Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  The first night had been the worst. They had all been packed together in the holds of two large ships, lying just over the horizon from Crydee. A few of the smaller boats were sailed away, but the majority were sunk out in deep water, their crews crowding the decks of the larger ships for the trip to their destination. Margaret had been around enough ships to guess they couldn’t be traveling far, for there wouldn’t be anywhere near enough provisions for both crews and captives.

  Abigail alternated between fitful dozing as her mind retreated from the horrors witnessed and fearful speculation about their eventual fate. Occasionally she would show a spark of alertness, but all too quickly the oppression of their surroundings came crushing in upon her, reducing her to tears and, finally, silence.

  After the first day, some semblance of order had been established, as the prisoners made the most of their cramped quarters. There was no privacy, and everyone was forced to crawl to a corner of the hold to add to the growing pile of human waste accumulating in the bilge below. The stench had become a mute thing in the background of Margaret’s awareness, unpleasant but only that, as had the constant background noise of the wood hull groaning, people crying or cursing, and soft conversation. What caused her concern was the prisoners who had developed stomach illness or chills and fever. They were not doing well in the confines of the hold, and she attempted to make their lot more comfortable. She ordered those in the hold to move around so that the ill might have some shred of comfort. Between her rank and her natural confidence, she was obeyed without question.

  One of the older girls from the town muttered. ‘They’re the lucky ones. They’re going to die soon. The rest of us are doomed to be drudges or whores for what’s left of our lives. We might as well get used to the idea: no help’s coming.’

  Margaret turned and struck the woman hard across the face. With narrowed eyes she stood over the now cowering woman. ‘If I ever hear that drivel from anyone again, I’ll tear her tongue from her head.’

  Another voice, a man’s, said, ‘Lady, I know you mean well, but we saw the raid! All our soldiers are dead. Where could help be coming from?’

  ‘My father,’ she said with certainty. ‘He’ll return from his hunting trip and send word at once to Krondor, and my uncle the Prince will have the entire Krondorian war fleet waiting for us before we reach Durbin.’ Then her tone turned softer and she pleaded, ‘We need to endure. Nothing more. Just survive and, if we can, help each another to survive.’

  The woman who had voiced her doubts said, ‘Sorry, milady.’

  Margaret said nothing but patted the woman’s arm in a conciliatory fashion. Sitting back down in the cramped space allotted her, Margaret saw Abigail staring at her.

  ‘Do you really think they’ll find us?’ Abigail whispered, a faint flickering of hope starting to show in her eyes.

  Margaret only nodded, but silently she said to herself, ‘I hope so.’

  A scraping sound caused Margaret to come awake. During the day, light entered through the latticework hatch cover, the only source of air in the otherwise fetid hold. At night, faint moonlight cast a pale glow across part of the hold, while the rest remained in inky darkness. Margaret heard the scrape again and saw a sliver of moonlight above. She saw a rope drop and a figure shinny down it. One of the raiders landed between two sleeping prisoners, a dagger between his teeth.

  He went to a young girl nearby and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock and she attempted to move away, but was held in place by the bodies on either side of her and the man’s weight on her. He whispered, ‘I’ve a knife, dearie. One sound and you’re dead, got it?’ The terrified girl stared at him with wide eyes, luminous in the faint light. He put the point of the dagger to her stomach and said, ‘Either I stick you with this or with something more friendly. All the same to me.’

  The girl, barely more than a child, could not react for her terror. Margaret stood, keeping her balance as the ship rose and fell through the swells. Margaret whispered, ‘Leave her alone. She doesn’t understand what men like.’

  The man turned, pointing the dagger in Margaret’s direction. All the captives wore the same garment: a simple piece of cloth with a hole to stick the head through, tied around the waist. Margaret untied the thong around her waist, and pulled off the garment, leaving herself nude. The man hesitated, obviously able to see her movement in the faint light. Smiling at the would-be rapist, she stepped forward into the moonlight, so he could better see her, and said, ‘She’s a child. She’ll just lie there. Come to me and I’ll show you how to ride the pretty pony.’

