Sword and Sorceress 30: Sword and Sorceress, #30

The Sea Witches

Robin Wayne Bailey

There are definite advantages to being female. Women have a natural invulnerability to some things that can enchant a man without even trying. When you are outnumbered by the men around you, however, dealing with the situation is still a challenge.

Robin Wayne Bailey is a novelist, short story writer, poet and editor. His novels include the Frost series, the Dragonkin young adult trilogy, the Brothers of the Dragon trilogy, along with stand-alones such as Shadowdance and the Fritz-Leiber-inspired Swords against the Shadowland. His short work has appeared in Darkover® and Sword and Sorceress anthologies, and in many other places. He’s currently editing a landmark anthology called Architects of Wonder: Fifty Years of Nebula Short Fiction and Little Green Men—Attack! for Baen Books. He’s a former two-term SFWA president and a founder of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame.

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Rough hands shook Cymbalin from a heavy sleep. She lashed out instinctively, but the rope mesh hammock that served as her berth in the hold of the Free Mariner hampered her movements. Before her eyes fully opened, she hit someone, maybe kicked them. She wasn’t sure. She tried to claw her way up out of a dreamy fog.

Deep voices cursed and scowled. Wake her up! someone shouted.

Cymbalin felt a strong grip on her shoulder. She batted it away and tried to sit up, but sleep still dulled her senses. She forgot where she was and tumbled out of the hammock, sprawling on the ship’s deck. More hands grabbed her, and she felt herself half-lifted by the lapels of her jerkin.

Where are the men? She caught the aroma of leeks and beer as a face leaned close to hers. Gruff voices echoed the first, all frantic and full of fear. Where is the crew?

Cymbalin put her hand in the face of the closest man and pushed him back. She fumbled for her sword. It wasn’t on her hip, nor would it be in her sleep. Too groggy, she thought, remembering that all her weapons were locked in the captain’s cabin. No weapons allowed for passengers. With growing awareness, she felt the rocking of the ship, its gentle pitch and roll. At sea, she remembered. The ship’s motion had lulled her to sleep, such a deep sleep, with her daughter in her arms.

Her eyes snapped open. She stared at the bearded faces of a dozen men with lanterns. Her heart lurched. My daughter! she cried. In the wavering light, she shot a desperate look toward the bags of grain, the huge and elaborate vases of wine and olive oil, and the rest of the cargo in the shadowed corners of the ship’s hold. Where’s my daughter?

An old man with sharply wrinkled and weathered features scrambled halfway down the ladder from the main deck above. There’s a child! he called to his comrades. His voice conveyed the same fear as the others. Up in the rigging!

Bring her! the man with leek-and-beer breath ordered, but Cymbalin pushed through and beat them all to the ladder.

Get out of my way, Grandfather, she growled, and the old man on the ladder retreated back through the hatch. Someone grabbed her ankle as she climbed upward. She kicked back with her booted heel and clambered up to the main deck to find another dozen men standing around the rails and the single mast. None took note of her. They aimed their gazes upward.

The men in the hold scrambled up after her. They tried again to seize her, and this time she made no effort to resist. None of them were armed, she realized.

The sails snapped and billowed in a stiff breeze. They had not been furled although it was plainly the middle of the night. But more confusing, the Free Mariner had made port. Nervous men and women in nightclothes thronged all along the docks with lanterns and torches, yet all kept a safe distance from the makeshift gangplank. Like the men on board, they fixed their attention on the darkly polished mast.

High up in the rigging on a narrow platform above the crow’s nest, at the ship’s very pinnacle, she spied her daughter.

Cymbalin’s heart lurched as the deck rolled under her feet. The point of the mast waved back and forth under an unexpected wave, and gasps went up from the men surrounding her. Cymbalin moved past them for a better look. Sorrow! she called as the wind picked up and guy wires hummed. Sorrow!

