by Mel Odom
Jherek stepped back, letting the spear go by, then catching the haft in one hand. He jerked at the man, using momentum against him and easily pulling him off-balance. Throg swung again, but the young sailor stepped behind the slaver crewman. The half-ogre’s weapon sliced into the man’s chest, killing him instantly.
Shoving the corpse at the half-ogre, Jherek turned and sprinted for the main hold in the middle of the ship’s deck. Water and blood made the deck slippery as the ship lurched and fought against Black Champion’s dead weight.
A slaver rushed at Jherek as the half-ogre screamed curses behind him. The young sailor dropped to the deck just ahead of the slaver’s sword and skidded on his side. Jherek kicked and took the slaver’s feet out from under him, knocking him backward. By the time the man stopped sliding, Jherek got to his feet and followed the steps down into the main hold.
XI
10 Flamerule, the Year of the Gauntlet
Whale oil lanterns lit the cargo hold. The pale illumination barely lightened the shadows of the men, women, and children shackled in the hold. Jherek looked at them, unprepared for the sight.
Rough iron cuffs held the prisoners at wrists and ankles, connecting to an iron rod that ran the length of the slave ship. Foul odors filled the hold, and the young sailor knew the captives had been forced to sit in their own excrement. They looked at him with fear-filled eyes.
“Don’t let us drown,” a woman cried out in a hoarse voice. “If the ship is going down, at least give us a chance to save ourselves.”
Pain welled up in the young sailor’s heart. He’d never seen slaves before. No one should have to face what those people had been through.
“Look out!” a slave yelled.
Jherek sensed a big man stepping from the shadows behind him. The young sailor turned. There was no mercy in Jherek’s heart.
The slaver carried a battle-axe in a two handed grip. The lantern’s weak illumination glinted off earrings and a gold tooth. The slaver was a mountain of a man, rolling in muscle and fat. He swung the battle-axe with skill, making a short, vicious arc with the double-bitted head. Jherek fended it off, but the slaver followed up with a swipe from the iron-shod butt of the axe that could have crushed the young sailor’s skull.
Jherek slipped the hook from his sash as he took two steps back.
“You done crawled into the wrong hole, rabbit,” the brute taunted, grinning broadly.
Two other shadows stepped out behind the man, flanking him on either side. One of them carried a spear and the other wielded a short sword and a dagger.
Without a word, Jherek attacked. There was no one else to defend the people in the hold, no one else to set them free. Azla’s pirates were shedding blood above so they might all live.
The young sailor swung the cutlass at the axe-wielder’s head, expecting him to block it. The slaver followed up with another blow from the butt of his battle-axe. Jherek slammed the curved hook into his opponent’s hand, nailing it to the wooden haft and blocking with the meaty part of his forearm.
The slaver shrieked in pain, looking at his impaled hand in disbelief. Before he could move, Jherek stamped on the slaver’s foot and ran the top of his head into the slaver’s face. Blood gushed from the man’s broken nose as he stumbled backward.
Jerking the hook free, Jherek dropped low and slashed across the man’s waist, spilling his guts. Even as the man dropped to his knees, the young sailor spun and slashed again, taking the slaver’s head nearly from his shoulders.
The spearman came on, thrusting vigorously. The fluted blade cut across Jherek’s left shoulder and the spear haft bounced under his chin. He brought the hook down savagely, driving the spear toward the wooden planking. The weapon caught and stopped suddenly, throwing the man who wielded it off-balance.
Before Jherek could attack, the swordsman slashed at him. Only the speed and reflexes Malorrie and Glawinn had trained into him kept the young sailor from getting his head split open.
The spearman drew his weapon back as Jherek parried the long dirk in the swordsman’s other hand. Catching the dirk against his cutlass’s crosspiece, the young sailor shoved his attacker back, causing him to stumble over the dead man.
Recovering his footing, the spearman thrust again, but Jherek dodged before the edged blade touched him. Blood ran warmly down the young sailor’s shoulder. Letting the cutlass lead him, then leading the cutlass, Jherek never presented any undefended openings.
