So that was the heart of the matter. All at once the privateer felt chafed for all the unneeded drama, yet grateful for the threads pulled. I have the ships. I have the ships! It took everything Tolrep had not to break into song.
XXI
That was only the beginning. Tolrep visited every inn he could find, spreading as much as the Baron’s gold as possible and buying favors as though his pockets were on fire. Pretty soon tales of a ship wandered along the coastline. The ship was black from tip to tip; it’s only other color was the round red spots on her three sails, each one glistening in a whirlpool of hellish flame. Its crew was said to be skeletons that walked like men, so ghastly and white that the image seared into the minds of those lucky enough to survive the encounters. Only Tolrep knew the “skeletons” were in fact men clapped up in chalk-powder. The sea was a merciless bitch; one had to be creative to survive.
The twilight of the tenth night found Tolrep breathing into his hands upon one of the Baron’s flagships. It all amounted to this night. Either Eddard showed up, or the Tennant would be lost forever. None of that now.
Fog descended upon them, cold as a witch’s tit and just as merciless. The shiphands couldn’t see their fingers right before their eyes. The fog billowed out at all sides, giving out tantalizing glimpses of stars and skies and then closed with all the smugness of a wench playing the tease.
The Tennant struck the boat like a sledgehammer. The first impact made kindling of the rails and capsized the boat. Instantly the rough seamen were scrambling like little girls, grabbing anything they could get their hands on to keep from sliding down into the black of the ocean below. Tolrep did not look at them nor try to catch the flailing limbs that begged rescue. He climbed his ship being cursed at in all the languages of the world. He bled from the rain of wooden slivers cascading down, down, down. With infinite slowness, the privateer reached the lip of the ship’s railing, and, hanging by his fingernails, peered over the lopsided ship’s bow. There she is.
The rumors did not do the ship justice. A line of sixteen cannon-mouths hugged the Tennant’s curves, all hard and black and deadly. The mast disappeared into the mist, though its black, fire-eyed sails billowed outward in a night that knew no wind. Above it all were the cheers and ranting of a crew already deep in drink, whooping it up now there was no resistance to be had. That’s it. Keep celebrating jackasses. Don’t mind me; I’m just here to murder you.
The Baron’s reinforcements would arrive swiftly, Tolrep knew. Six warships, long and full of tri-barreled cannons that would punch through wood like kindling. The Tennant would survive without a scratch. The Baron would want a ship that couldn’t be touched by conventional weapons. He was not that kind of man, but the promise of power would corrupt him; corrupt everyone who laid eyes on it. Tolrep would defeat one enemy and gain hundreds more. There was only one way to get out of this. Sabotage.
Inch by inch Tolrep settled into the water. He grabbed hold on an errant oar when he was struck by a terrible stench. A glance at the porthole brought Tolrep face to face with a black-skinned child, eyes wide and innocent. Slavery. I should have known. Thankfully the child stayed quiet. Tolrep pulled himself to crouch on the wide tip, clawed his way sideways to the rear of the stern. He could see the captain’s cabin if he squinted a little. Not so hard, this sneaking thing.
Then Tolrep remembered the crew. He stopped just shy of nudging a sleeping pirate in the ribs. Tolrep blinked. The man before him was a stranger. Eddard must have acquired a new crew to ward off mutiny. Tolrep squashed the idea of what Eddard did with the old crew. There would time enough for that later. For a moment, the rage overwhelmed him at the sight of his former cabin, the one where Eddard now slept. Bastard. Killing Eddard would be easy, only now it would make Tolrep one lone person against the entire crew. Madness. I need an army...The idea slammed down like lightning to a metal rod. Maybe I already have one.
Slowly Tolrep worked his way through the ship, each step as delicately as a feather. There was no room for mistakes. From stern to port were the seamen, curled up on the deck like dogs or sleeping in swaying hammocks. Tolrep was reminded of stepping through a maze of brambles as a child. Only the pain that scarred his legs was a pittance compared to the bloody carnage if a sailor caught hold of his cutlass and pistol.