A young, lean-faced man handed Cymbalin his lantern. I’ll get her, he offered. He ran to the rigging, tapping a comrade on the shoulder as he went. Together, the two climbed the shroud ropes like monkeys.

The wind and waves picked up as clouds moved from the north and blotted the pale stars. The voices on the docks grew louder, more fearful, but some called loud encouragements to the climbers. At the crosstree, one of the young rescuers paused and, using his belt, tied himself to the mast while his partner continued upward.

Cymbalin called her daughter’s name again, wondering if her child could hear over the breeze at such a height. Sorrow didn’t answer or react. With small arms wrapped around the narrowest part of the mast, hair whipping around her face, she only stared outward over the black ocean toward the racing clouds.

Without taking her eyes from her daughter, Cymbalin spoke to the wrinkle-faced old man now at her side. Where are we? she asked. Why are we in port?

The first I can answer, he said. You’re in Linden on the Isle of Parth.

The man with leek-and-beer breath pressed closer again. Where is the crew? he demanded, clutching at her elbow.

Cymbalin’s breath hissed slowly between her teeth. She didn’t like to be touched, but these men were not warriors, she saw that now in their eyes and demeanor—just scared and worried townsfolk. You had a son among them? she guessed. The man hesitated, then nodded, and his hand slipped away.

The wind gusted, and the ship lurched. A wave washed up onto the docks, and the watchers screamed as cold sea foam sprayed them. The clouds swept closer, but the remaining climber reached the platform upon which Sorrow stood. The child showed no reaction, and the climber untied his belt, drew Sorrow’s small body against his, and then tied his belt again around both of them. With Sorrow as secure as she could be, he began the precarious climb down.

The mast rocked like a metronome as the waves grew. The guy wires sang, and the sails snapped and cracked. The first climber reached the second, still waiting at the crosstree. Unbinding himself from the mast, he gave his belt, too, to further secure the child.

Suddenly, the ship creaked. The vessel rose up, rocked, and slammed into the docks. Cymbalin lost her footing and fell, like most of the men on the deck. Watch your lanterns! someone shouted. That’s oil and fire on a wooden ship!

Rising up on an elbow, she shot a frantic look toward the mast. The whipping sails blocked any sight of the climbers, but then she saw them in the shroud, descending toward the starboard rails and the deck.

Stumbling across the boards, she hurried to meet them. The lean-faced young man who had first volunteered to climb the rigging untied the cords that bound Sorrow to him. His eyes shone with excitement and concern. She’s limp as a doll, he said with ragged breaths.

Cymbalin took Sorrow in her arms and rained kisses upon her. The little girl’s eyes were wide, but unseeing. Cymbalin had seen the condition before on battlefields. Tell me your name, she said to the young man.

Lane, he answered. He clapped his fellow climber on the shoulder. This is Micha.

Lane, Micha, she repeated, nodding thanks. I have a sword with belt and dagger in the Captain’s quarters and a small pack under my hammock in the hold. I need to get my daughter off this ship.

Everyone should get off. Close by, the old man waved a hand. I’ll get your things. I might be an ancient bit of blubber, but I’ve still got my sea-legs!

The other men on board were already heading for the gangplank and abandoning the ship. The crowd on the docks closed in again to see what was happening and to help as they could. Again, the wind gusted, the sails billowed, and the vessel rocked. Over the wail of screeching guy wires, wood suddenly cracked, and the rigging tore free from the crosstree. Cymbalin was no sailor, but even she knew that someone should have furled that sail. The way it caught the wind, the Free Mariner would soon smash itself to splinters against the docks.

The old man came back with her belongings. I told you to get off the ship! he shouted over the rising wind. Cymbalin pushed Sorrow into his arms and grabbed her sword. Get her off! she said. She whipped her weapon from its sheath, ran to the mast and hacked at the main sail line. Fighting for balance on the tossing deck, she swung her blade at the line. On the third stroke, the thick rope snapped. With an anguished wind-filled roar, the sail came crashing down.