“Get the little wharf rat,” the swordsman urged. “You’ve got the longer weapon.”
The spearman feinted, thinking to draw Jherek out, then stabbed at his crotch when he sidestepped. The young sailor parried the spear, then moved quickly inside the man’s defense. The slaver tried to bring the butt of his weapon around. Jherek slammed his cutlass through the spear haft, splintering the wood. Before the man could react, the young sailor swept the hook forward, knowing the swordsman was set up behind him.
The hook plunged through the spearman’s temple and sliced into his brain, killing him instantly. Even as the lights in the man’s eyes dimmed, Jherek released the hook and turned to face the swordsman. He let the swordsman’s thrust slice by his face, drawing blood from his cheek, even as he brought the cutlass down in a hard sweep that cracked the man’s head open from crown to chin.
He yanked the cutlass from the dead man’s skull, not realizing the prisoners were cheering for him until he saw them. Their voices were strong and full.
Sheathing the bloody cutlass in the sash at his waist, Jherek took up the battle-axe dropped by the first man he’d killed. His breath came hard and fast, filled with the sour stench of the slaver’s pit. He lifted the battle-axe and brought it down on the long chain that bound the prisoners’ cuffs to the iron rod. Sparks flew from the iron.
Prisoners at either end of the rod pulled the two pieces of chain through the manacles. The sound of men fighting and dying on the deck above pierced the hold.
Jherek passed the battle-axe to a large man with broad shoulders and asked, “Do you know how to use this?”
The man smiled, yellow teeth splitting his grimy beard. “Like I was born with one in my hand, warrior,” he answered.
Jherek gathered his weapons. He pulled the hook from the spearman’s head, wincing at the gleam of splintered bone in all the blood. He looked at the prisoners, finding them gazing at him expectantly, as if he was supposed to lead them.
“I want no children on the decks above,” he ordered. “Man or woman, if you’ve no fighting experience, stay below with the children. There’s little enough space on that deck to begin with. The ship you’ll see lashed onto this one, she’s a pirate ship flying the Jolly Roger. Don’t think that you haven’t been saved. Captain Azla of Black Champion doesn’t tolerate slavers.” He paused, his voice thick with the anger he felt. “And neither do I.”
“I’ve heard of Azla,” a man said as he helped himself to the short sword. “As pirates go, she’s not a bad’n.”
“Are there any more weapons in this hold?” Jherek asked.
A woman took a lantern from a peg on the wall and said, “They keep swords and knives back here.” She pointed to a small room at the back of the cargo hold.
“Those of you who want to join in fighting for your freedom,” Jherek said, “get weapons and come topside. It’s not going to be easy.”
Jherek turned and dashed back up the steps leading to the main deck. The two armed former slaves followed him.
Pacys floated near the great whale. Generally the creatures were not overly friendly. They had their own agenda and didn’t often give time to humans, elves, or anyone else.
How is it that you know me? the old bard asked.
By your heart. Just as the whale song fills all of Serôs, there are those among us who can identify individual heartbeats of any who live below and any who live above. Your heartbeat has been known to my kind for thousands of years. By now, after all you have seen and heard in Serôs, you shouldn’t be surpris
ed that you and the Taker are in our histories.
In truth, Pacys wasn’t surprised. Every society he’d encountered in Serôs told tales of his arrival, as well as the Taker’s.
What do you want with me?
To give you that which you seek.
Am I here, or am I still among the locathah?
You are safe among the locathah, Taleweaver. Only your mind journeys far at this moment. The locathah chieftain’s herbs freed your thoughts. I merely captured them for a moment with my song.
You know I seek the boy, Pacys said.
Jherek. Yes, we know.
His name is Malorrie.
That is the name he gave you, Taleweaver, the whale replied. He is in hiding, from himself and from the fears that have chased him since childhood. He is not whole.
Pacys gazed into the great eye and saw the compassion there. I was told he would not be whole.
