II
The top four feet of The Black Falcon's gangway was a no-man's land, empty, save for blood spatters on plank and rail. Two Thothian monks who dared enter were carried away by their comrades bloodied and battered. Their assailant, The Falcon’s chief roughneck, a bristling, seven-foot-tall, hirsute giant called Little Tug.
Tug guarded the top of the gangway brandishing a wicked hammer; a huge tower shield rooted before him. The shield and Tug’s vast bulk choked the ramp’s entire width. Crowded behind him were two dozen of The Falcon's seamen, cutthroats and reavers all, cutlasses, axes, and dirks in hand. Beside them, several knights and soldiers of House Eotrus and a score of Lomerian soldiers, sharp, young, and clean-shaven, their arms and armor gleaming, almost new. More soldiers and crewmen lined the deck-rail, longbow, sword, and mace.
Scores of Thothian monks, bald, bronzed, and bare-chested, crowded the gangway and the pier alongside The Falcon. The two scrawny monks at the head of the contingent, just out of Tug's range, were pale; their faces and brows dripped with sweat; their terror, plain to all. Each gripped the gangway's rail with one hand and desperately pressed back against their fellows who threatened to surge forward and push them into Tug's unforgiving embrace. They knew well the fate of their predecessors and wanted no part of it.
Sergeant Vid of House Eotrus stood just behind Tug, though Tug’s bulk blocked his view almost entirely. Vid was armored in chainmail and gripped a weathered poleaxe of hardened wood and forged steel that he would make good use of if Tug went down. As it was, there was little Vid could do save guard Tug’s flank if arrows or bolts began to fly. Crowded beside Vid was a lanky young seaman called Chert. Pale and sweating in shirtsleeves and breeches, Chert brandished a wide saber that looked all too heavy in one hand, and a big shield that was even heavier in the other.
“You think we'll get into it with them?” said Chert to Tug's back.
Vid glanced at the frightened youth who stared straight ahead.
“Depends how that monk gets on with the Captain,” said Tug, his voice a deep baritone, though he never took his eyes off the monks amassed before him.
“So you think we might have to fight?” said Chert, forgetting that Tug had bashed most of the life from two monks already.
“If we do, we do. If we don't, we don't. No sense worrying on it. Saw you through the last few scrapes, didn't I? This'll be none different. Just keep your shield up, your eyes open, and stay well clear of me if things get going. I need room to swing Old Fogey.”
“Right,” said Chert.
“That goes for you too, tin-can.”
“I'm no knight,” said Vid, “I'm just an old soldier.”
“All the same to me,” said Tug. “Just keep that pigsticker out of my back and I'll keep you clear of the business end of Old Fogey.”
“Fair enough,” said Vid.
The Black Falcon’s sail fluttered in the light breeze that washed in from the south. The briny ocean air cooled the afternoon sun, and blessedly freshened the dock ward’s foul and fishy stench. Captain Dylan Slaayde stood on the bridge deck with Bertha Smallbutt, the ship's quartermaster, arguing with a group of Thothian monks led by one Prior Finch. Sir Glimador Malvegil stood by with Sir Kelbor of Dor Eotrus. They studied both the debate and the standoff at the gangway, concern on their faces over each.
Slaayde's well-coifed appearance, black patent leathers, white shirt, and crisp jacket held him in sharp contrast to his crusty crew. He stood an extra step away to avoid the Prior’s foul, oniony breath. “Prior, be reasonable,” said Slaayde, his ready smile absent, his cheeks flushed. I've given you and your aides the grand tour, from stem to stern, including the hold. I've been more than cooperative and patient—”
“—For the last time, Captain, order that overstuffed barbarian of yours to stand down and give himself up,” gesturing down toward Tug, “and the rest of your men to stand aside so I can have this ship properly searched.”
“Properly?” said Bertha. “You've seen everything already. The whole ship — every hold, locker, and bunk. We've wasted the best part of the day with you.”
“I haven't seen the bulk of your cargo. You know full well that you only opened a handful of crates. You will open the rest or—”
“—You want to see more?” said Bertha. Her voice grew shriller with each word. “Fine. We'll open another handful. We'll open a dozen.”
Slaayde put his hand on Bertha's shoulder. “I'm a simple merchant, Prior,” said Slaayde. “Here to engage in honest trade. Nothing more. I want no trouble with you Thothians. You can search a score or more crates if it'll keep your troops off my ship and prevent this matter from escalating.”
“You will open every single box, barrel, and crate on this ship for inspection. Every one.”
“Ridiculous!” said Bertha as she shook her head.
