by DAVID B. COE
He had no time to catch his breath. Two more pirates closed on him. This fight went much the way the last one had. He parried, absorbing their blows with his sword and his shield. And he lashed out, drawing blood, maiming, and then killing.
More pirates rushed at him.
Most of Landry’s fellow Templars remained alive. He sensed Tancrede on one side of him, Godfrey on the other. Their breathing had grown labored, though. He knew nothing about the fates of the others, or of the men Killias had sent to their ship, or of the Melitta. He fought for his own survival. The longer he lived, the better the chance that his brother Templars beside him would remain alive, and the greater the likelihood that Simon, Adelina, and the rest would reach the safety of land.
He wiped sweat from his face with his arm. His sword and shield felt heavy. The pirates coming his way stepped over the bodies of their shipmates, and raised their swords to pound at him. These men were no more skilled than the others he had killed. But they had yet to break a sweat. They breathed normally. Their weapons probably felt light in their hands.
Like the men before them, they attacked him in unison, seeming to mirror each other’s movements. As before, Landry tried to block one attack with his weapon and one with his shield. But they were quicker than the men he had faced earlier. Or he was slowing down.
His shield took the brunt of the attack from his left. The strike on his right clanged off his sword, but bit into his shoulder. He grunted, countered with a downward sweep of his blade that hacked into the pirate’s leg. The man fell to one knee. Landry pushed at the other pirate with his shield. His foe pushed back. Landry staggered. The man on one knee struck at him from that lower angle. Landry chopped with his blade, blocking the attack. But the second man hewed at him yet again. His shield arm almost buckled. The first man stabbed up at him, seeking to disembowel.
Landry blocked this attack as well. Knocked the man’s sword away. Stabbed him through the throat. He turned his full attention on the second pirate. Already, though, another man advanced on him. Others appeared to be waiting in line to get at him, restrained only by the confined space aboard the Tern.
A brief exchange of sword blows and the pirate he had engaged fell to the deck, his head cleaved in two. The next men came at him.
“Tancrede?” Landry called, though he dared not take his eyes off the men bearing down on him.
“Still here. For the moment.” His voice sounded ragged.
“Godfrey?”
“Alive, barely.”
They had time for no more than that. Fresh assaults opened gashes on Landry’s hands, his brow. A careless parry deflected a strike to his collarbone. An inch or two higher, and the artery in his neck might have been severed. In time, he lanced one man’s heart, severed the other’s head from his neck. But he was relying now on his training, his knowledge of combat. His strength was spent, his reflexes grew more sluggish with each stroke of his sword. It was no longer a question of if he would die. It was only a matter of when. For all of them. There were just too many of the enemy. Skilled as the Templars were, they could not overcome these numbers.
“Enough!”
The voice cut through the clamor of battle like a dagger through parchment.
The pirates broke off their assault. Landry was too weary to take advantage. He let his shield arm drop, and leaned on his sword, his breath coming in great gasps. If his adversaries had chosen that moment to renew their attack, he would have been unable to defend himself.
“Surrender, Templars, and the lives of your friends shall be spared.”
At first, he couldn’t locate the speaker. When at last he spotted the man, he thought this must surely be the pirate of whom Killias’s man had spoken: Redman the Monk.
He stood on the rail of the galley, clinging to a line from the mainsail, as comfortable on his perch as a falcon on a crag. Black hair hung to his shoulders, framing a tapered face. He wore a simple white shirt and plain black breeches, but rings of gold shone on several of his fingers. A curved blade hung from his belt.
Godfrey stared at the man before looking over the ship, and the carnage that had bloodied its deck. Landry did the same. Dead pirates lay everywhere; the Templars and their allies had exacted a toll on the marauders. But several of Killias’s men had been killed as well. Only five remained alive. All were wounded. The golden-haired man – Landry had not taken the time to learn his name – bled from a dozen gashes. His nose appeared to have been broken. It was red and more crooked than it had been. Blood stained the skin around his mouth and chin.
