Mareth sang of feast days, winter tide, and summer solstice, harvest festivals, and spring celebrations. The words conjured images of roast lamb and squash soup, of sausages and sticky cake thick with dried fruit, glasses of mead and tall mugs of foaming ale. Kolsen’s mouth watered. At first this brought annoyance, but it quickly passed, as strangely, he forgot about his hunger and thirst.
The sea continued, endless, no sign of land or ships. Days passed. Like automatons of some mad wizard, or maybe more like the dead made to shamble around by a necromancer, they worked the oars.
And Mareth still sang. The bard wet his mouth occasionally, swilling sea water and spitting it out. Kolsen knew Mareth was still killing himself with the salt, but what did it matter when they would all die. Unless they killed the boy. The little shit looked in better condition than Mareth, though. Probably better than Kolsen, too. Damn his youth. Wasted on the young. He’d outlast them both.
Things were getting bad. Given enough time and lack of sustenance, hallucination was inevitable. Kolsen could see a triple-masted ship heading in their direction. It looked so beautiful. The ship he’d always wanted to captain; big but fast, like the boxers in the pits who dance around their opponent, weaving away from blows before exploding with a fist out of nowhere. Atarah, goddess of sailors and sea wives, teased him.
The ship got closer. The bright blue sails stiff in the strong wind, the red and black pennant atop the mainmast billowed. Hah. A pirate ship. She was rubbing his nose in it now.
“Ho!” came a call from the ship.
“Kolsen,” said Mareth, “we need to turn to meet the ship.”
“You see it, too?”
“Of course. It’s massive. How could I miss it?”
“I thought it was all in my head.” My dream ship, thought Kolsen, come to save me.
The ship was called The Icicle. Captain Gilstrap met the three visitors at the rail once they had been pulled from the longboat, too weak to climb.
She was tall, having a few inches on all of her crew and she carried her sinewy frame with well-practiced grace. Her hair, the color of honey, was pulled into a bun that sat at the nape of her neck, below a wide-brimmed red felt hat. Once they were on board, two crew clambered down to secure their small boat.
Another woman, a crew member who would have been quite a looker if it weren’t for her milky white eye and the broad scar from eye socket to jawline, gave them wooden cups of water which the three devoured.
“What are you doing out here in the North Sea with that?” she said, indicating toward their most recent home.
“We were on The Scythe. It was destroyed by Pienza Navy,” said Mareth.
“And you escaped?”
Kolsen shot Mareth a look he hoped conveyed the message to let him do the talking. “Aye. No profit in death.”
“Heh, that’s true,” she replied.
“It was dark,” continued Kolsen, “so we slipped away a week past. Figured there might be others joining us but we saw no one. Do you have need of some experienced hands? We’re grateful you came along.”
“Might be we do. Mister Talbot, can you make use of these three?” She directed her question to a man of middle years, broad in the shoulder and chest, with a curly mustache, very much giving the impression of a well-to-do walrus.
“I think so, Captain, if we fatten them up. These two have swords, so I assume they can use them, and this one looks like a climber. Could always do with another climber.”
“So be it. But you’re on probation. Half-share until you prove yourself. You’ll listen to Mister Talbot. He’ll tell you the rules and set you to work. Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”
Kolsen had been the first of the raiders to leap over the rail that afternoon, same as he had been for the three other unlucky recipients of a boat-load of pirates over the past few weeks.
Today it had been a shipment of tea that had traveled all the way overland from eastern Jabruacor to Carlsburg, loaded onto a clipper bound for Kingshold before it had fallen into the hands of Captain Gilstrap.
The hold of The Icicle was full to bursting, so Kolsen and the crew stacked crates on the deck. Soon it would be time to return to whatever port Gilstrap used to sell her ill-gotten gains; the tea and the bolts of fabric, the bales of cotton and the assorted exotica bound for customers all around the Jeweled Continent.
