The Coldest Sea Page 9

  Just as he was still on the deck of his ship, waiting to defend it.

  Time slowly passed, and Vinsen’s hopes began to inch up. Perhaps the Bleakhaveners had been buried beneath an avalanche, or simply lost their way in the snowstorm. No light showed in the east yet, and morning would make no real difference—not when the Bleakhaveners didn’t just outnumber his crew, but had magic—but it would have been less unnerving to face such enemies in the light of day. Slightly warmer too.

  He stamped his feet and kept clenching his fingers, but a sound from the iceberg made him stop, motionless and listening. The soft slap-slap of water went on, but the sound was echoed, a sharp snap followed by a splash.

  Parts of the slopes breaking off and falling into the lake, but he crouched beneath the gunwale, looking out over the edge and willing the moonlight to grow at least a little brighter. That didn’t happen, but as the slabs of fallen ice neared the ship, he saw them. They were easily as wide as boats and the Bleakhaveners stood crowded on them.

  Vinsen couldn’t see any oars, or any movement at all from the dark shapes clustered on the surfaces of ice, but they skimmed over the water until they thumped lightly against the hull.

  He breathed out slowly, seeing mist rise before him. That was another reason to want the battle fought in the light of day, when his enemies would have been ordinary mortals instead of nightmares hacked out of living ice. Too late now.

  Ice and wood alike creaked as the Bleakhaveners began to climb up. Despite the magic on their side, they were cautious; grapples flew up and hooked around rails caked white. Keeping a wide distance from each other, two Bleakhaveners clambered over the gunwale and stood on the deck. Vinsen stayed where he was, hoping desperately that at least one or two of the men he’d stationed on the masts was alive. He had the anchor, but if the Bleakhaveners saw it coming, they might have time to evade it—and he couldn’t use it until they all climbed on board.

  He hoped to the Unity they would do that soon, before he froze to death.

  One of the scouts moved away as if to explore the deck, while the other remained in place. They were trained well, he had to admit. No talk, no unnecessary movements. The furthermost scout raised an arm in a silent signal, the one next to the gunwale copied the gesture, and the other Bleakhaveners came aboard.

  Vinsen couldn’t be sure which one was their leader. The first over the rail was a stocky man bundled in furs with a pickaxe in hand, but they all looked like that. And they were an endless wave over the side, the forerunners moving away to make room for the others. He couldn’t make out individuals any longer because there were so many of them, clustered together, but that gave him the best possible chance to attack.

  Straightening up, he took a step towards the anchor. The nearest of the Bleakhaveners was at least twenty feet away from him, and he should have gone unnoticed—but he didn’t. There was a sharp exclamation, and the Bleakhaveners turned in his direction.

  Before they could act, thick gobs of snow splatted down from above. Now, Vinsen thought as the Bleakhaveners glanced up.

  A weighted net dropped from the yardarms fifty feet above them, landing over half the Bleakhaveners. Others threw themselves aside or rolled away, but before they could recover, more snow came down as sailcloth whipped out overhead. The unfurled sail was the next thing to fall. It descended on the trapped Bleakhaveners, swallowing them up and hiding them from sight.

  It wouldn’t hurt them any more than the net had, but they were startled and disoriented. Most of all, it held them in place for the moments Vinsen needed to reach the anchor.

  After the anchor had been hauled up and onto the deck, its chain had been lifted over a yardarm and made fast there. That was another reason for the ropes tying the ship to the pitons, to make certain Fallstar wouldn’t be too unbalanced by the anchor’s weight when it moved.

  Vinsen clambered up onto the crate as fast as he could. His legs might have been made of lead. Those Bleakhaveners who could do so scrambled to their feet, but on the other end of the ship, the hatch was heaved open.

  The deck below was no longer silent. The dog barked wildly, men shouted—the sounds echoing off the inside of the ship—and both sounds were nearly drowned by a fierce clanging of metal beaten on metal. That was mostly ladles and spoons against every brass pot from the galley, but the clanging filled the night and held the Bleakhaveners motionless, staring at the open hatch.

  The anchor had been wedged against the boat’s keel and the top of the capstan. Planting his legs apart to brace himself, Vinsen heaved with all his strength.

