Mister Bishop and the other officers were slow in reaching the castle but now, as the Dacca flooded the deck, they were running full out to reach its walls. Stabbed in the back, Lieutenant Green collapsed. As he fell, he reached out, grabbing at anything. His hands found Midshipman Beryl running past and dragged him down as well. Beryl cursed and kicked Green off but got to his feet too late. The Dacca circled him.
“Help me!” he cried.
Royce watched as the crew ignored him and ran on—all but one. Midshipman Wesley ran back just in time to stab the nearest Dacca caught off guard by the sudden change in his fleeing prey. Wielding his sword with both hands, Wesley sliced horizontally across the chest of the next brute and kicked him aside.
“Beryl! This way, run!” he shouted.
Beryl lashed out at the Dacca then ran to Wesley. Quickly surrounded, the Dacca drove them farther and farther away from the forecastle. An arrow from the walls saved Wesley from decapitation as the two struggled to defend themselves. Pushed by the overwhelming numbers, they retreated until their backs hit the rail.
A Dacca blade slashed Beryl’s arm and then across his hip. He screamed, dropping his sword. Wesley threw himself between Beryl and his attacker. The young midshipman slashed wildly struggling to defend the older man. Then Wesley was hit. He stumbled backward, reached out for the netting chains, but missed and fell overboard. Alone and unarmed, the Dacca swarmed Beryl, who screamed until they sent his head from his body.
No one noticed Wyatt or Royce creeping in the shadows around the stern seeking a clear place to jump. They crouched just above the captain’s cabin windows. Royce was about to leap when he spotted Thranic step out from the hold. The sentinel exited, a torch in hand, as if he merely wondered what all the noise was about. He led the seret to the main deck where they quickly formed a wall around the sentinel. Seeing reinforcements, the Dacca rallied to an attack. They charged, only to die upon the seret swords. The Knights of Nyphron were neither sailors nor galley slaves. They knew the use of arms and how to hold formation.
Holding his bag to his chest, Wyatt leapt from the ship.
“Royce!” Wyatt shouted from the sea below.
Royce watched, impressed by the knight’s courage and skill as they battled the Dacca. It looked as if they might just turn the tide. Then, Thranic threw his flaming brand into the ship’s hold. A rush of air sounded as if the sip were inhaling a great breath. A roar followed. A deep, resonating growl shook the timber beneath Royce’s feet. Tongues of flame licked out of every hatch and porthole, the air filling with screams and cries. And in the flicking glow of burning wood and flesh, Royce saw the sentinel smile.
***
Hadrian and the tiny crew of the stolen Dacca ship had only just reached the starboard side of the Storm when the area grew bright. The Emerald Storm was ablaze. Within little more than a minute, the fire had enveloped the deck. Men in the rigging had no choice but to jump. From that height, their bodies hit the water with a cracking sound. The rigging ignited, ropes snapped, and yards broke free falling like flaming tree trunks. The darkness of the starless sea fell away as the Emerald Storm became a floating bonfire. Those near the rail leapt into the sea. Screams, cries and the crackle and hiss of fire filled the night.
Looking over the black water, whose surface was alive with wild reflections, Hadrian spied a bit of sandy hair and a dark uniform. “Mister Wesley, grab on!” Hadrian called, grabbing a rope and throwing it.
Like a man in a dream, Wesley turned at the sound of his name. He looked at the tartane with confusion in his eyes until he spotted Hadrian reaching out. He grabbed the rope thrown and was reeled in like a fish and hoisted on deck.
“Nice to have you aboard, sir,” Hadrian told him.
Wesley gasped for air and rolled over, vomiting seawater.
“From that, I assume you’re happy to be here.”
“Wyatt!” Poe shouted.
“Royce!” Hadrian called.
“Over there!” Derning said, pointing.
Poe turned the tiller and they sailed toward the sound of splashing.
“It’s Bernie and Staul,” Grady announced from where he stood on the bow.
The two wasted no time scrambling up the ship’s ropes.
“More splashing over there!” Davis pointed.
