Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  Then he saw: six low shapes gliding across the water. Each shallow boat was rowed by a dozen men, with another dozen standing in the middle, armed and ready.

  The soldier had orders to toss a pot of special powder on the fire that would turn the flames bright red; then he was to strike a gong. Reivers were entering the harbor! As he turned, a line snapped out, weighted at one end, and before he could take another step, his neck was broken.

  The assassin had concealed himself beneath the window of the tower, crouching low upon a support beam, barely two inches of which protruded beyond the stone. He quickly pulled himself into the window and removed the metal hooks he had used to climb the wall by embedding their points in the mortar between the stones. He hurried down the winding stairs, killing two more guards along the way. Three men served each night in the tower, with another three in a small guard shack at the base. As he reached the shack, the assassin saw three bodies slumped over a table, while a pair of black-clad forms moved away. He quickly overtook them, and the three killers hurried along the causeway of land called Longpoint that led from the town to the lighthouse. One of the black-garbed killers glanced toward the harbor. Another dozen pinnaces followed the first six, and the raid would soon begin in earnest. Still no alarm sounded, and all was proceeding as planned.

  Longpoint broadened, with a low dock on one side and shops and storage buildings on the other. Silent ships rested alongside the quay, with half-alert sentries dozing upon their quarterdecks. A door opened as the three assassins passed, and the last patron of a dockside inn stumbled out. He was dead before he took two steps, as was the innkeeper who had shown him the door. One of the three killers glanced through the door, and the innkeeper’s wife died from an expertly thrown knife before she realized it was a stranger in the doorway instead of her husband.

  They would fire the docks and destroy the ships at anchor, but not yet. It would alert the castle, and if the raid was to succeed, the garrison must not be roused until after the keep gates were opened.

  The three killers reached the main docks. They passed one last ship in its berth and saw movement at the bow. One assassin drew back a throwing knife, ready to kill any who might give alarm too soon, but a familiar black-clad figure waved once, and climbed over the rail, shinnying down the bowline to join his three companions. The guards on that ship were now all dead. They continued south along the docks, to where they found the small boats pulling in. Two other black-garbed men waited. They kept their distance from the armed men who now silently climbed up from the shallow boats tied off below. This was a murderous crew, men of no loyalty and one goal: killing and booty. The six men in black felt no kinship with these brigands.

  But even these hardened men stepped away in dread to clear a path for the hooded and robed figure who climbed up from the last boat. He motioned toward the castle, and the six dark assassins sped up the road toward the keep. Their task was to climb the walls and open the gates. All other considerations were to wait for the breach of the final defense of Crydee.

  The robed man beckoned and a small group stepped away from the main force. This band he had picked to be the first through the gate. They were the men he judged most likely to keep their wits and follow orders during the first frenzied moments of combat. But to drive home their instructions, he said, ‘Remember, your orders. If any man breaks my commands, I will personally cut out his liver and eat it before life fades from his eyes.’ He smiled, and even the hardest of these men felt a chill, for the man’s teeth had been filed to points, the mark of a Skashakan cannibal. The leader threw back his hood, revealing a head devoid of hair. His massive brow was close to a deformity, as was his protruding jaw. Each earlobe had been pierced and stretched until long loops of flesh hung to his shoulders, with gold fetishes tied to the loops. A golden ring decorated his nose, and his fair skin was covered in purple tattoos, which made his blue eyes even more startling and terrifying.

  The captain glanced back into the harbor, where the third wave of pinnaces should be approaching, another three hundred men. Silence was less a problem for the third wave, as he fully expected the alarm to sound before the third band of raiders reached the docks.

  Another man approached and said, ‘Captain, everyone is in place.’

  To the group nearest to him he said, ‘Go, the gates will be open when you reach them. Hold or die.’

  To the man who had approached he said, ‘Does everyone understand the orders?’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes. They can kill the old men and old women, and any children too young to survive the journey, but everyone who is young and healthy is to be captured, not killed.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘The men don’t like it, Captain. A little rape is part of the caper. Some say it’s the best part,’ he added with a smirk.

