Overkill

by Steven Shrewsbury

  One of the taskmasters took notice of the action and headed for the steps leading to the catwalk. Alena reached down, tried to grab Jrabesak by his scalp, but her hand slid off. She cursed his baldhead and clutched his ear and the seat of his trousers to throw him down the steps, bowling over the advancing workman, sending them both sprawling down near to where the left turbine churned. A Cytaur looked at them rolling, but took little notice, still trudging onward.

  Alena saw the other taskmaster rouse from his sleepy state on his chair, confused as to what was happening. She leapt over the side and used him to cushion her landing. Alena’s boots landed in his ribs and collarbones, both of which gave way. The taskmaster gurgled as he fell, arms flailing at her as she drew the pig sticker from her right boot and buried it in his Adam’s apple.

  Once she went over and skewered the struggling taskmaster in the belly, Alena contemplated her situation. The Admiral had no intent of capturing the pirates, simply destroying them. That was her first thought, for the portal showed one of the pirate ships heavily damaged by the lofted projectiles of the Bahamut.

  She tried to figure her next move as the Bahamut shifted, heading in the direction of the surviving pirate ship. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and saw Jrabesak moving. The pig sticker did its bloody work again, this time to his side, as she drove the steel rod in through his short ribs, swirling it around, hoping to take out a lung or other vital organ. The Captain choked and went limp, all life out of him and more blood spilling from his side.

  Alena still plotted things out as she opened the door and prepared to run the guard through. However, he stood with a long shield, ready to block, and did so. He rammed into her, throwing Alena back through the doorway onto the catwalk. The guard flipped his shield and chopped with his left hand, forcing her to drop the pig sticker. He swung out with his short blade and Alena caught his forearm, but his heavy shield and weight were pushing her nearly over the side.

  Her hand dropped and fell on the pouch, the one Gorias knocked free from the whip mistress of the pirates. Alena’s mind lit and she struggled on, not letting him throw her over or cut with his sword. She fished in the pouch and pulled one of the tiny glass pills with the dragonfire within. Sword out and blocking his blows, her hips flexed and she threw him back a bit, but he came forward again to restate his move. This time Alena’s hand went across his face and she thrust the tiny glass object into his ear.

  Confused, he stepped back, shaking his head.

  She jumped up, let go a sharp shout and did a circle-swiping kick. Her boot connected with his ear.

  The guard screamed, for the tiny vial broke and his body started to be consumed with dragonfire from his ear across his scalp, then running down his neck. He dropped his weapons as the fiery fluid crept across his body, already turning his head to a boiling mush.

  She kicked him in the rump about the time the fire reached his lower back and set him over the railing. The guard fell to the turbine floor, but only his legs would ever see a burial at sea. The tiny fire burnt out at his knees, exhausted.

  She again looked to the portal, feeling the Bahamut move at a great clip to pull alongside the pirate ship. Unable to help, she watched powerlessly as a hail of arrows from the Bahamut slaughtered several on the deck of the pirate ship.

  A long set of planks soon bridged the distance and dozens of sailors flooded across. A great battle took place with the survivors, but soon, the deck of the pirate ship was flooded with Transalpinan sailors. Several pirates were brought out into her view, alive. Alena saw Nykia, thrown to the deck.

  Then she saw Gorias, swords drawn, bloody, surrounded, looking at the other side of the deck. She smiled for he thought of jumping. A crowbar leveled at the head of Nykia, Gorias threw down his swords and Alena’s heart sank.

  The Admiral strutted across the planks and stood across from the men who seized Gorias. Alena squinted but could read his lips.

  “Take the oil drums back. Fuck Rhiannon. We’ll wring what we need from Nykia and her mates.” He then looked at his fellows, not Gorias, and said, “And keelhaul the fucking hero. I’ve had enough of him.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Keelhauled

  “This is as close to a temple to all gods as Mysoline has, young man,” the codger said to Orsen as he wavered with a cane in each hand.

  Orsen Riva stopped counting the yard-high blocks of stones as they faded off over the countryside. He turned back to the stone circle before him, a small affair, just a dozen rectangles, porous and weathered, set in a perfectly spaced circle with a few smaller jagged blocks atop them.

