by Dale Lucas
Their crossing, to Rem’s eager spirit, was painfully slow. Surely, their transit from one harbor to its neighbor would take no more than a half to three-quarters of an hour—relatively swift, Rem supposed, since every man in the launch—he included—worked an oar. But that did not settle him. His blood was up. His mind was fevered. His heart was eager. He wanted this bloody business to be done with. He wanted every one of those prisoners yanked out of their barrels and safe. He wanted Indilen to know that even if she never wanted to see him again, someone had cared enough to seek her out and find her and make sure she was safe. In the same circumstances, Rem would have wanted as much.
But here, now, all that he could concentrate on was the infernal slowness of their glide across the waters of South Harbor and the fog-shrouded river toward North Harbor on the far side. All he could seem to think of was how soon the sun would rise, how soon the tide would bear Masarda and his unlucky cargo out of the harbor and beyond their reach forever.
He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Torval’s.
“Too fast,” the dwarf said quietly. “You’re out of step with the rest of us.”
Rem nodded. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder, as quietly as he could. “I’m just … eager.”
“We all are,” Torval answered, and there was a curious warmth in his voice. “Just bend to your oar, lad, and get in step with the rest of us. We’ll spill blood soon enough.”
Rem did as he was told. Strangely, he found comfort in the regular rhythms of lifting and drawing his oar, doing his part to move the launch across the swift current of the Embrys.
Soon enough—far sooner than Rem expected—they passed Gaunt’s Point, the spit of land that marked the mouth of North Harbor. Almost as soon as it had materialized out of the fog, the point receded back into it again and they were once more in diaphanous darkness.
Then, slowly, the dim light of torches and lamps materialized out of the inky-night mists, gradually painting the outline of the smuggler’s ship for them, complete with the distant echo of barked orders from the first mate and a flurry of movement upon its decks. It was a sixty-foot caravel, double-masted, tied to a hundred-foot dock with no other berths in use. In the fog the lights of torches and lamps from the deck of the ship made strange, bright blotches on the face of the murky night, and the forms that moved on deck took on a dreamlike quality, drifting like ghosts, casting strange, deformed shadows on the curtains of mist that separated the approaching watchwardens from their quarry.
Hirk received orders from the captain of the launch—a salty bargeman impressed into service with the wardwatch and seemingly enjoying the excitement—and relayed them to Rem and Torval.
“They answered our signal lamps,” he whispered, “so they’re already in place and ready. We’ll approach from the ship’s starboard side, grapple on, and climb over the gunwales onto the deck. We’ll be the first party to reveal ourselves. When the crew tries to cut and run along the dock, Ondego’s squad will be waiting for them.”
Rem and Torval nodded their assent. It seemed like a sound-enough plan, though Rem was more than a little troubled by the notion of trying to slide up alongside that berthed ship and clamber over the gunwale on a grappling line like a pirate. He supposed it was a good thing that his father had insisted, all those years ago, that he learn to swim. At least if he fell into the waters of the harbor, he knew he wouldn’t drown.
Although, there were always the sharks to contend with. After devouring Ginger Joss, the sea beasts might have decided that they had a taste for redheads.
Oh well. Nothing for it now. In for copper, in for gold, as the sages said. All he could hope to do now was to acquit himself bravely and uphold the honor of his ward. If he died, he died in a cause of his own choosing, at the time of his own choosing—the master of his own destiny. Perhaps, just perhaps, what he did now could save Indilen—or one of the many prisoners in the same predicament.
There was some comfort—however small—in that thought.
The launches slid closer, closer. Though it was neither the largest nor the handsomest vessel Rem had ever seen, the caravel nonetheless had a hulking, imposing quality, a great, looming leviathan of wood, hemp, and canvas all alone in the middle of the darkness, ghostly figures moving on its deck, a terrible, living cargo in its hold. The closer they got, the steeper and higher those gunwhales seemed. Climbing them would be no mean feat.
