Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "You've never killed a man" he said flatly without looking around at Skiouros, and quietly enough that the working sailors would not overhear their conversation.

  For a split second, Skiouros found himself standing in a shadowy memory of the church of Saint Saviour in the fields, a heavy piece of stone poised to drop on the incapacitated Mamluk assassin, and then in the drenched street above the former Ottoman powder store, watching stone blocks the size of cattle falling from the sky. He closed his eyes and when he replied his voice was quiet and sad.

  "I think I wish that were true, Orsini. In actual fact, I have killed at least three men." He smiled hollowly. "Never with one of these, though" he added, patting the hilt of his sword.

  "Never in battle. Are you sure you wish to do this? I will honestly think no less of you if you do not. My uncle is one of the greatest warriors in Christendom, and yet I would sooner favour a talented artist or a tuneful musician than such as he. The sword can be as cruel a mistress as the sea. It is not for everyone. An untrained and panicked soldier can be more of a hindrance than a boon to his own in the midst of battle."

  Skiouros peered out at the water. The Isabella was coming about rapidly and with every degree it turned, he was brought one heartbeat closer to a fight to the death. While he had been training and preparing himself for such eventualities this past year, he had truly expected only to find the need to draw a blade once he was in the heart of the Pope's realm with the traitor Cem sultan in his sight - if such a thing were ever possible. To fight a bloodthirsty battle against pirates had not been part of his plan. Ottoman corsairs would be the enemy, of course, but not the seething object of hatred at the heart of his revenge. Could he really take lives like this? The three in Istanbul had been more a matter of survival than anger, but had been given the added impetus of having been responsible for Lykaion's death and therefore deserving of such divine retribution meted out by the hand of his brother.

  But then what was this danger but another fight for survival, even if the enemy meant nothing to him.

  "You'll not find me lacking, Orsini" he said, praying to God that it was the truth.

  The two men continued to stare out at the water and Skiouros could almost feel his companion nodding his understanding - perhaps even his approval - without looking round. Slowly, the vessel began to straighten once more, the sailors working madly to angle the sails just so in order to inch slowly north back towards the closing kadirga. The going was suddenly tough after sailing with the wind and Skiouros could feel the strain even through the boards of the deck.

  As the minutes passed, the lookout regularly calling updates of distance from his lofty position, Skiouros tried to think back over what he had seen of the large galley vessels that formed the backbone of the Turkish navy. He'd never paid a great deal of attention, scarcely crediting the possibility that one day he might be staring down the bowsprit of one. But here and there over the years he had seen the ships bobbing up and down in one of Istanbul's harbours, or plying the waters around the city.

  Somewhat longer than the Isabella, the standard kadirga was a simple vessel, designed with speed and power in mind, like a hunter. It was rigged with an unusual sail system that actually gave it an edge over the standard western vessel and, with the addition of oars as a secondary system of propulsion, was capable of an astonishing turn of speed for short distances. Such vessels had occasionally put on displays in the Proponine Sea on state occasions. The cargo deck was wide and low, and the main deck above was given over almost entirely to benches for the oarsmen, the only flat walking spaces being the housing at the stern and the fighting platform at the bow, linked by a narrow walkway that ran down the deck's centre between the rows of benches. The bow platform would be where any guns would likely be placed, and where the dozen or so archers would likely be positioned, though a careful captain might have reserves in the stern. The rowers - galley slaves taken in battle or criminals condemned to the navy - would remain shackled to their oars while the captain's Turkish crew fought the battle, hoping their masters won so that the ship was not sunk, taking the chained oarsmen with it to the bottom.

  Thus the great dangers came from fore and aft. The Turks might have as many as fifty fighting men aboard, while the Isabella held a grand total of twenty eight souls, two of whom languished in their sickbed, one was an old Romani beggar put to work hoisting sails, and the rest primarily sailors, bearing only a cudgel to defend themselves. It would likely be a short fight.

