The Devil's Looking-Glass - By Mark Chadbourn Page 0,42
he drew it from its sheath. ‘Let them earn their victory.’
With a deep rumble, the sails caught the wind and the Gauntlet jerked like a horse under whip. The hull protested, the wood flexing against the hard ice. A loud grinding echoed through the night as the vessel pulled free. Will wondered if the keel would survive its ordeal.
Launceston and Strangewayes darted to the rail. The younger man glanced up at the billowing sails and uttered a prayer.
‘You waste your breath calling to your God,’ Carpenter snapped. ‘We will not escape Greenwich without being tested.’
‘What hope do we have?’ Strangewayes replied in a small, wavering voice.
‘They die on the end of cold steel, like any man,’ Will said, trying to reassure him. ‘Whatever they are, they breathe, their hearts beat, their blood flows . . . and it can be spilled.’
Strangewayes nodded, hiding his fear. ‘I am keen to earn my first kill.’
Carpenter gave a sarcastic grunt and Launceston hummed, one eyebrow raised.
‘Let us put our differences aside,’ Will whispered, resting one hand on the youngest spy’s shoulder. ‘Tonight we watch out for each other.’
The Enemy had advanced to within a stone’s throw of the lurching galleon, which seemed to be moving through molasses. The cracking and rending of the ice against the hard oak of the hull resounded through the haunted night. At the last, the Fay warriors broke into a run.
Strangewayes was chilled by the sight of the shadowy faces and the silence of the speedy attack, Will could see, but still he grinned, believing the Fay were incapable of boarding the galleon from the frozen river. Will knew better.
‘Prepare to repel the Enemy,’ he called. ‘Hold them off until we reach open water and that is victory enough.’
Before Strangewayes could question the order, the first line of the Enemy reached the side of the galleon. Simultaneously, the Fay leapt. The thuds of the bodies hitting the wood echoed through the vessel. The next line of warriors followed. Peering over the side, Will and Strangewayes glimpsed the Fay clinging to the hull like grey spiders. Their heads swivelled up as one, their eyes glowing. Uttering an oath under his breath, the younger spy crossed himself.
The Fay began to climb.
‘For England!’ Will called, his voice rising above the shattering of the ice.
Along the rail, any crew members who could be spared drew their swords. Carpenter moved along their ranks, reassuring them with a clap on the back or a touch to the arm. Will could almost hear his quiet urgings: Do not look in their faces. Strike fast. Whatever you might think, they are Spanish agents in disguise.
And then the first head appeared above the rail, the skin near as white as the frozen river below, the face blessed with high cheekbones and a straight nose yet made like a rose rotting on the stem by the cruelty glittering in the dark eyes. Before the nearest seaman could even raise his sword, the Fay warrior lashed out with his left hand. Talons ripped through the seaman’s pale throat. Blood sparkled like rubies in lamplight.
As the gore-spattered Fay warrior leapt on to the rail, the other men rushed forward, levelling swords and swinging cudgels. Sheer weight of numbers dislodged the boarder. But then the silent Fay attack erupted in force all along the rail.
A grey figure swung in front of Will. The spy parried one strike and pivoted to ram his shoulder against his opponent. For a moment, they hung together against the rail, enveloped in the loamy odour of dark tunnels far underground. Their eyes met. Will saw no compassion there, only contempt for some rough beast that was almost beneath its notice. And then the Fay fell backwards and down towards the ice.
The cries of wounded men echoed across the deck, the iron tang of blood caught on the cold breeze. When a man fell, Will darted into the space, thrusting with his rapier as each new bone-white face heaved into view. He glimpsed Launceston, a curious expression on his face as he studied the deep wound his blade had made across the neck of his opponent: a lick of his lips, a flicker of a smile. Carpenter swung his sword like a butcher carving a cow with strong, hard blows, his lips curled back from his teeth. And Strangewayes darted fast and low, each thrust made with grim determination. Yet the wave of Fay warriors seemed as if it would never end.