Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [90]
The deck loomed, polished oak blackened by fire, coils of rope twining between fallen masts and bloodied flags. I saw lost helmets and splinters of white wood torn from the hearts of the masts. My throat was raw in the wind from shouting; I stood in the stirrups, hauling back so hard on the saddle bird’s reins that one of them snapped in my fist.
Men on the ship were gaping up at us, gore-branded and soot-charred, with their grim hands clutching grimmer weapons. There seemed so few of them. I saw their eyes widen; many turned to run. They thought we were going to hit the deck at the speed of free fall. I thought so too.
But just as I was about to release the reins and drop down into the saddle to cover Bryce, the hespern found courage from somewhere and brought its beak up. Its wings grabbed at the air as the legs shot down in an attempt to find a perch.
The torn wing threw the hespern off balance. Its right leg snapped as we landed badly and I was hurled from the saddle. The bird squealed in pain and fear; I hit the deck hard on my back, losing my breath as the holystoned planks slammed me in the shoulders and spine. It would have been much worse if the hespern had not made its attempt to land.
Gasping for air, I tried to roll over amid the litter of spent weapons and the wreckage of a once proud ship. My muscles felt bruised all the way to the bone. My vision wavered, full of spicules of dark and light.
Bryce! my thoughts screamed. Did he live? I couldn’t see him, hidden as he was behind the bulk of the crippled and dying bird.
Boots thudded on the deck, men running toward me. I heard a babble of voices. My vision started to clear of floaters; my lungs began to suck in oxygen again. I pushed onto my hands and knees, lifted my head to find myself ringed round with spears. I knew no faces among the gathered crowd.
“I’m a friend,” I said quickly. “I’m Ruenn Maclang.”
Startled recognition flared in many eyes. Some of the men lowered their weapons and stepped back. Others did not.
Then there came a savage shriek filled with pure, poison fury. Everyone’s head turned. Vohanna’s kryll had landed at the prow. The gargoyle-witch dropped from its back with the black axe in her hands, its edge cutting at the light. I could not tell which of the two, bird or being, had vented their anger in a screech. Perhaps it had been both.
Three of the men who stood over me, hard-bitten warriors carrying stained steel, raced forward to defend their ship. The kryll struck at one and took a lance-cast through the eye that put it down. But no weapon’s edge came close to Vohanna. She thrust a palm toward her attackers and a blast of dark fire smashed them to the deck.
“Ruenn Maclang!” she shouted, ignoring the fallen men who writhed at her feet in agony. “I want Ruenn Maclang.”
As the rest of those around me drew back slightly, I started to call out, to tell the witch where I was. But a third figure stepped between the two of us. This one I knew. He was of that race known as the Vlih, with skin dark as oiled jet and equally dark hair hanging in a coarse mane down his back. His fists were empty of swords for the moment. No blades were strapped to the two muscled tentacles beneath his arms. But Rhandh, bodyguard of Rannon Jystral, was never unarmed.
“Don’t!” I shouted. “Rhandh! It’s Vohanna.”
But my warning came too late as the Vlih weaponmaster dropped his hands to the daggers at his belt and lashed them up and at Vohanna in one lightning move. By now the whole fleet must have known of the “goddess” Vohanna and her power. Valyan would have told them as he led them here. And Rhandh had seen what happened to those who hurled their bodies at the witch. Perhaps he thought steel alone would be faster, and it was. Just not fast enough.
One of Vohanna’s hands flashed white and the thrown