Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  But there was no need. The last mutineer lay backed against the midships rail, one arm badly broken, the tip of a boat hook pressed to his throat.

  “Secure that man,” Brelak ordered, pushing the cook over to the wheel. “Take the wheel, Rowland. Someone see to Horace here, and check on Keelson.”

  As he moved to check his fallen men, another sailor cried out, “Captain! Look!”

  He started to look for the captain then realized the seaman was talking to him. He looked aft just in time to see a dark shape swing from Hippotrin’s foremast and cut the mainsail, which tore from top to bottom.

  “Vulta!” A cheer rang out from the crew of Orin’s Pride.

  “Secure the mains’l! Get that broken boom housed.” Brelak moved to the crewman who was checking the fallen shipwright. “How is he?”

  “I don’t think he’s got much blood left in ’im, Capt’n,” the sailor said, cutting Brelak to the quick with his choice of words. Calling him captain only reminded him of Rafen Ulbattaer’s vacant stare.

  “Keelson!” He grasped the man’s hand and squeezed, but the flesh was cold and the grip feeble. “Hold on, man!” The shipwright’s eyes fluttered open and fixed upon Brelak.

  “Don’t…” He coughed wetly, blood flecking his lips. “Don’t let ’em take her.”

  “She’s safe, Keelson. The ship’s ours.” Brelak squeezed the man’s hand harder, willing him to live.

  “No!” Keelson shook his head weakly and coughed again, his eyes wandering over the sails overhead. “Hippotrin! You’ve got to save her!” And with that final plea, the shipwright’s last breath left his body.

  “Bloody hell!” Feldrin Brelak surged to his feet, his temper flaring. “Ware ship! Bring her about!”

  Cries of assent rang out, and Rowland thrust the helm downwind even as the shattered mainsail boom thumped to the deck amid a mountain of torn canvas. They jibed smartly, just as another seaman cried out.

  “Capt’n! They’re gonna…”

  But Brelak had been watching Hippotrin as they made their turn and saw someone heave the limp form over the rail. “Man overboard! Keep an eye on him! Rig a harness! Rowland, take direction from the man in the bow.”

  “Another!” Rowland cried, pointing forward.

  Two men heaved another body over Hippotrin’s transom. Vulta’s distinctive dark skin and hair were unmistakable.

  “Gods, no!” He raced to the foredeck and squinted. Yet another body splashed into the sea. He shaded his eyes and prayed that none of the corpses being heaved over wore blue skirts. “Keep an eye on yer mark!”

  He could see something floating, but the shape was not swimming. Finthie’s body bobbed past, face down.

  “Holy Gods of Light,” one of the sailors muttered.

  “Watch yer mark! Keep your eyes peeled. Any signs of life, and we’ll bring ’em aboard. Ready with that boat hook!”

  Four corpses floated past, each easily identifiable. Cynthia, Ghelfan and Koybur were not among the dead.

  “What about the Mistress?” a sailor asked. The crew looked to Feldrin for direction, for hope.

  “Get a man aloft with a glass! Get yer sails trimmed. Rowland, put yer helm on her transom, and don’t deviate.”

  “Aye, Captain. I was watchin’ ’em close. Only four went over the side.”

  “Captain!” came a call from the foremast top. “Looks like Mistress Flaxal and that elf shipwright are on the deck. They’re lashin’ ’em to the mainmast. They look knocked out.”

  “What about Koybur?”

  “Uh, yes sir. You ain’t gonna believe it, but he’s at the helm.”

  “The helm?” Brelak’s heart skipped a beat. “You sure?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “We’re gonna bloody find out what the bloody hell’s goin’ on here.” He whirled and surveyed the gory deck, his eyes fixing on the one person who might be able to enlighten him.

  “Well, Brin,” he said, glaring down at the northerner with the broken arm, “looks like you’re in a hard spot here. Yer mates are shark bait, and you’re trussed up like a chicken ready fer the pot.”

  The man spat a curse, and looked away.

  “You there,” Brelak shouted to a sailor. “Bring me that harness and start clearin’ the deck.”

  “The bodies, sir?” the fellow asked, handing over the rope harness.

  “Overboard, except fer Captain Ulbattaer and Keelson. Wrap them in canvas and secure ’em below.” He bent and started affixing the harness to the bound man.

