Kral barely seemed to notice the wound, however. His knife was in his right hand, and he swung it at the pirate who had cut him, while with his left he caught the shoulder of the one who had missed. Forcing down on the shoulder, he pushed that man toward the ground. His knife stabbed the other in the upper arm, and once it had penetrated flesh and muscle Kral yanked it toward himself. The man gave out a howl of pain and hurled himself away from Kral, dropping the sword.
The other man started to pick himself up off the ground. Kral lashed out with one foot, catching the man just beneath the chin. The pirate spun around and collapsed into the grass.
Before she could stop him, Donial lunged away from her, grabbing one of the dropped swords. Kral caught the other one and handed it off to a waiting sailor. Her heart pounded as her little brother tried to maneuver his way into position to join the fighting. Kral blocked Donial’s way as he did battle with another pirate; Alanya couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or unconscious.
In any case, it looked as if the tide of battle would favor the Argosseans. They continued to hammer the line of Aquilonians, the strength of their numbers and more numerous weapons cutting through the defenders in spite of an intense effort. Alanya watched, horror-struck, as sailors fell one after another. The mercenaries, more battle-hardened, took their toll on the pirates, but even so the numbers overwhelmed them.
It was becoming apparent that the pirates would break through the line, and those on the inside, still armed with nothing more than small stones, would be defenseless unless they could collect the weapons of the slain. The lifeboat neared shore, but looked as if it would be too late to be of much help.
Knowing that her life could depend on her own efforts, Alanya crept nearer one of the pirates Kral had defeated. Donial had taken the man’s sword, but she thought she had seen a knife or dagger tucked inside his belt. He had fallen on his back, and blood caked his shirt and chest. She was pretty sure he was dead, but she wasn’t positive. If she got near enough to reach his knife and he grabbed her instead, what then? The others were too busy fighting off the onslaught to help her.
She would just have to fend for herself, she supposed. As she neared the man, the stench of blood and death assailed her nostrils. He lay unmoving, his mouth gaping open, eyes staring unblinkingly at the blue sky. Doing her best to ignore his horrific aspect, she reached across his broad belly toward the hilt of the knife she could see there, its blade hidden beneath a wide crimson sash. Blocking out the sounds of combat and dying, she focused on the knife. Its hilt was silver and intricately carved, the tips of the guard curled slightly toward the blade.
As Alanya closed her fist around the hilt, she heard Donial cry out. Hurriedly, she snatched the knife from the sash and rose to her feet. Her brother had engaged one of the pirates. The man’s cutlass slashed and cut, weaving a silvery pattern in the air. Donial did his best to keep up, swinging at the man, parrying his blows, but in spite of his lessons and practice, the buccaneer was clearly the more experienced swordsman by far.
She needed to do something, unable just to stand there while the first man her brother ever fought with a sword cut him down. But she could not reach his opponent, as the defenders had once again closed ranks, with Donial on the line beside Kral. She had a knife in her hand; she could throw it, but she knew there was an art to that. She scanned the ground quickly, looking for a cast-aside spear, crossbow, or other weapon she could use from a distance.
Down the beach, the men in the lifeboat were splashing ashore, and a group of Argosseans rushed to meet them, to stop them before they could offer aid to their comrades. One of the men remained in the boat, loosing crossbow bolts at the attackers while the others dragged the laden boat toward the sand.
That crossbow was too far away to help her, but there was sand right underfoot.
Tucking the knife in her belt for the moment, she squatted down and scooped up two fistfuls of the fine white sand. Moving as close behind Donial as she dared, she waited until the pirate had noticed her. He shot her a fierce, glowering grin, as if promising that she would come next, after Donial was killed. At that instant Alanya hurled both handfuls of sand right into his face.
