by Aeryn Rudel
All eyes were now on the tall pirate captain, and the only movement in the crowd was the bet takers gathering their slips and hurrying to turn them in. These recruitment fights were intensely popular in Blackwater, not just among those hoping to earn their place on a pirate crew but to a veritable sea of moneylenders that stood to make a profit on the rampant betting that sprung up around them.
“I need twenty fighters,” Bloodbrine said. “I’m not looking for sailors. Most of you lot don’t know port from pox anyway. I need men who know their way around knife, sword, and pistol. If that’s you”—he grinned, revealing straight yellow teeth—“show me!”
There was silence for a moment, and Aiakos felt the adrenaline thrill of impending battle crash through him and everyone standing in the Hold. As he thought it might, the fighting began with Baros and Viger. No one in the fighting pit was a stranger to violence, but none was as intimately familiar with it as the two Quay Slayers.
Boras, seven feet of muscle and callous, held a twelve-pound boat oar fully eight feet long. The thing was far too heavy to be used as a weapon by most, but Boras swung it like it was made of paper and glue. Seconds after Bloodbrine’s announcement, the massive ganger turned, brought his oar up in a two-handed grip, and cracked the skull of a swarthy Scharde standing behind him. Every set of eyes in the Hold watched the Scharde’s body fall. Then the entire pit erupted into a sea of violence.
“Hah!” Dasko cheered. “Not exactly subtle, our Baros.”
Aiakos said nothing but watched intently as Baros and Viger began carving their way through the tangle of cutthroats and ruffians, shattering limbs and cracking skulls. They had a good system. Baros swung his oar in a wide arc, dropping men like slaughtered cattle, while Viger waited patiently beside him. Any man that made it past Baros’ reach found himself facing Viger’s twin clubs.
Aiakos turned his attention to Bloodbrine. The captain and his first mate were standing very close to one another, talking intently. Bloodbrine pointed and nodded, and Aiakos knew instantly what he was pointing at. Baros and Viger were making a strong case to join Bloodbrine’s crew.
”Those two,” the captain called out. “Tall one and two sticks!” In response, two burly black ogrun armed with shields and boarding axes hopped down into the arena and began making their way toward Baros and Viger, likely to escort the first of Bloodbrine’s chosen from the melee.
The crowd was getting wilder as combatants fell stunned, unconscious, and in a few cases quite dead. Cheers and catcalls filled the Hold, and the bet takers wove through the packed bodies like a score of hungry rats. A few more fighters were chosen by Bloodbrine and escorted from the pit by the Hold’s ogrun.
Watching the battle filled Aiakos with a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. Excitement, surely—battle always brought his blood up—but there was something else. The promise of what he’d been lacking among the Quay Slayers. He’d been second-in-command of the gang for years, but in recent months he had resented it, and Dasko’s orders, more and more. Had Dasko done anything to deserve his respect, it might have been different. He had begun to think about killing Dasko and taking control. The main reason he hadn’t yet was that there was no challenge to it, and once he was in control it wouldn’t matter. He’d become the leader of the Quay Slayers, but nothing would really change. Even the lowest pirate raider had a freedom no gang leader could boast, to steal a life for themselves, as much as their ambition, cunning, and strength allowed. What he saw below was opportunity. He saw a way forward.
Aiakos’ hands balled into fists at his side. He carried only a dagger on his belt, but that could be remedied. He glanced around and saw what he was looking for—a man standing at the edge of the pit had a saber sheathed at his hip. The man wore the red sash and green leathers of another prominent gang in Blackwater, the Blight Knives. The ganger was intent on the fighting below and oblivious to Aiakos as he pushed through the crowd behind him. Aiakos slid up behind the man and pushed his dagger into the man’s kidneys with his left hand as he yanked his victim’s saber from its scabbard with his right. The man turned, eyes wide with pain and fear as he wrenched Aiakos’ dagger free in a spurt of crimson. Aiakos lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the man backward, over the edge of the pit. He followed, leaping over the edge and onto the sand below. Aiakos landed, cat-like, in a crouch. His victim had fallen badly. The man lay on his stomach, his neck turned at ghoulish angle.
