Salloss Vant had appeared. It was the first time they'd seen him since the day before. He was accompanied by a couple of particularly rough-looking henchmen, and he didn't look happy. Moving in the peculiarly slinking, almost feline manner that had struck Spurral when she first saw him, the Gatherer captain positioned himself before them. As he did, other crewmen placed themselves around the captives.
' On your feet! ' he barked.
The dwarfs reluctantly rose.
'Someone here has betrayed my trust,' Vant said.
'What trust?' Spurral remarked under her breath.
'When I took you aboard I asked you to surrender to your fate,' he went on. 'It seems not all of you saw the wisdom in my advice.' He regarded them with a baleful glare. 'A knife has gone missing.'
Spurral could have kicked herself for assuming she'd got away with it. 'Looks like you'll get the word sooner than you thought,' she whispered to Kalgeck.
His eyes widened. He began stealthily slipping a hand into his partly open shirt, seeking a weapon.
Spurral was aware that some of the dwarfs nearby were surreptitiously glancing her way.
'Is anyone going to own up to it now and take their punishment?' Vant demanded. Nobody spoke or moved. 'So you're cowards as well as fools. Just what I expected from inbred scum. You'll all be flogged for your insolence. Those assigned to the galley this morning, stay on your feet! The rest of you, back on your arses!'
'Here we go,' Spurral muttered.
She, Kalgeck and the five or six others in their group were left standing. They were more or less bunched, like a cluster of corn in a field otherwise flattened by a storm.
Vant scanned them. His malevolent eye fell upon Spurral and Kalgeck. 'You two,' he rumbled ominously. To his crew, he snapped, 'Bring them here!'
The nearest pair of sailors headed for those still standing. They didn't bother to draw their weapons, taking it for granted there would be no resistance.
One of them made straight for Spurral, approaching with a merciless smirk on his grizzled face. She had her arms behind her back, out of his sight, and let the stolen knife slide down her sleeve and into her hand.
'Move, bitch,' he grated.
Spurral swung round the blade, fast and hard, and buried it in his midriff. For good measure she thrust it into him twice more. The man looked as much bewildered as pained, staring down at the widening crimson patch with a bemused expression. As his legs buckled and he started to fold, she grabbed the hilt of his cutlass and dragged it from its scabbard. He was hitting the deck when she turned on the second man. This one appeared dumbfounded too. She took the benefit of his slow reaction and drove the blade into him, putting all her force behind it. He went down.
A pall of silent, disbelieving shock descended. Everyone, captives and crew, seemed spellbound. For one stomach-churning moment Spurral thought she was alone, that none of the others would move to support her.
Then Kalgeck shouted, 'Now! Now! '
There was an explosion of movement and sound.
Dwarfs and men were shouting. Some screamed. Spurral saw three dwarfs piling into a crewman, pummelling him with their improvised hatchets. Somebody tugged free the man's sword and turned it on him. Another crewman staggered past with a female dwarf clinging to his back and repeatedly stabbing him with a seized dagger. Yet another was borne aloft by half a dozen captives and hurled yelling over the side. One of the henchmen beside Salloss Vant took a faceful of shot. He sank, writhing, to his knees. Everywhere there was chaos.
Kalgeck had got hold of the cutlass from the second man Spurral downed. He was no master with a sword, but the energy of his rage made up for the lack. Bellowing inarticulately, he laid into a knot of crewmen already besieged by his fellow islanders. Forced back to the rail, they were desperately trying to fend off their attackers.
Taken unawares, the Gatherers were faring badly. But Spurral knew the element of surprise wouldn't last long, and if the dwarfs didn't capitalise on it straightaway, they never would. Vant was wading into the dwarfs, swinging his sword like a madman. Spurral determined to settle with him.
She hadn't gone six paces when one of the crew blocked her way. He was armed with a cutlass and bent on stopping her. Spurral would have been happier meeting him with a staff, but she was as comfortable with a sword as with just about any other weapon. And now the bloodlust was on her. She charged.
He was strong. When their pealing blades collided it sent a jolt through her. The blows they exchanged were harsh, like rock on rock and just as unyielding. Despite her strapping dwarfish build, Spurral was nimbler, which kept her from reach. But her opponent was the single-minded sort and came on relentlessly. He was good at blocking her thrusts too, frustrating every attempt at breaking his guard.
They were close to stalemate when chance intervened. Spotting a crewman in the rigging, several dwarfs targeted him with their slingshots. The stinging bombardment made him lose his grip. Screaming, he plummeted to the deck, landing with a bone-shattering crash just behind Spurral's foe. It was enough of a distraction to make him turn, simultaneously dipping his guard.
Spurral didn't hesitate. She ran at him, cutlass at arm's length. The momentum took the blade deep into his chest. He went down heavily, falling backwards, the force of his collapse whipping the sword out of her hand. Thudding her boot on the corpse, she wrenched it free.
She straightened, panting, with sweat trickling from her brow. When she looked up, Salloss Vant was standing in front of her, bloody cutlass in hand.
He wore a demonic expression. His eyes burned like searing coals. When he spoke, he struggled to get the words out through his choking wrath. 'You… are going… to… die. '
'You can try,' she replied, trying to keep the foreboding out of her voice.
Done with words, he bellowed and came at her.
20
Vant's rage swamped any finesse at swordplay he might have possessed. He hurtled at Spurral like a maddened bull. And now she saw that in addition to his cutlass he brandished a long-bladed knife. He swung the weapons like some kind of demented juggler, smearing the air with a metal haze.
Spurral hastily withdrew, trying to stay supple and anticipate where and how he might strike. An impossible task when facing someone as crazed as Vant, she soon realised. All she could do was keep moving. It was a strategy with limited value: inevitably he closed in on her and she was forced to engage.
The impact of the first blow she blocked had her staggering. The second came close to putting her down. She retreated once more, just a few steps this time, then feigned going in again. It was intended to wrong-foot him. Instead, she had to quickly duck as his blade whistled over her head.
A cacophony of yells, screams and clashing blades served as background.
All around them, dwarfs and Gatherers battled. The surprise element had more momentum than Spurral guessed, and the islanders were driving home their advantage. Taken unprepared, dead and wounded crewmen littered the deck, or fought desperate rear-guard actions. Some of the crew, those from the night watch, had been sleeping when the rebellion broke out. Their awakening was rude.
Not that the dwarfs had it all their own way. They were facing hardened brigands and, as proof, the bodies of their dead and wounded were nearly as plentiful.
Avoiding two blades wielded by someone demented with fury was taxing Spurral. Already she was less light on her feet, and her arms were starting to feel leaden. Taking the offensive, she opted to rush Vant, sweeping her sword like a scythe. It was his turn to swerve. He moved just fast enough to elude her low swipe. His anger further heightened, he was back on the offensive without pause. Another round of battering followed, rattling Spurral's bones.
It was shaping up as less than an even match, and Spurral knew she had to find a different strategy or lose. The thought occurred that if she couldn't change the way he fought, perhaps she could change where. She turned and ran. Bellowing, he dashed after her.