  Not a beautiful girl, Margaret was still attractive, and years of riding, hunting, and an unusually rigorous life had left her with a firm, fit body, which she displayed to good effect as she stood erect and proud. In the faint light, she looked clearly inviting, with her shoulders thrown back and a welcoming smile.

  The man grinned, revealing teeth blackened with decay as he released the girl he had been threatening. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘They’d kill me for messing with a virgin, but it’s clear you’ve been down this path afore, darlin’.’ He came to her, holding the knife outward, and said, ‘Now, be quiet and old Ned’ll give you as good as he gets, and we’ll both have some fun. Then I’ll climb up and my friend can come down here and do you.’

  Margaret smiled and reached out to touch his cheek tenderly. Then she suddenly gripped the wrist of his knife hand, and with her other she reached down and grabbed him hard between the legs. Ned howled in pain. While bigger than the girl, he was not much stronger and couldn’t free himself from her painful grasp.

  The prisoners began shouting. Quickly a pair of guards and a slaver came down the rope from above. The guards pulled away the would-be rapist. The slaver took one look at the nude girl and at Ned, and said, ‘Take him up on deck. And seize the one who let him open the hatch cover. Bind them, cut them deep on the arms and legs so they bleed, then throw them to the sharks. I will have it known that no one may disobey our orders and go unpunished.’

  Another rope was lowered and the two guards were hoisted up by those on deck, each of them holding firmly to the sobbing Ned.

  The slaver turned to Margaret and asked. ‘Did he harm you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he take you?’

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘Then cover yourself.’ The slaver turned as one of the ropes was lowered again. Shortly the captives were alone once more. Margaret found her eyes fixed on the faint sliver of monlight as the slaver crawled through it. The lattice hatch scraped loudly, then slammed home with a note of finality that underscored their helplessness.

  The ship dropped anchor a week after the raid and voices from above shouted for the captives to get ready to leave. The hatch was moved aside and a rope ladder was lowered. The week of cramped quarters and scant food and water had taken its toll; as Margaret assisted the wobbly-legged prisoners up the ladder, she began to notice those who had died during the night. Each morning a pair of slavers had come down into the hold and carried those who had died to a point beneath the hatch where a rope with a loop in it hung. They fixed the rope under the arms of the dead, and they were hauled upward. One of the men had mentioned that there were always sharks following the ship, and now she understood why.

  Margaret was kneeling beside two townspeople, a man and a woman, who were too weak to climb the rope. A rough hand fell on her shoulder and a voice said, ‘Are you ill?’

  With no attempt to hide her contempt for these men she said, ‘No, swine, but these are.’

  The slaver who held her shoulder propelled her toward the ladder. ‘Up on deck. We’ll care for these.’

  As she climbed the ladder, she saw a second slaver kneel beside the woman and, with a swift move, wrap a cord around her throat. He twisted once, crushing the woman’s windpipe. She twitched and convulsed, then died.

  Margaret looked upward, refusing to watch the man die. The blue sky above was blinding after the wee
k in the darkness, so her tears were not remarkable to those already on deck.

  Abby kept close to Margaret as they were moved slowly toward the rail. A dozen longboats, with masts folded down the middle, waited with four rowers each. The prisoners crawled down nets hung over the side, and when twenty were in each boat, they were rowed to shore.

  Margaret climbed down the ladder, her arms and legs shaking with the effort. As she reached the boat, a hand ran up her leg as a sailor assisted her into the boat. She kicked out and the man ducked easily away with a rude laugh. She glanced over to see Abigail shrinking away from another who fondled her breast through her robe. From the deck a warning shout came: ‘Leave those girls alone, Striker.’

  With a laugh, the man waved back. ‘We won’t damage the merchandise, Captain. Just having some harmless fun.’

  Under his breath, the man muttered, ‘Damn Peter Dread’s eyes, but this is the last I’ll sail with him. Ripe beauties to gladden the heart of a Durbin whoremonger, and not so much as a tweak on the rump or it’s over the side to the sharks.’