Now they were less than fifty feet from the ship’s starboard side, all of them crouched low in the keels of their launches, oars shipped to allow them to silently drift the last, short span between them and their destination. As the overloaded launches skated nearer, the watchwardens all held their breath, afraid that, so close to the ship, any movement, any minute sound, could give them away and ruin their advantage. The lead men of each launch readied grappling hooks on stout hemp ropes. The ship’s hull loomed perilously nearer and nearer in Rem’s vision …
Then, someone up on deck gave a shout. Another answered it. The crew had spotted movement on the dock. The light above shifted, torches and lamps shuttled portside to improve visibility. Then, Rem heard the call.
“Wardwatch on the docks, boys! It’s a raid!”
Damn. Ondego’s band had been discovered. Rem thought he heard the twang of a bowstring, followed by a sudden shout and the sound of something heavy hitting the deck. After that, there came the bellicose hiss of steel drawn from scabbards and a rebellious whoop from the sailors on deck.
“So much for surprise,” one of Rem’s companions muttered, then tossed his grappling hook up over the gunwale above. He yanked his rope taut and the hook held fast. From the other launches, more grappling lines were tossed and couched. Rem felt someone tapping on his shoulder.
“Go!” they said. “Go now!”
Rem, without hesitation, grasped the hemp in his hands and began a mad scramble up the side of the caravel.
The climb seemed to take an eternity—though he was sure he had only drawn three or four breaths in the interval. He scurried over the gunwale, tripped, and nearly landed on his face. Rolling and regaining his feet, he saw that most of the crew were on the port side of the deck, repelling Ondego’s boarding party, readying any advantage against them. One knot of sailors hauled a cauldron of steaming pitch toward the side to dump onto the invaders. Others scrambled out of the holds with surplus cutlasses, pikes, and any other hand tool capable of being used as a weapon. With a quick glance, Rem saw that members of his own raiding party were already joining him on deck. He might have been the first over the gunwale, but he was no longer alone.
Then he saw their true quarry: Mykaas Masarda, face a mask of shock and fury, up on the aft deck. His Estavari bodyguard stood close by, fine sword already drawn. Master and servant watched the mad scramble on the port side of the ship as the hired crew hurried to repel the invading watchwardens from the dock.
Scanning the deck, the Estavari swordsman saw Rem and his fellow watchwardens newly arrived at the starboard gunwales, and drew his master’s attention to them. Rem thought he saw Masarda’s fair skin flush crimson, his fury rising.
“Behind you, you fools! There are more of them!”
They had been seen. When one of the sailors on deck shouted that there were boarders to starboard, Rem knew that their brief element of surprise had evaporated. Now they would only come out on top by force of arms. As his fellow watchwardens—including Torval and Hirk—fell in beside him, a number of the ship’s crew crowding the port gunwales turned and studied the new arrivals at the starboard railings.
There was a long, pregnant moment when near silence reigned. Some of those at the port gunwale still busied themselves with repelling Ondego’s dockside party while many of the rest simply studied the new arrivals starboard.
Then someone sounded a bloodcurdling yawp. War cries rose from both sides and the watchwardens and pirate crew charged toward one another, converging center-deck in a clash of swords and cutlasses, pikes and axes. In seco
nds, the deck was engulfed in bloody chaos, the watchwardens fighting with grim determination, the pirate crew answering them with savage efficiency and pure, brute strength. Everywhere there were blood, screams, and the sounds of men mortally wounded and slowly dying. Rem said a little prayer to the gods that, if his end were upon him, it might come quickly, in the heat of battle, and leave him no time to lie bleeding and contemplate what had gone wrong, how unfair his death might be, what rewards or punishments might come next.
Rem had never been in a pitched battle before, but now here he was, right in the heart of one. And on a ship’s deck, no less! What would his father think of him now, seeing him blade to blade with ruddy-faced Loffmari and Thorian sailors, his sword flashing, swiping, and thrusting before him as he fought off clumsy attacks from men wielding clubs and swift, sure onslaughts from more skilled men with sabers or axes?
There seemed to be a great breadth of skill and experience among the sailors, but quickly Rem realized that none of his opponents could be underestimated. Every one was dangerous, desperate, willing to cut him down where he stood to secure safe passage out of that harbor. Thus, Rem did his best to silence his racing mind, to quell his rising fear, to simply exist in the bloody moment. He let his sword and his reflexes do his thinking, for if he stopped to consider what a perilous, chaotic juncture he’d come to, he might never regain the wherewithal to escape it.
