by Ben Cassidy
“There she is, sir,” Marley breathed. He nodded over his shoulder towards the darkened shape of a ship towards the edge of the harbor, anchored near the breakwater.
Kendril sat up in the dinghy, looking with interest. The cargo ship was large, a three-master. There were no lights aboard her. Kendril thought he could make out movement on the deck.
“I don’t want to go on that ship again,” Marley began, his voice starting to quaver. “I already told you, sir, what’s down below—”
“What’s down below isn’t why I’m boarding her,” Kendril said tersely. “When we pull up alongside her I want you to go up first.”
Marley stared at his companion in horror. “Me? But I thought—”
“Hush,” Kendril hissed. He put one hand on the hilt of his pistol as they neared the ship.
A face looked over the side. “Who goes there?” a voice called.
Kendril glared at Marley from under his raised hood.
The old sailor took a deep breath, then called back. “Ahoy! It’s just me, old Marley.”
There was a pause. “And who’s that with you, then?”
Marley froze. He looked over at Kendril for inspiration.
Kendril tightened his grip on the pistol and half-drew it from his belt.
“Stefan,” Marley said at last. “It’s Stefan. Drank like a fish, he did. I’m bringing him back on board to sleep it off.”
There was a grunt of acknowledgement. The face disappeared.
Kendril looked at Marley questioningly.
The old sailor brought in the oars. “You shot Stefan,” he said in a low voice.
The dinghy bumped against the side of the ship, rocking up and down under the gentle swells of the harbor.
“Go,” Kendril whispered.
Marley closed his eyes, breathed a whispered prayer, then grabbed the rope ladder. He clambered up onto the deck.
“Thought you’d stay out longer for shore leave,” the sailor chuckled as Marley climbed over the railing. “Rumor is we’re leaving on the morning tide, and—” He turned as Kendril climbed on board, and his eyes grew wide. “Hey, you’re not—”
Kendril leapt forward before both his feet were even on the deck and drew his sword.
The sailor reached for a cutlass at his belt, his hand frantically grasping for the handle.
Kendril smashed the hilt of his short sword into the man’s face.
Without a sound the sailor crumpled to the deck boards and lay still.
Across the deck another sailor turned, then ran for the hatch that led below.
Kendril spun. A knife flashed in his free hand, glinting in the soft moonlight. A half-second later it blurred through the air.
The second sailor gave a strangled gasp and collapsed to the deck a few paces short of the hatchway. The knife protruded from his back.
Marley gave a stifled cry and dashed for the rope ladder.
Kendril intercepted him and smashed the cook hard against the ship’s railing.
“You’re crazy,” Marley gasped, “I won’t—”
Kendril clamped a gloved hand over the cook’s mouth. “That dinghy’s the only way back to shore short of a long, cold swim, and I’m not letting you take it. Now take me to the woman, or I’ll gag you and tie you to the mast.”
“I won’t—“ Marley blubbered. “I—I can’t—”
“Hey!” came a shout from behind them.
Kendril and Marley both snapped their heads around.
A sailor was standing by the open hatch, staring at his two fallen crewmates in horror. His eyes fastened on Kendril for a moment, then he swung back to the hatchway. “Intruders!” he yelled. “We’ve been boarded!”
“Talin’s ashes,” Kendril cursed. He released Marley, stepped back and whipped out a flintlock pistol from underneath his cloak.
The sailor stepped forward. He put his hand on the hilt of a long knife tucked into his belt.
Kendril’s pistol banged out through the driving rain, lighting the deck in a flash of orange fire.
With a cry the sailor lurched back through the open hatch.
Marley leapt up and dove for the rope ladder again.
Kendril glanced over at the fleeing cook. He holstered his pistol and drew another short sword. “Marley!”
The cook disappeared over the side.
Kendril turned back to face the hatchway. “Perfect,” he mumbled.
Two men erupted from the hatchway, cutlasses in their hands. From somewhere below a whistle blew.
Kendril charged. He swiped his swords in short, precise attacks at the oncoming men.
The sailors fell back before the aggressive attack. Steel clanked against steel as they fought and parried against the black-cloaked man.
One of the sailors gave a sudden cry and dropped his weapon. His arm gushed red blood from a severe gash. He fell back over a pile of tackle on the deck.
Another crewman dashed out from the open hatchway, fumbling with a short-barreled musket.
Kendril swung his swords around and cut down the second sailor he had been fighting.
The man fell to the deck, a red stain forming beneath his unmoving body.
Two more sailors bundled out. They both hesitated as they saw the number of fallen men on the deck.
The crewman with the musket cursed as he tried to use the obviously unfamiliar weapon. He struggled desperately with the firing mechanism.
Kendril turned back. He swiftly stuck the tip of one of his short swords straight down into the planks of the deck, where it stood hilt-up. He yanked out another flintlock with his free hand, and thumbed back the lock.
The sailor raised the musket in panic.
The other two crewmen with the cutlasses actually backed away.
Kendril pulled the trigger. The gun in his hand sparked and roared.
The man with the musket jerked back, his body twisting unnaturally like a ragdoll. He fell over the railing into the water below.