  The trapped Bleakhaveners started to struggle free, and there was a rip as sailcloth was slashed open from beneath, but a thin layer of ice gave way with an eggshell crunch as the anchor started to move. Vinsen gritted his teeth and shoved violently. The reaction sent him over the edge of the crate, to land flat on his back on the packed snow.

  But he didn’t need to see the anchor to know it had swung at the Bleakhaveners like a huge pendulum.

  A hoarse scream stopped abruptly as a ton of iron smashed into them. Vinsen scrambled up as the anchor’s momentum carried it on in an arc that ended over the prow. One of the crumpled figures impaled on the sharp flukes flew over the edge and splashed into the water. The anchor swung back.

  As it swayed past the center of the ship, an unhurt Bleakhavener lunged at it, snarling, and caught it, his heels digging into the snow. Vinsen had only a moment to wonder how inhumanly strong the man was. Then the Bleakhavener turned the anchor so that rather than flying across the ship edge-on, the entire face of it was aimed at Vinsen. He hurled it back.

  The anchor whirred on its chain, raking a white furrow through the deck. Vinsen threw himself aside and the anchor smashed into the boat, turning it to splinters. There was a solid crunch as the heavy iron flukes bit into the taffrail.

  The Bleakhavener had been halfway across the deck and he’d never stopped moving, not even to see if the anchor had struck home. Vinsen struggled up as his crew spilled out of the hatch to retake the deck, but the Bleakhavener didn’t look back. He hefted a pickaxe over his shoulder and threw it at Vinsen.

  The pickaxe hurtled end-over-end through the air. Vinsen flung an arm up, and the blunt end struck him. It wasn’t half as bad as being hit by the other end, but the force of the impact drove him staggering back against the rail.

  And since he was on snow packed calf-deep, the rail only came up to his waist. He lost his balance, went over the edge and twisted violently to grasp the rail with both hands. The sudden arrest of his fall made him gasp. Hanging from the rail, the gunwale solid against his chest but emptiness and freezing water beneath his feet, he looked up.

  Just in time to see the Bleakhavener bring the pickaxe down, point aimed at his fingers.

  Vinsen let go. He sucked in a breath as he fell, braced to hit the gelid water. Instead he landed hard on something that rocked beneath him, a wet slippery surface that sent him sprawling flat. The coldness beneath him burned through his layers of clothes. One of the slabs of ice the Bleakhaveners had ridden on, he realized as he rolled over.

  Above his head, the pickaxe had chopped through half the rail where his hands had been a moment earlier. With a grunt, the Bleakhavener wrenched the pick free. Instinctively Vinsen kicked out at the hull and the slab of ice moved in reaction, away from the ship.

  The Bleakhavener spun around and ran along the length of the gunwale. Across the deck, battle was joined. Lit torches crackled, steel scraped and clashed against steel, and the dog barked wildly. The Bleakhavener didn’t seem to notice any of it. He swung himself over the rail and landed squarely on the second slab of ice.

  The impact sent water sloshing over it, and Vinsen hoped desperately the man would topple, but he kept his balance. His stocky build gave him a lower center of gravity, and he stood with his feet planted apart, the head of the pickaxe between them. At least six o
r seven yards’ distance separated them, so Vinsen glanced at the ship. He needed to get back on it, and yet he’d have to swim through freezing water to do so.

  Then a window was thrown open. Maggie’s, he knew without needing to think, except there was no rope in her cabin. There was no light either; he couldn’t see anything past the net stretched over—

  He caught the swift movement in the corner of his eye and turned as the Bleakhavener came at him.

  The Bleakhavener’s slab of ice struck his own. A crack raced through the surface beneath Vinsen’s feet and he leaped to one side. The ice he’d been standing on was suddenly halved, the two fragments shaking with the effects of the collision—and he was on the smaller one.

  The Bleakhavener stood on his intact slab, pickaxe in hand. Water slapped up around the edges of the ice, blue-white in the moonlight. How the hell did he— Vinsen thought. Of course, the Faith.

