Now menaced by half a dozen of the biting, gnawing predators but having left the preponderance of the pack well behind, the two brund showed they’d had enough. They did this through exercising the simple but heretofore unsuspected defensive expedient of flexing the muscles in their long legs. The rough edges that Flinx had initially assumed were vestigial feathers or pebbly scales snapped out and flared wide simultaneously. They did indeed look like large, individual feathers. Except that each one was composed of hard, toughened skin as sharp along the edge as any sword.
It was as if each brund had suddenly deployed a hundred scimitars from its lower legs. They sliced into the ascending grynach like so many butcher knives, producing a hundred deep cuts in scarcely an instant. Whimpering and moaning, the climbing predators dropped off the legs of the two brund like lice, slamming into the ground in stringy piles of flesh and blood.
To be safe, the brund sustained this inimitable protective posture for the next fifteen minutes or so, until Wiegl was certain they had left the last of the discouraged grynach far behind. Well equipped for ambush-hunting but not long-distance pursuit, they would return to their communal den entwined together for safety, and moan their collective disappointment at the twin moons.
“I did not know,” Flinx called across to his guide, “that the good-natured brund, were capable, of such admirable carving.” Not as confident as either her master or his guide, or perhaps simply more circumspect, Pip continued to pace them overhead, not returning to her comfortable tube until the night mist had morphed into a chilly drizzle.
“Full of surprises, are many lifeforms of Largess,” Wiegl called back to the human, his fear disappearing as he sang, “as you will hopefully learn, if you live long enough, if you see long enough.”
Flinx returned his gaze forward. The forest was giving way to another stretch of brooding bare rock that sported only isolated thickets of local brush. No place for an ambush here, he told himself, although remembering his time on other worlds caused him to qualify that appraisal. As Wiegl had just hinted, any alien world could give rise to predators that dwelled in surprising guises.
Hopefully they would meet no more tonight, he reflected tiredly as both brund splashed into the shallow stream that separated the predator-infested forest behind them from the safer ground ahead. Acclimated by now as he was to the jerking forward-back gait of the brund, he had not yet tried sleeping in the saddle basket. With several hours remaining until Largess’s star appeared as a dim yellowish smudge in the cloud-smothered sky, he thought this night would be an excellent time to try.
“How far behind, do you think we are, from the strideship crew, that may have taken the Firstborn?”
Wiegl did not hesitate. “Impossible to tell, from our current position, as no signs have I recently noticed, of a strideship’s passing.” He waved encouragingly. “Do not worry, my offworlder friend, as there will come a moment, when such evidence presents itself, when such signs are forthcoming. Then we will close, on the source of your seeking, and then you may freely worry, all that you can.”
Flinx considered. Wiegl was telling the truth, as best he could discern it. Or else he was lying, as best he could manage it. At the moment he was too tired to try to parse the guide’s feelings. Too tired to do much of anything except assure himself that Pip was safe and unharmed. Twisting in the saddle as he fiddled with the harness straps, he struggled to find a comfortable yet secure position. The last thing he wanted was to be bounced out of the basket in the middle of the night. Whether he finally succeeded or not he did not know, because within minutes he was sound asleep.
9
■ ■ ■
Vashon had never counted on good luck to preserve him. He did not believe in luck, good or otherwise. He believed in preparation, staying one step ahead of competition or pursuit, and in the efficacy of high-energy and large-caliber weapons.
That did not diminish his gratitude to the Fates for the lifting of the mist so that he and his Larian crew were able to spot the oncoming strideship well before it was able to slip up on them unseen. The ancient art of the lookout was one practiced on many worlds, by many species with variable visual acuity and differing means of perception. There was nothing special or remarkable about the eyesight of the inhabitants of Largess except for their ability to see as well underwater as above it.
The latter capability might become necessary if things did not go well.
The closing strideship was approaching with the wind and at an angle designed to intercept the Minordian vessel before it could make landfall. Having seen to defensive preparations, Zkerig came up on the offworlder’s right side. Vashon murmured thoughtfully to the Tralltag.
