Raz nodded. “And before that, Eva and her cohorts.”
That made Syrah frown, turning to him. “You don’t think…?”
“That Eva would have sold us out?” Raz completed her thought in a hard voice. “No. But her word that her employees wouldn’t doesn’t hold as firm for me. Not to mention the šef have more ways to extract information from an unwilling witness than I care to consider.”
All of them were silent at that, if only for a second.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Lysa said with a relieved sort of sigh, plopping down to sit on a coil of rope by the mast behind her. “They didn’t find anything, and they took the payment for safe passage. We should be in the clear, at least until we make port.” She looked up at Argoan, who was still watching the grey and maroon sails of the ship in the distance. “How long before we arrive?”
“A day,” Argoan said without turning. “Two at the most. Still, this business has me nervous. If word has reached Perce that you’re arriving by ship, I wouldn’t be surprised if trouble waits for us at the docks.” He looked over his shoulder at Raz and Syrah. “Gather your things, and have everything ready to saddle your horses. We might do best to drop you off in the shallows north of the harbors tomorrow. Your mounts will have to swim for the shore, but at the very least you’ll avoid—”
“Our things.”
Everyone turned to look at Syrah, who’d cut the captain off. The woman had gone rigid, her eyes on the distant sails, her face losing what little color her pale skin allowed her. Her eye was wide, panicked almost, and Raz was about to ask her what was wrong when she spoke again.
“Our… our things,” she repeated slowly, sounding as though some terrible realization had just dawned on her.
There was a brief pause as the other three stared at her. Lysa had just started to stand again, clearly intent on approaching her friend and asking what was the matter, when Syrah spun on her heel and bolted back to the stern.
“Syrah!” Raz called after her, starting to follow hesitantly. “Where are you going?”
The Priestess, though, didn’t respond. Reaching the door of their guest quarters, she pulled it open and hurried inside. Before Raz could even look around at the others in confusion, though, Syrah stepped out into the light again, looking shaken.
Once more, her eye found the retreating stern of the pirate ship, and her expression was utterly horrified.
“Syrah?” Raz asked, more gently now, stepping toward her cautiously. “What is it? What are you thinking?”
When she spoke, though, it wasn’t to him.
“Did they search our quarters?” she asked. Though her gaze never left the far-off sails, her question was obviously meant for Argoan and Lysa.
The first mate frowned, giving her captain a confused look before nodding. “Yes,” she said curtly. “It was one of the first places they looked.”
Abruptly, Raz understood. He gaped at Syrah, his eyes falling to the staff she still had in one hand, the weapon she had happened to be carrying when the call had come of Percian sails on the horizon. He himself had had his gladius, but…
“Ahna.” Syrah told the others, her voice a tone of forced evenness. “Ahna is still on the floor of our cabin. They know we’re aboard.”
CHAPTER 27
The pirates returned within hours, and this time they brought friends.
There was no need for a lookout to shout a warning, now. The entire crew had been put on alert, and those not going about the minimum tasks of keeping the Sylgid moving south stood along the rails and in the masts, scanning the horizon in every direction for the first sign of the enemy. It was Raz, naturally, who spotted them first, making out the indistinct shapes against the tan-and-green line of the distant shore.
“There,” he said calmly, pointing southwest with a steel claw. “Two ships.”
He was in full gear, now, and for the first time in many years the steel plating felt heavy, his body unaccustomed to the weight after nearly two months without it. Ahna was slung over his right shoulder, retrieved from his and Syrah’s lodgings, her curved blades gleaming dangerously in the Sun. He’d thrown his mantle back around his shoulders as well, allowing the white silk cape to flutter behind him in the ocean breeze.
If he didn’t have the element of surprise, then at the very least he was going to do his dammed best to cut an intimidating figure.
At his left, manning the helm, Argoan squinted in the direction he was indicating, Lysa and Syrah doing the same on his right.
“You sure?” the captain asked grimly. “I don’t see anything.”
“Give Lysa the wheel. Look closer.”
Argoan didn’t have to be told twice. He relinquished control of the ship to his first mate, stepping away and pulling out the spyglass from his shirt. They all looked on in bated silence as the man brought the instrument up to his eye, and there was a tense moment as he scanned the horizon.
Then Argoan hissed under his breath.
“Aye,” he said somberly. “Aye. I see them.”
He pulled the spyglass away and looked down at the deck, giving a sharp whistle. At once, every one of the crew—from the figures leaning out over the hull to the duo peering north and south atop the crow’s nest—turned to the stern. Raz watched expectantly as Argoan allowed himself a moment, just a brief second, to take a deep, calming breath.
Then he bellowed over the ship.
“BATTLE STATIONS!”
The Sylgid came alive in a flurry. Sailors rushed about the deck once more, moving to their assigned positions. Figures climbed up and down the rigging. Some took to the bow, others to the port and starboard rails. Everywhere, this time, there was the flash of metal, blades being drawn with shrieks and scratching hisses from their sheaths. Arrows were nocked, and boiling sealing tar—usually used to patch leaks as needed—was hurriedly lugged up from the belly of the ship in large, bubbling buckets. Within five minutes, as the paired enemy ships became distinct and split away from each other to approach in a pincer maneuver from east and west, the Sylgid smelled of iron, sweat, and smoke. To their credit, the men and women of the crew didn’t balk, all of them tense and ready, shouting encouragements to one another or hurling taunts at the distant vessels.
