* * *
In the doldrums of the Southern Rust Sea, a slave galley, the Ardent, came across a sodden raft. The galley's master, Hesalt, ordered the lashed fragments brought alongside. A sailor searched among the sprawled bodies.
‘How many live?’ Hesalt called down.
The sailor straightened and even from far to the bow Hesalt could see the wonder on his upturned face. ‘The God of the Deep's mercy. Every one! Eleven living souls!’
The Twins smiled upon them, whoever they are, Hesalt reflected. But he considered himself lucky as well – eleven warm bodies for the shackles. ‘Give them water and food then throw them below.’
‘Aye, Master.’
The nine men and two women, whoever they were, recovered with amazing speed. One, a burly scarred fellow – a veteran obviously – even pulled himself upright when a sailor came with a ladle of sweet water. ‘I demand to see the captain,’ he rasped in a passable north Genabackan dialect of the East Coast.
‘The captain is nothing to you now, friend,’ whispered the sailor. ‘You live, but the price is your freedom.’
The man knew to take only a small sip to wet his throat. ‘Tell your captain I demand that he set sail for Stratem at once.’
Those nearby laughed. The sailor took in the castaway's cracked and oozing skin, burnt almost black across his shoulders. How many weeks marooned under this pitiless sun! Amazing the fellow was even conscious. No wonder he was delirious. ‘Lay back, heal. Thank Oponn for your life.’
‘What is your name, sailor?’
‘Jemain.’
‘You are a compassionate man, Jemain. Therefore, I warn you – stand aside.’
Something in the man's eyes quelled Jemain's laugh. The castaway pushed himself to his feet, staggered but, with a groan, righted himself. ‘See to my men,’ he croaked.
The crew watched amused while the castaway made his laborious way to the stern. There, he stopped and stood swaying before the gaze of an old man at the tiller flanked by guards in leather armour who watched him, arms crossed, mouths downturned. ‘Who is the captain of this slave-scow?’ he asked of the old man.
‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’
‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’
‘How many guards does he travel with?’
Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’
The guards pulled truncheons from their belts – no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.
All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.
‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.
‘Don't think that's likely.’
‘I fear you're right.’
The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.
‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.
The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’
‘I thought I would do you the courtesy first.’
‘Well, to the Abyss with courtesy. Just shoot.’
Hesalt paused. What a price such a fighting man would bring! What a shame to have to kill him like a rabid dog. Still, he had earned death many times over and the hired crew were watching … He fired. The quarrel took the man low in the chest throwing him back against the gunwale where he slumped. Hesalt lowered the crossbow. What a loss! Still, if the other ten were anything like this one he might yet squeeze some profit from this debacle.
A low groan brought the slave master's attention around. Incredibly, impossibly, the man was now struggling to rise. An arm grasped the side, pulled, and he stood, quarrel jutting obscenely from his chest. Hesalt backed away, his throat tightening in horror. What magery was this? Did some God favour this man?
‘It never,’ the castaway ground out, ‘gets any easier.’ Ignoring the quarrel, he addressed Hesalt. ‘Now, yield this ship to me and no more need be hurt. What say you?’
The slave master could only stare. He'd heard stories of such horrors … But he'd never believed …
The castaway lurched a step closer. ‘Speak, man! For once act to save lives!’
‘I … That is … Who? What… are you?’
Snarling, the man grasped Hesalt by the front of his shirts and yanked him to the gunwale. ‘Too late.’ In one swing he lifted the slave master and tossed him, screaming, over the side. He turned to face the stunned sailors. ‘I am Bars. Iron Bars. I claim this vessel in the name of the Crimson Guard. Tillerman!’
‘Aye?’
Make southwest round the Cape for Stratem.’
‘Aye, Captain. Sou'west.’
‘Jemain!’
The sailor straightened, dread stealing the breath from him. ‘Aye?’
‘You are first mate.’
Jemain wiped the cold sweat from his face, swallowed. ‘Aye, sir. Your orders?’
A cough took the man and he grimaced at the agony of the convulsion. One hand a claw on the gunwale, he pushed back his shoulders. ‘Get my men conscious. The slaves can row for their freedom.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Now help me get this damned thing from my chest.’