Though prior to stepping on board the Thranskirr Madrenga had never spent time on a body of water larger than Mopoun Lake west of Harup-taw-shet, he adapted to the ship’s rolling, heaving motion without distress. With each passing day he grew more comfortable with the ship, if not her crew. When he happened to encounter any of them they accorded him the respect due his unique position both as a paying passenger and an apparent favorite of the Captain. Most of the men were polite, if not particularly friendly. The youth’s cheery “Good morning” was usually met by a polite “Sir” or “Sor,” depending on the sailor’s homeland. Or in the case of a Harund, the rising throaty grunt that was their equivalent of courteous acknowledgement.
Several crewmen did their best to avoid him altogether. Not even the most cordial of the lot would go near Bit. Expressions tended to tense whenever the dog was eating, as the sound of bones cracking between Bit’s powerful jaws had a disquieting effect on the human soul as well as the ear. As for Orania, there were those who were tempted to approach so beautiful an animal. Yet among the several who tried there was universal agreement that the closer one got to the horse, the more persistent was the flicker of red in her eye. Whether this optical persistence was due to an illusion, a trick of the light, an imperfection in the lens of the animal’s eye, or something deeper and possibly malevolent, none of the crew could say. It was a puzzle that defied resolution, as no man dared draw near enough to see clearly.
Occasional flocks of blue-feathered amrayads flew by overhead, heading west in contravention of the Thranskirr’s course. The largest female led the way, her billowing wings creating a slipstream ridden effortlessly by those following behind. One evening a vomolak breached against the setting sun, momentarily blotting out the descending fiery disc before all three of its connected body parts crashed back into the water. It took such leaps, Quilpit explained, in the hopes of dislodging the vampire cod attached to its body.
It was in the third week that the strange vessel appeared on the northern horizon.
Alerted by the mainmast lookout, Hammaghiri had moved to the rear deck’s starboard railing and was peering at the oncoming vessel through an intricately engraved spyglass. Occasionally he would murmur a comforting word to it, causing the device’s integrated spell to juggle the multiple lenses mounted within. As words altered alignment, the high-masted newcomer came into increasingly sharp focus. After a number of minutes spent staring through the eyepiece the Captain was able to resolve the other craft’s identity.
“They fly no flag.” His tone was grim as he passed the spyglass to Quilpit while Madrenga looked on anxiously. “Men and other things who fly no flag stand only for themselves.”
“Pirates.” Quilpit was more solemn than Madrenga had ever seen the first mate.
When the Captain turned to his young passenger he spoke without rancor, but Madrenga could tell that Hammaghiri was rethinking his decision to leave the safety of the western coast and make a run straight across the Sea of Shadows. Realizing this, Madrenga struggled to decide whether to offer an apology or condolences.
“Don’t say anything.” The Captain spoke calmly, pre-empting his passenger. “This is not your fault. I knew the choices, and I made one.”
The younger man was looking past him, trying to make out the shape of the ship that was closing fast on their course. Sensing his master’s unease, Bit paced edgily back and forth behind the three men. Even Madrenga could tell that the oncoming vessel was larger than the Thranskirr.
“What do we do, sir? What’s our course of action?” He looked over at the older man. “Do we fight?”
“Time and shrinking distance will give the answer to that, Mr. Madrenga. First we must see how big she is, try to get a sense of the size of her crew, and evaluate her visible armament. My men are experienced and know what is expected of them. We have drilled for such eventualities. If the odds are reasonable, certainly we will fight. If not, we will negotiate. Contrary to what landsfolk think, all pirates prefer negotiation to battle. Endless booty is useless to a dead man.”
Madrenga studied the deck of the Thranskirr. Having not yet been informed of the approaching threat, the unconcerned crew continued with their daily tasks.
“What do you carry that they might want, sir?” He hastened to add, “Of course, such knowledge may be privileged and not mine to know.”