Poe did not have to alter course as the swimmers made good progress to them. Davis was the first to lend a hand. He reached out to help and a blade stabbed him in the chest before he was pulled overboard.
Hadrian saw them now, swarthy, painted brutes with long daggers, their wet glistening skin shimmering with the light of the flames. They grabbed at the netting, and scrambled like rats up the side of the tartane.
Hadrian drew his sword and lashed out at the nearest one, who dodged and stubbornly continued to climb. The Tenkin warrior, Staul, stabbed another in the face and the Dacca dropped backward with a cry and a splash. Defoe and Wesley joined in, thrashing wildly until the Dacca gave up and fell away into the darkness.
“Watch the other side!” Wesley shouted.
Staul and Defoe took positions on the starboard rail but nothing moved.
“Any sign of Davis?” Hadrian asked.
“Dee man be dead now,” Staul said. “Be more keerful who you sail to, eh?”
“Bulard!” Defoe said, pointing ahead to more swimmers.
“And three more over there,” Wesley announced, picking out faces in the tumultuous water. “One is Greig, the carpenter, and that’s Doctor Levy, and there is…”
Hadrian did not need Royce’s eyes to identify the other man. The infernal light coming off the burning ship suited the face. It was Sentinel Thranic, his hood thrown back, his pale face gleaming. Derning, Defoe, and Staul were bad enough. Now they had Thranic, of all people.
Thranic needed no help as he climbed nimbly up the side of the little ship, his cloak soaked, his face angry. If he were a dog, Hadrian knew he would be growling, and for that at least, he was pleased. Bulard, the man who came aboard in the middle of the night, looked even paler than before. The reason became obvious the moment he hit the deck and blood mingled with seawater. Levy went to him and applied pressure to the wound.
“Hadrian…Poe!” Wyatt’s voice ied from the sea below.
Poe steered toward the sound as the rest stood on their guard. This time there was no need. Wyatt and Royce were alone swimming for the boat.
“Where were you?” Wyatt asked, climbing aboard.
“Sorry, boss, but it’s a big ocean.”
“Not big enough,” Derning said, looking over at what remained of the Storm, his face bright with the glow. “The Dacca are finally taking notice of us.”
The main mast of the Emerald Storm, burning like a tree-sized torch, finally cracked and fell. The forecastle walls blazed. Seward, Bishop, and the rest were either lost to blades or burned alive. The Storm had blackened and cracked, allowing the ship to take on water. The hull listed to one side, sinking from the bow. As it did, the fire was still bright enough to see several of the Dacca on the nearest vessel pointing in their direction and shouting.
“Wheel hard over!” Wyatt shouted, running for the tiller. “Derning, Royce, get aloft! Hadrian, Banner—the mainsail braces. Grady to the headsail braces! Who else do we have here? Bernie, join Derning and Royce. Staul help with the mainsail. Mister Wesley, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble perhaps you could assist Grady on the forward braces. Bring her round east, nor’east!”
“That will put us into the wind again!” Grady said, even as Wyatt brought the ship round.
“Aye, starboard tack. With fewer crew and the same ship we’ll be lighter and faster.”
They got the ship around and caught what wind they could.
“Here, Banner, take the tiller,” Wyatt said, as he scanned the deck. “We can dump some gear and lighten the load further. Who’s that next to you?”
Wyatt stopped abruptly when he saw Thranic’s face look up.
“What’s he do
ing on board?” Wyatt asked.
“Is there a problem, helmsman?” Thranic addressed him.
“You fired the ship!” Wyatt accused. “Royce told me he saw you throw a torch in the hold. How many oil kegs did you break to get it to go up like that?”
“Five I think. Maybe six.”
“There were elves—they were locked in the hold—trapped down there.”
“Precisely,” Thranic replied.
“You bastard!” Wyatt rushed the sentinel drawing his cutlass. Thranic moved with surprising speed and dodged Wyatt’s attack, throwing his cloak around Wyatt’s head and shoving the helmsman to the deck as he drew a long dagger.