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd behind Aiakos. What he’d done was unexpected and vicious—always popular in Blackwater.
“What in Toruk’s name are you doing?!” a shout rose over the din, and Aiakos looked back to see Dasko standing at the edge of the pit, his face filled with mixture of rage and shock.
“What I should have done years ago!” Aiakos shouted back. He turned away from the leader of the Quay Slayers. He won’t retain that title for long. It was Aiakos that had kept Dasko in power; the gang leader would find a knife in his guts before the week was over.
He’d landed in a place where the fighting was thin; most of it was across the pit, directly beneath where Bloodbrine stood. Aiakos raced forward, largely ignoring the small knots of combatants in his path. He was armed with real weapons. They weren’t, and most got out of his way. He was prepared to cut down any who didn’t. His targets were clear: Baros and Viger. They had been deemed worthy to join Bloodbrine’s crew; he would prove himself worthy by killing one or both of them.
The two former Quay Slayers were standing directly below Bloodbrine. The black ogrun escorts hadn’t reached them yet, and the other combatants were giving them a wide berth.
Viger saw Aiakos first, and the little man’s eyes went wide. He shouted something that was lost in the din, but Baros turned in Aiakos direction, bringing his oar around in front of him.
There was a man and a woman standing together outside the reach of Baros and Viger, obviously gauging their chances against the two. They stood in Aiakos’ path; despite his saber and dagger, they must have thought him an easier mark than Baros and Viger. They were both armed with belaying pins, but the woman, lank-haired and hard-featured, clutched a long gutting knife she must have hidden on her person. The crude weapons told Aiakos these two were likely fishermen with limited skill in battle. He was right.
The fisherman to the right lunged forward with his belaying pin in a clumsy overhand swing. Aiakos checked the blow with his saber, slammed a boot into the man’s knee, crushing the joint with a satisfying crunch of cartilage, then drove his dagger into the man’s throat as he folded forward over the shattered leg. He ripped his dagger free, letting the man fall to the sand and rushed the second fisherman, the woman with the knife, who was slowly backpedaling as she realized she was grossly overmatched. The woman wasn’t paying attention to what was behind her and had wandered into Baros’ reach. The oar coming down on the back of her skull made a hollow thump, and Aiakos was splattered with warm, red wetness.
He didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his face, and stepped forward over the twitching body of the fisherman. The fighting had slowed, and the area around Aiakos, Viger, and Baros had all but emptied. This was a fight no one wanted to miss.
“That’s cheating, brother,” Viger said, eying Aiakos’ saber and dagger even as he dropped his belaying pin and snatched the fisherman’s fallen knife to replace it. “There’s room for all three of us on the Scythe, I’m sure.”
Boras stood behind Viger, looming over him, the head of his massive oar dotted with clots of blood, hair, and bits of bone. The giant was silent, and he simply stared at Aiakos, his dark eyes intelligent and knowing.
“Maybe,” Aiakos said and glanced up to where Bloodbrine and his first mate were clearly watching them. Bloodbrine made a shooing motion with his right hand, and the black ogrun escorts who were approaching stopped some twenty feet from where Aiakos stood. “But I have to prove myself worthy of the Scythe, and we both know killing a fisherman isn’t enough.”
“And killing y
our brothers would be enough, I suppose,” Viger said with a frown. “I was hoping the three of us would board the Scythe together. But have it your way.” The little man’s right leg lashed out, kicking the sand and sending a plume of grit directly into Aiakos’ face.
Aiakos turned his head to keep the sand out of his eyes and cursed himself for getting too close. He heard Baros’ heavy footsteps as the man rushed toward him, and he dropped to his belly. The whoosh of the oar passing through the air above him said he’d made the right decision. He rolled forward, slamming his body into Baros’ knees. It was like rolling into a stone wall, but the big man staggered back, giving Aiakos time to spring to his feet.
