by David Cook
Amidships, the two fighters warily circled each other; the human backed away as the elf kept trying to close. Fire still smoldered in Cwelanas’s eyes. Her sword flicked out in feints and jabs, and metal tang on wood as Teldin blocked her attacks with his spear. He did not want this light, and he tried to avoid using any threatening moves. The elf may have started the battle, but he didn’t want to end it in blood – his or hers.
“Stop this foolishness!” Teldin demanded. Cwelanas answered with a low feint to the legs, followed by a lunge for his chest. Teldin saw the feint just in time and barely managing to beat away her attack. While she was badly out of position, Teldin made no attempt at a riposte. His arms ached from warding off the ringing fury of her blows. “Stop it, Cwelanas! Let it go.” He turned and shouted to the crew gathered around them, “Stop her!” None of the seamen made any attempt to interfere. A strange sense of honor kept them from the battle, apparently.
Likewise, Cwelanas did not seem to hear him. She made a few quick attacks, testing his parries, probing for weak spots. In desperation, Teldin faked some lunges, trying to keep her off balance and away from him. The cloak, which flapped in the breeze, hindered his moves somewhat. Teldin realized he was working against himself, feeding her rage. Her countenance was cold and businesslike, seemingly immune to the human’s reasoning.
“Do the unexpected.” Teldin remembered the axiom again. At the same time, he could remember his Grandfather saying, “Pick your fights wisely, son.” The memory was startlingly clear – Grandfather wiping the tears from Teldin’s dirty face after a childhood brawl. He even remembered the cold draft that blew through the rip in the oilcloth of the kitchen window. This was not a fight he wanted, nor a battle he wanted to win, but Cwelanas was offering no choices. One of them had to lose. In his mind, Teldin knew what to do. He just hoped it wouldn’t get him killed.
“Why fight?” Teldin asked aloud. Suddenly standing straight, he cast his spear down with an angry thrust, dropping his guard. There was a thunk of wood as the spear hit the deck. Teldin stood before Cwelanas, his arms spread, ready to receive her blow. “I won’t fight you, Cwelanas. If you still want to kill me, I suppose you can,” he said, trying to sound as brave he could.
Cwelanas, with her hair falling over one eye, took a step forward, her cutlass pointed at his chest. She took another step. Teldin forced himself to stand his ground. Part of him prayed that his gamble would work; the other part waited for the blow to land. The only sounds were the waves booming against the hull and the sails snapping in the wind. Teldin’s cloak swirled behind him in the gusts.
Before Teldin knew what her choice would be, Gomja roared through the small crowd of sailors. The big giff easily bowled aside the delicate elves. Distracted, Cwelanas started to turn toward the onrushing giff, but before she could complete her move, Gomja lashed out with his broadsword. Suddenly the elf maiden was on the defensive, driven back by the raging mass of muscle that bore down on her. Gomja moved with a speed surprising for his bulk, hewing at the elf’s parries. There was a ringing clang of metal and Cwelanas’s sword was knocked from her grasp. The blade slid toward the rail, where it was grabbed by an onlooker. Gomja restrained himself and stepped between the mate and Teldin, his sword pointed at Cwelanas. His huge chest heaved rapidly.
“No more fighting!” he bellowed in his bass tones. “On my life, you will not kill my commander!”
“Indeed,” echoed Luciar’s voice from the aft companionway. The old elf stood at the head of the stair that led to his cabin. He spoke softly, but his voice trembled with rage. “Cwelanas, attend me. You, with the sword, Boardbreaker, take your friend and keep him out of trouble. Put your sword away now. As for you crewmen, go to your posts and reflect on what should have been done. There will be no brawling aboard my ship!” The captain’s normally frail body seemed as hard as steel as he glowered at the assembled crowd. Gomja quickly snapped a salute and grabbed Teldin by the arm. Cwelanas, the fury exorcised from her by Luciar’s words, stood in shock at what she had done. Her shoulders sagged and her chest heaved from the exertion. At a sharp motion from the captain, she numbly began to move, but before Cwelanas reached the companionway, her pride had returned. Her chin was high once again as she looked back at Teldin, but her large eyes were narrowed and hard.
Gomja led Teldin by the elbow to the bow, moving easily through the gathered crewmen, who apprehensively parted before the pair. Elven eyes harbored looks Teldin couldn’t fathom – anger, distrust, fear, sympathy, perhaps even respect in a few faces. Slowly the seamen returned to their tasks.
