Black blood began to seep from Salazar’s wrists. It dribbled out, running down his arms to gather in thick oily pools as the essence of the Reaver, the Lord of Death, was slowly purged from its withered old host.
The Magelord’s pulse quickened. His breathing became audible. His eyelids began to flutter until finally they opened.
‘Barandas,’ he croaked. The Supreme Augmentor leaned over him, his eyes suspiciously moist and a joyous expression on his face.
‘My lord! You are back with us. Lie still. Do not strain yourself. You have suffered a great deal.’
Salazar glanced at his wrists. The black ooze had ceased, and now his arms leaked simple, clean blood rather than living poison. He whispered something inaudible and the wounds began to smoke.
Eremul gasped. The Magelord’s skin was knitting itself back together. Such power, he thought, aghast. Such terrifying power.
The Tyrant of Dorminia sat up. His gaze swept over the Augmentors assembled around him and settled on Eremul, who felt a shiver pass through him.
‘Ah. The Halfmage. You have repaid my mercy most handsomely.’ His voice became harder, growing stronger even as he spoke. ‘You will say nothing of what you saw while our minds were linked. I will have your word or I will have your tongue. Which shall it be?’
Eremul swallowed hard. ‘My word,’ he said.
‘Good. Help me up, Supreme Augmentor. There is no time to waste.’
‘My lord?’ the blond-haired warrior asked uncertainly.
Salazar looked at his wrinkled palms and brought them slowly together in front of his face. ‘War,’ he said. ‘This attempt on my life was the White Lady’s doing. Only she has the means to use the Reaver’s own blood to poison me. We must prepare for war.’
The Measure of a Man
He cut through the water like an arrow, blinking stinging tears from his eyes. He was closing on Soeman fast. The engineer was only a hundred yards away. The flailing man went under again, and for a moment Cole thought he wasn’t going to surface.
Don’t you dare die on me, he thought angrily, spurring himself on. This is my moment. I’ll never forgive you if you drown.
Of all his many qualities, Cole had always prided himself most on his athleticism. He could run faster and further than any man he knew, and he was as comfortable in water as he was on land. He could feel the eyes of Three-Finger and the rest of the Redemption’s passengers on him now, could well imagine the looks of awe and respect on their faces as they witnessed the deeds of a hero at first hand. It was time the world learned the measure of Davarus Cole.
Soeman’s balding pate poked up above the waves once more, but this time he didn’t resume his laboured swim towards the Redemption. Instead his arms flailed around desperately, and he sank back beneath the water.
Cole grunted with exertion and redoubled his efforts. He reached the spot where the engineer had vanished, took a mighty gulp of air and then swam downwards. He could see the man just below him. He was twitching pathetically. With a mighty snort, Cole grabbed hold of one of Soeman’s arms and reversed direction, kicking frantically for the surface.
His head broke the water and he gasped for breath. He dragged the engineer up and held his mouth open with one hand, beating on his chest with the other as he desperately treaded water. With a strangled retching sound, Soeman puked out water and began coughing uncontrollably. Cole sighed with relief. He’ll live.
‘Hold on tight,’ he said, and with one arm looped around Soeman’s chest to keep him afloat he swam for the carrack ahead of them. Their progress was agonizingly slow compared with the quicksilver pace Cole had set in the opposite direction, but nonetheless the Redemption drew nearer.
‘You saved me,’ Soeman managed to croak once he was sufficiently recovered from his near-drowning.
‘It’s what I do,’ Cole replied. ‘Try to remain still. If you wriggle around you’ll only hinder us.’
He had saved a man’s life. He thought back to the Hook and his failed attempt to rescue the poor old sod who had been chosen by the Black Lottery. His anger at having let the man die still rankled with him, not least because things would have gone so differently back at the Shard hideout. Garrett and the others would learn to respect him soon enough, once he returned with Magebane and a crew of loyal men under his command.
‘Uh,’ Soeman mumbled. His right arm waved vaguely at something in front of him.
‘What is it? I thought I told you to keep still…’ Cole’s words trailed off when he saw what the engineer was pointing at. There was a rowing boat full of Watchmen in the distance. It was closing the gap between them at frightening speed.
‘Kick your damned legs!’ Cole shrieked, pushing down on the water with all the strength he could muster.
The Redemption was within hailing distance. ‘Lower a rope,’ he shouted. Someone must have heard him, as a figure hurried across the deck and threw a line over the side of the ship. Fifty more yards, he thought.
His legs burning with exhaustion, so heavy they felt like they would drag him to the sea floor, Cole grasped the hanging rope and wrapped it around his body. He held Soeman close to him. ‘Pull us up!’ he yelled.
Whoever was above them complied, and they were hauled up the side of the ship and pulled aboard. Cole flopped out onto the deck, listening to the sounds of his heart thumping inside his chest. Eventually he looked up into the scabby face of Three-Finger. My loyal sidekick.
‘You did well there, kid,’ the convict said, giving him a nod. Soeman moaned nearby.
‘The boat,’ Cole panted. ‘There are Watchmen closing on us.’
‘Vessel spotted, five hundred yards to starboard,’ someone cried.
‘We can take them,’ Three-Finger said. He offered a hand. Cole grasped it and grunted as the other man pulled him to his feet. His legs still felt unsteady and his left arm ached as bad as his ribs.
‘The boat’s packed with them,’ the lookout cried again. ‘Ten Watchmen, a handful of sailors, and… that bastard Augmentor.’
‘Who here has a crossbow?’ Three-Finger bellowed. One man raised his hand — the others looked around helplessly.
Cole gasped as another moment of inspiration struck. ‘The artillery,’ he shouted. ‘We can sink them before they reach us.’ He ran over to one of the small cannons mounted on the forecastle. ‘Get me some powder, a small wad of cloth, and a flint and tinder,’ he ordered one of the sailors close to him. The man hurried over to the hold at the stern. He returned with three small canvas bags, nondescript save for the red flames inked near their centres.
The young Shard reached down at his belt, grasping for the hilt of Magebane. With a curse he remembered that he no longer possessed his precious dagger. ‘Pass me your knife,’ he said. He took the blade from the sailor and cut open one of the bags, emptying its contents into the end of the cannon.
Artillery operated by alchemy was a relatively new invention. The components needed to create the explosive powder were rare and costly to obtain. Shadowport had enjoyed access to far greater reserves of the necessary ingredients, and the effectiveness of the City of Shades’ cannons, combined with its considerably more advanced shipbuilding techniques, had effectively won the naval war with Dorminia.
Cole had studied a few of the books in Garrett’s collection and he thought he knew enough to operate one of these weapons. They were cumbersome and potentially dangerous — but in the right hands, they could be deadly.
He grabbed a round iron shot from a crate near the cannon and fed it down the barrel with a wooden pole. ‘Bring the ship around so I can get a clear shot,’ he yelled at Jack, who spun the ship’s wheel with relish. The carrack began to turn. The rowing boat was almost within his sights.