Most of the Templars remained alive. Most, but not all. It took Landry a second or two to figure out who was missing.
“Victor,” he whispered.
Tancrede hissed through his teeth, then muttered a prayer.
“Do you surrender?” the dark-haired man called from his perch.
“Why should we?” Godfrey demanded, adjusting his grip on his sword and eyeing the men he had been fighting.
“Because if you fight on, your deaths are inevitable. And those who fight with you will perish as well. Surrender, and we will spare all of you.”
Godfrey’s brow creased, drawing a laugh from the pirate.
“You don’t believe that we intend to let you live.”
“The thought that you might be lying has crossed my mind.”
“Think, Templar. We are familiar with your Order, and the riches you hold. There is far more profit in allowing you to live than in killing you here. If we must, we will take your lives, take your ship, and pursue those you sent to shore. There might be some profit in that as well. But we would prefer to keep the eight of you alive. For a time, at least.”
“Trust them not,” said the yellow-haired sailor. “They’re cutthroats. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps. But if we continue this fight, we’re all doomed.”
“We’re doomed no matter what!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Godfrey shifted his gaze back to the pirate. “I take it you’re the man they call Redman the Monk.”
The man threw back his head and laughed.
“You’ve heard of the Monk, have you? No, I am not he.” He gestured at the other ship. “He is aboard the Poniard, slaughtering your friends.”
Against his will, Landry turned toward the other two ships. The larger galley still pursued Killias’s ship. A storm of arrows pelted the Melitta. He couldn’t tell if any of those aboard still lived.
“My name is Gaspar of Cadiz,” the pirate went on. “I command the Gold Prince.”
“You work for this Redman?”
“We are… associates.” He smiled.
“Meaning you answer to him.”
The smile vanished. “No more questions. No more talk. Do you wish to live, or shall we butcher you like pigs and take what we can from your ship? Quickly, Templar. My patience runs thin.”
Godfrey faced Landry and Tancrede. “Thoughts?”
“If we surrender now, we live to fight another day,” Tancrede said, his voice low. “And we save the lives of Killias’s men.”
“I’m not so sure,” Gawain said from behind Landry. An angry gash on his cheek wept blood. “I don’t trust him any more than does our friend here.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the yellow-haired sailor. “We’ve cut down a lot of them. He may be as reluctant to continue this fight as we are. I say we fight on. If we die, so be it.”
“We’ve already lost one Templar and seven of Killias’s men,” Godfrey said. “And there must be fifty more pirates on that ship. We can’t win. We would be throwing away our lives.”
Landry sensed Gawain bristling, but the knight said nothing more.
“Well?” Gaspar asked.
Godfrey took a long breath. “Very well.” He dropped his sword and shield.
One of Gaspar’s crew hurried forward to claim both. Following their commander’s example, Landry and the other Templars dropped their weapons as well. With obvious reluctance, the surviving men from the Melitt
a did the same.
“A wise choice, Templar.” To his own men, he said, “Bring them aboard. Bind them with care. Kill the others.”
Godfrey’s eyes went wide. “What?”
Gaspar’s men wasted not an instant. One plunged his sword into the chest of the yellow-haired sailor. Two of the other sailors died the same way. Pirates slit the throats of the remaining two. Landry, Tancrede, Godfrey, and the other Templars tried to fight back. But surrounded and disarmed, they could do little. In seconds, Landry found himself confronted by five sword tips, all leveled at his chest.
“You gave your word!” Godfrey shouted at the man.
“I staked out a position in a negotiation. I make no apologies for doing what was necessary to secure the result I desired.” He turned and hopped off the rail. “Bring them aboard,” he said over his shoulder.
The pirates forced them onto the planks and across to the galley. There, men bound their arms behind their backs, tying them at the elbows and wrists.
They started to herd the Templars below into the hold, but Gaspar stopped them.
