He opened the door a hair and peered out. Gorias saw another young sailor walking his way. Wondering if the Transalpinan Navy conscripted a boys school, he threw the door open and froze the sailor in his tracks. Gorias reached out, hand over the lad’s mouth and the other on the sailor’s dagger. Removing the dagger from the sailors’ belt, he brought it to the lad’s neck and yanked him into the storage room. Gorias had a foot of height and a hundred pounds on the sailor, who looked back at him in terror.
“Tell me, young fellow,” Gorias hissed, eyes drilling holes through his quarry. “How many sailors are here? Are they quartered below?”
“Nearly a hundred,” he rasped when Gorias barely parted his fingers to let him speak. “We sleep in shifts.”
“On either side of the main hold below, that’s where they are quartered?”
The boy nodded.
“Is there another way up to the deck aside from the main opening?”
The young sailor shrugged and Gorias nodded, before breaking his neck.
Dropping the body, he moved on.
Gorias didn’t need to overhear any conversations with these sailors to figure on their motives. They handled the barrels of sacred oil with entirely too much care to be lackeys for a foreign land. The well-trained men used strange devices he’d never seen, wooden disks with tiny wheels under them, to smoothly transport the barrels over the vast gut of the war vessel. They used many men to lift them into a secure place. They weren’t slamming anything down, for they wanted their cargo to be in place and not be harmed. Gorias knew fear when he saw it…fear of their superiors? He doubted it as they’d probably been scourged before. No, such precise behavior reeked of fear of something more, a fear of a god or in this case, goddess.
Cursing all gods, Gorias lamented men were dying over this nonsense.
Licking his mustache, Gorias’ hatred of the sea became alive again. A primal man of the earth, he never knew how much he loved the feel of the dirt under his boots until the first bout of sea sickness seized him decades ago. Gorias loathed travel on the ocean, but like any hated foe, he respected it. He surmised crazed acts would only send him into the bosom of the sea, and while ready to die, he wanted to do it on the ground.
Still hidden away, he contemplated his plan. Looking down in the main hold, he backed away and realized he dwelt in a narrow hallway, lined with hammocks. Though dim lanterns lit this end and the other, Gorias could tell dozens of sailors slumbered here. All that fighting above and these men are asleep? He marveled at this, but understood the pirate ship was easy pickings for an armored vessel.
Suddenly, to his right, a shrill shout filled the narrow hallway. Thinking it a serving girl at first, Gorias was not stunned to see it was a large, exotic parrot, colored green and red, tethered next to a near copy of itself.
“Goddamned prick,” Gorias grunted, as he moved toward the birds.
Squawking in alarm, it raised its wings. Left arm swinging, Gorias caught this one by the throat and squeezed, crushing its neck in a few moments. Preparing to strangle the other, it squawked, “Damned prick…”
Gorias held up and didn’t kill the bird. “You’re all gonna die,” he said.
Letting out a quiet shrill, the bird mocked him, saying, “You’re all gonna die.”
A wicked smile spreading on his hairy face, Gorias left the hallway and walked down a connecting path to a like series of bunks on the other side of the vessel. Again, many sailors slept.
Gorias watched as two sailors set a barrel in place and departed again. Figuring his brawn twice that of these little men, he hopped down the steps and bear hugged the nearest barrel of oil. Taking care how he lifted, he slowly rose up, but didn’t stand up in full. Not a careless person with his body, knowing he was not as young as he used to be, Gorias set the lip of the barrel on the step and moved around it, taking it up the steps one at a time. He sat this barrel at the end of the narrow row of bunks. He repeated this action on the other side of the ship. In the distance, he could hear the rustle of boots and figured it wouldn’t be long before his time ran out.
*****
Alena saw them tie up Gorias and at first figured them to drop him in the sea tied to the anchor. When the sailors brought over a line from the undercarriage of the ship, she understood that the keelhauling would be next. Such a word, read in books, suddenly became reality to Alena.