“One score, no more,” said Slaayde. “You can select them yourself. Let's head back down to the hold and get this over and done.”
“Do you think me a fool?” said Finch. “Do you think this is a negotiation? I know you've got contraband aboard. One way or another I'll find it and you will taste almighty Thoth's justice. If you cooperate, Thoth may show you mercy, if not . . .”
“You've no right or cause to threaten the Captain like that,” said Bertha.
Finch glared at her. “Captain, in the name of the Thothian Theocracy of Tragoss Mor, I order you to direct your men to stand down. Now, Captain. And direct your cow,” he said as he scowled at Bertha, “to open and empty every crate on this ship or I will take you into custody and—”
“—Who the heck do you think you are?” screeched Bertha. “You can't speak of me like that.”
The Prior's arm shot out and slammed openhanded into Bertha's cheek. She fell backward, such was the force of the blow, and cracked her head into the deck-rail, which knocked her senseless. The big monk beside Finch, his bodyguard, chuckled. The third monk, a bespeckled, elderly fellow, looked up from his ledger for the first time, concern on his face.
Prior Finch loomed over Bertha. “I'm a Prior of almighty Thoth, you disgusting cow, and I'll speak to you any way I see fit.” Finch raised his leg and prepared to stomp on Bertha as she laid dazed, blood dripping down her brow. “If you had—” The Prior's words ended abruptly in a gurgling sound when the tip of Slaayde's saber burst through his chest.
The Prior coughed and a glob of blood poured from his mouth. He stared in disbelief at the steel that protruded from his chest. The saber’s crossguard pressed against Finch’s back, its steel-forged blade having passed clear through him.
Slaayde pulled his blade free, his face grim, as blood spurted from the mortal wound. Finch staggered wide-eyed and openmouthed for a few steps, pitched over the rail, and crashed to the main deck below, his fall in full view of the troop of monks amassed on the pier.
For a moment, no one moved, and everyone that saw went silent; shock and disbelief filled their faces.
Glimador shook his head. “Fool,” he spat.
“Treachery,” yelled one monk on the pier. Others yelled the same.
“Attack,” yelled others.
“Kill them,” yelled still more. “Praise Thoth! Kill them! Kill them all!”
The monks on the gangway charged Tug. Finch's bodyguard roared and pulled his scimitar. Before he could bring it to bear, Slaayde's saber bit deep into his throat; a mortal wound that instantly sapped his strength and dropped him to his knees.
The bodyguard’s sword clanked and rattled when it struck the deck. He desperately pressed his hands to his throat to stem the gush of blood, but it spurted from between his fingers and sprayed over Slaayde's boots and pantaloons. Fear etched the man's face. His eyes darted from Slaayde, to Glimador, to Kelbor, and back again — a pleading look; a silent cry for help, for mercy.
Slaayde stared down at him for a moment, then thrust his blade into the man's chest. The sharpened steel sliced through muscle and sternum and plunged deep into his beating heart. Slaayde pulled the blade clear and the monk collapsed face first to the deck.
The elderly monk dropped his ledger and backed away, but stumbled on a coiled rope and fell to his backside. He stared at the dark pool of blood that expanded around his fallen comrade. His eyes searched for some escape or solace. His gaze lingered on the ship’s ladder that led down to the main deck. Slaayde would be on him before he even made his feet; he would never reach the ladder. He was doomed. He looked up at Slaayde but betrayed no emotion, no fear. He simply adjusted his spectacles and sat there waiting, stoically resolved to his fate.
Slaayde stalked toward him, the same grim expression on his face as when he killed the other two.
Glimador grabbed Slaayde's sword arm and stepped before him. “You fool. There must be a hundred of them over there. How's Claradon supposed to get aboard now? And how will we get away?”
Slaayde's eyes were hard; his voice harsh. “We'll fight our way out. My crew's seen worse.” Slaayde glanced at Bertha. She stirred, only now coming around.
“We're not leaving without Claradon and the others.”
Two crossbow bolts flew past and narrowly missed Slaayde’s shoulder.
“They'd better show up fast, because we can't stay here. Stand aside. I've business to finish,” said Slaayde, gesturing toward the old monk.
“He's no threat. You will not butcher him.”
Slaayde stood eye to eye with the young nobleman, their faces inches apart. Slaayde's face and eyes were emotionless, resolved, dead. The dead eyes of a stone-cold killer. The gaze of a man who didn't care; all pretense to the jolly rogue long gone. He started to push past Glimador, but the young knight clamped down on his arm, all his muscle brought to bear to hold the captain back.