“In good time. For now, they can remain on deck and watch the destruction of their friends.”
Landry stared once more at the other two ships. Their only hope now was that somehow Killias might defeat Redman’s vessel and then rescue them from Gaspar. It took Landry no more than a glance to understand that this would not happen.
The Poniard had pulled even with the Melitta and had started to board her. Killias and his crew fought valiantly, but their ranks had been decimated by Redman’s archers. They were soon overwhelmed.
The pirates didn’t kill the survivors, as Landry expected. Instead, a man strode to the stern of the Melitta and waved a hand, indicating that the Gold Prince should approach.
Gaspar had his rudder man steer the vessel closer.
As they neared the two ships, another man walked to the aft deck of the Poniard. He was older than Gaspar, bald, tall, and muscular. Like the captain of the Gold Prince, he wore a white shirt and black breeches, but he bore no jewelry that Landry could see. A dark beard and mustache sharpened his features.
“Greetings, Templars,” he called.
“That is Redman,” Gaspar said, somewhat unnecessarily.
“You are just in time,” the bald man continued. “I must decide the fates of your friends. I would know your minds.”
“This can’t end well,” Tancrede said under his breath.
“I can kill them all, or I can take them and sell them to slavers. I am inclined toward the latter, but I believe it might be safer to take their lives and be done with it. What say you?”
None of them spoke. Godfrey had gone pale. Landry knew he would be punishing himself for surrendering to Gaspar.
“Come now,” Redman said. “Surely you have an opinion on the matter. You can’t be completely unconcerned when it comes to their fortunes. Do you care so little whether they live or die?”
“Slavery or death,” Killias said. “That is no choice at all. But if we must choose, we will take death.”
“Bravely said.” Redman walked to where the captain stood. Killias was flanked by pirates, each of whom held a sword to his chest. “Who would have believed that a pirate would display so much more courage than Templars? I grieve for the Order, so far has it fallen.”
He glanced back at Godfrey and gave a small shrug.
A blade flashed silver in his hand, and with a quick, violent motion he slashed Killias’s throat.
Blood fanned over the captain’s chest, forming a crimson bib. His eyes rolled back and he dropped to the deck.
“Death it is,” Redman said.
Melitta screamed. She struggled to run to her father, but two men held her back.
Redman stared down at the captain for a second or two, then strolled back in the direction of the Templars. “Now then, I repeat my question. The captain chose death. Shall we assume his crew intend the same choice?”
Godfrey hung his head, though only briefly. “We were told that you were once a Templar. I refuse to believe it.”
“Believe what you will, Templar. But I was a knight, and I freed myself from that particular yoke.” He grinned. “By the grace of God.” He shifted his eyes to Gaspar. “Take them below. Put them in the cage. We’ll deal with these—” He waved a hand at Melitta and the rest of Killias’s crew. “—and then we’ll be on our way.”
He turned and advanced on Killias’s daughter. Landry and Tancrede struggled against their bonds, but to no avail. Pirates shoved them toward the hatch of the Gold Prince. The last Landry saw of Melitta, she stood with tears on her cheeks but her chin held high, unbowed before Redman the Monk.
Chapter 11
The cage was what it sounded like: an iron prison set in the recesses of the Gold Prince’s small hold. Each of the Templars was led by two pirates into the pen. When all were inside, another of Gaspar’s men secured the cage door with a lock, also made of iron, that was the size of Tancrede’s fist.
The hold itself was set near the stern of the ship, and separated by a wall from another forward hold. Tancrede assumed that the galley’s crew slept and ate in that other area. It had to be larger than this one. The air in their cramped hold was still and hot, and it stank of sweat and piss, rot and vomit. Tancrede breathed through his mouth until he started to grow accustomed to the stench. Aside from a few small slits in the wood, which allowed in a bit of light and too little fresh air, the hold had no openings save the hatch. Rat droppings dotted the uneven floor. A half-decayed rat carcass lay near the back corner of the cage.
