Dragonclaw Dare

by Brian S. Ference

  With a typical ranch-hand swagger, she hopped off her mount, tossing the reins to an under-servant and scaled the fence.

  She eyed him darkly, then shafted Briad and Darek a sharp glance and a dismissive shrug. “Only two? Poor pickings for the loss of a schooner, I’d think, and half the crew.” She opened her mouth to say more but did not comment. Darek saw neither trust nor empathy in her expression. Only a scowl at the brunette Lvis whose gaze settled on Darek and his tanned, sweat-glistening muscles. “What are you ogling at? Get back to work,” she hollered at Lvis. “Clean out those pens. And see that they don’t foul their feed troughs. Won’t become efficient haulers, these beasts, if we don’t discipline them properly from the get-go.”

  Serle nodded in agreement, deflecting the woman’s ‘poor pickings’ comment.

  “Let’s see what they fetch at the auctions.

  “Ten silver for the young buck, I wager.”

  Her critical eyes swept from Darek out to the harbor where the Star-runner sloop was being anchored. “This boy must be noble-born to have a fancy ship like that.”

  “Quite possible,” agreed Serle. “I figure I can get more silver out of him through trade or sale eventually than having him chipping rocks for the rest of his days. This other—” he nudged a foot at Briad “—is up for grabs. He’ll go through the trials, of course. Both of them will, if they survive captivity.”

  Hreg the redbeard Harpoonmaster looked to the bosun with a growl. “We meet the cursed Red Claws at a gathering next full moon, I remind you.”

  “Too late, too late!” cried Darmenstra. “See that you get some silver back for the loss of our ship.”

  Serle smirked and saluted his wife, then gave the orders to Hreg and four other rough seamen who hauled Briad and Darek toward a filthy pen. It faced the woods and the trail of the sweating aurochs, but still was within earshot of the main encampment.

  “Hurry up, get them holed up,” said Hreg. “We’ve work to do on the ship.”

  Darek and Briad trudged with ill grace only to be thrown into a reeking sty amongst the swine and woodcocks rustling about. Darek stared sourly at a clucking woodhen that began pecking his leg. He shooed the bird away.

  Hreg’s son, a round-faced, sable-haired youth with a stocky build and sullen temperament, gave Darek a rough shove into a deep pile of dung in the pen.

  Darek lurched to his feet, cursing, flinging the black reeking stuff off. “What was that for?”

  Hreg nodded with a laugh. “Looks like our little rich boy isn’t too happy or so popular anymore without his fancy boat.”

  “Serves you right,” grumbled the thickset lad. “That’ll teach you for sending uncle Manx to the grave.”

  “I didn’t ‘send him’ to the grave,” said Darek in a low voice. “The serpent did. Did you not see, or are you blind? Blame yourselves for attacking my ship.”

  The youth leaped forward, his eyes red and glaring. Every cell in his body seemed to be struggling with the rage over the loss of an uncle dear to him.

  Hreg moved in to grab his son’s neck and haul him back. “Save it for the trials, boy! You’ll get your chance at avenging Manx soon enough. Come on, Nax! We’ve got better things to do than scrapping. Like catching some stags or curing some hides. Let’s go.”

  On a signal from Briad, Darek bridled the insult on the tip of his tongue, knowing it would be useless to waste his breath. Instead, Darek gripped the bars and rattled them with all his strength. To little effect. He jerked himself away—no use in venting anger at inanimate wood.

  Others come to ogle them. With drawn breath, Darek and Briad accepted the abuse: curses, jeers, the pointing of fingers, the humiliating throwing of tomatoes and rotten fruits at their faces and limbs.

  Darek saw that four other wretches populated a nearby pen, resembling a large cage. Thick wooden slabs like planks lay overtop of the upright bars held together with tough cord made of hemp. A mix of old and young men: Black Clan slaves, he guessed, judging from their torn and ragged sea-dolphin hides sewn with shells and cheap deep sea pearls. Were they being vetted for their mettle while elders made a decision on who would be taken where?

  Briad stirred, mumbling, “Well, we’re done for now. I should be grateful for surviving the serpent, but this slavery thing...a part of me wishes I were dead.”

