‘All this goes to the vessel which transports me,’ said the man.
Torreth, of the Bright Spear, slid his narrowed gaze over to Grace of the Striker, who dropped a hand down to the horn-handled knife at her belt.
Patch of the Tempest suddenly swept a hand across the table in an effort to snatch up a swath of the gems. Dim of the Striker slammed a knife through Patch’s hand, pinning it to the table. Grace slashed at Torreth but he blocked her arm then grasped her throat. Patch yanked the blade from his hand and thrust at Dim who threw himself back so violently that he toppled backwards. Stinkfoot of the Bright Spear kicked him in the head.
Meanwhile, Shorty Bower, being a wanted murderer, had obviously reasoned that the stranger must be filthy rich and so leapt on to his back and attempted to draw a knife across his throat. The stranger somehow snapped up a hand to block the slash, grasped Bower’s arm, and in a display of astonishing strength tossed him across the room.
The table was kicked over, gems flying in a glittering rain, and the corsairs fell into a free-for-all, fists pummelling and knives slashing. Behind the bar, Funal, rightly blaming the stranger for the disturbance – or perhaps reasoning like Bower that he was damned rich – raised a crossbow and shot him.
The bolt glanced from the fine-mail coat; the stranger grunted, was knocked back a half-step, then closed on Funal, grasped his head, and slammed him face first down against the bar. Funal slid from sight behind the bar, leaving behind a bright red smear of blood.
Bower had somehow produced a long curved sword honed down to a sickle, what some might call a falchion, and came at the man, screaming. He was not notorious for nothing.
The fellow drew the comically huge two-handed blade at his side and proceeded to somehow parry Bower’s frenzy of slashing, thrusting attacks. Lars was amazed that the man could move the gigantic bar of iron so deftly; but perhaps the widely spaced hands on its long grip gave him the leverage necessary.
Of the corsairs, Grace of the Striker and Tampoor of the Tempest now circled one another. Both bled from countless minor wounds; both panted, exhausted.
The stranger flicked his heavy blade in such a way that it drove Bower’s falchion aside, then thrust. The archaic weapon actually held a point, and a good third of the iron was driven through the murderer’s torso and out his back. Shorty fell to his knees. The man raised an armoured boot to his chest and pushed to yank the blade free.
Tampoor had a hand pressed to his neck, bright blood flowing between his fingers and down his forearm to drip from his elbow. He was slowing, every breath a gurgle. Grace stalked him, switching her blade from hand to hand as she closed, backing him into a corner. Trapped, his back up against a wall, he snarled a wet ‘Damn you!’ and lunged. Grace blocked his weak slash and thrust her blade home in his chest. He fell and she bent over him.
Lars stepped up behind Grace and, two-handed, slammed his long-knife into her back. She sagged on to Tampoor.
The stranger was cleaning his blade on Bower’s clothes. Lars fell to his hands and knees and set to snatching up the gems. Wounded corsairs clutched at him for help but he slapped their weak efforts aside.
‘With what vessel do you serve, sailor?’ the stranger asked.
Lars thought quickly. ‘With none at this time, lord. But I will negotiate with any of your choosing for passage. Which do you wish?’
‘The most seaworthy.’
Lars rolled Torreth over to get at the gems beneath him. The man grasped at him with bloodied hands, but he pushed him aside. ‘Ah, that would be the Tempest, lord.’
‘Very good. You will secure passage for me.’
‘At once.’
The fellow’s armoured boots stamped the floorboards as he headed to the door. Lars scrambled round the bar, stepped over the dying Funal, and snatched up his cashbox. ‘Coming, lord!’ he called. Running, he caught up with the stranger and gestured ahead. ‘This way.’
‘I know the way,’ the man answered, sounding amused.
Strangely, as they walked, Lars noted that the track of the fellow’s incoming footsteps did not trace a route up from the waterfront as he had assumed. Rather, the distinctive trail led down from the island heights, which was strange as the only things up there were the ruins for which the island was named. There, so legend had it, had lain the capital and cenotaph of the ancient warlord who had terrorized all south Genabackis centuries ago. This island had been his fortress stronghold, and the ferocious cataclysms of those wars had given birth to the much-storied martial orders of Elingarth.
Far below, down the switchback trail that climbed the shore cliffs, lay the three corsair vessels anchored in the deep blue waters of the sheltered natural harbour.
‘And where are you headed, great lord?’ Lars asked, thinking of the astounding wealth now nestled down his shirt, hard and now warmed against his stomach. ‘Elingarth? Darujhistan?’
The man lifted his lean, knife-sharp profile to the sky and frowned even harder behind his iron-grey moustache and long ragged beard. ‘West,’ he judged, eyeing that direction. ‘Something happened in the west.’
Lars scampered along behind the man. ‘Ah, yes, m’lord. And … your name?’
The fellow glanced back and stood still for some time, making Lars extremely uncomfortable with his eerie dead-eyed stare. Finally, he ground out, ‘My name is Kallor. Does this mean anything to you?’
Lars shook his head. ‘No, m’lord. Should it?’
The man slowly turned his head away and continued onward down the narrow rocky path. After a while, Lars heard him mutter, as if to himself, ‘Time is the most merciless destroyer of all.’
Part Two
Chapter 8
The ringing clash of a hammer against metal that was the mine’s alarm woke Dancer. He opened his eyes to harsh golden sunlight and lay for a time, already exhausted, his body aching, but eventually he had to rise as the heat of the coming day had already plastered his shirt to his chest. He swung his legs down from the stone ledge and checked on Kellanved.