“Poe, of course, Banner, Grady—”
“All hands on deck!” Temple shouted from above as drums thundered.
“See you above, gentlemen,” Wyatt said while heading for the hold.
The sky was black. Invisible clouds covered the stars and shrouded the sliver of moon. Darkness wrapped the sea, a shadowy abyss where only the froth at the bow revealed the presence of water. Behind them, Hadrian saw nothing.
“Archers to the aft deck!”
Hadrian joined the others at the railing, where they lined up, shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the Emerald Storm’s wake.
“Light arrows!” came the order.
From across the water they heard a sound, and a moment later men around Hadrian screamed as arrows pelted the stern.
“Fire!” Bishop ordered.
They raised their bows and fired as one, launching their burning shafts blindly into the darkness. A stream of flame flew in a long arch, some arrows dying with a hiss as they fell into the sea, others striking wood, their light outlining a ship about three hundred yards behind them.
“There,” Bishop shouted. “There’s your target, men!”
They exchanged volley after volley. Men fell dead on both ships, thinning the ranks of archers. Small fires broke out on the tartane, illuminating it and its crew. The Dacca were short, stocky, and lean, with coarse long beards and wild hair. The firelight cast on them a demonic glow that glistened off their bare sweat-soaked skin.
When the tartane lay less than fifty yards astern, its mainmast caught fire and burned like a dead tree. The brilliant light exposed the sea in all directions and stifled the cheers of the Storm’s crew when it revealed the positions of the rest of the Dacca fleet. Four ships had already slipped alongside them.
“Stand by to repel boarders!” shouted Seward. He drew his sword and waved it over his head as he ran to the safety of the forecastle walls.
“Raise the nets!” ordered Bishop. The rigging crew drew up netting on either side of the deck, creating an entangling barrier of rope webbing. Under command of their officers, men took position at the waist deck, cutlasses raised.
“Cut the tethers!” Mr. Wesley cried as hooks caught the rail.
The deck shook as the tartanes slammed against the Emerald Storm’s hull. A flood of stocky men wearing only leather armor and red paint stormed over the side. They screamed in fury as swords met.
“Now!” Hadrian heard Wyatt shout at him.
He turned and saw the helmsman pointing to the tartane tethered to the Storm’s port side near the stern, the first of the Dacca’s ships to reach them. Most of its crew had already boarded the Storm. Poe, Grady, and others in Wyatt’s team held back, watching Hadrian.
“Go!” Hadrian shouted and, grabbing hold of the mizzen’s port-side brace, cut it free and swung out across the gulf, landing on the stern of the tartane.
The stunned Dacca helmsman reached for his short blade as Hadrian cut his throat. Two more Dacca rushed him. Hadrian dodged, using the move to hide the thrust. His broadsword drove deep into the first Dacca’s stomach. The second man, seeing his chance, attacked, but Hadrian’s bastard sword was in his left hand. With it he deflected a wild swing. Drawing the broadsword from the first Dacca’s stomach, Hadrian brought it across, severing the remaining man’s head.
With three bodies on the aft deck, Hadrian looked up to see Poe and the rest already in possession of the ship and in the process of cutting the tethers free. With the last one cut, Poe used a pole and pushed away from the Storm.
“What about Royce and Wyatt?” Hadrian asked, climbing down to the waist deck.
“They’ll swim for it and we’ll pick them up on the far side,” Poe explained as he ran past him, heading aft. “But we need to get into the shadows now!”
Poe climbed the short steps to the tartane’s tiny quarterdeck and took hold of the tiller. “Swing the boom!” he shouted in a whisper. “Trim the sails!”
“We know our jobs a lot better than you, boy!” Derning hissed at him. He and Grady were already hauling on the mainsail sheet, trying to tame the canvas that snapped above like a serpent, jangling the rigging rings against the mast. “Banner, Davis! Adjust the headsail for a starboard tack.”
