An Empire Unacquainted With Defeat

  My eyes itched. I blinked.

  Colgrave shuddered. One spindly arm rose deliberately. Colorless fingers brushed the helm. Then his hand fell, stirred feebly in the slime covering the deck.

  I tried moving. I could not. What a will Colgrave had!

  It had driven us for years, compelling us when no other force in Heaven or Hell could move us.

  A shadow with saffron eyes wheeled above us. It uttered short, sharp cries of dismay.

  Tendrils of the darkness that could not be seen were weaving new evils on the loom of wickedness of our accursed ship. And the watchers could do nothing. The sorcerer who had summoned them, who had commanded them and who had charged them with watching and bearing tidings, was no more.

  I had silenced his magical songs forever with a last desperate shaft from my bow.

  The birds could fly to no one with their fearful news. Nor could anyone liberate them from their bondage.

  One by one my shipmates stirred the slightest, then returned to their long rests.

  Sometimes in darkness, sometimes in light, the caravel glided northward. The shadow-weaver ran its shuttle too and fro. No foul weather came to nag at our ragged floating Hell. The fog surrounding us neither advanced nor receded, nor did the water we sailed ever change. It always resembled polished jade.

  My shipmates did not move again.

  Then darkness descended upon me, the oblivion for which I had longed since my realization that Vengeful Dragon was not just another pirate but a seagoing purgatory manned by the blackest souls of the western world . . . .

  And while I slept in the embrace of the Dark Lady, the weaver weaved. The ship changed. So did her crew. And the watchbirds followed in dismay.

  IV

  A dense fog gently bumped Itaskia's South Coast. It did not cross the shoreline. The light of a three-quarters moon gleamed off its low-lying upper surface. It looked like an army of cotton balls come to besiege the land.

  A ship's main truck and a single spar cut the fog's surface like a shark's fin, moving north.

  The moon set. The sun rose. The fog dissipated gradually, revealing a pretty caravel. She had a new but plain look, like a miser's beautiful wife clothed in homespun.

  The fog dwindled to a single irreducible cloud. That refused to disperse. It drifted round the ship's decks. Black birds dipped in and out.

  I began to itch all over. My skin twitched. Awareness returned. Straining, I opened my eyes.

  The sun blazed in. I decided to roll over instead.

  It was the hardest thing I had ever done. A physical prodigy.

  Battered old Colgrave staggered to his feet. He leaned on the helm and scanned the gentle sea. He wore a bewildered frown.

  Here, there, my shipmates stirred. Who would the survivors be? Priest, the obnoxious religious hypocrite? The Kid, whose young soul had been blackened by more murders than most of us older men? My almost-friend, Little Mica, whose sins I had never discovered? Lank Tor? Toke? Fat Poppo? The Trolledyngjan? There were not many I would miss if they did not make it.

  I climbed my bow like a pole. I could feel the expression graven on my face. It was wonder. It tingled through me right down to my toenails.

  We had no business being anywhere but perpetually buried in that sorcerer's trap.

  I scanned the horizon suspiciously, checked the main deck, then met my Captain's eye. There was no love between us, but we respected one another. We were the best at what we were.

  He shrugged. He, too, was ignorant of what was happening.

  I had wondered if he had not brought the resurrection about by sheer force of will.

  I bent and collected an oiled leather case. Inside lay twelve arrows, labeled, and several new bowstrings. My bow, which had been exposed for so long, had been restored by careful oiling and rubbing. I strung and tested it. It remained as powerful as ever. I did not then have the strength to bend it completely.

  A dozen men were afoot. They searched themselves for wounds that had disappeared during the darkness.

  I wondered how many had shared my vigil of impotent awareness, denied even the escape of madness.

  They started checking each other.

  I looked for Mica. I spotted the little guy studying himself in a copper mirror. He ran fingers over a face that had been half torn away.

  Everyone was recovering.

  I descended to the main deck and strolled aft. Dragon was in the best shape I had ever seen. She had been renewed . . . .