Raz felt a thrill of excitement he couldn't quite repress. He looked around at the others, his eyes settling on Syrah.
“I’ll handle the portside. Can you support the starboard?”
The Priestess looked pale, but nodded.
“Be careful,” she said insistently. “Remember your promise. Please.”
Raz couldn’t help it. He flashed her a grin he thought might have seemed just a touch maniacal.
“Me?” he asked in feigned offense. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m always careful.”
And then, before Syrah could offer a retort, he leapt from the raised stern down to the deck below.
The ship’s company cheered him as he slipped through their ranks, shouting his name like he was one of their own while he moved up the ship, headed for the bow. He ignored them all, this time, giving himself over to the battlefog, his golden eyes on the closest of the ships, approaching quickly from the east. When Raz reached the front of the ship, he vaulted up onto the raised part of the deck behind the water-spirit figurehead, then pushed his way through several other sailors to take hold of one of the foremast tethers and pull himself up to stand on the rail of the bow itself. He hoped Syrah would forgive him his foolishness. He knew all too well what would happen if he fell into the sea, weighed down as he was by Ahna and a hundred pounds of steel armor, but there was a purpose to his recklessness. He stood there in full splendor at the head of the ship, the dviassegai held confident and loose by his side as he towered behind the wooden woman’s right shoulder, bouncing masterfully with the bump of the waves beneath him.
Been a long time since it was you and me, huh, sis? he asked the weapon silently. Think we’ve still got what it takes?
If the weapon had an opi
nion, she didn’t see fit to share it.
For a long time he waited, watching the approaching ship, only occasionally glancing westward to see where the other was. One minute went by, then two. Raz waited, forcing himself to be patient. It was nearly five minutes, in fact, the distance between them warped by the vastness of the sea, before he could make out the details of the enemy vessel. It was the same one from earlier in the day, a narrow, two-masted beast with mottled grey and dark red sails. A brigantine, he thought it was called, shuffling through the various facts Argoan had hammered into his head in the last weeks. As a whole it was a plain thing, with nothing but a simple black flag to act as a figurehead and a weathered look to the hull, but it cut through the water cleanly even against the winds, a half-dozen oars pulling it along on either side. Lining its own rail, Raz made out a thick group of about two-score dark-skinned men, each bedecked in a motley assortment of what must have been stolen or salvaged armor from the ships they preyed on. Chain and platemail gleamed, as well as iron-studded leather and even hide or fur greaves and chest pieces that reminded Raz of the Gähs of the Northern mountains. The only common thing many shared, in fact, was a silver round-helm capped with a single long spike, sometimes complemented by a chain neck-guard. He had seen such helms before, in the Azbar Arena, always worn by the Percian.
Raz made a mental note not to land on any heads if he could help it today.
Their weapons, too, were an odd mélange. He saw falchion blades and cutlasses, as one might expect aboard a pirate ship, but also a multitude of other swords, axes, knives, and even spears and pikes. Some had timber-and-iron shields hefted on their arms, and they were banging them against the rail of the ship so that soon the sea began to ring with the bashing sound of metal on wood. Shouts went up, howling hollers of excitement and bloodlust, and behind him Raz started to hear muttered prayers to various gods and murmurs of fear. The Percians' intent was to intimidate, to let their enemy know that the only thing they felt regarding the upcoming battle was excitement and anticipation. Indeed, the pirates seemed to be building themselves into a frenzy, their battlelust so charged that, when they caught sight of him standing on the bow, they screamed and jeered in victory and glee. Where most men would have blanched and thought twice about what they were about to do, the approaching pirates only became more elated, their calls and war-cries building as they neared. Within two minutes they were close enough for Raz to make out the scarred details of their faces, see the white of their gnashing teeth and smell the sweat off their bodies. Despite this, Raz waited a minute more, waited until he saw the coiled ropes in many of their hands, ends capped with barbed iron hooks.
When he began to feel true fear start to bubble up in the crew at his back, Raz decided it was about time to even the battlefield.
With a whoosh of wind his sunset-red wings extended out to either side of him, their twenty-foot wingspan blocking the entire front bow of the Sylgid. His neck crest flared over his head, and with a deep breath he leaned out over the hull of the frigate, Ahna pointed right at the approaching ship.
Then Raz roared, pouring every ounce of hunger and defiance he could muster into the scream.
The sound pitched over the empty churn of the Dramion, vibrating in the wood beneath his feet. It seemed to shake the air, shivering over the Percian sails as it washed over the boat and the pirates lined up eagerly along its sides. It reverberated, rippling across the water, making it seem like the shallow waves lapping at their hulls were a product of Raz’s own power.