“There are no cases of corium or barrels of jewels, if that’s what you’re thinking, boyo.” Though already mentally preoccupied with preparations for a possible physical confrontation, Quilpit remained engaged in the conversation. “Another common misconception of landsmen. Pirates may prefer gold and gems: who would not? But they are perfectly content to take whatever is stealable and saleable. Furniture, food, medicines, tools—anything useful that can be converted to profit is grist for their efforts.” He grinned at the broad-shouldered young man with the youthful face. “They will take your pants, if they feel them worth a coin or two.”
The scroll, Madrenga thought with alarm. They will take the royal scroll. Perhaps not for what was written on it, but surely for the fine metalwork of which it and its container were made. Could he hide it somewhere? The notion did not linger. Surely professional brigands were accustomed to such ploys on the part of the passengers and crew of ships they accosted, and were adept at winkling out any valuables that might be secreted on board.
“I’d rather fight.”
Had he said that? Inoffensive Madrenga, with his discrete street-wise friends a haunter of the holes and hiding places of old Harup-taw-shet? Except he was no longer that same youth. In mind perhaps, but not in body. Or in experience. Had not he and Bit fought off the monstrous cabinet of curiosities of the malicious merchant in Hamuldar in order to rescue the beauteous smoke sprite Elenacol?
Elenacol. In truth her beauty had been inhuman. What would she advise if confronted with such a situation as he now faced? Tell him to surrender all that belonged to him, or to fight to preserve it? Certainly Counselor Natoum would order him to protect the royal scroll with every resource at his command. Including if need be his life. But the decision was not up to him. Despite his mysteriously enhanced abilities he could hardly mount a defense on his own. If Hammaghiri decided to surrender the ship, some other option besides a suicidal resistance would have to be considered.
Not only was the strange vessel bent on interception bigger than the Thranskirr, it was faster as well. Finally alerted by the mates to the oncoming danger, the crew erupted in a frenzy of activity. Weapons were passed out from the ship’s armory. Men were stationed along the starboard railing or sent scrambling aloft, there to rain down arrows and crossbow bolts from the yards and rigging. Of course, the pirates would position their own people similarly. In the forthcoming battle success was more likely to derive from weight of numbers than from strategy.
The lack of a flag on the oncoming ship was matched by the absence of a name. Unidentified, independent, and impudent, the three-masted fore-rigged threat pulled alongside the Thranskirr as easily as a sycophant beside a powerful politician. Built for speed instead of carrying capacity, she had more the look of a large racing yacht than a cargo vessel or warship; a piratical ferret alongside the Thranskirr’s squirrel. No wonder that from first sight Hammaghiri had given up any thought of trying to outrun her. More than a hundred armed men and Harunds, possibly twice that number, lined the railing in show of force. There were also, an agitated Madrenga saw, a trio of Golgox giants: the first he had ever seen in person. Wide of ear and flat of head, they towered over their fellow fighters. Each gripped and intimidatingly waved a double-bladed war axe with a steel head the size of a wagon wheel. If the intent was to frighten an opponent into surrender, the sight of three armed and armored Golgox constituted a significant beginning.
Holding a short sword in each hand, Quilpit appraised the threat dispassionately. “We are at an unmistakable disadvantage. Yet standing.” He looked to Hammaghiri. The Captain had armed himself with the most ornately decorated sword Madrenga had ever seen. Encased in chased gold and speckled with semi-precious gems, it belonged more in a parade than in battle. But in combat, symbols were important. If a clash reached the point where the Captain of a ship had to defend himself in hand-to-hand combat then that fight was likely as good as over anyway.
“What does the Captain wish?” the first mate asked tightly.
Madrenga never got the chance to hear what Hammaghiri had decided. Before the Captain could reply, three port covers were raised on the side of the pirate craft to expose three dark muzzles. A knowing cry interspersed with a few pointed laughs rose from the enemy crew. Hammaghiri’s expression fell.
“Cannon. They have cannon. Six, most likely.”