Chief amidst his plans was the search for keys. Bloody good it will do me if I get an army in chains. Tolrep sighed and forced himself to think. Who would have the keys? The captain is a good bet, but there’s only one key in the chamber, and that was for the war chest. The first mate is the likeliest suspect. Only Tolrep had never seen the man before. An officer of his rank won’t dare be associated with the common seaman. Smiling the privateer glided to the deck’s hammocks.
The sailors snoring in the hammocks were beefier than Tolrep expected, as were the blades they fondled. Large enough and more to cleave a man to the shoulders, the swords were outshined only by the heft of the flintlocks nestled on the hip. A ball from one of those monsters would rip a head clean from the neck. Tolrep suppressed a shudder and continued his search.
The first mate was obvious for his love of gold: four rings of various jewels on his knotted, gnarled fingers, and a collection of metals lying upon the carpet that was his chest hair. Even in sleep Tolrep could see the malice roiling from him. He was even more menacing from the bald head and, surprisingly enough, the thin mustachios curling upward from the lips. And there, amidst the medals and necklaces, was an iron-cast key as long as a forefinger. Of course it’s there. We can’t get a break, now can we?
The privateer inched towards the burly first mate. Fingers calloused by long years at the oar flittered between hair and iron, curled and found purchase under the necklace. A sudden mumble whipped Tolrep’s gaze up to the first mate, only to leave him shaken as the first mate slipped deeper into the dream. Get a hold on yourself, Tolrep.
The ears were more difficult. Up until now the biggest problem was making sure none of that chest hair got tangled in the necklace and was yanked from the roots. The ears were one of the most sensitive organs on the human body. A caress, a simple brush, and those giant’s hands would crush the life out of the privateer. Can’t touch the ears. This meant maintaining his hold onto the chain while spreading it so it cleared the ears. Nausea shot through Tolrep’s veins; his fingers began to quake, and sweat was beginning to sting his eyes. Focus. Each moment was an eternity, poised on a teetering foothold over an abyss, never knowing when the ledge would break. Tolrep bit back a sigh as the necklace cleared the first mate’s head. Now for the prisoners.
The moonlight glared through the wooden cross-guard of the ship’s inners. Hundreds of small faces looked on as Tolrep twisted the key into the lock. At the rustle of rust Tolrep grimaced. Bad enough that he had to lift a twenty-pound wooden frame by himself; now he had to do it at a snail’s pace. Suddenly the idea of coming alone became more idiotic by the minute.
No way are these idiots going to sleep through raising this thing. Tolrep flinched at the moonlight, as oppressive and confining as the dark. The only way to survive is to mount an attack directly after the prisoners were freed. But with what? The prisoners only had their claws to inflict damage, and the sailors were immune to physical pain. They needed weapons. Which was inside the armory. Which lay on the opposite side of the ship. Perfect.
With cautious haste, the privateer returned to the grate with every brace of knives he could carry. He mimed the instructions to the adults looking on him with a mix of hope and wary distrust. Only now in the moonlight Tolrep saw they were not just black men. There were yellow, red, and even some white that looked so dangerous the manacles might not be there at all. No time to be picky. Once Tolrep slipped the last knife through the grate, he motioned them back, dropped to his knees, found purchase on the grate’s edge and lifted.
Bit b
y bit the rust squeaked. Sweat rolled off the privateer in gallons, fire raged within his muscles and spots swam through his vision. Come on you son of a bitch. Come on come on come on! With the roar of a strangled lion the grate crashed against the stern and woke everyone up. Before the confusion had time to fade the prisoners swarmed from the opening with a savage rage. The sailors screamed like little girls as their throats became bloody chasms. Tolrep slashed a face and gaped when the next opponent wore the flared tricorn hat of a captain. Not only that, but suddenly there were pirates wearing different colors than Eddard’s crew. There was something so familiar about all this. Then he glanced up and saw Eddard on the quarterdeck, his hand on a red-domed pedestal.
The pedestal. The Summon Button. Teleporter. Evidently Eddard had recruited more than a single crew, and now was teleporting his allies into the middle of the melee. Heedless Tolrep pushed his way towards the esuzou bastard, but it was no use. For every pirate Tolrep killed three more sprung to replace him. That was the end of it. Damn. One of the pirates pulled Tolrep by the scalp and laid a knife over the smooth stretch of neck. I’m sorry Dad. I couldn’t keep my promise.