Hadrian had never learned the ropes, and he stood by uselessly while the others raced across the deck. Even if he had picked up anything about rigging, it would not have helped. The Dacca tartane was quite different in design. Besides being smaller, the hull was sloped like a fishing vessel, but with two decks. It had just two sails: a headsail supported on a forward-tilting mast and the mainsail. Both were triangular and hung from long curved yards that crossed the masts at angles so that the vessel’s profile appeared like the heads of two axes cleaving through the air. The deck was dark wood. Glancing around, Hadrian wondered if the Dacca stained it with the same blood as the sails. After seeing the rigging ornamented with human skulls, it was an easy conclusion to make.
On the Storm, the battle was going badly. At least half the crew lay dead or dying. No canvas was visible, as the boarding party had made striking the sails a priority. The deck was awash in stocky, half-naked men who circled the forecastle with torches, dodging arrows as they struggled to breach the bulwark.
Poe pushed the tartane’s tiller over, pointing the bow away from the Storm. The wind caught the canvas and the little ship glided gently away. With the sails on the Emerald Storm struck, the ship was dead in the water, and it was easy for them to circle it. Equally small crews remained to operate the other Dacca boarding ships, but that hardly mattered, as all eyes were on the Storm. As far as Hadrian could tell, no one noticed them.
“I’m bringing her around,” Poe said. “Hadrian, stand by with that rope there, and everyone watch the water for Wyatt and Royce.”
“Royce?” Derning questioned with distaste. “Why are we picking up the murderer? I can handle the rigging just fine.”
“Because Wyatt said so,” Poe replied.
“What if we can’t find them? What if they die before they can get off the ship?” Davis asked.
“I’ll decide that when it happens,” Poe replied.
“You? You’re barmy, boy. I’ll be buggered if I’ll take orders from a little sod like you! Bloody Davis here’s got more years at sea than you and he’s a git if there ever was one. If we don’t find Deminthal after the first pass, you’ll be taking orders from me.”
“Like I said,” Poe repeated, “I’ll decide that when it happens.”
Derning grinned menacingly, but Hadrian did not think Poe, being at the stern, could have seen it in the darkness.
Royce wasted no time hitting the deck at the signal.
“We haven’t got long,” Wyatt told him. “The captain’s quarters will be a priority.”
He kicked the door open, shattering the frame.
Fully carpeted, the whole rear of the ship was one luxurious suite. Silk patterns in hues of gold and brown covered the walls, with matching upholstered furniture and a silk bed-cover. A painting hung on one wall, showing a man bathed in sunlight, his face filled with rapture as a single white feather floated into his upraised hands. Silver lanterns swayed above vast stern windows that banked the far wall. The bed stood to one side with a large desk across from it.
Wyatt scanned the room quickly, then moved to the desk. He rifled the drawers. “He’ll have put the orders in a safe place.”
“Like a safe?” Royce asked, pulling a window drape aside to reveal a porthole-size compartment with a lock. “They always put them behind the drapes.”
“Can you open it?”
Royce smirked. He pulled a tool from his belt and within seconds the little door swung open. Wyatt reached inside, grabbed the entire stack of parchments, and stuffed them into a bag.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, making for the door. “Jump off the starboard side. Poe will pick us up.”
They came out of the cabin into a world of chaos. Stocky men painted in red poured over the sides of
the vessel. Each wielded short broad blades or axes that cut down everything before them. Only a handful of men stood on the waist deck. The rest had fallen back to the perceived safety of the forecastle. Those who tried to hold their ground died. Royce stepped out on the deck just in time to see Dime, his topsail captain, nearly cut in half by a cleaving blow from a Dacca axe.
Lieutenant Bishop and the other officers had been slow in reaching the castle, but now, as the Dacca flooded the deck, they were running full out to reach its walls. Stabbed in the back, Lieutenant Green collapsed. As he fell, he reached out, grabbing at anything. His hands found Midshipman Beryl running past and dragged him down as well. Beryl cursed and kicked Green off but got to his feet too late. The Dacca circled him.
“Help me!” he cried.
Royce watched as the crew ignored him and ran on—all but one. Midshipman Wesley ran back just in time to stab the nearest Dacca caught off guard by the sudden change in his fleeing prey. Wielding his sword with both hands, Wesley sliced horizontally across the chest of the next brute and kicked him aside.
“Beryl! This way, run!” he shouted.
