Glancing up, Kalam found himself looking into Salk Elan’s dripping face.
“He lives?”
“Aye.”
“We’re not out of trouble yet,” Elan said.
“To Hood with that! We’ve got to get this man below.”
“We’ve sprung leaks up front—most of the marines are at the pumps.”
They lifted the captain between them. “And the raider?”
“The one we hit? In pieces.”
“In other words,” the assassin said as they manhandled the captain down the slippery steps, “not what the treasurer planned.”
Salk Elan stopped, his eyes sharpening. “Seems we’ve slunk on the same path, you and I.”
“Where is the bastard?”
“He’s taken command…for now. Seems every officer’s suffered an unlikely accident—anyway, we’ve got the other vessel closing on us, so, like I said, the fun’s anything but over.”
“One thing at a time,” Kalam grunted.
They made their way down through the galley and into the passage. Water swirled ankle-deep, and the assassin could feel just how sluggish Ragstopper had become.
“You pulled rank on the marines, didn’t you?” Elan asked as they reached the captain’s door.
“I don’t outrank the lieutenant.”
“Even so. Call it the power of notoriety, then—she’s already had harsh words with the treasurer.”
“Why?”
“The bastard wants us to surrender, of course.”
They carried the captain to his cot. “A transfer of cargo in this blow?”
“No, they’ll wait it out.”
“Then we got time enough. Here, help me get him undressed.”
“His hands are bad.”
“Aye, we’ll bandage them up next.”
Salk Elan stared down at the captain as the assassin pulled the blanket up around the man. “Think he’ll live?”
Kalam said nothing, pulling the captain’s hands free to study the lacerations. “He stopped a blow with these.”
“Now that’s not an easy thing to do. Listen, Kalam, how are we in this?”
The assassin hesitated, then said, “How did you put it? ‘Slunk the same path?’ It seems neither one of us wants to end up in a shark’s belly.”
“Meaning we’d better work together.”
“Aye, for now. Just don’t expect me to kiss you good night, Elan.”
“Not even once?”
“You’d better get up top, find out what’s going on. I can finish here.”
“Don’t tarry, Kalam. Blood could spill fast.”
“Aye.”
Alone with the captain, the assassin found a sewing kit and began stitching flesh. He finished one hand and had started on the other when the captain groaned.
“Hood’s breath,” Kalam muttered. “Just another ten minutes, that’s all I needed.”
“Doublecross,” the captain whispered, his eyes squeezed shut.
“We’d guessed as much,” the assassin said, continuing closing wounds. “Now shut up and let me work.”
“Poor Pormqual’s treasurer is crooked.”
“Like attracts like, as the saying goes.”
“You and that poncy skulker…two of a kind.”
“Thanks. So I keep hearing.”
“Up to you two, now.”
“And the lieutenant.”
The captain managed a smile, his eyes still closed. “Good.”
Kalam sat back, reached for the bandages. “Almost done.”
“Me too.”
“That bodyguard’s dead, you’ll be pleased to know.”
“Aye. Killed himself, the idiot. I ducked the first swing. The blade bit through the wrong ropes. Feel that, Kalam? We’re rolling even—someone up top knows what we’re doing, thank the gods. Still, way too heavy…but she’ll hold together.”
“Got enough rags for that, then.”
“That we have.”
“All right, I’m done,” Kalam said, rising. “Get some sleep, Captain. We need you hale. And fast.”
“Not likely. That other bodyguard will finish it first chance he gets. The treasurer needs me out of the way.”
“We’ll take care of it, Captain.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that?”
Closing the door behind him, Kalam paused, loosened the long-knife in its scabbard. Just like that, Captain.
The squall was spent, and the sky to the east was brightening, clean and gold. Ragstopper had come around as the tradewind returned. The mess on the sterncastle had been cleared away and the crew looked to have things in hand, although Kalam could see their tension.