Kolsen passed Mareth, heading in the other direction with a crate in his arms. The bard did not look well, his face a deathly white. In truth, Kolsen had not spent much time with him recently, which was hardly surprising now they weren’t chained together. Mareth had been by his side for the first raid and not far behind for the others, excited and nervous but wanting to prove himself to the crew, which was smart given he didn’t have a lot of other options right now. And for the most part, it had been smooth pirating. Most merchant ships would have a crew of around a score, and when you’re one of them, faced with two hundred screaming corsairs, then you know the best thing to do is lay down your weapons and get it over with as quickly as possible.
Today had been a little different, though.
Everything had been proceeding to the usual ‘intimidate them until they hand everything over’ game plan until Nail, an evil-looking bastard with a squint and teeth filed to a point, had dragged a screaming girl on deck to present to Mister Talbot, the first mate.
But Nail, the idiot, hadn’t completed his search of the ship, too enamored with the heaving bosom of the girl. Out burst two Jayyan mercenaries, followed by an officious-looking bald man with tiny half-moon spectacles. Jayyan mercenaries are not only expensive but notorious for choosing to die rather than fail a mission; and the two fell on the boarding party like a whirlwind.
Nail lost the arm holding the girl. Four other pirates ended up on the deck before Kolsen could draw his sword and engage the Jayyans. Kolsen killed one and two other crewmembers, Ley and Dubh, got the other.
Talbot was pissed. He screamed at his men that they’d all gone soft. They needed to be more professional. He grabbed the one with the spectacles and questioned him about what was precious enough on board to merit Jayyan mercenaries.
Turns out it was the girl, the daughter of a merchant in Carlburg. She was travelling to marry a rich old banker in Kingshold. That was enough to consider her part of the cargo, and she was taken kicking and screaming aboard The Icicle to be ransomed.
But Talbot wasn’t done. He was mad the bald man hadn't controlled his contractors, and he held him responsible for The Icicle’s five crew left in various states of butchery.
A rope was tossed over the yard arm and a noose put around the man’s neck. Kolsen had witnessed a few quick hangings in his time. Some for mutiny, and others like this, when they needed to make an example that would spread far and wide when this crew finally got back to port. There were always plenty of boxes around to make a simple scaffold. Kicking a box out from under someone worked as well as a trapdoor. But Talbot threw the other end of the rope to his lads and just told them to haul him up.
They pulled, and the man lurched up into the air with each tug, tears running down his cheeks as he suffocated. He clawed at the noose but couldn’t do anything.
It’s a shitty way to die, going purple with your tongue sticking out like a snail coming out of its shell, instead of a nice quick broken neck. Talbot believed in the old ways, though, and if there’s one way to improve on a hanging, it’s a disemboweling. Mareth, watching along with the rest of the crew, lurched to the side of the ship and puked his guts overboard.
And that, thought Kolsen, was when the pirate life got real for Mareth.
Night had fallen and the tea clipper had been left behind. The wind was good, and they were in open and clear waters by the time the sun set in a brilliant array of oranges and purples.
Captain Gilstrap had been happy with the haul, and so the celebrations were suitably boisterous. Kolsen could see Mareth across the deck, playing dice and stopping only to walk over and fill his wooden cup
from a cask of brandy, spoils from last week.
Kolsen sat in a small circle with Talbot, Ley and Dubh, sipping the dark brown drink.
“You've been doing well, lad,” said Talbot. “You're not stupid, which is actually a pretty high bar for this lot.”
“Thanks, Mister Talbot,” replied Kolsen. “I like it on The Icicle. You think I can be off probation soon?”
“Already spoke to the captain. You’re good. All three of you.”
“Thank you, Mister Talbot,” said Kolsen. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Course. Anyone can ask anything here. It's not the bloody navy.”
“That's what I would ask about. You didn't seem worried about the Pienza Navy when we told you what happened to us. Why's that?”
“Hah! Well, for one, we’re not stupid enough to go raiding Pienzan towns. And then, we’ve got a writ from the grand duke himself saying we can do whatever we like. We’re not pirates. Well, not officially anyway. We’re privateers.”