  Darek said nothing. He stared across the yard out to the sea.

  “So what about you?” Briad muttered. “What were you doing on that isle?”

  Darek gave a sullen mutter and shifted his gaze to the dung heap in the center of the pen. Why did they separate the prisoners? He shook off the vagrant question. “I’m supposed to be in a boat race—tomorrow or the next day. I had a good chance at winning, I reckon. Instead, I took up a stupid dare from a hothead and braved the Black Claw waters. Now look at me—lord of the dung heap.”

  Briad sighed. “I could name any number of wrong choices I’ve made in my life.”

  “Like what?” muttered Darek sourly.

  “Like leaving the Cookmaster’s fresh fish to burn while I snuck a kiss from his daughter. Got my hide whipped. The cook and my pappy—rest his soul—were they ever pissed—but you should have seen the Cookmaster’s daughter!”

  Darek’s gloomy frown turned to a shadow of a grin. “Yeah, I know one girl I’d risk anything for a kiss from.”

  Darek saw the blood on the seaman’s leg and took him aside. Plucking some fresh grass and moss that poked up just outside the pen’s bars, he smeared it on the young man’s knee wound as a poultice. “Don’t worry, Briad, we’ll figure a way out of this mess.”

  “I admire your optimism. Thanks for caring.”

  But faced with the strong bars and the knots of roving pirates, Darek was suddenly not so sure.

  Despite the low ceiling, he paced the pen like a caged panther, shooing woodcocks away as he walked. What an insult it was to put animals in with the slaves and feed them the same slop! Surely it was a deliberate way to break their spirits.

  The bars were doubled with hard brail wood and tied with stout bull gut, not to be ruptured, or cut without tools. Digging under the bars was not an option. Burrowing a mere three or four inches through chicken dung revealed a floor laid of thick stone. Darek sighed. He sat back on his haunches, muttering under his breath.

  Chapter 7.

  Training

  The next morning, Darek awoke blinking to Serle and his men rattling the prison pen across from theirs. The thin, mustached thief caught a few days ago, they brought to the public square to meet his punishment.

  The pirates had a custom whereby the accused would take on a clan champion, usually the chief, in a trial by sword for his honor. If the accused defeated the champion, then his crimes were wiped clean and he walked free. A rare occurrence.

  Such a custom kept the chief’s fighting skills sharp if he or she planned to survive daily challenges and enjoy the continued respect of the people. Marlot seemed uncomfortable with a blade in his hand, while Serle made his sword flow through the air like an extension of his arm. The encounter would be brief. Marlot charged immediately, in a desperate attempt to take his opponent off guard.

  Serle, steel-nerved, backed up as Marlot came charging in like a billy-goat. He swung his sword ham-handedly at first like a pickaxe, but Serle stepped back, giving ground, letting the feverish man exhaust himself. A crazed look showed in the whites of Marlot’s eyes. On the third lunge, Marlot stepped in a shade too close and Serle twisted aside and back-jabbed the accused in the throat with the butt of his sword handle. Marlot made a gagging sound and fell to the ground. The match won, Serle chopped through the man’s right hand, severing it.

  Serle grimaced, never one to like spilling the blood of a kinsman, but the law was the law and he held his sword high to the cheers and jeers of those gathered. Serle looked on in stern forbearance. “Marlot was not without his honor, friends, and he served our clan with dignity despite his recent temptations. Osun had judged him. He will yet serve de
spite the loss of a hand.”

  * * *

  The days passed and Darek stumbled about the pen, feeling groggy, starting to despair. His sweating face felt gaunt and his spirits sagged. No opportunity of escape had presented itself.

  That breezy afternoon the girl from the auroch pens happened to stroll by, gathering wild leeks or savory herbs for the evening stew in a woven basket. She looked nervous, and darted glances left and right before approaching. Her expression was not of contempt or disgust, but more of curiosity. She lingered and stared, snatching glances when they weren’t looking, scuffing her feet and looking down when they did, pretending to pick her plants. Darek decided to cast out a lure. After all, nothing to lose.