Lane and Micha pulled her back barely in time to avoid being crushed by the heavy cloth and rigging lines.

Together, they ran to the gangplank only to find it gone, shattered between the ship and the docks. Jump! someone called from the crowd, and others took up the call.

No choice, Lane said in a surprisingly calm voice as he looked to Cymbalin. Are you up for this?

No choice, she answered. She sheathed her weapon and clutched her fist tightly around it. Then, she backed up to the middle of the deck and ran. Her boot barely touched the rail. With a cry, she went flying upward and outward, arms and legs pumping. For a heart-stopping moment, the distance seemed too great, but her boots scraped the docks and she rolled twice before the townspeople caught her.

Lane and Micha came behind her. Cymbalin rose just in time to see them flip once in midair like a pair of trained acrobats. Show-offs! she thought as they hit the dock and rolled once into the arms of their friends and neighbors.

The old man pushed his way to her side. Sorrow looked asleep in his arms, peaceful with her eyes softly closed. Do you want her back? he asked.

Cymbalin allowed a small grin, noting the gentle way he held her close. Eventually, she answered, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The man with beer-and-leek breath came up to her. You probably just saved that ship, he said, and the dock, as well. Yet, where is the crew? And if there is no crew, how did the ship sail itself straight into the harbor?

We’d better get inside, the old man interrupted. He turned his gaze toward the clouds as the first drops of rain splashed on their heads. A warm fire and a pint will make all of us a little less tetchy, especially you, Rolo.

So that was his name, Cymbalin thought. Rolo. She liked Beer-and-Leek Breath better. Rolo scowled. She had better have some answers!

However, she had no answers that they wanted. Inside a tavern, the men of Linden questioned her. A fire burned fiercely in the fireplace, and the old man, whose name was Rohn, made sure that Cymbalin and her child sat close to it. Two of the women brought blankets and made a pallet near the flames for Sorrow. Another brought herb-scented water to wipe the child’s face. Micha pushed a mug of ale into her hand. Micha pushed a mug of ale into Cymbalin’s hand. She thanked him.

While Rolo continued to badger her, two more men strode into the tavern. The crowded room divided to admit them. I am Skellen, the tallest man said by way of introduction, Chief Marshall of Linden, and this man with me is the harbor-master, Pucket. Micha and Lane brought ale for both men and provided them with chairs.

Skellen regarded Cymbalin with a penetrating gaze as he leaned toward her. "Like most of Linden, we were asleep when the Free Mariner sailed into port. He paused, studying her, noting the sheathed sword she balanced on her lap. How do you account for that, he asked quietly, a ship without captain or crew crossing open water at night and sailing right up to the docks?"

Cymbalin took a sip from her mug and met the Chief Marshall’s even gaze. She might have answered that she had seen stranger things during her travels. Instead, she shook her head. I don’t account for it, she said. "I bought passage on the Free Mariner for myself and my child. We departed from the port at Esgaria and sailed for three days. The captain was good enough to provide a hammock for us in the hold. It was all he could manage, he said, because they weren’t used to women on board. She took another sip and set her ale down on the hearth. Last night, I fell asleep with my daughter in my arms. She looked slowly around the room. I was still asleep when these men woke me. What happened in the time while I slept? She shook her head again. I don’t know. Where the crew is? I don’t know that. How the ship made it into port? Her eyes turned hard as she regarded the Chief Marshall. I don’t know that, either."

Ask her how her child got up the mast! Rolo shouted. Ask her that!

She was fast asleep when we found her, Lane said evenly. Micha and Rohn muttered agreement.

The Chief Marshall asked a different question. What was your business in Esgaria? We know the reputation of that land, a place of sorcery and wizardry and all manner of dark magic.