Your voice, your heart, Taleweaver, only these things can heal him.
Where is the boy? he asked.
He is far from here now, but he will be here soon.
Why?
It was foretold. The whales must help him forge his destiny.
Then I should be here.
No, the whale said. Your time will not be then. You must journey to Myth Nantar. Your destiny lies in that direction … for the time being. When everything is as it should be, you will find Jherek.
Wouldn’t it be better if I found him earlier?
It would be easy to write a song in the heat of passion, but that should not be the only time you work on it. Passion and skill must both be applied to make it strong enough to stand in the hearts and minds of those who listen. Time is the glue that binds the two. When the time is right, you will find each other. The eye closed and reopened slowly. Our time here grows short. My song only transports your thoughts here for a few moments. Like you, I am a bard to my people. It is my duty to record our histories, and to talk to you at this moment.
You’re a bard?
Yes. Who else do you think sang the first songs of Serôs, then gave music to the people above and below that they might spread it across the dry lands?
There are many stories … the bard admitted.
Even now, the whale went on, my people gather along the Sharksbane Wall in an attempt to hold back the tide of sea devils overflowing into the Inner Sea. It is foretold that we will fail.
Then why try? Pacys’s heart ached to hear the quiet acceptance in the whale’s voice.
Because we must all play our parts. We must all follow our destinies.
Topside, Jherek looked at the carnage littering the slave ship’s deck and felt his resolve weaken. Blood ran in rivulets across the wood, watered down by falling rain. Black Champion’s crew formed a half-circle with Glawinn as their center. The paladin lunged forward, slamming his shield into one of the slavers, then running his sword through the body of a second.
With a cry of warning, unable to attack the men from the back without letting them know he was there, Jherek rushed the slaver crew. He caught one man’s blade with the cutlass and stopped another with the hook. Striding forward, he kicked the first man, then used the cutlass to slit the throat of the second.
Bodies rolled on the slaver’s deck, shifting with the pitch and yaw of the pirate ship tethered to her. The clang of metal on metal punctuated the sounds of screamed curses, prayers, and the wounded and dying. Footing became treacherous.
Arm aching with effort but never failing, Jherek fought on. Blood splashed into his face but he distanced himself from it, from all the death around him. Malorrie had trained him to think that way, to live past the moment.
Sabyna fought nearby, using twin long knives to turn attacks, then spinning inside an opponent’s offense and delivering blows herself. She moved as gracefully as a dancer, sliding through the press of men around her and searching out opportunities. Skeins floated at her side, wrapped tightly into a whip that struck out men’s eyes or tore their faces when they threatened its master.
“Fight, you dogs!” Azla screamed, urging her men on. “The first of you who turns tail on me now I’ll personally deliver to Umberlee!”
She fought in a two-handed style, her scimitar flashing in her right hand while a long-bladed dirk was held in her left. She blocked a thrust from a half-ogre with her scimitar, then stepped forward and ripped the dirk across the creature’s throat.
Incredibly, the slaver crew backed away before the onslaught of the pirates, giving ground steadily as they retreated to the stern castle.
A tall man strode to the front of the stern castle railing, above the trapped slavers. He was deep chested and long-limbed, dressed in crimson and gray clothing, a dark red cloak riding the breeze behind him. Gold and silver gleamed at his wrists, neck, and chest—plain bands with runes carved into them.
“I am Tarmorock Hahn, son of Jakyr Hahn, and I am captain of this ship,” he declared. “Who is captain of that floundering pirate?”
The fighting broke off, and the two groups formed lines of demarcation.
Azla stepped forward, and three of her pirates and Jherek stepped with her, keeping a protective ring about her.
“I am Azla, captain of Black Champion.”
Tarmorock grinned at her, gave her a cocky salute with the jeweled sword in his hand, and said, “You’ll not be captain for long from the looks of her.”
“I’m standing on my next ship,” Azla stated.
“Confidence!” the slaver roared. “Gods, but I do admire that in a woman.”
