Knute knew he was likely to die tonight. Since Bear had expropriated Knute’s crew, it had simply been a matter of time. The man Knute had known along the Keshian coast had been bad enough, but something had changed Bear, made him far blacker a soul than before. He had always been a man of few scruples, but there had been an economy in his business, a reluctance to waste time with needless killing and destruction, even if he was otherwise unfazed by it. Now Bear seemed to relish it. Two men in Knute’s crew had died lingering, painful deaths for minor transgressions. Bear had watched until they had died. The gem in his amulet had shone brightly then, and Bear’s one good eye seemed alight with the same fire.
Bear had made one thing clear above all else: this mission’s goal was to take a holy relic from the Ishapians and any man who interfered with that mission would die. But he had also promised that the crew could keep all the rest of the Ishapian treasure for themselves.
When he heard that, Knute had begun to make a plan.
Knute had insisted upon several practice sorties, claiming that the tides and rocks here were treacherous enough in the daylight - at night a thousand calamities could befall the unprepared. Bear had grudgingly acquiesced to the plea. What Knute had hoped would happen did: the crew learned to take orders from him once Bear gave over command of the ship. Bear’s crew was made up of thugs, bullies, and murderers, including one cannibal, but they weren’t terribly intelligent.
Knute’s was a daring plan, and dangerous, and he needed more than a little luck. He glanced back and saw Bear’s eyes fixed on the blue light of the Ishapian ship as they bore down on it. One quick glance from face to face of his own six men was all Knute could afford, and then he turned back to the Ishapian ship.
He gauged his distance and the motion, then turned and shouted past Bear, “One point to port! Ramming speed!”
Bear echoed the command, “Ramming speed!” Then he shouted, “Catapults! Ready!”
Flames appeared as torches were quickly lit, and then those torches were put to large bundles of skins full of Quegan Fire oil. They burst into flame and the catapult officer shouted, “Ready, Captain!”
Bear’s deep voice rumbled as he gave the order: “Fire!”
The lookout squinted against the wind-driven salt spray. He was certain he saw something shoreward. Suddenly a flame appeared. Then a second. For a moment size and distance were difficult to judge, but the sailor quickly realized with a surge of fear that two large balls of fire sped toward the ship.
Angry orange-red flames sizzled and cracked as the first missile arced overhead, missing the lookout by mere yards. As the fireball shot past, he could feel the searing heat.
“Attack!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He knew full well the entire night watch had seen the fiery missiles; nonetheless it was his task to alert the crew.
The second fireball struck mid-decks, hitting the companionway that ran from below to the foredeck, and an unfortunate priest of Ishap was consumed in the sticky flames. He screamed in agony and confusion as he died.
The sailor knew that if they were being boarded, staying aloft was not a good idea. He swung from the crow’s nest and slid down a stay sheet to the deck below as another ball of flame appeared in the sky, arcing down to strike the foredeck.
As his bare feet touched the wooden planks, another sailor who shouted, “Quegan raiders!” handed him a sword and buckler shield.
The thudding of a hortator’s drum echoed across the waves. Suddenly the night came alive with noise and cries.
From out of the gloom a ship reared, lifted high by a huge swell, and the two sailors could see the massive serrated iron ram extending from the galley’s prow. Once it slammed into its victim’s hull, its teeth would hold the rammed ship close, until the signal was given for the galley slaves to reverse their stroke. By backing water, the galley would tear a massive hole in Ishap’s Dawn’s side, quickly sending her to the bottom.
For an instant the lookout feared he would never see his children or wife again, and hastily uttered a prayer to whatever gods listened that his family be cared for. Then he resolved to fight, for if the sailors could hold the raiders at the gunwale until the priests emerged from below, their magic might drive off the attackers.
The ship heaved and the sound of tearing wood and shrieking men filled the night as the raider crashed into the Ishapian ship. The lookout and his companions were thrown to the deck.
As the lookout rolled away from the spreading fire, he saw two hands gripping the ship’s gunwale. The lookout gained his feet as a dark-skinned pirate cleared the side of the ship, and boarded with a leap to the deck, others following.
The first pirate carried a huge sword, curved and weighted, and he grinned like a man possessed. The lookout hurried toward him, his sword and shield at the ready. The pirate’s hair hung in oiled locks that glistened in the light from the flames. His wide eyes reflected the orange firelight, which gave him a demonic cast. Then he smiled and the lookout faltered, as the filed pointed teeth revealed the man to be a cannibal from the Shaskahan Islands.
Then the lookout’s eyes widened as he saw another figure rear up behind the first.
It was the last thing the lookout saw, as the first pirate swung his sword and impaled the hapless man, who stood rooted in terror at the sight before him. With his dying breath, he gasped, “Bear.”