“Surely you will not decline me, Daniel?”
“I would rather not drink any more,” Daniel replied, though he noticed the grimace on Damian’s face. “I will not die a drunken fool.”
“My knights will do you no harm,” Ser Johnathan said calmly, with a little too much arrogance, Daniel thought. “The city guards that chased you only meant to scare you. My knight made sure of that—certainly you made note of your mounted foe?”
“Pretty words,” Damian scoffed, taking another drink and slamming the bottle down. “That is all you pious shites are. Pretty wordsmiths talking your bloody selves to resolution. If you used your steel more and words less, perhaps Argath would stay in his own wasteland.”
“You know naught of politics, Damian. Do not think otherwise.”
Damian put his arms up. “You know what reasoning with me does. This is our, what, seventh meeting? I tire of them. Say your words and leave me in peace. I have much to do with Daniel.”
“Very well,” the knight said. He began to smile, but it was slimy and untrustworthy. “Do you know the men you slew tonight?”
“Jealous pricks, the lot of them. Heh, might be that I took some of their gold in a game of chance, or I cost them service with some wealthy merchant. There is so much that I do, it is hard to keep count sometimes.”
“They were Isilians.”
The word hung in the air. Damian and Ser Johnathan did not say a word. Daniel kept his silence, trying to read the knight as best he could. There was naught: just a stern face wrought with disapproval. I have found myself in a boiling pot with no way to climb out.
“What did you say?” Damian finally asked, wroth. “Isilian? Are they from the imperium?!”
“Yes, they were,” Ser Johnathan said, now smiling. “Affairs between Dalia and the imperium are less than warm, as you are no doubt aware. We have not seen their sentinels for many years, but every now and then we capture swordsmen. Some alone, others in groups. The inquisitors are very thorough, deep in the gaols—a place that you and your kind will rot in some day. Those four, we captured them not six months ago. Oh, the tales they sung of the Black Guard.”
“Black Guard?” Damian laughed. “Fools with long pricks impressing an aged man. What of them?”
“Those men were trained by the Black Guard. We have not fed them terribly well, but they have pride—mayhap not as much as you, but considerable in their own right. Imperator Argath knew them all by name.”
“Speak plainly, Ser Johnathan. I tire of your games.”
“As I tire of yours,” the knight said and slammed his hands down on the desk. He gripped it hard. His eyes bled intensity and his brow furrowed. “I have tolerated you in my city long enough. You will never set foot in Dale again, nor any other city under the Light of Mother God. You will never see safe haven in the imperium either. We will send the bodies back to the imperator and tell him who spilt their blood. Remain on your islands, lest you wish to stir the Black Storm’s wrath as well as mine own.”
“I am an honourless man,” Damian said amusingly. “I should spill your blood here and now for this. You would make a beggar of me. That I do not forgive!”
“Then draw your steel, Damian. Make a claim on my life. I do not know much of your friend, but I know Lord Devan trains his men well. Though could you both slay me before my own knights arrive? Do you long for your Deep Below so much?”
“Get out,” Damian bellowed. “Get off my ship.”
“Do recall my words, Damian,” the knight declared before leaving the cabin.
Damian was stewing. He tapped the bottle on the desk whilst colour rose in his cheeks. He suddenly threw the bottle against the door. “Waste of good whiskey.”
“What are we to do now?” Daniel asked. “If we cannot land on either shore, we cannot feed much to the king. He is no fool. He will know we are banished.”
“Banished?” Damian asked, staring right at Daniel. “We are not banished. I do not doubt Ser Johnathan’s threat has bloody teeth, but we can learn what we want other ways.”
Daniel thought he must have looked blank-faced and foolish. For the last three seasons his reports were of whispers and chatter from the commons, and a handful of nobles and priests whose lips loosened at the sight of coin. He was not poet who could sing lies, and he doubted Damian was either.
No, Daniel knew that Damian was more a mercenary than aught else. He knew people, their weaknesses and fears. What lay before ahead was insurmountable.