All at once, Raz watched the anticipation drain from the dark faces of the pirates, their smiles wavering as the Dragon made it all too clear he, too, was eagerly awaiting their arrival. A moment later, like an echo, Raz felt a surge of courage and strength from the men and women along the deck behind him, and their combined voices ripped across the sea, thundering over the quiet.
Then, with a thrum of ripping air from above, the first arrow was let loose, and the battle began.
The Dragon’s roar crushed over Ykero Kalae and his comrades with the force of a tidal wave. In one moment he and the entire crew of the Moalas were building themselves up, pressing each other into a hungry madness as the Sylgid came within reach. They had seen the atherian already, of course, made out his form against the head of the ship. The sight of him only drove their anticipation higher. They had howled and jeered, each and every one of them ready to strike down this beast that dared to stand tall among his betters.
And then the atherian had spread his wings, bellowing a challenge that sent shivers up each of their spines, and for the first time in his life Ykero felt fear in the face of the lizard-kind.
Winged? he thought in alarm, recalling tales and stories which did nothing to quell the bloom of terror that had welled up within him at the sight. He’s winged?
Just then, though, there was a zip and a thud, and directly to Ykero’s left his friend Aideh fell screaming to the ground, clutching at the fletched shaft of an arrow that had taken him in the thigh.
Then the gap between the ships closed, and all was madness.
Regaining some of their courage, his comrades whooped and howled, the men closest to the bow whirling their grapples even as half-a-dozen more arrows rained down over them. With heaves and shouts they launched the ropes across the water. A few fell short, tumbling into the sea or thumping harmlessly against the hull of the frigate, but most caught hold, and with triumphant yells several hands grabbed and heaved at each of the lines. Aboard the Sylgid, several sailors were howling, running up and down the portside to hack at the grapples.
“Archers!” Captain Omara thundered from somewhere behind Ykero. “Loose!”
There were twangs of bowstrings being released, and two of the men who had been attempting to free the enemy ship fell with shrieks of pain away from the rail. In response, a number of flaming arrows came arcing over the gap, digging into the deck of the Moalas with whooshes of spreading fire as the tar they had been dunked in splattered everywhere. At once, several men rushed forward with thick blankets, and Ykero couldn’t help but grin. He and his fellows were well versed in the art of boarding, despite their frenzy. As smoke billowed up around them and more flaming shafts struck masts and cargo and scraped across the deck, he and the rest of the crew kept their heads. He could taste victory again, feel his own fear subside as the panic grew aboard the Sylgid once more, fearful shouts going up from across the gap as more grappling lines found anchors. Through the chaos, Ykero made out the looming form of the Red Turor flanking their prey’s starboard side, penning them in. At once many of the Sylgid’s crew, including the archers in the rigging, turned to meet this new threat, giving Ykero and his comrades the time they needed to close in on the ship.
With a grinding crunch of wood on wood, the two hulls met.
More cheers went up, but over everything Omara could be heard yelling for the gangplanks to be brought forward. The smoke was heavy now, the men fighting the fires rushing about as the flames sought to spread across the deck. The air was thickening fast, the outline of the Sylgid’s masts growing harder to see by the second. The planks were brought forward, three heavy lengths of thick wood hauled by four men each, and with echoed booms they were lifted up, then dropped to span the space that remained between the decks of the two ships. With elated roars the men of the Moalas started to cross. One after the other they slipped into the gloom, their figures bare outlines through the smoke. There was a minute of fierce combat, Ykero making out nothing of the others other than flashing steel as they clashed with the enemy, more hurrying over to join the battle aboard the frigate.
Then, like some terrible animal hiding in the night, there came a snarling growl from within the smoke, and the sounds of battle redoubled. There was the shearing and wrenching of steel cutting through metal and flesh, and a few seconds later several men howled and tumbled into the sea, the gangplank they had just been crossing, closest to the stern, jolting and sliding with a grind to follow them into the wate
rs below. Ykero felt the thrill of fear return even before there was another splintering crunch, and the far end of a second plank thudded free of the Sylgid to clatter off the hulls and splash into the Dramion.
There were several tense moments, the sound of fighting aboard the Sylgid subsiding. Then the last gangplank, only slightly off to Ykero’s right, shuddered as well. The two men who had just started crossing it, though, didn’t fall. Instead, they screamed in pain and fear as they appeared to be thrown clear of the plank, one disappearing into the sea, the other unfortunate soul getting caught just as the hulls slammed together again on the waves, killing him with a wrenching crunch that left both ships’ sides stained with blood when they drifted apart again.
Ykero, though, barely registered this horrible event. His gaze was instead trained on the same thing every other eye on the Moalas was focused on.
A figure, terrible in its size and form, loomed out of the smoke. Seven feet tall at least, it appeared to be walking casually across the plank, materializing bit by bit as it approached. All about him Ykero felt his comrades freeze, just as he did, gaping at the shadow as it revealed itself. First came the glint of steel, shining in the light of the Sun above the flickering remnants of the fires that hadn't yet been put out. Then came the lithe, muscled limbs, black scales encased here and there in finely-crafted armor or thick leather wraps. Clawed gauntlets shone wet with blood, both wrapped about the haft of a massive, twin-bladed spear that itself made Ykero want to cower and run.
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