Ondego’s squad now stormed the port side of the ship, using grappling hooks and the tie ropes from the pilings to scramble over the gunwales and onto the deck. Men dueled with swords and spears. Rem caught sight of the Fifth Ward’s single elven watchwarden—Queydon, was it?—slicing a deadly path through any and all who faced her, the elf maiden’s sword hand and the elegant blade she wielded little more than a blur in the murky, misty darkness. Near him, Djubal and Klutch fought, back to back, as tight a pair of combat partners as Rem had ever seen. Knots of men brawled at the foot of both the main and mizzen masts, and when a few tried to flee to the forecastle, they found their way blocked by armed troops from Ondego’s party, the watchwardens fanning out in wide formations to surround and fetter the desperate sailors.
Rem blocked an overhand strike from a lumbering, bearded Kosterman, then plunged his sword deep into his opponent’s gut. The Kosterman’s face screwed up terribly, the fair barbarian looking almost comically puzzled, then down he went. In the instant when his opponent fell, before anyone else engaged him, Rem stole a glance at the stern. Masarda lingered there, watching the chaos on deck with cold cunning and not a little satisfaction. But where, Rem wondered, was his Estavari bodyguard? He saw the master, but not the servant.
Rem searched the melee and caught sight of him, his familiar opponent hurrying down the steps from the stern deck to the main deck, dark eyes fixed on Rem.
Strangely, in that moment, Rem felt no fear, only a strange sort of elation.
Come on, then, he thought.
Not content to wait for his adversary to reach him, Rem began to hack and slash his way through the roiling fray.
This is no game, he reminded himself, closing in. If he wins, you die. It’s as simple as that.
So, I shall simply have to win.
“Where are you off to?” Torval shouted from Rem’s left.
Rem stole a quick sideward glance. The dwarf was surrounded, bloodthirsty sailors nearly encircling him, armed and murderous. Torval stood on guard, unafraid, with a deck hatchet in one hand and his maul in the other. He looked more than equal to the men threatening him. Rem swung his gaze forward again and found his approaching adversary, now just a stone’s throw from him.
But Rem couldn’t leave Torval, could he? The dwarf was his partner, facing down a six-on-one battle with deadly stakes. True, the little bastard was probably delighted by those odds—but as much as Rem wanted to carry on and enter his deadly duel with Masarda’s Estavari bodyguard, he knew, also, that he could not abandon his partner. Torval, he imagined, would do the same for him.
And so, Rem fell in on Torval’s right, sword leveled, ready to join the impending brawl. Torval’s opponents seemed to sour when they realized that they wouldn’t be ganging up on the dwarf alone.
Torval gave a gruff laugh. “Now we get to see just how good you are with that blade,” Torval growled.
“Just remember to save a few for me,” Rem countered. “You grandstanding little shit.”
Two of the closing sailors charged, one going for Torval, the other coming right at Rem. Part of Rem wanted to watch Torval work in the heat of battle—his speed, his assurance, his ferocity—but Rem knew that his own opponent should be his only concern. Smooth as flowing water, his sword rose and fell, glided side to side, parried, blocked, thrust, and slashed. In moments, after trading equal, well-matched blows with his opponent—a determined, near-toothless Loffmari with a cutlass—Rem managed to find an opening. He thrust. His sword point sank deep into his opponent’s gut, probably skewering the cur’s liver. The Loffmari crumpled to the deck, groaning—and on came another crewman, this one looking as though he hailed from the Far East, skin the color of copper, hair as black as pitch. The Easterner wielded a pilot’s hatchet, and did so with deadly efficiency. Rem, enjoying only a momentary victor’s rush, immediately fell back a step to better situate himself, then began his contest.