Beryl lashed out at the Dacca, then ran to Wesley. They were quickly surrounded, and the Dacca drove them farther and farther away from the forecastle. An arrow from the walls saved Wesley from decapitation as the two struggled to defend themselves. Pushed by the overwhelming numbers, they retreated until their backs hit the rail.
A Dacca blade slashed Beryl’s arm and then across his hip. He screamed, dropping his sword. Wesley threw himself between Beryl and his attacker. The young midshipman slashed wildly, struggling to defend the older man. Then Wesley was hit. He stumbled backward and reached out for the netting chains but missed them and fell overboard. Alone and unarmed, Beryl screamed as the Dacca swarmed him until they sent his head from his body.
No one noticed Wyatt or Royce creeping in the shadows around the stern, seeking a clear place to jump. They crouched just above the captain’s cabin windows. Royce was about to leap when he spotted Thranic stepping out from the hold. The sentinel exited, a torch in hand, as if he merely wondered what all the noise was about. He led the seret to the main deck, where they quickly formed a wall around the sentinel. Seeing reinforcements, the Dacca rallied to an attack. They charged, only to die upon the serets’ swords. The Knights of Nyphron were neither sailors nor galley slaves. They knew the use of arms and how to hold formation.
Gripping his bag to his chest, Wyatt leapt from the ship.
“Royce!” Wyatt shouted from the sea below.
Royce watched, impressed by the knights’ courage and skill, as they battled the Dacca. It looked as if they might just turn the tide. Then Thranic threw his flaming brand into the ship’s hold. A rush of air sounded, as if the ship were inhaling a great breath. A roar followed. A deep, resonating growl shook the timber beneath Royce’s feet. Tongues of flame licked out of every hatch and porthole, the air filling with screams and cries. And in the flickering glow of burning wood and flesh, Royce saw the sentinel smile.
Hadrian and the tiny crew of the stolen Dacca ship had only just reached the starboard side of the Storm when the area grew bright. The Emerald Storm was ablaze. Within little more than a minute, the fire had enveloped the deck. Men in the rigging had no choice but to jump. From that height, their bodies hit the water with a cracking sound. The rigging ignited, ropes snapped, and yards broke free, falling like flaming tree trunks. The darkness of the starless sea fell away as the Emerald Storm became a floating bonfire. Those near the rail leapt into the sea. Screams, cries, and the crackle and hiss of fire filled the night.
Looking over the black water, whose surface was alive with wild reflections, Hadrian spied a bit of sandy hair and a dark uniform. “Mr. Wesley, grab on!” Hadrian called, throwing a rope.
Hearing his name, Wesley turned, his face showing the same dazed expression as a man waking from a dream until he spotted Hadrian reaching out. He took the rope thrown and was reeled in like a fish and hoisted on deck.
“Nice to have you aboard, sir,” Hadrian told him.
Wesley gasped for air and rolled over, vomiting seawater.
“From that, I assume you’re happy to be here.”
“Wyatt!”Poe shouted.
“Royce!” Hadrian called.
“Over there!” Derning said, pointing.
Poe turned the tiller and they sailed toward the sound of splashing.
“It’s Bernie and Staul,” Grady announced from where he stood on the bow.
The two wasted no time scrambling up the ship’s ropes.
“More splashing over there!” Davis pointed.
Poe did not have to alter course, as the swimmers made good progress to them. Davis was the first to lend a hand. He reached out to help and a blade stabbed him in the chest before he was pulled overboard.
Hadrian saw them now—swarthy, painted brutes with long daggers, their wet, glistening skin shimmering with the light of the flames. They grabbed at the netting and scrambled like rats up the side of the tartane.
Hadrian drew his sword and lashed out at the nearest one, who dodged and stubbornly continued to climb. The Tenkin warrior, Staul, stabbed another in the face and the Dacca dropped backward with a cry and a splash. Bernie and Wesley joined in, thrashing wildly until the Dacca gave up and fell away into the darkness.
“Watch the other side!” Wesley shouted.
Staul and Bernie took positions on the starboard rail, but nothing moved.
“Any sign of Davis?” Hadrian asked.
“The man be dead now,” Staul said. “Be more careful who you sail to, eh?”
“Bulard!” Bernie said, pointing ahead to more swimmers.