Kendril allowed himself a triumphant smirk. He put away the smoking pistol and took up the second sword again.
There was a wooden thump from behind him.
Kendril turned his head slightly.
The fore hatch of the cargo ship had been opened. A huge man, dressed in a dark robe and with a black turban wrapped around his head, climbed easily out. He stood to his full, tremendous height, then flashed his white teeth at Kendril in a smile.
“Take him alive, Abid,” came a thin voice from in front of Kendril.
Kendril turned his head back.
A man stood idly by the first aft hatchway, his hands folded placidly in front of him. He wore a dark red robe with a hood that overshadowed his face. Around his neck dangled a golden ornament.
A serpent with wings.
The two sailors cringed back, reluctant to move forward.
Kendril ignored both of them, and whirled to face the gigantic man behind him.
Abid shook his left hand and a coiled rope of some kind fell loose from his grip. His other hand lifted a massive scimitar which gleamed menacingly in the pale moonlight. He smiled again at Kendril.
From below decks came the sound of more shouting. Undoubtedly more crewmen were on their way.
There was no time to reload the pistols. It would have to be sword work.
Kendril threw himself forward.
Abid snapped his hand forward and swung from the shoulder.
There was an ear-splitting crack, and the sword in Kendril’s hand was struck a violent blow. It flew out of his hand and skittered across the deck and out of sight.
A whip. Abid had a whip.
Kendril rocked back on his feet, recovering from his initial shock. His hand and wrist stung from the blow. Behind him he heard the tramp of approaching feet.
Abid’s smile broadened, almost apologetic.
Kendril lurched forward with a snarl. He swung back his second sword to strike.
The imposing man swung the whip forward again, as quick as a strok
e of lightning.
This time the lash caught Kendril around the leg. He felt blistering pain as it snapped around his ankle and calf.
Abid yanked the whip back.
Kendril’s ensnared leg flew out from under him.
He hit the deck hard. Blood spurted from his nose. He still had a grip on his sword, determined not to lose his last weapon. Kendril rolled over to his side and kicked the whip off his leg.
A heavy footfall sounded behind him.
Kendril turned, half-rising.
An emboldened sailor was almost on top of him, a cutlass held in his sweaty hand.
Kendril lunged forward. He swiped his sword at the sailor’s knees.
The man dodged back with a frightened yelp.
Kendril tried to right himself, still off-balance from his impromptu attack.
“Alive,” reminded the man in the red cloak.
Kendril felt a warning bell go off in his head. He jerked his head back around.
As silently as a cat, Abid had come up just behind him. He was still smiling.
Breathing hard, Kendril jumped to his feet and turned to attack. He already knew he couldn’t make it.
With a blow like a falling hammer, the hilt of Abid’s scimitar smashed into Kendril’s face.
The world flashed to white, swirled into purple, then went black.
Chapter 2
The house was on fire, the smoke churning up in a black pillar into the gray sky above.
A woman stood out in the field nearby, weeping hysterically. She huddled a squawking infant to her. Another small boy clutched at her leg.
The sound of breaking glass and crashing furniture came from just outside the house. Hens clucked angrily as they ran about the yard, trying to avoid the soldiers who raced around after them.
There were at least a dozen men, Joseph figured. Cavalry troopers, all armed with pistols and swords. The sergeant in command didn’t seem too concerned about keeping any kind of order amongst the men. They were ransacking the house and the whole yard, carrying off food, clothing, and valuables.
It was like that in war. Enter a foreign country, and even the most genteel of men could become an animal. These men were probably starving, and tired of long cold months of fighting here in Valmingaard.
Joseph shifted position, his hand on the stock of his wheel-lock carbine. Not that the weapon would do him much good, if it came down to a fight. He was a terrible mark as it was with a firearm, and he only had one shot.
Those troopers would ride him down in a heartbeat if they realized he was here.
The woman was still weeping. The little boy wasn’t crying. He just stared in awe as the foreign soldiers ransacked his family home.
The sergeant shouted something to the troopers. It seemed half-hearted at best. A rebuke? More orders?
Joseph peered over the edge of the embankment he was lying on. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled down against the constant drizzle.
The woman was young, and comely. Joseph couldn’t see any sign of a husband.
He could only hope the soldiers hadn’t killed him.
The troopers were Kalinglanders. Joseph could tell by their lack of uniform, the sorry nags they rode, and the round fur hats each of them wore.
One of them came around the corner of the burning house, and glanced in Joseph’s direction.
Joseph ducked, his breath wisping out white in the chill air. After a long second he risked a glance over the rise again.
There was no change, no shout of alarm or cry of surprise.
In the middle of the lawn the soldiers were busy breaking apart a chest of drawers.
The woman was wailing continually.
Joseph wished she would just still her tongue. What did she think she would accomplish? He hoped with all his heart that the Kalinglanders weren’t intending to turn on her next.
If he had still been a praying man, he might have murmured something to Eru on her behalf.
Joseph glanced back behind him at the woods beside the road. There, just inside the dripping leaves and wet trees was Joseph's horse, just out of sight of the farmhouse.
