“Get down!” Althak yelled at him. Even as he ducked his head a hail of stones and spears clattered onto the deck. An arrow thudded into the planks by his feet.
Near his head a grappling iron caught on the gunwale and was pulled tight. Several others, better thrown, wrapped themselves around the top of the main mast. Azkun gasped as he felt a wave of anger from the pirates. Their attempt to ram had failed, but their attempt to board would not.
“Fire! Fire in the sail!” cried Omoth. A flaming arrow had caught in the main sail. Shelim and the others rushed to pull it down.
In the midst of the confusion a blood-curdling yell cut through the air. Two pirates landed on the deck. They had swung across the lines from the grappling hooks on the mast. Azkun shrank back against the gunwale and clutched Tenari. They looked like Althak. Tall, yellow-haired men with bronze armour. One of them wore no helmet and carried an axe rather than a sword.
What followed was a blur in Azkun’s mind. He watched, horrified, as Althak charged the pirates, slashing one across the neck and knocking the other off his feet with his shield. Two more thrusts with his sword finished them.
More pirates leapt onto the decks. The Anthorians flew at them, slicing at them with their curved swords. Azkun felt their injuries as if they were his own. He screamed and thrashed as one caught in a fit. But, most of all, he felt the blackness of death as he had never felt it before. It was a mercy when Menish crashed his shield down on his head, knocking him senseless.
It had been several years since Menish was involved in anything but training fights, but he had been pleased to find he had not yet lost his skill. His sword moved as if it were part of his arm, his feet shifted and turned like a dancer, indeed the Anthorian folk dances usually enacted swordplay. The Vorthenki pirates had the advantage of size, but Menish had fought big Vorthenki brutes many times. They were slow, relying on weight and armour to crush their opponents.
He shifted his weight as a heavy sword crashed down beside him, and slipped his own sword under the guard of the pirate’s shield. The man let out a gurgling moan, but Menish was gone before he fell. He sliced another pirate’s hamstrings from behind before the man could make another lunge at Hrangil. They relied too much on that armour, Menish had made a study of all the possible weak points and there were many.
Another sword flashed towards him but he deflected it with his shield. The Anthorian shields were smaller, but they were also lighter. His own sword flashed up and he opened his attacker’s throat. The Anthorian swords were lighter too, and sharp as razors.
In the midst of the whirl and confusion of the fight there was a corner of Menish’s mind that was quiet and still. This, he had always felt, had preserved his hazardous life for so long. It was this corner that noticed that the deck was becoming slippery with blood. He could not afford to miss his footing, He also noticed that Awan and two of the sailors at the stern were under attack and were trying to fight with their short knives.
He spared some thought for Drinagish. As far as he knew this was his first real fight. He had killed his share of prey while hunting, but killing men is different.
Menish's present opponent, a young man with hardly a beard yet, probably no older than Drinagish, let his guard down and Menish slipped his sword into his chest. He did not have a breastplate and it cost him his life.
Menish pulled himself clear of the fight and, climbing a pile of barrels, leapt down onto the two pirates attacking Awan. It took exactly three sword strokes to lay them on the deck with their lifeblood pumping from their veins. He snatched their swords from them and tossed them to Awan. The man hesitated, it was not lucky to use the swords of the fallen.
“It is not lucky to stand and have your head removed!”
Awan nodded and took the swords, passing one to Omoth beside him. Menish hoped they would not get themselves killed.
As Menish returned to the main fight his path took him past Azkun and Tenari. A grappling hook had lodged in the gunwale beside them and one of the pirates was using it to climb aboard. His hand already grasped the edge of the gunwale. Menish’s sword thudded twice on the hand, a scream sounded followed by a splash.