There was uncharacteristic resignation in Quilpit’s voice. “That explains why they hove to parallel to our course instead of immediately closing and trying to board.” As Madrenga looked on, the first mate set his swords down on the deck. On the main deck below, men were mumbling and muttering and turning away from what had been furious preparations for battle. Bewildered by what looked like abject surrender in the face of not a single arrow being shot, the youth looked from Captain to mate.
“I don’t understand. What’s a ‘cannon’? In truth, of engines of war I know only a little. I know catapults and arbalests, swords and siege towers. But of this cannon this is the first I have heard.”
Hammaghiri had moved to resume his seat in his elevated chair, from which vantage point he could more easily send his deep voice coursing over the intervening waters. Though he would attempt to broker a deal with the captain of the brigands’ vessel that would not leave empty and destitute the Thranskirr and its crew, both men knew which cards each held and that the game-playing to come was little more than a prelude to the cargo vessel’s surrender.
“Cannons are those round metal cylinders with the open mouths that you see pointing at us. Through the employment of an explosive powder they are able to throw large iron balls with great force wherever their muzzles are aimed. Sometimes handfuls of broken metal and old nails are used, to bloody effect. If that fails to deliver the intended prize, hot coals from the ship’s galley may be substituted.” He gestured aloft. “Masts, rigging, sails, and decks are all too easily set afire.”
A solemn Madrenga quietly digested this radical new notion. “Can nothing be done to counter such an evil spell?”
“No spell is involved, lad. No more so than a spell is required to fling a spear or snap a bowstring. It is all to do with something called chemistry and chemicals, which I’m told is akin to alchemy.” He shook his head. “I account myself no fool, but I am a sailor. I know the sea. I know her moods, her citizens, her weather. Of these chemical things I know only what I have heard.” Turning, he looked back across the intervening patch of ocean toward the pirate ship that was now paralleling the Thranskirr. “Cannon I know because I have seen them before. It is not pretty work.”
Shouting from the Captain’s chair, Hammaghiri began to argue with his counterpart on the other vessel. He did not plead or ask after mercy, knowing that these were commodities which the occupants of the other craft held in short supply. As the two ships plowed on side by side, both full of sail and one of bluster, it became apparent that the commander of the threatening vessel was starting to lose patience with his quarry. The longer their activities and emotions are kept pent up, men intent on plunder tend to grow edgy.
The pirate captain finally signaled his displeasure at Hammaghiri’s stalling by ordering the foremost of his three loaded cannons to fire. Rather than hole the Thranskirr, it was a demonstration intended to clear her decks of any remaining notions of resistance as well as to put an end to delaying tactics. There was an explosion of a kind Madrenga had never before heard. A great gout of white smoke haloed the barrel of the weapon that had been fired. Then time seemed to slow down.
He was perfectly aware of everything around him. Of Hammaghiri abruptly breaking off his ongoing discourse, Quilpit uttering a violent curse and throwing himself onto the deck, other members of the crew struggling to take cover behind tough pigo masts or diving for open hatchways. All this was normal—except they were moving so slowly that it looked like they were swimming in aspic. Why, Madrenga thought, he could have ducked beneath the flying first mate, tickled his belly, and emerged standing on the other side of him before he was likely to hit the deck.
As his gaze turned outward toward the attacking vessel, he saw the smoke from the explosion dissipating like oil in water and saw a round iron ball the size of a melon coming directly toward him. It was spinning through the air with infinite slowness as it crossed the space separating the two ships. Fascinated, he found that he could make out the imperfections in the metal, could discern small ridges and bumps on its otherwise smooth curved sides.
Reaching the Thranskirr after what seemed like an eternity in flight, it crossed over the railing on a path to sever the aft mast. Without thinking, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed it, plucking it from the air through which it was traveling as easily as he would have picked a ripe fruit from the low branch of an orange or apple tree. The iron sphere was cool to his touch and virtually weightless.