Beside him, Torval repelled all comers. Rem only got glimpses from the corner of his eye as he fought, but it was clear that nothing could stop the ferocious little dwarf once he let his inner berserker out of its cage. The hatchet whistled, the maul rang. Blade bit flesh as hammer and spike shattered bones, dislocated limbs, dashed blood and brains onto the gently rolling deck of the moored ship. As Rem downed his second opponent, Torval was tearing into his fourth—the little crowd around the two of them growing by the moment. It was as if their determined teamwork and Torval’s savagery actually attracted opponents instead of scaring them away. Every time one more man fell to their blades, another seemed close at hand to take his place.
Then, through the pandemonium, Rem saw a familiar figure. It was Masarda’s bodyguard, skirting the fringe of the little crowd of would-be challengers surrounding them. His sword and poniard were drawn and he was clearly studying Rem’s every move. He paced with a tigerlike mix of patience and presentiment, watching intently as Rem drove his knee into his latest opponent’s groin, bent him double, then sent him sprawling to the deck with a blunt blow from the pommel of his sword.
Would he join the fight or wouldn’t he?
Would he assume that Rem was sufficiently distracted by the stream of challengers and flee?
Or was he just waiting for Rem to grow tired?
That was it, Rem wagered. The sailors came, one after another, with their bale hooks and their hand hatchets and their rusted, long-unused cutlasses. Rem fought them, one after another after another, and each took a little more out of him. He could not sustain such a furious pace under such deadly circumstances. Already he could feel his limbs growing sore and stiff, his breath grating in his chest, his movements growing less fluid, more ragged, often desperate and wild.
If Rem allowed these fools who kept challenging him to take the best out of him, he wouldn’t survive two minutes against Masarda’s sellsword. He had to challenge the villain here and now, while he still had all his wits and most of his strength remaining.
So Rem brought the cross guard of his sword sweeping up into the face of his present opponent—a freckled young wretch with horrible breath. The boy’s nose crunched sickeningly and blood poured from his nostrils. Down he went, limp as a sack of onions, and Rem made straight for the waiting Estavari bravo. On his approach, he snatched up a discarded cutlass from the deck: his opponent wasn’t the only one with two-handed fencing experience.
The oily Estavari smiled when he saw Rem snatch up the cutlass, then fell into a defensive posture, front leg poised, back leg bent, forward hand holding his dueling poniard, back hand leveling his sword along his eye line.
Rem
took a guarded stance of his own. For a moment, the two stood still, sizing each other up.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the Estavari asked, his voice almost friendly. “I’ll neither beg nor bestow quarter.”
“Stop talking,” Rem answered, “and have at me.”
The Estavari obliged. Instantly, his blades flashed forth, poniard jabbing uncomfortably close to Rem’s face, forcing Rem to lean backward as his opponent’s sword blade thrust forth toward Rem’s exposed shoulder. In midretreat, Rem managed a clumsy parry followed by a weak reprise, but his blow touched only air. The Estavari gave him a breath to recover, then followed with a savage eruption, blades slicing the air around Rem, sharp points and keen edges seeking Rem’s joints and kill zones, pressing all advantages, chipping away at Rem’s defenses and confidence with surgical precision and ferocious, merciless intensity.
Steel sang and clamored as the two fell into the rhythm of their duel. The Estavari was good—marvelously so—and it took every ounce of self-control and focus that Rem was capable of to meet and counter his attacks. Rem drew blood once or twice—a cut here, a glancing thrust there—but soon enough, Rem feared that the Estavari had the advantage. He was faster, more assured, and he had joined the duel fresh, whereas Rem had already been fighting for his life for an interminable span before the two ever touched blades. Increasingly, Rem noted that his own movements grew wanton and careless, and that his opponent, emboldened by that fact, affirmed his supremacy by affecting ever more detachment from their contest. His delighted smirk had disappeared, and if Rem was not mistaken, the bastard wasn’t even sweating. Rem’s eagerness to meet his smug nemesis sword to sword had long ago been replaced by an abiding hope of slipping away when his enemy wasn’t looking and living to a ripe old age.
Time and again, as the Estavari’s blades licked close to Rem’s bare flesh or vital bits, Rem had grim visions of the outcome to this contest. He could not win against this man. He had been a fool to test himself so. Rem would end the night on the deck, one more corpse, bleeding out, fading away. No doubt, he’d have the same surprised, embarrassed look on his face that all men seemed to adopt when slain without warning.