  “Whadaya think yer doin’, Morrgrey?” The man’s voice was steady, but his eyes were wide with fear.

  “I’m goin’ fishin’, unless you want to tell me what the hell’s gone on here.” He cinched the harness and lifted the man, propping him up against the leeward shrouds, the roaring sea at his back. “We’re leavin’ a trail of blood that ought to draw some attention soon. I’m just gonna trail you behind and see if I can’t get a bite.”

  The sailors pitched Karek’s body over the side and sluiced the deck with seawater. Blood ran through the scuppers. Something large broke the water with a splash. A mer surfaced, its scaly visage grinning at them before it plunged back into the depths.

  “Bloodwind,” the man said through clenched teeth.

  “What?” The name left Brelak cold.

  “Bloodwind planned this from the start. Set us up as crew to take these ships.”

  “And Mistress Flaxal?”

  “Yodrin was to take her and the shipwright if he could, kill ’em if he couldn’t.”

  “Yodrin? Who’s Yodrin?”

  “Captain Troilen. He’s Bloodwind’s assassin.”

  Brelak’s eyes widened, his stomach clenching in knots. “And Koybur?”

  “He’s been spyin’ fer Bloodwind fer longer than I can remember.”

  “I don’t believe it!” He lifted the man, leaning him backward over the rail. The sailors pitched the other northerner’s body over the side, and the water roiled with the thrashing tails of mer as they dragged it down to the depths.

  “Believe it or no, it’s truth! Bloodwind’s got somethin’ on him. Pulls his strings like a puppet. Koybur picked us out in Scarport to be hired even before Bloodwind gave the orders.”

  “Bloody hell.” Brelak dropped the man back to the deck with little care for his broken arm. “Secure him below!”

  “Capt’n!” Rowland altered course slightly and said, “She’s makin’ more sail.”

  He looked after Hippotrin. The mangled canvas was being replaced and repaired.

  “How’s Horace,” he asked, moving back to his place beside the helm.

  “He’s cut pretty bad, but—”

  “I’m fine, sir! Just get this stitched up and I’m back on duty.”

  “Good man. Rowland, how are you with a needle and thread?”

  “Better’n with this ruddy wallowing ship, Capt’n.” He was fighting the helm, trying to keep her in line with not enough sail. “You’re goin’ after ’em?”

  “Bloody right I am. I’ll take her and you see to our wounded. If Horace can stand a watch when you’re finished, I’ll make him bosun.”

  “I can stand one now, Capt’n,” the man said, trying to stand up.

  “Not before you’re stitched up. Now hold still.” He took the wheel while Rowland dashed below for a sail needle and some twine.

  “But Captain,” one sailor interrupted, “they’re armed to the teeth and ready for us.”

  “Then we’d best find some weapons.”

  “What’s yer plan, Capt’n?” Rowland asked, coming back up through the companionway with needles, twine and a bottle of rum.

  “First, we catch up, then we ram and grapple, then we cut them to pieces.” He surveyed the rig, barking orders to get more canvas aloft. “Any questions?”

  “Not a one, sir,” Rowland replied, kneeling beside Horace and wrenching the cork from the bottle with his teeth. He tore the man’s shirt open and doused the deep gash with r
um.

  “Odea’s scaly arse, that burns! I thought you’d let me drink it.”

  “Just shut up and bite this.” He thrust a piece of leather between the man’s teeth and threaded his sail needle, dousing the twine with more rum. “You think she’s alive, Feldrin?” he asked as he applied the needle.

  “I don’t know, Row.” He wiped the blood from the gash on his forearm and inspected the shallow cut, dismissing it as insignificant. “But if she is, I’ll get her back. Count on it.”

  *

  “Get that halyard spliced, damn you! Koybur, keep yer helm downwind or I’ll pluck out your other eye!” Yodrin paced the deck, glaring up at the mangled rig and then back at Orin’s Pride. He briefly considered turning to attack, but with so few hands, he could not ensure victory. Karek had obviously failed. The boatswain’s boasts that he could kill off the officers and Keelson by surprise had never been very realistic. Attacking now would only risk his most precious cargo: the shipwright Ghelfan and Cynthia Flaxal.

