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All afternoon, Aswan Trader’s Stirling engine propelled the barquentine through the sinuous passage aided by the foremast’s topsails. On deck, a thick, heavy blanket of noxiously aromatic air enveloped crew and passengers. Each breath was like swallowing a lungful of warm water, and the native insects, though incapable of digesting human blood and flesh, multiplied with each kilometer deeper into what Horam privately dubbed a green hell. If ever his old unit wanted a new training area that would challenge its troopers, the Saqqara Islands might well do the trick.
He and the other three Brethren felt the sailors’ heightened awareness like a living entity enveloping the ship. It was evident in Captain Fenrir’s demeanor, the way his eyes were never at rest, and his fingers never stopped touching the shotgun hanging from his right shoulder on a leather sling. Primitive by Lyonesse standards, the twin-barrel weapons firing chemically propelled ball bearings could be more devastating at short range than even a plasma rifle. But beyond a dozen meters, perhaps even less, they were well-nigh useless.
Other than the four railguns of unknown origin, Aswan Trader’s only longer-range weapons were smooth-barreled muskets firing a fifteen-millimeter ball. More accurate and with greater range than the shotguns, they would still be hard-pressed to hit a pirate boat at fifty meters from the deck of a moving ship. And their rate of fire was desperately slow when faced with a hundred screaming savages intent on murder.
Horam knew this before coming aboard the barquentine, both from reading about primitive firearms and spending time at the range in Thebes with the local militia. He understood his and the other three railguns would be instrumental in case of a pirate raid. Their first line of defense was distance.
If they were reduced to shotguns against a drugged swarm climbing over the gunwales, the battle was as good as lost. Would that a squad of his former comrades was backing him up. Nothing on this world would win against a half-dozen armored and armed Lyonesse Marines. Unexpectedly, a deep longing for his former vocation threatened to overwhelm the Friar, even though he’d taken off the uniform almost fifteen years earlier. Until now, the bond among Brethren of the Void had been enough, but as he faced his first real peril since donning a cassock, Horam missed the rough comradeship among Marines ready for anything.
As the sun kissed the sharp hilltops, throwing long shadows across the Central Passage, the dark shores took on a more menacing aspect. Try as he might, the Friar couldn’t make out the far end where the risk of a pirate swarm vanished. As a result, he wondered whether they might be forced to anchor in this narrow channel, exposed to shore-based predators capable of launching an overwhelming attack against a tired, anxious crew.
Another bend in the broad channel, another tack while the engine kept chugging along. The shadows now reached the deck, and the Brethren, clustered at the taffrail, felt a collective chill seize their bodies. Lilith caught Rianne’s attention and made a face.
“I sense evil,” she murmured.
“Likewise.” A pause. “In fact, I’ve sensed evil since we saw Cimarron’s wreck. As if pirate scouts were watching us.”
Lilith gave her superior a startled glance, then thought back, wondering if she’d missed anything. The Friars, privy to the conversation, exchanged looks. They knew about the Sisters’ fey talent and respected it. They also possessed enough extrasensory awareness of their own to be more on edge than usual.
“Now that you mention it, I’ve been uneasy ever since but didn’t consider my feelings worthy of mention since I thought they might stem from the story Captain Fenrir told.”
“Never dismiss your feelings. They might be the only thing standing between you and the Infinite Void.”
Lilith bowed her head.
“Yes, Sister.”
“Are we in danger?” Alcide asked in a whisper.
Rianne didn’t immediately reply. Instead, she leaned over the starboard railing and studied the next bend in the channel.
“Perhaps. Feral energies stir beneath the trees now that the shadows are growing longer. Lilith, please reach out.”
The younger Sister, who’d been a mere novice only a few months earlier, inclined her head, knowing this was part of her ongoing development. She faced the shore, closed her eyes, and opened her mind. After a few seconds of silence, Lilith physically recoiled as if something had slammed against her.
“I’ve never touched something so demonic, so inhuman,” she said in a hoarse voice pitched for her companions’ ears only. “They’re of our species but not like us.”
“How many?” Rianne asked.
“Countless dozens.”
“Try to be more precise, my child.”
“Yes, Sister.” Lilith let her mind float for much longer this time. “I can make out approximately a hundred separate souls, but I suspect there are probably many more whose weaker minds are drowned out by the insane aggression of their fellow tribesmen. Perhaps another fifty or so.”
Rianne turned toward Fenrir.
“How much longer before we leave the Passage, Captain?”
He glanced at his surroundings and grimaced.
“Hopefully, and if nothing slows us down, we’ll be clear by last light.”
“Can you increase our speed?”
Fenrir frowned.
“Why?”
“We’re picking up signs that Saqqaran pirates are massing in the woods ahead of us, perhaps just around the next bend.”
The frown turned into an air of worry.
“Did you spot any boats?”
“Not yet.”
Fenrir, voice raised, called out, “Stand by, lads. We’ll be under attack shortly.”
Neither of the two newly minted Brethren wondered aloud why Fenrir didn’t inquire about the signs Rianne mentioned. They knew better than to ask. When a Void Sister, especially one of Hatshepsut Priory’s strongest, used her powers of conviction, normal humans took everything she said as the unquestionable truth.
Horam hefted his railgun and headed for the mizzenmast’s starboard ratlines, which would give the weapon’s long barrel some added stability. The three sailors with the remaining railguns had already taken up their firing positions.
Rianne gave Lilith and Alcide a significant look, then drew her personal weapon from the holster hidden beneath her loose robes. Both followed suit.