  The captain’s hand shot out and gripped the man’s shirt. Pulling him close enough so his sick-sweet breath filled the man’s nostrils, he spoke in tones of low menace. ‘Vasarius, you have your orders.’ He pushed the man roughly away and pointed to where a half-dozen men stood silently observing. Cross-gartered sandals too light for these cooler climates were all the protection afforded their feet, and except for the black leather harnesses that formed an H on back and chest, and leather masks covering their faces, they wore no clothing save black leather kilts. They stood motionless in the cool night air, ignoring whatever discomfort the other men might have felt. They were slavers from the guild in Durbin, and their reputations were enough to cow even as hard a crew as Captain Render’s band of cut-throats.

  Render said, ‘Well enough I know who put that complaint in the men’s minds. You’re too hungry for the feel of young girls’ flesh to make a good slaver, Quegan, so mark this: if one of these maidens is violated, I will kill the offending man and take your head for good measure. With your share of the gold you can buy yourself a dozen young girls once you reach Kesh. Now see to your men!’ He shoved the Quegan pirate away and turned to the remaining reivers, who stood ready to attack.

  He held his hand aloft, signaling the men on the docks to be quiet. They waited for the sound of battle to reach them. Long moments passed, then suddenly an alarm sounded from the keep. The pirate captain signaled and the assembled throng of cut-throats roared as one and sped into the town. Within minutes, flames were lighting the night, as torches were put to strategic buildings.

  Captain Render howled a delighted laugh, knowing that the once peaceful town of Crydee was dissolving into chaos. He was in his element, and like the master of ceremonies at a grand palace gala, he delighted in every aspect of the event unfolding as planned. Pulling his own sword from its scabbard, he turned and raced after his charging men, intent on getting his fair share of the murder.

  Briana’s eyes opened. Something was wrong. A child of Armengar, a city of constant warfare, she had learned to sleep in armor with a sword in her hand before reaching womanhood. Past sixty years of age, she still moved out of her bed with the fluid grace of a woman half her age. Without thought, she drew her sword from the scabbard that hung from the wall peg closest to her dressing table. Clad only in a thin nightshirt, her grey hair tumbling around her shoulders, she moved toward the door of her suite.

  A scream echoed down the hall and Briana hurried toward the door. It opened as she reached for it, and she leaped back, her sword coming up. Before her stood a stranger, holding a sword leveled in her direction. A rough voice shouted from down the corridor and the distant sounds of fighting came from somewhere else in the keep. The figure in the door showed no features, as another stood behind him holding a torch, rendering the first man in silhouette. Briana brought her sword up, shifted her stance, and waited.

  The shadowy figure stepped forward: a short man with close-cropped blond hair, his blue eyes half-mad under heavy brows as he grinned at her. ‘Just a grandmother with a sword,’ he complained, his voice almost a whine. ‘Too old to sell. I’ll kill her.’ He lashed out with his sword. The Duchess parried easily,
slipping her blade around his and running up inside his guard to catch him under the arm in a swift killing blow.

  ‘She’s killed Little Harold!’ cried the man holding the torch. Three men rushed forward past the torchbearer, fanning out. Briana stepped back, keeping her eyes on the centermost, while remaining aware of the other two. She knew the center opponent was likely to feign attack, while the true attack would come from one or both of the men on the flanks. Her only hope was that these men were not practiced in fighting in a coordinated fashion and would inconvenience one another.

  As she anticipated, the center swordsman leaped forward and then back. The man on her left, her weakest side, was moving toward her, his massive cutlass held high for a slashing bow. Briana ducked under his blade, impaling him on her sword point. As the man’s legs went rubbery, she gripped his free hand with her own. Swinging him to her right, she propelled him into the path of the attacker on the right.

  The center attacker was the next to die, as he fully expected her to be occupied by his companions and did not anticipate her attack. Briana’s sword lashed out, taking him in the throat, and he stumbled back, unable to make a sound as blood fountained from the gaping wound under his chin. The last man died as he tried to free himself from the body of his companion, a slashing blow to the back of his exposed neck killing him instantly.