  “You know, if you pick those yellow herbs over there with the flowering buds, the menscus, they’ll give better flavor.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “How would you know?”

  Darek made an easy gesture. “I’d know because my mother used to tell me.” He beamed. “She was a wonderful cook, but she’s gone now.”

  The girl’s eyelids fluttered, her bright eyes expressing interest. She stepped closer and Darek looked her over from toe to crown and was not unimpressed by what he saw. Trim at waist and broad of hip, her fine, proud features were not unlike her mother’s but prettier and devoid of the harshness of her father’s long angular face. Lustrous brown curly hair coiled about her shoulders wrapped in leathers that fit snugly about a healthy figure. Tucked at her waist in a whalebone belt were whip and hunting knife. She toyed with the whip’s handle, as if in nervous energy, darting glances back to the figures in the glade and her father and his bondsmen at the pit.

  Darek felt suddenly ashamed at being coated with unseemly dung.

  “You don’t look to be very well treated,” she remarked. “Those cuts and scrapes could get infected with all that woodcock dung caked on them.”

  Briad snorted. “What do you care?” Though he smiled, warming to the girl’s naive interest in them.

  A figure stepped forth. Nax.

  That same stocky youth had showed up like a bad weed. His thrust-out shoulder obstructed her view of the pen. “So good to see you, Lvis!” He ignored the prisoners as if they were on par with the pigs. “Looks as if we’re both up for the upcoming fight.”

  She offered no reply. A cold veil of distance had drawn itself about her and she jerked back instinctively.

  The boy blundered on, nodding at the bouquet of flowers and herbs she had picked. “I was going to pick a mayflower or two for you but I’m sorry to say it got crushed. Stupid Alfe tripped me while I was on my way over and called me a sissy for picking flowers. Not that I blame him.” His half-leer did little to amuse the girl.

  “Very nice of you, Nax, but I don’t expect you to bring me flowers.”

  He scratched his head at that, trying to determine its cryptic meaning. “What are you peeking at these rats for? Bunch of grubs and slaves.” He blocked her view again and put on that silly grin.

  “Go away, Nax, and stop being so childish. I’ll look where I want.”

  Darek could not help but laugh.

  Nax whirled on him. “What are you laughing at, vermin? Keep your eyes on your dungpile, and off her,” he grunted. “Or I’ll poke them out.” He turned his attention back to the girl who was smirking now. “Oh, is it really so funny now?” He shot Darek a telling glare and chucked the wad of greasy fruit he had in his hand. Darek methodically wiped the yellow sticky fruit off his cheeks and throat. He could care less at this point. Briad’s eyes turned away as if sensing trouble.

  She stormed off, annoyed at the intrusion, but cast Darek a look over her shoulder, mouthing words he read as, “I’ll be back.”

  A rough-necked man with a yellow beard and ale belly approached after a time with three young helpers, carrying buckets of slop and dinner scraps for the pigs and two bowls of swill for the prisoners. He unlocked the chain twined around the bars, plopped the bowls down as if feeding a couple of stray hounds, then emptied the buckets in the swine troughs.

  Darek refused to eat the sludge.

  “Eat up, boy,” chortled the brawny yellowbeard, who busied himself re-chaining the lock. “Think of it this way, you’ll need it for what’s ahead.”

  “I’ve got no interest in your ‘rituals’,” scoffed Darek.

  “Osun’s hell, boy! You’ll change your tune.”

  Briad winced at the man’s tone and clutched Darek’s arm. “I’m worried enough about this ritual,” he hissed at Darek. “Don’t make it worse for us.”

  Darek grunted, shrugging off Briad’s arm. He was beyond caring now. The sweat beading Briad’s thin brow and his rasping breath signaled the onset of fever.

  “Our only chance of escape is during the ritual,” Darek said.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Briad asked.

  Darek curled his lips. “I’ll think of something.” He looked to the open yard past the trees where Lvis had gone.

  “You won’t get any help from her,” Briad said.

  Darek was not so sure. He caught a flash of dark hair and willowy figure strolling by the auroch pens in the yard. Ever since that first glance they shared, he felt Lvis’s eyes upon him.