Azkun had screamed, not the pirate. It took a moment for this to register to Menish, and in that time a Vorthenki was upon him. This one was a more skilful fighter. Menish could find no way past his great bronze shield. Like many Vorthenki shields it had a heavy boss in its centre and an evil spike protruding from the boss. It leered at Menish, pressing him back to the gunwale, the Vorthenki sword lunging at him from the other side. A blow caught him on his metal cap, it glanced off but left his vision blurred. He shook his head trying to clear it. The Vorthenki advanced, stopped and toppled like a tree. Althak pulled his sword from between the man’s shoulder blades.
Azkun screamed again. He was thrashing about the deck like a madman. Why had they not put him and Tenari below deck? He had not thought of it, he was not familiar with ships. So far the pirates had been too busy to notice them, but that would hardly continue with Azkun in that state. Menish knocked him senseless with the edge of his shield and returned to the fight.
It quickly became clear that the pirates had chosen the wrong ship to attack. Against poorly armed sailors they would have done well, but Menish and his men were heavily armed and well trained. With the sailors they both outnumbered and outclassed the pirates. Only one had shown any skill, and Althak had dispatched him before he could kill Menish. They began a poorly organised retreat to their own ship, which quickly became a rout. In such situations their heavy armour was a serious hindrance to them, and it was difficult for them to fight while fleeing. Only a few made it back to the other ship and Althak and Drinagish pursued these. Menish himself was short of breath by this time and Hrangil was immobilised with a leg wound.
Bodies sprawled over the deck and the blood was growing sticky as it cooled. The sailors had already begun to strip the bodies and dump them overboard by the time Althak and Drinagish returned.
They were not without injury. Drinagish had taken a blow on the chest, his jerkin had protected him but he professed himself sore. He was, in fact, delighted to have an injury that showed he had played his part. Althak was covered in blood but little of it was his own. He had a cut on his forearm and another over one eye, which he claimed, was more annoying than painful. Two of the sailors were dead but none of the others were seriously hurt. Shelim had grazed his knuckles throwing the body of a pirate over the side, the other sailors considered this amusing.
Menish felt as he always did after a battle, revolted by the smell of blood and weary of killing. He set about bandaging Hrangil’s leg.
“M’Lord,” said Althak. “There are five slaves who had no part in the fighting. Two of them speak Relanese.”
“Bring them aboard. We can leave them where we next land. We'll sink the pirate ship.” Althak returned to the other ship.
“Do you still think he is Gilish?” he asked Hrangil. His friend shook his head sadly.
“Gilish would have fought.”
Menish noticed three men come aboard. They were ill clothed and wore the dejected, soulless look common to Vorthenki slaves. They stood in line, waiting to be told what to do. Althak followed them.
“There are two others, but they won't come.” He smiled awkwardly. “I believe they think me another pirate. Perhaps a sight of you would convince them that they're rescued.”
Menish tied Hrangil’s bandage and crossed the deck to the gunwale. Small comfort he would be to them. He was as bloody as Althak. The Vorthenki leapt the gap between the two ships and landed on the other deck, a feat Menish had no intention of attempting. From his position he could see two figures, a woman and a small boy. They clung to each other in fear. The boy was not more than eight or nine years old; the woman’s age was difficult to estimate. She could be the boy’s mother or his grandmother. They were not Vorthenki, they were too small in stature, even allowing for youth in one case and sex in the other. The woman’s
hair was white.
From their bearing it was obvious that they had not always been slaves. The boy’s eyes flashed with hatred at Althak when he approached. A born slave does not hate. The woman turned her head towards the Vorthenki but did not meet his gaze, as if he were beneath her.
There was something odd about the woman that Menish recognised but could not quite place. She reminded him of someone. The way she moved her head, the way her hand rested protectively on the boy’s head. It eluded him for the moment.
Menish called to them in the Relanese tongue, for it was plain that these were the two that Althak had spoken of.
“You need not fear. You are rescued. I am Menish of Anthor. You are no longer in the hands of pirates. I wish you to accompany this man back to this ship. We will not leave that one afloat.”
