The King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  Briana reached down and freed a long dagger from the belt of the last man to die, as she knew she would have no time to don armor or find a shield. The raider who stood before the door holding the torch was watching down the hall, expecting the other three to have finished the lone woman in her chamber. He died before he had time to turn and see if the murder was done.

  The dying man fell atop his torch, extinguishing it. Briana turned in shock as the hallway remained lighted. Angry red and yellow light illuminated the corridor, and she saw that the far end of the hall was ablaze. A scream caused Briana to turn from the flames and run as fast as she could toward her daughter’s rooms.

  Bare feet slapped on flagstones as the Duchess of Crydee raced to the far end of the hall. There Abigail crouched in a doorway, her nightgown half torn from her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear and she screamed again. At her feet lay a dead raider, and at her side Margaret crouched, a long dagger held ready to defend herself. A wounded man eyed her warily, and Margaret never acknowledged her mother’s approach, so as not to give the man warning. He died a second later as Briana struck him from behind.

  Margaret grabbed the fallen man’s sword and felt its balance. Abigail rose, and Margaret thrust the dagger at her, hilt first.

  Abigail looked down at the bloody weapon and reached to take it, then clutched at falling fabric as the nightdress slipped down off her shoulder.

  “Damn it, Abigail, worry about your modesty later! If you live long enough!”

  Abigail took the dagger, and the torn nightgown fell to her waist. She covered her breasts with her left arm and awkwardly gripped the bloody hilt. Then she grabbed the fabric of her gown and tried to cover herself.

  Briana pointed down the hallway, saying, “For them to be here, they’ve already killed our soldiers on the lower floors. If we can hold at the tower until the rest of the garrison fights its way from the barracks to the keep, we may survive.”

  The three women headed toward the far door, to the southern tower of the keep. But before they were halfway to the door, a half-dozen men came into view. Briana halted and motioned for her daughter and Abigail to move back toward their quarters, as she stood ready to defend them.

  Margaret took one step and halted as more men came into view behind them. She spun, back to back with her mother, and said, “We can’t.”

  Briana glanced behind her, then said, “Try to hold as long as you can.”

  Margaret pushed Abigail to her left, saying, “They will try to come at me from my weak side.” When Abigail looked confused, she said, “My left side! Don’t worry about your right. Stab at anything that moves on your left.”

  The frightened girl awkwardly held the blade out, her knuckles white from holding it so tight. Her left arm pressed hard across her chest, holding up the top of her tattered nightdress. The men at both ends of the hall approached warily. They stopped out of sword range and waited.

  Then those facing Margaret and Abigail moved aside, to let three large men in black masks come to the fore. The leader of the three looked at the women a long moment and said, “Kill the old one, but do not harm the two young ones.”

  With unexpected speed, one of the three men lashed out underhand with a heavy black whip. The slaver’s strap snaked toward Margaret’s sword arm. She instinctively twisted her wrist in a downward parry, but this was not a blade she attempted to block. The cord turned over in a serpentine and suddenly snapped around her arm, the stinging impact bringing a gasp from her. Rough leather closed down on her forearm as the large slaver pulled hard on the whip. Margaret was a strong young woman, but she was pulled off balance, yelling as she fell.

  Briana spun around to see what was wrong with her daughter, and found Abigail staring, eyes wide with terror, as Margaret was dragged along the floor by the big slaver. Briana leaped forward, blade slashing down, trying to sever the whip.

  Margaret rolled on her back, yelling to Abigail, “Cut it!”

  Then she saw Briana’s eyes widen. Behind her stood a raider, and Margaret knew he had seized the moment to strike from behind. “Abby! Cut the cord!” screamed Margaret, but her companion could only huddle in fear, pressing her back to the wall.

  “Mother!” screamed Margaret as Briana fell to her knees. Another man stepped up behind the first and grabbed the Duchess by her hair, pulling her head back for a killing blow. Briana reversed her sword and thrust backward hard. The man holding her hair screamed in agony, doubling over as blood fountained through his fingers while he clutched at his groin.