For a moment terror crept into her being, understanding any chance for escape or her own existence just fled if they killed Gorias. She considered her options fast, of what Rosman would do upon seeing the Captain dead and his taskmasters done in by the girl they were supposed to kill. She heard them cheer across the way and couldn’t look as Gorias fell into the water. She sank to her knees and breathed several times, trying to focus.
“I’m not important to what’s going on,” she said to no one and looked down at the Cytaurs again. Eyes closed, she focused on her training, the voice of her father, her sisters, their oaths to the Queen, and screwed down a strong courage. Several minutes passed before she said, “Today is the day then.” Understanding there was no escape, Alena decided to take as many with her as possible.
In the hallway, she tried to use her sword on the lock of the stalls, but it came to no avail. Holstering her blade, Alena tried the pig sticker to wedge in through the locks. No dice. She then eyed the hanging horns of the Cytaurs, meant as trophies to mock the poor beasts. Alena seized one and aimed the heavy tip at the lock. The angle and force ripped the lock loose from the wooden frame and she slid the stall open.
Within the stalls reclined eight more Cytaurs, two of which were blinded in a similar fashion. They all took note of her, their muzzles expanding at her scent, eyes curious.
She could hear the chatter of footfalls down the steps nearby and she said, “C’mon, let’s go! Get out of here!” Feeling stupid, as she doubted any could understand her.
However, two of them got up, their wrists chained together but able to be held a few feet apart, they stretched and looked at each other and then her.
Alena jumped to one side, near to the turbines, and let them charge out. Even the blind ones followed their brothers, all eight ran. Not a damned one returned for their bound up brothers down in the turbine room. “Guess I am the idiot,” she muttered as the Cytaurs charged into the sailors and she descended to the turbines. “Giving them so much humanity and emotions.”
Using the horn, she freed the Cytaurs down at the turbines, one at a time. Each ran as soon as they were freed. The blind ones she freed sat down on the floor, exhausted, trying to weep but having no tears…or perhaps that’s what she made herself believe. She broke the horn on the bonds of the last one, and he only took a few steps, looked back at her and then charged up the steps. Alena followed him at a long clip, hearing the screams of the sailors the other Cytaurs ran into. The last one she freed stopped at the hallway, took up two horns and started down the hall to the main hold.
*****
The two sailors returned down the way of the ship with another load. Gorias had pried loose one of the barrel’s lids as they peered down the way, seeming to note something was amiss. Behind them strange hails and snorting sounds echoed throughout the halls.
“C’mon,” Gorias muttered to the sailors who looked around, unaware. “Both of ya at once.”
As one sailor wandered down, noting the rows of barrels quizzically, Gorias got his wish. The other man followed his fellow seaman, questioning his confusion.
“Didn’t we start about level with the steps?” the sailor asked, scratching his head. He looked up the steps that led to the bunks, but he chose the wrong stairway. Gorias was behind him and leapt down, barrel lid in both hands like a posthole digger. He drove the lid into the top of the sailor’s head. Through Gorias thought he used enough force to split the skull down to the neck bone, only a huge dent appeared as something popped inside the ruined head. That was all right with Gorias, the sailor was just as dead from the cleft to his cranium.
>
The other sailor gaped at him silently, watching his fellow sailor’s brains spill down either side of his ears. Gorias swiped with the lid, clipping the shocked sailor’s jaw, turning him around completely. The sailor held his jaw, bent down a little as blood and teeth dribbled from his open lips. Gorias followed up the move by driving the flat of the lid down to crush the confused sailor’s head. His scream was lost in his bloody mouth and Gorias never knew if he broke the man’s jaw or not. He thought he heard him call for his goddess as the curve of his head became flat, but that didn’t matter to Gorias either. He dropped the lid, grabbed the sailor by the throat with his left and reached for the misericorde all sailors held on their belts. In a moment, the lightweight, elegant blade was out.
Noise of fighting far down the ship filtering to him, Gorias still wrestled him about, the man grabbing at Gorias forearm as his fingers dug into his throat. Gorias tried to bury the knife in the man’s chest, but it broke.