“You do not believe me, Daniel?” Damian asked suddenly. There was amusement in his words. “There is much you need to learn.”
“I simply do not know how the king will believe a word we say.”
“Your first mistake,” Damian said, pointing his index finger at Daniel, “is believing the king gives two shits about anything you do say.”
The truth hit Daniel hard. “I was sent here to be put out of the way? I gave up the lordship, what more could my father want?”
“Likely for you to stay away from your younger brother. Or he is ashamed of you. I do not know what is in that prick’s mind.”
Daniel shook his head. “No, it is something else. The king writes back and—”
“Some worthless shite writes back to you, parrots out the king’s wishes. He may speak a pleasant word to you, but do not think he counts on it.”
Father, why did you… “We cannot learn anything of value with this banishment.”
“Such a pretty little fool you are, Daniel. We raid. We reave. We burn villages and towns to the ground. Torture the magisters, merchants, and oh so bold knights who come to their rescue. We consider what we learn, feed the king only what he needs, and when we learn the king’s true obsession …”
The plan was madness. Daniel could not see any merit to it. “With this galley? Damian, for all your strength, you could not repulse a dozen knights!”
“It will not always be that way,” Damian said, smiling. “You never saw me before I left Trank, but I saw you. You spent more time in the practice yard than any other bugger. You let that shite in the tavern push you around, but you are stronger than that. Much stronger. You and I, we will find the other captains on the sea and convince them there is strength in obedience.”
“Will they truly flock to your banner, Damian?”
“You did.”
I do not know why. I still do not know why. “I do not know why I stand here.”
“I will tell you why,” Damian said, sitting back in his chair. “You are tired of being this errand boy without end. Sick of lingering alone in the realm. Fed up with scraps. Why do you think the other shites sail the seas? Trade? Smuggle? Reave? We are all tired of the shit luck that these kings, imperators, and high priestesses hand us. Strength and coin, that is what they seek, but every one of us, heh, there is little we can obtain on our own. But together? Under one banner? When the realm tears itself apart and we stand strong, as one? Trecht, Dalia, and Isilia will bow to our will.”
All night Daniel thought Damian was mad, but not at this late hour. Whether the man’s ambition could be achieved or not, he did not know, but he knew that Damian believed it. “Where? How do we begin?”
Damian rose to his feet and wrapped an arm around Daniel’s shoulder. “On deck. You will meet and drink with the men, even that useless bastard Trey. We will return to the islands, meet the Appraiser, and arrange for councils with captains who feel as we do.”
“And those that do not?” Daniel asked apprehensively. “Those who do not see as we do?”
“We shorten them by the head and see if their first mate sees our proposal any different.”
Blood and sea, Daniel thought as he met the crew and the first mate, Trey; his jaw was swollen but he still drank heartily. Most of all, he—like all the others—he wanted something more than endless wandering, and eating whatever scraps were left on the table.
Father, I will not take your scraps any more. Feed them to the hounds for all I care. With Damian at my
side, I will be a lord in my own manse far away from you.
Blood and Sea
Dusk
27 August 15124
Daniel held his fist up, and the dripping blood echoed through his mind.
The old magister closed his eyes, though he could not move. He was tied to a small wooden chair in the basement of the dank, dark hovel. The Crimson Swords Damian had gifted stood to the side, holding the magister’s daughter by the arms, her green dress torn along the collar and hip.
Daniel struck the magister again. The sickening sound of broken bones sliced through the air, but the old man’s head shifted only slightly. He spat out blood and phlegm.
Rape. Slaughter. Burning. Wailing.
Daniel heard every word, every sound, every cry of terror. He cringed inside but dared not show it: not to the magister or the swordsmen who held his daughter. I have agreed to this, all of this! This is Damian’s path, I must see it through. I cannot show weakness.
