Derx stiffened when Beiran caught his gaze before glancing at the deep-dweller in his arms. The captain’s face became a mask of rage. He stomped down to the primary deck and shoved Derx against the mizzenmast, snarling. “I told you to put her back in the water, boy. I told you that the sea would reclaim her own.”
“She’s not even awake, captain. How will she survive?”
Beiran took a handful of Derx’s shirt. Up close, his face became a geography of scars on his lips and cheeks. “Damn you, boy, it’s not our problem! Who knows what kind of politics happen under the ocean depths without our knowledge, what wars are fought beneath the seas? We’re in barely-charted waters as it is. By bringing her up here, you’ve disrupted their balance, and we’re involved now. I will not have my men killed and my ship crushed into flotsam just because you decided to fancy some pretty woman from the water.”
A noise spread out around the Orphan, like mountains groaning into place, like foghorns droning in the distance. The captain hissed. “Here it comes.”
The sound echoed away, leaving deathly silence in its wake. The men looked around the water with faces pale, weapons poised, shaking in their boots.
The weight on Derx’s shoulder shifted. A blue-black arm flexed, sparkling fingers stretching out. A pair of liquid amethyst eyes blinked up at Derx, strange, without pupils or iris. He could feel those pale, violet eyes boring into his own, the intelligence behind them. His gaze remained locked upon her as she slid from his shoulder to stand upright, nearly six feet tall.
Beiran took a step back, sabre poised. The girl paid him no heed. Instead, she opened her mouth. A smooth, amorphous note slid between her lips. It held, sustained and unwavering, a siren’s croon filling the air. For a moment, all other sound bowed before it.
The sailors paused, rapt by her voice. Even as the thick creepers rose from the waters, the note remained. Then it disappeared beneath a symphony of curses, gunshots, and sword-blows. The deep-dweller started across the deck, irregular steps, like a babe in the midst of learning to walk. Despite her alien gait, she carried herself with grace and poise. Instinctively, Derx reached out and took her hand. She walked on without acknowledging him, seemingly oblivious to the violence and chaos surrounding her. She side-stepped the foremast, singing again her lonely motif. Her voice filled Derx’s ears, pushing the noise of the battle and the roaring seas far away into a dreamlike distance.
The creepers became more deliberate and focused in their movements. The slim ones picked their way closer, following the sound of her voice. The massive, suction-lined pillars sprouted higher and higher into the cloudy skies. A sailor whose name Derx didn’t remember fell across their path, a trio of creepers coiled around his limbs. As they drew close, the creepers untangled themselves and stretched out, seeking to touch her. The man lay where the creepers had left him, vomiting and gasping. Derx stepped over him without pausing. They passed Vlannir, Gennain, and a knot of other sailors, who stared at the two of them as they went by.
The pair reached the bow of the Orphan, hand in hand. Creepers lapped at their naked feet. The deep-dweller climbed onto the bowsprit, the wind whipping at her hair and clawing at the masts. The creepers coiled about her legs.
The girl pulled her hand from Derx’s grip and she crouched on the bowsprit. Her song rose to a series of higher pitches, steady and smooth despite the wind and the bucking of the ship. The gray tentacles spiraled around her body, forming a slimy nest of living flesh around her until Derx could barely see her anymore. The singing came to an abrupt halt, and the sea exploded again.
A silvery shape reared from the water in front of the Orphan. A nightmare of a creature, a mountainous bulk of gray skin, lined with creepers, writhing and twisting like living fur. At the front of the creature, a row of black orbs stared unblinking. They were limitless black pits, filled with ancient memories and cold, unyielding hunger. They were eyes that stared at Derx and said you are nothing. You will rot away into the dust and dirt from whence you came. We endure.
The terrible eyes rolled backward, and a gaping cavern opened in front of the ship. A cavern filled with teeth.
The creature exhaled, flicking pungent mucus upon the ship’s bow. It reeked, worse than rotting fish in a waste-choked city gutter. The creeper cocoon bearing the sea-woman lifted from the bowsprit.
“No!” Derx screamed. He lunged at the wall of creepers, cutting with his knife and tearing with his fingers. Sickly green blood spattered his tunic and hair.