Baros had already recovered; for all his size the man was quick. He drew his oar back over his head, obviously intending to smash aside Aiakos defenses with brute strength. Aiakos didn’t give him the chance. He flipped his dagger up into the air, caught it by the blade, and hurled it at Baros. He couldn’t miss such a large target from so close, but he got lucky and the dagger skewered Baros’ throat, the black hilt standing out from the giant ganger’s neck. The wound wasn’t immediately mortal—Aiakos had seen men survive worse—but any man with a knife in his throat is apt to lose his focus. Eyes wide, Baros let the oar fall to the sand and reached up to grab the dagger transfixing his windpipe.
Aiakos charged, saber leading. He slammed into Baros and rammed the point of his sword up and under the man’s rib cage, driving the blade thorough gut, lungs, and heart. As the blade went in, Baros drew in a choked, bubbling gasp and staggered backward. Aiakos yanked the blade free as Baros pulled away. He was still wary of Viger, although so far the smaller man had done nothing but watch.
Baros sank to his knees, one hand fumbling at the dagger in his throat and the other trying desperately to hold his guts in. He failed on both accounts and finally pitched over onto his back and lay still.
Aiakos approached Baros’ corpse slowly, watching Viger. The rat-faced man stood silently, ten paces away. Aiakos reached down and pulled his dagger free from Baros’ throat, flipping it up into a saber grip in his left hand. He then approached Viger.
“You got lucky with that dagger toss,” Viger said, bringing his club and knife up into a guard position, one held high and the other, low. “Baros would have splattered your brains across the sand otherwise.”
“Maybe,” Aiakos conceded as he began to circle left, away from the knife Viger held in his right hand. No two-sword fighter was equally skilled with both hands, and Aiakos knew Viger favored his right. “But you’ve been in this business long enough to know that luck’s as good as skill sometimes.”
“True. But luck won’t save you now. I’m better.”
“Let’s see about that,” Aiakos said and charged. He made it three steps before a single loud report split the air. The bullet kicked up dirt in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks.
“That’s enough!” Captain Bloodbrine called down and shoved his pistol back into his belt. “I need both you fools. Now climb out of there.”
Aiakos took a step back and lowered his weapons a fraction. Across from him Viger shrugged and did the same.
“Now to get out,” Viger said.
Aiakos nodded, turned, and saw that the remaining men and women in the pit were closing in, their faces pinched with fear and the hope of still being chosen. Taking down Aiakos or Viger would almost guarantee them a place on the Scythe. He wasn’t worried about Viger for the moment. Captain Bloodbrine had made his desires plain, and neither he nor Viger would jeopardize their position with a pointless duel.
Aiakos smiled. He hadn’t felt so filled with purpose in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to lose that feeling. He sprang forward, blades leading. There wasn’t enough flesh, blood, and steel on Caen to rob him of what he’d earned.
PART II
The Meredius, Spring, 606 AR
Aiakos stood at the Scythe’s gunwales and stared out over the Meredius, which lay flat and blue and endless. He could do that now without wanting to heave his breakfast into the water. The first month aboard Bloodbrine’s ship had been torturous. Sea sickness was a thing he’d only heard about, having never left the islands of Cryx, and he’d never understood the misery of the condition. Luckily, he wasn’t called on to do much while they were under way. He wasn’t a sailor and spent most of his days in his berth with the other boarding skirmishers, many of whom had been taken aboard at the same time as Aiakos.
His condition had drawn much derision from the Scythe’s proper crew, but he wasn’t so sick that he couldn’t beat a man half to death. He chose his target well, a junior seaman named Yarrik that’d had joined the crew along with Aiakos. Yarrik was generally disliked, largely because he had a reputation as a cheat in the frequent card games played by the crew. It made him the perfect choice. Aiakos had broken both Yarrik’s arms and fractured his jaw after the man had jokingly threatened to push Aiakos overboard as he hung over the gunwales puking. Bloodbrine had been angry, and Aiakos had tasted the bosun’s lash for his transgressions. Yarrik, unable to work, had been thrown overboard. Dead weight.
It had been a worthwhile gamble. The rest of the crew had let him be after that, and he’d finally gotten his sea legs and plenty of opportunity to use them. The Scythe had been prowling the Ordic coast for the last six months, picking off lone merchant vessels and filling the hold with plunder.