  "It might be better not to be taken alive" he said to Orsini. "At best we'll end our days rowing that thing for them. The alternatives are less pleasant."

  The Italian drew his fine blade with a hiss and a rasp and smiled humourlessly. "It is you for whom I worry, Master Skiouros. The mere mention of my name will likely be enough to buy my life. No pirate would pass up the ransom they would get from the Orsini, even for an ill-favoured relative. I fear you have no such financial backing."

  Skiouros fell silent and nodded as he drew his own sword.

  Parmenio stepped out into the centre of the deck as the lookout gave the estimated remaining count of one minute.

  "Essential hands only to ship duties. Everyone else arm up and head to the bow!"

  As Skiouros and Orsini strode back along the deck towards the gathering crowd at the fore, Nicolo arrived, catching up with the captain and carrying two well-worn scabbarded swords with him. Passing one over to Parmenio, he strapped on the other sword belt and eased the blade from the sheath, listening to the sound as he chewed on his lip. Somehow, Skiouros formed the impression that Nicolo found the wearing of the sword unpleasant in some way.

  Hardly had the four men arrived among the press of sailors at the bow when the lookout cried out a warning.

  "Archers!"

  With faces of grim determination, the crew of the Isabella, a variety of swords, daggers and clubs in hand, dropped behind the ship's rail, trusting to the high point of the bow to prevent the worst of the attack. It was only as he fell to the deck with the rest that Skiouros realised why the captain had called them all to the bow - the closest point to the enemy archers. It was, from a head-on angle at least, the only position on the ship that offered any kind of shelter. A dozen or so arrows swept through the air towards the Isabella and the cringing defenders could hear the points 'thunking' into the timber of the bow less than a foot from their sheltered heads, only two missiles falling harmlessly into the water. Three of the flighted nightmares swept over their heads. One thudded into the deck, while a second struck one of the working sailors in the thigh, causing him to drop to the deck screaming and clutching himself. The third parted the hair of one of the men at the rail, drawing an angry red line across his scalp.

  "Thirty!" yelled the lookout.

  "Another volley then" Orsini sighed, hunkering down low. Skiouros followed suit as the thrumming sound of the arrows came again. This time the sea claimed none, and a mere three struck the timber bow. The man to Skiouros' right shrieked as the steel point of the missile passed through his cheek, smashing teeth and bone and severing his tongue before emerging from the far side of his face and continuing on its flight before coming to a halt scraping along the deck. More yelps from back along the vessel announced further casualties among the working crew.

  The horribly disfigured and agonised man with the ruined face disappeared - Skiouros had neither the time nor the inclination to see what had happened to him - to be quickly replaced by another figure, and it was with a strangely juxtaposed mix of resigned acceptance and curious interest that he recognised the shape of the Romani beggar, gripping a studded club of ash.

  "Fifteen!" bellowed the lookout and Parmenio rose, sure now that there would be no further missiles. Good job, thought Skiouros, as he mentally estimated the ship's active complement now at twenty or perhaps twenty one men, including those required to handle the vessel itself. The next few minutes looked exceedingly bleak.

  "Stand and make ready" Parmenio barked, as Nic
olo peered over the rail and shouted "Brace!"

  But the captain of the Turkish vessel apparently had no intention of the ramming that Nicolo expected. At the last moment, as Skiouros stood and saw the looming shape of the kadirga, the Turkish ship banked sharply to starboard, withdrawing oars in a smooth motion. The ships, instead of colliding, swept past one another, their bows passing a matter of mere feet apart.

  Skiouros frowned in surprise, his eyes crossing to the fighting platform at the front of the enemy vessel and widening at what he saw there.

  "What… the fuck… are those?" asked Nicolo in a small, hoarse voice.

  Skiouros realised that he was looking directly down the pitch black barrel of the artillery piece and instinctively stepped to the right. Two 'abus' guns swivelled on their tripods, picking a target on the Isabella's deck. With a wide barrel and too heavy to be held by a man, these anti-personnel nightmares that fired iron balls three inches across had been employed by the Ottoman military at times, but he'd not heard of their use aboard ships before.