“Possibly they come to talk, to parley peacefully, to discuss matters of mutual interest, without aggression.” Though both his singing tone and words expressed hope, he did not much believe his own improvised lyrics.
Holding up a spyglass that was larger in diameter than ancient human equivalents, Zkerig was quick to confirm the human’s pessimism. “Potential friends do not, on deck freely mass weapons, and prepare loads for cannon, the better to send friendly greetings. A cheery wave of webbings, with fingers spread wide, would better signify the hope of pleasantries, would better acknowledge potential friendship.” Needing both hands to steady the heavy brass spyglass, the Tralltag again examined the oncoming vessel. “Larger than ours is their crew, greater in number and in blades. Of cannon I see seven, three to one side and three to the other, with a single barrel mounted forward, I suspect soon to offer greetings.”
Nodding to his left and forward, a concerned Vashon indicated the far shore. “Can we outsail them and then outrun them, as it is prudent to flee instead of fight, where our objective is not triumph, but to reach Minord’s sheltering height?”
Zkerig lowered the glass. “Their ship is fast and the wind is with them; the wind that betrays our best intentions, the wind that now hinders instead of helping, the wind that as well blow up your arse, as do it now any good for us.” Turning, he sang out commands. The strideship’s lateen-rigged sails were adjusted accordingly and they gained a little speed. Whether it would be enough to allow them to beat the other vessel to shore remained to be seen.
The fast-closing strideship flew no flag. Not that its origin mattered. Did its crew know of the presence on board their target of the Firstborn of Borusegahm Leeth? If this was a ship whose crew was intent on rescue, Vashon told himself, surely they would by now have shown the symbols of Borusegahm, even if they were lowly allies and not representatives of the Leeth itself. If, on the other hand, they were no more than simple brigands, many of whom were known to wander the land- and waterscapes of Largess, they were exceptionally well equipped. That suggested they were amply financed by unknown sources. Or worse, that they were very good at their business.
Certainly their seamanship seemed to suggest the latter. But by alternating raging at and cajoling his crew of soldier-sailors, Zkerig succeeded in accomplishing the seemingly impossible: they nudged into the shallows just ahead of their fast-closing assailant. A single blast from the pursuing strideship’s bow cannon sent an ingot of solid shot whizzing over the aft deck. Vashon heard it as it flew past. It did no damage but revealed that they were now within range of and exposed to cannon fire.
Standing amidships, Zkerig sang an order down through a grating toward the lowest deck. There were three decks on the strideship: the upper, on which Vashon was standing; the middle, where the crew lived; and the lowermost. Below water when at sail, the lowest deck now became the center of activity as half the crew rushed to take up positions at their assigned pedal stations.
“Feet!” Zkerig uttered the command a touch unmelodiously but with impressive volume.
Seated far below, twenty-four Larians put their short but powerful legs and strong lower backs to work pumping pedals in unison. Their strength, multiplied by an intricate network of brass gears and chains, propelled the dozen mechanical legs that had heretofo
re been tucked up against the hull of the strideship. Made of garulag wood and braced with brass fittings, they were impervious to rot, stronger than many metal alloys, and difficult to hew. Once cut and shaped, they could remain immersed in the cold of Largess’s fresh and salt water without damage.
No matter how tight the elastic rubber-like seals that encircled the legs at the points where they entered the hull, some water inevitably entered and needed to be pumped out. Now, as the strideship’s dozen legs and feet were put to work, these seals flexed and admitted still more water. Hand pumps kept the intrusion at bay, while the water did not affect the ongoing efforts of the semiaquatic Larians in the slightest.
On the upper deck, Vashon had to grab at a railing to steady himself as the strideship rose up out of the shallows. As the directions of the ship’s navigator were relayed to the pedalers below, they responded accordingly. This enabled the ship, now walking out onto the shelf of black schist before it, to turn left or right as required. As the amphibious vessel headed inland and away from the inlet, its dozen garulag legs and circular feet shed water, vegetation, and aquatic arthropods frantic to make it back to the safety of the dark green water before their presence was discovered by land-dwelling carnivores.
