Overkill

by Steven Shrewsbury

  “I don’t have a dad so I don’t have a last name.”

  Mirth spread over Gorias’ face. “We all got a daddy.”

  Vallen answered, “Can’t say who mine is, really. Don’t know.”

  Gorias took a breath and looked over the other covered objects on the deck, one’s with sharper edges and obviously not stone. “Guess that’s what the world is coming to.”

  Coryll grinned. “The end, I hear.” The two bowed again and walked away.

  A sailor much older than the youths approached Gorias, stopped and took off his head scarf. “You are Gorias La Gaul?”

  Eyes reading him over, Gorias admitted, “Yeah.”

  “My Pa told me many a story of you, of your defeating the dragons in the battle of the Somme. Just pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Get me to Transalpina on this bucket and I’ll buy ya a drink, son.”

  The heavily sunburnt man smiled a mouthful of rotten teeth and gingerly took Gorias’ hand.

  Once he left, Orsen said, “I bet he can drink as much as you.”

  “Hope so. Here’s hopin’ I wasn’t his daddy.”

  Orsen did laugh. “How many women have you been with?”

  “How many have you, palace boy?”

  Stiffening, Orsen replied, “That’s none of your business.”

  Gorias slapped him on the shoulder again, hard enough to make him take a step this time. “Ain’t so fun being interviewed all the time, is it?”

  Before entering the cabin, Gorias stopped and raised his chin toward the rear of the vessel. “Is that our Captain?”

  Orsen strained to look from Gorias’ angle. “Yes. His name is Cody, I believe.”

  “Now that skinny bastard is an ol’ sea dog for sure.”

  “Yes, he used to be a Captain of one of Her Majesty’s Naval vessels. Old age and drink sent him to retirement, but I think he’s able enough to command a barge.”

  “Guess we’re gonna find out, huh?”

  Gorias ducked low as they stepped through the doorway into the cabin area. Several wooden benches, replete with worn cushions, lined the walls and many hammocks hung from the support beams, one of which Gorias pushed to make it sway as he passed.

  Orsen put his hand in one of the hammocks. “This is fine luxury for a common ship.”

  Gorias gave a mild shrug, but due to his armor and cloak, it hardly showed. “Indulge if ya so choose.” Gorias imparted a mock salute, then sat in the corner with a groan.

  Orsen smiled as he climbed in the hammock. “This helps me as I’m not the best sailor. It’d probably be better on your back.”

  Gorias sat forward a little, hands on his knees. “I’m not dead yet, junior.” He soon settled back and yawned. “Besides, I’d rather sit with my back to the wall, rough sea or no.”

  For a moment, Orsen’s face twisted, perplexed. He soon lightened his countenance, understanding the caution of the old fighter. “I see.”

  Gorias shifted the pillows behind him, saying, “I never turn my back to a door. This way, if they come for me, they’ll stab you first. That’ll probably wake my ass up.”

  Orsen swung in the hammock, mouth open, but he soon shut it and said nothing.

  “That tall kid on the deck was lying, by the way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Coryll Masse he said his name was? The house and bloodline he claimed was exterminated to the last man in a war when I was two hundred years old, five centuries ago. I wasn’t here but read of it on tablets in Jericho.”

  “I presume he wasn’t obligated to tell us his genuine identity.”

  Gorias yawned. “I was gonna say I was Orsen Riva, Lord Governor of the privy, but the chance slipped by.”

  “Charming.”

  Eyes closed, fingers interlocked across his chest, Gorias asked, “How’s the ol’ girl?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Lady Garnet,” Gorias said loud, not hiding his words whatsoever.

  Others in the room looked up from their positions in the opposite walls, but soon lowered their heads again. Through the doorway walked Coryll and Vallen. They paused to stare at Gorias and then took up seats near the portal.

  Frustrated that Gorias showed no tact, Orsen mumbled, “Fine, as good as can be expected, situation being what it is for her.”

  “Yeah?” Gorias said somewhat quieter. “What is that really?”

  “The land has religion, a great revival under the goddess has taken place, and the Lady relishes the role she takes as the symbol of the land.”

  “Good for her. She always wore that position well.”