“Hold!” Eddard boomed. “This one’s mine!”
Tolrep growled. Eddard always was a pompous and arrogant shiphand; now the clothes fit the rest of his yammering. A scarlet cloak worked with cloth-of-gold adorned his shoulders, as well as a fine leather jerkin, upon which a strap of bullets was buckled. The dark jacket parted at the middle, revealing a snow-silk tunic bursting at neck and wrists. Tolrep fumed over the last. “Take that off, Eddard. You haven’t the right.”
“I’m the captain. That gives me the right.” Tolrep rankled with contempt. The tunic on which Eddard’s wine ruined with dried blotches of red was over five hundred years old. A marvel of antiquity...only to be ruined by an idiot with no appreciation to those that came before. Oh yes, it definitely rankled.
“Ah. I remember that face.” The privateer nearly gagged on the whiskey on Eddard’s breath. “How could I forget it? It’s the only face you ever wore.”
“Perhaps if you followed orders I wouldn’t need to wear it.” The returning slap was just as big a mockery as the over-sized captain’s clothes. Tolrep moved his jaws about in a parody of shifting bones back into place, then smiled. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Oh, you’ll be wishing that was the least of your problems. You’ll be a eunuch when I’m done with you...what the hell are you looking at?”
The privateer allowed himself a smile. “Three...Two...One.”
Then the world went mad. The cavalry. About damn time.
The ship swarmed with the polyglot prisoners and the rest of the Baron’s men. It was child’s play to render his captors unconscious. They’re big and stupid. My favorite. The fools didn’t even bother to toss their weapons overboard. Tolrep readied the blades in his pistols and scanned the ship.
All around him were the screaming and the charging and the dying. Torrents of blood lanced through the air, little streams of red glittering in the moonlight. Abruptly the privateer realized that though he was in the heart of this slaughter, no blade touched him. He looked up on the quarterdeck, and there he was. Eddard, steel-eyed and low-browed. He had one knee bent delicately on an unseen wine barrel; the very picture of a story-tale pirate. With but a smile Eddard offered his message. I’m here. Come and get me.
Tolrep was happy to oblige. He took his time, savoring very step, his eyes on Eddard and his mind afire with the vengeance he would reap on the lesser esuzou. He felt strength flow through him, hotter and hotter. By the time he ascended unto the quarterdeck he looked a monster made flesh. It even took Eddard by surprise.
“Hello –”
Tolrep moved forward. Talking? The bastard was talking? His knives were so quick Eddard had to dance away; the strike meant to empty his bowels was reduced to a jagged ribbon of red upon the white-silk tunic. In a way, the privateer was glad he missed. The bastard deserved a slow death.
Tolrep charged. Angry Rhino Charges Through the Cage. Broadsword Overwhelms Rapier. Pack of Wolves Descend Upon Gazelle.
Eddard fought back, though he retreated step by step. Needle Pricks the Heart. Magician’s Misdirection. Retreating to Higher Ground. The bastard hopped up the stairs to avoid a slash that would have severed the calves. Like all fencers Eddard created a bit of a swirl with his sword to confuse his opponent. Dancer’s Grace. Stork Bends Double. Dragonfly Hovers Over the Lake.
It didn’t work. Vultures Descend on Fresh Meat. Lion Pounces on the Jackal. Dragon Whips the Tail. Each strike had all the privateer’s strength behind it. Not the best way of fighting, considering the lack of range of his guns. Tolrep forgot strategy, forgot the world. The only thing that existed was Eddard. Nothing more.
He should have known better. Tolrep didn’t realize he was smashing his blades to pieces until Eddard darted forward and twisted the weapons from his hands. He looked at the wreckage: the blades cragged and misshapen, the handles scoured from his death grip. They were one-of-a-kind, and anger had destroyed them utterly.
Eddard grinned and moved forward. Snake Snaps at Rat. Mouse Scares the Elephant. Bird Drops Stone on The Turtle. Now it was Tolrep backing away. Eddard advanced slowly, his katas blurring and stopping at the last moment. Simple strikes, almost an afterthought but with strength behind them, accented his purpose. A game. He wants to savor the victory as long as possible.
