by Nick Horth
‘To the waves,’ he bellowed, brandishing his axe high. ‘Tonight, we feast!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Sails on the horizon!’ came the call.
‘Raiders? How many do you see?’ shouted Zenthe, rushing to the fore guardrail.
‘A dozen sails, half a league distant and closing,’ shouted the lookout, pointing out beyond the curve of the nearest reef wall. ‘War galleys. Reaver ships, captain. They’ve sighted us.’
Toll swore. He was no expert sailor, but even he knew that in shallow, coastal waters, galleys had the edge over a wolf-ship like the Thrice Lucky. Without the need for wind or currents, they could rely on the strength of a few score well-trained oarsmen to outmanoeuvre larger ships.
‘Raise anchor,’ shouted the captain. ‘Ready the ballistae. We make for the open seas, and hope we can catch a strong wind.’
The crew rushed to their positions, some aelves shimmying up the mast guide-ropes to unfurl the sails, others heading down below to man the artillery.
‘This will be a damn-near thing, either way,’ muttered Zenthe, scanning the horizon. ‘The tribes that raid the seas out here, they know their seamanship well. We’re a wounded giant, ripe for the kill.’
‘We can’t outrun them?’ asked Callis. ‘Was I mishearing all those times you boasted about the speed of this boat?’
‘You heard me well enough,’ Arika Zenthe snapped. ‘She can outrun anyone on the seas with a decent head of wind, but it’s as still as death out here. Even if we could set full sail, these channels are too tight. We’d strike a reef or a cluster of rocks and we’d be stuck floundering while they swarmed all over us.’
The Thrice Lucky groaned as they swept around a forked spear of lichen-covered rock and entered a narrow pass between two jaws of jagged stone. Toll saw the truth of Zenthe’s words. Their hull might be strong enough to fend off a ghyreshark’s strikes, but one wrong turn and they would find themselves aground, trapped on those outcroppings.
Even at the speed they were cutting through the clear waters, Toll’s heart leapt into his mouth when he glanced over the side. The water was shallow here, startlingly so. It seemed impossible that the keel wasn’t already being scraped to splinters across the sea bed. They had only just cleared the channel when the shout went up from the rear of the Thrice Lucky.
‘Sails!’
Toll turned, and sighted the oncoming ships through his eyeglass. They were sleek, narrow vessels, cutting like daggers through the water. Upon the prow of each was fashioned a daemonic visage, roughly but imposingly carved, leering hungrily at their prey. Horned, fanged faces, splattered with blood-red dye. Some had yellowed skulls stuffed into their mouths. He could see figures on the deck; brawny, pale-skinned humans, flesh marked with smears of crimson war-paint. The men had long beards, forked and slickened, while the women had short, spiked hair, shaved to form a ridge down the centre of their skulls. A number wore scraps of armour or helmets, but most went unarmoured. Twenty or so manned the oars on each galley, while half a dozen strode along the deck or stood upon the fore rail, brandishing axes, spears and boarding hooks. He could see their lips move, and knew they were chanting. He glanced above, at the galley’s triangular sails. They were black, marked with the image of an eight-tentacled sea beast with gaping jaws, each limb grasping a grinning skull.
‘Heathens,’ he spat. ‘Not mere looters. There will be no bargaining. No taking of prisoners. If they board us, they will slaughter us all.’
‘Heathens I know how to fight,’ snarled Callis. ‘Let them come.’
‘These are hardened killers,’ said Toll. ‘They have raided the Taloncoast for centuries, surviving this beast-haunted wilderness against all odds. They will not die easily.’
‘I’d like to see them survive a bullet in the skull,’ Callis replied.
‘Toll’s right,’ said Shev, frowning at the oncoming reaver ships. ‘I’ve encountered their kind before, and I’ve no wish to repeat the experience. If we’ve any luck left, we’ll reach the open sea and outrun them. If not…’
She left the thought unspoken.
The swirling clouds overhead began to spit a torrent of lashing rain. Ahead, Toll could glimpse the glowing line of the horizon, appearing through gaps in the web of rocky spears. They were close to the open sea. The wind was picking up, but hardly filling the sails. They hung, flapping lazily in the breeze. With every second their pursuers came closer, spreading out as they advanced like wolves on the hunt, looking to surround their quarry. The rear arbalests, a pair mounted on the aft rail, began to load shafts, harpoons tipped with a strange shape, like a blunt-nosed arrowhead.