If they turned on the woman, what would he do? What could he do? One man against a dozen was suicidal odds. Kendril might have tried it perhaps, but—
Joseph gave his head a violent shake. He didn’t want to think about Kendril right now.
He couldn’t take on all the troopers by himself. The thought was ludicrous.
But he couldn’t just sit and watch, either.
The woman kept crying.
One of the Kalinglanders shouted something at her.
Listen, Joseph urged her silently. Shut your mouth. Don’t provoke them.
He kept staring at the woman. From here, in the dim light, her hair had a reddish color to it, almost like, like—
Kara.
The pain stabbed back again, right in the middle of his chest.
Joseph set his face. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat.
He wouldn’t go there. He couldn’t go there.
And he couldn’t stay here any longer. There was no reason to. He had made contact with the enemy. Time to get back to Baron Dutraad’s camp, and provide the information he had been sent to retrieve.
A squad of Kalinglander cavalry, two miles east from Tuliv’s Crossing.
That meant the whole bloody Kalinglander army couldn’t be far behind.
Joseph stole back down the slight slope, his greatcoat and trousers soaked through from the rain. At least here he was a little protected from the constant wind. He shivered anyway.
And this was spring in Valmingaard. Joseph had already seen enough of the winter to last a lifetime. Hard to believe that Maklavir called this place home.
He crept back up the slope towards the woods, rubbing rain out of his eyes as he went.
There was a shrill scream from behind him.
Joseph didn’t look back.
The war had been going on for months now. Kalinglanders to the west, Baderans to the east. Valmingaard was locked into a conflict on both fronts by two enemy nations. Both countries still blamed the King of Valmingaard for the rise of the pagan cults across Rothland in what had become the Fourth Despair.
And in truth, Joseph had difficulty finding fault with the assessment. After all, the beautiful city of Vorten had been destroyed by the rise of pagan cults and an outpouring of demonic creatures that hadn’t been seen in Zanthora since the times of legend.
Joseph slunk into the tree line.
His horse was still tied up where he had left her. She waited faithfully and quietly.
The pathfinder crept up and untied her. He patted the beast gently on the flank.
The horse whinnied softly.
“Come on, girl,” he said as he shoved the carbine back into its scabbard. He hoisted himself up into the saddle, and turned the horse back towards the road.
It was a good seven-hour ride back to Dutraad’s camp. Joseph would lose daylight in about four. That left three in the dark, never a fun prospect.
The sooner he got started, the better.
Joseph rode out into the dirt road, just out of sight of the farm behind him.
The woman screamed again.
Joseph turned his face away to the east and kicked the horse into a steady trot.
He clopped steadily down the muddy road and turned a bend.
Two riders appeared through the falling rain just ahead. Both wore round fur hats and were armed with swords and sabers.
Joseph pulled up his horse with a start.
Kalinglanders.
“Hold up!” one shouted. He pulled out a pistol and waved it in the air. “Stay where you are!”
Joseph took a long breath and exhaled through his mouth.
Thirty yards. Maybe forty.
The riders started towards him.
Joseph pulled out the carbine.
He brought the firearm up to his shoulder, clicking back the wheel lock into the ready position. The wea
pon was a Valmingaard design, not one he was familiar with. He had only fired a rifle about a half-dozen times in his life before.
In truth, he didn’t even think he could reload the blasted thing.
The two Kalinglanders saw the lowered carbine and hesitated.
For a moment Joseph thought they might turn and run.
The first rider lowered his pistol and kicked his horse forward.
The second rider galloped forward as well. He reached for his pistol.
Joseph took what seemed like a long second and lined up his shot, sighting down the barrel of the carbine with deliberate care.
The first rider’s pistol banged out into the cold air.
The musket ball whizzed close by Joseph like an angry hornet buzzing through the air.
Not even close. Thirty yards was a reach for a pistol at any rate.
Joseph breathed out, trying to keep the blasted carbine steady.
The riders came closer. The first reached for another pistol.
Joseph pulled the trigger on the carbine.
The weapon flashed and then barked out.
The first rider tumbled from the saddle and crashed into a muddy puddle on the road.
Joseph stuck his smoking carbine back into its scabbard.
The second rider gave a shrill yell and lifted a pistol.
Joseph drew his rapier. He kicked his horse forward.
Mud sprayed from galloping hooves as the two riders rushed forwards towards one another.
The Kalinglander pointed his pistol straight at Joseph.
Joseph extended his sword arm straight out.
The Kalinglander was going to wait until the last second and fire at point-blank range, when he couldn’t possibly miss.
And that was mere seconds away.
The Kalinglander screamed again, some kind of keening war cry.
Joseph reached down towards the top of his boot with his free hand.
The Kalinglander grinned ferociously through his bushy mustache. He thumbed back the lock on the pistol, and aimed it at Joseph’s face.
Joseph flashed his hand up and hurled his throwing knife at the approaching rider.
It was a bad throw. Hurried and sloppy.
But it still had the desired effect.
The Kalinglander ducked.
Joseph thrust his rapier forward.