  “Quite so. However, as I intimated earlier, no heir to the Lady Garnet walks from her household, thus, her siblings and their offspring must be considered.”

  Bells and whistles sounded, warning all the ship would soon cast off so Gorias waited to say, “Gimme this straight, son. I knew her sons died long ago, and her daughter within the last ten years and such. But all her grandkids as well? Little Nykia is dead, too?”

  Orsen waited a while before he said, “She isn’t so little, but for all regular purposes, yes.”

  “But you say there are no heirs, but that sailor just said the Crown Prince was Mavik’s son? I presume he means ol’ Mavik, Garnet’s sister.”

  “Yes.”

  Gorias opened his eyes and sat forward, noting the two skinny men with their faces pressed to the portal. “You’re jerkin’ me off with words, kid. First you lure me in with the dragonfire story…”

  “It’s no story. The politicians are dying from it! They feel the heart of Pergamus is lashing out from the great beyond.”

  “Yer breakin’ my freakin’ heart.” The dark humor faded from Gorias’ face, replaced by anger. “Pergamus! What do any of ya know about that? I’m more interested in how Nykia died.”

  Orsen sighed and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Father wanted me to be a sailor. He thought I’d have made a good officer in time, as I took to ships and sea travel at an early age. That changed in time.”

  Gorias closed his eyes, letting his irritation at Orsen’s diversions lighten. “Your father a sailor?”

  “No, a castellan for the Queen. He thought I’d be toughened up by the experience.”

  Gorias cleared his head and tried to fine-tune to the rhythm of the ship as it moved into the waters. “I suppose military service does that.”

  Orsen volunteered, “I did join the regular army.”

  “Yeah? How’d that work out for ya?”

  “I excelled at archery and the physical regimen, but qualified for the slingers brigades, better for a man of my height.”

  Gorias never spoke.

  Orsen didn’t remain quiet. “I only saw scant action until my term was up. We took on some Avars at the fringes of the mountains. I doubt my slings ever killed anyone.”

  “Firing from cover is different, I guess. One doesn’t have to feel the blade in up close.”

  “It must be spectacular to fight something as grand as a dragon.”

  “Spectacular, all right. If ya can keep from crappin’ yer trousers, it’s alotta laughs. Every dragonslayer I ever met who had a hard-on for the hunt, for killing them for sport or for revenge, ended up in dragon-stool.”

  “How was it that you ended up being the last slayer?”

  “Someone had to be. Some folks confuse being a survivor with being a hero.”

  “Why is it you do the things you do?”

  “I’m still alive. Once I’m dead, I’ll stop.” Gorias took a deep breath before he said, “I’m still good at it, too. Find what you’re good at, son, and stick to it. What are ya good at? Carrying messages? Ya must be a sneaky bastard.”

  Offended, Orsen shot back, “Why would you say that?”

  Still placid, Gorias replied, “You got all the way to me in Rhiannontown without a knife in yer back or bein’ skinned by the bandits. Ya must be sneaky, stealthy and tougher than ya appear.” Gorias turned his head and grinned. “Or that fuckin�
�� tattoo is workin’ overtime. There must be somethin’ to ya, kid. Nothin’ in a wizard’s blessing bag or scrotal sack is that goddamn powerful to see ya through all that.”

  Orsen swung quiet for a few minutes before saying, “The Queen speaks of you as if you’re a god.”

  Gorias scratched himself. “You’re unimpressed?”

  “I hardly said that.”

  “But yer manners betray ya, young man, Yer eyes, nose and mannerisms all scream doubt at my godhood, hell, as well ya should. No one could live up to the Lady’s tales, I reckon. But I’ve lived a long time, over 700 years, and after all that, one picks up a few pointers. I read folks really well.”

  Orsen swung in his hammock, eyes watching the ceiling. “I must be transparent to you then.”

  “Pretty much, but not everyone can be like me.”

