Inika came from a village on the north coast of the empire. It had been raided by a squadron of Xanka’s ships. The pirates carried off two things: women and cattle. She was kept by the captain of the galley Terror until she caught Xanka’s eye. She’d been with him a year.
Tol apologized, saying the empire should have protected her. She shrugged. “Myduties here were not too great. I eat well, and I have a roof over my head.”
“Well, you’re free now. When we reach Thorngoth, you can go ashore with my comrades and me.”
Inika said nothing, merely turned her dark eyes to Dralie.
The older woman had been born in Tarsis and apprenticed to the temple of Mishas as a priestess and healer. On a voyage to Hylo to found a new sanctuary to the goddess, her ship was taken by Xanka’s fleet. He wasn’t King of the Sea then, just leader of a flotilla of six ships. She healed the wounds he’d received in battle, and not long after became his consort.
She’d recounted her story calmly but now looked out the windows at the galley’s foaming wake, her face shadowed. “That was seventeen years ago.”
For the first time Tol felt a twinge of regret for what had happened. Xanka was a murderous bandit who deserved to be shortened by a head, but Dralie seemed to care for him. He began to apologize for her loss.
Dralie turned and looked at him as though he’d grown a second head. Then she spoke, and he finally understood.
“One who was a disciple of the goddess should not feel joy at the passing of a fellow being,” she said.
Her cold, even tone sent a chill down his spine. Finished with his meal, Tol got up to go. Inika caught his arm.
“Stay,” she said, “else the water will grow cold.”
“I don’t need-”
“You bear the dust of a long journey, my lord,” Dralie said. “It is your right to take your ease.”
They began undressing him. Tol resisted only half-heartedly. He was bruised, battered, and dirty. The two women disrobed him with detached efficiency and ushered him into the bath. It had lost some of its heat but was still pleasantly warm. Dralie poured scented oil into the water while Inika took up a soft brush and applied it to Tol’s back.
The cabin door opened and Kiya entered. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene.
“I wondered what kept you in here so long!” she said.
The others peered in around her, and Miya uttered a shocked oath.
“Who are these louts?” asked Dralie. “My wives,” Tol said.
“Who are these hussies?” demanded Miya. Tol considered carefully. “Xanka’s treasures.”
With Faerlac’s help, Tol summoned the masters of every ship in the Blood Fleet to Thunderer that night for a council. Quite an assortment of characters crowded the afterdeck of the galley. Gray-bearded salts with lined faces rubbed elbows with dashing youths in extravagant costumes of sashes, plumes, and kilts.
Tol’s party had lost not only their horses, but all their baggage when Blue Gull was sunk, so they raided Xanka’s bountiful wardrobe. Dralie helped find what they wanted and gave advice as necessary on how to wear their choices. After their initially chilly introduction, the Dom-shu sisters and Xanka’s consorts got along well.
They spruced up according to their natures, with Tol settling for a reasonably sober jerkin of wine-colored leather, an Ergothian helmet, and a white mantle, and Miya going all-out in a robe of emerald green silk, topped by a turban in the North Seas fashion. Tol was pleased the gaudy clothing cheered her. She’d been fond of Pitch and had been grieving for the loss of her horse.
It was night, and the galley rode the gentle swells of the gulf. Lanterns lined the rail. The mob of pirate captains talked among themselves until Tol appeared on the sterncastle above them. He was flanked by his two men, Faerlac, the Dom-shu, Dralie, and Inika. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Men of the Blood Fleet! I am Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Champion of the Regent of Ergoth, and Rider of the Great Horde!” He hoped the list of titles would give weight to his words. “By right of combat, I have become master of this fleet. If anyone cares to dispute my claim, let him do so now!”
The pirates eyed each other, muttering. Finally, a veteran captain with black hair and the features of a half-elf said, “What is your will, my lord?”
Tol folded his arms. “I intend to take the fleet to Thorngoth.”
That set off a rumble of surprised conversation. A young captain with a potbelly and a shaven pate yelled, “You mean to sack the port?”
“No. The town will not be molested. I will walk ashore and greet the imperial governor.”