Blinded, the pirate staggered back a couple of steps, spitting and blinking against the stuff in his eyes. Donial froze, until Alanya gave him a gentle shove. “Now’s your chance!” she shouted. Seeming to wake up, Donial moved, taking advantage of the other’s agony. He slashed with the cutlass and sliced the buccaneer down the chest, tearing his silk shirt and drawing a line of red across his skin. Realizing that wouldn’t stop the man, he swung the sword back up, point first, shoving it into the pirate’s exposed gut. Alanya thought the blade stuck there, but then Donial wrenched it free and the pirate slumped to his knees, dropping his own sword, hands clutching his midsection as the life flowed from him.
“You did it, Donial!” Alanya shouted, hoping she sounded encouraging. Donial’s expression, when he turned to look at her, was anything but triumphant. She saw what appeared to be a deep sadness in his eyes. She knew he had long looked forward to experiencing battle for himself, but supposed that the reality of it didn’t match his expectation. Then, almost as if in imitation of the man he had killed, he fell to his own knees, retching into the grass at the edge of the beach.
Alanya drew her dagger quickly and rushed to stand by his side, ready to protect him from any assault. But the battle, for the most part, seemed to be over.
A few of the sailors yet stood, each now wielding at least a single sword, and in some cases two. Likewise, a small handful of the mercenaries survived. Piles of dead Argosseans around them testified to their skills. The charming Captain Ferrin, Alanya noted with sorrow, had died early on, his corpse half-buried under others from both sides. Allatin, the first mate, yet lived. But as she watched, he took his cutlass and shoved its point into the sand, releasing its hilt so it stood there, quivering. Then he stepped away from it.
The signal it sent was clear. The dozen or so remaining from on board the Restless Heart surrendered to the Argosseans, who still numbered at least forty.
Alanya shuddered to think what the consequences of their action might be. She couldn’t argue the sense of it—clearly, they were outmatched and had lost the fight. To continue would just mean that they would all die, instead of merely most of them.
Still, most of the men hesitated to agree to the surrender. Kral, bleeding from at least a dozen wounds, still held his weapons, and his aggressive stance suggested that he would be happy to continue fighting. Most of the mercenaries did the same. The sailors seemed more willing to go along with Allatin’s surrender; most of them threw their weapons to the ground.
The presumed leader of the buccaneers approached Allatin. Around him, his men bristled with blades, but the leader himself slid his into a metal loop that dangled from a chain at his belt. “I accept your surrender,” he said, “on behalf of the crew of the Barachan Spur. And I, Captain Kunios of the Spur, claim your ship as fair-won booty.”
Some of the men grumbled, but Allatin only waited for a few seconds. “You’ll need a crew,” he said. “You will never get her repaired and under way without us.”
“All who will swear fealty to me, and to the new Barachan Spur, may join my crew,” Kunios declared. He wore a black shirt, or what was left of one. There had been a fresh cut across his left brow and cheek, now partnered with a newer one on his forehead and more on his exposed chest. He was among the tallest of the Argosseans, though still not much taller than Kral, and had a bulky muscularity. His hair was dark and unkempt, and his beard full. His eyes were red-veined and wild. Alanya suspected madness lurked behind them. “Any who refuse to so swear, speak up now so that you may be killed.”
Alanya waited, thinking that perhaps some of the mercenaries would refuse such allegiance. Part of her almost hoped that Kral would. Not that she wanted to see him die, but she hated the idea of joining up with these bloodthirsty buccaneers, even for a moment.
&nb
sp; She could read from Kral’s posture and the determined set of his jaw that he hated it as much as she did. But he stuck his knife into his girdle—not quite as accepting of the situation as dashing it to the ground would have been, but surrender nonetheless. Donial’s shoulders were slumped, his face blood-streaked, haggard, and dejected.
“Very well,” Kunios said. “Welcome to the crew. My rules must be obeyed by all hands, on pain of death, keelhauling, marooning, or other such punishment, at my choice. We split all booty, in equal shares. We decide jointly where to sail, and when. At any time, I can be challenged for the captaincy—but I warn you, none have yet challenged me and lived to tell about it.”
He looked at Allatin. “Who be you?”
“Allatin by name. First mate to Captain Ferrin, who lies there.” He pointed toward the captain’s lanky form.