Time abruptly returned to normal. It was the only thing that did. Picking himself off the deck, Quilpit stared at his young friend. For the first time since they had met following the incident at the dog fighting arena, Madrenga saw something in the first mate’s eyes that had not been there previously.
Fear.
Realizing that their ship had not been struck, crew were picking themselves off the deck and emerging from hiding places. One by one they became aware of the current location of the deadly ordnance that had been directed at them. A few cheers started to ring out across the deck. Interspersed with these were expressions of awe and murmurs of uncertainty.
All three emotions raced through Captain Hammaghiri as he looked down at where his unfathomable young passenger stood holding the cannon ball, gripping it in one hand as if it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. One did not rise to his position by being afflicted with slow reactions, however, no matter how outrageous the circumstances in which he might find himself. Gesturing toward the other vessel, he spoke in a calm but firm voice.
“Good catch, Mr. Madrenga. Now give it back.”
The youth hesitated, then understood. Still wondering how he was able to do such things but at the moment more occupied with simply doing them, he drew back his right arm and flung that which he had snatched out of the air. As fast as it had been fired from the other ship, the cannon ball sped back across the intervening water. Having taken only the most indifferent aim, Madrenga was relieved to see the sphere smash into the hull of the other vessel—below her waterline.
The pandemonium that broke out on the pirate craft reminded him of the chaos that had ensued at the dog fighting arena following Bit’s transformation. Come to think of it, Madrenga thought with a start, where was Bit? His dog had been at his side all day, but now he was missing. Had the sound of the cannon firing frightened him and driven him to seek a hiding place below deck?
“There! Look there!” Quilpit had rushed to the railing and was pointing in disbelief. Madrenga gaped, then shouted.
“Bit! Bad dog! Get back here!”
In truth, Madrenga had properly described his animal. Expanding in size even as they watched, the dog was making his way toward the pirate vessel. Though Quilpit had witnessed a similar manifestation once before, it astonished him anew. That was nothing compared to the reactions of the Thranskirr’s crew. Their reactions were decidedly mixed. Observing Bit’s sudden growth only confirmed every suspicion they’d held regarding the animal since it had come aboard. On the other hand, the increasingly frightening dog was swimming away from the Thranskirr and toward the attacking vessel.
As Madrenga yelled frantically in a futile attempt to persuade his pet to return, arrows and spears began to rain down on the water in the vicinity of the preternaturally fast canine swimmer. None struck him. Or perhaps some did and bounced off. Neither those around Madrenga or on the pirate craft could tell one way or the other. Then the powerful swimming shape disappeared beneath the waves. Gleeful cries rang out from the deck of the attacking ship. Stunned, Madrenga could hardly believe it. He kept watching the water where his old friend had gone under, unable to believe that after all they had been through together he would lose Bit now to the ocean they had greeted as strangers.
His eyes sharper than most, it was again Quilpit who pointed to the dog’s reappearance. “There he is, boyo! There, at the stern of the other ship!”
Madrenga’s heart jumped as a familiar black shape became visible. Bit had not drowned, nor had he been skewered. He had merely continued swimming underwater. His master had seen dogs do such a thing in the lakes around Harup-taw-shet, but never had he seen one stay under for so long.
He was still reflecting on the welcome surprise when Bit opened jaws that had expanded to the size of wagon seats and bit off the other ship’s rudder.
Chaos ensued on the attacking craft. Steered now only by the wind, the pirate vessel slewed wildly to the south. Yards snapped and one sail came crashing to the deck. Men ran to help the helmsman, but with their rudder gone there was little they could do. Additionally, she was taking on water where Madrenga’s returned cannon ball had hulled her. Out of control she swung around, heading south at an angle that would send her crashing into the Thranskirr. Hammaghiri saw the danger immediately.
“Hard a-port!” he howled at his helmsman. The bone wheel spun and the Thranskirr started to come about. Quilpit picked up his swords and with Madrenga at his side rushed to the starboard rail. The men on the main deck did not have to be told what to do. The battle would be decided in a matter of moments. With their own vessel now damaged and taking on water, the pirates would fight even more furiously to try and take their prize.