Harpoon Spears the Whale’s Eye.
Tolrep leapt into the space between slow and speed and butted Eddard in the head. Eddard wobbled, the groan suddenly cut down to a gurgling whisper. He looked down at the rapier – his own blade – tangled in the chasm that had once been his stomach. “No...” Eddard crashed to his knees, then to the floor. He did not get up again.
That’s it? Tolrep should have felt something – victory, joy, wild, reckless superiority – but nothing came. All the privateer felt was exhaustion and cold. He even felt a trickle of sorrow for the downed traitor, impossible as that might seem.
“Leave them there. I could always use good serfs.”
Tolrep broke through the small mob gazing at the quarterdeck. The captives filled the rear of the ship, a wall of hardy eyes staring at the Baron’s “civilized men.” Only now Tolrep could get a good look at them.
There were hundreds of them, of every shape and size. Red, yellow, black, brown, all the races of men butting shoulders on that little wooden bridge. All were resigned, which was natural. Freedom was a poisoned fruit; there was no point hoping for a dream that would never come true.
“Hey sweetheart. How’s about you and me find a nice spot in the hold and...discuss trade relations, if you know what I mean.” Tolrep goggled at the man. Idiot. Not only that, but all the crew wore the same reckless bravado. Did they not see the husbands and brothers and fathers? Even a blind man could tell the menfolk of the prisoners were about to do something very male and stupid.
“Hands off.” Tolrep grabbed the nearest sailor and pitched him over the side, then put himself squarely between the crew and the prisoners. “Anyone who fondles a woman will have to go through me.”
“What do you think you’re doing, runt?”
Something very male and stupid. “I won’t have slaves on my ship. If you don’t like it, go swim back to shore.” Tolrep gazed at the swarm of angry, bloodshot eyes and ignored the impulse to look away from all that prideful anger. One man against an entire ship. This is all kinds of stupid.
“Let him be,” the Baron boomed. “Tis his ship. He is the captain.” Tolrep frowned. There was a slur in the old man’s voice, as well as a stagger to his gait. After two steps, the Baron fell to his knees. He would have fallen completely if Tolrep had not slid in to catch him. Tolrep peeled the Baron’s wrinkled fingers
from its death-grip at his ribs and hissed in resignation. The lower half of the Baron’s tunic was stained red, and growing by the second. “Up,” came the weak, cragged voice. “Lift me up.” Numbly Tolrep helped the Baron to his feet. “I name this man my Heir. He will be the next Baron.” Then the breath rattled from his chest, and the Baron died. Tolrep was so shocked the Baron slid almost completely from his grasp before catching him again. Then it doubled when all the men fell to one knee. Even the prisoners were kneeling.
The prisoners! Tolrep had forgotten all about them. “They would have killed you without a second thought,” Tolrep heard himself say. “They deserved to die, but you are free now. Free to go to your families. Go to your children as men, not monsters.” A few eyes twinkled in recognition, but only a few. The rest looked upon him almost stupidly.
A small, hunchbacked man shuffled his way to Tolrep’s side. “I am Funny Jack. I am versed in the Four Dialects of the world, and quite a few variations.” Before the privateer could protest Funny Jack let out a few trilling sentences that sent the foreigners into a frenzy of nodding. Funny Jack beamed up at Tolrep and smiled, his teeth yellow and crooked. “I have already translated your speech and will convey your wishes to the crew.”
“To the what?” The privateer echoed.
“The crew. They want to join you.”
Tolrep goggled. “They don’t even know me. What am I to them?”
“The man that saved them from a fate worse than death.”
“I...I have my own agenda to follow.”
“They do not care.”
“My journey will meet with the Coicro.”
“They do not care.”
“This could get me killed.”
“They will not allow it. They would throw themselves into oblivion first.”
Tolrep clapped a hand to his face. The Coicro needed to be dealt with, and it was suicide to attempt it single-handedly. Sighing Tolrep told Funny Jack to translate and gave out a speech he didn’t remember afterwards. The crew thundered their approval anyway. Tolrep allowed himself a little hope. Maybe things would turn out all right.
Chased By War Page 22
