace it, but one of the reavers at the bow could be heard reacting with tones of sudden outrage. The jig is up, Maia realized, looking across the narrowing gap to see a pirate lift her rifle.
There was no sound, no warning at all, only a brief shadow that flowed down the stony cliff and a patch of sun-drenched sea. One of the corsairs on the ketch glanced up, and started to shout. Then the sky itself seemed to plummet onto the graceful ship. A cloud of dark, heavy tangles splashed across the mast and sails and surrounding water, followed by a lumpy box of metal that struck the starboard gunwales, glanced off … and exploded.
Flame brightness filled Maia’s universe. A near-solid fist of compressed air blew Charl against her, throwing the two of them toward the mast, sandwiching Maia in abrupt pain. Sound seized the flapping sail, causing it to billow instantaneously, knocking both women to the keel where they lay stunned. The skiff rocked amid rhythmic, heaving aftershocks.
Still conscious, Maia felt herself being dragged out from under Chart’s groaning weight, toward the bow. Through a pounding ringing in her ears, time seemed to stretch and snap, stretch and snap, in uneven intervals. From some distant place, she heard Brod’s reassuring voice uttering strange words.
“You’re all right, Maia. No bleeding. You’ll be okay … Got to get ready now, though. Snap out of it, Maia! Here, take your trepp. Naroin’s bringing us along the aft end.…”
Maia tried to focus. Unwelcome but frequent experience with situations like this told her it would take at least a few minutes for critical faculties to return. She needed more time, but there was none. Climbing to her knees, she felt a pole of smooth wood pushed into her hands, which closed by pure habit in the correct grip. Inanna’s trepp bill, she dimly recognized, which had been among the dead spy’s possessions. Now, if only she recalled how to use it.
Brod helped her face the right way, toward a looming, soot-shrouded object that had only recently been white and proud and exquisite. Now the ship lay in a tangle of fallen cables and wires. Its sails were half torn away by the makeshift bomb, which had been catapulted at the last moment by two captives who had remained high on the bluff, hoping to do this very thing.
“Get ready!”
Maia’s ears were still filled with horrific reverberations. Nevertheless, she recognized Naroin’s shout. Glancing right, she saw the bosun already using her bow and arrows, shooting while Tress guided the skiff across the last few meters.…
Wood crumped against wood. Brod shouted, leaping to seize the bigger ship’s rail, a rope-end between his teeth. The youth scrambled up and quickly tied a knot, securing the skiff.
“Look out!” Maia cried. She commanded urgent action from her muscles, ordering them to strike out toward a snarling woman who ran aft toward Brod, an illegally sharpened trepp in hand. Alas, Maia’s uncoordinated flail only glanced off the railing.
Brod turned barely in time to fend off the attacker’s blows. One smashed flat along his left shoulder. Another met the beefy part of his forearm, slashing his shirt and cutting a bloody runnel. There was an audible crack as part of the impact carried through, striking his head.
The young man and the reaver stared at each other for an instant, both apparently surprised to find him still standing. Then, with a sigh, Brod pushed the pirate’s weapon aside, took her halter straps, and flung her overboard. The reaver screamed indignant fury until she crashed into the sea, where other figures could be seen swimming amid the wreckage of the raft.
Tress and Naroin were already scrambling to join Brod, followed by a groggy Charl. Maia grabbed the rail and concentrated, trying twice before finally managing to throw one leg over, and then rolling onto the upper deck. In doing so, however, her grip on Inanna’s bill loosened and it slipped from her hands, clattering back into the skiff.
Bleeders. Do I go back for it now?
Maia shook her head dizzily. No. Go forward. Fight.
Dimly, she was aware of other figures clambering aboard, presumably raft survivors, joining the attack while enemy reinforcements also hurried aft. There were sharp cracks as firearms went off. Feet scuffed all around her as grunting combat swayed back and forth. Looking up, Maia saw two women attack Brod while another swung a huge knife at Naroin, armed only with her bow and no arrows. The scene stunned Maia, its ferocity going far beyond the fights in Long Valley, or even the Manitou. She had never seen faces so filled with hatred and rage. During those earlier episodes, there had at least been a background of rules. Death had been a possible, but unsought, side effect. Here, it was the central goal. Matters had Come down to abominations—blades and arrows, guns and fighting men.
Maia’s hand fell on a piece of debris from the explosion, a split tackle block. Without contemplating what she was doing, she lifted it in both hands and swiftly brought it around with all her might, smashing one of Brad’s opponents in the back of the knee. The woman screeched, dropping a crimson knife that Maia prayed was innocent of boy’s blood. Without pause, she struck the other knee. The reaver collapsed, howling and writhing.
Maia was about to repeat the trick with Brad’s other foe, when that enemy simply vanished! Nor was Brod himself in view anymore. In an instant, the fight must have carried him off to starboard.
Maia turned. Naroin was backed against the rail, using her bow as a makeshift staff, flailing against two reavers. The first kept the policewoman occupied with a flashing, darting knife-sword, while the second struggled with a bolt-action rifle, slapping at the mechanism, trying to clear a jammed cartridge. Before Maia could react, the reluctant bolt came free. An expended shell popped out and the reaver quickly slipped a new bullet
inside. Slamming the bolt home again, she lifted her weapon …
With a scream, Maia leaped. The riflewoman had but a moment to see her coming. Eyes widening, the reaver swung the slender barrel around.
Another explosive concussion rocked by Maia’s right ear as she tackled the pirate, carrying them both into the rail. The lightly framed wood splintered, giving way and spilling them overboard.
But I only just got here, Maia complained—and the ocean slapped her, swallowed her whole, squeezed her lungs and clung to her arms as she clawed through syrupy darkness, like coal.
Lamatia and Long Valley hated me, the damn ocean hates me. Maybe the world’s trying to tell me something.
Maia surfaced at last with an explosive, ragged gasp, thrashing through a kick turn while peering through a salty blur in hopes of finding her foe before she was found. But no one else emerged from the sea. Perhaps the raider so loathed losing her precious weapon, she had accompanied the rifle to the bottom. Despite everything she’d been through, it was the first time Maia had ever knowingly killed anybody, and the thought was troubling.
Worry about that later. Got to get back and help now.
Maia sought and found the reaver ship, awash in smoke and debris. Fighting a strong undertow, exhausted and unable to hear much more than an awful roar, she struck out for the damaged ketch. At least her thoughts were starting to clear. Alas, that only let her realize how many places hurt.
She swam hard.
Hurry! It may already be too late!
By the time she managed to climb back aboard, however, the fight was already over.
There were strands of cable everywhere. The tangled mass, remnants of the broken winch mechanism, had been the centerpiece of their intended trap. A net wide enough to snare a large, fast-moving boat, even using an inaccurate, makeshift catapult. It had been Brad’s suggestion that the booby-trapped gearbox might also make a good weapon. Naroin had said not to count on it, but in the end, that had provided the crucial bit of luck.