  The man who had struck Briana first didn’t hesitate. He drew back his sword and plunged it hard once again into her back. Rough hands grabbed Margaret’s arm and twisted it cruelly, forcing her to release the sword. “Mother!” she screamed again as Briana’s eyes went vacant and she fell forward onto the stone floor.

  The third slaver rushed forward and grabbed Abigail by the hair, yanking her roughly up, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. She screamed in terror and the dagger fell from her hand as she reached upward to relieve the pain of being pulled up by her tresses, and her gown fell to her waist.

  The men howled and laughed in delight at the sight of her bare breasts. One started to move toward her, stepping over the still body of the Duchess, and the first slaver shouted, “Touch her and die!”

  Two men hauled Margaret, kicking and clawing, up off the floor and quickly tied the girl’s wrists, then hobbled her feet so she couldn’t kick out. The slaver who had used his whip on her slid a wooden rod through the cords around her wrists and ordered the two men to hold her up. Margaret, like Abigail, had to stand on tiptoe, which gave her little opportunity to resist. The leader of the slavers reached out and ripped the bodice of Margaret’s gown. She spat at him, but he ignored the spittle upon his black mask. Gripping the waistband, he tore away the remaining cloth and she stood naked before him. With a practiced eye, he inspected her. He touched her small breasts and ran his hand down her flat stomach. “Turn her,” he commanded. The two men turned Margaret to face away from the slaver. The slaver ran his hand down her back; there was nothing intimate in the touch. He inspected her the way a horse trader inspected a potential purchase. He fondled her buttocks and ran his hand down long legs that were well muscled from riding and running. With a satisfied grunt, he said, “This one isn’t pretty, but she is steel under that velvet skin. There’s a market for strong girls who can fight. Some buyers like them mean and rough. Or she may earn her life fighting in the arena.”

  He then looked back at Abigail. He motioned and another slaver tore away all her gown. The men laughed appreciatively at the sight of the rest of her body, and several complained openly about not being able to take her right there.

  The slaver’s eyes lingered over Abigail’s full young form, and he said, “That one is unusually beautiful. She will fetch twenty-five thousand golden ecus, perhaps as high as fifty if she’s a virgin.” Some of the men laughed and others whistled at the amount; it was more wealth than they could imagine. “Wrap them both so there are no marks on their skin. If I see so much as a scratch that wasn’t here this moment, I’ll know they were not cared for and I will kill the man who marks them.”

  The two other slavers produced soft shapeless robes that were fashioned so they could be tied over the shoulders and around the neck, so the captives could be covered without their arms and legs being freed. Abigail wept openly and Margaret continued to struggle as rough hands lingered while they covered the girls. One of the men still fondled Abigail even after the robe was properly tied.

  “Enough!” shouted the slaver. “You’ll be getting ideas before long, and then I shall have to kill you!” Pointing at the men who had blocked the way to the tower, he said, “Finish your search.”

  The man on the floor moaned in pain, and the slaver glanced back at him as Abigail had her hands tied to a pole above her head. “Nothing can be done. Kill him.”

  One of his companions said, “Sorry, Tall John. We’ll use your share of
the gold to hoist a drink in your name,” and cut the man’s throat expertly. As life fled from the dying man’s eyes, the one who killed him wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic and said in a friendly way, “See you in hell someday.”

  A man ran from the far end of the hallway, shouting, “The fire’s spreading!”

  “We leave!” commanded the slaver. He led the band and their two captives away. Tied to a pole, the ends carried upon the shoulder of a man in front of and one behind her, and with her feet hobbled, Margaret still refused to come along meekly. She gripped the pole and kicked with both feet at the man behind her, sending him to the floor. She lost her footing and found herself sitting upon the flagstone staring backward. The lead slaver shouted, “Carry her if you must.” Quickly her feet were tied to the pole, and she was hanging like a trophy animal. As she was picked up, she could see back into the hall. Through eyes filled with tears of rage and sorrow she saw her mother lying facedown on cold stones, her blood pooling around her.

