by Dave Skinner
***
Cracker swung across to the deck of the Blood Rose. He was not looking forward to telling Singh that the boy had escaped. Singh had a tongue like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
As he started towards the poop deck and the door to Singh’s cabin he saw Needles, Vee’s first mate, struggle out the doorway carrying a body. Needles made his way to the rail and tossed the body into the water. A second later Cracker realized he had witnessed the beginning of a parade as body after body was carried out by various captains and tossed away.
Finally Singh’s body was dragged out. Two men had the arms stretched out above his head. Yucan Vee carried his feet. Singh’s body joined the others as Cracker moved towards the poop deck. All the captains stopped talking when Cracker came towards them. Vee stepped forward to meet him.
“He wouldn’t listen, Cracker. Wanted us to kill ye for what ye done. We argued, but ye know how he’d get when he was furious. Ye be too important a crew member for us to lose over a stupid mistake. It was im or ye mate. We chose ye.”
Cracker looked around at the rest of the captains. They were all nodding their heads in agreement. Thoughts flapped around in his head like the canvas of a loose sail. He was supposed to protect Singh, but if Singh was dead, dead because these men fought to save him, then what should he do? It was too complicated for him to grasp. He would think about it later.
“Boy made it to the beach,” he reported. “Hid under a dead body and swam it to shore. We saw nothin until he left the water.”
Vee thought before he answered not wanting his first words as leader to be a Singh type rant. “That be unfortunate. Send some men after im. He can’t have gotten far.”
Wolf Blackheart, captain of the Foam Skimmer cleared his throat. “That is Tawshe land. Intruders never leave Tawshe land alive. No reason to worry about the kid, he will be dead in no time, guaranteed.”
“Make sure,” was all Vee said with his eyes locked on Blackheart’s.
Everyone was motionless. Tension crackled like new wood on a fire until Marak, captain of the Green Dragon, spoke. “I’ll make sure the kid is dead, Vee. The Tawshe are barbarians, cannot have one brain between the bunch of them. My men and I will be back before the decks are cleared and the loot stored.”
“If you’re not, we leave without ye.”
“I’ll not be worrying. The Green Dragon will catch up in no time.”
With that assurance, Marak spun away while calling out to his men.
Chapter 5
Ta’Kat stood at the edge of the small meadow considering the contents of the large basket she carried. She let the fingers on her one hand walk their way through the herbs it contained. Ta’Lee was snoozing on their blanket. The three year old was becoming a handful with her almost insatiable curiosity and boundless energy, but in sleep she looked like the baby she was. There was a small smile at the corners of her mouth. She looked content, and so she should be.
They had gathered herbs all morning after the long walk to reach this meadow. Lee had been a small help which was wonderful, because she could have as easily been a large distraction. But she had promised to be good and had kept her promise.
After their picnic lunch, Ta’Kat had gathered a few more herbs while Lee had fallen asleep. Now, it was time for them to return to the village.
“Wake up, sweetheart, time for us to head home,” she said as she knelt beside her daughter and pushed hair back from the child’s face. She didn’t have to repeat herself. Ta’Lee gave that little body shrug she always does when she wakes, and then jumped to her feet.
“Will you piggyback me some of the way, Momma?”
“Piggyback? Piggybacks are for tired little babies, not for big girls like you.” Kat folded up their blanket and added it to the basket.
“Piggybacks are not just for babies, Momma. They are exciting. The world has a different look when I’m way up there, and I have to watch out for tree branches and stuff. That is my job as piggybackee.”
“You seem to know a lot about this activity, young lady. Has Shawn been giving you rides?”
“He likes to do it. He puts me way up on his shoulders sometimes and walks through the woods. I like it too except for the spider webs, but I have learned to—”
Lee stopped talking as they both heard a shout come echoing through the trees from the direction of the lake. The first shout was answered by two more. Her people would never call out like that. The voices had to come from intruders.
A quick rattle of drum beats was the next sound she heard. A fast three beats followed by a pause and two more. Good. The intruders were being tracked, but that did not guarantee Lee’s safety. They had to get across the meadow and into the trees, quickly, in order to be moving away from the danger.
“Up,” she whispered as she dropped to a crouch again. Lee sprang onto her back. Rising, with the basket in one hand and the other held behind her to support Lee, she whispered again. “Hold on.” Lee knew better than to answer, but before Ta’Kat could move someone stepped out of the trees close to their position.
Chapter 6
Bray knelt behind a stump at the edge of the sandy beach, far enough into the trees to be hidden from view, but still able to watch. His wet clothes clung to his body and he shivered in the fresh breeze blowing off the water. A gash in one leg that he could not recall receiving stung, but the bleeding was less now. He hoped the pirates would sail away, but such was not to be. A dinghy set off from one of the ships and pulled towards shore. Bray did not want to enter the woods at his back. They appeared dark and uninviting. He could smell their musky denseness, their oppressive heaviness, the odour of death. The crew told stories about the people who lived in these woods. A primitive tribe called the Tawshe. Very little was known about them because anyone who ventured onto their land was never seen again. The sailors on the ship had said they were man-eaters, and their favorite meal was young Nadian nobles. Bray knew they had said that just to see his reaction, and he reasoned it was not true. They probably liked to eat all young nobles. Reluctantly, he turned from the shore and entered the woods.