  “Thank you for bringing me out here, sir.”

  The oldster wiped sweat from his brow, although cool air blew across the fields. “It’s part of my daily walk anyway. I wish it were better guarded. Anyone is free to pray here to whatever god they so choose. The way you look and dress, wouldn’t you be more comfortable at the small shrine to the goddess?”

  “That will be all, thank you,” Orsen snipped his words.

  The old one took no offense. “Fine, lad. They say the stones out on the line here are older than the rest, soldiers turned to stone by great magic in the war between angels and demons.”

  When the man turned to go, Orsen said, “Why did you say it needs to be guarded?”

  Never turning back, the man waved a hand back. “Oh, the young ones have strange ideas at times. At the full moon last month a danged fool cut open a goat and lay in the guts, sodomizing his girly-friend. Sounds like high magic to me.”

  The man left Orsen alone at the site so he walked into the middle of the circle. He recalled the words, the idea of the shrine to the goddess he so loved and closed his eyes tight.

  “If a man has no faith, the goddess is so much stone,” Orsen said to the rocks as if to explain why he couldn’t face the image of Ernytel.

  Orsen tried to focus his spinning head, but the image in his mind wasn’t the goddess but Gorias La Gaul. Gorias frightened him, now more than ever. Orsen thought about what he had to do to be able to strike at a man, to let his sling go or his blade, to really kill another human being. Prayers, physical training and mediation went into his regimen before any engagement or even leaving the room for the day. His courage screwed tight to his goddess, to her strength and forgiveness, Orsen could smack back, knowing the loving graces of Ernytel would both bolster up his spirit and cleanse it from the sin of killing.

  Gorias? He struck without hesitation, like one who had no god or had met one and wasn’t impressed. Did that make him a murderer, not a warrior? Surely, a murderer doesn’t worry on the thoughts of a god or seek forgiveness. Gorias didn’t strike him as an evil man at all, just a hard person with no indecision for meeting death, or fear of hellfire. Gorias wasn’t a godless man, but imparted lip service to no any special one.

  Orsen went to his knees, thinking of Gorias and his godless conscious, and wondered how he slept at night. His hands shook so much he couldn’t clasp them together. Orsen didn’t like entering a world of Gorias La Gaul, where one had no goddess to lean on or clean one’s soul.

  “What of the faithless man without such gall?” Orsen asked the stones. In his mind he saw what tore his faith apart: Dola, Niva’s eunuch, burning in the fire along with other traitors, providing evidence to any who noted him that the Abbess was in on the dragonfire business.

  Gorias saw Dola, too. That ruthless killer was no fool. He’d piece it together if he lived.

  If? Orsen tittered a nervous laugh. Of course the old bastard would live through this ordeal. He’d shrugged off a ball of dragonfire and an artillery barrage. Orsen truly believed a mountain could fall on Gorias and the old man would climb out, a little worse for wear. Gorias would figure it out, too. He’d understand it all, one way or another and be out for blood once back in Qesot.

  With his faith shattered, the realization that Mavik and Vincent used him only as ears along with Niva, manipulating a plot he wasn’t privy to, Orsen wept alone.
<
br />   Godless.

  *****

  The salty air tasted better than pussy to Gorias as his face broke the ocean’s surface. He never thought he’d taste either again, after being keelhauled. When the naval forces from Transalpina bound him and threw him over the side of the pirate schooner, the former Lord turned mercenary started to be concerned for his fate. He benefited from still wearing his armor, as Rosman’s sailors couldn’t figure out how to remove it from him. His lungs full of air, Gorias held on as they pulled him under, hands and ankles bound on the line under the ship. Survival instinct being what it was, Gorias wiggled enough as the first pull went, and they allowed him out long enough to breathe again. Rosman shouted not to kill him too soon. He wanted Gorias to suffer, or at least that’s what he thought he heard. Drowning would be quick compared to being scraped back and forth, flesh of the body de-gloved and rubbed raw on the barnacled surface of the hull.

  Gorias angled his forearms out, scraping a scar with the dew nails of the dragon against the ship. His form popped out the other side, again to the delight of the sailors, but in that instant Gorias saw other activity taking place. In that brief time, he watched sailors with two-wheeled carts approaching the long plank-bridge, preparing to cross onto the pirate ship.