  —

  A GRUNT OF irritation woke Nicholas, and then he was aware of a questioning voice. “What?”

  The boy rose, and in the dim moonlight he saw Nakor standing over Martin, shaking his shoulder. “We must leave. Now!”

  Marcus and the others were also waking and Nicholas reached over and gave Harry a shake. Harry’s eyes opened instantly and he said, “Huh?” in a cross tone.

  Martin said, “What is it?”

  Nakor turned his back, gazing to the southeast. “Something bad. There.” He pointed.

  In the night sky a faint glow could be seen.

  “What is it?” asked Harry.

  Martin was on his feet, quickly gathering his belongings. “Fire” was all he said.

  Calis spoke quickly to the three elves. One nodded and all three hurried off into the early morning darkness. Calis turned to Martin. “I’ll come with you. This may have something to do with those odd sightings.”

  Martin only nodded, and Nicholas was suddenly aware that he was almost ready to travel, as was Marcus. Poking Harry, Nicholas said, “We’re going to be left behind if we don’t jump!”

  The two Squires quickly gathered up their belongings, and by the time they were ready to move, Martin and Marcus had already left the clearing, Calis at their side. Garret said, “I’ll make sure you get back safely, but Lord Martin couldn’t wait.”

  Nicholas understood; there had been a grim focus of purpose in Martin’s reaction to the light in the sky. For a fire to be that large, to illuminate the heavens enough to be seen a half day’s march away, would mean terrible destruction, either to the woodlands near the town, or to the town itself.

  Ghuda and Nakor waited for the boys, then the five remaining members of the hunting party headed off. Garret said, “Keep in a single line behind me, all of you. I’ll stay on the trail, but there are still many places to hurt yourself in the dark if you’re not careful. If I go too fast for any of you to keep up, call out.”

  “Want a light?” asked Nakor.

  “No,” answered Garret. “A torch or lantern won’t light far enough to help and would make it harder to see ahead into the woods.”

  “No, I mean a good light!” said the little man. He opened his bag and pulled out a ball that he tossed into the air. Rather than come down, the ball spun and began to glow, first faintly, then with increasing brilliance. As it grew brighter, it rose until it hung fifteen feet above their heads, illuminating the woodland trail for a hundred yards ahead and behind.

  Garret glanced at the blue-white object, shook his head, and said, “Let’s go.”

  He set off at a fast trot, not quite a run, and the others kept pace. They hurried through the woodlands, illuminated to stark contrast and absolute black shadows by the alien glow. Nicholas expected they would overtake Martin and the others quickly, but they never did.

  The journey became a series of seemingly unconnected images of a brilliantly lit pathway leading into the blackness, with occasional obstacles, a deadfall to climb over, a small stream to be leaped, or a rock outcropping to be skirted. Still tired from the previous day’s march and interrupted sleep, Nicholas fought back the urge to ask for a halt. His nerves jangled with fatigue and tension; Martin’s and Marcus’s faces had been grim masks, expressions he had never seen before, and he felt his stomach knotting in dread anticipation.

  The minutes ground away to hours, and at some point Nicholas became aware that Nakor’s light was gone, and the entire woodland was illuminated by the grey dawn. This close to the coast, the light from the east was diffused by ocean-born mists carried inland through the valleys and dells surrounding Crydee. Nicholas knew that the haze would burn off around midmorning if the day did not remain overcast.

  Later, Garret called a halt and Nicholas leaned against a tree. He was drenched in perspiration, and his left foot throbbed from exertion and changes in the weather. Absently, he said, “There’s a storm coming.”

  Garret nodded. “My joints ache. I think you’re right, Squire.”

  As they caught their breath in a small clearing, the haze burned away and Harry said, “Look!”

  To the southwest, a giant plume of black smoke rose into the sky, a terrible sign of destruction. The old mercenary said, “At least half the town, from the look of it.”

