Read Online Rogue Sword by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Historical fiction
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splash in the water ended his jollity. He looked behind. The nearest of the several ships he had passed was coming about. Up on the forecastle, a team of men rewound a stone-throwing ballista. So . . . the fleet officers had at last gotten the true story. Now they must put on speed, and make pious vows.
“Row, you sons of noseless bitches! Row!”
He heard the snap and clunk of the ballista, and another missile hit the sea, close enough to drench him. “Djansha,” he asked, “can you swim?” She stared mutely. “Can you--oh, curse it--can you keep yourself up in water? Like a fish?”
She shook her head.
Well, thought Lucas, if the boat was hit, that would be the end of her. It was best, he supposed. Better than Gasparo’s patrons, anyhow .... He looked at her again, and she offered him an uncertain smile. By all her heathen gods! He could not swim off while she drowned! It wasn’t possible. She would come back to him in dreams, with weeds growing from her mouth. No, let him try to carry her along, arid if he failed, let them drink the sea together.
What lunacy had ever made him lead her off in the first instance? He groaned.
Another ship lay ahead: a cheland, lighter and swifter than the galleys. Its oarsmen churned the water white and it moved across his bow.
“Starboard! Hard a-starboard!” Lucas shook his pike and threw Arabic obscenities at the other vessel.
An iron point smote the side of his craft. Was he really in crossbow range? The cheland didn’t look near enough . . . Oh, yes, it was monstrously near, almost on top of him. He would crash into those centipede oars in one more minute--A quarrel buzzed before his nose.
He swallowed until enough spittle came back for him to talk. “You see, lads,” he told the sailors, “I was right. This is no healthy spot, so don’t linger. Here, I’ll set the time for you. Thus: aSTERN of us are UGly men. Our LIVES they will not SPARE. Our HANDsomeness has STRICKen them quite GREEN. They KNOW that if we MAKE our port beFORE they’ve blundered THERE, the HARbor girls will SWARM o’er us and TREAT us very FAIR: to wit, igNORE those UGly men and KISS us everyWHERE. But IF you eat a CROSSbow bolt you’ll NEVer hug yon QUEAN!--”
The boat went astern of the cheland, so near that their wakes crossed. For a moment it sleeted quarrels. Several struck deep into planking. The foremost sailor whimpered and lost the stroke, as one shaft buried itself in the thwart inches from his hip. “Row, I told you!” bawled Lucas. “Are you deaf?” The boat surged shoreward again.
And then, as if struggling out of a fever dream, they cleared the convoy. Lucas snatched another glance behind. Ships were strung out far over the blue water. But they were not pursuing him into the shoals. Two boats had been manned and were after him. He saw sunlight wink on a helmet, a quarter-mile off.
The shore ahead rose abruptly from a narrow beach. A row of cottages lay near, but there was no sign of man or livestock, nor any boats drawn up under those poles where fishnets were meant to dry. Orchards and crop fields stretched untended beneath the still, shimmering sky. All the people had fled.
Lucas realized he was atremble with reaction. His own sweat stank in his nostrils. He made himself sit at ease, contemplate serenity, as the Cathayan monks advised; he drew a few long slow breaths in place of gasping. All his strength would soon be needed.
“Djansha,” he said, “spring ashore the moment we ground.”
Her murmur carried to him through the descending quietness: “Oh, my lord, you overcame them all!”
“That’s a pleasant way to phrase it.” He nodded at the sailors. “I thank you, my lads. When the boat goes ashore, push the oars out, hard. You’ll understand I don’t want you clubbing me. But still I thank you for your trouble, and if ever we meet again, I’m not the one who won’t stand you a flask of good wine.”
One man gave him a dull glare, but the other
“Row, you sons of noseless bitches! Row!”
He heard the snap and clunk of the ballista, and another missile hit the sea, close enough to drench him. “Djansha,” he asked, “can you swim?” She stared mutely. “Can you--oh, curse it--can you keep yourself up in water? Like a fish?”
She shook her head.
Well, thought Lucas, if the boat was hit, that would be the end of her. It was best, he supposed. Better than Gasparo’s patrons, anyhow .... He looked at her again, and she offered him an uncertain smile. By all her heathen gods! He could not swim off while she drowned! It wasn’t possible. She would come back to him in dreams, with weeds growing from her mouth. No, let him try to carry her along, arid if he failed, let them drink the sea together.
What lunacy had ever made him lead her off in the first instance? He groaned.
Another ship lay ahead: a cheland, lighter and swifter than the galleys. Its oarsmen churned the water white and it moved across his bow.
“Starboard! Hard a-starboard!” Lucas shook his pike and threw Arabic obscenities at the other vessel.
An iron point smote the side of his craft. Was he really in crossbow range? The cheland didn’t look near enough . . . Oh, yes, it was monstrously near, almost on top of him. He would crash into those centipede oars in one more minute--A quarrel buzzed before his nose.
He swallowed until enough spittle came back for him to talk. “You see, lads,” he told the sailors, “I was right. This is no healthy spot, so don’t linger. Here, I’ll set the time for you. Thus: aSTERN of us are UGly men. Our LIVES they will not SPARE. Our HANDsomeness has STRICKen them quite GREEN. They KNOW that if we MAKE our port beFORE they’ve blundered THERE, the HARbor girls will SWARM o’er us and TREAT us very FAIR: to wit, igNORE those UGly men and KISS us everyWHERE. But IF you eat a CROSSbow bolt you’ll NEVer hug yon QUEAN!--”
The boat went astern of the cheland, so near that their wakes crossed. For a moment it sleeted quarrels. Several struck deep into planking. The foremost sailor whimpered and lost the stroke, as one shaft buried itself in the thwart inches from his hip. “Row, I told you!” bawled Lucas. “Are you deaf?” The boat surged shoreward again.
And then, as if struggling out of a fever dream, they cleared the convoy. Lucas snatched another glance behind. Ships were strung out far over the blue water. But they were not pursuing him into the shoals. Two boats had been manned and were after him. He saw sunlight wink on a helmet, a quarter-mile off.
The shore ahead rose abruptly from a narrow beach. A row of cottages lay near, but there was no sign of man or livestock, nor any boats drawn up under those poles where fishnets were meant to dry. Orchards and crop fields stretched untended beneath the still, shimmering sky. All the people had fled.
Lucas realized he was atremble with reaction. His own sweat stank in his nostrils. He made himself sit at ease, contemplate serenity, as the Cathayan monks advised; he drew a few long slow breaths in place of gasping. All his strength would soon be needed.
“Djansha,” he said, “spring ashore the moment we ground.”
Her murmur carried to him through the descending quietness: “Oh, my lord, you overcame them all!”
“That’s a pleasant way to phrase it.” He nodded at the sailors. “I thank you, my lads. When the boat goes ashore, push the oars out, hard. You’ll understand I don’t want you clubbing me. But still I thank you for your trouble, and if ever we meet again, I’m not the one who won’t stand you a flask of good wine.”
One man gave him a dull glare, but the other
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