  Again plunged under the hull, Gorias set his mind to his course of action. He felt the weakness of his bond and decided to stab his dew nails in deep. This brief snag made the ropes extend. Gorias at first thought his arms or legs might dislocate, but these sailors weren’t aces at tying good knots or selecting fine rigging. The ropes broke and Gorias clung to the underside of the ship by his dew nails. He stabbed his way under the wooden hull, trying to get away from an area where the fools would look down and see him. Again, he broke the water, but only with his face, the curve of the ship hiding him.

  He took a breath and let his fingernails dig in the creases of the boat’s undercarriage nearer to the stern. Gorias understood he’d taste blood before sampling his favorite dish again.

  Gorias clung like a spider by his jagged fingernails, trying to stay under the ship so that none above would discover his freedom from the grinding ropes. He praised the stupidity of the Admiral of the war vessel, Bahamut, beside them. Apparently, the much-feared Lady Garnet Peverall, Queen of Transalpina, hadn’t employed sailors with an eye for good rope. He recalled her with fondness, figuring she wouldn’t have guessed one of her favorite old friends would fall victim to such green sailors, or betray someone she’d sent on a mission.

  Eyes closed, he sank, hiding again, plotting his actions, recalling how he got down there. After those on the pirate ship were overwhelmed by the navy vessel and boarded, the invading officers saw Gorias among the skinny pirates. The Admiral wanted no more trouble from him, so he ordered Gorias executed. Rosman’s betrayal of those loyal to Garnet didn’t surprise him and he figured the seadog wanted Nykia out of the picture, too. Thoughts of the Admiral being in with Mavik and Prince Vincent washed through Gorias’ mind, but he’d have to puzzle that out later.

  Gorias reckoned a more seasoned sea dog wouldn’t have used the worn rigging ropes on the deck for the task. The idea of keelhauling is to scrape a victim across the barnacle-encrusted hull of a ship, thus lacerating him to death and probably drowning him before the wounds killed him. Fingers aching, Gorias grinned, figuring the foolish Admiral had heard much of pirate practices and wanted to employ their own methods to kill the biggest challenge as an example. Gorias wasn’t a pirate, a warrior being amongst them being transported to Albion along with oils for the priests of that land. True, Albion was always at odds with her neighbor Transalpina across the channel over religious matters and frontier territories. Like most men who spent most of their lives indoors and shaved their faces, the attitude of the erudite officer from Transalpina was starting to piss Gorias off.

  Once he’d breathed, he sank below again and contemplated his moves until his lungs screamed for air. This reminded Gorias his time grew short. He plotted a course of action and moved further down the underside of the ship before his face broke the water again, seeing that he remained under the crude bridge the navy erected. No one seemed to be looking for him anymore, even after the slack went out of the ropes. He reasoned the minds of the invaders grew excited over other booty on the pirate ship. Still, he figured his time would be short.

  He couldn’t hold on much longer, nor could he fit through the portals on the sides of the pirate schooner to go back aboard, even if he could figure a way to climb that high. He studied the planks overhead that the naval ship had dropped across the expanse between the ships. They did this to allow easy passage of their troops to the pirate ship. Gorias spied two ropes running under it, slacking down. He didn’t recall the end of the plank having pulleys that these ropes ran over, but that must be how they did it, sort of a drawbridge effect. The ropes hung toward the waters and far under the wide planks. Gorias looked at the naval vessel and its gaping portals, some big enough to fit a huge warrior through.

  Pushing away from the ship, he held his breath and tried to stay under the ship, swimming in his armor for all he was worth against the ocean current, using crud on the bottom of the hull for handholds to pull himself along. The fool topside would know the rope was broken and the archers would be scanning the waters, Gorias surmised.

  Since noontime was on them, no coming darkness helped mask his emergence from the water under the planks. Though busted ropes had come up, they must’ve assumed Gorias dead under the ship. No one bothered to look any more for him, as other matters concerned the navy officers. Stealing from pirates was an amusing idea, Gorias thought, but not enough to make him grin or give him a hard-on.

