Amahl gazed up to see two more Camorians running headlong toward him, one with sword and the other with iron tipped pike. Amahl pulled out the dagger from his left boot. Before he could hurl it at the assailants a few of his own corsairs intercepted them with deadly blows. Hajish made his way to Amahl’s side while half a dozen of the Prince’s men created a defensive perimeter around them. Hajish, also covered in Camorian blood, panted heavily. “I wish you would not do that, my lord.”
Amahl snickered a bit while he sheathed his daggers and then retrieved his sword from the dead man’s body. “You know what to do and what we are looking for, Hajish. Make haste, for I feel this scow listing to starboard. I fear she is taking on water. Go below. Free any Tarranian and Aiser slaves and we shall meet at the stern.”
“Aiser?” questioned Hajish, confused.
“Yes, Aiser. Now go, you lummox.”
Hajish turned from Amahl, slightly shaking his head. “Your will, my hand.”
As Hajish and several other corsairs battled their way to the stairs leading to the lower deck, Amahl raised his tulwar above his head, yelling “All right lads, this hunk of driftwood is almost ours. Make way aft. I want to see the rest of this boat.”
By this time the merchant ship’s deck was strewn with wounded and dead from both sides. The Camorians had suffered more casualties and the corsairs now controlled the bow of the vessel. Tarranian arrows once again rained down death from the Seventh Son’s rigging. The sounds of battle rang out with the clang of metal on metal. Battle cries and screams of agony reverberated along the deck as Amahl and his men hacked their way to the stern, leaving a trail of crimson gore in their path.
The remaining Camorian sailors had rallied in front of the helmsman’s platform, mounting a strong defense. Amahl set eyes upon the man who was obviously the leader of the defenders, a semi-aged but well-built Arcanian wearing a leather cuirass of a Legionnaire. Amahl moved toward the white-skinned Arcanian commander. “Away! He is mine. This one is for my blade only.”
The Arcanian had short graying hair that was beginning to thin. With a thigh length tunic under the cuirass, bracers of leather and padded leggings, he appeared well clad for combat indeed. He was drenched in blood, not of his own, which told Amahl that this man could be a formidable foe. The two men squared off with each other, Amahl with his Tarranian tulwar and the Arcanian with a gladius.
Amahl extended his left arm toward his opponent, holding his hand palm forward with thumb, index and second fingers raised together, forming the alpha sign. He then spoke sternly to the ex-Legionnaire in the shared tongue of the Arcanians and Camorians. “I see you were a Legionnaire. I can tell by your broken beak and the scars upon your face that you have earned your life many times. I presume you have been employed to protect this ship by the merchant called Morro. Look around you, man. It appears that I have won the day. If you lay down your weapons I will be merciful and spare your lives. What say thee? Wilst thou surrender this deck?”
The Arcanian grimaced. “I will never surrender to a pirate dog like you,” he responded angrily. The Arcanian then spat at Amahl and lunged to attack. Amahl, with the quickness of a jaguar, parried the blow. With a rapid swirling motion he used his tulwar’s blade to wrap his assailant’s sword arm into an arm bar. Forcing the Arcanian’s arm up with one fast and fluent motion, Amahl drew the curved dagger from his waist with his left hand and plunged it deep into the now exposed armpit of his adversary. With a look of surprise upon his face the Arcanian gasped, dropping his gladius to the deck. Amahl released his tulwar and grabbed the Arcanian by the throat with his right hand, gripping it tightly. Amahl drew the man in close to him, speaking nonchalantly in normal voice. “I don’t like the word pirate. I prefer corsair.” Then with a violent twist of the dagger he rendered the ex-Legionnaire lifeless.
The Arcanian’s corpse slumped to the deck in a pool of blood. Amahl picked up the gladius and his tulwar. He looked around to see the last of the Camorian sailors throwing down their weapons and surrendering. The corsairs began rounding them together, making sure they were all disarmed.
Amahl’s second mate, Kaleeb, approached the Prince. His light leather armor was covered in blood and he had a fairly deep gash on his left forearm. Kaleeb was a small man and not as muscular as many of the corsairs, but he made up for it with speed and agility. His long black, curly, matted hair was soaked as red droplets sprinkled about from his mane. “The upper deck is yours, Captain.”