They were plainly still afraid. The woman called back.
“Are you really from Anthor? We are far from that land.”
“Woman, will you cross? I don't wish to pass the afternoon proving my identity.”
“We must, Mother. They'll sink us otherwise. He's no Vorthenki.” But the woman was still frightened. Above the sound of the waves Menish heard her say, “I can't.”
“You must, Mother.” The boy tugged at her arm, and involuntarily she stepped forward. There was something about the way she moved, the way she lifted her hand to maintain her balance.
“Althak! She's blind!”
Chapter 9: Keashil
The boy froze for a moment then he stepped protectively in front of his mother.
“Stay away from her,” he snarled at Althak, holding a long knife he had snatched from the body of a pirate. Althak was three times his size and fully armed. The boy had pluck.
“Come, lad. I've no wish to harm her. But we must carry her across to the other ship.” He smiled at them kindly. It was painfully obvious that the boy had seen his mother abused. He held his ground but his knees were shaking. Althak crouched down beside him so that their eyes were on a level.
“I'll make a bargain with you,” he said gently, a faint gleam in his eye. “I'll give you my own sword,” he drew it and presented the hilt to the boy, “which leaves me unarmed. I even put down my shield, see? Now you may guard me and see that no harm comes to your mother. I must, however, pick her up and carry her.”
The boy was astonished to receive the sword. His hands could barely grip it so he posed no danger to Althak. But the significance of the Vorthenki’s gesture was not lost. It was a token of trust, of responsibility. The boy nodded slowly.
“I will guard you then.”
“Woman,” said Althak, turning to her, “I'm afraid I'm filthy with battle but I must carry you to the other ship. I'm sure footed so you need not fear, besides I risk the wrath of your son should anything happen to us.”
“Do what you must,” she said resignedly.
Althak lifted her, she was almost like a doll against his big frame, and carried her across to the other ship. He set her down by Menish, placing her hand on the gunwale so that she could steady herself against the roll of the ship.
Menish felt heavy and weary now that the battle was over, he was still breathing heavily. The sea retch began to stir again in his stomach.
Nevertheless this woman kindled his interest. She had spoken Relanese and her manner showed that she was no common slave. But she looked as ragged as a beggar. Her robe was torn and dirty, Althak had left his own contribution there, and her face was lined with care. Her hair might once have been yellow or brown but now it was quite white. In contrast her mouth was as firm as iron. A determination to survive was written across it.
Yet what caught Menish’s attention most were her eyes. Menish had seen blindness before, it was a thing the Relanese and the Vorthenki sometimes did as a punishment. But these eyes were whole and, at first, appeared quite normal. They were blue eyes, not the piercing blue of the Vorthenki but a milder colour. And there was no spark of life in them. They were flat, dull things that did not return his gaze.
“You're safe now.”
Her head turned in that odd, twitching motion that the blind sometimes affect, for they must use their ears to find the position of the speaker.
“You are the King? Are we alone?”
Menish was surprised at her second question, but he replied that none was near enough to overhear them for the present.
“Then tell me the secret name of Gilish.”
“The secret name? That's not a thing for women to know.”
“Nevertheless I know it. If you are truly the King you too will know it. If you don't then I'll know if you are false.”
It was a secret, something he had been told at his initiation long ago. Something he was to share with none save other initiates, something he no longer valued. He admired her quickness of mind. A true initiate would not claim he was king of Anthor unless it were true.
“He is known as the Two Handed.”
“And why is he called so?”
“Because he brought both good from one hand and evil from the other.” She seemed to relax a little.
“Thank you, Sire. I'm sure you understand my caution.”
Althak returned with the boy and set him down beside his mother. Her hand reached unerringly for his head. The boy’s eyes were alight, unlike his mother’s, as he clutched Althak’s sword.
“Mother, are you unharmed?” he demanded.
