Camarl was backing slowly along the stern rail, dagger held before him, half bent in a fighting crouch, one hand reaching backwards to check his position, eyes fixed on some unseen threat. He darted forward, then back, leaping to one side to avoid an imaginary thrust. Flinching, he clapped a hand to his shoulder, body angling to protect the injury his mind was seeing, arm hanging uselessly by his side, blade falling from numb fingers. Moving backwards once more, he suddenly ripped off his green cape and dived over the rail, plunging into the busy waters of the harbour. Casuel saw his head reappear briefly but realised with consternation that the young noble's attempts at swimming were failing, the skills of his body foiled by his mind's conviction that his arm was useless.
Several more white gouts of foam in the dull green water of the harbour signalled the fates of men falling from the rigging. The booms and canvases of the ocean ship swung wildly to and fro, flailing as if they were caught in some manic whirlwind while the gaily coloured sails of the little fishing boats hung gently flapping in the light breezes. Ropes lashed out at impossible angles to tangle around legs and arms, tools and spars rose from the deck to stab and club unprotected heads. A water cask pulled itself from its rack and bowled down on a couple of lads cowering by the deckhouse, crushing them mercilessly. All the while, the everyday business of the port hummed merrily around the carnage, unseeing, unheeding.
'Stuff me!'
Casuel managed to lift his heavy head to see Otrick staring down with a expression of mingled horror and wrath. He raised a blood-stained hand to point to the crowded quayside.
'Fair heads.' He forced the words out through gritted teeth.
Otrick leaned forward, eyes narrowing. 'I'll have the bastards.'
Women waiting their turn to pick over the baskets of blue-grey shells began to look around as fingers of wind plucked at their scarves and shawls. A couple of fishermen glanced up at the clear blue sky with puzzled expressions. Gusts of air snatched at skirts and cloaks and the press of the crowd began to loosen and spread out. Water began to seep across the quayside, exclamations rising as women cursed suddenly damp stockings and looked to see who could be so carelessly discarding slops, whether garbage had choked one of the sloping drains that ran across the quay. Several stumbled, cobbles unaccountably loosened, rolling underfoot. One nameless figure slipped and fell, a circle of confusion rippling outwards as someone else tripped over her, basket rolling round to catch another unwary victim. The cheerful mood of the morning began to waver as people looked round, puzzled and disconcerted.
'Right.' Otrick cracked his knuckles and bright blue fire crackled in his eyes as they glinted in the sunlight. The fair-haired men had almost reached the ocean ship but the growing disquiet among the quayside crowd was slowing them, although still no one seemed to see the foreigners, surely unmissable with pale heads shining above their stark black livery, silver studs dull with sea salt. A sudden, smacking wave wrenched a clutch of the little crab boats away from the dock, ropes snapping, the waiting townsfolk recoiling from the spray and leaving the black-clad men exposed. Water bubbled up around their feet, foam seething through the cobbles. Cracks opened up in the dock as their boots came down, catching their iron-shod heels. The men staggered, buffeted as if by a winter gale, when women just strides away could move without hindrance. Cries of alarm and annoyance from the people rose above the slapping of the water and the cries of the gulls. A dark cloud boiled up from nowhere and hid the sun.
'Just knock them down, I don't want anything too dramatic.' Planir appeared with Allin at his heels and raised a hand as Otrick gathered sparkling blue light around his fingers. 'We don't want to start a riot and I don't want too much to have to explain to Messire! This is bad enough as it is.'
The old wizard snorted with disapproval but the blackness melted away and the fair-haired men simply dropped to the cobbles as if they'd been clubbed. Shouts of consternation rose as the fishwives and sailors suddenly noticed the interlopers; some began forcing a path away, others moved closer then hesitated to approach, gesturing with wondering hands.
'The ship!' Allin pointed a trembling finger.
The chaos on the vessel showed no signs of abating; knots of terrified men were huddling together, fighting off ropes and sailcloth, spars and cargo as the lifeless objects around them continued their assaults. Some were trying to reach the rail and take their chances in the harbour but loose timbers swung from ropes, scything viciously down to fell anyone who made the attempt.
'So, who's doing that?' Planir murmured, lips thin as he set his jaw, turning to scan the dockside and the rise that led up to the town.
'I can't feel a thing; just how are the bastards working it?' Otrick's face was sour with frustration.
'There.' Planir pointed and a nondescript figure half-hidden behind a stall suddenly doubled over. 'Look for someone else who's not moving, towards or away.'
'Someone will have Casuel's blood on his hands.' Allin spoke up. 'Could you find that?'
Otrick rubbed his hands together and scowled. 'I've got one, there by the inn.'
A woman screamed as a man measured his length on the cobbles and nearly tripped her. She kicked him in passing, half by mistake, and continued to hurry away. Real panic was starting to run through the crowd now and the hapless man disappeared under a mass of booted feet and homespun skirts. When the press parted, he was lying like a trampled doll, cloak soiled, footprints clearly visible on it, fair hair dull with dirt and bloodied around his face.
The chaos on the pirate ship halted abruptly; Darni emerged from a gang of sailors and ran down the gangplank, sword naked before him. He ran along the dock, arms spread, head shaking, startled fishermen falling backwards out of his path. Darni ignored them, alternately searching the crowd for anyone he could legitimately attack and glancing down into the water for any sign of those who'd fallen or jumped.
'Darni, here!' Planir did not seem to raise his voice but the warrior evidently heard him halfway across the harbour and headed their way.
'Where are the stuffing bastards?' he demanded, face scarlet, drenched in sweat, seemingly oblivious to the chill of the season. 'I'll have their stones for this!'
'We'll take care of them in a while.' Planir knelt beside Casuel, concern plain on his face. 'Let me see that.'
He loosened the dressing with careful fingers, maintaining the pressure on the wound and mindful not to touch the bone hilts of the dagger. He snatched a quick look beneath the sodden linen and then tied it on tightly again.
'We need a surgeon and fast,' he said grimly.
'Bespeak Hadrumal,' Darni insisted. 'Talk to someone who was working with Geris; they'd been working on healing.'
Planir looked at Allin, who was folding another pad from strips of torn linen. 'You did well.'
'You learn a lot when stupid men spend half a summer dying in your hedgerows,' she said unhappily, kneeling to apply the new dressing. 'How are we going to move him?'
'Here.' Darni removed his cloak and spread it on the ground. 'We'll take a corner each and go slowly.'
'Let me help. What's happened to Gas?'
Casuel opened bleary eyes to see Esquire Camarl looking round Darni's shoulder, sodden hair in rats' tails, dripping water down his face.