  I walked stiffly. The others moved jerkily, like marionettes manipulated by a novice. I reached the ladder to the poop as vanguard of a committee. Our First Officer and Boatswain, Toke and Lank Tor, had joined me. Old Barley tagged along, hoping the Old Man would order a ration of rum.

  Barley was one of the alcoholic in-group. Priest was another. He was watching Barley closely. Barley always did the doling.

  Rum! My mouth watered. Only Priest could outdrink me.

  Colgrave shooed his deck watch down the starboard ladder.

  Why hadn't our mysterious benefactors done a full repair job on the Captain? I looked round. Several men had not been restored completely. We were as we had been the day we had stumbled into the Itaskian sorcerer's trap.

  Colgrave was first to speak. He said, "Something happened." Not an ingen-ious deduction.

  My response was no more brilliant. "We've been called back."

  Colgrave's voice had a remote, sepulchral timbre. It seemed to reach us after a journey up a long, cold, furniture-crowded hallway. There was no force in it. It had no volume, and very little inflection

  "Tell me something I don't know, Bowman," Colgrave growled.

  The lack of love between us was not unique. This crew had shipped together, and fought together, by condemnation of the gods. We cooperated only because survival demanded it.

  "Who did? Why?" I demanded. Again I scanned the horizons.

  I was not a lone watcher. We had powerful enemies along these coasts. Dread enemies, they had at their disposal the aid of men like the one who had banished us to that enchanted sea.

  "We don't have time to worry about it." Colgrave threw a spidery hand at the coast. "That's Itaskia, gentlemen. We're only eight leagues south of the Silverbind Estuary."

  The Itaskian Navy had sent that sorcerer after us. Itaskians hated us. Especially Itaskian merchants. We had plundered them so often that we used gold and silver for ballast.

  We had preyed on them for ages, slaughtering their crews and burning their ships during our relentless search for what, in the end, had proven to be ourselves.

  The great naval base at Portsmouth lay just inside the mouth of the Estuary.

  "Coast watchers have spotted us by now," Colgrave continued. "The news will have reached Portsmouth. The fleet will be coming out."

  It did not occur to us that we could have been forgotten. Or that we might not be recognized. But we did not know how long we had been gone, nor did Dragon look the same.

  "We better get this bastard headed out to sea," Tor said. "Head for the nether coast of Freyland. Hole up in a cove till we know what's happening. Some timbre entered the boatswain's voice. It smelled of fear.

  We had never been well-known in the island kingdoms. Seldom had we plundered there.

  "We'll do that. Meantime, check out this tub from stem to stern. Check the men. Tor, take a look round from the tops. They could be after us already."

  Tor had the best eyes of any man I've ever known.

  The crew milled below, touching each other, speculating in soft tones. Their voices, too, sounded remote. I do not know why that was. It soon corrected itself.

  "First watch," Tor called. "Rigging. Prepare to shift sail for the seaward tack."

  They moved slowly, stiffly, but sorted themselves out. Some clambered into the rigging. Lank Tor said, "Ready to shift course, Captain."

  Colgrave spun the wheel. Tor bellowed to the topmen.

  Nothing happened.

  Colgrave tried again
. And again. But Vengeful D. would not respond.

  We just stood round staring at one another till Kid called down, "Sail ho!"

  V

  "Boatswain, see to the weapons," Colgrave ordered.

  I looked at him narrowly. A fire was building within him. Action imminent. The old Colgrave flared through, despite what we had endured, despite what we had learned about ourselves. "See that sand is scattered on the decks. Barley! One cup for all hands. Bowman. Take yours first. Go to the forecastle."

  Our gazes locked. I had had my fill of killing. At least for this madman.

  But the compulsion was still there. The fire that forced a man to adapt his will to Colgrave's. I looked down like a kid who had just been scolded. I descended to the main deck.

  Mica caught up with me. "Bowman. What's going on? What happened to us?"

  He called me Bowman because he did not know my name. None of them did, unless Colgrave had penetrated the secret. It was one I could no longer answer myself.