More consternation. The pot-bellied captain shouted, “The garrison will attack us without mercy!”
“Not if we fly the flag of Ergoth.”
Silence fell. Tol let it stretch for a few moments, then explained.
“For years you have preyed upon the ships of every nation with skill and success.” Brutal skill and ugly success, he thought, but wisely did not say. “Your number has grown from a handful of independent vessels into a mighty fleet. Now I offer you a chance to become even greater. Submit to the authority of the empire, and I guarantee all of you will receive amnesty.”
Some greeted this offer with harsh laughter. Others did not. The half-elf captain shouted down those around him, then asked, “If we are pardoned, my lord, then what? How do we live?”
“As captains in the Imperial Navy of Ergoth.”
This caused even more harsh laughter followed by wrangling. A few pirates came to blows, and one band of hotheads charged the ladders leading to the sterncastle. Tol’s companions, supported by Faerlac, drew swords and prepared to stand them off. Tol contented himself with glaring fiercely at the charging pirates.
“Stand down!” he barked. “By your own law, I am commander of this fleet!”
His words, backed by a quintet of naked blades, cooled the rebels’ ardor. Grumbling, the attackers backed down.
The bald, pot-bellied captain called out, “What if we don’t want your pardon? Will you force us?”
“I haven’t the time or the power to force anyone. I’ve been summoned to attend upon the new emperor, and I want to reach Daltigoth in two days. Any ship and crew that wishes to take advantage of my offer is welcome. The rest may go and consider themselves absolved of their oath to the Blood Fleet.”
Fifty captains left immediately. The remaining one hundred fifty-eight argued loudly among themselves about the merits of Tol’s plan.
Stepping back to let them hammer it out, Tol said, “What do you say, Faerlac?”
The bosun sheathed his cutlass. “I go where this ship goes,” he said firmly.
The half-elf captain stepped forward, and the rest quieted. “My lord,” he said, “what about our property? What will become of it?”
Their loot, he meant. Tol had no time to dispute every coin and trinket the pirates had purloined. He said as much, and most of the remaining captains looked relieved.
“And the galley slaves?” the half-elf asked.
The wretched captives chained to the oars of the pirate ships were not criminals or prisoners of war, but unfortunates taken on the high seas by the Blood Fleet, even as Tol’s party had been. That he could not countenance.
“All slaves must be freed,” Tol stated flatly. “If you accept the emperor’s charge and become officers in his navy, new rowers will be supplied from the prisons of Ergoth.”
On this point he would not bend, and another thirty-odd captains departed. More disputations on various points saw another two dozen pirates leave Thunderer.
To the one hundred or so remaining, Tol declared, “Welcome captains! You’ve made a wise decision.”
They would make landfall at Thorngoth just before dawn. Tol thanked the loyal masters and dismissed them-all but the half-elf.
The half-elf pirate was called to the sterncastle. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was cut short. Light gray eyes watched Tol warily.
Tol asked his name.
“Wandervere, my lord, of the galleot Quarrel.”
After questioning the captain further about Quarrel’s capabilities, Tol revealed he wanted to ascend the Greenthorn River at Thorngoth and proceed inland via the canal that joined the river to the capital. A journey over water would be far swifter than galloping on horseback the thirty-eight leagues from the coast to Daltigoth. Amused by Tol’s bold suggestion, Wandervere agreed.
Thunderer got under way again, oars rising and dipping in time to the great drumbeat. Before turning in for the night, Tol went below for the first time and addressed the rowers. As soon as they reached imperial territory, he told them, all slaves would be freed. Hundreds of gaunt, haggard faces stared at him without reaction, unable to believe his words. The rhythm of rowing was lost, and the galley wallowed to a stop. Tol repeated his promise.
From a rear bench a hoarse voice cried, “May the gods bless Lord Tolandruth!” A surprisingly strong cheer rose from the exhausted slaves.
Tol ordered water and extra rations for the slaves and returned to the deck. On the stair, he met Wandervere.
“You’re not just a good man with a sword, I see,” the half-elf commented, and there was no mockery in his gray eyes. “You know how to lead men. Those rowers will need no lash to spur them tonight. They’re rowing to freedom.”