Teldin, shaking from what he had done, collapsed by the base of the bowsprit. Gomja stood stiffly over him, waiting for a chance to speak. Finally Teldin looked up. “Yes?” he asked defensively.
“It is only some observations on your fight, sir,” Gomja explained uncomfortably, “to help you improve.” The farmer snorted at the suggestion, surprised that anyone would even think of such a thing at this time. Gomja, however, interpreted the sound as permission to continue. “You blocked quite well, sir, but you were not aggressive enough. There were several times when you could have lunged or made an effective riposte, and you let these opportunities go. And, sir, if I may say, you should never drop your weapon.
Teldin’s jaw dropped, and he looked at Gomja in disbelief. Was the giff just dense? he wondered. “Gomja, that was the idea! I didn’t want to kill her.”
“That may be true, sir, but she wanted to kill you,” the giff callously pointed out. He sat on the angled spar, unconsciously dropping into his instructor’s tone. “Sir, I’m sure you meant well, but in a fight, if you take up your spear, you must be ready to use it. Suppose I attacked you. What would you do? You couldn’t run away on this ship and you couldn’t parry me forever. If someone tries to kill you, you must fight. It’s the only choice – kill or be killed.”
“No, it’s not, Gomja! What if I had wounded or killed her? What would happen then? I don’t think Luciar would be too understanding about his daughter’s death. The crew would probably hang me – and you – or throw us both overboard.” The farmer left unsaid his feelings for the elf maid. Part of him had wanted to strike back, if only because of her pigheadedness, but ultimately he could not and did not. “Gomja, things just aren’t that simple!” Teldin shook his head in disgust. “You can’t go in and solve everything by fighting. Sometimes you have to try to get along and work things out.” Teldin slid about to stare down at the bow cutting through the waves.
Gomja’s huge mouth puckered as he thought about Teldin’s words. “If you say so, sir.” He sounded unconvinced. “Perhaps it is that way for humans.” Teldin sighed from the frustration of trying to get the giff to understand anything other than fighting.
Gomja noticed that the crew kept casting glances in their direction, so he pulled a whetstone from his pocket and drew it in long, careful strokes across his broadsword. The steely scrape formed a rhythmic counterpart to the Silver Spray’s surging through the waves. The hot sun and rhythmic noise slowly eased Teldin’s tense muscles, lulling him into a drowsy but irritable lassitude.
Teldin began to doze, the adrenaline of the fight almost gone, when Gomja stopped his sword-sharpening in mid-stroke. “Sir. Wake up, sir.” The giff gripped Teldin by the shoulder and gave him a solid shake. “Company, sir.”
The haze of sleep lifted, and Teldin scrambled to his feet. Near the ladder to the forecastle stood Luciar, looking more solemn and grave than he normally did. The old captain was dressed in elegant finery, a pearl-white robe trimmed in gold and red. His thin hair was tied back, leaving his head a bald dome. Behind him stood Cwelanas, her eyes downcast, her hair falling gently to frame her face. Most amazing to Teldin was that she wore none of her mannish, martial garb. Instead, she stood on the swaying deck in a deep-blue gown of shimmering silk. It fit tightly, revealing a figure as feminine as Teldin had ever imagined. The long, flowing sleeves almost hid her hands, which were demurely folded at her waist. Behind the
elf pair were the barely visible heads of the crew, gawking almost as much as the yeoman imagined he was. Sweaty, salt-stained, sunbaked, and unshaven, Teldin suddenly realized he must look atrocious in comparison.
“Teldin Moore of Kalaman, please accept my greetings,” Luciar solemnly began. “I have brought my daughter. She asks permission to come forward and speak with you.” The old elf waited for Teldin to reply.
Teldin caught Gomja’s wary expression from the corner of his eye, but in that instant Teldin could not suspect the old captain or even Cwelanas. It just was not in his heart. Refusing the giff’s mistrust, the farmer nodded slightly. “Very well, I will hear her words,” he accepted, trying to make himself sound polite.