Hadrian pulled his swords and Staul immediately moved to intercept him. Poe drew his cutlass, as did Grady, followed quickly by Defoe and Derning.
From the rigging above, Royce dropped abruptly into the midst of the conflict, landing squarely between Thranic and Wyatt. The sentinel’s eyes locked on the thief and smouldered.
“Mister Wesley!” Royce shouted, keeping his eyes fixed on Thranic. “What are your orders, sir?”
At this everyone stopped. The ship continued to sail with the wind, but the crew paused. Several glanced at Wesley. The midshipman stood frozen on the deck watching the events unfold around him.
“His orders?” Thranic mocked.
“Captain Seward, Lieutenant Bishop, and the other midshipmen are dead,” Royce explained. “Mister Wesley is senior officer. He is, by rights, in command of this vessel.”
Thranic laughed.
Wesley began to nod. “He’s right.”
“Shut up, boy!” Staul snapped. “Et ez time vee took care of dis bidness ’ere.”
Staul’s words brought Wesley around. “I am no boy!” Turning to Thranic, he added. “What I am, sir, is the acting-captain of this ship and as such, you, and everyone else,” he glanced at Staul, “will obey my orders!”
Staul laughed.
“I assure you this is no joke, seaman. I also assure you that I will not hesitate to see you cut down where you stand, and anyone else who fails to obey me.”
“And ’ow do you plan to do dat?” Staul asked. “Dis ez not dee Emerald Storm. You command no one ’ere.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Hadrian commented, maintaining his familiar smile at Staul.
“Neither would I,” Royce added.
“Me either,” Derning joined in, his words quickly echoed by Grady.
Wyatt got to his feet slowly. He glared at Thranic, but said, “Aye, Mister Wesley is captain now.”
Poe, Banner and Greig acknowledged with communal “Ayes.”
What followed was a tense silence. Staul and Defoe looked at Thranic who never took his gaze off Royce. “Very well, captain,” the sentinel said at length. “What are your orders?”
“I am hereby promoting Mister Deminthal to acting lieutenant. Everyone will follow his instructions to the letter. Mister Deminthal, you will confine your orders to saving this vessel from the Dacca and maintaining order and discipline. There are to be no executions, and no disciplinary actions of any kind without my authorization. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Petty Officer Blackwater, you are hereby appointed master-at-arms. Collect the weapons, but keep them at the ready. See to it Mister Deminthal’s and my orders are carried out to the letter. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mister Grady, you are now boatswain. Mister Levy, please take Mister Bulard below so that he can be properly cared for. Let me know if there is anything you need. Mister Derning will be top captain, Seamen Bernie and Melborn report to him for duties. Mister Deminthal, carry on.”
“Your sword,” Hadrian addressed Staul. The Tenkin hesitated, but after a nod from Thranic, handed the blade over. As he did, he laughed and cursed in the Tenkin language.
“You’d have found that a bit harder than you think,” Hadrian replied to Staul and was rewarded with the Tenkin’s shocked expression.
Wyatt had everything nonessential and not attached to the ship thrown overboard. Then he ordered silence and whispered the order to change tack. The boom swung over, catching the wind and angling the little ship out to sea. Well behind them, the last light of the Emerald Storm disappeared, swallowed by the waves. Not quite so far away, they could see lanterns bobbing on the following ships. From the sound of shouts, they were displeased at losing their prize. All eyes faced astern, watching the progression of lanterns as the Dacca continued following their previous tack. After a while, two ships altered course, but guessed incorrectly and turned westward. Eventually all the lanterns disappeared.
“Are they gone?” Hadrian heard Wesley whisper to Wyatt.
He shook his head. “They just put out the lanterns, but with luck they will think we’re running for ground. The nearest friendly port is Wesbaden back west.”
“For a helmsman you’re an excellent commander,” the young man observed.
“I was a captain once,” Wyatt admitted. “I lost my ship.”
“Really? In whose service? The empire or the old Warric fleet?”
“No service. It was my ship.”
Wesley looked astonished. “You were…a pirate?”