“Good,” replied Amahl. “Take some men below to help Hajish.”
Kaleeb’s response was to point his bloody scimitar towards the stairway to the lower deck. Amahl turned to see Hajish and his men emerge from the bowels of the ship along with seven Tarranians clad in loincloth only, some still in chains and shackles. Also with them was a very large and muscular Aiser with long straight black hair, also wearing nothing but a loincloth. There was one more with Hajish and his men, a short, chubby Camorian clad in expensive robes. “It appears Hajish has found your man, my Prince.” remarked Kaleeb.
Just then the sound of wood crackling and splintering startled the corsairs. The merchant ship lunged and began listing hard to the starboard side. Amahl looked at Kaleeb with wide eyes.
“Not good,” Hajish yelled across the deck to Amahl. “The hull is breached. She’s taking on water fast.”
Amahl turned to Kaleeb, pointing the gladius at the dead Arcanian. “I want that armor.” Kaleeb responded with an affirmative nod of the head. “Then get all of our men back to the Seventh Son before we find ourselves in Neptula’s treasure chest.”
“Aye, Captain,” came back Kaleeb. “And what of the prisoners?”
“End them,” Amahl replied with no reservation.
Kaleeb turned to his men and gestured with his hand across his throat. They did not need to be told that meant “no mercy.” In moments the captured Camorian sailors lay dead amongst the other bodies on the deck.
Amahl quickly sprinted across the now slanting deck, yelling, “Gather the wounded and help them back to the ship. Make haste before this wreck takes us and the Son down with her.” With alacrity the corsairs began evacuating the conquered Camorian merchant ship. It was now a race against time, for the grappling lines were beginning to cause the Tarranian galley to list towards the sinking ship. “Leave the dead mates,” Amahl yelled to his crew. “Neptula will entertain them now.”
Hajish ran up to Amahl. “My Prince, you must go now.”
“Not till they are all away,” said Amahl sternly. “Did you find it?”
Hajish grinned and reached into his leather armor, showing him the end of a scroll. Amahl nodded affirmatively as the last of his buccaneers made their way back to the Seventh Son. Amahl and Hajish leaped across from the merchant ship onto their own, yelling “Cut the lines.”
Kaleeb repeated the orders. “Cut those grapple lines now. Steer to starboard. Port side oarsmen, push off.” Kaleeb ran to the iron grating in the middle of the deck and yelled again to the crew in the hull. “Port side oars, push off from that ship, unless you bastards want to swim.”
The grappling ropes were severed and the galley lurched to the starboard side, then back to the port side, eventually evening out. “Port side oars, row now. Row, you dogs,” yelled Kaleeb.
Hajish ran as fast as his thick and heavy body would allow towards the helmsman’s perch, bellowing “Hard to starboard, hard to starboard” the whole way. The Seventh Son slowly began to distance itself from the sinking vessel. Amahl yelled “All oars full ahead.” The galley veered away from the doomed merchant ship and the whole crew, even the wounded, watched as the craft dove into the depths of the sea.
Amahl slowly walked to mid-ship, surveying the state of his crew. Many were wounded, some critically. His eyes narrowed as he bellowed out orders, pointing the gladius at the Tarranian slaves from the merchant ship. “Get the manacles off those men. Take the injured below and get them to the barber.” He then examined Kaleeb’s wounded forearm. Rippi
ng off one of his own bloody shirt sleeves, Amahl made a quick bandage for the gash. “Get that looked at,” he ordered.
The burly Hajish came lumbering across the deck towards Amahl and Kaleeb. Two other corsairs followed, firmly escorting the tall, lanky Tarranian that had been piloting the ship. They all stopped before Amahl as Hajish tossed the pirate’s saber and knife to the deck beside the Prince. Amahl approached the steersman who was still being restrained by the two corsairs and spoke. “Was there something unclear about my intentions to capture that ship which is now in the belly of the sea?”
All eyes of the crew were upon their captain as he began slapping the palm of his hand with the blade of the sword he had taken as a prize.