“Pardon?” asked Kolsen as Dubh and Ley grinned, obviously in the know about this particular tale but not leaping in to do the telling.
“It's ten years old but we’ve got a writ, issued by the grand duke from when Pienza was at war with Edland, which says we can do anything to disrupt them. And seeing as most trade goes through Kingshold at some point, we can do pretty much anything. As long as we give a quarter to the duke and we don't get too greedy. That's the most difficult part. Isn't that right, boys?” he said to the other pirates sitting with them. “If we’re too prolific, then Edland will complain and then we’ll end up with both navies down our necks. There is no longer a war after all. So, we take a good part of the year off or some head down south.”
“Where do you go? You go down to the Sapphire Sea?”
“Nah, we go up to The Shards. There's a place up there called The Pit, the seediest, dirtiest, most contagious little ball of fun you've ever had. No taxes. No guard. No rules except the corsairs’ rules. I guess you never heard of it. Your other crew must have hailed from down south. It's only for the North Sea lot.”
Kolsen’s mind raced. A pirate town? A pirate country? “So, who’s in charge? Is there a king?”
“Hah. Ain't no pirate king. Hasn't been for centuries. Who wants that? Nobody fucking tells us what to do.” Talbot stood, a little unsteadily. “I need a piss,” he said over his shoulder as he wobbled toward the railing, already unhitching his trousers.
They were headed to Cloudscar, a coastal city of Pienza with a busy, deep-water port. A place where ships from all over the North Sea would go to replenish their victuals and trade with merchants who considered themselves superior to their counterparts in the capital city of Danteth. It was the Duke of Cloudscar who Kolsen discovered was the captain’s sponsor in maintaining her writ of privateering. The hold of The Icicle was full, and the crew were restless to have coin in the pocket and to live their other lives.
Kolsen stayed close to Talbot. The first mate was more knowledgeable and respected than most captains he had served with, and Kolsen could see why the crew were content to be led by him and Captain Gilstrap. After all, on a pirate ship, leadership was a popularity game. A captain could have their rank stripped away by vote or worse, by mutiny. But as long as a crew was successful and well-fed, they were usually glad to pay the greater share to the leadership.
Kolsen was back on his feet now, his sea legs happy to be free of solid ground and his lungs free to breathe the fresh air, though he didn’t intend to be just crew on a North Sea Corsair ship for the rest of what would be an inevitably short life.
But he knew, be patient and opportunities would arise.
“Ship spotted! Two o’clock!” came the cry from the lookout on the crow’s nest.
“What is she flying?” called Gilstrap from where she stood at the stern. She pulled out her own looking glass to mirror what Karr would be doing from above. It was a beautiful day, blue skies and a stiff breeze sending wispy clouds racing.
“It’s a big one, Captain! Four masts. Looks like blue and yellow pennants,” called Karr. He was calling out what he spied, but what he didn’t know was those colors meant an Edland ship, likely sailing out of Kingshold.
Kolsen watched Captain Gilstrap and Mister Talbot confer, intrigued as to what they were going to do. An Edland vessel, as long as it wasn’t navy in disguise, would likely be a handsome catch. But their ship was already fit to burst.
Gilstrap laughed, placing an arm on Talbot’s shoulder, saying one more thing in quiet before she turned to face the crew and hollered, “Change heading to intercept! But take it slow, we don’t want to spook them. Drag anchor and raise Ioth colors. Let’s go and see our friends from the west!”
The ruse was a good one. Kolsen and Mareth were both selected to remain above deck while the majority of the crew hid. Coats of a common gray appeared as if by magic. The mounted ballista remained covered under tarpaulins and within a few minutes, The Icicle looked much like any other merchant vessel. Pennants of green and gold for Ioth stood to attention on the breeze, and joining them was the black and white checkered flag for a parlay.
