Thunderchild swung towards the oncoming trireme.
His name was Earin Shad, though none of his crew used it. They addressed him to his face as Sea Lord, or Great One, while behind his back they used the Naashanite slang - Bojeeba, The Shark.
Earin Shad was a tall man, slim and round-shouldered, long of neck, with protruding eyes that glimmered pearl-grey and a lipless mouth that never smiled. No one aboard the Darkwind knew from whence he came, only that he had been a pirate leader for more than two decades. One of the Lords of the Corsairs, mighty men who ruled the seas, he was said to own palaces on several of the Thousand Islands, and to be as rich as one of the eastern kings.
This did not show in his appearance. He wore a simple breastplate of shaped bronze, and a winged helm looted from a merchant ship twelve years before. At his hip hung a sabre with a simple hilt of polished wood and a fist- guard of plain brass. Earin Shad was not a man who liked extravagance.
He stood at the stern as the steady, rhythmic pound of the drums urged the rowers to greater efforts, and the occasional crack of the whip sounded against the bare skin of a slacker’s back. His pale eyes narrowed as the merchant vessel swung towards the Darkwind.
“What is he doing?” asked the giant Patek.
Earin Shad glanced up at the man. “He has seen Reda’s ship and he is trying to cut by us. He won’t succeed.” Swinging to the steersman, a short toothless old man named Luba, Earin Shad saw that the man was already altering course. “Steady now,” he said. “We don’t want her rammed.”
“Aye, Sea Lord!”
“Make ready with the hooks!” bellowed Patek. The giant watched as the men gathered coiled ropes, attaching them to the three-clawed grappling-hooks. Then he transferred his gaze to the oncoming ship. “Look at that, Sea Lord!” he said, pointing at The Thunderchild’s prow. There was a man there, dressed in black; he had raised a double-headed axe above his head in a gesture of defiance.
“They’ll never cut all the ropes,” said Patek. Earin Shad did not reply - he was scanning the decks of the enemy ship, seeking any sign of female passengers. He saw none, and his mood darkened. To compensate for his disappointment he found himself remembering the last ship they had taken three weeks ago, and the Satrap’s daughter she had carried. He licked his lips at the memory. Proud, defiant, and comely - the whip alone had not tamed her, nor the stinging slaps. And even after he had raped her repeatedly, still her eyes shone with murderous intent. Ah, she was lively, no doubt about that. But he had found her weakness; he always did. And when he had he experienced, as always, both triumph and disappointment. The moment of conquest, when she had begged him to take her - had promised to serve him always, in any way that he chose - had been exquisite. But then sadness had flowed within him, followed by anger.
He had killed her quickly, which disappointed the men. But then she had earned that, he thought. She had held her nerve for five days in the darkness of the hold, in the company of the black rats.
Earin Shad sniffed, then cleared his throat. This was no time to be considering pleasures.
A cabin door opened behind him and he heard the soft footfalls of the young sorcerer.
“Good day, Sea Lord,” said Gamara. Patek moved away, avoiding the sorcerer’s gaze.
Earin Shad nodded to the slender Chiatze. “The omens are good, I take it?” he asked.
Gamara spread his hands in an elegant gesture. “It would be a waste of power to cast the stones, Sea Lord. During the storm they lost half their men.”
“And you are sure they are carrying gold?”
The Chiatze grinned, showing a perfect line of small, white teeth. Like a child’s, thought Earin Shad. He looked into the man’s dark, slanted eyes. “How much are they carrying?”
“Two hundred and sixty thousand gold pieces. Bodasen gathered it from Ventrian merchants in Mashrapur.”
“You should have cast the stones,” said Earin Shad.
“We will see much blood,” answered Gamara. “Aha! See, my good Lord, the sharks, as ever, follow in your wake. They are like pets, are they not?”
Earin Shad did not glance at the grey forms slipping effortlessly through the water, fins like raised sword- blades. “They are the vultures of the sea,” he said, “and I like them not at all.”
The wind shifted and The Thunderchild swung like a dancer on the white-flecked waves. On the decks of the Darkwind scores of warriors crouched by the starboard rail as the two ships moved ever closer. It will be close, thought Earin Shad; they will veer again and try to pull away. Anticipating the move he bellowed an order to Patek, who now stood on the main deck among the men. The giant leaned over the side and repeated the instruction to the oars chief. Immediately the starboard oars lifted from the water, the 120 rowers on the port side continuing to row. Darkwind spun to starboard.
The Thunderchild sped on, then veered towards the oncoming vessel. On the prow the dark-bearded warrior was still waving the gleaming axe - and in that instant Earin Shad knew he had miscalculated. “Bring in the oars!” he shouted.
Patek glanced up, astonished. “What, Lord?”
“The oars, man! They’re attacking us!”
It was too late. Even as Patek leaned over the side to shout the order The Thunderchild leapt to the attack, swinging violently towards Darkwind, the prow striking the first ranks of oars. Wood snapped violently with explosive cracks, mingled with the screams of the slave rowers as the heavy oars smashed into arms and skulls, shoulders and ribs.
Grappling-lines were hurled out, iron claws biting into wood or hooking into The Thunderchild’s rigging. An arrow slashed into the chest of a corsair; the man pitched back, struggled to rise, then fell again. The corsairs hauled on the grappling-lines and the two ships edged together.
Earin Shad was furious. Half the oars on the starboard side had been smashed, and the gods alone knew how many slaves were crippled. Now he would be forced to limp to port. “Ready to board!” he yelled.