  A half hour passed and Gorias guessed them far from shore when he noticed Vallen watching him, using his body to obscure Coryll’s actions at the portal. Gorias ruminated what a terrible guard Vallen proved to be as he clearly noted Coryll holding a metallic object not unlike a sextant to the portal. At first, Gorias wondered if Coryll plotted their trip by the stars until he saw the crystal within the tiny bars of the sextant. The moonlight struck the jewel and a beam of light glittered back out across the waves. In moments, the two sat beside each other, stowing their objects, hands to their laps. They exchanged a nervous glance.

  Orsen turned his head. “Do you hear that?”

  Gorias’ voice didn’t betray that his defenses rose. “Sure. The sound rolls across the waves.”

  “Strange sounding thunder.”

  Gorias cracked his knuckles as the two youths sat forward. “That’s because it isn’t thunder. I’d hold onto something, Orsen.”

  Overhead the scramble of boots on boards coincided with the roll of thunder coming nearer to their ears. Coryll and Vallen rose up and made for the door of the cabin. The air split and the night exploded with sound, at the same moment the vessel shifted in the sea, causing Orsen to swing high in the hammock, slamming into the ceiling. The two youths flew back from the door, crashing into the beams that bisected the room. Orsen swung down, but never fell from the bed of netting. Gorias moved away from the wall and put his left hand up, stilling Orsen in his motions.

  “What was that?” Orsen shouted as those others across the room scrambled, a few drawing their daggers, one stumbling into Vallen, impeding him from leaving the room.

  Gorias muttered, “Not something ya can stab with a dagger. We were almost hit.”

  As he unfolded from the hammock, Orsen cried out, “Almost?”

  “This thing is made of planking and logs across the belly,” Gorias explained as the cabin emptied and they moved closer to the steps leading to the decks. “If they hit us, we’d have heard a whine in the air you’d not soon forget.”

  Orsen, frustrated, frowned as he reached the steps. “This barge is huge. Who’d want to sink it? Wait a moment! They? Who are they?”

  “Pirates!” came the scream of the man in the upper deck, pointing to the east as the men flooded the deck.

  Orsen stood above the hold, gaping at the three ships in the distance.

  Gorias slapped him on the back so hard the palace servant stumbled. “Hear that? Pirates? Crummy aiming pirates, but pirates all the same.”

  As many scrambled all over the decks, Orsen stammered, “Why try to kill us?”

  Gorias shrugged, still unruffled. “Maybe their aim sucks, maybe that was a warning shot. I can’t say. Just in case they do sink us, can you swim?”

  Orsen glared at Gorias. “Not the entire channel!”

  “We’re halfway across, ten miles, tops,” Gorias said, looking south in the darkness as if he could see the shores of Transalpina. He noted the crew grabbing Coryll and Vallen, both them trying to get a leg overboard.

  “You must be joking.”

  He pointed at the two being wrestled to the deck. “Those two punks thought it was a great idea. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Glad my horse is on a different ship. I’d hate to lose Traveler.” He then grinned at Orsen. “You? I can find another one of you anywhere.”

  “This is no time for jokes.” He then took note of the violence the sailors used to subdue the two youths but still kept at Gorias. “Can’t you help the crew?” Orsen waved his arms as if Gorias couldn’t see the desperate populace of the vessel scrambling.

  Gorias grabbed Orsen and directed him back to one of the mast poles. “Hold on, kid, or yer gonna be wearin’ yer ass for a hat.”

  The night didn’t betray the projectile coming toward them, but their ears presently caught the thunderous echo just as the bundles of fiery explosive landed, ten yards below the bow, exploding on the surface but rocking them slightly.

  Orsen exclaimed, “Goddess!” He then glared at Gorias and shouted, “Help them!”

  Gorias scanned the deck. “I think that old sea bastard up there will do just fine.” He thumbed up to the rear deck at the skinny man wearing the sash of a Captain, but no pants. “Well, it’s freakin’ late. Glad Cody got off a whore for this fight. Son, ever see what this barge is hauling on deck here?”

  Orsen blinked. “Farm implements from Albion aside from the rocks for the Prince’s sculpting.”

  His hand gripping Orsen’s shoulder tight, Gorias said, “Since when did they plow fields in Transalpina with those?”

  The large tarps securing many shapes on the deck slid back, revealing a series of catapults and siege devices. From the rear deck, the Captain shouted orders and pointed a three-fingered hand at the catapults. The sailors turned the devices, in places unbolting them and reattaching them to the deck in a hurried fashion.