  “Get the foretops’l on her and rig the spare mains’l. I want every scrap of canvas we’ve got aloft.”

  “What about these two, Capt’n?” one crewman asked, toeing Ghelfan and Cynthia’s slumbering forms, lashed to the mainmast. “Should we take ’em below?”

  “No. I want them where I can see them. Bloodwind wants them both alive.”

  “That wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  Yodrin turned a malicious grin toward Koybur. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather I threw them overboard? Those are the only options. You choose.”

  Koybur didn’t answer, his ruined face twisted into a mask of tortured despair. Yodrin laughed and turned back to the task at hand, ignoring the traitor. What Koybur didn’t understand was that his value to Bloodwind had just expired; he could no longer act as their spy in Southaven, could no longer pass information about ships, cargoes and the secrets of the Flaxal family. He was nothing now but an old crippled sailor, and as soon as his value as a passable helmsman expired, he would be following the bloody seawater that sluiced out the scuppers.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Nine

  The Chase

  “The wind’s backin’ to the south, sir,” Horace said, putting more weight onto the wheel to keep them pointed southeast. With only a trysail in place of the destroyed main, the ship’s balance shifted forward, her bow pulling constantly upwind.

  Yodrin had changed course not long after the chase began, heading on an unwavering southeasterly course straight for the Fathomless Reaches. This would have meant a broad reach and a comfortable run had the trades remained constant, but the wind was turning more southerly with every hour, bringing their course close to the wind once again.

  “Good! Man the foretops’l braces. If she won’t hold, house the yards and hoist a tris’l. She’ll be faster without the weight aloft, and that lower yard’ll make a fine mains’l boom.”

  “You think it’ll take the strain, Captain?” Rowland watched the crew haul on the braces until the yards lay flat against the shrouds. The rising wind sang in the rigging and the foredeck ran with white water with every crashing swell. The wind was not only changing direction, but was intensifying as well, and the sky had turned an iron gray. “That spar’s a bit thin for this wind.”

  Brelak scowled at the cook. “So are you, Row, but yer stronger than ya look.”

  “But strappin’ a sail to my arse and haulin’ me aloft don’t make me a spar.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Row. If it’d make the Pride a half knot faster, you’d be up that mast in a heartbeat.” He watched the fore-topsail as it began to luff. “Give her half a point, Horace.”

  “Aye, Capt’n.”

  The Pride’s bow slid to the west five degrees, and the fore-topsail firmed. Hippotrin, however, continued to pound upwind, her fore-topsail furled long ago, her full rig pulling her ahead of them steadily. With their courses diverging slightly, the gap between them began to lengthen.

  “This won’t do. Topmen aloft! Furl that foretops’l and get those yards on deck. Rowland! Fetch me some line from the fo’c’sle locker. We’ll whip that yard to add strength. Is that mains’l ready?”

  “Aye, as ready as she’ll ever be. Not my best stitchery, but I was in a rush.”

  “Good.”

  Rowland vanished down the companionway, but reappeared a moment later.

  “Captain! Lookie here what I found in the fo’c’sle under a bail of sail cloth!” Rowland stumbled up the companionway steps with a canvas-wrapped bundle that rattled suspiciously. When he drew back the oiled cloth, several shiny cutlasses, daggers and boarding axes shone in the afternoon light.

  “Bloody fine!” Brelak chose two heavy boarding axes and tucked them into his belt. “Spread the rest ’round the crew, Row, and get me that whippin’ line double quick!”

  “Aye, Capt’n!” The cook handed out the weapons, and vanished down the hatch.

  “Why don’t you give ’em a hand with that mains’l, Horace.” He took the wheel and motioned the helmsman forward, then looked to his quarry. Hippotrin’s canted rig could be seen easily about two miles ahead. He fixed his bowsprit half a point upwind of her masts and gripped the wheel with a feverish intensity.

  “Faster!” he muttered under his breath, his palms warming against the spokes. “Faster, Orin. Faster!”

  *

  “She’s housed her yards, Capt’n!”

  Cynthia’s head throbbed in time to her heartbeat, waves of nausea intensifying with every rise and plunge of the deck. Pain scored her wrists when she tried to bring her hands to her face.

  “She’s coming upwind, but looks like she’s fallin’ back.”