“O Prince, it was not of my doing,” the helmsman nervously replied. “The starboard oarsmen did not stop rowing soon enough and there was a gust of wind from the west that sent us into the other ship.”
Amahl began nodding his head up and down, slightly, with a reassuring grin. “Ah… so in truth you were not at fault?” asked Amahl.
“Aye, O great Prince, it was beyond my control.”
Amahl stabbed the gladius into the deck, leaving it standing erect and wobbling as he addressed the steersman again. “Very well, then. It is decided.” A look of relief came over the face of the tall Tarranian, but in a mere moment changed to dismay as the blade of Amahl’s curved dagger sliced through his throat, an arc of blood streaming from the jugular. “Seafood,” Amahl angrily growled to the two men holding onto the gurgling man. With crimson pumping out of his neck, the man collapsed as the two corsairs dragged the dying helmsman to the ship’s rail.
Hajish leaned in close to Kaleeb, whispering, “It appears that was the wrong answer.” Kaleeb shook his head back and forth, chuckling. Hoisting the now limp and lifeless corpse, the two corsairs hurled the body over the side into the waters below.
Amahl looked to the faces of his crew members. “That man cost us the prize that we all fought and bled for. Let it be known that those who do not accept the responsibility of their own actions shall have no mercy from me.”
Amahl wiped clean his dagger blade upon his remaining shirt sleeve and looked toward Hajish. “Who is now piloting my ship?”
“Hasahn is, my Prince,” answered the first mate.
“And why was he not at the helm during the attack?” Amahl questioned again.
Kaleeb interjected quickly. “My Prince, it was you that insisted that Hasahn lead the aft boarding party.”
Amahl returned his dagger to its scabbard and grunted with a bit of a laugh. “So it was.”
Hajish gave Amahl an I-told-you-so sort of look, saying, “Your will, my—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My will, your hand. Let me see the map.”
Hajish pulled out the rolled-up scroll from his leather armor and handed it to Amahl with a grin. Amahl unfurled the map that appeared to be made of a thin, soft, leathery material. He squeezed and rolled the material between his fingers.
“Is it?” asked Hajish.
“Yes,” Amahl answered. “It seems to be a map tattooed upon human skin.”
Kaleeb and Hajish smiled as Amahl handed them the map and walked across the deck to where the plump prisoner was held at blade’s point. Amahl towered above the short Camorian of fair skin. His pug smoothly shaven face shown of desperation and fear. “You will need me alive to read Skulpa’s map for you,” he stammered nervously in the Arcanian language.
Hajish barreled across the deck and backhanded the Camorian across the jaw, sending the man sprawling to the deck with bloody lip. “Do you not know whom you are before?” roared Hajish in the Arcanian tongue, with a strong Tarranian accent. “You are in the presence of Prince Amahl Hammid Ahkba, seventh son of Drakos Saleem Ahkba, Grand Malik of Tarran. You shall not speak unless spoken to. On your feet, swine.” Two corsairs lifted the split-lipped Camorian up off the deck.
With steady eyes of green, Amahl met the man’s gaze and spoke in near perfect Arcanian. “So this is the merchant called Morro.” Amahl grabbed the jaw of Morro in his left hand with an iron grip. “Tell me again why it is that your life should be spared.”
Sweat poured down the brow of the merchant. “You will need me to read the pirate Skulpa’s map,” he replied shakily. “It is written in the ancient language of the Dahkmahl. A long forgotten type of hieroglyphic writing that disappeared when their island sank into the Sea of Baal ages ago. I can read these glyphs. You need me.”
Amahl released Morro’s jaw and turned to Kaleeb, taking the map from him. “We all know the tale of the dreaded pirate Skulpa of Tarran,” he said, turning back to face the merchant again. “How he amassed a great treasure trove from his escapades upon the high seas. How he hid this great fortune in a cave on a remote island guarded by a demon he summoned with his dark ancient magik. And as the tale goes, he had a map tattooed on the back of his first mate. This map, as you have said, also contains directions written in the age-old and nearly lost glyphs of the Dahkmahl culture. It is said that when Skulpa was captured by the Arcanians they found the map on the back of the first mate, so they had his back skinned and the map tanned to preserve it. But no one could read the ancient writings on the chart. And yes, I still have need of you for the moment, but maybe not for what you have said. Hajish, where did you find this map?”