And yet, there is a port there, and your ships do business, Cymbalin answered. With a tight grin, the Chief Marshall inclined his head, acknowledging her point. Cymbalin decided to trust the man. With a few exceptions, the people of Linden had treated her well. I make my living with my sword and my wits, she told the room. I am soldier, no delicate flower of a woman. I’ve seen a score of nations and lands and fought in a dozen wars. She glanced down at Sorrow, asleep on the pallet by the fire, a nurse still tending to her. But sooner or later luck runs out for one like me, and I have a daughter.

You don’t want to leave her motherless, the Chief Marshal said.

Cymbalin leaned forward with a sigh. I heard stories about Parth and Linden, that a tired body could find peace here. I came to see if that was true.

The Chief Marshall finished his ale with a gulp, then stood and wiped his hands on his thighs. It is true enough, he answered. He addressed the crowd. This woman has done no wrong. I trust someone will see to her comfort and help her get settled.

But what about the child! Rolo cried. How did the brat get atop the mast?

Without glance or warning, Rohn smacked Rolo with the back of his hand. Watch your mouth, the old man warned. This woman and child are my guests. He looked at Cymbalin. If you agree, of course. I have the rooms.

Cymbalin thanked him, but a little nervously. For the first time, she noted the resemblance between the two and the similarity of their names. Father and son, she realized. Then Rolo’s missing son would be grandson to Rohn.

The Chief Marshall turned back to Cymbalin. Come see me tomorrow at the lunch hour, he said.

Before Cymbalin could agree, the tavern door burst open again. A gnarly man, dripping wet and wild-eyed, called out. Harbor-master! There’s another ship!

The Harbor-master cursed and bolted out the door into the rain. Half the room followed, including the Chief Marshall. Those who remained were women. Cymbalin sprang up. She would not be left behind. Yet, the nurse at the hearth caught her hand. Your daughter, she said. She’s awake.

Cymbalin knelt down at Sorrow’s side and stroked her daughter’s hair as dark eyes blinked. Mama, Sorrow whispered. The child caught her mother’s hand. Mama, I saw them! They spoke to me, and then they tried to take me. But I wouldn’t let them, Mama!

Who, Sorrow? Cymbalin said, looking at the nurse. Who did you see?

All the other women pressed around as Sorrow hesitated. Finally, in her small voice she said, The Sea Witches.

A faint gasp went up from the nurse. She pressed a hand over Sorrow’s mouth and looked at Cymbalin. Say nothing more! she said to Sorrow. Be quiet now! When Sorrow understood, the nurse continued, her voice low enough to exclude the others. She turned up Sorrow’s hands. I know these marks, she said, showing the scars on the Sorrow’s palms and the backs of her small hands. This child has been crucified. Her eyes narrowed. A sacrifice?

Instantly suspicious, Cymbalin drew her sword closer. She noted the bowl of herb-scented water. Are you a witch? she whispered to the nurse.

No, but I am from Esgaria across the sea, she answered, and I know things. If sorcery is behind all this mystery, those men are ill-prepared for it.

Then, watch over my daughter, Cymbalin said. I’ll watch over your men. She kissed Sorrow’s nose, and sprang up to strap her sword over her shoulder. Bolt every window and door! she ordered the rest of the women, giving them something to do. She wondered how much any of them had overheard.

The rain and wind buffeted her as she ran back into the night. She could see the men ahead. They were gathering on the dock, and she hurried to join them. Lightning ignited the clouds and the sky exploded. Far out beyond the harbor, she spied the shadow of an oncoming vessel. It should be anchored in safe waters! the Harbor-master said to the Chief Marshall. No sane crew runs at night in these waters!

Or in such a storm, the Chief Marshall said grimly. The wind will drive it straight into the harbor. It will smash the docks.

Not if we turn it. Lane touched Micha’s arm, and the two sped off down the docks.

Wait! Cymbalin called after them, but they didn’t heed. Reckless boys! she cursed.

The Chief Marshall shook his head. Newly-weds, he said, putting his cloak about her shoulders. Inseparable fools.

They’ll get themselves killed! Cymbalin gave back the garment, which would have hampered her. She took off after Lane and Micha.