“Damned goddess. The bitch must’ve heard ya,” Gorias cursed and knelt, still holding him by the neck, and scratched a piece of the broken blade on the floor. Letting him go, he made a surgical insertion by the sailor’s Adam’s apple and then ripped to the right. Gorias knew the veins to cut to make a man die, even if he wasn’t sure of the proper names for them. He didn’t have time to salute the sailor for battling on with a crushed head, but he respected his pluck.
He also figured by the cries and shouts the game was up, but somebody else caused that commotion. Sure, these ones would be missed, but in such a timely way? Hurriedly, he pried off the other barrel’s lid and then the nearest two on the main floor. Gorias then ran to the first line of hammocks and dumped the barrel over, setting the watery oil to rush down the hallway. A few men in the hammocks started to stir as the noises down the way got louder and went animalistic.
Gorias sprinted to the other hallway and repeated this action on the barrels. He looked at the parrot there as the oil gushed again and released its leg from the stand. It flew on and Gorias laughed, grabbing the lantern beside it. He then threw a shoulder into one barrel in the main hold and then another, setting them to washing down the way.
He was halfway through the hold, almost to the netted lattice where he could make his escape, when he heard the confused voices of sailors.
It was in the wider area he saw the bloodbath caused by monstrous creatures sporting one eye and a group of armed sailors. Bodies of human and creature alike lay splayed about, but Gorias counted six of the one-eyed monsters running up the steps.
Back behind them, he spotted Alena.
Her mouth dropped open.
He held up the lantern and shouted, “Get outta here!”
Sword out, she climbed over bodies, following the last of the creatures, who seemed unconcerned with the bloodbath around him. Alena passed by Gorias and he slapped her ass with the cutlass.
“To Hell with this,” Gorias said, jumped on the tops of the barrels, and tossed the lantern back. He lofted the small flame and a few weary sailors, just awakened by a communal confusion, watched the path of the lamp powerlessly as it arched and smashed at their feet in the layer of gushed oil.
Sacred oil burned for a long time. It wasn’t terribly flammable, but it was meant to last as adoration of weeks. The tiny spark, though, lit larger and the fluid caught, starting a gradual wave of flame that traveled down the two bunk lines and started on the hold.
Gorias leapt for the netting, seeing the flames washing around the other barrels. Unsure if the workmanship of the barrel makers would be sound, he reckoned his terror was achieved.
Hand over hand, Gorias climbed like a man on fire, for soon, he’d get to experience that sensation firsthand. His helmet back on the pirate vessel, his body may survive the flames but his head would be a cinder. Above his face climbed Alena, and he found himself near enough to bite her ass soon. He couldn’t help but smile, wondering if the seawater washed the smell of Nykia off him.
“Hey little girl,” Gorias laughed. “Where did you get such handsome friends?”
She playfully kicked back at his head and said, “They are called Cytaurs and they turned the turbines.”
The loud cacophony of screams became hushed by a rush of air feeding flames. Gorias leapt out onto the deck and rolled. His appearance, along with the Cytaurs and Alena, drew the attention of dozens of sailors on deck who drew their swords. They never had a chance to step toward him as a ball of flame belched from the hold and rose on the ship up like a mushroom over them into the sails and rigging.
Gorias was up and slashing his way through the amazed faces of the sailors. They were easy prey as they were so afraid. The cutlass blade was graceful, so he made graceful kills, delicately inserting in throats and filching back. Most sailors took no more note of him for they stared at the flames that reached up to the billowing sails.
The Cytaurs reacted badly. A couple ran into sailors, taking them over the edge. One ran for the planks that separated the vessels, but was cut down. A blind Cytaur stumbled around and inadvertently brained a sailor with his swinging hands before they ganged up on him, slicing his hamstrings and throwing him overboard. However, the one who wielded two severed horns stabbed both of these sailors in the backs, gouging holes big enough for a child to stick their arm through. Each sailor fell to their knees on the deck making some of the worst gagging noises Gorias had ever heard.