‘It’s too far,’ frowned Callis. ‘They’ll never score a hit from here.’
‘Just watch,’ said Toll.
The corsair gunner sighted and loosed one of the missiles. It arced up and out over the water. It was obvious from the second it was launched that there was no way it would strike one of the vessels. Instead, it struck the water, perhaps forty paces short of the leftmost reaver ship. No sooner had it struck the water than it exploded in a sheet of purplish flame that spread across the surface like spilled wine on parchment. Yet it did not burn out, nor did the lapping waves or pouring rain extinguish it. An entire section of the channel was now aflame, tongues of searing fire forking up in search of something to devour, hissing and spitting in the downpour. As they watched, one of the ships, unable to manoeuvre clear in the cramped confines, barrelled through the patch of burning sea. The boat went up like a pitch-soaked torch. A hulking figure on the prow staggered to and fro, engulfed in fire. They could hear his ragged shrieks over the wind. More blazing figures leapt into the water, trying to escape the rising inferno, which now spread out on all sides of the doomed vessel. There was no relief from the hungering fires. The reavers splashed and burned and screamed, and thick black smoke rose into the air above the remaining ships.
The aelf corsairs laughed, and slapped each other on the back.
‘Rotten way to go,’ muttered Callis.
‘Save your pity,’ said Toll. ‘And pray that more burn before they reach us.’
The rear arbalests opened up again, and yet more eruptions of flame spread out across the channel. More ships were lit ablaze and the smell of burning flesh met their nostrils. The Thrice Lucky yawed to the right, cutting clear of the channel. There was open ocean ahead. The rain was pouring so hard that it hurt, thick bullets of freezing sleet that hammered the deck with a staccato rhythm. Finally, there was a wind. The sails opened and filled, and immediately they could feel the rush of speed.
Too little, too late, Toll was sure. The aelves’ purple fire had accounted for perhaps four or five of the twenty vessels in pursuit, but the arbalests were out of the incendiary rounds.
The reavers were close now. Toll could hear their guttural chanting, a bellowed sound in some ancient island tongue that sent a chill down his spine. The daemon-headed prows were mere yards behind them, charred black by the aelven fire. The lead vessel was lined with flayed skins and blackened skulls, larger than the other reaver ships by some measure. Along its flank were mounted several rotting torsos, impaled to the deck by long spears. A giant of a man stood tall on the prow, holding a heavy broadaxe easily in one hand. His face was mostly covered by a blood-smeared barbute, topped by two curling horns. His muscular body was riven by multiple slashes, deep cuts that seeped bright red gore. The man seemed to pay his wounds no mind. The witch hunter raised his weapon and sighted the man, but thought better of the shot.
Let them come a little closer, he thought. Let me make every shot a killing shot.
One of the rear arbalests loosed a missile, which sailed past the huge warrior and scythed through a row of oar-bearers, pinning several to the deck. The aelves were loosing their repeater bows now, sending a hail of bolts whickering into the reavers. In return, the barbarians hurled javelins and throwing
axes. The range was extreme, but even so the well-aimed missiles struck the deck of the Thrice Lucky. An aelf caught a thrown axe in the foot and fell to the deck, shrieking and clutching at the severed stumps of his toes. Larger warriors came forward, hurling grapples. Some fell away into the surging waters, but others stuck fast, carving gouges out of the hull as their barbed hooks dug deep into the wood. More slammed home on the far side of the Thrice Lucky. Toll sprinted forward. Drawing his blade, he hacked at the rope that dangled from the nearest boarding claw. His rapier was a fencing blade, ill-suited to such crude work, but it was Marchiana steel, forged by the undisputed master bladesmith of Excelsis. It made short work of the thick hemp, which sprang away into the water. The crew of the Thrice Lucky was hacking as many grapples away as they could, but more reaver ships were pulling alongside, and with every passing moment more missiles clawed into the hull. Toll saw one grapple strike an aelf, digging into his neck and releasing a spurt of crimson. The sailor was yanked off his feet, striking a dizzying blow against the guard rail before spinning off into the waves.