Kelbor moved behind Slaayde. “Stand down, Slaayde,” he said, menace in his voice.
A flash of anger covered Slaayde's face, and he paused for but a moment, considering, and then took a breath, glanced again toward Bertha who stared back at him. Tears streamed down her face. He relaxed and ceased straining against Glimador. Gesturing toward the old monk, he said, “Fine. I'll leave him be. Let go of me.”
Glimador nodded and released the Captain. Slaayde rushed to the ladder to join his men in battle.
More crossbow bolts flew by. One embedded in the housing for the ship's wheel.
“What do we do now?” said Kelbor.
“We hope that Seran found them and that they get here soon.”
“And if they don't?”
“Watch the monk and see to the woman; I'm going downdeck. Keep your head down.”
Little Tug wreaked havoc on the gangway. He cursed and taunted the monks that crumbled and shattered before his monstrous hammer. He trod on the broken bodies, their blood, brains, and guts stained the ramp as he pummeled his way down to the pier. Several corpses bobbed in the reddening water beneath the gangway, Tug's blows having launched them over the rail.
The smell of blood and men’s innards hung heavy in the air as it always did over a battlefield, breeze or not. The horrid sounds and sickening sights and scents of battle were new to the young Lomerian soldiers aligned behind Tug. Several retched. They formed a column one man wide behind Sergeant Vid, all silent and shiny silver, shields and swords, their faces pale and stoic, their eyes betrayed their fear. Beside them, Slaayde’s gritty reavers, old friends to blood and gore, formed a second column, their eyes wild and weapons notched, their voices raised loud and wild, urging Tug on. They chanted his name in unison, in tone and tenor that made the monks’ blood run cold.
Sergeant Vid and seaman Chert crouched behind Tug; their shields protected his and their flanks from crossbow bolts fired in panic by the monks arrayed along the pier. Most shafts flew wild, but some few slammed into or shattered against their shields.
The dozen Malvegillian archers lined up along the ship's rail were far more skilled than the monks. Several Thothians went down with arrows through chest, neck, or belly. The others took cover behind broad crates and barrels stacked about the pier.
The remaining monks on the gangway backpedaled from Tug, spears extended before them in hopes of keeping the brute at bay. Whenever Tug drew close enough, his hammer battered away the spear-tips, sundered shafts, and shattered limbs. Not a man amongst them could stand against him for more than a single swing of Old Fogey.
The cluster of monks at the base of the gangway parted when at last their champion arrived. His brethren whooped and hollered at the very sight of him, relief on their faces, their courage renewed, their ground now held. Their hero swaggered forward, a giant even to match Tug.
Sarq, champion of Tragoss Mor, towered above his fellows, and was near as tall as Tug. Bulging, chiseled muscles defined him; arms thicker than most men's legs; chest as broad as a wine barrel; his face lined and stony, his skin bronzed, and pate bald as his brethren. His arms and torso, tattooed here and there, women, dragons, and bones. The scars that crisscrossed his face and body bespoke of a bloody, brutal life. Not the life of a soldier, but that of a killer. A creature that lived for battle, reared in blood, his skills honed in the pits of Tragoss Mor’s arenas. He gripped the short-hafted spear in his right hand with ease and confidence. He lifted it above his head and his comrades cheered, their voices heard across the breadth of the docks, chanting his name, over and over. Sarq grinned and posed and flexed as they roared behind him and urged him on. His eyes wild, manic; his body shook with battle rage.
Tug grinned at the challenge. “Let's feed the fishes, boys,” he roared. He charged and pulled back his arm, poised to launch an overhand swing of his hammer. Sarq braced for the rush, spear readied before him.
Not ten feet from Sarq, Tug halted midstride and his hammer arced forward. A throw! He let Old Fogey fly, aimed at Sarq's midsection. A daring, even reckless move to throw his prized weapon when facing such an opponent. But perhaps Tug knew it was his best chance, for as quick as he was with the hammer, it was a ponderous weapon against an expert's spear. If he failed to crush Sarq with his first strike, the monk's spear may well skewer him.
The hammer sped in, too fast, and too large to dodge at that distance. Sarq sprang to the side with almost inhuman speed, spared of the deathblow. Fast as he was, the hammer caught him a glancing blow to the thigh. That and his leap took him from his feet. The hammer careened into other monks behind Sarq and sent several down in a heap.
Tug barreled forward, his tower shield braced before him, pinned with broken shafts. Sarq recovered his spear and made his feet, but before he was ready, Tug's shield barreled in and struck him a crushing blow that splintered the shield and brought Sarq to his knees, his face and arm broken and bloody.