  “Goddess,” Orsen mumbled. “What sort of madhouse is this?”

  “Looks like the Captain knows what he’s doing.”

  “That Cody, a wily fighter for certain. He lost one of his fingers as a prisoner in a camp.”

  Gorias wondered, “Torture?”

  “No, they wanted his academy ring, so they cut it off to get it.”

  “Reckon he wouldn’t give it up any other way. Hell, I can see doin’ that.”

  “But this barge is unarmed, of no military significance.”

  “All the better reason to have pirates want to take her and the cargo.”

  Another shot from the lead pirate vessel missed them, this time going over their heads. Everyone dropped to their knees.

  One of the sailors said, “The gods are with us. Praise Rhiannon!”

  “Screw the gods,” another shouted.

  “We ain’t got time,” a third yelled and laughter rippled across the deck.

  Gaping, Orsen struggled to find the words. “To laugh in the face of death.”

  “That takes balls,” Gorias agreed. “Yer old man musta wanted this for you. Still think ya got what it takes to be a sailor? It ain’t all about drinking and screwing crab-infested whores.”

  The sailors undid the tarps over the huge rocks and set about striking them with steel-headed mallets. In a few moments, the rocks fragmented. Several sailors took hold and loaded these pieces into the catapults.

  Hand to his mouth, Orsen gasped. “Mavik will be livid.”

  Gorias sighed. “I think yer missin’ the big picture here, kiddo.”

  Captain Cody moved down from the deck and raised his long scope. “Guide the settings by my words.” He then shouted off ways to set the catapults.

  Orsen shook his head. “How in the world can they do that? He uses no instruments!”

  “He’s using the tip of his nose, depth of his vision. He knows the sea, the curve of the earth and the breadth of waters he sails all the time.” Gorias smirked. “Those fuckers out there don’t have a prayer.”

  “Secure the rocks,” Captain Cody called out, but the men had already started maneuvering the huge stones into their final places. Light rollers, no more than sanded logs, and manpower pushed the larger stones into the palm of the catapults. T
he sailors hurriedly stood back as the tension in the trigger mechanism got wound tight by a burly man on either side of the device. Already positioned back like giant mousetraps, the catapults extended over the length of the ship. The long arm of the weapons swung back, around like a weather vane, snapping into position far over the edge of the boat.

  Orsen’s mouth dropped open but no words came right away. “That’s impossible. The arm will break.”

  Gorias looked from the weapons then toward the distant ships. “Get your faith tight, son. These artisans know what they’re doing.”

  “Fire!” Captain Cody shouted and dropped his ruined fist to the handrail.

  The sailors chopped at the lines securing the loads and the four catapults swung into action. Orson fell to his knees and even Gorias stepped back, so impressive was the recoil action and the spectacle.

  The rocks flew across the waters and a hush gripped the barge. Over the water, they heard a huge splash, but this sound soon became overpowered by the crash of wood splintering and the cries of men in peril.

  Orsen rose up, stunned. “The old bastard, he did it.”

  The sailors jumped up and down, hollering and screaming. Many praised their Albion god, Rhiannon, others made obscene gestures at the pirates, and still others dropped their trousers to show them their manhood or moons.

  The Captain’s hands beat a tiny rhythm on the rail as he stared. He didn’t look through his scope, preferring to listen to those sailors who shouted, “Two of them are hit! They are tilting already! By the gods, I bet they are taking on water.”

  A smile on his weathered face, Cody remarked, “Damn straight they are. Screw with us, will they? Damn their eyes!”

  The men cheered again and Gorias patted Orsen on the back. “Ya learn something every day, kid. It makes life worth living.”

  Cody addressed the men on the deck. “Now, which one of you bastards is the spy?”

  Gorias set his boots, sizing up how many stood on the deck, but no sailor made a move. Suddenly, Coryll and Vallen slipped from their captors, making a run for the edge of the vessel. They nearly made a leap for the water before the sailors grabbed them again.

  Held fast, the two men were displayed for Cody when he came down to look at them closer. “Planning to swim back?”