  “Surrender your ship to us.” The Bleakhavener’s voice was low and grating. Beneath a fur-lined hood thickly crusted with snow, his face glistened in the moonlight, dark speckles running down pallid skin.

  Invisibly propelled and steered, his block of ice jolted forward. Vinsen flinched, nearly losing his balance, but it had been a feint. The Bleakhavener’s slab began to circle him, floating across the water’s surface.

  Vinsen’s rapid breath came out in clouds. His limbs felt half-frozen, despite the blood singing through them from the battle. He drew his knife, but it had neither the reach nor the heft of the pickaxe.

  “Surrender your ship!” the Bleakhavener shouted. “And Ruay. Or I’ll kill—”

  “She’s dead.”

  If Vinsen had hoped to put an end to any further feints or threats, he succeeded. The Bleakhavener’s slab struck home like a thunderbolt, and it shattered the chunk of ice on which Vinsen stood.

  Except Vinsen had been prepared for that. An instant before the impact, he leaped forward—straight onto the intact block of ice.

  He jabbed at the Bleakhavener’s belly with his knife. The pickaxe swept low to parry, just as he had wanted. As the heavy iron head struck his hand away, so hard it turned his fingers nerveless, he clenched his other fist and drove it into the Bleakhavener’s face.

  The Bleakhavener rolled with the punch. It still knocked him off his feet, but as he landed, his arm whipped out. The pickaxe flew through the air.

  Vinsen didn’t feel the strike. Only a flare of white in his vision, blinding him. He stumbled back, lost his footing and felt himself fall. Freezing water slammed the rest of the breath from his lungs.

  He’d flung his arms out reflexively, and he caught the edge of the ice before he could sink. The water was so cold it bit to the marrow of his bones, leaving him more dazed than the blow to his head. Blood ran down his face, but it was the only warmth in the world.

  “Vinsen!”

  It was Maggie’s voice, piercing the fog like a skewer. The thought that the Bleakhavener might have reached her in revenge for Ruay was enough; he shook his head hard and his vision cleared. The strike to his head had been a glancing blow rather than a bonebreaking impact, but his body was too numb to move, shaking from the cold. All he could do was hold on to the slab of ice as he saw the Bleakhavener struggle up to a standing position. The pickaxe was gone, thank the Unity—

  A fleck of moonlight gleamed off his knife, in the Bleakhavener’s hand.

  Vinsen’s heart jolted one last time and stopped. The Bleakhavener came at him.

  The net dropped first. The meshes came down on Vinsen, tangling the arm he flung up, and a hard yank pulled him back. The Bleakhavener shouted in fury and the ice began to float after Vinsen, but he was being dragged through the water, with that much more of a head start. Maggie, he knew without turning his head; he couldn’t look away from the Bleakhavener.

  The ice stopped moving, and Vinsen guessed the Bleakhavener had something else in mind. Teeth gritted against the killing cold, he kicked hard to propel himself the last few feet to the hull and grabbed the meshes with soaked gloves. Maggie was out of sight, but the other end of the net disappeared through her window.

  The water turned colder yet thick as molten lead, as if it was trying to pull him down. Panic shot through Vinsen and gave him the last dregs of strength he needed. He hauled himself up the net, grasped the window frame and glanced over his shoulder.

  The water went opaque as if it was filled with moonlight and its surface turned instantly solid, waves and ripples held motionless. Vinsen thought the Bleakhavener would charge across the ice at him, but in the next moment he heard a shouted order to run.

  He turned enough to slide through the narrow window and collapsed in a sodden heap on the floor of Maggie’s cabin. She was halfway across it, leaning back to put her whole body behind the effort of dragging the net in, but she dropped it and staggered back as he landed. Holding on to the window frame, Vinsen pulled himself up, in case the yelled command had been a bluff and the Bleakhavener was coming after him.

  Thuds and cracks sounded, shadows wheeling across the ice that now covered the surface of the lake. The figures which fled were bundled thickly in furs, and the retreat turned to a disorganized rout. The man he’d fought was nowhere to be seen in the confusion, and although Fallstar was trapped more securely than before, Vinsen let himself lean tiredly against the wall. He wanted to thank Maggie, but he was shivering so hard he couldn’t speak.