“Yes, Olcish. This is, indeed, the King of Anthor.” Her voice shook as she spoke. “We are rescued.” Tears brimmed in her sightless eyes, but she held herself rigidly in check. Denying herself an unseemly display of relief.
Olcish turned to Althak and offered him back his sword. “Please excuse me, I misjudged you.”
“One cannot excuse valour, my lad,” Althak said as he sheathed the sword. “But look to your mother. She has need of you. M’Lord,” he turned to Menish, “they both look half starved-”
“Yes, of course, Althak. I've questions to ask but they must wait. Provide them with food and drink and see if we have better clothing for them. See to the other slaves too, they'll be no better off.”
Althak led them away and Menish, left alone for a moment, watched them carefully. They were a pathetic pair, a small boy and a blind woman, especially beside Althak in his armour. He turned and looked at the still unconscious form of Azkun. Tenari sat beside him, staring at him blankly. He wondered how many more misfits he would acquire on this journey.
Omoth and Shelim carried a small barrel of seal fat over to the pirate vessel and poured it over a mound of sailcloth they had piled on the deck.
When all was ready they unfurled their own sails, the burned ones had been replaced, and cut the lines securing the two ships. Omoth tossed a flaming torch onto the pirate’s deck. The sailcloth burst into flame and fire licked all over the deck where the seal fat had run. The crackling and snapping of the flames could be heard over the sound of the waves.
The two ships drew apart, one borne swiftly across the water by a good wind, the other burning, its flames fanned by that same wind. Menish watched it for a long while. It served as a beacon, a warning to other pirates. When evening came, he knew, it would still be ablaze, visible for many miles.
The thought of fire reminded him of Azkun. He still lay prone on the deck. Menish called one of the sailors to bring water then he knelt beside Azkun and checked him for injury. Apart from a swelling around a new cut on his forehead, obviously Menish’s own work, he was whole. His injuries from the river showed no sign now. One arm lay in a pool of blood that was not his own and he was speckled with dark red. Menish cleaned him as best he could. He straightened his limbs and made a pillow of some spare garments for his head. Taking a flask of ambroth he cleaned his forehead. Azkun did not stir.
He was not seriously hurt. His heart beat firmly. Menish left him in the care of Omoth, who had brought the water, and went to clean himself.
Battle is a disgusting business, he resolved, as he always did, while he wash
ed his spattered arms and body. Sticky, red droplets had clung to his hair and it took some effort to rid himself of these. By the time he had completed his ablutions he had removed his battle jerkin and changed his tunic. The sun had set and the lamps were lit, casting a yellow light across the decks. Finally clean and considerably refreshed, he made his way to the base of the main mast. There the rest of the company, except Azkun and Tenari, had gathered. Althak had managed to find time to remove his armour and helmet. He still wore his greaves but he had washed himself. Drinagish was spotless and was now helping Hrangil, who was hurt, to replace his shirt.
The blind woman and her son had been provided with food, some dried fish and a bowl of mein. Menish was touched by the way the boy watched over his mother, feeding her with his own hand. She still appeared frightened, as though there were too many things she could not know without sight. Her voice, he recalled from their brief conversation earlier, had a strange clarity to it, as if she used it for more than just speaking.
Althak sat beside them, the boy made him look like a giant. He seemed no taller than the Vorthenki’s knees.
“Here is the King,” he announced and she turned her sightless eyes towards him. “M’Lord, are you hungry?”
“No, not yet, Althak.” He still saw men dying on the decks in his mind’s eye, besides the sea retch was stirring in his guts again. He sat down on a barrel beside the boy. A chill wind swept across the decks but someone had arranged a piece of sail cloth to shelter them from the worst of it. Just above their heads a lamp hung from the mast. It rocked with the motion of the ship, making the shadows move, accentuating the roll of the waves. The yellow light caught the woman’s hair making it seem Vorthenki blond.
“I would hear your story, Woman, if you're ready to tell it.”
Summon Your Dragons Page 11