The last of the loyal captains departed. From Thunderer’s stern windows Tol watched the lamps on the bows of the pirate ships turn away. He passed the night alone in Xanka’s broad bed. Dralie and Inika slept in the outer cabin with his comrades.
Some of the captains had a change of heart during the night. By the next morning, only sixty-six ships still followed in Thunderer’s wake.
Before dawn, squalls of rain lashed the bay. The heavy elevener pitched and rolled in the shallow waters off Thorngoth’s guardian fortress. Makeshift imperial banners whipped from the masthead, but in the swirling rain, Tol wasn’t sure anyone on shore could see them.
Thunderer crept ahead. The rest of the pirate fleet trailed behind in a wedge formation. High and dark, the stone walls of the fortress were forbidding in the grayish light.
“Steady,” Tol said. “Let them see our flags.”
“Oarmaster, eight beats!” Faerlac called out. The tempo of the rowing slowed.
The thin sound of a brass trumpet carried across the water-the call to assemble for battle.
“ ’Ware off!” Tol said, voice taut.
Even as he spoke, there was a thump, and a flaming missile arced up from the dark battlements. Frez scoffed. No catapult in the world could reach them this far.
A blazing javelin two paces long hit the water amidships and sizzled out, putting the lie to Frez’s confidence.
“They can’t see our colors,” Tol said. “I’ll have to go ashore. Prepare a small boat.”
“In this weather, my lord?” Darpo protested, holding a rail to keep his balance.
“No one need go with me.”
“Someone has to man the boat,” Faerlac said. “I’ll go.”
Stung by the bosun’s courage, Darpo and Frez volunteered immediately. Fortunately, the Dom-shu sisters were still sleeping; Tol knew they would have volunteered to go as well, and there wasn’t room for everyone.
As a yawl was prepared, more catapult shots whizzed toward them. Tol ordered the fleet to draw off out of range and await his signal, once he’d apprised the garrison of the true situation.
No sooner had Darpo and Faerlac raised the yawl’s single sail than a torrent of rain lashed over them. The small boat drove away from the towering side of Thunderer, and the galley was quickly obscured by mist and rain.
“Make for the quay below the sally port!” Tol shouted to Faerlac, at the tiller. Eyes slitted against the driving rain, the bosun nodded.
The wind shifted several times, buffeting the small craft mercilessly. The yawl was pushed toward the sandbar that shielded the mouth of the river then driven back out to sea again.
“Crazy wind!” Frez exclaimed.
Faerlac and Darpo, who both knew the sea, agreed. Could it be more of the evil magic that was stalking Tol? Nervously, he touched the concealed millstone.
Although Faerlac worked the tiller back and forth like an oar, trying to hold a course for shore, they could make no headway. The yawl spun, throwing everyone to the sides. Like a leaf in a whirlpool, the small boat flew out of control.
With a loud crack, the mast snapped and fell across the port side. The canvas sheet and lines closed over Frez. Trailing in the foaming sea, the sail dragged the boat to a stop. Water began pouring in over the side.
Darpo and Tol attacked the snarl of lines with their knives. In the stern, Faerlac held on grimly to the tiller, trying in vain to counteract the drag of the fallen mast. Frez flailed beneath the sail.
The yawl lurched suddenly, starboard side rising. Darpo lost his footing and pitched headfirst into the sea. Tol was tossed over the boat’s ribs into the tangle of sail and rigging. A strong wave hit the high side of the yawl and rolled it completely over. The last thing Tol saw before they capsized was Faerlac, now lifted high above his head and still clinging to the tiller.
All was green-black seawater and rushing bubbles. Tol’s right hand and foot were caught in the battered rigging. As the boat settled, he could feel himself being dragged down. He still had his dagger, so he hacked at the clinging lines.
He managed to free his hand, but his ankle was still trapped. Flickers of lightning briefly highlighted his underwater struggle, then even that light was lost as he continued to sink. Heart hammering, lungs burning, he felt the water grow colder and colder. His numb fingers lost their grip on the dagger. The ornate blade, gift of Crown Prince Amaltar, vanished into the depths. Hope seemed to drain away with the sinking weapon. The darkness was absolute.