Having likewise deployed its own legs, their pursuer emerged on shore slightly behind and to the right of Vashon’s craft. It was now close enough for him to clearly see without the aid of a spyglass that its upper deck was packed with heavily armed natives. They wielded swords, spears, single-shot pistols, and something like a cross between an arquebus and a slingshot that could fire spheres of lit gunpowder packed with metal shards: a kind of crude grenade and launcher. Several of these came flying toward him and he ducked. Most exploded noisily but harmlessly in the air, their fuses mistimed. One did land on deck and started a small fire that was quickly snuffed out by an alert member of Zkerig’s crew. Another struck a soldier on the shoulder, tumbled down his front, and blew off two of his fingers as he tried to fling it away.
As the attacking strideship came lurching toward them, Zkerig called for a quick maneuver that threw his own vessel into reverse. It was a dangerous tactic, as it subjected the unsophisticated brass gearing to exceptional stress. Below, a pair of linked-together crew members had to throw themselves out of the way as one of the chains working the leg they powered snapped, sending links and bits of metal flying. The strideship’s two mechanics set to work making repairs, but for the moment at least, one of their dozen legs was now out of action.
It proved a worthwhile ploy, however. Caught by surprise and unable to reverse direction in time to match that of their quarry, their attacker started to slow—but not fast enough. As Zkerig’s ship started backward, the aggressor ran past it. Both sides exchanged individual cannon fire, there apparently being no Larian equivalent of a coordinated broadside. The cannons were small in size, light in weight, and hard-pressed to do any real damage. Even so, wood and some bone were shattered on both sides.
As the enemy strove to regroup, Zkerig’s strideship, now behind its attacker, executed a quick right turn. This brought it behind the enemy, allowing each of its guns to blast away unimpeded and at close range at the stern of the other craft. Destroying its rudder would render it helpless on the water—except they weren’t on the water. On land, a strideship’s rudder meant nothing, did nothing, was clamped down and not used.
Vashon finally understood the Tralltag’s strategy. Initially looking as if they were trying to flee via land, they now found themselves behind their assailant. Sure enough, as soon as his cannon had made a hash of the other craft’s in-water steering gear, Zkerig ordered them back toward the inlet from which they had just emerged. Their attacker could follow them into the water, but by doing so, in the absence of a usable rudder and therefore unable to steer, the other ship would only be placing its crew in grave danger.
Infuriated and frustrated, their assailants could only hurl insults and the occasional grenade in their prey’s direction as they fought to turn their own vessel around. The articulation of the multiple garulag legs on both ships was simple and effective, but not especially responsive. As it came around, the pursuer fired its cannon at Zkerig’s retreating vessel in an attempt to replicate the damage that had been done to its own stern. While gazing aft and watching their foe’s gunners at work, the Tralltag was ready for the blast. At the critical moment, when the attacking gunners prepared to light their weapons, he sang out a command, but it took the attentive Vashon a moment to clarify its meaning.
Duck.
Three wedges of solid metal shot went screaming over the strideship’s deck as her pedal crew, responding to Zkerig’s command, caused the legs they were powering to retract back up against the strideship’s hull. The abrupt squat of some four meters caused the cannon fire from the attackers to pass harmlessly overhead. Furiously working control wheels, the strideship’s mechanics then brought it back up onto its feet and it resumed its fully coordinated march back toward the inlet.
Unwilling to surrender a potential prize to better tactics, the pursuing craft resumed the chase. Whoever was driving her legs possessed the stamina of one of Largess’s long-range swimmers, Vashon thought as he watched the other strideship once again close on its target. Or else someone on her lower deck was threatening what must be a tired crew with the Larian equivalent of fire and perdition.