  She drew her breath in. “You’re hurt.”

  I am? It took him a moment to remember the blow to his head; his thoughts felt sluggish. Then he recalled the pitched battle on the deck, and pushed away from the wall.

  “Don’t move.” Maggie spun around. “I’ll bring the doctor here.” The door slammed behind her.

  Chapter Six

  Aftermath

  By the time Maggie hurried back with Dr. Ciura, Vinsen’s jerkin lay in a wet heap on the rug, and he was trying to pull off a glove with teeth that chattered so badly they defeated the attempt. He’d shut the window, but it made no difference; the room was hollow with cold. Carrying a lantern, she watched as Dr. Ciura made Vinsen sit down and examined the cut on his head.

  “In the infirmary.” Vinsen got up, although he needed to put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder to do it. Water dripped from his hair and clothes. “And I need to see to the crew.”

  He was shivering and sounded exhausted, but was clearly still in command. Dr. Ciura didn’t say a word, only helped him out, and Maggie was left standing in the empty room, not knowing what to do now. She looked around and saw Vinsen’s jerkin.

  That was a starting-point, so she picked it up—soaked, it was heavier than she had expected—and hung it on a nail. She found a dented tin pan someone had dropped in the passageway outside, probably when they’d been making all that noise to startle the raiding party, and set it under the jerkin to catch dripping water. Nothing to be done about the rug, though. It was dark with water and the corner of it squelched beneath her feet.

  She was lucky to be unhurt. Joama had told her to stay put no matter what she heard, but Joama had also given her a knife honed to a razor edge. Sitting in the dark room with that in hand, she had waited and listened tensely to the sounds of battle, but when the sounds seemed to come from directly overhead, she hadn’t been able to resist peeking out of the window, since Joama had said nothing about that. Maggie had known it could be dangerous, but now she was glad she’d risked it.

  The exertion had helped, but with nothing further to do she huddled back beneath her fur cloak until someone tapped on the door. She knew it wasn’t Vinsen, but for some reason that made her feel disappointed as she opened the door.

  It was Dr. Ciura, and he gave her a tired smile. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

  “Oh no, I’m fine.” Her palms were sore from hauling on the net, but compared to what he’d been dealing with, she had no intention of co
mplaining about such a little thing. “Is, er, is Captain Solarcis badly hurt?”

  Dr. Ciura shook his head. “Chilled through, but some hot coffee, dry clothes and a warm bed’s taking care of that.”

  Maggie had expected to hear about lifesaving medical procedures rather than what seemed like common sense. “I thought a fall into that water would be deadly.”

  “People who die right away from freezing water either drown or have weak hearts.” Dr. Ciura took off his glasses and rubbed the indentations they’d left on his nose. “Hypothermia is slower. Worse, if you ask me. But he got out of the water before it could seriously affect him, and scalp wounds always bleed a lot. He’s sleeping it off now, and since he was up all night, I’ll let him stay that way unless the Bleakhaveners regroup and come back.”

  Maggie hadn’t thought of that happening, and it must have showed on her face because Dr. Ciura hastened to assure her that was a worst-case scenario. “Don’t worry,” he said. “And you get some rest too. Perhaps later you can leave your cabin door open so we can hear some more music.”

  After he left, Maggie decided to put the jerkin in Vinsen’s cabin before he was discharged from the infirmary and could return there. That way, she’d make sure he didn’t need to come to her room for any reason.

  She squeezed the last of the water from the sleeves, wringing the rough bearhide out as hard as she could. Cold salt water was no better for her hands, but she had a pot of balm—woolswax and olive oil—that she could rub into them later, to keep them supple.

  She looked down at the jerkin as she smoothed the creases out of it. Vinsen had been wearing it on the night they’d eaten supper together, she remembered. Thankfully it was just wet, not bloody.

  Not that it was any concern of hers. She dropped it over the chair and went to get her balm, feeling unaccountably disconcerted. It was just an outer garment that might belong to any man, not anything intimate that might have rested on his bare skin. She twitched her shoulders beneath her fur cloak as though shrugging something off, and scooped a dollop of the balm into her palm.