Hajish pondered a brief moment. “It was on a table in his quarters where we captured him.”
Amahl turned back to Morro and with a half mouth grin blurted out, “Remove his garments. All of them.” The corsairs holding Morro stripped him naked, leaving his clothes lying in a pile on the deck.
“Hajish, Kaleeb,” commanded the Prince. “Search those garments well and pay special attention to those boots.”
Both men started tearing through the clothes. “What are we searching for, my Prince?” Kaleeb asked in Tarranian.
Amahl answered in similar tongue. “You will know when you find it. I tell you, look carefully at those boots.”
Amahl addressed Morro as Hajish and Kaleeb each began ripping the stitching out of the boots. Switching back to the Arcanian language, Amahl spoke in a very calm manner. “You see, Morro… any normal treasure hunter would have been fooled by all of this. I mean, the map is for sure a tattoo on human skin and the glyphs upon it are definitely that of the Dahkmahl. Unfortunately for you, though, I am a man of learning, educated in the palace of my father. I know how to read the writings of the Dahkmahl and the glyphs on this map are nothing but senseless combinations that have no meaning. Whoever made this map most likely copied the glyphs from the original out of order in an effort to make a decoy map that did not give up the true words of the original. It does bring to mind one question: Whose back was used for this one? Now what I wish to know is whether you were duped by this obviously fake map, or if you were the one that had it made.”
“My Prince,” interrupted Kaleeb, brandishing another human skin map. “As you said, Captain. It was in the lining of a boot.”
Amahl took the map and looked at it intently for a moment, then looked back at Morro. “So now I have my answers.”
Morro became slightly indignant. “So now I suppose you will slit my throat as you did your own man?”
“No,” returned Amahl. “I will not kill you.” The Prince stuffed the map into his sash and then, reaching down with his right hand, locked his grip on Morro’s penis and testicles. Morro let out a scream of pain as he was led by his manhood across the deck to where the Tarranian slaves and the Aiser had just been freed of their shackles.
Amahl released his grip on Morro’s genitals and kicked him to the deck amongst the men who had been his slaves. “As I said, I will not kill you.” explained Amahl. “Your fate is now out of my hands, for I am giving you to these men.” Amahl then spoke to the seven Tarranians and the Aiser in the tongue of Tarran. “He is yours, lads. Do with him as you please, but take your time. Remind this pig of all the time you spent under his whip.” All seven of the freed Tarranians
encircled the merchant, with some picking up the remnants of the chains they had worn. In moments Morro’s screams of agony rang out.
Amahl approached the large, thickly-muscled and fair-skinned Aiser. His long, straight, black mane was wet. From the scars on his chest and back it was evident he had been under the lash. He was not participating in the slow demise of the merchant Morro. Hajish quickly stepped to the Prince’s side, hand at the ready on the hilt of his sheathed scimitar.
Amahl questioned the north man in fluent Aiser. “Do you not speak Tarranian?”
The Aiser looked at Amahl directly in the eyes with amazement, answering in very good Tarranian. “I understood you.”
“Then why not have your revenge upon that pig?” Amahl returned.
The Aiser not once took his gaze away from the green eyes of the Prince. “I find no honor or challenge in execution,” answered the north man.
Amahl gave a low grunt with a bit of a laugh attached as he walked back over to the gladius sword still stuck in the deck. He pulling the sword free and swaggered toward the stairs to the lower deck, barking orders. “Square those men away when they are finished with that swine Morro. Get them food and wine. Clean up the Aiser and bring him to my quarters.”
“Aye, Captain,” responded Hajish and Kaleeb in unison.
Amahl started down the stairs, still growling commands. “Bring us about on a course of east by southeast for now. I need time to study this chart. And bring me a basin of fresh water. All mates in my cabin at sunset. I need a drink.” Then the voice silenced as the door to the captain’s quarters slammed shut.
* * *
A short time passed and Amahl had just finished cleansing himself of the gore from the foray when a loud knock resounded from his cabin door. “Enter,” said the Prince. Hajish, still covered in dried blood, entered and shut the door behind him.
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