“Fine, we surrender.” the bishop said, never lowering his weapon.
“Speak for yourself.” Adnihilo drew his sabre, and so too did Adam while Lilum positioned herself safely behind.
Ba’al cursed at the half-blood then tried one last parley. “Vexillifer Mephist—” was all he got out before a scream drowned his words.
Everyone turned. Jordan stood at the chapel threshold empty handed, his spear through the chest of one Swordsman held back by the Tsaazaari. “Go!” he bellowed, “with the mercy of God!”
Fire and thunder—Ba’al ignited his shot, and the King’s Sons jumped as their commander’s head burst inside his helmet. Blood erupted from the mangled front of his aventail, dripped gently through the back, pooled upon the polished pier, bled between the floor boards slow as sand through an hourglass, so slowly the puddle looked a ruddy mirror while the smoke cleared, till a jeer sounded from the crowd. “Come on, then! Let’s see it again! Again!” did the stranger shout in Messaii. Then the crowd took up the chant in Tsaazaari—harrowing, bloodthirsty; their voices filled the seeping pool with ripples—and hearing it, fear faded fast in the Mephistine Swordsmen. Ripples became boots splashing as half the remaining Sons set upon Adam and Adnihilo, the other half for Jordan and the apostles. It was the invasion of Babylon all over again. These were trained men, organized. They positioned themselves at the sides and the flank, and cut off escape with wide cleaving arcs. That left two at the front, and like dancers they lunged and cut in perfect rhythm, each covering the other—no chance to retaliate, no place to retreat. A cautious slaughter, the only response was to block and parry till Adam’s hands were numb under the tremor of steel. The killing blow came shortly after, a cut aimed for his collar. As the pastor’s son tried to slip, he collided with Lilum and Ba’al behind him. Forced, Adam threw up a desperate guard. He squeezed tightly as he could—met the blow—was disarmed by the momentum alone. A gash opened on his shoulder. A yellow flash—Lilum stabbed behind the Swordsman’s breast plate, underneath his arm through his linen coat. She pulled her hand away clutching a bloody bone dagger. Adam staggered in shock. Reflected in the dying man’s armour, he saw the bishop rearmed, leveling his weapon.
Another Messaii cheer burst from the crowd, “That’s it! Kill them all!”
A clap of thunder—the roar of death. The pastor’s son had never stood so close to the discharging engine. Like sticking his head in a storm cloud, so loud his ears rang, his eyes blind from the smoke. He coughed and cried and thought he heard Adnihilo’s muffled voice calling his name—and other sounds as well, but he couldn’t tell. It was faint, distant. Pain radiated from his shoulder. His senses were returning, slowly.
Another voice: Ba’al’s.
Adam clutched his wound, blinked the tears from his eyes.
The King’s Sons had been killed—all of them—stabbed in the back of the neck by Tsaazaari men dressed like Gautaman pirates, queer punch-daggers in their fists. That was, save for the richest of them who whistled and applauded, twenty golden rings clinking. “Spectacular!” he exclaimed. Adam recognized this voice. It was the one who started the chanting, who called for them to kill—though that was meant for his own men, it seemed.
The stranger placed his slippered feet scrupulously around the bloodiest planks then granted Ba’al the slightest bow as to not lose his jeweled turban. “I’ve never seen anything so magnificent in my life. Not here in old Mephisto, not even on the eastern seas.”
“Who in Hell are you?” the bishop asked between breaths.
The stranger brushed off his emerald vest and pants, rearranged a few of his emerald amulets, and grinned to show them his gilded teeth. “Who am I?” he questioned, as if asking, ‘How dare you not know the answer?’ Then he asked the same to Lilum, to Adnihilo, to Adam, then to Jordan and the apostles before finally putting it to his own men. “Who am I?”
“Shakrai!” japed one of the men, then another, “Shakurai!” “Zayyafi!” then “Mazle Dina!”
The stranger winced. “Disrespectful louts! I am only glad you don’t understand. Now allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed again. “I am Captain Sadaf Saif Salah.”
“So you’re pirates?” Adnihilo asked.
The crewmen laughed. Sadaf frowned and twisted his lips so that they disappeared in his beard and mustache. “I prefer privateer. King Solomon gives lease so long as it’s slave ships we’re plundering.”
“Does he give lease for murdering his watchmen?” asked Ba’al, fishing out of his pockets his newly purchased opium.
Captain Sadaf dismissed the charge with a wave of his hand. “An accident. Everyone heard that you surrendered, no?” He waited, turned to the crowd and repeated, “No? Was there hash in your ears?” Then he asked a third time in Tsaazaari and received compliant grumbles. Turning back to the bishop, Sadaf continued, “You see? We are all in agreement. You are innocent victims in all this. It was that one who was the cause.” The crewmen glanced at Jordan, though the Messiah did not look back. He was huddled over Zachariah, muttering, Maqsood and Ramses standing a wary vigil.
Ba’al lit his opium lamp with a smoldering incense and began warming his pipe. “So we’re off the cross, just like that? Enough horse shit. Tell me what you want?”
“Business man? I took you for a priest. Though I hear they’re much the same in the west.”
“Bishop, actually.” He took a long drag on his pipe and sighed. “So are you going to get to the point?”
Sadaf cleared his throat. “I want to purchase your weapon. What do you call it?”
“I don’t call it anything, and it’s not for sale.”
“Where did you acquire it?”
“It’s my design.”
The captain’s eyes opened bright. “You invented this thing?”
“That’s what I said,” answered the bishop, breathing smoke in Sadaf’s face.
The pirate smiled, unfazed. “Yes. You did say this.
