Serving Kanilla Rey was not without its costs—but it also came with some significant benefits. In this case, life and freedom among them.
Well, relative freedom, anyway, he mentally amended. He was Kanilla Rey’s man, no doubt about that. If he ever tried to break free from the hold the sorcerer had over him, he suspected he would not live very long at all.
But being one man’s servant was acceptable to him. Belonging to Kanilla Rey and to the captain of the Barachan Spur was not.
Anyway, he had a job to do, in Stygia. Kanilla Rey wanted it done, so he meant to do it.
KRAL STOOD ON the deck in front of Alanya, Donial, and Mikelo, a found cutlass in his fist, while the battle raged. Best to let the mercenaries and pirates fight it out between themselves, he thought. One side or the other would prove victorious. When it did, then he would know with whom he had to contend.
When he saw the stone glowing in Gorian’s fist, he immediately knew two things. Gorian was being helped by some distant mage—if he had himself been the wizard, he would have displayed powers long before now. And his side would win—the pirates were fierce, but Gorian’s magic was stronger.
It wasn’t until he saw wet hands clutching the side of the ship that he realized he had taken his eyes off the boat coming from shore for too long. Looking over the side, he saw that it still was too far back to provide aid for the pirates. But someone climbed onto the ship—Kral could only guess the man had swum from the smaller boat, faster than it could be propelled through the water by oar.
With a glance to make sure his friends were not in immediate danger, he started for the other side of the ship. Before he reached it, however, Captain Kunios himself swung up and landed on the deck with a thump. His eyes were wide, almost glowing with madness. He drew two swords from his belt. Water ran from him like rain, but he grinned maniacally, ignoring everything except the Pict before him.
Kral knew he would fight the captain alone. Everyone else was still occupied, in spite of the assistance provided by Gorian’s magic. Besides, he had meant to challenge Kunios sooner or later, until the escape attempt and his new status as a prisoner had changed that.
Stepping forward slowly, he raised the cutlass. Kunios waved both of his through the air with swishing sounds. “You and me, boy,” he said. “Is that the way it is? Fair enough. I knew we would match up sooner or later.”
Kral didn’t answer. He had no intention of talking to the pirate captain. Time for conversation was long past.
He took another cautious step. The pirate did the same, his boot slipping slightly on the wet deck. Kunios was accustomed to the sea, and he regained his balance instantly. But Kral chose that moment to attack just the same. He lunged forward and brought the cutlass swinging toward Kunios’s head. The pirate blocked the blow, and Kral felt the shock of contact to his shoulder.
Kunios jabbed with his other sword. Its tip sliced into Kral’s ribs, but the Pict backed away before it penetrated too deeply. Kral dropped his own blade down, blocking any follow-up by the captain. Both swung again, their swords clashing furiously. Kunios kept both of his blades in motion, and Kral had to back away, parrying, occasionally nicked by slicing steel. Swords were new to him, not a weapon that Picts traditionally used, and Kunios’s skill far outmatched his.
The buccaneer might have been half-mad, but he was a fearsome combatant. Kral began to wish that Gorian would direct some of his magic toward Kunios. He had managed to avoid serious injury, but had not so much as wounded Kunios.
Kunios backed Kral up, blocking, blocking. The pirate snarled and kept up the offense, his blade licking out as fast as flames from a bonfire, then drawing away, then slicing from a new direction. The deck under Kral’s feet was slippery with water and spilled blood, and his heel bumped against a downed corpse. He tried to step over it. Before he dared put his foot down, though, he had to glance back to see where the body lay.
Kunios didn’t let Kral’s momentary distraction go to waste. He stabbed quickly, and by the time Kral’s gaze returned to his opponent a blade sliced up into his ribs, not far from the previous wound. Kral let out a gasp and lurched backward, away from the blade. Blood gushed from the wound. Staggering, Kral backed up another couple of steps. But his heel slipped in a patch of blood and he went down hard.