  "Down!" he yelled, but not quite quickly enough.

  The two guns fired as the ship swept alongside. A heavy shot passed through the space the young Greek had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Something warm and damp sprayed across the back of Skiouros' head, and he did not need to turn to see what the howitzer had done to the man behind his shoulder or how much of him was left as he slapped wetly to the deck.

  A collective groan went through the Isabella's crew and Skiouros ground his teeth. The abus guns were hardly a suitable weapon for ship fighting. Indeed, two men with bows or muskets would likely have done just as much damage, but the effect on the defending crew's morale was instantly palpable.

  A good Ottoman commander relied as much on fear unmanning his enemy as he did on the actual execution of battle.

  The crew of the caravel reeled in shock and dismay, losing them precious time. The Turkish captain suffered no such difficulty. His crew leapt to the rail, bows discarded, and threw their grapples, hooking them onto anything and instantly feeding the ropes through the rail of their own vessel, anchoring them.

  In the two heartbeats that the Isabella's crew required to realise that they stood no chance against this enemy, six grapples and ropes tautened between the ships, the rowers of the kadirga smoothly back-oaring to ease the closing of the two vessels, the Turkish sailors dropping the sails to prevent the wind carrying them any further than necessary.

  The ropes reached their anchored maximum length and strained with a groan. Both ships complained at the sudden pressure and the Isabella's forward momentum was almost entirely arrested in seconds, every man aboard being thrown from his feet or against the bow.

  "To arms!" bellowed Parmenio, struggling to his feet.

  Skiouros scrambled from the deck, his ankle aching slightly from an awkward fall, gripping his sword hilt and trying to take stock of the situation as the world exploded into deadly activity around him.

  Turkish sailors were pouring across the gap between the ships, heedless of the danger. One was caught a blow by an enterprising Venetian sailor before he managed to get his feet across the Isabella's rail and the Turk disappeared down between the two hulls, his scream cut off sharply as the ships smacked together once more, crushing him instantly before he had a chance to drown.

  The corsairs were everywhere.

  Skiouros had experienced the infamous crowds of Istanbul during riots. He had fought for his life against deadly assassins and fled through a city in fear of his life. He had, in two short years, experienced more horror and danger than most men faced in a lifetime.

  But he had never been in battle and, as Orsini had surmised, had never used a sword in anger. His heart fell as he realised at this critical juncture that he had no will to kill.

  Even as a Turk leapt at him, sword raised high and ready to fall - to split him in two - he could not summon up the will deep in his soul to actually push a length of steel into the man's body, severing organs and ripping the God-given life from him. It was a dreadful realisation. His sword lessons had been utterly pointless. It mattered not that he knew exactly what to do - and he did; the corsair had left himself wide open and Skiouros could easily skewer him in the blink of an eye - no amount of knowledge could overcome his soul-deep abhorrence at the thought of taking this man's life simply because he fought on a different side.

  He should have died, then. Would have done, had not a blade whipped in from somewhere and punched a foot deep into the man's armpit. As the raised 'kilij' sabre fell uselessly away and the Turk screamed at the realisation a death blow had been struck, Skiouros glanced around in a panic to see Orsini giving him a look. The Italian's eyes dropped meaningfully to the clean blade in Skiouros' hands, and then he was off again, fighting another man.

  Skiouros felt panic completely overwhelm him.

  What was he to do? He felt his bladder beginning to strain, threatening to give way in a flood.

  Suddenly he was knocked aside and, recovering, he turned in confusion to find Nicolo backing across the deck, his blade whirling and flashing as he parried and lunged at the heavy-set Turk with the drooping moustaches before him. Even Nicolo - a merchantman's purser - seemed to be fighting as though born to it.