The pirates must have found his trail. He could hear them. So far he had been able to stay out of their sight and far enough ahead that his blundering through the bush did not give his position away. He was trying to move as quietly as possible, but was finding it difficult. Branches continued to crack explosively no matter how carefully he stepped. He happened upon a game trail heading off to the left, took it, and was able to move quietly.
The game trail ran perpendicular to his previous route, and he was closer to the pirates following him before the path finally turned away from the now distant shoreline. He heard the pirates calling out to each other. They were close. He continued quickly along the path and broke suddenly out of the bushes into a small clearing.
A woman carrying a child and a basket was standing a small way into the opening, her back to him until another branch snapped under his foot. The woman spun around. A knife appeared in her hand. He expected a look of fear to mirror his own, but her face did not express fear. It was more like a snarl, an animal’s snare. Tawshe he thought.
No matter, Tawshe or not, the men following him were after his life, not hers, but they would not hesitate to kill her and her child. He would not let a child be harmed because of him. He made a hand gesture he hoped she understood, trying to say, get away, run. She took off across the meadow. He followed her. She disappeared into the woods on the far side of the clearing, but luck deserted him. He heard a shout behind before he made it to the trees.
Encumbered as she was with the child on her back, Bray reasoned that he and the pirates would overtake her if he followed her into the woods. He stopped, turned to face the pirates, and walked back to the centre of the clearing as he drew his swords.
He chose a relatively level part of the meadow floor for his stand. Three pirates were at the far edge of the clearing, standing, watching Bray. They stepped forward into
the meadow then stopped. A forth pirate blundered into sight a moment later. They all drew their swords and waited.
Bray considered charging them before the others arrived. There must have been ten men in the dingy he had seen. The rest would be here soon. He should charge before they came, but he waited. He was exhausted. The battle yesterday, seeing his father killed, his time in the water, and the chase through the woods had taken a toll. He decided that catching his breath was more important if he wanted to survive.
The four pirates seemed to be waiting for the other men to show up. After a few moments one of them whistled, but there was no answer and no sound from the woods.
“Let the Destroyer have’m. Kill da little bugger and back to da ship for us,” one said. They all took firm grips on their swords and came at him.
With both swords held firmly, Bray waited. His smaller size and the diminished length of his blades gave the men an advantage of reach, but the fact that there were four of them was an advantage to Bray. They could not bunch up together for fear of striking one of their own.
A pirate charged forward with a massive sweeping stroke meant to disembowel him, but the slash, probably the man’s standard killing stroke, was high for Bray’s small size. Bray ducked and lunged. The man cried out as the sword entered his stomach. Bray skipped away towards the next man on his left. That one went down also, but Bray received a deep cut to his right thigh as the other two men charged him. He spun away awkwardly. The remaining men began to work their way closer. That was when he noticed the circle of silent watchers standing around the clearing. For a moment, Bray thought they were the other pirates, but their buckskin clothing, dark swarthy appearance, and lack of jewelry told him differently. They must be Tawshe, and they were not here to save him.
Both pirates stopped moving when they too noticed the Tawshe warriors. Bray took the opportunity to attack. He killed one man with a thrust to the chest, but his sword stuck. He received a wound to his right shoulder from the last man, and his right arm no longer moved. It hung, dead, at his side.
The last pirate smiled. Bray flung his left hand out and released his second sword. It was a bad throw, not coming anywhere close to where it was aimed, at the man’s chest. Instead it shot straight as an arrow into his throat. The pirate collapsed.
Bray watched him fall then moved his remaining sword from his useless right hand into his left. He wasn’t a good swordsman with his left hand, but he held it out gamely and took his stance. He was bleeding and his stamina was almost gone.
One of the Tawshe warriors, a broad man with a blunt face, stepped forward. Bray held his sword up as best he could. The tip of the blade kept slipping lower. It took all his effort just to hold the sword out. The warrior knocked his blade against Bray’s, pushing the tip of his sword even lower. In desperation Bray made a lunge and was knocked down by the flat of the man’s sword. He scrambled to his feet, was knocked down again, and again. It was soon obvious that he was being played with.
One of the other warriors said something harsh. It must have been a command to finish because his opponent’s body language changed. The smile left his face. He pulled his shoulders straighter. Bray braced himself. Suddenly there was a shout from the edge of the clearing. The Tawshe warrior stepped back, but kept his sword at the ready.