Tug pummeled Sarq in the temple, once, and then again, knocking the Thothian unconscious. The other monks scurried back, shocked and terrified. Tug grabbed Sarq by the belt, hefted him overhead, and dumped him into the harbor, the Tragoss champion never even having struck a blow.
Seamen and soldiers swarmed past Tug, cheering, and waded into the fray, weapons flailing.
Slaayde slithered up against the ship's rail between where Guj, his half-lugron boatswain, and young Sir Paldor crouched. Both they and the monks on the pier were pinned down. Archers and crossbowmen traded shafts to little affect, as most everyone was now well behind cover.
“Orders, Captain?” said Guj, glancing over at Slaayde. Slaayde studied the scene as best he could, peeking over the gunwale.
“We've got to clear the pier,” said Glimador when he crouched down beside the others, “or Claradon won't be able to get to us.”
“Agreed,” said Slaayde.
“Up and over?” said Guj.
Slaayde nodded.
“I’ll go,” said Guj. “You stay with ship.”
“Agreed.”
Glimador looked at Guj quizzically.
“We jump over side,” said Guj. “Then kill all them monks.”
“Oh boy,” said Glimador. He peered over the rail at the gap between The Falcon and the pier. “That’s a ten or twelve foot drop and at least seven feet across. You can't be serious.”
“It's the only way,” said Slaayde. “We're pinned down here and bottled up at the gangway. We have to hit them across their whole line at once. They'll break and they'll rout.”
“Are you a soldier now, Captain?” said Glimador.
“I'm a lot of things,” said Slaayde.
“You tin-cans best stay put here,” said Guj to Glimador. “Too far for armor and I'm not fishing for you.”
Glimador looked over the side again. A crossbow bolt whizzed just over his head. “You'll get no argument from me.”
Word of the plan passed down the line in moments.
Guj sprang up. “Ready, you scum,” he shouted. “Up and over.” He stepped atop the rail and leaped toward the pier as he shouted a war cry. A good thirty crewmen followed him over in two quick waves, even the cook, the navigator, and one of the cabin boys made the leap, weapons in hand. The pier’s planks screamed and crackled but held when the men crashed to the boards. Amazingly, every man landed on the pier, though one or two went down, either taken by crossbow bolts or some injury from the jump.
Glimador looked down the line of the deck. Only Malvegillian archers and a handful of House Harringgold's regulars remained.
The pier now hosted a wild melee. Tug's group had partially broken the bottleneck at the gangway and was fully engaged with a troop of monks and a squadron of Tragoss Morian soldiers. Soldiers and seamen still crowded the gangway with no way to join the melee until Tug pushed the Thothians farther back.
Guj's seamen fell like madmen on the monks arrayed along the pier. They hacked and slashed with no mercy or regard. Their wildness was both their strength, since it struck fear in their enemy, and their weakness, since they fought as individuals, not as a unit.
Even over the din of battle, Tragoss whistles blared, a claxon call to arms. The city rose against them.
“Where are they?” said Slaayde as he strained to look down the pier.
“They'll be here,” said Glimador.
“The pier will be ours in minutes, but with those whistles will come troops,” said Slaayde. “Not just more monks, but squadrons of Tragoss regulars, trained soldiers. If they come in force, we're finished. To save our necks, we would have to push off at first sight of them and even then, we might not make it. Where's N'Paag? I need—-” Slaayde's words cut off in a grunt.
From the corner of his eye, Glimador saw Slaayde violently wrenched from his feet. He turned and witnessed a horror unlike any he'd seen before. He gasped and banged back against the gunwale in surprise. “Dead gods!?”
A fiend, a thing out of nightmare that moved like the wind, dragged Slaayde by the leg across the deck, then pounced on him, teeth and claws. The thing had been a man but moments before — it had been Prior Finch, a monk of Thoth, but was no longer. Now he was a monster, a fiend. Finch's bronzed skin was now a putrid gray; his teeth elongated into wicked fangs, his fingernails now razored claws, long and sharp as small daggers. His eyes burned red, blood red, illumed with an unholy light. A stench of death, putrid and vile, hung about him.
Slaayde squirmed and yelled and tried to spin and bring his sword to bear, but the thing had him well-pinned. It clamped its jaws on his leg, its dagger-like fangs unhindered by pant, flesh, or bone. Deep into Slaayde's calf did it bite. Slaayde roared in pain and anger.
