by Mel Odom
The big pirate followed a game trail through the short forest of conifers, but he left it in a rush, plunging through a wall of overgrown brush and disappearing.
Darrick redoubled his efforts, almost overrunning his own abilities after the long, demanding climb up the mountainside. Black spots swam in his vision and he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs.
If the pirates discovered them, Darrick knew he and his group of warriors had little chance of reaching Lonesome Star out in the Gulf of Westmarch before the pirate ships overtook them. At the very least, they’d be killed out of hand, perhaps along with the young boy who had been taken captive.
Darrick reached the spot where the pirate had lunged through the brush and threw himself after the man. Almost disoriented in the darkness of the forest, he lost his bearings for a moment. He glanced up automatically, but the thick tree canopy blocked sight of the stars, so he couldn’t set himself straight. Relying on his hearing, tracking the bigger man’s passage through the brush, Darrick kept running.
Without warning, something exploded from the darkness. There was just enough ambient light for Darrick to get an impression of large leathery wings, glistening black eyes, and shiny white teeth that came at him. At least a dozen of the bats descended on him, outraged at the pirate’s passing. Their harsh squeals were near deafening in the enclosed space, and their sharp teeth lit fiery trails along his flesh for an instant.
Darrick lashed out with his knife and never broke stride. The grimsable bats were noted for their pack-hunting abilities and often tracked down small game. Though he’d never seen it himself, Darrick had heard that flocks of the blood-drinking predators had even brought down full-grown men and stripped the flesh from their bones.
Only a short distance ahead, with the bats searching without success behind him, Darrick tripped over a fallen tree and went sprawling. He rolled with it, maintaining his hard-fisted grasp on the knife. The cutlass smashed against his hip with bruising force. Then he was up again, alert to the shift in direction his quarry had taken.
Breath burning the back of his throat, Darrick raced through the forest. His heart triphammered inside his chest, and his hearing was laced with the dulled roaring of blood in his ears. He caught a tree with his free hand and brought himself around in a sharp turn as the bark tore loose from the trunk.
The big pirate wasn’t faring well, either. His breathing was ragged and hoarse, and there was no measured cadence left to it.
Given time, Darrick knew he could run the man to ground. But he was almost out of time. Even now he could see the flickering yellow light of a campfire glimmering in the darkness through the branches of the fir and spruce trees.
The pirate burst free of the forest and ran for the campfire.
Trap? Darrick wondered. Or desperation? Could be he’s more afraid of Captain Raithen’s rage than he is that I might overtake him. Even the Westmarch captains showed harsh discipline. Darrick bore scars from whips in the past as he’d fought and shoved his way up through the ranks. The officers had never dished out anything more than he could bear, and one day some of those captains would regret the punishments they’d doled out to him.
Without hesitating, knowing he had no choice about trying to stop the man, Darrick charged from the forest, summoning his last bit of energy. If there were more men than the one surviving pirate, he knew he was done for. He leaned into his running stride, coming close to going beyond his own control.
The campfire was set at the bottom of a low promontory. The twisting flames scrawled harsh shadows against the hollow of the promontory. Above it, only a short distance out of easy reach, the small cauldron of pitch blend that was the intended signal pot hung from a trio of crossed branches set into the ground.
Darrick knew the signal pot was in clear view of the next post up the river. Once the pirate ignited the pitch blend, there was no way to stop the signal.
Wheezing and gasping for air, the pirate reached the campfire and bent down, grabbed a nearby torch, and shoved it into the flames. The torch caught at once, burning blue and yellow because the pitch had been soaked in whale oil. Holding the torch in one hand, the big pirate started up the promontory, making the climb with ease.
Darrick threw himself at the pirate, hoping he had enough strength and speed left to make the distance. He caught the pirate knee-high with his shoulders, then slammed his face against the granite mountainside. Dazed, he felt the pirate fall back across him, and they both slid down the steep incline over the broken rock surface.
