ghastly and uncanny-why, he half expected to hear the crunch of wood against rocks and ice, the squeal of horses drowning below decks, the staggering figures, their faces blurring past in a smear of blood and disordered features. As the wind howled as if flinging darkness itself in all directions, a mad night’s fit of murderous destruction.
But that, he reassured himself, was long ago. Another ship. Another life.
As for this, well.
Adjusting his grip on Bauchelain’s oversized sword, Emancipor Reese straightened and ascended the steps onto the deck. He raised the weapon high. Then bellowed, “Sailors abide! Abide! Abide for orders, damn you all!”
Stentorian roars, as invariably erupted from officers in charge of things and the people working those things, could, if the fates so decreed, reach through to that tiny walnut-sized knob of civil intelligence that could be found in the brains of most sailors; could, with the Lady’s blessing and Mael’s drawn breath, shock into obedience those figurative nuts, and so deliver order and attentiveness “It’s Mancy the Luckless! He’s to blame! Get him!”
“Aw shit.”
Gust Hubb, hapless in his earlessness, poked his mangled head up from the hatch and, eyes bugging, was witness to a frenzied rush upon that manservant so aptly nicknamed the Luckless. Who happened to be holding an enormous sword which he began waving dangerously in an effort to hold back the snarling sailors. A belaying pin knocked the weapon from Mancy’s hands and Gust saw the weapon cartwheel through the air-straight for him.
Bleating, Gust Hubb lunged back, and fire exploded between his eyes. Blood spurting everywhere as he brought his hands up to where his nose used to be, only to find two spraying, frothing holes. He fell to one side and rolled away from the hatch. The terrible smell of cold iron flooded up into his brain, overwhelming even the pain. This, commingled with the endless rush of water-which he now felt streaming from his half-blinded eyes-and some faint creaking from somewhere else, was all too much for his assailed senses and blessed oblivion swept in to engulf him in the black tide of peace.
For now.
Heck Urse, pulling Birds Mottle up into view, glanced over to see Gust lying motionless on the deck, his head resting in a pool of blood. Anger surged, white hot. He dragged Birds over the lip of the hatch and left her there, tugging free his short-sword that only a while earlier he had forgotten was even there.
A score of sailors jostled around something at the base of the mainmast, lines rippling, then they were hoisting a limp body upward, scraping against the mast, arms dangling. Mancy the Luckless, beaten senseless and maybe worse, tied by one ankle, climbing skyward in ragged jerks.
“What in Hood’s name are you doing!?” Heck roared, advancing on the mob.
A woman named Mipple, her hair looking like a long-abandoned vulture nest, snapped her head round and bared stained teeth at him. “Luckless! Tryin’ to kill us all! We’s sacrificing him to Mael!”
“Atop the mainmast? You fools, let him down!”
“No!” cried another sailor, waving a belaying pin and strutting about as if in charge.
Gust scowled at the man, trying to recall his name. “Wister, is it?”
“You ain’t a man’ o’the seas, Heck Urse-and don’t go tryin’ to tell us different! Look at you, you’re a damned soldier, a deserter!”
“Mancy ain’t got-”
“He cut off your friend’s nose!”
Heck stopped, his scowl deepening. He wiped the blood from his own nose, heard a click. “He did?”
“Aye, with that big sword-the one jammed in the rail there-see the blood on the blade? That’s Gust’s blood!”
A chorus confirmed these details, heads nodding on all sides, manly sideways spits to punctuate Wister’s assertions.
Heck slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Well then, hoist away!”
Darling daughter, what comes? listen to the scrape and bump, the creak and groan! Petard lofted the raving demon comes! No senses fired, reason’s candle snuffed, make ready my sweetness, and together we shall slit its throat wide and loose a rain of blood upon the fools below!
The crow’s nest pitched in gentle, vaguely circular motion, as all headway had been surrendered and the Suncurl waddled in the swells, slowly edging crossways along the Red Road of Laughter’s End. Figures still ran here and there below, as cries for the captain finally arose, then came the horrifying news of First Mate Ably Druther’s brutal murder in the hold-by some beast unknown. A beast that could, Bena Younger heard, vanish into thin air. Panic was born anew on the deck below.
Trembling, she now found herself listening, breath held, as something bulky was being slowly hauled up the mast. All the way up, if her mother spoke true. A demon. Bena gripped ever tighter the small knife in her hand. Slit its throat, yes. With Mother’s help.
Listen! Almost here!
Sheathed in sweat, Bauchelain rolled off Captain Sater.
She moaned, then said, “Some mouthful.”
He blinked away the sting in his eyes and regarded her. “Most dire consequences follow imbibing Toblakai Bloodwine. I most humbly apologize, Captain.”
“Done with me, then?”
“I believe so.”
Armour, straps, fittings and underclothes were scattered all about the cabin. The lantern wick was dimming, oozing shadows into the corners, the light that remained singularly lurid. Somewhere nearby liquid dripped, a detail neither was anxious to pursue.
Sater sat up. “Do you hear something?”
“That depends.”
“On deck-and we’re drifting-no one’s at the wheel!”
As his gaze traveled over the captain’s bared chest-he’d torn away her blouse in the first frenzied moments- the ample mounds swinging faintly then lunging as she reached for a scrap of clothing, Bauchelain felt a stirring once more. Grimacing, he looked away. “We were to discuss this fell night,” he said, finding his quilted under- padding-one sleeve torn away at the seams-and pulling it on over his head. Pausing then to slick back his iron-hued hair.
“Ghosts,” she snarled, rising to draw up her leggings, wincing with each tug.
“Not this time,” he replied, combing through his beard. “A lich.”
Sater stopped, stared across at him. “How in Hood’s name did a lich get aboard my ship?”
“The nails, and perhaps something else. Korbal Broach no doubt knows more.”
“And I’m sure I asked-earlier-where is he?”
“He walks the warrens, I expect. Likely hunting the creature through the maze of Hood’s realm. A great risk, I might add. The Lord of Death holds no precious fondness for Korbal Broach.”
She squinted. “Hood knows your friend… personally?”
“Gods are easily irritated.” Bauchelain lifted his hauberk, the chain flowing around his hands. “I must retrieve my sword. Should the lich stride in truth into our realm, here on this ship, well, we shall face a challenge indeed.”
“Challenge?”
“Yes, in staying alive.”
“It wasn’t us!” she suddenly shouted.
Bauchelain paused, frowned at her. “You are hunted.” Then he nodded. “As we suspected. What follows in our wake, Captain?”
“How should I know?”
“Describe your crime.”
“That’s got nothing to do with anything. It wasn’t even a crime. Not really. More like… opportunism.”
“Ah, a sort of temptation to which one yields, casting aside all fear of consequences.”
“Exactly.”