Gawain toed the carcass, clearly disgusted. “It seems we have pets.” He kicked the carcass out of the cage.
Tancrede still bled from wounds on his head, neck, and arms. But several of his fellow Templars were worse off than he. Thomas had suffered the most grievous injury, a blow to his leg deep enough that Tancrede could see bone. It bled profusely. Sweat shone on Thomas’s long face. Dark, damp hair clung to his brow, and his breaths came shallow and quick.
“I could help him if they would let me,” Draper said, frustration tightening his voice. “We need to stop the bleeding, and he requires a poultice to prevent infection. Otherwise he could lose the leg.”
The wound on Gawain’s face needed attention as well. Tancrede had little confidence that these pirates would allow them any treatment at all. He rarely had cause to question Godfrey’s leadership, but in this case the commander had chosen poorly. Gawain had spoken true: a fight to the death would have been preferable to this.
He didn’t say as much, of course. He didn’t have to. Godfrey’s guilt weighed on him, curving his shoulders, haunting his pale eyes. The commander spoke not a word. He stood near the door to the cage and stared out toward the hatch, as if he might will Gaspar to come to them.
Landry, on the other hand, stalked the perimeter of their prison, scrutinizing every joint in its construction, and every plank of wood beneath their feet. As he completed a circuit around the space, Tancrede joined him.
“What do you see?”
The young knight shook his head. “Very little,” he said. “No weak points in the bars. No rotted planks.” A bitter smile flitted across his lips. “And even if there were, with our arms bound like this there isn’t much we could do.”
“They’ll have to untie us eventually,” Tancrede said. “Unless they intend to feed us themselves.”
“What if they don’t plan to give us any food at all?”
“Gaspar said—”
“Gaspar is a liar. We know as much already. I would guess that this fallen monk is no better.”
“They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to take us as prisoners,” Godfrey said, the words flat, empty of emotion. “We have to assume they want us to live.”
Landry looked like he might argue further, but in that moment the smells reached them. Lamp oil, wood smoke, the char of human flesh.
“One of them is burning,” Gawain said. “I suppose it’s too
much to hope that Melitta managed to avenge her father.”
Tancrede shared a grim look with Landry before bowing his head and muttering a prayer for the crew of the Melitta. Not long after the stink of smoke reached them, the motion of the galley changed. Where it had bobbed in place, it now seemed to be turning.
“We’re moving,” Landry said.
Gawain moved to the bars nearest to one of the openings in the hull. “Apparently,” he said. “The question is, does that bode ill or well?”
Tancrede crossed to stand beside him. “They may be going after the skiff.”
Footsteps sounded overhead. Someone descended into their hold. Gaspar.
He wrinkled his nose as he stepped away from the stairway.
“I see you’re settled in,” he said.
Godfrey made his way to the front of the cage. “One of our men is wounded. He requires healing.”
Gaspar’s expression remained mild. “We have wounded as well. When our healers have ministered to all of them, they will assess the condition of your man.”
“We can heal our own,” Godfrey said. “Give us the bandages and herbs we carried on our ship, and allow us to use them.”
The pirate shook his head. “That would mean untying you, and I have no intention of doing so. At least not while you’re aboard my ship.” Amusement flickered in his dark eyes. “Don’t look so unhappy, Templar. Were I to untie you, I would also expect you to row. As it is, you have free passage.”
“Do you intend to have your men spoon-feed us then, like mothers caring for their children?”
“No. I see no need to feed you at all. You are knights. Surely you are accustomed to the hardships of war? You can go without meals for a time. I doubt any of you will starve.”
Gaspar took hold of the lock and gave it a tug. The prison rattled, but the lock did not give. After a quick perusal of the cage, he nodded to himself and started back toward the stairway.
“Where are you taking us?” Godfrey said.
The pirate turned. “Do you know these waters? Are you familiar with the lands adjacent to them?”
