Ghaji, Yvka, and Flotsam turned to look seaward. Sure enough, the shifter who had taken the shark from Flotsam was now aboard the Zephyr, swiftly hauling up the anchor. Two others stood on the deck of the sloop: A bare-chested, dark-skinned man covered with brightly colored concentric tattoos and a half-elven female with long blond hair who wore a green skirt and a top that left her midriff bare. They were all dripping wet, and it was no great leap of logic to guess that the shifter and his compatriots had swam silently from their ship to the Zephyr and stealthily climbed aboard. As the shifter worked to bring up the anchor, his two companions, both armed with bows, kept watch. The message was clear: if anyone tried to stop the thieves, they’d make the sudden acquaintance of the business end of an arrow.
Flotsam started to rise, but Yvka grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.
“Why did you do that?” the warforged asked, sounding mote puzzled than angry. “Arrows can’t harm me.”
“True,” Yvka said, “but you’d never reach the Zephyr in time. They can’t activate and control the air elemental, but they can use the oars to row the boat far away enough that you won’t be able to get to it.”
Ghaji figured the thieves would tie the Zephyr to their two-master then tow the elemental sloop someplace where they could sell it for a handsome price.
“They can’t have it,” Diran said. “I need that craft if I’m to have any hope of finding Makala.” A wild gleam came into Diran’s eyes then, and Ghaji groaned, for he knew his friend had just had an idea.
Without taking his gaze from the thieves, Diran said, “Ghaji, your axe is still aboard the Zephyr, isn’t it?”
“Under one of the seats,” the half-orc confirmed.
“Get ready to grab it as soon as you’re back aboard.”
Before Ghaji could ask his friend just what he was talking about, Diran spoke to Flotsam. “When I give you the signal, I want you to pick Ghaji up and hurl him onto the Zephyr. Are you strong enough to do that?”
“Yes,” Flotsam said, without any hint of ego or boasting, merely stating a fact.
“Well then,” Diran said, “get ready.”
Ghaji wished they had time to discuss alternative plans, especially ones that didn’t involve him being thrown like a ball by a barnacle-encrusted warforged, but there was no time. A quick glance showed Ghaji that the crew of the two-master was already frantically scurrying about, preparing to set sail and leave Nowhere, and the rightful owner of the Zephyr, far behind.
“Now!”
Diran stood, drawing a pair of daggers from the leather strap around his chest as he did. As he straightened to his full height, he hurled the daggers toward the Zephyr and the thieves who now trod her decks. Ghaji presumed the blades streaked toward their targets, but he didn’t see if they did, for Flotsam scooped him up with his thick metal and stone arms as if the half-orc were but an infant. The huge warforged spun around twice to build up momentum, then he released Ghaji into the air.
The world became a rushing blur as Ghaji ascended, and it felt as if his stomach sank to the bottoms of his feet. He straightened his arms out before him, his legs behind, as if he were preparing to dive into water. Though there was plenty of the wet stuff for leagues in all directions, he was hoping to land on a soarwood deck. He reached the apex of his flight and began to plunge downward. Now his stomach felt as if it were pressing against the back of his throat, perhaps in a desperate attempt to escape before the fool who controlled their mutual body managed to get both of them killed.
Ghaji saw the deck of the Zephyr rapidly approaching. The tattooed man clutched the hilt of a dagger protruding from his left shoulder, blood streaming from the wound and pouring over his fingers. The half-elf had crouched down to make herself a smaller target and was swiftly drawing arrows from her quiver, nocking and loosing them with speed and grace. If she’d been wounded by one of Diran’s daggers, she showed no sign of it. The shifter had gotten the anchor up and was now fitting the oars to the oarlocks. Of the three thieves, Ghaji would’ve liked to take out the half-elven archer first, but his trajectory wasn’t carrying him toward her. It was, however, taking him straight toward the wounded man.
Flying half-orcs can’t be choosers, I guess, Ghaji thought, then he balled his hands into fists and slammed into the tattooed man.