The pirate recovered first, shoving himself to his feet and pulling his sword. Light from the campfire limned his face, revealing the fear and anger etched there. He took a two-handed hold on his weapon and struck.
Darrick rolled away from the blade, almost disbelieving when the sword missed him. Still in motion, he rolled to a kneeling position, then drew his cutlass as he pushed himself to his feet. Knife in one hand and cutlass in the other, he set himself to face the pirate almost twice his size.
New agony flared through Raithen as the woman ground her teeth in his neck. He felt his own warm blood spray down his neck, and panic welled from deep inside him, hammering at the confines of his skull like a captive tiger in a minstrel show. For one frightening moment he thought a vampire had attacked him. Maybe the woman had found a way to trade her essence to one of the undead monsters that Raithen suspected Buyard Cholik hunted through the ruins of the two cities.
Mastering the cold fear that ran rampant along his spine, Raithen tried to back away. Vampires aren’t real! he told himself. I’ve never seen one.
Sensing his movement, the woman butted into him, striking his chin with the top of her head, and threw her arms around him, holding tight as a leech. Her lips and teeth searched out new places, rending his flesh.
Screaming in pain, surprised at her maneuver even though he’d been expecting her to do something, Raithen shook and twisted his right arm. The small throwing knife concealed in a cunning sheath there dropped into his waiting palm butt-first. He wrapped his fingers around the knife haft, turned his hand, and drove it into the woman’s stomach.
Her mouth opened in a strained gasp that feathered over his cheek. She released his neck and wrapped her hands around his forearm, pushing to pull the knife from her body. She shook her head in denial and stumbled back.
Grabbing the back of her head, knotting his fingers in her hair so she couldn’t just slip away from him and maybe even make it through the doorway out of the room, Raithen stepped forward and trapped the woman against the wall. She looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder as he angled the knife up and searched for her heart.
“Bastard,” she breathed. A bloody rose bloomed on her lips as her blood-misted word emerged arthritically.
Raithen held her, watching the life and understanding go out of her eyes, knowing full well what he was taking from her. His own fear returned to him in a rush as blood continued to stream down the side of his neck. He was afraid she’d been successful in biting through his jugular, which meant he would bleed to death in minutes, with no way to stop it. There were no healers on board the pirate ships in Tauruk’s Port, and all the priests were locked away for tonight or busy digging through the graves of Tauruk’s Port. Even then, there was no telling how many healers were among them.
In the next moment, the woman went limp, her dead weight pulling at the pirate captain’s arm.
Suspicious by nature, Raithen held on to the woman and his knife. She might have been faking—even with four inches of good steel in her. It was something he had done with success in the past, and taken two men’s lives in the process.
After a moment of holding the woman, Raithen knew she would never move again. Her lips remained parted, colored a little by the blood that had stopped flowing. Dull and lifeless, her eyes stared through the pirate captain. Her face held no expression.
“Damn me, woman,” Raithen whispered with genuine regret. “Had I known you had this kind of fire in you b
efore now, our times together could have been spent much better.” He breathed in, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the perfume he’d given her from the latest spoils, then demanded that she wear to bed. He also smelled the coppery odor of blood. Both scents were intoxicating.
The door to the room broke open.
Raithen prepared for the worst, spinning and placing the corpse between himself and the doorway. He slipped the knife free of the dead woman’s flesh and held it before him.
A grizzled man stepped into the room with a crossbow in his hands. He squinted against the bright light streaming from the fireplace. “Cap’n? Cap’n Raithen?” The crossbow held steady in the man’s hands, aimed at the two bodies.
“Aim that damnfool thing away from me, Pettit,” Raithen growled. “You can never trust a crossbow to hold steady.”
The sailor pulled the crossbow off line and canted the metal-encased butt against his hip. He reached up and doffed his tricorn hat. “Begging the cap’s pardon, but I thought ye was in some fair amount of rough water there. With all that squallering a-goin’ on, I mean. Didn’t know you was up here after enjoying yerself with one of the doxies.”
