The man Knute addressed towered over him as he looked down. At six foot eight inches tall he dwarfed those around him. His massive shoulders and arms lay exposed by the black leather cuirass he favored, though he had added a pair of shoulder pads studded with steel spikes - a prize taken off the corpse of one of Queg’s more renowned gladiators. The exposed skin displayed dozens of reminders of battles fought, traces of old wounds intersecting one another. A scar that ran from forehead to jawbone through his right eye, which was milky white, marked his face. But his left seemed to glow with an evil red light from within and Knute knew that eye missed little.
Save for the spikes on his shoulders, his armor was plain and serviceable, well oiled and cared for, but displaying patches and repairs. An amulet hung around his neck, bronze but darkened by more than time and neglect, stained by ancient and black arts. The red gem set in its middle pulsed with a faint inner light of its own as Bear said, “Worry about keeping us off the rocks, pilot. It’s the only reason I keep you alive.” Turning to the rear of the ship, he spoke softly, but his voice carried to the stern. “Now!”
A sailor at the rear spoke down to those in the hold below, “Forward!” and the hortator raised one hand, and then brought its heel down on the drum between his knees.
At the sound of the first beat, the slaves chained to their seats raised their oars and on the second beat they lowered them and pulled as one. The word had been passed, but the Master of Slaves who walked between the banks of oars repeated it. “Silently, my darlings! I’ll kill the first of you who makes a sound above a whisper!”
The ship, a Quegan patrol galley seized in a raid the year before, inched forward, picking up speed. At the prow, Knute crouched, intently scanning the water before him. He had positioned the ship so it would come straight at the target, but there was one turn that still needed to be made to port - not difficult if one reckoned the timing correctly, but dangerous nevertheless. Suddenly Knute turned and said, “Now, hard to port!”
Bear turned and relayed the order and the helmsman turned the ship. A moment later Knute ordered the rudder amidships, and the galley began to cut through the water.
Knute’s gaze lingered on Bear for a moment, and then he returned his attention to the ship they were about to take. Knute had never been so frightened in his life. He was a born pirate, a dock-rat from Port Natal who had worked his way up from being an ordinary seaman to being one of the best pilots in the Bitter Sea. He knew every rock, shoal, reef, and tide pool between Ylith and Krondor, and westward to the Straits of Darkness, and along the coast of the Free Cities. And it was that knowledge that had kept him alive more than forty years while braver, stronger, and more intelligent men had died.
Knute felt Bear standing behind him. He had worked for the enormous pirate before, once taking Quegan prize ships as they returned from raids along the Keshian coast. Another time he had served with Bear as a privateer, under marque from the Governor of Durbin, plundering Kingdom ships.
For the last four years Knute had run his own gang, scavengers picking over wrecks drawn upon the rocks by false lights here at Widow’s Point. It had been the knowledge of the rocks and how to negotiate them that had brought him back into Bear’s service. The odd trader named Sidi, who came to the Widow’s Point area every year or so, had asked him to find a ruthless man, one who would not shirk from a dangerous mission and who had no aversion to killing. Knute had spent a year tracking down Bear and had sent him word that there was a job of great risk and greater reward waiting. Bear had answered and had come to meet with Sidi. Knute had figured he’d either take a fee for putting the two men in touch, or he might work a split with Bear in exchange for use of his men and his ship. But from that point where Knute had brought Bear to meet with Sidi, on the beach at Widow’s Point, everything had changed. Instead of working for himself, Knute was now again working as Bear’s galley-pilot and first mate - Knute’s own ship, a nimble little coaster, had been sunk to drive home Bear’s terms: riches to Knute and his men if they joined him. If they refused, the alternative was simple: death.
Knute glanced at the strange blue light dancing upon the water as they drew down upon the Ishapian ship. The little man’s heart beat with enough force to make him fear it would somehow break loose from within. He gripped the wooden rail tightly as he called for a meaningless course correction; the need to shout diverted into a sharp command.