The treasurer and his remaining bodyguard stood near the mainmast, the former staring steadily at the raider keeping pace to starboard, close enough to see figures on its deck, watching them in turn. The bodyguard’s attention, however, was on Salk Elan, lounging near the forecastle steps. None of the crew seemed willing to cut across the ten paces separating the two men.
Kalam made his way to the treasurer’s side. “You have taken command, then?”
The man nodded sharply, his diffidence obvious as he avoided the assassin’s eye. “I intend to buy our way clear—”
“Take your cut, you mean. And how much would that be? Eighty, ninety percent? With you along as hostage, of course.” He watched the blood leave the man’s face.
“This is not your concern,” the treasurer said.
“You’re right. But killing the captain and his officers is, because it jeopardizes this voyage. If the crew doesn’t know for certain, you can rest assured it suspects.”
“We have the marines to deal with that. Back away and you’ll survive intact. Step in and you’ll be cut down.”
Kalam studied the raider. “And what’s their percentage? What’s to stop them from slitting your throat and sailing off with the whole share?”
The treasurer smiled. “I doubt my uncle and cousins would do that. Now, I suggest you go below—back to your cabin—and stay there.”
Ignoring that advice, Kalam went off to find the marines.
The engagement with the pirates had been fierce and short. Not only was the ship coming apart under them, but there was little fight left in the raider’s panicked crew.
“More like a slaughter,” the lieutenant muttered as the assassin crouched down opposite her. The two squads sat in the forward hold, amidst streams of water running down the planks, busy stuffing rags into the breaches in the hull. “We didn’t even take a scratch.”
“What have you worked out thus far?” Kalam quietly asked.
She shrugged. “As much as we need to, Corporal. What do you want us to do?”
“The treasurer will order you to stand down. The pirates will then relieve you of your weapons—”
“At which point they slit our throats and toss us overside—Imperial Writ or no, the man’s committing treason.”
“Well, he’s stealing from a thief, but I take your point.” Kalam rose. “I’ll talk with the crew and get back to you, Lieutenant.”
“Why don’t we take down the treasurer and his bodyguard right now, Kalam?”
The assassin’s eyes narrowed. “Stick to the rules, Lieutenant. Leave murder to those whose souls are already stained.”
She bit her lip, studied him for a long time, then slowly nodded.
Kalam found the sailor he’d spoken with when the hold was being loaded at the Aren pier. The man was coiling ropes on the sterncastle with the air of someone needing to keep busy.
“Heard you saved the captain,” the sailor said.
“He’s alive, but in bad shape.”
“Aye. Cook’s standing outside his cabin door, sir. Wi’ a cleaver and—ask any hog—the man can use it. Beru’s blessing, I seen the man shave wi’ it once, as clean as a virgin’s tit.”
“Who is standing in for the officers?”
“If y’ mean who’s got things shipshape an
d all the hands at stations, that’d be me, sir, only our new commander ain’t much interested in jawing wi’ me. His swordsman’s come over to tell me t’ get ready to heave to, once the seas have settled some.”
“To transfer cargo.”
The man nodded.
“And then?”
“Well now, if the commander’s true to his word, they’ll let us go.”
Kalam grunted. “And why would they be so kind?”
“Aye, I’ve been chewin’ that one myself. We got sharp enough eyes—too sharp for them to breathe easy. Besides, there’s what’s been done to Captain. Got us a little peeved, that has.”
Boots thumped midships and the two men turned to see the bodyguard lead the marines onto the main deck. The lieutenant was looking none too happy.
“It’s the gods’ puke all round us now, sir,” the sailor muttered. “Raider’s closing.”
“So we’ve arrived,” Kalam said under his breath. He looked across to Salk Elan and found the man’s eyes on him. The assassin gave a nod and Elan casually turned away, his hands hidden beneath his cloak.
“That raider’s got a shipload of swords, sir. I make fifty or more, all gettin’ ready.”
“Leave them to the marines. Your crew stays back—spread the word.”