The beast let loose a rumbling moan, and the eyes turned upon him again. Even though they looked no different than before, Derx could feel their ire. He wasn’t a threat. He was a minor nuisance. Insignificant, but annoying. A tree-trunk creeper disengaged from the rest, and jabbed Derx in the chest, pinning him to the deck. It pushed down, hard.
Derx groaned beneath the weight. He stabbed it again and again and again, but it made no difference. His ribs screamed out in pain, as though they were filled with needles.
He was going to die here, crushed like a beetle. Because some underwater woman made his heart flutter.
The great beast roared again, rattling Derx’s eardrums, but this time, it was different. The roar contained real pain, real anger. The whole ship rattled from the sound. The weight retracted from Derx’s chest. He lay there, choking. Every breath he took burned. A chorus of shouts rose from the crew and he rolled upright to look. The gray monster from the depths thrashed about the water’s surface, tentacles flapping in the air. The throes of the beast sent waves crashing against the Orphan. What was happening?
Then he saw.
Spears protruded like pale stalks from the head of the monster. Green blood fizzed out like a leaky keg and the water off the starboard bow churned and boiled. A pair of silver-blue fish broke the water, side by side. Long tusks spiraled from their mouths. A crude chariot with no wheels rose to the surface in tandem, attached by a harness, a pair of men standing upon it. Their bodies were encrusted with a sort of white, bone-like carapace, arranged like plate armor. Beneath that, blue-black limbs glistened. One of them whipped the harnessed fish with sea-weed reins and a sharp cry; the other held a long lance of bleached bone. As the chariot neared the thrashing beast, the man drew back, aimed, and threw. The lance sailed into the air, puncturing a black eye.
A terrific howl surged through the air and the water. The living cocoon holding the deep-dweller opened and she fell upon the bowsprit, clinging to the ropes.
Derx hauled himself upright and climbed over, offering the girl his arm. She hesitated and cocked her head, her violet eyes not comprehending. He grabbed her and pulled her to the deck as more chariots rose from the sea. The bone-armored warriors and their mounts circled the great beast, hurling their spears from afar and hacking with swords of sharpened stone. The monster swept about with its creepers, knocking a handful of them from their chariots. Within minutes, the sea monster had been overpowered and driven back into the depths. Whether it was dying or retreating to nurse its wounds, Derx had no clue.
The chariots, at least a score of them, made a phalanx and approached the Orphan. The crew stood, guns and sabres in hand, fidgeting with trepidation.
“Hold steady,” Beiran growled to the sailors. “Move a goddamned muscle, and you’re fish food.”
Derx took a step back, leading the girl by the hand. She gave him a funny look, but didn’t resist. In fact, Derx would have sworn that the shadow of a smile played upon her lips.
The first of the sea-warriors climbed aboard. He, naked as the woman under his armour, was tall, perhaps seven feet in height. His dark skin glittered with a scintillating, gem-like quality. Multicolored algae encrusted the nooks and crannies of his armor. In one hand he carried a wicked bone sword, single-edged, broad and serrated. In his other hand he carried a bronze tiara, studded by a rich hexagonal sapphire. On his own head the warrior wore a similar crown, decorated with a ruby. His eyes shone pale turquoise, hard and opaque. Behind him, half a dozen warriors climbed
over the railings, spears in hand.
With purposeful steps, the bone-clad warrior approached the rabble of sailors, gaze locked on the woman. The crew stepped back to let him pass. Even Derx, who had defied a mouth of toothy death not ten minutes earlier, stepped aside.
The warrior bent down on one knee before the girl, presenting the tiara. She laughed, a joyful, bubbling sound. She took the tiara and placed it on her head.
“The Blue Mistress,” someone whispered.
“Queen of the deep!”
“Ocean pearls,” someone moaned. The sailors buzzed nervously until Beiran shushed them.
The ruby-crowned warrior stood up, offering the Blue Mistress his arm. Before Derx could stop himself, he hissed. The Blue Mistress stopped and turned to him, those amethyst eyes of hers scanning his face.
She leaned in. Her lips brushed against his cheek.