The woman stepped out of the trees. She left the child and her basket at the edge of the woods and walked over to the warriors. A conversation took place in a language Bray did not understand. He might have been able to understand what was happening if he could focus on their gestures, but he was having a hard time seeing through the fog that seemed to swirl before his eyes. Their conversation went on for a long while. It was heated at times.
Bray realized someone was walking towards him, and his sword tip was pointing at the ground. A jolt of energy went through his body, and he brought his sword back up. His eyesight cleared—it was the woman approaching. All the men were gone or in the process of fading back into the woods, except for the one who had been about to kill him.
The woman said something and made a motion with a hand, as if to say, ‘lower the sword’. It took him a moment to realize she had said exactly that in the common tongue.
“Relax boy. No one is going to harm you,” she continued. We will take you to our village where you will be cared for. But you have to walk the distance on your own. I cannot help you. If you fail, you die.”
Chapter 7
Prince Artan of Nadia poured the last of the wine into his goblet. The first two glasses had been watered, which was a disservice to its excellent taste, but necessary. The wine was a white vintage from the north slope of his estate. One of the best whites his wine-master had ever produced. One day, when his older brother Argon was no more and he was king, he would not have to worry about his father’s restrictive rules. However, today he had to attend a council meeting, and his father frowned on drinking early in the day. Therefore he had mixed the first two glasses with water. This last half glass he would not bother to mix in appreciation of its tart green-apple flavor.
He drained the goblet with a practiced movement. His mouth exploded with the taste, the first green-apples of the season, which was followed immediately by a smoothness that contained a hint of the butter it felt like. He masticated the wine with gusto as if chewing at something solid before gulping it down. When I am king we will serve my wine in the council room, and the throne room.
A knock sounded at his apartment door. “Come.”
A servant entered, and crossed the room to the balcony. “A message, my lord,” he announced with a bow.
Prince Artan received the message and waved the man away. The wax stamp on the back was imprinted with a stylized letter S created to look like sword strokes. The craftsmanship was that of a master, obviously expensive, and more importantly it announced the character of the owner, Singh, the pirate warlord. The message was simple. Payment received. Bargain struck.
Artan let a smile creep across his fox-like features, as he considered the implications of what he held. By this time, the deed would be finished. His brother and his nephew would be dead, wiping out the first and second-in-line to the throne with a single move, leaving him as his father’s only remaining son; Crown Prince Artan, direct heir to the throne of Nadia.
Below his balcony the sounds of swords striking together started again, as his son of seven years sparred with his instructor. The Crown Prince reached over to his ever present brassier and held the message to the glowing coals. As it burst into flames he dropped it, watching with satisfaction as all evidence of his intrigue was turned to ash. Below him on the sands of the family’s personal training arena his son suddenly cried out as he was struck. Artan turned his attention back to the arena as the boy fell to the dirt.
Crown Prince Artan rose from his seat, leaned on the balcony railing and called down to those below. “Get up, boy, and stop that insufferable squealing.”
He then turned his attention and gaze to the instructor. “Work him harder!” he commanded before he walked away.
Chapter 8
A feeling grew in Bray as consciousness returned. He kept his eyes closed, and tried to identify what had caused him to awaken. There were soft sounds of movement coming from his left, kitchen smells tickled his nose, but they were not all he sensed. There was something else, a presence that seemed to be pressing on him. Not invading … more just being there. It pressed against his being like warmth from a fire. Unable to identify the cause of the feeling Bray opened his eyes and turned his head towards the sounds he had heard.
What appeared before him was not more than two hand spans distance. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to its proximity, but slowly it came into focus—a face, a child’s face. She was sitting staring at him with a look of intense concentration.
When she saw Bray open his eyes, she spoke in a language he did not understand, although there did seem to be some similarity to the common language used around t
he Lakes.
Beyond the child, Bray saw a woman turn towards them. Her long black hair was held in a ponytail pulled forward over one shoulder. Her tall form was clothed in well-fitted leather breaches and top. She was the woman who had helped him, had probably saved his life if he had understood correctly what had happened in the woods.
It all came back to him—the fight on the boat, his father’s death, the flight through the forest, the final attack, and the long grueling trip to the village, although those last memories were spotty at best.
“I hope you did not wake him,” the woman said in the common tongue as she walked across the room. Behind her a large stone fireplace dominated one wall while the other walls he could see were made of logs. The woman had been working at a large, free-standing workspace set to one side of the fireplace, above which hung pots and other kitchen utensils amidst bunches of leaves and flowers.
“Not me, mother,” the child replied. “I was as quiet as a Hob, and you told me the little-people do not make any noise, so I was just sitting here being hob-like, and watching him like you told me to.”
The woman’s face showed a pleasant smile as she ruffled the child’s black hair. Bray noticed a similarity around their eyes that spoke to their family bond in addition to the identical black hair colour and dusky complexions.
“Well, let me have the stool please, little-one.”
The child slipped out of Bray’s field of vision. The woman took her place. She leaned over him, and he felt her lips cool on his forehead.