You have no experience with the sea! the Harbor-master shouted.

Fast as she was, she couldn’t catch up to the pair. They were not only agile, but also swift. Reaching the end of the docks, they jumped down to the beach and kept going. The wet sand didn’t slow them.

Suddenly, they disappeared. Cymbalin stopped, staring and worried, her heart pounding. Then another blast of lightning lit up the sky and she saw against the night and black water a score of small boats—Linden’s fishing fleet. Lane and Micha were already aboard one of the boats, pulling anchor and preparing to launch.

Cymbalin wasted no breath calling out. She charged into the churning water and, with a lunge, caught the side of the boat. A wave practically bounced her aboard. She lay still for a moment, catching her breath, until Lane bent over her. An acrobat should have more grace, he laughed.

Cymbalin scowled. Are you acrobats or fishermen?

Micha extended a hand to help her up. In Linden, nobody is only one thing.

Get this boat back to shore, she said, or the only thing you will be is dead. You don’t know what you’re dealing with!

Lane went to the tiller and steered the small craft outward. We’re dealing with the sea, he said, raising his voice over the wind, and all its mysteries and dangers, all the darkness lurking under its sparkling waters. We lost many friends to that darkness. There may yet be living souls aboard that ship!

Micha began the work of unfurling a small sail. The wind filled it instantly, and the boat leaped forward. The prow smashed into an oncoming wave and, for a moment, the boat rose straight up. Cymbalin grabbed for anything she could hold onto as it came smashing down again.

Lightning flashed again with a brilliance that stung her eyes. She rubbed at them and looked to Micha, who worked the sail with determination and strength. If lightning struck the mast, he would burn. How can I help? Cymbalin shouted.

Lane worked the tiller, just as determined and strong as his husband. Stay out of the way, he ordered.

She didn’t dare try to stand. She crawled to a narrow bench that stretched across the boat from port to starboard and clung to it. The waves tossed the fishing boat like a ball, yet somehow Lane and Micha set a relentless course for the larger black vessel just entering Linden’s harbor. Unlike the Free Mariner, its crew had lowered its sails. Still, it charged onward through the sea, it’s gigantic mast carving through the lightning like a knife.

Then, Cymbalin gasped. She saw the first faces like spectral balls of light high above the vessel’s rigging. Eyes bright, hair whipping like strands of impossible smoke, three female figures danced around the charging ship. Then there were six. Then more. They dove into the water and sprang up into the sky, playing, chasing each other, embracing only to separate again and dive back into the sea, never taking corporeal form. They might have been children—or goddesses.

But they weren’t.

Sea witches, Sorrow had called them. Cymbalin knew them by another, much older name.

Syrins!

She had fixated on the spectacle, but now she jerked her attention away. Lane and Micha stared also. They saw the witches! They both wore rapturous expressions as they lifted their hands. The witches took notice and abandoned the larger ship. They darted above the waves to surround the smaller boat, to perch upon its mast, to dance in wildly dizzying patterns above and below and around the boat.

They’re singing! Micha cried. So beautiful!

Don’t listen! Cymbalin shouted. She heard no singing at all, but she knew the legends. Braving the boat’s tempestuous bouncing, she let go of the bench and leaped up. She drew her sword, swung it as one of the creatures passed above her. The creature might have been mist. A sharp chill radiated through the blade, almost numbing Cymbalin’s hand. Still, she swung repeatedly.

Their song! Lane called, raising his arms. Their song! Abandoning the till, he rose up on the stern rail and spread himself like a diver. His knees bent, and he prepared to spring upward.

Cymbalin grabbed his ankle and pulled him down to the deck. With desperate strength, she hit him once, then twice until his eyes rolled up into his head. She spun toward Micha. A wave hit the ship, nearly toppling her, but it threw her in the right direction.