“The enjoyment,” Raithen said with a forced calm because he still wanted to know how bad the wound on his neck was, “was not all mine.” He released the dead woman, and she thumped to the floor at his feet.
As captain of some of the most vicious pirates to sail the Great Sea and the Gulf of Westmarch, he had an image to maintain. If any of his crew sensed weakness, someone would try to exploit it. He’d taken his own captaincy of Barracuda at the same time he’d taken his former captain’s life.
Pettit grinned and spat into the dented bronze cuspidor in the corner of the room. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then said, “Looks like ye’ve about had yer fill of that one. Want me to bring another one up?”
“No.” Controlling the fear and curiosity that raged within him, Raithen cleaned his bloody knife on the woman’s clothes, then crossed the room to the mirror. It was cracked and contained dark gray age spots where the silver-powder backing had worn away. “But she did remind me of something, Pettit.”
“What’s that, cap’n?”
“That damned priest, Cholik, has been thinking of us as lackeys.” Raithen peered into the mirror, surveying the wound on his neck, poking at the edges of it with his fingers. Thank the Light, it wasn’t bleeding any more than it had been, and it even appeared to be stopping.
The flesh between the bite marks was raised, swollen, and already turning purple. Bits of skin and even the meat beneath hung in tatters. It would scar, Raithen knew. The thought made him bitter because he was vain about his looks. By most accounts, he was a handsome man and had taken care to remain that way. And it would give him a more colorful and acceptable excuse about how all the bruising had taken place around his neck.
“Aye,” Pettit grunted. “Them priests, they get up under a man’s skin with them high-and-mighty ways of theirs. Always actin’ like they got a snootful of air what’s better’n the likes of ye and me. There’s been a night or two on watch when I’d think about goin’ after one of them and guttin’ him, leavin’ him out for the others to find. Might put them in a more appreciatin’ frame o’ mind about what we’re a-doin’ here.”
Satisfied that his life wasn’t in danger unless the woman was carrying some kind of disease that hadn’t become apparent yet, Raithen took a kerchief from his pocket and tied it around his neck. “That’s not a bad idea, Pettit.”
“Thank ye, cap’n. I’m always thinkin’. And, why, this here deserted city with all them stories o’ demons and the like, it’d be a perfect place to pull something like that. Why, we’d find out who the true believers were among ol’ Cholik’s bunch fer damn sure.” He grinned, revealing only a few straggling, stained teeth remaining in his mouth.
“Some of the men might get worried, too.” Raithen surveyed the kerchief around his neck in the mirror. Actually, it didn’t look bad on him. In time, when the wound scarred over properly, he’d invent stories about how he’d gotten it in the arms of a lover he’d slain or stolen from, or some crazed and passionate princess out of Kurast he’d taken for ransom then returned deflowered to her father, the king, after getting his weight in gold.
“Well, we could tell the men what was what, cap’n.”
“A secret, Pettit, is kept by one man. Even sharing it between the two of us endangers it. Telling a whole crew?” Raithen shook his head and tried not to wince when his neck pained him. “That would be stupid.”
Pettit frowned. “Well, somethin’ has to be done. Them priests has discovered a door down there in them warrens. An’ if the past behavior of them priests is anythin’ to go by, they ain’t a-gonna let us look at what’s behind it none.”
“A door?” Raithen turned to his second-in-command. “What door?”
The big pirate, Lon, attacked Darrick Lang without any pretense at skilled swordplay. He just fetched up that huge sword of his in both hands and brought it crashing down toward Darrick’s head, intending to split it like an overripe melon.
Thrusting his cutlass up, knowing there was a chance that the bigger sword might shear his own blade but having no other choice for defense, Darrick caught the descending blade. He didn’t try to stop the sword’s descent, but he did redirect it to the side, stepping to one side as he did because he expected the sudden reversal the pirate tried. He didn’t entirely block the blow, though, and the flat of the blade slammed against his skull, almost knocking him out and leaving him disoriented.
