The Cruithne smiled briefly, pleased. “You should know that the only way to get to the Shatalin monastery is by ship.”
The sailor on the floor rose cautiously on his elbows, eyeing Paedrin with anger. The Cruithne spoke down to the crewman. “Ready to sail?”
“Aye,” the crewman said. “Assuming anyone is left on deck who can stand upright.” He gestured to the ladder and Hettie came the rest of the way down.
“Cut the mooring ropes,” Baylen said. “Draw the gangplank. Prepare for arrows and fire. You both look ready for a fight. Hope you are not disappointed it won’t be with me. Once we go atop, are you ready to get attacked by the Arch-Rike’s men?” he asked them with a smirk, a glimmer in his eye. “Because they will send everything at us at once.”
When the Cruithne mounted the steps to the main deck, Paedrin thought the ladder was going to break under his weight but it didn’t. The orders were given and the ropes were cut and the boarding plank withdrawn. There were shouts of warning and curses from beyond. The ship began to move from the mooring and out into the sea. Paedrin inhaled and emerged from the hold below.
Baylen’s words were prophetic.
Arcs of green fire lanced at the ship, coming from the nearby vessels. Paedrin saw the enemy now, the other Paracelsus on deck, sending wave after wave of magical fire at the sails. The flaming globes struck the sails with a hiss and crackle, but otherwise plummeted to the deck and were doused by the wounded crewmen. The sails did not look scorched.
The Cruithne glanced at Paedrin again, a half-smile on his mouth. “It helps to know their kind and their craft.”
From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a glass orb. He then clomped to the quarterdeck and held up the orb. He uttered a word. A fierce wind surged in the air, sending the sails billowing. The ship began to pick up speed. Winds surged and rushed, released from the orb in powerful gusts.
Men were running down the planks of the harbor, some screaming and shouting obscenities at them. The boat rocked and pitched as the furious winds intensified, shoving the vessels into the harbor. The Cruithne reached into his pouch and withdrew a smaller orange orb. He spoke the Vaettir word for fire—thas—and the orb burst into flame. With a powerful arm, he threw it at the docks behind and the orb shattered against it, sending a deafening explosion across the pier. He followed it with two more, Paedrin staring in amazement as the flaming orbs arched into the sky and landed in front of the rushing soldiers where they burst into explosions, devastating the docks.
Hettie joined them up on the deck, her hair whipping about her face. “What magic is this?” she yelled.
The Cruithne took a defensive stance, a Bhikhu one, and held aloft the orb, his legs sturdy against the gale. He gripped the wheel and turned, sending the ship knifing into the deep waters. A shaft of lightning came from the skies, striking the mainmast. An iron spike was at the top and the lightning made colors dance in the air, but the ship did not burn.
“Almost beyond their range!” the Cruithne shouted. “I thought they would unleash a bejaile on us by now, but they probably haven’t thought of that yet.”
Paedrin still could not believe what he was seeing. Why had the Cruithne joined their side? Was his connection to Aboujaoude more than a boast of his fighting abilities but also an indication that he could be trusted? Had Tyrus trusted him?
There was a flash of light on deck and a contingent of soldiers appeared wearing the tabard of Kenatos.
“Tay al-Ard,” the Cruithne muttered. “Should have guessed that.”
Paedrin vaulted over the rail, flipping in the air, and came down in the midst of the soldiers. He struck as a whirlwind, crippling knees and striking faces—using his entire body to press the attack. They were armored, which helped protect them from his blows, but he knew the vulnerabilities and struck quick and hard, moving this way and that to avoid swords and spears.
One of the soldiers threw an orb at him and he dodged it, but the glass shattered and burst into flames, racing across the deck. Paedrin grabbed the man before he could loose another one and chopped his neck soundly, dropping him. Every sense in his body opened like flower petals, absorbing the scene around him.
There was a boom of thunder on the deck as the Cruithne also dropped from the quarterdeck. He had a sword in each hand and moved like an avalanche, crushing through the mass of soldiers, using his elbows and the flat of the blades. Paedrin saw how quickly he moved, which was fascinating considering his girth, but he literally trampled the soldiers in front of him and sent others sprawling. The clash of swords against armor rang out on deck. The few sailors on board joined the fight.