Alena kicked and fought, stabbing men through and kicking with accuracy with her legs. She twirled her entire body, blade beheading a sailor, sending his noggin rolling to the plank bridge by the feet of the men bringing the last load of oils. These men had stopped to gape at the huge fire belching from the hold of the Bahamut.
Shoving a sailor overboard, Gorias jogged over to the place where the planks joined the vessels. The final barrels had made their way across, but those who rolled them stopped, unwilling to travel farther. Gorias stabbed with the cutlass, but it broke off in the chest of the first sailor. A step back, Gorias took a knee, grabbed the errant head of the sailor by his scalp and rose up. The gaping sailor with the two-wheeler just froze in place as Gorias swung the severed head, smashing him into unconsciousness. Kicking the head aside, Gorias grabbed for the falling sailor’s cutlass and attacked the next man on the planks, again going for the throat. He stabbed with the fine blade, swiping out, ripping loose his throat, letting out a vomit of veins and fading bubbling screams.
Giving the barrel a kick, sending it toward the flaming hold of the vessel, Gorias looked back over the planks. Two of the Cytaurs ran crazy down the crude bridge with the one holding two horns behind them. As Gorias started to follow across the planks, the sailor guarding the last barrel saw them, screamed and decided he preferred the embrace of the ocean over the monsters, diving in.
Just as this sailor jumped and Alena got on the planks, a man on the navy vessel retreated from the flaming hold and knocked the securements for the pulleys on the planks loose. The long planks started to draw back up toward the navy ship as Gorias ran up the steepening grade. The Cytaurs all made it across and the shouts of the naval men aboard the pirate ship echoed. Gorias reached the top of the planks, as they were half up in the air. He leapt and caught himself in the rigging of the side sails of the schooner. Beside him, clinging like a spider, Alena arrived with a grunt akin to when she came.
The pirates cheered as the Navy officers on the ship gaped, dumbfounded at the sight.
Gorias swung out over the pirate crew surrounded by sailors and angled himself back. He dropped off the ropes onto the gaggle of sailors already confused by the crazed Cytaurs. Many scattered, but into the embrace of the pirate crew, who picked this chance to fight back at last. They’d been disarmed of swords and obvious side arms, but most of the crew still hid a dagger. They were pirates, after all. Several of the officers fell dead, stabbed in the kidneys first and then disemboweled on the deck of the pirate vessel.
On his knees, then rising like a cobra, Gorias said, “Save me tw
o.”
One of the pirates exclaimed, “We have a petty officer and the Admiral of the Transalpina navy!”
A great whoop went up as Gorias looked back at the naval vessel, flames starting to consume it.
“My men,” the taller of the two officers yelped, straining against the hold of two pirates. His white breeches stained with the blood of others, Rosman’s face turned pale and he shouted at Gorias, “You bastard!”
Nykia emerged from the bloodbath, stepping over the bodies of the two dead Cytaurs. She held out his twin blades. Gorias threw down the cutlass and took up his twin swords. “What’s your point? Hell, I hear I got royal blood in me.”
The Admiral spat at him. “Those cunts of General Appra have royal blood in them. His mama came from a royal bastard, so what makes you so special?”
Gorias took the embrace from Nykia and ignored the words of the Admiral. “Hey, glad to see ya.”
Rosman persisted, saying, “You savage dog, can you know what you’ve done?”
Gorias grabbed him by the throat, his huge hand nearly encompassing the neck of the Admiral. Nose to nose, Gorias said gravely, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I killed all of your crew, burned them like the assheads they are. I hope they woke up in the flames, died, and woke up in the flames of hell again.”
“The sacred oils…” the Admiral gasped.
Still holding the man’s throat, Gorias said, “Looks like we are both screwed, aye? I’d rather take my chances pissing the King of Albion off than to let a dickhead like you sail away with a drop of that oil. And we’re gonna have a long talk now about just why ya wanted it, aren’t we?”
Overkill Page 19