Working on sheer instinct and guided by skilled responses, Darrick managed to lock his opponent’s blade with his while he struggled to hold on to his senses. His vision and hearing faded out, as the world sometimes did between slow rollers when Lonesome Star followed wave troughs instead of cutting through them.
Recovering a little, Lon shoved Darrick back but didn’t gain much ground.
Moving with skill and the dark savagery that filled him any time he fought, Darrick took a step forward and head-butted the pirate in the face.
Moaning, Lon stumbled back.
Darrick showed no mercy, pushing himself forward again. Obviously employing all the skill he had just to keep himself alive, the pirate kept retreating, stumbling and tripping over the broken terrain as he tried to walk up the incline behind him. Only a moment later, he went too far.
As though from a great distance, Darrick heard the man’s boots scrape in the loose dirt, then the man fell, flailing and yelling, in the end wrapping his arms about his head. Ruthless and quick, Darrick knocked the pirate’s blade from his hand, sending the big sword spinning through the air to land in the dense brush a dozen yards away.
Lon held his hands up. “I surrender! I surrender! Give me mercy!”
But, dazed as he was from the near miss of the sword, mercy was out of Darrick’s reach. He remembered the bodies he’d seen in the flotsam left by the plunderers who had taken the Westmarch ship. Even that was hard to hang on to, because his battered mind slipped even farther back into the past, recalling the beatings his father had given him while he was a child. The man had been a butcher, big and rough, with powerful, callused hands that could split skin over a cheekbone with a single slap.
For a number of years, Darrick had never understood his father’s anger or rage at him; he’d always assumed he’d done something wrong, not been a good son. It wasn’t until he got older that he understood everything that was at play in their relationship.
“Mercy,” the pirate begged.
But the main voice that Darrick listened to was his father’s, cursing and swearing at him, threatening to beat him to death or bleed him out like a fresh-butchered hog. Darrick drew back his cutlass and swung, aiming to take the pirate’s head off.
Without warning, a sword darted out and deflected Darrick’s blow, causing the blade to cut into the earth only inches from the pirate’s arm-wrapped head. “No,” someone said.
S
till lost in the memory of beatings he’d gotten at his father’s hands, the present overlapping the past, Darrick spun and lifted his sword. Incredibly, someone caught his arm before he could swing and halted the blow.
“Darrick, it’s me. It’s me, Darrick. Mat.” Thick and hoarse with emotion, Mat’s voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s me, damn it, leave off. We need this man alive.”
Head filled with pain, vision still spotty from the pirate’s blow, Darrick squinted his eyes and tried to focus. Forced out as he made his way to the present reality, memory of those past events left with reluctance.
“He’s not your father, Darrick,” Mat said.
Darrick focused on his friend, feeling the emotion drain from him, leaving him weak and shaking. “I know. I know that.” But he knew he hadn’t, not really. The pirate’s blow had almost taken away his senses. He took in a deep breath and struggled to continue clearing his head.
“We need him alive,” Mat said. “There’s the matter of the king’s nephew. This man has information we can use.”
“I know.” Darrick looked at Mat. “Let me go.”
Mat’s eyes searched his, but the grip on his swordarm never wavered. “You’re sure?”
Looking over his friend’s shoulder, Darrick saw the other sailors in his shore crew. Only old Maldrin didn’t seem surprised by the bloodthirsty behavior Darrick had exhibited. Not many of the crew knew of the dark fury that sometimes escaped Darrick’s control. It hadn’t gotten away from him for a long time until tonight.
“I’m sure,” Darrick said.
Mat released him. “Those times are past us. You don’t ever have to revisit them. Your father didn’t follow us from Hillsfar. We left him there those years ago. We left him there, and good riddance, I say.”