The dark-skinned thief howled in pain and fury as he and Ghaji crumpled to a heap on the deck. Ghaji heard the harsh, brittle sound of snapping bones, and he hoped they weren’t his. The impact had, however, knocked the wind out of Ghaji, and gasping for breath, he rolled off the tattooed man and reached for the compartment where he’d stowed his axe. He managed to close his fingers around the haft just as he heard the twang of a released bowstring. He rolled to the side as an arrow sank into the wooden deck after passing through the space where his throat had been an instant before. As he came up onto his feet, he brought the flat of his axe head up and deflected another arrow.
The half-elf stood facing him, already nocking another arrow. Ghaji was about to throw his axe at her, when her eyes went wide and she stiffened. She released her grip on her bow and it clattered to the deck, arrow undrawn and unreleased. The woman took a step toward Ghaji, her mouth working but no sound coming out. She pitched forward, and as she fell to the deck, Ghaji saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from between her shoulder blades.
Ghaji knew he had Diran to thank for saving him, but he had no time to spare for even a grateful wave. He heard a growl and turned just in time to meet the shifter’s charge. The man had assumed his more bestial aspect; his eyes were feral yellow, his teeth longer and sharper, fingers now hooked into deadly claws, and his body hair had grown wild and shaggy, more like wolf fur than human hair. Often the mere sight of such a transformation was enough to startle a shifter’s opponent, causing him or her to hesitate for one fateful second… and a second was all any shifter needed.
Ghaji had faced many shifters on the battlefields of the Last War, and he’d fought far more fearsome foes since joining up with Diran. Thus the half-orc didn’t hesitate as the shifter came lunging toward him. He didn’t have time to swing his axe, but he was able to bring it up in time for the shifter to slam face-first into the flat of the axe-head. The shifter staggered back, nose gushing blood.
“Leave now and I’ll forget I ever saw you,” Ghaji offered. “Stay and die.”
The shifter glared at Ghaji with his amber eyes and licked at the blood covering his upper lip.
“Big talk from a half-breed,” the shifter snarled.
Ghaji’s grip tightened on his axe. “Now that was the wrong thing to say.”
He stepped forward and swung his axe in a vicious arc at the shifter’s neck. The shifter leaned backward just in time to avoid having his throat sliced open. He countered with a swipe of his claws aimed at Ghaji’s face, but the half-orc brought his left arm up to block the blow. Ghaji had allowed the momentum of his failed axe swing to bring the weapon around, and now he brought the axe up over his head and slammed it down on the shifter’s. The sharp blade sliced through the shifter’s scalp, shattered the top of his skull, and bit into the soft pulpy mass within.
The shifter stopped fighting and stood looking at Ghaji, blinking several times in an expression of bewilderment, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened to him.
“Oh,” the shifter said, as if something profound had just occurred to him. Then his eyes rolled white and he collapsed to the deck, his ruined brain making a wet sucking sound as gravity drew it away from Ghaji’s blood- smeared axe-head.
Ghaji didn’t pause to savor his victory over the shifter. He turned to check on the tattooed man, and good thing, too, for the wounded thief was on his feet and moving toward Ghaji, his features twisted into a mask of rage, Diran’s dagger still embedded in his shoulder.
Ghaji waited for the man to get closer, and when he was near enough, the half-orc stepped aside from the railing. Unable to stop his approach, the tattooed man slammed into the railing, pitched over, and fell toward the water, bellowing his anger and frustration. His bellow didn’t last long, however, for it was cut off as soon as he plunged into the sea.
Still holding his axe, Ghaji stepped back to the railing and looked over. A series of ripples spread out from where the tattooed man had sunk. Ghaji watched, waiting for the man to swim back up to the surface, planning to offer him the same choice he’d given the shifter. Ghaji waited… and waited…
A fountain of bubbling froth broke the surface, and an instant later the foamy white turned crimson. The tattooed man’s head bobbed above the water, and his mouth opened wide to scream. Before any sound could come out, the maw of a large grayish-white shark much larger than the one Flotsam had caught rose up behind