A shiver crept into the top of Derx’s skull. It crawled into his throat, shimmied down his spine, shot through his legs, and landed in his toes. His knees quivered beneath him. The world fell away, bone quiet.
The Blue Mistress pulled away and went to her retinue. They hoisted her into one of the chariots and she disappeared beneath the water without a backwards glance. The ruby warrior gave Derx what might have been a bemused look, then nodded to the assembled crew before following his queen beneath the waves.
When the deep-dwellers had all disappeared, the crew turned to stare open-mouthed at Derx. Beiran elbowed them all aside and jabbed Derx in the chest, which still smarted from the creeper attack. “I’m not entirely sure what just happened, but you’d best thank your lucky stars, boy.” To the crew at large: “Anyone hurt?”
“Tunjan’s got a dislocated shoulder and Januu’s got a few cracked ribs. No sign of Nujakki or Camosun,” Vlannir said. “I saw that thing take you down, Derx. You all right?”
“Kyvar was pulled under,” Derx said in a pinhole voice. “I saw it drag him away. I couldn’t help him.”
The crew stood silent for a moment. Hats were removed from heads.
“They were decent men and fine sailors,” Beiran said after a time, “but they knew the risks. Derx, you will pick up Kyvar’s duties, Vlannir will show you the ropes. That should keep your foolish head away from women and shiny things for a while. There will be plenty of that in the future. If you don’t get us all killed, that is.”
Beiran turned on his heel. “All right, you sheep-shagging bilge rats, back to work! The crystal caves of Xalxattar won’t find themselves!”
Derx stood there, feeling rather stupid and sorry, his eyes lost in the ever-shifting ocean. Vlannir slapped him on the back.
“I think old Stormchaster has taken a liking to ye, mate.”
Derx glowered. “I’m not in a joking mood.”
“No jokes,” Vlannir said, laughing. “The old bastard can’t resist someone who shows him something he’s never seen before!” The first mate leaned close to Derx, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “What was it like? A kiss from the Blue Mistress?”
The clouds parted. The sun was falling beyond the edge of the world. Soon, the night sky would glitter with secrets. Secrets like the deep-dwellers, in their ancient kingdoms below the waves.
“Cold,” Derx said, grinning, “and wet!”
The Pirate Prince of Tarran
By Ernest Cunningham Hellwell
It was a time when many deities ruled the minds of men across the lands. A time when kings and queens were the final justice for all. When the art of war was changing due to a few ingenious metallurgists who had discovered how to make weapons of steel. A time when legends were born from the doing of heroic deeds and the spilling of blood.
The salty water of the Sea of Baal erupted in a heaving spray as the two wooden sailing vessels collided, both shuddering from the impact. The sound of oars breaking and hull splintering filled the air as the pirate galley, Seventh Son, careened into the starboard side of the Camorian merchant ship. Flying from the mast of the galley was a black flag with white skull and crossing red scimitars painted upon it. It was a stout ship built for speed and battle which the Camorian merchant vessel had no chance of outrunning.
Behind the port side rails of the main deck stood a row of pirates forming a wall with round wooden shields. Thirty plus Tarranian corsairs in light leather armor crouched behind them. With gritted teeth and blades drawn the corsairs all looked to the forward part of the deck where stood, partially shielded by the railing, a tall dark skinned Tarranian man of early age. His straight cut shoulder length hair was black as a moonless night. Upon his head was a red bandana that contrasted brightly with the white bloused shirt that was tucked into tan colored pantaloons. A black sash was tied around his waist. A dagger was sheathed on the outside of each of his high top leather boots. He carried one other curved dagger with an ornate gold scabbard on the left side of his waist wedged between body and sash. The open lapel of his shirt showed a hairless, muscular chest. His handsomely rugged face was smoothly shaven. A lengthy scar above his left eyebrow was prominent, but even more noticeable were his bright green eyes, seeming to almost gleam in the sunlight.
He peered through the peg posts of the railing as arrows coming from the merchant ship began to hit shield and rail, yet none found their mark. With a hint of a smile he looked down to the bald, full bearded Tarranian corsair kneeling beside him.