Glimador bounced to his feet, sword in hand. Without hesitation, he extended his arm and pointed the tip of his sword at the monster that had been Finch. He recalled and bespoke his secret words of power; words not of the new, modern magic taught him by the masters of the Knights of Tyr, but olden words passed down from his mother. These words held eldritch power beyond the ken of other knights, well trained or naught. They called up energies that dwelt beyond the pale, plucked power from the primordial ether, and channeled it to his purpose. At Glimador’s behest, crackling blue fire engulfed his sword and bounded from its tip. It arced through the air like storm-fire, crackling and popping, and blasted into Finch's shoulder. It seared the monster’s flesh, bored deep into muscle and bone, smoke and sparks flew.
But that arcane spell that would have incinerated most any man or beast barely fazed the wanton creature. It didn't even cry out, though its head shot up from its victim. Blood dribbled down its mouth and neck, bits of Slaayde's pant and flesh dangled from its teeth. An inhuman growl — deep and guttural escaped from its maw; its eyes afire, locked on Glimador and promised only pain and death.
The fiend launched itself at the young knight, and leapt the twenty feet between them in a single bound. Glimador's sword sizzled by, wisps of blue fire still licked its steel, but the creature avoided the blow and struck back. Its horrid claws raked along Glimador's shoulder-plate and greaves, and gouged deep rivets in the tempered steel.
Glimador backpedaled and spun his sword over and over to parry the flailing claws that rained in. A dozen murderous blows he deflected, though it took all his speed and skill. Then Paldor was there; two Lomerian soldiers with him. They assaulted the beast from all sides, but it ducked and dodged with inhuman speed, capered and leaped to and fro, and sidestepped sword and axe. Its claws were everywhere and took their toll as it cursed in some guttural tongue unknown to mortal man.
A metallic tinkling sound filled the air and heralded the death of one brave soldier. It was the sound of chainmail links severing beneath otherworldly claws, the flesh beneath shorn and ruined as blood showered the deck. Just as quickly, the sound came again and another man fell to the claws, his entrails spilled on the boards.
Bertha appeared and dragged Slaayde farther from the fray as a volley of arrows took the beast in neck, shoulder, and chest. No blood sprang from the wounds; the missiles creating but a momentary pause in the melee.
Glimador and Paldor stood shoulder to shoulder, breathing heavily, and braced for the beast's next rush. Much of Glimador's armor hung in tatters. Paldor winced and tried to blink away the blood that trickled into his eyes from a wicked gash in his forehead.
“My magic can't stop it,” said Glimador.
“Our swords fare little better,” said Paldor. “What do we do?”
“We fight,” said Glimador, “until we put it down or death claims us.”
“Victory or Valhalla,” said Paldor.
Kelbor appeared at Glimador's side, sword at the ready. Ganton the Bull charged in, roaring and cursing, several soldiers in his wake.
“Just in time,” said Glimador.
The knights and soldiers encircled the fiend and pressed their attack. They cut off all escape and all room for it to maneuver. Hack and slash, stab and whirl, sword, hammer, and axe. Blow after blow struck the undead thing. No mercy, no quarter given.
A vicious slash from Glimador’s sword severed the fiend’s arm well above the elbow, but still it fought on. Kelbor's thrust pierced its chest; the sword's tip exited the creature's back. Kelbor twisted the blade and held it fast, transfixing the creature in place. Paldor stabbed it in the abdomen just as Ganton's hammer crashed down on its head and mashed it to pulp. The fiend's broken body collapsed lifeless to the deck; the evil power that had held it, now no more. It was dead, again.
“What in Odin's name was that?” said Ganton.
Glimador dropped to his knees in exhaustion. Paldor did the same.
Kelbor ran to the gunwale and looked out across the docks. “We've taken the pier,” he said. “The monks flee.”
The battle was over for the moment, though the cries and screams of injured and dying men filled the air, and Tragoss whistles blared all the louder, all the nearer.
“They’re here,” said Kelbor.
“Claradon? He's back?” said Paldor.
“Not Claradon,” said Kelbor. “The Thothian army,” he said turning back toward the others. “We’re finished.”
“You brought this on us,” yelled Slaayde, his voice weak and crackling. The men turned towards the forecastle. Slaayde sat on the deck, his face deathly pale, his legs outstretched before him, a pool of blood expanding about him. Bertha was on her knees and tears streamed down her face. Awash in the Captain's blood, she desperately tightened a tourniquet about his leg. “You stinking Eotrus,” said Slaayde. “You brought this evil to my ship, you bastards. You brought this death.” His voice grew weak and his eyes closed. “Damn you, damn you all.”