  Another man said, ‘Shut yer gob; it’s more gold than you’ll see in your life. You’ll have enough to spend on whores until you can’t walk and then some. It’s worth it to behave.’

  They were rowed to the beach and saw that those before them had been herded toward a rude building on an otherwise deserted island. Margaret and Abigail were among the last inside, and as the large doors closed behind them, they surveyed their new habitation. There was nothing inside besides miserable dejected people: only a dirt floor to sit on, and what light there was entered through the cracks between the log walls. One quick survey and Margaret saw that many of those inside were sick. Knowing full well the fate of the injured or ill, she said, ‘Listen!’

  Her voice cut through the low murmuring and sobs, and those nearby looked her way. ‘I am Margaret, daughter of the Duke.’ Glancing around again, she said, ‘Some of you are ill. Those who are not must help them. Carry them to that wall there.’ She pointed to the wall farthest from the door. A few started to move hesitantly. ‘Do it!’

  Those who were barely able to walk were helped to the far wall, then Margaret moved to the wall. She moved along it, and Abigail said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking to see if the land slopes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need a privy trench, so we don’t end up sleeping in filth. It will keep more of us alive.’ She reached the far wall and began moving along it. Then she said, ‘Here,’ pointing at a depression under the bottom log, where light could be seen. ‘Dig here.’

  ‘Milady,’ said a man sitting next to the base of the wall, ‘we have no tools with which to dig.’

  Falling to her knees, Margaret dug into the loose, sandy soil with her bare hands. Watching her a moment, the man turned and started scooping out handfuls of dirt. Soon a dozen more had joined in.

  Seeing the work under way, Margaret returned to the door and started shouting, ‘Guard!’

  From the other side a rough male voice answered, ‘What?’

  ‘We need water.’

  ‘You’ll get it when the captains order it.’

  ‘Valuable property is dying. Tell your captains that.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ them nothing,’ came the answer.

  ‘Then I’m telling the first officer who enters that you tried to rape one of the girls.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘And a dozen others will bear witness.’

  There was a long silence, then the large latch was opened and the door parted a crack. A waterskin was handed through, and the guard said, ‘You’ll get more when they bring it. This’ll have to do until then.’

  Without thanks, Margaret took the waterskin and headed over to the sick prisoners.

  For the next ten days they endured the confinement, packed close together, with no care for their comfort provided. Other prisoners joined them, and from their accounts, Margaret learned that Carse and Tulan had also been raided. By all reports, Tulan’s garrison on the island in the mouth of the river had successfully resisted, but Castle Carse had endured much the same fate as Crydee, though the town had fared better. Abigail fell into a deep depression when no one from Carse could tell her if her father lived. Margaret felt returning pain at the memory of her mother’s death, but put it aside as she concentrated on caring for others. All the prisoners were now filthy and wretched. At least a dozen had died and been carried away. The slit trench helped keep illness from spreading, though the stench and flies were difficult to endure. Margaret tore strips from the hem of her simple gown to bind wounds that wouldn’t heal, leaving the garment a ragged mess at her knees.

  On the eleventh day, everything changed.

  The six Durbin slavers entered, accompanied by a dozen guards, men in black whose faces were hidden, and who carried an impressive array of arms. The slavers moved to the center of the large building, ready to begin the daily examination of the slaves.

  Suddenly the twelve black-clad men took their bows and shot the slavers. Many of the captives screamed and pushed themselves against the wall, fearful that the murder would continue, while others sat in wide-eyed horror.

  Another company of men entered the building, and one shouted, ‘Prisoners outside!’

  Those nearest the door hurried outside, and Margaret helped some of those who were ill but could still walk. Blinking against the bright light, she took in the scene before her. There stood a band of men unlike any Margaret had seen in her life. They wore turbans similar to those worn by the Jal-Pur desert men, but much larger. The turbans were white and all had gems of astonishing size and color set above their foreheads. Silk robes showed these were men of rank and prosperity. They spoke Keshian, but with an accent unlike anything Margaret had heard, and frequently used words she had never read when studying the language. Behind them were armed men, but instead of the ragged pirates who had guarded the prisoners on the first leg of the journey, these were soldiers, dressed alike to a man: black tunic and trousers and a red cloth tied around their heads bandanna-style. Each carried a curved sword and a round shield, black, with a golden serpent painted upon it.

