The Wizard_s Fate

“That’s a rare blade. Dwarf work, yes?” Tol admitted it was. Morojin stroked his long mustache thoughtfully, then tapped the hilt of a dagger in his belt. “This is of the same metal. It’s said the dwarves hammer the very essence of fire into the iron. They call it ‘steel.’ ”

The metal of Mundur’s sword had a name. Tol turned the unfamiliar word over in his mind.

Morojin added, “Xanka was a fool. Got what he deserved.”

The pirate ordered his yawl brought alongside so he could return to his flagship. When it arrived, he paused by Thunderer’s rail.

“Fine fight,” he said, regarding Tol with a glitter in his good eye. “You’re a wicked hand with a sword, lubber. Some day maybe I’ll find out how good you are.”

With a casual wave, Morojin departed. Hexylle and her women likewise gave a breezy farewell and left for their longboat. The Firebrands delayed a bit, making mock thrusts in the air as they refought the duel, black besting white, then white holding sway. Faerlac steered them to the rail and their own boat.

The idle crew of Thunderer broke up then, each man going about his business. Before Tol knew it, the oarmaster had resumed his beat, and the sweeps were rising and falling again, propelling the mighty elevener toward open water.

Kiya, Miya, and Tol’s men worked their way down from the forecastle. Embracing Tol, Miya said in a low tone, “They cut us loose!”

“Are we free, do you think?” Frez muttered. None of the pirates seemed to be paying them the slightest heed.

Tol knew no more than they. “Stay close,” he said. “We may get out of this yet.”

At Faerlac’s order, four sailors removed Xanka’s body, dropping it over the side. The head Faerlac offered to Tol.

“It’s customary for the new captain to hang the defeated foe’s head from the bowsprit. Tells the fleet who’s boss now,” the bosun explained.

The Ergothians were thunderstruck. Kiya stuttered, “Husband is now your chief?”

“Of course. It’s our law, written in the articles of the Blood Fleet. Anyone deemed equal in stature to the captain can challenge him for his position. Lord Tolandruth was certainly Captain Xanka’s equal. He slew Xanka. Now he’s out leader. What are your orders, Lord Captain?”

Miya and Darpo were grinning broadly; Kiya and Frez were stunned. Tol was as shocked as they, but had been too long a warrior to let his consternation show.

He said, “Make for Thorngoth. At your best speed.” When Faerlac held up the dripping head, Tol added tersely, “Observe your law.”

Xanka’s severed head was duly hung from the bowsprit of his former flagship. One by one the other ships in the Blood Fleet dipped their pennants in acknowledgment of their new commander.

Tol and his people were escorted to the captain’s cabin in the sterncastle. The outer room was crowded with Xanka’s personal booty, the choice pickings of years of freebooting. Thick carpets covered the deck, and heavy tapestries in cloth-of-gold and burgundy brocade hung on the walls. So much fine furniture was jammed into the space one could hardly use it. Several leather-bound chests, sealed with stout iron locks, were scattered about. Faerlac handed Tol the key that fit the locks.

Exhausted, feeling his composure waning, Tol dismissed the bosun then sank onto one of the chests, mopping his brow. His wounds burned.

Miya plucked the key from his unresisting fingers. She opened a nearby chest. Tol heard her gasp.

“By Bran’s beard! Husband, look at this!”

He expected treasure, and treasure it was. The box, knee-high to Miya, was filled to the brim with raw gemstones, chiefly rubies. The Dom-shu woman dug her hand into the heap of precious stones, letting them cascade from her fingers.

“What can the others hold?” Frez wondered aloud.

Miya stared at him for only an instant before rushing to throw open the other chests. One held silver coins, another gold. A fourth contained gilded and jeweled trinkets-rings, bracelets, torques, earrings. Each chest held a warlord’s ransom, and there were nine in the room.

While his companions pored over the late Sea King’s loot, Tol went through the door into the aftmost cabin.

Xanka’s personal quarters were even more extravagantly decorated than the anteroom. Golden statuettes and gilded temple lamps lined the walls. The carpet was so thick, Tol’s booted feet sank into its softness and his footsteps made scarcely any sound. Sweet vapors wafted up from a golden censer, swaying with the motion of the waves.

The rear wall of the cabin was the ship’s curving stern. It was set with glass panes, giving a splendid panorama of the sea behind Thunderer. The glare of the midday sun off the water filled the space with light.

Squinting against the brightness, Tol took a moment to realize he was not alone. Two women rose from the couches on which they’d been lying. One was tall, bronze-haired, with hazel eyes. Her gauzy costume emphasized rather than concealed her voluptuous figure. The other woman was much younger, little more than a girl, with ebony skin and the largest, darkest eyes Tol had ever seen. She was dressed as a sailor, but neither her outfit nor her close-cropped curly hair disguised her sex.

“So Xanka is dead,” said the older woman. She folded her long fingers together. “The Dragonqueen will have his black soul.”

Tol did not doubt that. “I am Tolandruth of Juramona,” he said.

She bowed her head, sunlight playing across her smooth hair. “I am Dralie. This is Inika. We are-were- Xanka’s consorts.”

“How did he die?” asked Inika.

“He fought hard,” Tol replied generously.

Inika’s dark brows lifted. “Really? I’m surprised. He was a terrible coward.”

Dralie took Tol’s hand and led him past the couches. A table was set with heavy golden dishes, and laden with grilled squab, roast beef, four kinds of fish, and a tall amphora of wine. This was supposed to be Xanka’s victory meal. A few steps further on, by the wide stern windows, sat an oblong box of brass and leather. Steam rose from the water it contained. s “What’s that?” Tol asked.

“The captain ordered us to prepare his bath. It was a hot morning and he expected to work up a sweat.”

Tol was fascinated. As a child on the farm and a warlord of Ergoth, he bathed by pouring buckets of water over his head. During the cold Daltigoth winters, the water would be warmed, but he’d never been in a bathtub in his life.

Dralie pulled out a chair for him. “Eat, master.”

Hungry, he complied, but told her, “Don’t call me that. I’m not your master.”

When the women tried to feed him, he put a stop to that as well. It was no wonder Xanka had grown soft. Being waited on hand and foot was no life for an honorable man.

While he ate, Inika played a sweetly melancholy air on a reed flute, and Dralie sang. She had a rich, mature voice. When she finished, Tol asked the women how they had come to be here.

Inika came from a village on the north coast of the empire. It had been raided by a squadron of Xanka’s ships. The pirates carried off two things: women and cattle. She was kept by the captain of the galley Terror until she caught Xanka’s eye. She’d been with him a year.

Tol apologized, saying the empire should have protected her. She shrugged. “Myduties here were not too great. I eat well, and I have a roof over my head.”

“Well, you’re free now. When we reach Thorngoth, you can go ashore with my comrades and me.”

Inika said nothing, merely turned her dark eyes to Dralie.

The older woman had been born in Tarsis and apprenticed to the temple of Mishas as a priestess and healer. On a voyage to Hylo to found a new sanctuary to the goddess, her ship was taken by Xanka’s fleet. He wasn’t King of the Sea then, just leader of a flotilla of six ships. She healed the wounds he’d received in battle, and not long after became his consort.

She’d recounted her story calmly but now looked out the windows at the galley’s foaming wake, her face