The sailor on the floor rose cautiously on his elbows, eyeing Paedrin with anger. The Cruithne spoke down to the crewman. “Ready to sail?”
“Aye,” the crewman said. “Assuming anyone is left on deck who can stand upright.” He gestured to the ladder and Hettie came the rest of the way down.
“Cut the mooring ropes,” Baylen said. “Draw the gangplank. Prepare for arrows and fire. You both look ready for a fight. Hope you are not disappointed it won’t be with me. Once we go atop, are you ready to get attacked by the Arch-Rike’s men?” he asked them with a smirk, a glimmer in his eye. “Because they will send everything at us at once.”
When the Cruithne mounted the steps to the main deck, Paedrin thought the ladder was going to break under his weight but it didn’t. The orders were given and the ropes were cut and the boarding plank withdrawn. There were shouts of warning and curses from beyond. The ship began to move from the mooring and out into the sea. Paedrin inhaled and emerged from the hold below.
Baylen’s words were prophetic.
Arcs of green fire lanced at the ship, coming from the nearby vessels. Paedrin saw the enemy now, the other Paracelsus on deck, sending wave after wave of magical fire at the sails. The flaming globes struck the sails with a hiss and crackle, but otherwise plummeted to the deck and were doused by the wounded crewmen. The sails did not look scorched.
The Cruithne glanced at Paedrin again, a half-smile on his mouth. “It helps to know their kind and their craft.”
From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a glass orb. He then clomped to the quarterdeck and held up the orb. He uttered a word. A fierce wind surged in the air, sending the sails billowing. The ship began to pick up speed. Winds surged and rushed, released from the orb in powerful gusts.
Men were running down the planks of the harbor, some screaming and shouting obscenities at them. The boat rocked and pitched as the furious winds intensified, shoving the vessels into the harbor. The Cruithne reached into his pouch and withdrew a smaller orange orb. He spoke the Vaettir word for fire—thas—and the orb burst into flame. With a powerful arm, he threw it at the docks behind and the orb shattered against it, sending a deafening explosion across the pier. He followed it with two more, Paedrin staring in amazement as the flaming orbs arched into the sky and landed in front of the rushing soldiers where they burst into explosions, devastating the docks.
Hettie joined them up on the deck, her hair whipping about her face. “What magic is this?” she yelled.
The Cruithne took a defensive stance, a Bhikhu one, and held aloft the orb, his legs sturdy against the gale. He gripped the wheel and turned, sending the ship knifing into the deep waters. A shaft of lightning came from the skies, striking the mainmast. An iron spike was at the top and the lightning made colors dance in the air, but the ship did not burn.
“Almost beyond their range!” the Cruithne shouted. “I thought they would unleash a bejaile on us by now, but they probably haven’t thought of that yet.”
Paedrin still could not believe what he was seeing. Why had the Cruithne joined their side? Was his connection to Aboujaoude more than a boast of his fighting abilities but also an indication that he could be trusted? Had Tyrus trusted him?
There was a flash of light on deck and a contingent of soldiers appeared wearing the tabard of Kenatos.
“Tay al-Ard,” the Cruithne muttered. “Should have guessed that.”
Paedrin vaulted over the rail, flipping in the air, and came down in the midst of the soldiers. He struck as a whirlwind, crippling knees and striking faces—using his entire body to press the attack. They were armored, which helped protect them from his blows, but he knew the vulnerabilities and struck quick and hard, moving this way and that to avoid swords and spears.
One of the soldiers threw an orb at him and he dodged it, but the glass shattered and burst into flames, racing across the deck. Paedrin grabbed the man before he could loose another one and chopped his neck soundly, dropping him. Every sense in his body opened like flower petals, absorbing the scene around him.
There was a boom of thunder on the deck as the Cruithne also dropped from the quarterdeck. He had a sword in each hand and moved like an avalanche, crushing through the mass of soldiers, using his elbows and the flat of the blades. Paedrin saw how quickly he moved, which was fascinating considering his girth, but he literally trampled the soldiers in front of him and sent others sprawling. The clash of swords against armor rang out on deck. The few sailors on board joined the fight.
