Thank you Marco for your work today. You’re dismissed,” Fyld told him.
“No wonder we lost, with the lack of discipline we have in the ranks,” Marco heard Argen say loudly as Marco walked away.
He needed to keep going, he knew. He needed to ignore the taunts of a nobleman, but he couldn’t help himself. Even though his injured head held no clear memories of his role in the war, he knew that the soldiers of the army had done more, and suffered much, much, more than a dandy like Argen had.
Despite himself, he stopped and turned, and glared at Argen.
“That’ll be all, Marco. You’re dismissed,” Fyld said with emphasis in his voice.
Marco took a deep breath, bit back a retort to Argen, and nodded his head. “Yes sir,” he said, and then turned and went down the passageway, to where a steep ladder provided access to the open sky above. Marco quickly climbed up. The sky was red from the sunset, clouds were moving in from the west, reflecting the sunlight that shone through a rift in the clouds, and the skyline of the city and the hills behind it were already a distance away, as the crew of the large ship worked to adjust sails and rudders, while stroking oars and adding speed to their departure.
A member of the crew brushed against Marco as he ran by. “Get up front with the others and stay out of the way,” he shouted at Marco as he passed.
There was a cluster of men in black uniforms crowded together, staying out of the way of the crew. Marco worked his way up and crossed over the invisible line that held the men back, two or three score of them tightly packed in a small space. The roll of the ship and the restless movement of the men gradually mixed Marco into the group, where he found himself temporarily stuck in the middle, without access to a railing to lean against or the horizon to watch, though he overheard others talking about the two other ships that could be seen traveling with them, carrying the other captured soldiers who were also being returned to Docleatae. Overhead, the crew of the ship seemed to finish their duties amidst the masts and the ropes and the sails, for the sailors were descending, and the sails seemed set and full of the winds that blew across the sea.
He remained there for several minutes, until the announcement of dinner energized the prisoners. Marco let the others surge around him to get into the front of the line, as he passively drifted to the rear. He was going to have a meal, and find a place to bunk down for the night. Tomorrow he would be likely to do nothing but stand idly on the deck, and expect to do nothing for every day that they sailed, until they landed.
What would he do then, he wondered as the line slowly progressed. Would the army keep him, or turn him loose, or would they army simply dissolve, the unwanted, unloved losers that the king would rather not see again? He had no fathomable reason to, but as Marco thought about it, he felt a compulsion to stay in the army, and to return to Foulata, the king’s capital, to perhaps start over from there.
He reached his turn to receive his food, a tin bowl full of warm stew, and he sat to eat and think. He was weary and sore from his work, and he knew he was going to sleep well.
“There’s our lucky friend,” he heard a voice in front of him as he took his seat on a span of rolled-up canvas sail. He looked up and saw Wilh and Bram, his acquaintances from the prisoner camp, standing over him. “So what happened to you after they took you away?”
“I had to move the cargo for the nobles on the ship,” Marco replied. He was glad to see someone he knew, men whose company would help to shave away a part of the loneliness he felt, the feeling of drifting aimlessly that was growing within him. “My back’s pretty stiff now,” he added.
The two men sat down on either side of him. “Did you keep anything? Did any jewels fall out of a bag?” Bram asked with a wink.
“I never thought of that,” Marco replied truthfully. “All I did was carry crates, then I had to rearrange them after Count what’s-his-name threw a fit.”
“Argen,” Wilh said promptly.
“That’s it,” Marco agreed. “How did you know?”
“He’s got a reputation. He’s a nasty man who’s engaged to the prince’s daughter, Ellersbine. Argen is a favorite of the king, which tells you something about him,” Wilh explained. Marco felt his ears burn at the mention of the girl’s name.
“Sshh,” Bram said after the last comment, looking around.
“Oh, you’re right,” Wilh agreed.
“He’s engaged to the princess? Does that mean he’ll be king someday?” Marco asked.