Arrows and crossbow bolts began to fly between the two ships. Heavily armed pirates massed near her port bow awaiting the moment of impact. They would come swarming over in a mass, would have to be stopped from boarding and driven back onto their own craft. The men of the Thranskirr crowded forward to meet them.
Both ships were very close now: the course-changing Thranskirr and the out-of-control pirate craft. Seeking protection behind stout planks and masts, fighters on both sides readied for the coming impact. The space between the two ships continued to shrink, closing, closing. One of the Golgox giants climbed up onto the railing of his ship, which groaned beneath his weight, and readied his massive axe. Bolandri strained to pull the Thranskirr’s wheel over even harder in a desperate attempt to keep the two vessels from colliding.
Everyone waited, waited—for an impact that did not come. Rudderless, the pirate vessel continued to sail where the wind drove her while the Thranskirr continued to turn away from her attacker. The space between them shrank further, further—and stabilized.
Grappling hooks soared from the attacker in a final desperate attempt to bind the two vessels together. Sailors on the merchant vessel frantically started hacking at the thick ropes in an attempt to free her from the unwanted lashings. To stop them, the crew of the pirate craft charged forward, intending by sheer weight of arms and numbers to overwhelm the Thranskirr’s forward defenders. The Golgox was first across.
Only to be sent flying back, to land halfway down the deck of his wounded ship.
Only slightly less stunned, the seamen on the Thranskirr gave ground to the heavy horse that had come up among them. Orania was showing the enemy her hindquarters, but not in defeat. Every time one of the attackers tried to board the merchant vessel he was met by a pair of flying hooves that sent him airborne. Harund, Golgox, human—Orania did not discriminate. Bodies fell on the deck of the attacking ship, were caught in its high rigging, were smashed into the hull, or flew completely over the craft to land in the water beyond. While they had cheered Bit’s efforts, this time the Thranskirr’s crew was too stunned to do more than watch.
Even more impressive than the mare’s strength was the speed of her reactions. No matter how many pirates tried to cross between the two ships, she was there to meet them. Sailors recalled the blur she had become when raising the ship’s anchor. That quickness was duplicated now as she darted back and forth, back and forth along the Thranskirr’s railing.
Working furiously, other sailors finally succeeded in cutting the ship free from the last of the grappling hook lines. Gradually the two vessels began to drift apart; the Thranskirr under control, her assailant running wildly before the wind. Some of the pirates tried to steer her using their fore-rigged sails, but in the absence of a rudder their efforts were largely stymied. As their courses diverged, the Thranskirr began to pull away.
With no enemy left to launch, Orania let out a satisfied snort, retraced her steps between lines of staring seamen, and returned to her bed near the stern. It was left to Madrenga to break the ensuing silence.
“Bit. Where’s Bit?” Rushing to the railing he anxiously scanned the surrounding, heaving sea for any sign of his friend.
The dog appeared moments later, swimming parallel to the ship. But for all his enhanced size and strength, he could not climb the merchant vessel’s fast-moving wooden flanks. Orders were given and a cargo net lowered over the starboard side. Bit did not so much climb into it as get himself thoroughly entangled.
“Haul away!” Quilpit yelled. Muscles strained as the men brought the net up and over the deck. There it was upended and its sodden canine cargo unceremoniously dumped. A relieved Madrenga rushed toward his rescued dog.
“Bit! Next time come when I call you!”
Having shrank in size from enormous to merely huge, the dog ran to meet him. Just before they embraced, he paused and shook. By the time he stopped, his master was as well and truly drenched as if he had accompanied his pet over the side. The picture presented by the drenched passenger broke the remaining tension and a fair proportion of the greatly relieved sailors broke out in good-natured laughter. Cloths were brought up from below and thrown in Madrenga’s direction until he was all but buried beneath the onslaught of woven cotton.
But not every member of the crew joined in the spontaneous celebration.