“Well enough,” Kunios replied. “Until we are all used to one another, I shall direct my orders for this lot to you, and expect you to deliver obedience in all things. First off, what cargo does the new Spur carry?”
“Wine, silks, furs, and skins,” Allatin replied promptly. “Bound for markets in Stygia. Not much cargo this time—we were also a passenger vessel, carrying some of these before you to that same destination. There we hoped to pick up a full load, to sell in Aquilonia.”
“So if I had my choice I would rather have taken you on the way back. But the choice was taken out of my hands when the Barachan Spur was broken up by a freak storm—the same storm, I wager, that grounded the new Spur.”
“Aye,” Allatin said. “It blew up from nowhere and forced us into that reef on which she rests.”
“Most of her looks to be above water,” Kunios noted.
“She’s taking some on, through a break in her hull. But the reef holds her up, so the damage is not as bad as it might be.”
Kunios turned his gaze from the ship to the people onshore, those left standing after the battle. When it landed on Alanya and held there, she felt it like a burn. His demented smile stabbed at her heart. “I am sorry to hear there isn’t much cargo for us to sell,” Kunios said. “But pleased to see that there are other . . . aspects, which may yet make this a favorable encounter for us.”
She felt her flesh crawl at that remark, and at the searching stare that accompanied it. Kunios took a few steps closer to her, coming near enough that she could smell the blood and grime that covered him. “Very pretty,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself, and yet loud enough for all to hear. “Likely the daughter of some nobleman who will pay a healthy ransom for her return.”
Donial advanced angrily on the buccaneer. “She is my sister!” he said. “You keep your hands off her!”
Kunios laughed at Donial’s rage. “Your sister, eh?” he said. “Then maybe it would be helpful to send your head to your father in a box, so he can see what might befall his lovely daughter if he fails to pay, well and fast.”
“You will have to kill me if you hope to lay a finger on her,” Donial threatened.
“Relax, boy,” Kunios returned. “I have no intention of touching her, nor does any other man on our crew. Our interest in a girl of her age is purely for the reward she might bring, so settle yourself down. I have no problem killing you, if you force me. But I might have need of another ship’s boy, as I lost one in the storm.”
Alanya had noted the way Kunios looked at her, and his consolations had a hollow ring. Donial scowled, but held his tongue. She could see that Kral had been poised, ready to spring on Kunios if he had made for her or for Donial. But Kunios moved away, and Kral allowed himself to relax again. Saving himself, no doubt, Alanya thought, for some other conflict yet to come.
She was positive that it would. And more likely sooner than later.
GORIAN AND SULLAS had hung back during the fighting, doing just enough not to rouse the suspicions of the mercenaries who worked for them, but keeping themselves away from real danger. As the ranks of the sailors and mercenaries had dwindled, however, Gorian had grown nervous. The pirate captain, Kunios, had been a fearsome warrior, and none had been able to stand against him. The Pict boy had done well, too, and Gorian had thought he might see a match-up between the two of them. But before that happened, he might have had to put his own life at risk, and that was out of the question. Allatin had surrendered just before the point that Gorian was going to insist on it.
Not that surrendering to Argossean pirates would help fulfill his mission. He had to assume that the crown Kanilla Rey wanted was still on its way to Stygia, or there already. But dead, there was nothing he could do to look for it. Alive, there was always a chance that he could somehow commandeer the ship, or depose its captain, or escape.
Particularly if he could count on Kanilla Rey’s help.
He wasn’t sure when he would be able to contact the sorcerer. He still had the rock fragment he needed, hanging safely around his neck. But he also needed privacy, and he had a feeling that if he tried to creep out of the camp tonight, the pirates would complain bitterly. Probably with the points of their swords.
He would just have to bide his time. The opportunity would arise, and he would have to be ready to seize it. At least both he and Sullas had been spared, and there were still half a dozen mercenaries pledged to serve him.
He would wait, and watch.
He really had no other choice.