Luciar stepped aside to let his daughter pass. As she glided across the deck, the blue silk rustled slightly, then dropped to whisper as she stopped before Teldin and held out her hands. The farmer, uncertain of why, realized he was meant to hold them and held out his own dirty and calloused hands. At first the elf maiden’s fingers darted back at his touch, then Cwelanas seized his fingers and squeezed tightly. Teldin made every effort not to wince.
“Teldin Moore of Kalaman,” Cwelanas said in unemotional, even tones, “I have done you a grave injury. The shame for what has happened falls upon me, and I apologize for all that has occurred. By the honor of House Olonaes, house of my father and his father before him, accept this gift from my hand.” Cwelanas released her grip from Teldin’s aching fingers. From her bodice she unfastened a small, silver pin in the shape of a flower and fastened it onto his shirt. The gift given, the elf maid stepped to stand beside Teldin. A forced smile graced her lips. Teldin stood shocked by the elfs whirlwind change of heart – even if her father had put her up to it. He managed a weak, baffled smile.
Satisfied that ritual had been followed, Luciar turned to address the crew, which by now had assembled of its own accord. “Know that these two who fought are now reconciled,” the captain formally announced. “No more will the shadow of hate hang between them.” The ritual words spoken, the captain addressed the crew more personally. “This rite I have ordered because we may need all our strength in the days ahead. Word has reached me that minotaurs sail these waters.” The captain paused to let the import of his words sink in, and a gradual murmur of concern passed through the sailors.
While her father’s back was turned, Cwelanas fiercely whispered to Teldin, “I will not strike you again, but do not think this is over, human.” She gave a perfunctory curtsy and hurried for her cabin. Luciar bowed to Teldin, dismissed the crew, and followed in his daughter’s wake, stopping to answer questions from his crew along the way.
“What was that all about?” a mystified Teldin wondered aloud as he walked to the edge of the half-deck, his mouth still hanging open. He looked to Gomja, but the giff only shrugged helplessly. Galwylin, standing on the main deck below, overheard the farmer and looked up.
“The tual’lithas, the rite of harmony. Our mate has made her peace for striking at you. The token you wear is the sign of apology. You should be honored, Bare Tree.”
“Fine,” Teldin answered, fingering the pin. He was far from convinced there was harmony between them, though. “What’s this about minotaurs?”
“Pirates, Bare Tree, pirates,” Galwylin answered darkly. “Worst of the kind, too. Tougher than humans, almost as good as elves on the sea. It is odd, though, for them to sail so far from their usual haunts. Raiding must be poor along the Blood Sea coasts. I tell you, it will be a bad day if we meet them. Pray to your gods that we do not.”
“If they find us, I will make it a bad day for them,” stated Gomja, patting his weapons. “We have pirates among the stars, and the giff have no love of them. But I do not understand one thing. What are minotaurs?”
Galwylin, unaware of the giffs origin, looked uncomprehendingly at Gomja, then shook his head and went back to work.
Chapter Fifteen
Although the tension between Teldin and Cwelanas was officially eased by the rite of harmony, Gomja found it hard to tell by judging from the mood on the ship. It seemed everyone save the giff was in a dark humor. The lookouts constantly were on guard, waiting for a menacing sail to appear on the horizon, while the rest of the crew stopped work at times to look beyond the gunwales. The giff, with the captain’s reluctant approval, began organizing the crew for a possible sea battle. While not inexperienced fighters, the crew was made up of elves who were sailors first and warriors second. Still Gomja diligently tested and instructed, refreshing the elves’ seldom-used skills until he was able to divide the crew into two simple platoons, one of archers and another of swordsmen. The work took the better part of each day, drawing on whatever elves were not involved in tasks at the time. Teldin stayed out of the way, watching the giff hesitantly attempt to command.
A few mornings later the apprehension of the crew were rewarded by a cry from the mainmast. “Sail to the port, captain!” At those words, the elves assigned to the rigging scrambled among the yards, straining for a view of the ship the lookout had sighted.
On deck, Luciar and Cwelanas likewise peered to the port, their gazes sweeping over the expanse of gently swelling waves. Teldin looked over the ocean and failed to see a thing. Apparently the captain and the mate had, though, for the two were in quiet conference. Luciar shook his head and pointed in the direction of the wind. Cwelanas looked back to port, cupped her thin hands, and hailed the lookout. “What’s her rig?”