Kunios’s cutlass arced down toward the fallen Pict’s head. Kral brought his own up just in time to block the powerful swing. The blow sent painful vibrations all the way up his arm to the shoulder, and he knew he was weakening. Maybe he hadn’t been ready to challenge Kunios, after all.
Still, he was not about to give up. He forced himself to his feet, swinging his own cutlass toward Kunios’s leg. Kunios dodged, and Kral attacked again, biting back the pain of his wounds.
And then the pirate caught Kral’s sword between both of his own and knocked it spinning from the Pict’s grasp.
Kral still had his knife, tucked into his girdle. But wounded, against a seasoned fighter with two cutlasses? With the ship rocking beneath his feet?
He realized at that moment that all his disadvantages stemmed from one—that Kunios was accustomed to shipboard fighting. Kral was used to forests, trees.
The closest things to trees around here were the ship’s masts. Their rigging hung down like vines in the deep woods, their crosspieces jutting out like branches.
Kral bent his knees, dropped low enough for his left hand to touch the deck, and then sprang. Straight up. Extending his arms overhead, he managed to grab one of the ship’s lines. Kunios charged in for the killing blow and found the deck empty.
He looked up in surprise to see Kral hanging just out of reach.
“Fine,” he said with a snarl. “You take to the rigging like an ape, and I’ll just have my way with your friends.”
Donial and Alanya had watched the whole fight without interfering. Now Donial lifted the cutlass Kral had lost. Kral could see his arm trembling. The boy knew he had no chance against Kunios, but was determined not to fall without fighting back.
Kral would not let that happen. He had scrambled so high into the rigging that Kunios couldn’t reach him with his swords. But even here, he was not helpless. He drew his knife, finally. Letting Kunios take two steps toward Donial, he released the rigging and plummeted to the deck.
As he fell, he held the knife out before him.
The speed of his descent forced it into Kunios’s chest. The blade bit deep, and Kral landed on the deck directly in front of the astonished pirate. His knife was torn from his grip, remaining lodged in the pirate’s middle. Blood splashed the deck.
“You . . .” Kunios said. He slashed out with both swords, coming perilously near Kral’s head. Kral dodged both blades. Kunios’s face was a mask of pain now, but still, he kept coming, kept raising and swinging his swords. Kral stayed just out of reach, watching Kunios’s mad eyes. A line of saliva ran from the pirate’s open mouth, tinted pink with blood. He tried to lift his swords, but they suddenly seemed too heavy. He released one and pawed at the knife jutting from him.
“There is a difference between cowardice and strategy,” Kral said. “But it appears that you will never have the chance to learn it.” He took advantage of the pirate’s diversion to lunge forward. He jammed the butt of his palm against the hilt of his knife, forcing it deeper into Kunios’s breast.
Kunios looked as if he wanted to say more, but his mad eyes glazed over, and his mouth went slack. He pitched forward, landing facedown on the deck. Blood pooled instantly from beneath him. Kral watched, tense, until he felt Alanya’s soft touch on his arm.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“He needed killing,” Kral answered. “More than most.”
“Probably,” she admitted. “He would not have given up.”
Kral hazarded a glance overboard. The little boat was closer to the ship. “His men have not done so either.”
“Maybe if they see their captain . . .” Donial suggested.
Kral understood at once
. Together, the two of them lifted Kunios’s still form and carried it to the side. They held it aloft so those in the small boat could see, then hurled it out into the water. It splashed, then sank out of sight.
Still, the boat came on.
Kral had watched Gorian’s magic with fascination. He saw the evident pain it caused the Aquilonian, and knew that it was a trick the man was unlikely to be able to repeat, at least not right away. If the pirates caught up to the ship, a brutal fight would ensue, and there would be many more deaths.
“Come,” he said to his companions. “To the oars!”
“But . . . you’re wounded,” Alanya said.
Kral looked at the gash in his side, wincing a little at the pain. “That won’t kill me,” he said. He stripped the sash from the waist of a dead pirate and tied it tightly over the wound.
“Are you sure, Kral?” Alanya asked, concern evident in her tone.
“It will do for now. When we have left those pirates far behind, we can tend to it better.”