15
THE COMBINED CREW of the new Barachan Spur set to work fixing the ship that had formerly been the Restless Heart. Palm trees were felled and cut into planks. Nonessential sections of the ship were torn apart so that lumber, pegs, nails, and other hardware could be reused where needed.
Donial was put on a crew that pulled nails from old boards by hand. His fingers went numb from the effort, stinging and bleeding into the wood. Working with Donial was the only other boy of his age, a fourteen-year-old who said his name was Mikelo. He was slight, with thick, light brown hair, brown eyes, and a sad mouth, turned down at the corners in a perpetual frown. Like most of the others, his clothing—a tan linen shirt, striped pantaloons, and soft leather boots—had not survived the shipwreck, march, and subsequent battle in one piece.
“How long have you sailed with these men?” Donial asked as they worked that afternoon.
“A bit more than a year, I think,” Mikelo answered. “I was kidnapped from Kordava, just before my thirteenth birthday.”
“Kordava—that is near the Pictish wilderness, is it not?” Donial wondered. He swatted at a flying insect—they swarmed around everyone and everything here, especially after the sun went down. In the Westermarck, relatively cool temperatures had seemed to keep the insect population at bay, and at home in Tarantia he was surrounded by a city’s buildings and population. But here bugs were omnipresent. And annoying.
“Aye,” Mikelo said. “Your friend is a Pict, no? I recognize the breed.”
“My sister’s friend, more than mine,” Donial said, aware that even though Zingarans and Picts were natural enemies, so were Zingarans and Aquilonians. Those considerations seemed less important now, though, so far from home and all forced into the service of an Argossean buccaneer. “But yes, he is a Pict. We met him in the Westermarck.”
Mikelo looked surprised. “You are a long way from there.”
“And you a long way from Kordava.”
“Not by choice,” Mikelo reminded him.
Donial moved a little closer to him and lowered his voice. “Why have you not run away?”
“It is not so easily done,” Mikelo said, adopting Donial’s hushed tones. “Another Zingaran boy, Furelos, who was taken shortly after me, tried to jump ship when we landed once at Messantia. He thought he was unobserved, but one of the men spotted him and reported to Captain Kunios. By the time he reached shore, four men were waiting for him. He tried to outrun them, but they caught him anyway. Do you know what keelhauling is?”
“I heard your captain mention it,” Donial said. “But I know not what the word means.”
“
They drag you by ropes down the length of the bottom of the hull, which on a ship is always studded with barnacles,” Mikelo explained. “I had never seen it done, and still have not, as Furelos drowned before he had made it even a quarter of the way.” The young man shuddered at the memory. “Some of the others said the captain had never done it either, just heard about it and wanted to see what it was like. His curiosity still burns, they told me, because Furelos died so quickly. So he itches for a chance to try it again.”
“And this is a man those Argosseans willingly serve,” Donial said, disgust welling up inside him. “People call Kral a savage, yet he has never done anything like that.”
Mikelo shrugged. “It is a hard life, on the sea or off it. Some just want to follow one who is powerful, regardless of what direction he leads.”
“I suppose,” Donial said. He didn’t like it, but the fact was that he was doing the pirate captain’s bidding, even now. He guessed Mikelo and some of the other men were no fonder of Kunios than he, but valued their lives enough to do as they were told. He swore it would only be temporary, though. He, Alanya, and Kral would escape this forced servitude at the first possible opportunity.
They moved on to the next plank, letting a couple of crewmen take the one they had finished with. As they shifted, Mikelo glanced at Alanya, whom Kunios had put to work mending tattered sails. She sat in the shade of one of the remaining palms, her legs outspread with the fabric she worked with covering them.
“That’s your sister, eh?” Mikelo said, his gaze resting on her.
“Aye. Her name is Alanya.”
“She’s pretty,” Mikelo said.
“I guess.”
“No, she is. Really pretty.” Mikelo stared at her a few moments longer. “It has been a long time since I’ve seen a girl at all,” he said. “One anywhere near my age. Even then, not many were as lovely as she is.”
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