“And three more over there,” Wesley announced, picking out faces in the tumultuous water. “One is Greig, the carpenter, and that’s Dr. Levy, and there is …”
Hadrian did not need Royce’s eyes to identify the other man. The infernal light coming off the burning ship suited the face. Sentinel Thranic swam toward them, his hood thrown back and his pale face gleaming. Derning, Bernie, and Staul were bad enough. Now they had Dovin Thranic, of all people.
Thranic needed no help as he climbed nimbly up the side of the little ship, his cloak soaked, his face angry. If he were a dog, Hadrian knew he would be growling, and for that he was pleased. Bulard, the man who had come aboard in the middle of the night, looked even paler than before. The reason became obvious the moment he hit the deck and blood mingled with seawater. Levy went to him and applied pressure to the wound.
“Hadrian … Poe!” Wyatt’s voice carried from the sea below.
Poe steered toward the sound as the rest stood on their guard. This time there was no need. Wyatt and Royce were alone swimming for the boat.
“Where were you?” Wyatt asked, climbing aboard.
“Sorry, boss, but it’s a big ocean.”
“Not big enough,” Derning said, looking over at what remained of the Storm, his face bright with the glow. “The Dacca are finally taking notice of us.”
The mainmast of the Emerald Storm, burning like a tree-sized torch, finally cracked and fell. The forecastle walls blazed. Seward, Bishop, and the rest had either been lost to blades or burned alive. The Storm had blackened and cracked, allowing the ship to take on water. The hull listed to one side, sinking from the bow. As it did, the fire was still bright enough to see several of the Dacca on the nearest vessel pointing in their direction and shouting.
“Wheel hard over!” Wyatt shouted, running for the tiller. “Derning, Royce, get aloft! Hadrian, Banner—the mainsail braces. Grady to the headsail braces! Who else do we have here? Bernie, join Derning and Royce. Staul, help with the mainsail. Mr. Wesley, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, perhaps you could assist Grady on the forward braces. Bring her round east-nor’east!”
“That will put us into the wind again!” Grady said even as Wyatt brought the ship round.
“Aye, starboard tack. With fewer crew, and the same ship, w
e’ll be lighter and faster.”
They got the ship around and caught what wind they could.
“Here, Banner, take the tiller,” Wyatt said as he scanned the deck. “We can dump some gear and lighten the load further. Who’s that next to you?”
Wyatt stopped abruptly when he saw Thranic look up.
“What’s he doing on board?” Wyatt asked.
“Is there a problem, helmsman?” Thranic addressed him.
“You fired the ship!” Wyatt accused. “Royce told me he saw you throw a torch in the hold. How many oil kegs did you break to get it to go up like that?”
“Five, I think. Maybe six.”
“There were elves—they were locked in the hold—trapped down there.”
“Precisely,” Thranic replied.
“You bastard!” Wyatt rushed the sentinel, drawing his cutlass. Thranic moved with surprising speed and dodged Wyatt’s attack, throwing his cloak around Wyatt’s head and shoving the helmsman to the deck as he drew a long dagger.
Hadrian pulled his swords and Staul immediately moved to intercept him. Poe drew his cutlass, as did Grady, followed quickly by Defoe and Derning.
From the rigging above, Royce dropped abruptly into the midst of the conflict, landing squarely between Thranic and Wyatt. The sentinel’s eyes locked on him and smoldered.
“Mr. Wesley!” Royce shouted, keeping his eyes fixed on Thranic. “What are your orders, sir?”
At this everyone stopped. The ship continued to sail with the wind, but the crew paused. Several glanced at Wesley. The midshipman stood frozen on the deck, watching the events unfold around him.
“His orders?” Thranic mocked.
“Captain Seward, Lieutenants Bishop and Green, and the other midshipmen are dead,” Royce explained. “Mr. Wesley is senior officer. He is, by rights, in command of this vessel.”
Thranic laughed.
Wesley began to nod. “He is right.”
“Shut up, boy!” Staul snapped. “It’s time we took care of this business here.”
Staul’s words brought Wesley around. “I am no boy!” Turning to Thranic, he added, “What I am, sir, is the acting captain of this ship, and as such, you, and everyone else”—he glanced at Staul—“will obey my orders!”
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