Stan Nicholls: The Diamond Isle

An object soared overhead, describing a tight curve beneath the pallid clouds. It was disc-shaped, and it glinted in the rays of frail morning sunlight. Blades quietened, the fighters below watched as the saucer headed back their way. And they could see, as they scrambled for cover, that someone sat astride it.

The dish levelled sharply just above mast height, traversing the length of the ship. It moved at the speed of a javelin, bow to stern. As it passed over the stern, where the wheel stood on a raised deck, with the Captain’s cabin behind it, the disc-rider dropped something. There was another deafening report and an intense flash of light. Debris shot in all directions. When the dust cleared, the bridge was in ruins.

Banking hard and low, the saucer turned, preparatory to another attack. By now, some on board had collected themselves. They loosed arrows and lobbed spears. One or two arrows struck, but were deflected by the disc’s metallic hide. A ship’s wizard managed to get off an energy burst, an incandescent lance of malevolent particles that hurt the eyes. The beam clipped the saucer’s edge, gashing blue sparks, rocking it like a storm-tossed boat, but the rider quickly recovered and completed his turn.

At the galleon’s prow was a glamoured figurehead. Twice the height of a man, it comprised a voluptuous woman’s body melded with a hydra. Half a dozen writhing, spitting serpent’s heads projected from her sinuous neck.

On his next pass, the disc-rider targeted the effigy. Again, there was the glimpse of a dropped object; something that could have been a small hessian sack. The ensuing detonation left the figure a smoking charcoal stump. One dangling head remained, forked tongue wriggling weakly, the magic draining away.

The destruction of the freebooters’ beloved icon enraged them even more. But they had no time to dwell on it; the boarders they’d neglected were swarming onto the ship.

The explosions could be heard from the main pirate vessel, though few paid attention. They were too concerned with mayhem. Groups were fighting each other all over the ship. Corpses and wounded men covered the deck.

No one had bettered the warrior in black. His ferocity and stamina were unabated. He’d battled to the nub of the pirate horde and reached their officer corps. This assembly was dandified in their dress, except for the face charms they wore. The glamoured masks were grotesque, fearsome, demonic, and constantly undulating, taking on ever more hideous aspects. They were meant to intimidate. The warrior wasn’t deterred, however, and made no exceptions. To him, flesh was flesh.

He gave no let in cracking skulls and hewing ribs. Where swords were raised against him, he answered with savagery. And even where they weren’t. None who stood in his path were spared, whether challenger or capitulator. He scythed through them like a frenzied spirit, mingling a kind of insanity with consummate swordplay.

Then there were no more blades to meet; no more dying screams or pleas for mercy. A true deathly quiet descended. The warrior gazed about him, wild-eyed and bereft, sweat sheening his brow despite the cold.

A tattered cheer went up. Their elite beaten, the remaining pirates were surrendering their weapons. The islanders set to corralling prisoners, and to tending the wounded. But for all that he’d tipped the battle in their favour, they avoided looking at the warrior, except for furtive glances.

He seemed lost, as though dazed at having his purpose taken away.

Of the two smaller raiding ships, one was in limping retreat. The other was on fire. Flames had taken hold of its sails, converting canvas to fluttering ash. Islanders were abandoning ship, shinning down ropes to their waiting boats. The surviving pirates were jumping overboard.

A pall of oily smoke began to shroud the vessel. Moving at a clip, the flying disc sliced out of it and headed for the captured galleon. The rider flew low, letting himself be seen by the victorious islanders beneath, triggering a renewed clamour. Then he spotted his objective, and swooped to the deck.

The disc hovered in front of the fighter in black. Its rider smoothed down his mop of blond hair. There was soot on his cheeks. He was good-looking, his features dominated by shrewd azure eyes, and he sported a neatly barbered goatee. His build was athletic, with broad shoulders and sturdy arms. But his legs hung uselessly from the edge of the floating dish.

He stared at the warrior, who had a glazed expression and seemed unaware of his presence.

‘Reeth.’ The disc rider’s gravel voice belied his looks. ‘Reeth.’

There was no answer.

‘Reeth!’ he repeated. ‘Get a grip, man! Reeth!’

The warrior was insensible. A lingering spark of bloodlust still lit his eyes.

A wooden bucket hung from the rail beside them. The disc tilted slightly as the rider reached for a ladle in the pail. He lifted a scoop of water and, turning, flung it hard in the warrior’s face.

The icy sting snapped the man in black out of his reverie. He shook his head, shedding droplets, and brought up his blades. His eyes blazed. Passion rekindled, face contorted, he lurched forward menacingly.

‘Reeth!’ the rider barked, his disc swaying. ‘It’s over! We won!’

The warrior hesitated.

‘Steady,’ the rider added, his tone soothing. ‘It’s me. Zahgadiah.’

Reeth Caldason froze. He blinked, and started to focus. ‘Darrok?’ he whispered.

‘It’s over, Reeth. You can stop now.’

Slowly, Caldason came to himself and lowered his swords. He took several shuddering breaths.

‘You all right?’ Darrok asked.

Caldason nodded, expressionless.

‘You look terrible. But I’ll take your word for it.’ He regarded the Qalochian. ‘You certainly know how to ride a fit, I’ll give you that.’

Caldason ignored the observation. ‘It went well?’

‘Look around.’

As though for the first time, he saw the litter of corpses, many marking his trail. He betrayed no particular emotion. ‘Vance?’

‘Not here, it seems.’

Caldason spied the burning ship and its sister getting away. ‘On that?’

‘I doubt it. The bastard’s too cautious to expose himself. He’ll be near, though.’

‘Pity.’ It sounded a strange word to be coming from his lips.

‘Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got. Meeting them at sea was a good plan, Reeth, rather than facing them once they’d landed.’

The Qalochian let the compliment pass. His attention seemed to be wandering again.

‘We’ve captured this ship, and destroyed another,’ Darrok went on gruffly, ‘and we’ve killed plenty of the raiders. That’s a good result.’ He surveyed the scene and grew sombre. ‘But we can’t go on spending our people’s lives this freely. We have to find a way to-’

‘Hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Listen.’

Darrok bellowed for silence. The jubilant islanders quietened down.

It took a moment for them to realise that what they were hearing was someone singing.

The sound came from a distance, and drifted with the wind. But they heard enough to recognise its melancholy beauty. Though the words couldn’t be made out, the song had the unmistakable air of a lament.

‘What the hell…?’ Darrok peered around, trying to place the source.

An exquisite purity of tone added to the melody’s eerie, bitter-sweet quality. Islanders and captives alike stood enraptured, wondering at the strange, haunting refrain.

‘What is it?’ Darrok said.

Caldason slowly shook his head.

Darrok pointed to a lingering fog bank, well offshore. ‘It has to be there.’

‘Then Vance is, too.’

‘Do we go after him?’

Caldason considered it. ‘No. As you say, enough lives have been spent for one day. Why chance an ambush?’