‘Prepare for boarders!’ yelled Oscus.
The first head emerged over the lip of the port rail, a bald, snarling face, eyes wide and bloodshot, deep in the battle-frenzy. Oscus stepped forwards and rammed a dagger deep into the warrior’s eye socket. The man’s corpse tumbled away. Two ships were racing parallel to the Thrice Lucky, latched tight by multiple grapples. Warriors were hauling themselves up the ropes, leaping and grasping hold of the portholes on the gunnery deck below, before dragging themselves over the side and onto the deck. One unfortunate boarder grasped a handhold just as an arbalest loosed its lethal missile. It impaled the warrior through the guts, hurling him twenty paces to crash against the rough hull of his own vessel, and splash away into the depths. Yet, as many reavers as they butchered, more clambered up towards them, axes strapped to their backs or clamped between yellowed fangs filed to needle points.
‘Steady yourselves,’ roared Zenthe, and as Toll glanced to the wheel he saw her yank it sharply to the left. The port side of the Thrice Lucky struck the nearest reaver ship, and the bulkier vessel crumpled the oars of the war galley like kindling, smearing several boarders into bloody paste as they were ground between the two ships. The enemy vessel spun, hopelessly unbalanced with one row of oars gone, and was leaning lengthwise when a pursuing vessel rammed it amidships. The stricken galley came apart in an explosion of wood splinters, upending its crew into the waters. The ship that had struck it fared little better, breaching the water as it smashed into its ally, before turning over in the crashing surf, its prow crumpled.
The stunt had bought them some time, but the impact had slowed the Thrice Lucky badly, and more ships were drawing alongside, readying grapples of their own. Toll heard commotion behind and spun to see half a dozen burly beserkers crash to the deck, wielding vicious axes and serrated blades. They swept their weapons around in wide, careless arcs, cleaving aelves in two or hacking off heads with every swing. Toll watched Callis step up and blast one of the boarders in the chest with his pistol, unleashing a gout of white smoke. The man staggered a few steps, but came on at the former Freeguild soldier. Callis fired again, emptying a second barrel, and the man’s skull came apart in a wet eruption of blood and brains.
The deck was a chaotic melee, a cramped and brutal brawl in which the heavy-bladed humans had the advantage. Toll knew their attackers lacked the skill and precision that marked the corsairs’ deft swordplay, but it seemed to take a dozen lethal wounds to drop any of them, and all the while they swept those vicious axes around in great scything arcs. He stepped in behind one and locked an arm around the man’s throat, pressed his own four-barrelled pistol into the small of his opponent’s back and fired, emptying every chamber at once. The man’s chest simply exploded, showering the deck with intestines and fragments of bone. In response, aelves began to fight in packs, bearing the reavers down in numbers, and stabbing them over and over and over again until they ceased to move. The deck was slick with gore. It was all Toll could do to keep his feet, as it swayed and rolled beneath him.
A warrior charged at him, near seven feet of corded muscles and shark-hide leather, swinging a wide-bladed cleaver. Toll staggered backwards, not even bothering to deflect the man’s blows, instead ducking and swaying aside. The man overextended, slipped just slightly, and Toll thrust out with the tip of his blade, scoring a hit across the man’s ribs. It barely seemed to slow the reaver. He snarled, drooling bloody spittle, bellowing nonsensical, animal sounds. A backhand swing just missed Toll’s leg and then the man barrelled forward, shaggy head down, aiming at the witch hunter’s chest like a charging bull. Toll let the reaver’s momentum carry him onto the point of his rapier, which slid through flesh with sickening ease, sliding deep into the man’s clavicle.
It should have been a kill. Instead, the man kept rushing forwards and struck Toll in the chest. They sprawled across the deck. Something hit Toll in the face, hard. A fist, or a boot, he wasn’t sure. The reaver had lost his weapon, but he straddled Toll’s chest, hands locking around the witch hunter’s throat. The man’s veins stood out like thick ropes. His eyes rolled predatorily back into his head as the blood frenzy overcame him. Toll choked, trying to wrench himself free. Having lost his pistol in the fall, he rammed the pommel of his blade into the reaver’s temple, over and over until his hands were slick with blood. Unable to quite angle his blade for a killing blow, his vision began to cloud over as he gasped for breath.