Bloodbrine didn’t like to sink a ship if he could avoid it and would generally immobilize his far weaker prey with volleys of chain shot from the Scythe’s twenty-cannon broadside. This was usually enough to shred rigging and splinter the main mast, leaving the target ship dead in the water. This was when Aiakos and his fellow skirmishers proved their worth.
A disabled ship would be grappled, drawn close, and then Aiakos and twenty others, often led by the Scythe’s first mate Nyra Bloodbrine, would storm across planks and ladders thrown out to bridge the two vessels. These were never easy fights. The sailors aboard these ships knew they would receive no quarter and fought like cornered rats. Still, it was a chance for Aiakos to prove his mettle, and he was always the first over the gunwales. He’d taken to fighting with a shortened whaling harpoon and a cutlass, using the harpoon to pull his enemies close so he could finish them with a thrust from his sword.
Aiakos had participated in eight boarding attacks and had killed more men than any of Bloodbrine’s skirmishers, save one. Viger, his former brother among the Quay Slayers, had also taken to the work of a pirate with skill and vigor. Each kill the man tallied, each piece of loot he presented to Captain Bloodbrine, was a thorn in Aiakos’ gut. That Viger’s skill in battle eclipsed his own was insult enough, that he was obviously well-liked by the crew and by the captain was all but intolerable. He couldn’t simply kill Viger. The man was skilled and wary, and even in the chaos of battle he would likely sense an attack. Worse yet, Viger had gained the captain’s approval, and his death, if it were linked to Aiakos, could have serious repercussions.
The thought of being bested by Viger gnawed at Aiakos, and he turned and scanned the deck for his nemesis. The former Quay Slayer sat on a pile of rope and was sharpening one of his cutlasses with slow, methodical movements. The rasp of stone on steel was audible over the din of the waves and crew, and it scratched at Aiakos’ nerves.
Viger must have sensed Aiakos staring at him, and he looked up and smiled. Viger was an ugly man with pinched features and small, deep-set eyes. His smile showcased a mouthful of very white teeth, some of which he’d filed into points, enhancing his verminous appearance.
“Good fight, that last ship, eh, brother?” Viger said and sheathed his newly sharpened cutlass.
Viger still insisted on calling Aiakos “brother,” as if they were still in the Quay Slayers. It was yet another thing he hated about the man.
“Yes, it was,” Aiakos said. He picked up his harpoon from where it sat against the gunwales and crossed the deck. “You fought well.” The compliment tasted like poison on his to
ngue, but it was true. Viger was one of the deadliest men with a blade he’d ever met.
Viger stood, still smiling. The little man’s head barely reached the center of Aiakos’ broad chest. “You as well,” he said. “Just like in Blackwater—we were the best of them. We still are.”
Aiakos frowned. He couldn’t tell if Viger was being sincere. It didn’t matter. Aiakos wasn’t looking for friends, and he wasn’t looking for allies unlikely to help him rise above his current station. Viger was simply a problem that wanted fixing, an obstacle to be overcome, whether the little man realized it or not.
“Ship astern!” came a sudden cry from above.
Aiakos looked up to where the seaman stationed in the crow’s nest atop the main mast was pointing out over the sea. Many of the crew rushed to the poop deck to get a better look at the ship behind the Scythe. Aiakos, curious as well, shouldered his way through the crowd of sailors to get a better view. Viger followed.
Captain Bloodbrine stood against the ship’s railing with his daughter and first mate Nyra beside him. He was looking through a brass spyglass, a deep frown on his face.
“Blackship?” Nyra said, one hand on the pistol on her hip.
“Aye,” the captain said. “A big one.”
A chorus of whispers broke through the ranks of sailors on the poop deck. Blackships were the largest and most heavily armed ships used by the Cryxian navy. It was said they were the former vessels of the dreaded Orgoth and enchanted with their black magic. There were tales of blackships that could create fog, call down the winds to fill their sails, even disappear from sight. Worse yet, they were often captained by those who had the lich lords’ favor.
“Shut your bloody mouths!” Nyra turned and bellowed at the crew. “Back to work. Now.”
The poop deck cleared of sailors in moments, leaving only Bloodbrine, Nyra, Aiakos, and Viger. Nyra glared at the two skirmishers but said nothing and turned back to the captain.