“As captain of a slaver,” Azla retorted, “I find you offer little to admire.”
“And a cutting tongue as well as good looks. Would that we had met under other circumstances, I’d have offered you a dinner by candlelight.”
“It’s just as well,” Azla said. “Offered aboard a slave ship with the stench you find here, dinner wouldn’t have stayed down.”
Tarmorock glared at her, stung even more when Azla’s crew hurled taunts at him. “I offer you the opportunity to duel for my ship,” he said. “Captain to captain. I offer this as a man of honor.”
“There’s no honor in slavery,” Azla said, “and I’ve no reason to fight you for anything. I’ve taken out your weapons, lashed my sinking ship to this one to drag about like a stone, killed over half your crew, and freed the slaves from the hold to fight against you as well. There’s nothing here for me to fight for. Resist and we’ll kill you anyway.”
“I offer you honor in battle.”
Jherek felt a response stir within him. Azla was correct in her assessment of the situation, but a need rose in him to recognize Tarmorock’s challenge. He was barely able to still his tongue.
“I don’t need honor,” Azla stated. “Honor doesn’t have sails nor cargo space. I have your ship in all but name. You offer me nothing I care for.”
“Captain,” Glawinn said, stepping forward. Blood stained his copper-colored armor and fresh dents and scratches showed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand him to his battle of honor.”
“Ah, a true warrior among you,” Tarmorock said. “You, sir, are a man of the blade?”
“Till the day I die,” Glawinn said.
Pride welled up in Jherek as he watched the knight stand tall in front of the slaver captain.
“No,” Azla said. “There’ll be no battle for this ship. I’ve won her, fair and square, and I’ll take her if I have to gut you down to the last man.”
Tarmorock glanced at Glawinn and said, “Pity. Apparently there’s no prize to be won, but what say you to honor itself? Will you be part and party to a bandit’s approach to stealing my ship? Become a thief yourself?”
Glawinn’s cheeks reddened, but Jherek couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment.
“I’m no thief,” the paladin said. “Nor shall I ever be.”
“Those are harsh words that drip from your lips,” Azla said coldly. “Especially from a man whose livelihood depends on stealing the lives of othe
rs.”
“And you’ve never spent a life or three in the pursuit of your own wealth, Captain Azla?” Tarmorock hurried on before she could respond, switching his gaze back to Glawinn. “I was trained in the sword, and conducting myself honorably on the battlefield, long before fate handed me this vocation. You understand this?”
“Yes,” Glawinn answered.
“Then you’ll fight me?”
“Yes.”
Tarmorock grinned. “And if I should win?”
“You’ll have all I own,” the paladin replied, “and your freedom from this ship.”
“There will be no fighting,” Azla stated, staring at Glawinn.
The paladin looked at her, gentleness in his eyes. “Lady, I have given leave to your ways though they are not my own, and I have stood in good stead when you needed me. I ask that you give me leave to stand by my own principles in this matter.”
“You did the honorable thing by helping rescue the prisoners aboard this ship,” Azla told him. “This isn’t just about stealing something that didn’t belong to you.”
“There are times,” Glawinn said in a patient voice, “when a man must stand or fall on his own merits, to be weighed and measured by the depth of his heart and the strength of his arm.”
“You’re risking this for nothing.”
“On the contrary,” Glawinn stated, “I’m risking this for all that I am.” He looked at her. “If I may have your leave.”
“Damn you for a fool, knight.”
Glawinn spread his bloodstained hands and said, “If only I can be an honorable fool.”
Azla waved her men back, clearing the space in front of the stern castle.
Tarmorock descended the stairs and stripped away his crimson cloak. “There is one thing further I’d ask of you.” He rolled his bastard sword in his hands, causing it to dance and spin effortlessly. “Even should I lose, I want my men spared. The ones that yet live. I ask only that they be put overboard in lifeboats with provisions. This far out at sea, that’s a grim prospect, and I know that, but it’s the best I can do for them. They’re a motley crew, but they are my responsibility.”