“Not likely – it’ll take about a dozen others in the line to succession to die; the king’s very old, and he’s had quite a few children, and they’ve had children too. The prince is only a grandchild of the king, and losing Athens won’t give him any advantage. The king may even plan to take revenge on Ellersby for losing,” Wilh explained.
“But as long as Argen is engaged to Ellersbine, she won’t be in danger,” Bram chimed in.
“There was an officer, Captain Fyld, who was fair, better than Argen or Colonel Varsen,” Marco told the other two.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Bram answered.
“If he’s fair-minded, he won’t last long with that crew,” Wilh commented.
Marco stayed close to Wilh and Bram that evening, as they all slept on the deck, and again the next day, as the ship slowly sailed through a nearly windless sea.
“We need volunteers to man the oars,” Colonel Varsen said when he came to address the assembled men on the deck in the mid-morning. “Count Argen wants the ship to move faster, so we’re going to keep the oars going at all times.
“You men,” he pointed at those on the side of the deck where Marco stood with Bram and Wilh, “will go down in the hold and report for duty immediately.”
And so Marco found himself seated on a bench with four other men, endlessly wielding one of the dozen oars that propelled the ship southward through the water towards Tripool. The work was tedious and generated sore backs and aching arms in all the men whose labors rarely ceased. Marco felt the same pain, right down to his hands, which felt sore from the continual grip he maintained on the oar handle.
Soon after sunset, Colonel Varsen returned to where the overseer was watching the men.
“Your turn is over. The next shift is coming down to relieve you,” the colonel told them, eliciting groans and cheers of relief.
“Not you,” he placed a hand out to block Marco’s departure from his bench. “We’re going to be one man short of a full shift, so we’ll let you remain here and contribute a little extra to make Count Argen happy,” he gave a grin that was a sneer.
Marco sat back down in exhaustion, and watched as the other men left, and then new men shuffled in and sat down along the benches. Marco sat at the seat closest to the hull, next to the opening that bracketed the oar handle as it extend out of the ship and down to the water. He could catch a glimpse of the dark sea water outside, and a streak of moonlight that stretched towards him from the horizon where the moon was rising.
The men next to him gripped the oar handle, the drummer in front of them started beating the time, and they started stroking rhythmically.
“You there, keep up the pace,” the over seer shouted at Marco after the first half hour of the night shift’s work.
An hour later, Marco’s eyes popped open, and he realized he had started to fall asleep. The man next to him had driven an elbow into his ribs to awaken him.
“They’re watching you,” the man spoke quietly, “and the overseer is playing with his whip. You better stay awake.”
Marco tried valiantly to keep up the effort, but his eyes continually fell closed, and he only awoke fully when the overseer’s whip cracked against his back, stunning him into consciousness and pain.
“Stay awake and do your part,” the overseer shouted, then cracked his whip in the air above Marco’s head for good measure.
Marco stayed awake for two more hours, but fell asleep again and was awoken again by the crack of the whip on his back, and the sam
e thing happened a third time, just before dawn broke across the sea.
“Everyone up. We need fresh arms to keep this tub moving,” Marco heard Captain Fyld’s voice speak. The men on his bench rose and stretched, then began to shuffle out of the cramped and stinking rowing quarters.
Marco turned and looked up at the Captain.
“You too, get out of here while you can,” Fyld told him, motioning for him to move forward. Marco stood, painfully bent over because of the pain in his back after the long hours of labor, and he rambled forward and out of the cramped space. He reached the deck, took in a grateful breath of fresh air, then collapsed bent over the railing, until Wilh and Bram found him and set him upright an hour later as the sun was shining brightly.
“Let’s get in line for breakfast,” Wilh urged Marco.
He took a look around the horizon, and watched with interest as a group of dolphins went swimming past the ship, their graceful bodies moving back and forth, switching spots in relation to each other as they swept past and continued on their way.
“Where are the other ships?” he asked about the other vessels carrying the rest of the captured Docleatean soldiers.