“I told you I know naught of what you seek,” the magister said weekly. He still had one eye closed and spit out blood as he spoke. “I have been ‘ere all my life, as my father and his father before him. It is to the sea that we owe our livelihood. No treasures or relics. I cannot tell you what I do not know!”
It was the same lie repeated over and over. The magister, the healers, the men and women. A lie that Damian would not accept. Daniel had to learn the truth. He had to. “Three hundred seasons past, your forefathers crossed the sea, fleeing the reign of kings, but not before fires and chaos nearly consumed the old kingdom. I have lived long enough to know that men are not as pure as they insist, certainly not those in dwell in these holy lands. You are rank liars and deceivers and you will tell me where it is now!”
The magister stared back blankly; his face devoid of emotion. No light shone in his eyes; it was as if he had given up all hope. “Beat me until my flesh is shorn from my bones, my lord.” He pronounced the title so virulently. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
Balling his fists, Daniel mouthed a warning to the magister. The old man’s face did not change. I did not want to do this. This is not who I am, whatsoever Damian claims. You give me no choice.
“The girl, now.”
The old man’s eyes lit up in rage, though his face contorted in terror. The girl screamed out, struggling against the men. She was thin and tall, but no muscles threaded along her arms. There was naught that she could do.
Daniel tore the girl’s dress off; his bloodied hands matted the fabric. He ripped down her smallclothes, revealing small, perky breasts and soft, smooth skin. He did not harden. The girl was young, and he would have enjoyed her, but there was no pleasure this night.
“Do not, no, do not do this!” the magister screamed, trying to push forward, but the ropes held him tight to the chair. “I beg of you! Do you not have daughters? Sons? Are you not a father, my lord?” There was no virulence at the title, not any longer. “Do you not know that whatever I may have said, have done, that she, my poor daughter, my Sally, that she has done no wrong in this? There is no cause to this. Rape me. Cut my throat. Defile my corpse. But spare her!”
The Crimson Swords chuckled. Daniel stared at the magister all through the speech. He knew there was much that passed that men and women did not deserve. There was no cause to losing his inheritance at sword point. There was no cause to be disowned by his father, as the old fool cast him out on an endless, pointless quest, masked as exile.
None of which he would share with the magister.
“If you care for your daughter’s life, her sanctity, you will tell me where the treasures are. Where the relics are. Where what your forefathers stole is.”
“Father, Father please tell him!” the girl wailed, tears streaming down red cheeks. “I cannot go to Mother God defiled, please. Please Father, tell him. Tell him now. I do not want this. I-I— ”
“There is naught to tell, dear Sally,” the magister replied, cold and unfeeling. “Mother God knows that you have remained true to the teachings; that you have served the Voice only as you can. Whatever these monsters do cannot change that.”
Instinctively, Daniel slammed his fist in the old man’s face once more. The magister’s nose cracked and he spit out a tooth.
“The only monster is you, magister,” Daniel said coldly, while groping Sally’s left breast; the smear of blood from her father spread across her nipple. “If your own life’s blood means naught to you, perhaps your daughter’s will loosen your tongue.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know!” the old man wailed defiantly. “What do you want me to say—to do?! If any such treasures are within our holy land, it would be within the White Walls—not here! Seek the Voice. Seek her and leave us. Spare us.”
Rape. Slaughter. Burning. Wailing.
The cacophony was all that Daniel could hear, raging and twisting inside him. “Do you not hear what is outside these walls? I serve another master, and he has commanded that your port-town be burned to the ground. You will not be spared. I will make it quick if you but tell me your secrets.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know!” the old man shouted. He slumped forward in the chair, though the ropes held him taut. “I cannot tell you what I do not know!”
Daniel turned away from the useless old man and looked to his daughter, Sally. Sally, he repeated her name in his head. Your sin is your family. She looked so gaunt; the streams of tears were like rivers down a pure field. Her blue eyes shined with terror: he thought them like sapphires, so beautiful, but so cold. “Release her, she will not run.”