When its bow cannon fired again, this time it punched a hole in the stern of Zkerig’s craft. Fortunately it missed the strideship’s steering gear. A second shot might not, rendering them as helpless on the water as their relentless pursuer.
Up until now Vashon had put off taking any direct action of his own, content to leave the conduct of the battle to the eminently qualified Tralltag. But having no interest in seeing, much less participating in, a pitched hand-to-hand battle on deck and fully aware that a fused grenade or chunk of metal shot, however primitive, could kill him as effectively as the most modern weapon, he decided that he had no choice but to finally intervene.
Carefully negotiating the steps, which were placed closer to one another than they would have been in a staircase designed to accommodate longer human legs, he made his way down to the second deck and toward his private cabin. In the course of descending, he happened to pass the place where the most recent enemy cannon fire had blown not only a small hole in an interior wall but a larger one in the hull of the ship. A figure could be seen silhouetted in the opening, working to lower a line made of bed webbing that had been cut into pieces and retied to make a long rope. Diverted by the sight, he quickly changed course and entered the room.
Preedir ah nisa Leeh, Firstborn of the Hobak of Borusegahm Leeth, looked back at him and snarled. It was a characteristically tuneful Larian sound, but a snarl nonetheless. “Go and fight, if fight you can, otherworld interloper, devoid of fur. Go and leave me to this, for it is none of your business, as you have nothing to do, with me or with mine.”
He smiled tightly, though aware the expression would mean nothing to her. “Sweetly sung but wrongly phrased, Firstborn of Borusegahm, who I am afraid, I must insist remain awhile, and stay in my company, a bit longer still.” He started toward her.
Iridescent gold and crimson flashed as her neck ruff flared. Whirling, she confronted him with a twenty-centimeter-long shard of thick, sharp glass, the bottom half of which was wrapped in fabric to form a protective handle. The Larians made excellent glass, and she had improvised the knife to cut the bed webbing with which to weave her intended escape rope.
“Come closer then, human troublemaker, so that I can sing with you, a duet to the death.”
He halted immediately. On the deck above he could hear the roar of cannon fire and the occasional sharp report of a grenade or pistol going off. Through the gap in the shattered wood behind her, he could see the pursuing strideship continuing to close on his own craft, its bow crowded with explosive-flinging marksmen and as ferocious an assortment of natives as he had yet seen on this world.
> “There is nothing to be gained,” he sang back evenly, “by leaping from this ship, as surely you will be crunched, beneath its feet or theirs, beneath our garulag or others.”
Dark slanted eyes met his own smaller, rounder orbs. “Better to die trying, than to become a hostage, to a mad Hobak, who swills ignorance, and works against union.”
With a sigh, Vashon rolled his eyes ceilingward. As intended, this drew a fascinated Preedir’s unintended attention. While Larian eyes were larger and more elongated than those of any human, they did not have as great a range of motion within their sockets.
Bringing his right hand sharply forward, Vashon threw the lump of wood he had surreptitiously lifted from a nearby damaged piece of furniture. It did not strike the Firstborn in the forehead, as he had intended. Instead, it glanced off the top of her skull just to one side of her left ear. Still, it was enough to stagger her.
Rushing forward, he clamped his left hand around the wrist holding the makeshift knife and brought his right knee up toward her midsection. Her upper torso and body below the waist did not move, but the entire middle portion simply curved to one side, causing his blow to miss. Lunging at him, she tried to bite his face, but her neck was too short to close the distance. Muscular and wiry, she was an evasive opponent, on top of which he had to concentrate on keeping the hand holding the makeshift knife away from him. If he let it slip free, he knew she would go for his throat. The Larians always went for the throat.
The repeated kicks of her short legs and leather-sleeved feet he was able to avoid. While she could not strike or bite him, neither could he let go of either of her arms to hit back at her. In any case he did not want to do anything that might cause serious injury. A damaged hostage was one with reduced value. Besides which, his employer, his magnificence Felelagh na Broon, would be displeased. So they continued to wrestle, human and Larian, each seeking an opening through which to incapacitate the other.