‘Agh’rakh t’or,’ barked his assailant. ‘Maskga ran vem’tra, tu va Khorne! Tu va Khorne!’
The man’s back arched, and his vice-like grip loosened. He spat blood, which dribbled into his matted beard. Then his head lolled, and he slumped over, dead. Toll dragged in a painful lungful of air, gasping and coughing. He shoved the corpse away. There were three black-shafted bolts riddling the man’s spine. He looked up and saw Shev stationed up in the mainmast, wielding a repeater bow. She gave him the briefest nod, and raised the weapon to her chin, loosing another volley. Another reaver went down, a bolt protruding from his eye.
Chapter Eighteen
The woman drove Callis back, tirelessly swinging her glaive, never giving him a moment to strike back. Her face was a twisted mask of hatred, her yellow teeth filed to killing points. A strip of orange hair ran down the centre of her narrow skull, spattered with blood. He gave ground, stumbling over moaning bodies and sliding in pools of blood, trying to work some space between them. The woman spat blood in his eyes, and he cursed and slipped to one knee. He raised his sword, intercepting her descending glaive, but she rushed in behind the strike and drove her knee up under his jaw, snapping his head back.
He sprawled against something hard and unyielding that blasted the air from his lungs.
The reaver raised her glaive high.
Arika Zenthe leapt from the forecastle above, soaring above the swirling melee, twin swords whirling. As she fell she twisted in mid-air like a carnival performer, bringing the arcing blades down in a cross cut that carved a bloody cross into the scar-faced woman’s back. The reaver toppled with a rattling moan. Zenthe rolled as she landed, coming into a spinning kick that sent another reaver stumbling away. Axes and cleavers swept out at her, but she flowed like quicksilver, ever out of their reach. Another reaver went down, clutching an opened stomach. Another grabbed at the crimson ruin where his eyes had been only moments before, grunting in agony. A fork-bearded reaver raced towards the captain, arms outstretched to grasp her in a crushing embrace. She turned, and whipped her blades back and forth. Fingers rained to the deck, and the man stumbled to his knees. She reversed her grip on one sword and brought it down, sinking into the reaver’s neck. He gurgled and rolled over.
The aelves of the Thrice Lucky cheered their captain wildly.
‘Enough!’ roared Zenthe, flicking blood from her blades. ‘Get back on those arbalests, fools.’
Callis relo
aded his pistol, searching for targets. They had cleared the deck for now, but more grappling hooks were flying in.
Zenthe raced past, bounding back up the steps of the forecastle to the wheel. He followed her. The rain was so thick they could barely see more than a few hundred paces ahead. The skies rumbled, and a flash of lightning revealed more reaver ships closing in on all sides.
‘They have us,’ growled Zenthe. ‘They’ll wear us down, bleed us until we’re dry and feed on our carcass.’
‘Captain!’ came a shout from the crow’s nest, up on the main mast. There were several aelves up there, the finest shots in the crew, wielding repeaters. ‘Storm off the starboard bow, a league and a half away.’
Zenthe raced to the rail, and peered off into the distance. Callis approached. At first he could see nothing but driving sleet, heavy black clouds overhead, and the knife-like shapes of the reaver ships cutting alongside them. The sea was a rain-shrouded valley of churning grey, against which the Thrice Lucky seemed laughably, pitifully small, little more than a child’s toy. The waves were growing fiercer with every passing moment. Then he saw it. Far off, a cluster of spiralling, black tempests reaching down from the darkening clouds, each large enough to swallow the Thrice Lucky whole. Spirals of lightning flickered and sparked around the whirling vortexes.
‘There,’ said Zenthe, ‘that’s a ship-killer if ever I saw one.’
Oscus was at the wheel, bleeding from a dozen wounds, teeth gritted in pain.
‘I can take us around it,’ he growled.
‘No,’ said Zenthe. ‘We’re going straight in, right down the throat of the storm.’
She took the wheel from the first mate, dragging it to starboard, angling them towards the looming maelstrom.