Alanya didn’t look satisfied, but she didn’t argue further. Kral, Donial, Alanya, and Mikelo hurried down to the oars and found empty spots on the benches there. Without hesitation, the four of them threw their backs into the heavy work of rowing the great ship. The sails filled noisily with wind, but even so, they all knew that getting away from the remaining Argosseans would require as much speed as they could muster.
Kral gripped the wooden oar and pulled for all he was worth, bending almost double, then straightening back and arms to urge the ship through the water. His ribs screamed with pain as he rowed, but he forced himself to ignore it. As the ship pulled away from the reefs, groaning against the waves, sails cracking overhead like thunder, he could feel the sea grow rougher.
But he peered along his oar and saw that the pirates were being quickly left behind. The Argossean buccaneers were themselves being marooned, though on the coast of Shem and not some remote island.
“There’s more to that Gorian than meets the eye,” he whispered to Alanya, rowing beside him on the oarsman’s bench.
“I thought that, too,” she said. “I have long wondered why they wanted to go to Stygia. Now I wonder all the more.”
“As do I,” Kral agreed. “And they surely wonder the same about us.” He considered the men remaining on the ship with them. Gorian, who was in charge of the mercenaries, but had taken on the job of liberating the ship, sailors and all. Gorian’s friend Sullas, who said little and stayed in the background. The mercenaries themselves, fighting men who followed the orders they were given, caring less for the reasons they fought than for what they might earn for their efforts. And the remnants of Captain Ferrin’s crew, now put to work sailing a ship that was only a remnant of the one they had known for so long. Allatin yet lived, and he was the one to whom Gorian directed his commands, just as Kunios had.
A crew of about twenty, sailing a ship that would have been better served with forty at least. And that twenty included himself, Donial, and Alanya, all with little experience working a ship.
They sailed for Stygia, because that was where Gorian wished to go, and the Restless Heart’s sailors had no better destination in mind. Kral was happy to let Gorian be in charge, for now, as long as Gorian kept the ship headed in the right direction.
Sizing up the Aquilonian, Kral was not much impressed. The man was lithe and quick, but not particularly large or menacing. He seemed able to think on his feet, but he had waited a long time before making any moves against Kunios, and had stayed away from the fighting before that. He didn’t seem to be a natural leader of men, and yet men followed him.
It was because of the magic, Kral decided. Having seen that, they obeyed Gorian both because he had led the rebellion and because they were afraid not to, lest he turn his magic on them.
Kral would wait and watch, he decided. As long as his mission and Gorian’s didn’t conflict, he would let the man continue in his leadership position. But if the time came that Gorian changed his mind—steering away from Stygia, for example—then Kral would have to find out which of them was the more powerful.
He believed that it was he. Gorian’s magic might make him a difficult adversary, but Kral had never shrunk from a fight. He would not start now, magic or no magic. If it became necessary, he would happily challenge Gorian for leadership of this tiny crew.
He glanced over at Alanya, then back at Donial and Mikelo, rowing on the bench behind. He had not completely made up his mind about Mikelo, but the others were fast friends. Together, they would reach Stygia and reclaim the crown. Then Alanya and Donial could return to the home they had in Tarantia, and he to his village on the hill, secure in the knowledge that he had prevented tragedy from befalling the Pictish race.
On to Stygia, then. Who knew what obstacles still stood in the way of his reunion with the Teeth of the Ice Bear? Kral smiled to consider them, confident that he could overcome whatever the gods threw his way.
He barked a short laugh, and swelled his chest, letting his lungs fill with the sweet sea air. The air of freedom. His friends looked at him wonderingly, as if he had gone mad. He let them.
“On to Stygia,” he said, aloud this time. “Whatever happens will happen, but I will do what needs to be done. This I have vowed, and I vow it again, before all of you.”
“On to Stygia,” Donial answered, tossing Kral a smile of his own.
Alanya and Mikelo took it up next, each one saying it with even more enthusiasm than Donial. “On to Stygia!”
Winds of the Wild Sea Page 15