  Briana reached down and freed a long dagger from the belt of the last man to die, as she knew she would have no time to don armor or find a shield. The raider who stood before the door holding the torch was watching down the hall, expecting the other three to have finished the lone woman in her chamber. He died before he had time to turn and see if the murder was done.

  The dying man fell atop his torch, extinguishing it. Briana turned in shock as the hallway remained lighted. Angry red and yellow light illuminated the corridor, and she saw that the far end of the hall was ablaze. A scream caused Briana to turn from the flames and run as fast as she could toward her daughter’s rooms.

  Bare feet slapped on flagstones as the Duchess of Crydee raced to the far end of the hall. There Abigail crouched in a doorway, her nightgown half torn from her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear and she screamed again. At her feet lay a dead raider, and at her side Margaret crouched, a long dagger held ready to defend herself. A wounded man eyed her warily, and Margaret never acknowledged her mother’s approach, so as not to give the man warning. He died a second later as Briana struck him from behind.

  Margaret grabbed the fallen man’s sword and felt its balance. Abigail rose, and Margaret thrust the dagger at her, hilt first.

  Abigail looked down at the bloody weapon and reached to take it, then clutched at failing fabric as the nightdress slipped down off her shoulder.

  ‘Damn it, Abigail, worry about your modesty later! If you live long enough.’

  Abigail took the dagger, and the torn nightgown fell to her waist. She covered her breasts with her left arm and awkwardly gripped the bloody hilt. Then she grabbed the fabric of her gown and tried to cover herself.

  Briana pointed down the hallway, saying, ‘For them to be here, they’ve already killed our soldiers on the lower floors. If we can hold at the tower until the rest of the garrison fights its way from the barracks to the keep, we may survive.’

  The three women headed toward the far door, to the southern tower of the keep. But before they were halfway to the door, a half-dozen men came into view. Briana halted and motioned for her daughter and Abigail to move back toward their quarters, as she stood ready to defend them.

  Margaret took one step and halted as more men came into view behind them. She spun, back to back with her mother, and said, ‘We can’t.’

  Briana glanced behind her, then said, ‘Try to hold as long as you can.’

  Margaret pushed Abigail to her left, saying, ‘They will try to come at me from my weak side.’ When Abigail looked confused, she said, ‘My left side! Don’t worry about your right. Stab at anything that moves on your left.’

  The frightened girl awkwardly held the blade out, her knuckles white from holding it so tight. Her left arm pressed hard across her chest, holding up the top of her tattered nightdress. The men at both ends of the hall approached warily. They stopped out of sword range and waited.

  Then those facing Margaret and Abigail moved aside, to let three large men in black masks come to the fore. The leader of the three looked at the women a long moment and said, ‘Kill the old one, but do not harm the two young ones.’

  With unexpected speed, one of the three men lashed out underhand with a heavy black whip. The slaver’s strap snaked toward Margaret’s sword arm. She instinctively twisted her wrist in a downward parry, but this was not a blade she attempted to block. The cord turned over in a serpentine and suddenly snapped around her arm, the stinging impact bringing a gasp from her. Rough leather closed down on her forearm as the large slaver pulled hard on the whip. Margaret was a strong young woman, but she was pulled off balance, yelling as she fell.

  Briana spun around to see what was wrong with her daughter, and found Abigail staring, eyes wide with terror, as Margaret was dragged along the floor by the big slaver. Briana leaped forward, blade slashing down, trying to sever the whip.

  Margaret rolled on her back, yelling to Abigail, ‘Cut it!’

  Then she saw Briana’s eyes widen. Behind her stood a raider, and Margaret knew he had seized the moment to strike from behind. ‘Abby! Cut the cord!’ screamed Margaret, but her companion could only huddle in fear, pressing her back to the wall.

  ‘Mother!’ screamed Margaret as Briana fell to her knees. Another man stepped up behind the first and grabbed the Duchess by her hair, pulling her head back for a killing blow. Briana reversed her sword and thrust backward hard. The man holding her hair screamed in agony, doubling over as blood fountained through his fingers while he clutched at his groin.