  The world swam and whirled around him as Skiouros staggered and spun in blind confusion. All about him sailors smashed down with clubs, splintering bones and crushing faces, lunged with swords, puncturing hearts and lungs, cutting throats and severing limbs. Twice again a booming sound announced the firing of the abus guns that turned good men into chunks of shredded meat.

  Skiouros felt sick. Probably was sick. His bladder leaked just a little and it was only through a miracle of self-control that he managed not to completely piss himself.

  Something struck him again, and Skiouros reached up to his shoulder in surprise. When he took his hand away it was soaked with blood. Well at least if he was going to die now, he would not have to face the ignominious failure he apparently was. What really kept him in the world, after all?

  Lykaion…

  "I'll miss you, brother."

  The throbbing pain in his left shoulder began to insist itself on his thoughts, and he focused on it, grateful for anything that distracted him from his utter failure.

  A black shape suddenly blurred across in front of him. He blinked away sweat and realised that it was Cesare Orsini, backing across the deck, his blade whirring expertly, holding a Turk at bay, though the pirate was clearly also a master swordsman and continued to advance slowly.

  It took only a moment for Skiouros to piece together what he was seeing and to follow the motions that would follow to their inevitable conclusion. Another Turk with a vicious knife in each hand was busy dispatching a Venetian sailor, the blood sheeting from the poor man's sliced throat. As soon as he dropped the body and turned he would have Orsini backing blindly towards him. The rest was too horrible to picture.

  Despite his initial reservations about the disenfranchised Italian nobleman, Skiouros found at this last desperate juncture that he had warmed enough to the enigmatic man with his powerful intellect that he would truly be sorry to witness his demise.

  He couldn't.

  He could not watch another of his friends or even closer acquaintances die horribly before his very eyes. It seemed that at the very end he was a coward after all. And selfish, as the Romani had accused a few days - and a lifetime ago - back in Crete. For as he closed his eyes he knew - deep in his heart - that that was just a way to prevent himself having to suffer the sight of another friend's death.

  He shivered with cold fear and hot pain simultaneously, the darkness of his eyelids doing nothing to prevent the images of battle and death assailing him, his ears filling with the din of cries, the scrape and rasp and clang of weapon on weapon, the smell of blood and death and shit filling his nostrils.

  He was fairly sure he was crying.

  A scream in front of him shocked his eyes open - Orsini's end appeared to have c
ome.

  Skiouros was more than a little surprised as his eyelids prised open slowly to see his own arm extended, the fine Spanish blade in his grip thrust deep into the chest of the Turk with the two knives. The corsair was staring at him, mouth flapping open and closed in horror.

  Had he done that? How had he done that?

  Before he even thought through what he was doing, Skiouros realised that he was twisting the blade in a half circle the way Iannis had taught him, before jerking it sideways to be sure of severe organ damage before withdrawing it.

  As the Turk sank to his knees, a gout of blood coughing from his mouth, Skiouros stared in shock at the glistening crimson blade extending from his own hand.

  "Thank you" laughed Orsini, as he drove his own sword into the chest of the man with whom he's been struggling. "Most timely, my friend."

  Skiouros could not find his voice to answer as the Italian swordsman leapt off to find a new opponent. The Greek instead stared at the blade, his eyes jerking up and down, watching the droplets of blood falling from the sword's point to the deck.

  Someone bellowed something in Turkish off to his left, and Skiouros turned his head to see another corsair with a curved blade stepping towards him.

  "No" he replied in perfect Turkish, turning and raising the sword. "Not me. Not here."

  The Corsair frowned in surprise to find a Turkish speaker on board a Christian vessel this far west, and he faltered for a moment.

  "No" repeated Skiouros as he took two steps forward and brought the blade round in an arc that the Turk barely managed to parry in time.

  "No." The swords met and rang again, and the corsair was forced to take a step back, surprised at the sudden ferocity of his opponent. Two more clangs of the blade. Two more steps back.

  "No!" Skiouros snapped.

  "Stop saying that!" demanded the Turk as he slammed up against the rail with nowhere else to go to escape this strange madman.