After a pause, the lookout shouted back. “Three masts, two square and a lateen aft. Showing a lot of sail-red sails, Captain Luciar!” Again Luciar and Cwelanas conferred, their faces so grim that Teldin wondered what it all meant. It was Galwylin who, seeing the human’s puzzled expression, gave him the answer.
“We are in for it, Bare Tree. Red sails mean our visitor is out of the Blood Sea. It must not pay to raid draconian ships these days.”
“Blood Sea? That’s beyond Estwilde, clear on the other side of Ansalon!” the stowaway exclaimed.
“I know,” Galwynlin commented, “but when the draconians get irritated, the minotaurs sail west to raid.”
From the afterdeck rail, Cwelanas ordered, “Full sail and quickly!” There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice. She spotted the giff and singled him out for special duty. “Boardbreaker, to the arms locker and bring up the weapons.” Gomja crisply nodded and set about his task. Teldin, meanwhile, scrambled up the ratlines.
For the next hour, the Silver Spray tacked and veered, struggling to catch every ounce of breeze available. The crew, Teldin included, worked constantly to adjust the running rig and trim sails to match new headings and variations in the wind. Each change of the wind, each slip of a rope, triggered another string of orders and corrections from Cwelanas. Their pursuer was close enough now to be seen by all; a three-master, it was flying before the wind with red sails billowing full.
The pirate vessel dogged the Silver Spray, shifting over and across the sea for every knot of speed. The elves watched to the stern with worried looks, fingering the swords they now carried at their belts. It was clear, even to a lubber such as Teldin, that the Silver Spray was outmatched. The pirates steadily gained.
“Bring her about!” Luciar shouted from the afterdeck. Teldin didn’t understand – such a move would send them directly back toward their pursuers. He collared Galwylin and asked the experienced sailor why.
“The captain figures that since we cannot outrun the foe, we are best to fight with the advantage of the wind. They will have to sail close-hauled, which makes them slow to turn. If the Silver Spray can break past, we might just lose them.” Galwylin’s voice was barely hopeful as he explained Luciar’s intentions. Before Teldin could ask further, Cwelanas called out more orders in her clear voice. Some of the elves scrambled into the shrouds, slender bows in hand. Each carried quivers filled with white-plumed arrows.
Gomja went to the aft stairs and, with a deferential salute, spoke a few words to the elf maiden above him. She
gave him a quick nod of approval and turned to give the crew new orders. Soon, all the hands, including Teldin and Gomja, were hauling tables and benches from the mess hail belowdecks. The giff single-handedly carried the heaviest of the ship’s few tables and, under his close supervision, these were now turned on the side and lined along the starboard rail. Cwelanas looked over the crew’s handiwork approvingly as the last barriers were lashed in place. “What now?” Teldin anxiously asked Gomja as they levered an oaken bench onto the wall.
“I don’t know, sir. Boarding nets would be good,” Gomja explained, giving the mismatched furniture a condescending nod. “A proper spelljammer would have nets roofing the deck to discourage boarding. At least with these we’ve got a wall to fight behind.”
Running fast with the wind, the Silver Spray was almost upon its foe. The Blood Sea galleon had closed the gap, trying to work close enough to touch the elven ship’s hull. The feared red sails were almost parallel to the pirate ship’s keel, trying to catch the wind that blew against them. Captain Luciar had obviously chosen his tactics well, for the bulk of the minotaur crew was occupied with trimming the sails. Still, there were many others lining the sides, great bows and spears in hand.
Feeling the need for what little security the cloak might provide – it was, after all, magical – Teldin took a few moments and willed his cloak to its full length. Galwylin’s eyes widened in surprise, but the elven sailor made no comment. Instead the sea dog followed his fellows’ lead and hunched behind the improvised shield wall. Those aloft took shelter behind the masts. Only the captain, Cwelanas, Teldin, and Gomja – the giff positioned foremost in the bow – stood ready to receive the foe.
The first shots of the sea battle were fired well before the ships were within the range of even the strongest elven bowmen. There was a faint twang from the pirate ship, then a smoldering bolt arced across the sky. Before it had a chance to hit anything, another fiery missile took to the air. These two shots ended in hisses of steam as the flaming bolts fell into the ocean, one splashing short and the other soaring well over the Silver Spray’s sails into the water beyond. “Ballistas, sir!” Gomja bellowed from the bow. “They’re ranging us, Captain!”