Darpo had nearly given up hope when his questing hands closed around Tol’s leg. The former sailor swiftly felt his way down to the snarl of lines and sawed through them with his knife. Looping an arm around Tol’s chest, Darpo kicked hard for the surface.
When they broke through, both men gasped for air.
“My lord! My lord, are you all right?”
The white scar on the other man’s face stood out in the gloom and Tol recognized his rescuer. He was coughing so hard he could not reply, so Darpo headed for shore, towing him behind.
Their toes touched bottom. His breathing easier at last, Tol pulled free of Darpo’s arm. The two of them slogged ashore and fell, exhausted and gasping, on the mud.
They could see the pirate fleet rising and falling with the onshore swell. Between the ships and shore, however, was a distinct and separate squall, hovering off the mouth of the river. Lightning flashed in a circle of clouds above the swirling, lashing veils of rain. Outside the squall it was not raining at all, though the wind was up. As Tol had suspected, this was no natural storm.
The sharp prow of a ship drove through the wall of rain. A galleot, bow ablaze with half a dozen lanterns, emerged into the clear. Sailors lined the rails. They threw a line to a swimming figure. Backing oars on one side, the galleot swung round, presenting its starboard side to shore. A voice, amplified by a megaphone, shouted, “Aloo! Aloo! Can anyone hear me? Lord Tolandruth?”
Tol and Darpo scrambled to their feet, waving and shouting. The galleot swung toward them, oars churning. The light craft drove straight onto the mud, beaching itself. Unlike other sharp-hulled craft, the galleot’s bottom was flat and shallow.
Once aground, sailors dropped over the side and carried lines from ship to shore. They drove large stakes into the mud and tied the galleot fast. The oars were run in. Rope ladders clattered over the side.
Wandervere strode through the surf. He was backed by armed pirates, swords drawn. For an instant Tol thought Wandervere meant to slay him and claim control of the remnants of the Blood Fleet, but as the half-elf pirate reached Tol, he sheathed his cutlass.
“My lord! I am pleased to see you!”
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Wearily Tol offered his arm. Wandervere clasped it.
“Queer business, eh?” said the pirate captain, looking back at the squall, now gradually dissipating. “Never saw a blow like that stay in one spot so long.”
“Neither have I. Did you find Frez and Faerlac?”
“We pulled the bosun from the sea, but no one else.”
Horrified, Tol pushed past him and ran to the water’s edge. He called Frez’s name over and over, but received no answer except wind and waves. He started forward into the surf, but strong hands restrained him.
“No, my lord!” Wandervere said, as two sailors held Tol. “He is lost! You can’t save him now!”
Tol jerked free but made no move toward the waves. Instead, he stared out at the sea, shaking with sorrow and guilt. Frez’s death was his fault. It was a fool notion to go ashore in a small boat. He’d hoped to save lives by preventing a battle between the imperial garrison and the loyal pirates, and the effort had cost the life of one of his best, bravest men.
Sorrow melted into rage. No, Frez’s death was not his fault, not any more than Felryn’s had been or the deaths of the two soldiers at Golden House. The hand of an unseen enemy bore the stain of his comrades’ blood. It was on that shadowy figure that all the guilt lay.
“You’ll pay for this, I swear it!” Tol shouted into the sky.
Before Wandervere could ask what he meant, the thunder of approaching hoofbeats caught their attention. A troop of riders was galloping over the mudflats with sabers drawn.
The pirates formed a tight circle around Wandervere and Tol, facing the mounted men. They were soon surrounded by riders.
Mastering his anger, Tol said to the pirates, “Now is the time to be calm. Make no sudden moves!”
He stepped through the ranks of anxious sailors. Surveying the imperial horsemen, he said in a loud, commanding voice, “Who leads this troop? Where is your officer?”
A rider in a rain-slicked mantle broke out of line, and rode to Tol. “You brigands wish to surrender?” he said haughtily.
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