The sailor moved off.
Kalam made his way to the main deck. The treasurer was facing off with the lieutenant.
“I said to surrender your weapons, Lieutenant!” the treasurer snapped.
“No, sir. We will not.”
The treasurer was trembling with rage. He gestured to his bodyguard.
The big tribesman did not get very far. He made a choking sound, hands reaching up to claw at the knife protruding from his throat. Then he fell to his knees, toppled.
Salk Elan stepped forward. “Change of plans, my dear sir,” he said, bending to retrieve his knife.
The assassin moved behind the treasurer and pushed the point of his long-knife against the man’s lower back. “Not a word,” he growled, “not a move.” He then turned to the marines. “Lieutenant, prepare to repel boarders.”
“Aye, sir.”
The raider was coming alongside, the pirates jostling as they prepared to leap the distance between the ships. The difference in height meant that they had a climb to make—nor could those on deck see much of what awaited them on Ragstopper. A lone crewman on the raider had begun a lazy climb toward the lone mast’s tiny crow’s nest.
Too late, you fools.
The pirate captain—the treasurer’s uncle, Kalam assumed—shouted a greeting across the distance.
“Say hello,” the assassin growled. “Who knows, if your cousins are good enough, you might win the day yet.”
The treasurer raised a hand, called out his answer.
There was less than ten paces between the two ships now. Salk Elan approached those of the Ragstopper’s crew who stood near the marines. “When she’s close enough, use the grappling hooks. Make sure we’re snug, lads, because if she gets away, she’ll hound us from here to Falar.”
The pirate climbing the mast was halfway up, already swinging around to see if he could get a better look at the scene on Ragstopper’s main deck.
The raider’s crew threw lines across. The ships closed.
A cry of warning from the lookout was cut short by a crossbow quarrel. The man toppled, landing amidst his fellows crowding the raider’s deck. Angry shouts arose.
Kalam gripped the treasurer by the collar and dragged him back as the first of the pirates leaped the distance and swarmed up Ragstopper’s flank.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” the treasurer hissed.
The marines answered the assault with a murderous flight of quarrels. The first line of pirates pitched back.
Salk Elan shouted a warning that brought Kalam spinning around. Hovering just off the port side, directly behind the grouped marines, an apparition took form, its wings ten paces across, its shimmering scales bright yellow and blinding in the new day’s light. The long reptilian head was a mass of fangs.
An enkar’al—this far from Raraku—Hood’s breath!
“I warned you!” the treasurer laughed.
The creature was a blur as it plunged into the midst of the marines, talons crunching through chain and helms.
Kalam whirled again, drove his fist into the grinning treasurer’s face. The man dropped to the deck unconscious, blood gushing from his nose and eyes.
“Kalam!” Salk Elan shouted. “Leave the mage to me—help the marines!”
The assassin bolted forward. Enkar’al were mortal enough, just notoriously hard to kill, and rare even in their desert home the assassin had never before faced one.
Seven marines were down. The creature’s wings thundered as it hung over the rest, its two taloned limbs darting downward, clashing against shields.
Pirates were streaming onto Ragstopper, opposed now by only half a dozen marines, the lieutenant among them.
Kalam had little time to think of what he planned, and none to gauge Salk Elan’s progress. “Stiffen shields!” he bellowed, then leaped forward, scrambling onto the shields. The enkar’al twisted around, razor claws lashing at his face. He ducked and drove his long-knife up between the creature’s legs.
The point jammed against scale, snapping like a twig.
“Hood!”
Dropping the weapon, Kalam surged upward, clambering over the gnarled, scaly hide. Jaws snapped down at him but could not reach. The assassin swung around, onto the beast’s back.
Sorcerous concussions reached his ears from the raider’s deck.
Thrusting knife in one hand, his other arm looped around the enkar’al’s sinuous neck, Kalam began slashing at the beating wings. The blade slipped through membrane, opening wide, spreading gaps. The enkar’al fell to the deck, into the midst of the surviving marines, who closed in around it, thrusting with their short swords.