“Can you sense a change in the pirates’ mood?”
Lilith closed her eyes again, then nodded.
“Excitement rising to a fever pitch. It’s almost obscene in a manner I cannot explain with mere words.”
“It likely means they’ll attack while we’re coming around the bend. We should say a prayer now, so the Almighty ends the torment those tortured souls endure every day of their lives.”
“Yes, Sister.”
An ominous silence settled over Aswan Trader, broken only by the regular, dull rumble of the Stirling engine’s pistons going back and forth, propelling the ship on its own. Harnessing the faint, constantly shifting breeze was too tricky with the entire crew standing by to repel boarders, and all sails were furled.
The first high-pitched yelp echoing across the channel’s dark waters caught everyone by surprise. Several among the crew almost jumped out of their skins. Dozens of more voices joined in an incomprehensible, rhythmic war cry intended to enhance aggression and suppress any hesitation. Moments later, the first boats appeared, each crammed with rowers and men holding spears, bows, and even weapons that seemed not much different from Aswan Trader’s shotguns.
And the boats kept coming from beyond the bend, filling the channel until the surface teemed with a single unbroken carpet of wood and flesh reaching out for the far shore.
The men in the boats hardly seemed human. Shoulder-length hair of various shades, from light blond to coal black, braided or hanging in thick mats, along with scraggly beards, framed thin, surprisingly pale, unhealthy faces disfigured by ritual scars. Eyes burning with the fires of hell almost seemed to glow in the late afternoon gloom. They wore little more than leather loincloths and vests, the latter decorated with bone shards, some of which might even be human. And the voices...
Horam’s voice rang out unexpectedly.
“Railgun snipers, aim for the hulls just below the waterline. On my command, Yost, first boat on the far left; Chiang, the second boat from the far left; I’ll take the first boat on the far right and T’kana, you’ll take the second from the far right. One round, then first switches to third and second to fourth, and so on. We sink them at three hundred meters, and they won’t be boarding when we crash through.” The Friar gave an astonished Captain Fenrir a vaguely apologetic smile. “Sorry, sir. Force of habit. You can get the man out of the Marines and make him a servant of the Almighty. But you can’t erase years' worth of reflexes.”
“No, no.” Fenrir waved the apology away. “You understand best how one uses those weapons. Consider yourself Aswan Trader’s acting gunner and do what is necessary, so we may pass through unharmed.”
“Roger that, Skipper.” Horam turned his eyes back on the growing and rapidly nearing flotilla. “Railgunners take aim. Call out your names when ready.”
In rapid succession, the three sailors answered while the Friar pointed his weapon at his own target.
“FIRE.”
Four subdued twangs rang out almost simultaneously, and within an instant, four little waterspouts erupted centimeters from the pirate boat hulls.
“Reload and fire at will.”
While the long-range weapons carried out their work, Rianne and Lilith studied the pirates through narrowed eyes, looking for souls beneath the contorted faces. But all they saw were gaping mouths spewing the vilest kind of hate as they waved their weapons while the oarsmen pulled with frightening vigor.
The boats soon filled the channel from shore to shore, and while none could stop a three-masted barquentine under engine power in its tracks, it didn’t matter. The pirates were preparing to abandon them and swarm Aswan Trader, as evidenced by one man in each hoisting a grappling hook tied to a rope.
Rianne carried out a quick headcount of the Saqqaran pirates and came up with approximately one-hundred-and-fifty, which matched Lilith’s estimate. The young woman would go far in the Order if her talent was already this strong after not even a year as a consecrated Sister. Would that they found more like her so the Theban priory might quickly become an abbey with dependencies in each of Hatshepsut’s centers of civilization. The planet’s rebirth would only speed up as a result.
“Railgunners — target the men with grappling hooks and firearms,” Horam called out. He turned his head toward Fenrir and said, in the same loud tone, one that cut through the Saqqaran pirates’ shouting, “Sir, we’ll be switching power packs in a moment. Might I suggest getting our muskets ready for a volley?”
“Aye.” Fenrir let his eyes roam over the line of boats and shouted, “Musketeers, take aim.”
Lilith leaned toward Alcide, her eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing boats.
“Is it just me, or are they lower in the water than a minute ago?”
“No, it’s not just you. They’re sinking thanks to the railguns, and I don’t see anyone bailing just yet.”
“That’s because they plan on taking this ship,” Rianne said.
“Good—”
Fenrir’s roar cut off Alcide’s reply. “Muskets, FIRE!”
A deafening crash rang out, accompanied by the acrid smell of gunpowder, then, “Reload and prepare to repel boarders.”
“Railgunners, swap power packs and reload.”
Rianne, Lilith, and Alcide, needlers in hand, watched everyone save Horam fumble with their weapons, even though the Friar put them through their paces earlier. One dropped his spare pack while another spilled slugs on the deck. The elder Sister closed her eyes and poured out her energy to stiffen the sailors.
She knew it would leave her exhausted within minutes, but minutes were all they had to make it through or die under the pirates’ savage assault. The latter still outnumbered Aswan Trader’s crew and passengers over two to one.
The railguns resumed firing, and at this close range, the Brethren saw chests and heads exploding in a red spray as the fifteen-millimeter slugs tore through human flesh and bone. But the pirates simply kept rowing, oblivious to the carnage. Rianne absently noticed Alcide and Lilith fighting off nausea by subvocalizing their meditation mantras.
“Here they come,” the forward lookout shouted, hoisting his shotgun.