  They inspected the prisoners, dividing them into those who were fit and those who were not. A dozen were too sick to travel, and after the entire company of captives was examined, they were led back into the building. Soon screaming from inside, quickly cut off, showed their fate.

  The remaining prisoners were led to the water and told to strip and bathe. The seawater provided scant comfort, but Margaret was glad to wash away the filth. As she was washing, she saw the ship.

  Abigail squatted in the shallow water, trying to ignore the remarks of the nearby guards. Even dirty, her hair matted with filth, she was clearly a beauty. Margaret spoke low. ‘Have you seen a ship like that before?’

  Coming out of her dark introspection, Abigail let her eyes focus on the ship. At last she said, ‘No. Never.’

  Twice the size of any Kingdom ship, it rode easily on the ground swells off the shore. It was a black ship, with high foredeck and afterdeck, and four high masts. ‘It looks like a Quegan galley, but there are no rowing banks. It’s gigantic’

  Dozens of boats were rowing toward the beach, and Margaret realized that all the remaining prisoners were to be taken to that ship. A dozen longboats on the beach were already beginning to load the first prisoners coming out of the sea.

  It took almost an entire day, but at sundown the black ship hoisted anchor and the journey began.

  Deep within the hold of the ship, Margaret and the other women were moved to the port side of the ship, on the lowest of three decks. Individual pallets were provided for each prisoners, with room for them to move around. They were placed one at the head of each pallet and told to remove their robes. Glad to be rid of the filthy rag, Margaret quickly obeyed. Abigail hesitated, and when she let her robe fall to the deck, she quickly tried to cover herself.

  ‘Abby,’ said Margaret in a scolding tone,
‘if you fear for your modesty, that gives these animals another weapon to use against you.’

  Abigail’s eyes were wide with fright as she said, ‘I’m not strong like you, Margaret. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re stronger than you think. Keep your chin up!’

  Abigail nearly jumped when a man with a writing tablet came up to her. ‘Your name,’ he asked.

  ‘Abigail,’ she answered softly.

  ‘Who are your people?’ said the man, his voice oddly pitched and his accent tantalizingly familiar to Margaret.

  ‘I’m the daughter of Baron Bellamy of Carse.’ The man looked at her, then said, ‘Go stand over there.’

  Awkwardly, the nude girl moved with her arms clutched around her to a place at the far end of the hold. The man repeated the question to Margaret, and, not seeing any clear benefit in lying, she told them her true name. Like Abigail, she was sent to the far end of the hold. She watched as the interview continued. Each captive was inspected, closely, by a pair of men who made marks on their tablets as they examined each. They poked and prodded like physicians, and the prisoners were forced to endure the inspection in silence. When the men were done, they handed each captive a fresh robe. Crewmen followed and began locking chains around the prisoners’ ankles, binding them to the foot of their pallets, and long enough so they could move around a little, but in no way escape the hold.

  Then they came to Margaret and Abigail and said, ‘You come.’

  The girls climbed a ladder to the next deck and walked along a narrow companionway. Even Margaret tried to cover her nudity as they passed more than a dozen leering men. Entering a large cabin, the man who guided them said, ‘Find something that fits.’ An array of fine clothing lay around the room. The girls quickly found clothing that fitted and dressed, glad to be covered again. Simple gowns, they were nevertheless a vast improvement over the smocks the girls had been forced to wear since being captured.

  Then the man led them to a large cabin at the stern of the ship. There two men waited. They stood respectfully when the girls entered and motioned for the girls to sit on a divan. ‘Ladies,’ said one in that strange accent, ‘we are pleased to find those of your rank among your company. May we offer you some wine?’