  She opened her eyes cautiously. She faced the ship’s port side, just aft of amidships, which meant she was bound to the mainmast.

  “She’s got no proper mains’l.”

  Troilen sounded strange. She watched a seaman pass aft, surprised by the cutlass hanging from his belt. She followed him with her eyes and saw Troilen and another crewman looking aft, trading a telescope back and forth. Koybur stood at the wheel, his one good hand guiding the ship, but his features looked different, too. Anguish or pain had twisted the unscarred half of his face into something resembling the scarred portion. For a moment she wondered if another hallucination skewed her perception, but then Troilen turned and gestured to the rigging.

  “House her fore-top yards and furl the main tops’l. We’re pulling away. No sense in stressing the rig. And see to your leeward deadeyes. The windward shrouds have stretched a bit.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  She coughed involuntarily as nausea rose once again. She retched, but her stomach was gratefully empty. A hand grasped the fabric of her blouse at the small of her back and she realized that someone must be bound behind her.

  “Easy, Mistress Cynthia. We’re in trouble.” Ghelfan’s husky whisper surprised her, but her attention immediately diverted to Troilen as he swaggered forward.

  “Mistress Flaxal,” he said in greeting, looking down at the two captives. “And Master Ghelfan. Good to see you both recovering from your slumber.”

  “What in the names of all Nine Hells is going on here, Troilen?” Ghelfan asked. Cynthia felt him straining at his bonds, but the knots weren’t likely to loosen.

  “Ah, you see? You’ve made another mistake. Your first was to join forces with someone named Flaxal. The second was coming aboard this ship. And now you’re still calling me by my pseudonym. My real name is Yodrin. I only go by Troilen when I need to establish an alibi or impress a mark with my captain’s credentials.”

  “Yodrin? What the…” Cynthia’s question trailed off into confusion as she looked around the deck, then aloft. “Where are Vulta and Finthie? What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, dear Cynthia, is that I have taken this ship. My former boatswain and mate are dead. Hippotrin is mine, or rather will be mine, when Captain Bloodwind formally presents her to me. We are headed for Blood Bay by a necessarily circuitous
route, since your friend Feldrin Brelak is still doggedly pursuing us. Regardless, we should be there in about two days.”

  “Bloodwind?” Cynthia Flaxal’s rage swelled until she felt she would explode. “You… you…”

  “Yes, me, Mistress Flaxal. Me. In more ways than you know.” Cynthia yearned to slap the condescending smile from his lips. “You really have a lot to thank me for, you know. If not for me, you’d still be kowtowing to your grandmother’s every whim. I made you what you are, a mistress of ships, and now I’ve made you my captive.”

  “What do you mean, you made me what I am?” Cynthia seethed with rage, straining at the line around her wrists. She felt trapped in a nightmare; anger, nausea and fear whirled in her mind like a cloying fog, making it hard to think.

  “Has the tea muddled your brain, little girl?” he asked, smiling sweetly as he knelt before her. “Let me clear your thoughts, then.”

  Yodrin drew a gleaming dagger and held the point an inch from her eye. Fear quickly superseded anger and nausea as Cynthia imagined that blade darting forward.

  “Ah. Now I see you start to understand. I have visited you before, dear Cynthia. I visited your grandmother the night that horrible fire broke out. It was a shame about the overturned lamp, wasn’t it? And the mosquito netting caught fire so quickly. Why, it was like it was doused with rum.”

  He flicked the tip of the dagger across her cheek, leaving a tiny scratch, but drawing a gasp of shock from her. He grinned and stood, sheathing the dagger as her fear coalesced into a seething ball of hate. The extent of his treachery stoked that hate like a furnace.

  “I’d love to entertain you further, but—”

  Her spittle only reached the leg of his trousers, but the shock and anger on his slim features told her that she had scored a serious insult.

  “You’re nothing but a bloody murdering pirate! Does killing old ladies in their sleep make you feel like a man, you filthy—”

  The toe of Yodrin’s boot struck her an inch beneath her sternum, driving the breath from her lungs and leaving her retching. The blow was not as hard as it could have been, but it felt like an eternity before she could draw a breath. As air filled her aching lungs, he gripped her by the hair and wrenched her head back. Once again, the dagger gleamed before her face.