  Without comment, Garret resumed his trot and the others fell in behind.

  —

  IT WAS NEARING midday when Nicholas crested a hill with the others, putting them in sight of the keep and the town below. As they drew near, the size of the column of smoke appeared to grow. When they gazed down on Crydee, their worst fears were confirmed.

  The castle stood a gutted, fire-blackened shell of stone, with smoke still pouring from the central keep. What had been the peaceful seaside town was a charred landscape of smoking timbers interspersed with fires still out of control. Only in the distant hills to the south could a few untouched buildings be seen.

  “They’ve destroyed the entire town,” whispered Harry, his voice hoarse from exertion and the bitter smoke that stung eyes and lungs.

  Garret forgot the others as he ran toward the town. They moved at half his speed, Harry and Nicholas almost in shock from the sight of the destruction ahead.

  Nakor shook his head and muttered to himself, and Ghuda searched all quarters for signs of troubles. It was a full five minutes before Nicholas noticed that the Keshian had his sword out and ready. As an afterthought, Nicholas drew his hunting knife. He didn’t know what else to do, but having a weapon in his hand made him feel somehow more prepared to deal with whatever they might find.

  At the edge of the town, on a road between what had once been modest houses belonging to workers and their families, Nicholas and the others found the bitter stench of blackened wood almost too strong to endure. With eyes tearing, they hurried along, until they reached one of the smaller market squares leading to the main square at the center of town. Here they stopped, for more than a score of bodies littered the ground.

  Harry took a moment to absorb the sight of the blackened and hacked bodies, then turned away and vomited. Nicholas swallowed hard to keep his own stomach from rebeling, and Harry looked as if he might faint. Ghuda reached out and steadied the young Squire with a firm grip on his arm, while Nakor said, “Barbaric.”

  “Who did this?” whispered Nicholas.

  Ghuda let go of Harry’s arm and examined the bodies. He moved among them, inspecting how they lay, and then looked at the surrounding buildings. Finally he said, “These were some cruel bastards.” He pointed to where the houses stood. “They fired those buildings and waited out here. Those that ran out first were hacked to bits, and those that stayed inside finally ran out when the fire became too hot to endure.” He wiped perspiration from his face. “Or were roasted alive.”

  Nicholas found tears in his eyes. He didn’t know if it was from the smoke or the terror. “Who were they?”

  Glancing around, Ghuda said, “They weren’t regular soldiers.” L
ooking at those bodies nearby and others down the street, he said at last, “I don’t know.”

  “Where were our soldiers?” asked Harry in disbelief.

  Ghuda said, “I don’t know that, either.”

  They began moving among the corpses toward the town market and the castle entrance. A sick, sweet smell assaulted Nicholas’s senses, and suddenly he knew he was smelling burnt flesh. Unable to retain control over himself, he turned and lost the contents of his stomach as Harry had a moment before.

  Harry still stumbled along, half in a daze, as if his mind couldn’t accept what lay around him. Ghuda said firmly, “Come along. We’re going to be needed.”

  Shaking his head to keep from blacking out, Nicholas turned and followed the mercenary. Along every step of the way they encountered devastation. Nicholas was struck by the occasional odd item that somehow survived intact. A blue clay bowl lay in the middle of the road, and without knowing why, he stepped over it, leaving it untouched. A child’s doll fashioned of rags and straw sat upright against a portion of intact brick wall, as if silently observing the insanity.

  Nicholas looked at Harry and saw his ashen face was streaked with tears, cutting white trails down his sooty cheeks. Glancing at Ghuda and Nakor, he saw that their faces also were now grey from the haze of smoke that hung in the air. Nicholas examined his own hands and saw that they were covered in fine dark soot, and he touched his own cheek; his fingers came away wet and he almost quit moving, so overwhelmed was he by helplessness.

  As they neared the castle, it got worse. Most of the townspeople had fled for the expected safety of the Duke’s keep, only to be cut down near their failed sanctuary. Three men lay on the ground where two streets met, their bodies riddled with arrows.