  The man who had struck Briana first didn’t hesitate. He drew back his sword and plunged it hard once again into her back. Rough hands grabbed Margaret’s arm and twisted it cruelly, forcing her to release the sword. ‘Mother!’ she screamed again as Briana’s eyes went vacant and she fell forward onto the stone floor.

  The third slaver rushed forward and grabbed Abigail by the hair, yanking her roughly up, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. She screamed in terror and the dagger fell from her hand as she reached upward to relieve the pain of being pulled up by her tresses, and her gown fell to her waist.

  The men howled and laughed in delight at the sight of her bare breasts. One started to move toward her, stepping over the still body of the Duchess, and the first slaver shouted, ‘Touch her and die!’

  Two men hauled Margaret, kicking and clawing, up off the floor and quickly tied the girl’s wrists, then hobbled her feet so she couldn’t kick out. The slaver who had used his whip on her slid a wooden rod through the cords around her wrists and ordered the two men to hold her up. Margaret, like Abigail, had to stand on tiptoe, which gave her little opportunity to resist. The leader of slavers reached out and ripped the bodice of Margaret’s gown. She spat at him, but he ignored the spittle upon his black mask. Gripping the waistband, he tore away the remaining cloth and she stood naked before him. With a practiced eye, he inspected her. He touched her small breasts, and ran his hand down her flat stomach. ‘Turn her,’ he commanded. The two men turned Margaret to face away from the slaver. The slaver ran his hand down her back; there was nothing intimate in the touch. He inspected her the way a horse trader inspected a potential purchase. He fondled her buttocks and ran his hand down long legs that were well muscled from riding and running. With a satisfied grunt, he said, ‘This one isn’t pretty, but she is steel under that velvet skin. There’s a market for strong girls who can fight. Some buyers like them mean and rough. Or she may earn her life fighting in the arena.’

  He then looked back at Abigail. He motioned and another slaver tore away all her gown. The men laughed appreciatively at the sight of the rest of her body, and several comp
lained openly about not being able to take her right there.

  The slaver’s eyes lingered over Abigail’s full young form, and he said, ‘That one is unusually beautiful. She will fetch twenty-five thousand golden ecus, perhaps as high as fifty if she’s a virgin.’ Some of the men laughed and others whistled at the amount; it was more wealth than they could imagine. ‘Wrap them both so there are no marks on their skin. If I see so much as a scratch that wasn’t here this moment, I’ll know they were not cared for and I will kill the man who marks them.’

  The two other slavers produced soft shapeless robes that were fashioned so they could be tied over the shoulders and around the neck, so the captives could be covered without their arms and legs being freed. Abigail wept openly and Margaret continued to struggle as rough hands lingered while they covered the girls. One of the men still fondled Abigail even after the robe was properly tied.

  ‘Enough!’ shouted the slaver. ‘You’ll be getting ideas before long, and then I shall have to kill you!’ Pointing at the men who had blocked the way to the tower, he said, ‘Finish your search.’

  The man on the floor moaned in pain, and the slaver glanced back at him as Abigail had her hands tied to a pole above her head. ‘Nothing can be done. Kill him.’

  One of his companions said, ‘Sorry, Tall John. We’ll use your share of the gold to hoist a drink in your name,’ and cut the man’s throat expertly. As life fled from the dying man’s eyes, the one who killed him wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic and said in a friendly way, ‘See you in hell someday.’

  A man ran from the far end of the hallway, shouting, ‘The fire’s spreading!’

  ‘We leave!’ commanded the slaver. He led the band and their two captives away. Tied to a pole, the ends carried upon the shoulder of a man in front of and one behind her, and with her feet hobbled, Margaret still refused to come along meekly. She gripped the pole and kicked with both feet at the man behind her, sending him to the floor. She lost her footing and found herself sitting upon the flagstone staring backward. The lead slaver shouted, ‘Carry her if you must.’ Quickly her feet were tied to the pole, and she was hanging like a trophy animal. As she was picked up, she could see back into the hall. Through eyes filled with tears of rage and sorrow she saw her mother lying facedown on cold stones, her blood pooling around her.