“We left them far behind, with us using oars all night,” Wilh answered as they got in the meal line. “Unless they really try to catch up, we won’t see them again until we reach Tripool.”
“How’d you get so lucky to have two shifts?” Bram asked.
“It looked to me like the colonel is a friend to Count Argen,” Marco replied. “He probably did it because he knows Argen doesn’t like me.”
They ate and sat on the deck, as Marco fell asleep. He rested soundly until mid-morning, when Varsen returned to the deck and ordered him and others to return to the oars.
And that’s where an agonizing Marco was the next morning at dawn, when two ships of Corsairs attacked.
Chapter 9
Marco was barely awake at his oar, two more stripes on his back due to the overseer’s whip. The red light of dawn was entering the oarlock when it suddenly grew dark, as the Corsairs’ ship silently glided alongside the prisoners’ transport.
Marco vaguely noted that the sunlight was cut off; he grew more alert when the Corsairs’ hull swept across the oars, wrenching them out of the hands of the men on the benches. Then the sound of heavy boots running across the deck above reverberated through the rowing space, and shouts and screams started descending downward.
The oar handles for the benches on the other side of the suddenly jerked wildly upward, as a second Corsair ship arrived and joined the assault on the prisoners’ vessel. Men rose from their seats on the benches in confusion and panic, then started moving towards the doorways that led out of the confined rowing quarters.
The first of the worn rowers started departing, only to scream as they left their location, and a moment later a stream of Corsairs came pouring into the crowded space.
Marco stood and swept his sword off his hip, the first time he could remember even thinking about the weapon since he had awoken in the prison camp in Athens. No other prisoners were armed, and the Corsairs advanced methodically as they butchered their defenseless victims.
A Corsair saw Marco standing at his location, and the man deliberately angled his progress towards the young prisoner who he expected to make his next victim. As he arrived, Marco raised his sword, and was astonished at how easily it sliced through space to block the Corsair’s own sword. Marco swept his weapon past the initial clash and maintained contact with the other blade, knocking it free from his attacker’s hand.
Marco made momentary eye contact with the surprised Corsair, then felt his sword stab the man in the ribs, and cause him to collapse, leaving Marco alive and looking around. Another Corsair saw his comrade fall, and left the main body of Corsairs to attack Marco. Seeing the man approach, Marco stooped and picked up the dead man’s sword.
“Here!” he shouted at the closest man in black, and he threw the weapon to him, then raised his weapon and began to defend himself from the next Corsair. The attacker swept a long curved blade at Marco’s neck, causing Marco’s sword to leap up and slide the attack up high, over his head, while leaving the Corsair exposed for a riposte that slice across his chest from his right shoulder down to his left hip, a deep scoring cut that dropped the Corsair to the deck, and allowed Marco to pick up another sword and toss it to another of the dwindling number of oarsmen still alive.
“Marco! Help!” Wilh called from a spot four benches behind where Marco stood.
Marco threw his sword at a Corsair who was about to strike Wilh, and without waiting to see the results, Marco stepped up onto his bench and then went hopping from bench to bench, back to where he saw Wilh was still alive and grabbing a sword from the grasp of the dying Corsair who Marco had skewered with his thrown weapon.
As soon as he reached the spot of his latest victim, Marco pulled the sword from the flesh of the dead man, and started fighting next to Wilh. The other Docleatean survivors who had weapons, or who had managed to evade slaughter moved together around Marco, forming a small knot of resistance that was pinned inside the rowing quarters, their backs against the hull of the ship. They were surviving, but had no hope of escape in their situation.
“Wilh, can we squeeze out one of those oarlocks?” Marco shouted to his companion as they fought side-by-side; he needed to shout, it seemed, to be heard over the sounds of the battle and a strange, indistinct whispering sound that he was suddenly aware of. Marco had a hand placed against the interior of the hull to steady himself as he continued to swing his blade with a speed and agility that was beyond Corsairs’ ability to match.