As they neared the Edland vessel, it changed course to meet them, moving faster than The Icicle due to the anchors dragging in their wake. As they neared, Kolsen could identify the name of the vessel, The Dolphin’s Prize. He took in the swivel ballista on the foredeck; fabled to be dwarven made, it was a weapon unique to the Edland Navy. He almost expected a call from Captain Gilstrap to change tack and get away before it was too late, but it didn’t come. That’s when he noticed there was only one such weapon and only a sparse crew on deck. Kolsen realized if he had been captain, he would likely have made the wrong decision in that instant. Something to learn from.
The captains of the two ships greeted each other from a distance of fifty yards, calling out through metal cones. The captain of the merchant ship was comfortable enough with the illusion they presented that they neared each other and threw ropes to bring their ships together.
The Dolphin’s Prize was a beauty, probably no more than five winters since it was built. It was big but with a sleek hull and a full rig that gave it speed across the open waters. A copper dolphin, just beginning to tarnish green, leaped from black waves carved of ebony on the ship’s prow. A score of seamen manned the sails and the rails as they neared, with more arriving from below decks to see what the day had brought.
The shouts of welcome and friendship from the crew of The Icicle changed once the ships were secured to each other. Kolsen’s outstretched handshake grabbed hold of the man opposite him and pulled him into the jab he powered into the unfortunate soul’s face. Kolsen’s sword was out of its belt as corsairs appeared and vaulted the rail to take the crew of The Dolphin’s Prize by surprise.
Kolsen was up and over the railing a few seconds later. A seaman still had a boat hook in his hand and jabbed at Kolsen’s face. Kolsen backed away, wary of the polearm, and circled his opponent.
Thwum. A three-foot bolt of oak and steel ripped through the body of a corsair near Kolsen, blood spraying into his face. It continued on its journey, severing the outstretched arm of another pirate before taking a fat one in the gut and sticking him against the aft castle.
Thwum. Another bolt shot across the bows, miraculously missing the corsairs still climbing over the rail and smashing through the wood of the forecastle of The Icicle. Screams of surprise were audible over the sounds of battle.
Thwum. The ballista had been swinging from pointing out over its own deck to coming around to face The Icicle. This missile hit a group of pirates trying to get away. It busted through chests and faces before hitting the foremast with an almighty crash, splinters and debris exploding into the air.
Swivel ballista were deadly at range, and at these close quarters, they were doubly so. The ballista had a three-man crew, one to aim and two to wind the winches that mechanically loaded the missile and drew back the string. And this crew looked to Kolsen like they were
experienced.
However, take one of the crew out and the weapon becomes unusable, as the shooter quickly realized when a wincher was struck in the eye by a crossbow bolt from on high. Karr had a good aim.
From when the machine had started firing to when it had stopped had been no more than a minute. Both pirates and Dolphin crew had stopped their struggling to either gawp at the power of the ballista (like Kolsen) or get out of its way and find cover (almost everyone else).
Unfortunately, Kolsen’s opponent had not been one to scatter. All of a sudden, Kolsen’s head exploded in pain. He fell to the floor, looking up at the grinning man wielding his boat hook. A flappy piece of skin and gristle that looked suspiciously like an ear, attached to the end like a tiny pennant. Bastard! That was his favorite ear.
The seaman raised the polearm into the air to strike Kolsen in the face with the butt of the handle when a sword went through one side of his body and out the other. The skewered seaman reminded Kolsen, hilariously so at that particular moment, of a kebab on a Tigrone street-vendor’s grill. And Mareth was the chef.
The remains of The Dolphin’s Prize’s crew lined up on their own deck. Armed corsairs loomed behind every man and woman.
Kolsen had regained his feet after being saved by Mareth, and he had continued laughing throughout the time it required to seize the ship. Now he sat on a crate, watching the proceedings, his head bandaged and a cup of rum appearing from somewhere to take the edge off the burning on the side of his head. Captain Gilstrap surveyed her captives, able-bodied men and women, honest seamen like she had once been. At their fore, held by two pirates, was the captain of the vessel.
Tales of Kingshold Page 9