The heavier weapons succeeded where long-knife failed, driving between scales. Blood sprayed. The creature screamed, thrashing about in its death throes.
There was fighting on all sides now, as pirates converged to cut down the last of the marines. Kalam clambered off the dying enkar’al, shifted the knife to his left hand and found a short sword lying beside a dead marine, barely in time to meet the charge of two pirates, their heavy scimitars slashing down on both sides.
The assassin leaped between the two men, inside their reach, stabbed swiftly with both weapons, then pushed past, twisting his blades as he dragged them free.
His awareness blurred then, as Kalam surged through a crush of pirates, cutting, slashing and stabbing on all sides. He lost his knife as it jammed between ribs, used the freed hand to yank a helmet away from a collapsing warrior and jam it onto his head—the skullcap was too small, and a glancing blow from a wailing scimitar sent it flying even as he broke through the press, skidding on blood-slick decking as he spun around.
Half a dozen pirates wheeled to attack him.
Salk Elan struck the group from the side, a long-knife in either hand. Three pirates went down in the first attack. Kalam launched himself forward, batting aside a blade, then driving stiff fingers into its wielder’s throat.
A moment later the clash of weapons had ceased. Figures were sprawled on all sides, some moaning, some shrieking and gibbering in pain, but most still and silent.
Kalam dropped to one knee, struggling to regain his breath.
“What a mess!” Salk Elan muttered, crouching to wipe his blades clean.
The assassin lifted his head and stared at him. Elan’s fine clothes were scorched and soaked in blood. Half his face was bright red, flash-burned, the eyebrow on that side a smear of ash. He was breathing heavily, and every breath caused him obvious pain.
Kalam looked past the man. Not a single marine was standing. A handful of sailors moved among the bodies, pulling free those that still lived—they’d found but two thus far, neither one the lieutenant.
T
he acting First Mate came to the assassin’s side. “Cook wants to know.”
“What?”
“Is that big lizard tasty?”
Salk Elan’s laugh became a cough.
“A delicacy,” Kalam muttered. “A hundred jakatas a pound in Pan’potsun.”
“Permission to cross over to the raider, sir,” the sailor continued. “We can resupply.”
The assassin nodded.
“I’ll go with you,” Salk Elan managed.
“Appreciate that, sir.”
“Hey,” one of the sailors called, “what should we do with the treasurer? The bastard’s still alive.”
“Leave him to me,” Kalam said.
The treasurer was conscious as they loaded him down with sacks of coin, making noises behind his gag, his eyes wide. Kalam and Salk Elan carried the man between them to the side and pitched him over without ceremony.
Sharks converged on the splash the man made, but the effort of following him down proved too great for the already sated creatures.
The stripped-down raider was still burning beneath a column of smoke as it vanished beyond the horizon.
The Whirlwind lifted itself into a towering wall, higher than the eye could fathom and over a mile in width, around the Holy Desert Raraku. Within the wasteland’s heart, all remained calm, the air refulgent with golden light.
Battered ridges of bedrock rose above the sands ahead, like blackened bones. Walking half a dozen paces in front, Leoman paused and turned. “We must cross a place of spirits,” he said.
Felisin nodded. “Older than this desert…they have risen and now watch us.”
“Do they mean us harm, Sha’ik Reborn?” the Toblakai asked, reaching for his weapon.
“No. They may be curious, but they are beyond caring.” She turned to Heboric. The ex-priest was still huddled within himself, hidden beneath his tattoos. “What do you sense?”
He flinched away from her voice, as if every word sent his way was a jagged dart. “One needn’t be an immortal ghost not to care,” he muttered.
She studied him. “Fleeing from the joy of being reborn cannot last, Heboric. What you fear is becoming human once again—”
His laugh was bitter, sardonic.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 135