“You might, but most of the rest of us aren’t skinny enough,” Wilh responded.
And as soon as he said that, there was a loud explosion, directly behind Marco and the desperate defenders; he felt the wooden hull splinter outwards from behind him, and a hole opened up in both their own ship’s hull and the hull of the Corsair ship that was so closely adjacent.
All parties to the battle stopped momentarily in shock.
“What happened?” Wilh shouted.
“I don’t know,” answered Marco astonished by the event. He had felt the explosion begin at the very spot his hand had pressed against the thick wooden hull. Not a splinter had blown inward from the explosion; all the pressure had impossibly blown the hull open from the inside.
“Let’s go!” Wilh shouted at the dazed Marco, and the man leaped across the narrow opening, through the smaller hole in the Corsairs’ hull, and landed safely and uncontested inside the enemy vessel.
“Go! All of you go! I’ll stay here and hold them off,” Marco urged the others from the Docleatean forces, and men started jumping one by one, finding temporary refuge in the unlikeliest of places.
The Corsairs were reacting in two ways. Some were fighting with renewed vigor against Marco, while others were fleeing the scene of the explosion, heading out the exits at either end of the rowers’ compartment. They were probably going to add to the troubles of anyone else on the ship who was resisting the attack, Marco realized, and for the first time he wondered what had become of the small party of nobles whose cargo he had carried onto the ship.
“Here I come!” he shouted over his shoulder as the last of his dozen companions made it safely through the hole in the side of the ship. Marco precariously stepped back onto the jagged wooden hull’s thickness, kept his sword working in front of himself, then tried to leap backwards, hoping that he was aimed correctly at the opening towards escape.
He felt one shoulder lightly strike the solid wooden hull of the Corsair ship, and his body twisted towards the open space that his momentum carried him through. He entered the new ship going sideways, and fell down at the feet of the other Docleateans.
“Here they come!” he heard one of his companions shout, and Marco looked up to see a Corsair leaping through the air between the ships. He instinctively raised his legs and kicked upward; his feet met the man in his midriff,
and flung him backwards, so that he fell downwards between the hulls of the two ships, screaming as he plummeted and bounced off the wooden ships on his way towards the surface of the sea.
“Splendid!” one of the men told him as another one lifted him to his feet.
“What do we do now?” someone asked.
“Take a deep breath,” Marco heard Wilh answer, as he used his sword to deter any other Corsairs from trying to follow them to freedom.
“Are there any Corsairs on this ship?” Marco asked. “Go check; maybe we can cut it loose from our ship and escape.”
“You two go that way; you two go that way,” Marco heard someone directing their small group, and he sensed movement behind him as men dispersed to go explore their surroundings.
There were no more Corsairs ready to try to leap towards Marco’s sword, which they all recognized was a deadly and unbeatable foe. A small cluster of them remained at the opening, but most had left the rowing compartment behind. The ones that remained were shouting at him, in a language he didn’t understand.
The attention of the Corsairs was momentarily diverted by something occurring at the end of the rowers’ compartment Marco’s men had occupied and escaped from. Marco heard a shout, and a scream, and he recognized Captain Fyld’s voice protest some indignity taking place.
“I’m going back over there,” Marco shouted over his shoulder to the others on the Corsair ship, and then he surprised them and the Corsairs by leaping forward, his sword extended in front of him.
He swept the sword as he flew over the small ribbon of seawater below him. Marco caught the Corsairs off-guard with his return to the ship, and the tip of his sword cut a deep slice across the faces of three men standing at the opening, causing them all to fall and shout, and leaving Marco momentarily unchallenged at the point of entry to the ship.
Not far to his left he saw a half dozen Corsairs guarding Captain Fyld, Prince Ellersby, Princess Ellersbine, and her two attendants, her maid Gielle and the Duchess Rhen. The captives were all tied and lying in a heap on the filthy floor of the deck as their guards looked up in surprise at the arrival of Marco.
The Southern Trail (Book 4) Page 6