Enthralled, Micha danced in mid-air to the Syrin’s song, eyes closed, and head rolling. The creatures encircled him, and the young husband drifted like a ghost already above the side and out toward the water. Again, Cymbalin lunged and caught an ankle, but the witches caught his hands. Dropping her sword, she caught his other ankle and braced both feet against the side of the boat. You can’t have him! she shouted. You can’t have either of them!

She strained with all her might, refusing to surrender, as the boat rolled and pitched. Over one shoulder, she glanced at Lane, still unconscious. Unconscious, he couldn’t hear the singing, she hoped.

Another blast of lightning cracked across the sky, a deep blue bolt of radiant fire. Cymbalin fought an instinct to shield her eyes. A second bolt like the first followed. It struck the witches. Even Cymbalin heard their shocked screams through the rumbling thunder. They let go of Micha, and Cymbalin sprawled backwards with her new friend. Scrambling, she dragged him to the center of the deck. Then she dragged Lane and laid them next to each other. That done, she recovered her sword and stood protectively above the pair.

The witches regrouped and flew at her. Cymbalin swung her blade in wild arcs. Each time she struck one of the creatures, a numbing cold radiated through her arm. I will not yield them up! she shouted.

Blue lightning made a lacework above the boat. Again, the witches screamed and scattered, and again they returned to attack, bent upon their prey—Lane and Micha. With scant feeling left in her arm, Cymbalin raised her weapon.

The boat suddenly settled down and the sea calmed. No, not the entire sea, Cymbalin realized, only a placid circle around us!

Then, the water at the bow of the boat churned. A bubbling white froth shot up and at the center of that, as if rising on foam, an image of—Sorrow! Yet, it was not Cymbalin’s Sorrow. The woman on the foam was older, stronger.

Also angrier. This Sorrow raised her hands. The scars on her palms glowed like stars and blue lightning lanced outward from her fingers to stab the witches. Dancing above the boat, they tried to dodge the bolts, even tried to attack Sorrow. She drove them back with relentless power, burning them even as they finally tried to escape.

Sorrow? Cymbalin called as she lowered her sword. "How...?

Her daughter put a finger to her lips, indicating silence. With a quiet nod, she slipped below the bubbling sea. The waters ceased to churn, but the circle around the boat remained placid. Out at the harbor mouth, the black ship floated in a similar circle, no longer a threat to Linden.

There was nothing to do but wait out the rest of the storm. Cymbalin couldn’t steer the craft, and her two new friends were moaning heaps of manhood. She laughed at that, knowing that she shouldn’t. Her ordeal had been nothing next to theirs. What they had seen and heard would leave scars upon them that would never fade.

Other boats came out from the shore to meet them. Rohn and Rolo, father and son, jumped aboard from another boat and piloted the way back. Rolo seemed in a different, friendlier mood, and Cymbalin wondered what people had seen from the docks. She decided not to ask—some things were best never spoken about. Once the boat made anchor, she ran straight to the tavern and her daughter.

The nurse still sat at Sorrow’s side. She’s asleep, the nurse whispered, raising a finger to her lips.

The gesture made Cymbalin catch her breath. The whole time? she asked.

The nurse looked thoughtful as she brushed a strand of hair from Sorrow’s face. She was pretty restless about an hour ago. She kept mumbling something. The nurse looked up.

What? Cymbalin asked. Taking off her sword, she sat down by her child. On an impulse, she picked up the small hands and examined the scars of crucifixion, now eight years old.

All she said was, the nurse dropped her voice, they tried to take me, mama. But I wouldn’t let them.

Phoenix for the Amateur Chef

G. Scott Huggins

It’s generally not a good idea to criticize the chef—if you can avoid it. If you can’t, you may end up with problems, although having to cook something that burns instantly to ashes would probably count as cruel and unusual punishment. Unfortunately in most fantasy worlds cruel and unusual punishments are legal.

G. Scott Huggins makes his money by teaching history at a private school, proving that he knows more about history than making money. He has four more stories coming out this year. When he is not teaching or writing, he devotes himself