  Vengeful Dragon had a way of stealing memories. I could not remember coming aboard. I did remember murdering my wife and her lovers before I did. But what was her name . . . ?

  The curse of the gods lies heavy. To remember my crime, to remember the love and hate and pain that had gone into and pursued it, and yet to forget the very name of the woman I had killed . . . . And, worse, to have forgotten my own, so that the very cornerstone of my identity was denied me . . . . They award their penalties in cruel and ingenious ways, do the gods.

  Some of the others remembered their names but had forgotten why they had committed their sins. That, too, was torture.

  None of us remembered much of our life aboard Vengeful Dragon.

  Colgrave and I had the murder of our families in common. That was not much of a foundation for friendship.

  "I don't know, Mica. No more than you."

  "I thought maybe the Old Man . . . . It scares me, Bowman. To be recalled . . . ."

  "I know. Think of the Power involved. The evils unleashed . . . . Come up to the forecastle with me, Mica."

  He did not have anything else to do. He was our sail maker. Our sails were in chandler's shop condition.

  We leaned against the rail, staring over the quiet green water at the tops of a pair of triangular sails.

  "That's no Itaskian galleon," Mica observed.

  "No." I debated for several seconds before I hinted at my suspicion. "Maybe the gods are tinkering with us, Mica." A gull glided across our bows. For a moment I marveled at its graceful flight. A shadow followed. One of the black birds.

  "Suppose they're giving us another chance?"

  He watched the black bird for several seconds. "How patient are they, Bowman? We had our chances in life. We had them in limbo, while we harried the coasts. And we didn't even recognize them."

  "And maybe we couldn't. This ship . . . . We forget things. We stop thinking. We get like Lank Tor, who can't remember yesterday. Remember Student and Whaleboats?"

  They had been friends of ours. They had disappeared during a terrible storm shortly before the sorcerer had caught us.

  "Uhm."

  We had never talked about it, but the suspicion could not be denied. There was a chance that Student and Whaleboats had found redemption. There was a connection between righteous deeds and disappearances from Dragon. It had to be more than coincidence. Our memories were reliable only back to the time Kid had come aboard, but since then several men had vanished. Each had been guilty of doing something truly good shortly before.

  How Colgrave had screamed and cussed at Student and Whaleboats for not setting fire to that shipload of women . . . .

  "Student claimed there was a way out. Fat Poppo told me he figured it out too. I think there is. I think they found it. And I think I know what it is, now."

  Mica did not say anything for at least a minute. Then, "Did you die at that place, Bowman?"

  "What?" For some reason I did not want to tell him. "What place?"

  "The foggy sea, dummy. Where we met ourselves and lost the battle."

  Colgrave's habit was to destroy every vessel we encountered. We had entered that quiet place out of a deep fog, with a sorcerer's grim promise still ringing in our ears. Black birds had roosted in our tops and another ship had been headed our way. Colgrave, mad Colgrave, had ordered the attack. And when we had come to grips with the caravel, who had we found manning her but doppelgangers of ourselves . . . ?

  "Were you aware the whole time?"

  "Yeah." The grunt liked to choke me getting out. "Every damned second. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even go crazy."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "All right. Crazier than I already am."

  Mica grinned. "Sometimes, Bowman, I wonder if we're not just a little less wicked than we think. Or maybe it's pretend. We're great pretenders, the crew of the Vengeful D."

  "Mica, you ain't no philosopher."

  "How do you know what I am? I don't. I don't remember. But what I'm saying, man, is I think we all knew what was going on. Every minute. Even the Old Man."

  "What's the point?"

  "The sun rose and set a lot of times, Bowman. I didn't sleep either. That's a lot of time to think. And maybe change."

  I turned my back to the rail. The crew were about ship's work. They were quieter than I remembered. Thoughtful. They moved less jerkily now.

  How long had it been? Years?

  "We don't look any different." Colgrave was the same old specter of terror there on the poop. He had changed clothing. He was clad in regal finery now. Clothes were his compensation for his deformity.

  When he dressed this well, and kept to the poop instead of lurking in his cabin, he meant to spill blood.