“Opportunist, sir. Opportunist.”
***
Hadrian awoke to a misty dawn. A steady breeze pushed the tartane through undulating waves. All around them lay a vast and empty sea.
“They’re gone,” Wesley answered the unasked question. “We’ve lost them”
“Any idea where we are?”
“About three days sail from Dagastan,” Wyatt answered.
“Dagastan?” Grady muttered looking up. “We’re not headed there are we?”
“That was my intention,” Wyatt replied.
“But Wesbaden is closer.”
“Unfortunately, I confess no knowledge of these coasts,” Wesley said. “Do you know them well, Mister Deminthal?”
“Intimately.”
“Good. Then tell us, is Mister Grady correct?”
Wyatt nodded. “Wesbaden is closer, but the Dacca know thi and will be waiting in that direction. However, since it is impossible for them to be ahead of us, our present course is the safest.”
“Despite our earlier differences, I agree with Mister Deminthal,” Thranic offered. “As it turns out, Dagastan was the Storm’s original destination so we must continue toward it.”
“But Dagastan is much farther away from Avryn,” Wesley said. “The Storm’s mission was lost with her sinking. I have no way of knowing her original destination, and even if I did, I have no cargo to deliver. Going farther east only increases our difficulties. I need to be mindful of provisions.”
“But you do have cargo,” Thranic announced. “The Storm’s orders were to deliver myself, Mister Bulard, Dr. Levy, Mister Bernie, and Staul to Dagastan. The main cargo is gone, but as an officer of the realm it is your duty to fulfill what portion you can of Captain Seward’s mission.”
“With all due respect, Your Excellency, I have no way to verify what you say.”
“Actually, you do.” Wyatt pulled a bent and battered scroll from his bag. “These are Captain Seward’s orders.”
Wesley took the damp scroll and asked, “But how did you come by this?”
“I knew we’d need charts to sail by. Before I left the Storm, I entered the captain’s cabin and, being in a bit of a hurry, I just grabbed everything on his desk. Last night, I discovered I had more than just charts.”
Wesley nodded, accepting this and, Hadrian thought, perhaps chose not to inquire further. He paused a second before reading. Most were awake now and, having heard the conversation, watched Wesley with anticipation. When he finished he looked over at Wyatt.
“Was there a letter?”
“Aye, sir,” he said and handed over a sealed bit of parchment. This Wesley did not open, but slipped carefully into his coat.
“We will maintain course to Dagastan. Being bound by imperial naval laws, I mus
t do everything in my power to see the Storm’s errand is fulfilled.”
Chapter 13
The Witch of Melengar
Modina stared out her window as usual, watching the world with no real interest. It was late and she feared sleep. It always brought the dreams, the nightmares of the past, of her father and of the dark place. She sat up most nights studying the shadows and the clouds as they passed over the stars. A line of moonlight crossed the courtyard below. She noted how it climbed the statues and the far gate wall, just like the creeping ivy. Once green, the plant was now a ruddy red. It would go dormant, appearing to die, but would still hang on to the wall. It would continue its desperate grip on the stone even as it withered. For it at least, there would be a spring.
The hammering at her chamber door roused her. She turned, puzzled. No one ever knocked at her door. Except for Gerald, who always used a light tap. Amilia came and went frequently but never knocked. Whoever it was pounded frantically, beating the door with a fury.
The pounding landed harder and with such violence that the door latch bounced with a distinct metallic clank as it threatened to breech the latch. It never occurred to her to ask who was there. It never crossed her mind to be fearful. She slid back the bolt letting the door swing inward.
Standing outside was a man she recognized as the Earl of Chadwick. His face was flushed and his eyes glassy. The collar to his shirt lay open in a manner unlike him. He usually took such care with his attire.
“There you are,” he exclaimed. “At long last I am rewarded with your presence. Permit me to introduce myself again, in case you’ve forgotten me. Although I am sure you have not. I am Archibald Ballentyne, the twelfth Earl of Chadwick.” He bowed low, taking an awkward step when he lost his balance. “May I come in?”
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