  He used the dew nails, took hold on the sides of the pirate ship and started to scale the side. It only took a few strides and he hung in place near the drawbridge. Gorias reached out and grabbed the ropes, arms so sore from the struggle already, but he never prayed for strength. When Gorias had broken free under the ship, he nearly called on his god. The vile bellow to entreat a primal god, Wodan, brought fear unto his enemies, power to his limbs and stiffness to his manhood. As he pulled himself along, just out of the water on the ropes, he thought of praying to Wodan’s son, Donar, but entreating gods wasn’t his style usually. Many did it in hopes they would supply aide or show up literally and end time forever. Gorias wasn’t that religious. When they said to keelhaul him, he thought of converting. He’d have kissed the ass of Rhiannon or that uppity goddess of Transalpina, Ernytel, to be free. Now, going hand over hand to the naval ship under the planks, he was cursing those goddess bitches and laughing to himself about it, happy to be alive.

  Was it an act of a god he broke free? Gorias blamed shoddy ropes and green troops. He really didn’t have time to drop his pants and bend over in any direction for a supernatural force kind enough to douse him in blessings. He still possessed life. Even though life was pain, he hungered to create more.

  He could hear the dandy officers above him on the naval ship, the ones too clean to make the crossing, talking of wines and covering perfumed whores later on that night. Gorias nearly lost his grip as the planks swayed, not from the ocean’s rhythm, but from large barrels being rolled across them. Grimacing, Gorias assumed they were taking the loot the pirates swapped with the traitors in Transalpina. They were to sell their treasure of oils at the behest of the priests, who took a profit.

  Gorias reached the naval vessel. Turning around on the ropes and kicking his legs, Gorias found his boots on the sides of a portal. However, he hadn’t seen the metallic stripping and seals that would make it impossible to open from this side. First, he kicked a boot into it. The glass refused to break. The droning of the barrels rolling on the planks overhead was deafening, so he raised both boots and slammed his feet into the glass. It broke into larger pieces and fell back into the room. His boots slid out and he was about to get in closer, but a face appeared in the portal. A young sailor, probably seventeen if he was a day, maybe even on his first v
oyage, blinked and looked out at Gorias. The savage sneer hanging outside made the youth back up a single step. He froze in place, dumbfounded at what he saw.

  Gorias moved close and threw his legs out again. This time, his boots went through the portal sides and grabbed the sailor in a headlock. The youth’s surprised look didn’t last long. Shock turned to terror and then to panic as Gorias pulled back, ripping the young sailor through the edges of the opening. The jagged glass served his purpose and with great effort, he tore the sailor’s throat open. Gagging, trying to scream, Gorias saw the youth’s eyes roll back in his head, so he kicked him away from the portal. His first voyage becoming his last, the boy dropped to his knees as Gorias kicked the jagged, bloody glass clear and started to make his own way through the portal. The boy convulsed as he died. Old enough to serve, Gorias thought, young enough to die.

  Gorias’ thick shoulders could barely fit in the gap afforded him, but his took the scrapes of fortune and made it. Once inside, he checked the room he violated. He’d killed this young sailor in a storage room. Several crates and wooden boxes were stacked around. One could barely fit through the single door of the room. He dragged the dead sailor to one side and unhooked his belt. With some work, he freed the sailor’s refined cutlass from its sheath. Since his own swords lay back on the pirate vessel, he’d have to make do. Wondering why the boy was in the room at all, Gorias soon saw a flask wedged between two boxes, hidden from normal view. Grabbing the flask, Gorias opened it, sniffed the neck and said, “Whiskey.” He took a swig and nodded appreciatively. “Ya weren’t all bad, kid,” Gorias said to the dead body and moved on.

  Still in the heart of the naval ship, what could he do? His mind raced as he heard footfalls not far away, and even heard the grinding of the rolling barrels again. Suddenly, he thought of these naval men, stealing the barrels of sacred oils meant for the temples in Albion. These oils were for the priests of the King and set for their ceremonies. A cold feeling crept down Gorias’ spine as a plan formed. There would be little or no time to execute the idea, so his boldness would have to suffice. He nearly dined with Donar in the great hall of the dead this evening, but hoped the salty pirates and their toothless hookers would suffice.