  "I mean different inside." He considered Colgrave too. "Maybe some of us can't change. Maybe there's nothing else in there."

  "Or maybe we just don't understand." I suffered an insight. "The Old Man's scared."

  "He should be. These are Itaskian waters. Look what they did already."

  "Not just afraid of what they'll do if they catch us. We had that hanging over us before. It didn't bother anybody. Won't now. I mean scared like Barley. Of everything and nothing."

  Old Barley was our resident coward. He was also the meanest fighter on the Vengeful D. His fear drove him to prodigies in battle.

  "Maybe. And maybe he's changed, too."

  "I haven't. Not that I can see."

  "Look at your right hand."

  I did. It was my hand, fore and middle fingers calloused from drawing bowstrings. "So?"

  "Every guy here can tell you two things about your hands. If there's a ship in sight, your left will be holding a bow. And your right, when Colgrave lets you, will be hanging on to a cup of rum like it was your first-born child."

  I looked at Mica. He smiled. I looked at my hand. It was naked. I looked down at the main deck, that I had crossed without thinking of rum. Barley was almost finished issuing the grog ration.

  The craving hit me hard. I must have staggered. Mica caught my arm.

  "Try to let it go, Bowman. Just this once."

  I waved at Barley.

  "Just to see if you can do it."

  Why didn't he mind his own business? Gods, I needed a drink.

  Then Priest caught my eye. Priest, the king of us alkies. The man who peddled salvation to the rest of us and remained incapable of saving himself.

  Priest did not have a tin cup either. He leaned over the starboard rail. His expression said that his guts were tearing him apart. His need for a drink was devouring him. But he was not drinking. His back was to Barley.

  "Look at Priest," I murmured.

  "I see him, Bowman. And I see you."

  The cramps started then. They pissed me off. I whirled and planted myself against the rail, mimicking Priest, overlooking the bowsprit. I tried to shut out the world.

  "No way that pervert is going to outlast me," I declared.

  Our bow began rising and falling gently. Th
e water was assuming the character of a normal sea. Our resurrection was about finished.

  I did not look forward to its completion. I could get seasick in a rowboat on a lake on a breezy day.

  The other vessel was hull up on the horizon and headed our way fast.

  I re-examined my bow and arrows. Just in case.

  VI

  Had we changed? The gods witness, we had. The two-master came in alongside, gently, and we did not swarm over her. We did not cast her screaming crew to the sharks. We did not set her aflame. We did not do anything but hold our weapons ready and wait.

  Colgrave did not ask us to do anything more.

  Mica and I surveyed our shipmates. I'm sure he saw as much wonder in my face as I saw in his.

  We watched Colgrave almost constantly. The Old Man would determine the smaller vessel's fate. Like it or not, if he gave the order, we would attack.

  "We're a pack of war dogs," I told Mica. "We might as well be slaves."

  He nodded.

  Never a word escaped our mad captain's mouth. That astonished him more than the rest of us, I think.

  The ship lay bumping against Dragon for fifteen minutes. Her strangely clad, silent crewmen studied us. We studied them. Not a one would meet my eye. They knew who and what we were. We could smell the fear in them.

  Yet they had come to us, and they stayed. And that was reason for us to fear.

  The vessel had a small deckhouse amidships. Its door finally opened. Two more strangers stepped out, stationed themselves to either side. They studied us with startled, frightened eyes.

  A person in red came forth, looked up.

  "A woman!" Mica swore.

  We did not have a reputation for being gallant.

  "I don't think so . . . ." But I could not be sure. I had never seen a bald woman. "But . . . . Call it an it."

  Its incredible blue eyes stared in slight bewilderment. Unlike its shipmates, it did not fear us. It was confident.

  I got the impression that we had been a disappointment. Because we had not conformed to our vicious reputation.

  The urge to let an arrow fly was as strong in me as the need for a drink. I did not bend my bow.

  One glance into those weird eyes was all I could handle. Incredible Power sparked them. They proclaimed their possessor a sorcerer greater than he who had banished us to fogs and leaden seas.