The Crimson Swords nodded. Sally dropped to her knees and bent over. Daniel kneeled and cupped her chin in his hand. He could hear the old man thrashing behind. The swordsmen chuckled, before beating the magister. There was naught but the sound of flesh tearing, of bones breaking, and of blood spattering. The sight of this poor, unlucky girl filled Daniel’s heart with sadness. He thought her a doe: innocent, unblemished, and utterly at the mercy of his nature.
“Sally,” he said softly, just above the brutality behind him. She looked up timidly. “Have you ever been with a man before?”
“N-no,” she stumbled out, taken aback. “I have not, no, we do not lay with a man until we join in union, so do the priests tells us.”
Her cold, sapphire eyes glimmered as he looked into them. “If I do not do this, a worse man will come. You understand that?”
“There is no worse man than you.”
The words hit him cold and hard. Try as he might, he could not keep his composure, and she must have seen it: the doubt and unwillingness.
“May you find warmth in Her embrace,” he intoned, and thrust a dagger into her heart, the blossom spreading across her flesh.
The Crimson Swords turned suddenly, and Daniel felt their eyes upon him; their every word was scathing. “Damian will not like this,” one of them said. “You have disobeyed him.”
“Then run to him,” Daniel shot back. “Tell him what I have done, if you are too craven to draw steel.”
The taller of the two—the one who did not speak—put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but the other waved him off. “The captain will decide his fate.” They scurried off like rats, their feet pounding up the stairs.
Daniel walked over to the magister. The old man’s eyes were shut over and his right arm swung uselessly at his side. He breathed, though it was laboured.
“What is your name, magister?”
“Pavan, Pavan Ross,” the old man croaked. “You did not … did you not?”
Closing his eyes, Daniel could not look the old man in the face. “Her sanctity remains. She will find a warm embrace in Mother God.”
“A mercy. A small mercy. From an unbeliever. I do not know what to …”
“Say naught, and join your Sally, Pavan Ross.”
“I … I am ready.”
Daniel cut Magister Pavan Ross’ throat.
The old man died silently, blood puddling upon the fl
oor. Daniel did naught to avoid it; instead, he looked down upon the broken man and the daughter who would never breathe again.
Such was the fate of every other Dalian in the port-town.
“I thought to leave all this behind,” Daniel muttered. “I have become my father.” He balled his fingers into a grip. “I am the Corsair, or so the men say. Father, why did—”
“Daniel, you cunt!”
Turning, Daniel saw Damian standing by the stairs, the two swordsmen behind him, hands on the hilts of their blades. Blood matted Damian’s boiled leather and his crimson cloak was torn in places.
“I could not do it.”
“You could not rape a slip of a girl to yield the treasures we need?” Damian asked, wroth. “I should slit your throat and give you to the Deep Below.”
“If you did, then who would feed lies to King Marcus? You alone, Damian? The king trusts me little, but you less than that. Is that not why you recruited me? You need me.”
“Aye I need you,” Damian declared stepping forward. He was less than a metre away, and the whites in his eyes seemed to grow. “No vessel can wade these waters without a crew that trusts him. What shall I say to these men who know you for a craven?”
“Spin whatever tale you like.”
Damian punched him in the gut. “Heh, perhaps I shall. Luggards, come here and face this shite.”
Daniel stumbled to his feet as the swordsmen came near. They looked down arrogantly, smiling.
“The noble shite is in pain, seems to me,” the taller one said.”
“Aye,” the shorter one agreed. “We do not tolerate weakness in the ranks, do we captain?”
Damian grinned. “No, we do not. You have last words, Daniel? I trusted you, but I see now you do not have the balls for what I need to do. Say your peace now.”
Looking to the men, and then Damian, Daniel knew what he had to do. Still kneeling over from the pain of the blow, he fingered the dagger matted with blood, then sent it end over end into the skull of the taller man. The shorter panicked, reaching for his steel, but Daniel drew his longsword first, cutting the man’s head off.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 24