  “Not all these rogues are cutthroats.” His eyes stayed glued on the lissome figure.

  “You think she’ll go against her father? No chance.”

  Darek decided it was time he seduced the girl, either that or remain a pirate’s slave for the rest of his life.

  Briad seemed to sense what he was thinking. “How are you going to convince her to free us?”

  Darek was already imagining making it to his sloop bobbing in the gentle swells.

  * * *

  In the latter part of the day, Darek looked up from his drudgery to the clink of swords and the girl Lvis sparring animatedly with her father in the communal yard. Both gripped gleaming swords and did their best to try to penetrate each other’s defenses.

  Was he in a dream, or was what he experiencing real? Darek did not know. The air was so filled with the fumes of woodcock guano and his body wracked with hunger that he wondered if he were hallucinating. He blinked and looked over at Briad whose hand rested on a young sleeping piglet’s back. The young man’s pale, haggard figure looked in no better shape than his.

  Darek rubbed his grubby chin and strained to hear what the father and daughter were saying...

  “Remember what I told you, protect your flanks, lunge, then fall back to a protective stance. Like this!” The big, rangy pirate struck forth with sword extended and caught Lvis’s blade on his.

  She laughed. “I get it, Serle.”

  “Serle, is it now?”

  “I’m too old to call you ‘Father’, I think.”

  “I see.” He glanced rather worriedly at his daughter’s blossoming figure. “Well—I suppose I can accept that. “Are you set for the Water Trials now? I see your mother’s been pushing you hard with those damn tuskoxen. She’s worse than an auroch, a harsher task master than me.” He reached over and felt her biceps. “Woohoo! All your sword-training has been paying off, girl. I don’t doubt you’ll give big bad Beseny a run for her shells this year. That teen giant’s got nothing on you in terms of speed.”

  A blush swept over Lvis’s rosy cheeks as she parried. She beamed in appreciation, despite her wish to not show it, liking the compliment, even if she knew her father was just buttering her up.

  But her expression grew serious once more. “Those men, the new ones...I don’t think you should treat them so roughly. The young one especially seems innocent, not of slave quality.”

  “What’s this?” Serle raked her a steely glance, lunging in hard. “And why do you care? They’re just slaves, to work the grist mill as we command them.”

  Lvis bit her lip. “It’s not right. Starving them, treating them so savagely. What did they do so wrong? The young one, I mean.” She gasped with the effort of parrying the last thrust.

  “Young one? Rott
en Red Claws,” Serle grumbled. “You forget how those arrogant fools spat in our faces on our proposed alliance. The Black Claws think they’re better than us despite being pirates once themselves and the Blue Claws are nothing but stinking cowards sticking to their crops and trade.”

  The fierceness of his attack surprised her and Lvis barely leaped back in time.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “I get carried away.”

  She winced and Serle waved his hand. “It happened during the reign of Jnevr, my grandfather, long before your time.” His flash of anger subsided and boiling resentment faded as if the older man saw some premonition. “What do you see in that young dunghill cock anyway?” He shook off his mounting confusion and his expression grew hard again. “My edict stands. Forget about the young fool,” he snarled. His sword crashed against her blade, sliding off like polished glass. “He got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. No mixing of Red Claw with pirate blood. You’ve plenty of suitors here. Nax’s been making eyes at you, so make me a proud chief with lots of brats.”

  Lvis cringed at the thought. “I don’t want to have anything to do with that miserable slug!” Such was the intensity of her swing that her looping sword whistled by his ear and sheared off two of his wavy locks.

  Serle stared in appreciation but his face twisted in annoyance. “You won’t defy me now, girl! A woman’s job is to strengthen the clan with in-clan blood.”

  “Women fight and even ride dragons in the other clans.”

  Serle could not restrain a laugh. “Always a fighter like your mother.”

  She slapped at his sword, determined to pay him back for the bitter sting up her arm.

  “Well, I promise I won’t force you to wed someone you don’t want.”

  “Thanks, Father,” she said, with a scornful grin, “I mean, Serle.” But the older man could not help but notice the visible relief washing over her face.

  ––––––––

  Chapter 8.