“Hajish. Send them our regards.” Then he turned back towards the men upon the deck and yelled, “Archers at the ready!” Immediately upon hearing the command a dozen men with bows stood up behind the others and took aim. Seeing the bowmen ready Hajish gave the next command: “Loose.” The flight of the arrows could be heard above the heads of the other corsairs followed by a few frantic screams of pain from the merchant ship as several arrows reached their intended destinations.
Hajish partially stood up and looked over the railing. “My lord Amahl, look! They scurry about like lambs before the slaughter.”
Amahl glared at Hajish. “They are lucky to be afloat after that hit. Words shall be had with the steersman when this is done.”
“Your will, my hand, O Prince,” replied Hajish.
Amahl looked forward and saw the bow of his ship almost even with the other. “Keep those archers busy and loose the grapples.”
Instantly Hajish turned back to the men. “Archers, fire at will. Pick your target.” And then yelling across to the buccaneers kneeling upon the deck: “Grappling hooks away.”
A dozen men rose up among the ranks of the pirates, swinging and hurling ropes with iron hooks attached over the shield wall to the other ship. Several men on each rope pulled them taut and began reeling in the merchant ship toward the Seventh Son.
Some arrows from the merchant’s crew were now proving accurate, leaving one dead with an arrow to the head and two wounded. One of the pirates was struck in the shoulder but still manned his post on the end of a grapple’s rope, helping draw the ships together.
As the hulls finally met, Amahl laid a firm hand upon the shoulder of Hajish. “Planks now.”
Hajish stood up straight. “Boarding planks away. Let’s go. Let’s go.” The shield wall parted in spots along the rail as more men rose up from the ranks of the corsairs with long, thick planks of wood, slamming them down across the railings of both ships. As soon as a plank was in place, others with large wooden mallets drove long iron nails into the planks to hold them to their own rail. More arrows from the merchant deck found their targets, leaving two more buccaneers dead and another wounded. The merchant crew was sustaining greater casualties due to the extreme accuracy of the Tarranian bowmen.
Amahl reached down and picked up the tulwar that was leaning against the rail next to him. “Hajish, let’s go have some fun.”
Hajish raised his own scimitar overhead and screamed out, “Boarding parties attack! Shields first! Attack! Attack!” Every corsair on the deck rose up hollering and howling. The shield-bearing men were the first to run across the plank
s, their spears jutting out in front of them, clearing a path for the ones behind.
Hajish looked back to the bowmen. “Archers, up top!” The dozen archers shouldered their bows and quickly climbed the mast’s rigging, taking up positions to continue their aerial barrage of the opponents’ deck. Some shield carriers were well met by the merchant crew with men from both sides falling, wounded or dead, to the waves below. But most of the shielded corsairs burst through the defenders and onto the deck of the merchant ship. A few of the corsairs had thrown smaller hooks on ropes into the rigging of the enemy vessel and were swinging across, holding on with one hand while brandishing a sword with the other. The Tarranian pirates were now running across all planks onto the merchant ship’s deck. Steel connected with flesh and blood began to flow.
“Behind me, my Prince,” said Hajish as he leaped onto the nearest plank. Just then a small hook on a rope flew over Hajish’s head and into the rigging of the other ship.
“I shall see you over there,” laughed Amahl as he swung past Hajish toward the other ship’s deck.
Hajish, with a look of consternation on his hard face, pushed his way across the plank, toppling the men in front of him onto the enemy’s deck. “Out of my way, you dogs! Protect the captain.”
Swinging onto the deck of the merchant ship, Amahl crashed his tulwar down on a Camorian sailor’s head, spilling brains and blood. Releasing his grip on the rope, he tumbled in a rolling fashion onto the wooden deck, ending up on his feet in a battle ready stance. Faced with two Camorian sailors, Amahl sprang with lightning speed and sank his Tarranian steel into the gut of the opponent to his right. Leaving his blade in the man, Amahl rapidly stepped inside of the other sailor’s swing, grabbed him by the throat with his left hand, and at the same moment drew the dagger from his right boot. Showing his strength, Amahl lifted the man off his feet with one arm while driving the dagger deep into his ribs, turning and twisting the blade until death was obvious. Extracting the dagger, he let the corpse fall to the deck and looked down at his crimson stained shirt with a grin.
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