could shave with this blade!'
'I'd be willing to, if'n you'd turn me lose.'
The faintly pleading note in the tough smith's voice smote Ebenezer's heart, and he wavered in his decision to leave this ornery cuss for last. He hefted his axe for the first blow. 'Just might be I'll hold you to that,' he muttered.
On the deck above, Bronwyn heard her friend's shout resounding from the hold. Her first response was relief that he had made it across safely. Her second reaction was a quick stab of concern. Judging by the number of grim-faced dwarves staggering about the deck, whacking away at their captors with rough, makeshift clubs, she suspected that Ebenezer had little fighting support below decks.
Bronwyn edged toward the hatch. A mercenary lunged at her, his cutlass whistling down toward her in a quick, deadly sweep. She sidestepped the attack and struck down hard with her knife, pressing the cutlass down to the deck. Then she pivoted toward the joined blades and kicked out high and hard with her left foot. Her boot sank deep, just above the man's weapon belt. The cutiass clattered to the deck, and the man staggered back-into the outstretched hands of a waiting ogress. The sailor grinned horribly, her fangs flashing. She spun the man around a couple of times as if they were children playing at blind man's bluff, and then flung him back toward Bronwyn.
'Catch!' she roared.
Bronwyn brought up her knife. The man fell heavily on it, and his weight slumped against her. For a moment they were eye to eye.
Bronwyn had seen death before, more times than she liked to count, but never at such close range. The life drained away from his face, surely as a receding tide, and his black eyes went empty and flat. Then he jerked back with a suddenness that left Bronwyn staggering for balance.
The ogress held the man by the collar as a boy might hold a puppy by the scruff of the neck. She grunted with approval at the sight of Bronwyn's dripping knife, then flung the dead man aside.
Bronwyn turned back to the hold and was nearly knocked over by the dwarf lad who exploded from the hatch as if he'd been launched by a smoke-powder canon. She noted the hammer he held clenched in his hand and understood the source of Ebenezer's ire. Reassured that her friend was not besieged by foes, she picked her next battle.
Narwhal's first mate, a hugely muscled barbarian woman, was pinned down by two fighters, her back against the mast and her sword flailing. Bronwyn noted the jerky motion of the blade, the huge beads of sweat on the massive woman's brow. Just then one of the attackers ducked, and Bronwyn caught sight of the wound that slashed across the sailor's collarbone. It didn't look fatal of itself, but the woman's tunic was sodden with her own blood, and the cold sickness that followed a battle wound was settling upon bet
Bronwyn waded in, dodging a pair of dwarves who carried a human male between them, one dwarf holding the man's hands and one holding his feet. Their captive writhed and struggled and cursed, but the dwarves moved inexorably toward the rail, intent upon hurling him over.
She seized one of the first mate's attackers by the hair and jerked his head back. Without hesitation, she lifted her knife and drew it hard and fast across the man's throat. His startled oath, though quite quickly and literally cut short, drew his partner's attention. The second man turned toward the sound, only to be hit in the face by the sudden spurting flow of his shipmate's lifeblood.
The man shouted and slashed blindly with his blade. Bronwyn still had her grip on the dead man's hair, and she spun around to duck behind him. The body jolted from the impact. Bronwyn released him and danced back, almost losing her footing on the blood-slick deck.
Again the slaver lashed out. Bronwyn dropped into a crouch, ducking the blow so narrowly that she felt the wind of it. Before he could reverse his swing for another attack, she tensed for the spring and came up, knife leading.
Her blade punched hard into his ribcage. The blow registered in his eyes, but he did not go down, and his grim expression proclaimed his intent to take her with him to the gates of death.
Bronwyn wrenched her knife free and jumped up, bringing her knee up high and hard as she came. She connected in a profoundly debilitating blow. The man's forgotten sword clattered to the deck.
She stepped back, breathing in quick, shallow bursts.
'Behind you, girl!'
The woman's shout snapped Bronwyn back into the battle. She whirled to face the grim-faced dwarf who was preparing to apply the spiked nail in his club to the base of Bronwyn's spine.
Instinct and memory took over. 'For Stoneshaft!' she shrieked in the dwarvish tongue, remembering what her long-ago dwarf friend told her about rallying cries.
Her response clearly startled the dwarf. He lowered the club, and the red haze of battle-lust faded from his face. For a moment he peered keenly at Bronwyn. Apparently he recognized her as someone other than one of his captors, for he gave a curt nod and went off in search of another fight.
But the battle was nearly over The sounds of fighting had dwindled to a few clashes of steel, a few screams of pain- some of which ended with chilling abruptness.
Captain Orwig's bombastic voice could easily be heard over the ebbing tide of battle, ordering his crew to round up the dead of both sides and all the slavers and toss them into the sea as Umberlee's due. This rallied even the dwarves, who cared not a wit for the Sea Goddess. They took to the task with such grim gusto that they didn't even seem to notice that they were taking orders from an ogre.
Bronwyn tucked her knife into its sheath just as the barbarian's eyes rolled back in her head. Bronwyn caught the woman as she fell and lowered her to the deck-not an easy task given the difference in their size, but at least she managed to ease the woman down to a gentler landing than she would otherwise have had.
Bronwyn tore a strip from the hem of the woman's tunic and pressed it to the wound, holding it firm until the bleeding stopped, then shrugged off her cloak and tucked it over the woman's broad shoulders to keep her warm until the cold sickness ebbed. That was all the help Bronwyn could give her, and she hoped it would be enough.
Narwhal's crew had not gone unscathed. Some of the dead tossed overboard wore familiar faces. One of them was the ogress who had played the deadly game of catch with Bronwyn, thus accepting her, if for one brief moment, as a comrade. Bronwyn took a deep breath and headed back to the stern, where stood a small, wooden shack built over the helm.
In this, as she had expected, she found the ship's records. Quickly she thumbed through the pages, looking for something that would provide a clue to the identity of the people who had destroyed the dwarves' home and stolen from them their freedom-and from her, her father.
But the transaction was coded. In time, she could probably figure out what it said. There was, however, a lengthy list of cargo neatly written up in Common, the language of trade. Bronwyn skimmed it and whistled softly. This would be enough and more to satisfy Narwhal's captain's and crew's desire for booty. It might also help her negotiate with Orwig on a delicate matter. He was an ogre. Even in tolerant Water-deep, he would be closely watched. And he was a smuggler, which meant his affairs would not hold up to close scrutiny. Yet she could not subject Ebenezer and his kin to the punishing journey back through the magical locks into Skuilport.
She tucked the log book under her arm and walked out onto the deck. Captain Orwig stalked by and she caught his arm.
'The battle was a great victory. I want to thank you for your help,' she began.
His gold-capped tusks flashed in what she hoped was a smile. 'You don't have to thank me. You have to pay me.'
'You'll have your full fee,' she assured him, 'and as a bonus, I'll yield my right-of-hire ownership of the cargo.' She told him what the hold contained: unworked gems, bolts of wool, valuable pelts, weapons, coin, barrels of mead.
The prospect of such treasure touched the ogre's soul. 'All?'
'Except for the dwarves. You don't want them, of course.' He snorted as if to indicate that this went without saying. 'I will yield my right to the cargo in exchange for two things,' Bronwyn continued, 'this book with the ship's logs and records, and your promise that we'll make port in Waterdeep rather than return to Skullport.'
The ogre hesitated, but temptation danced in his small red eyes. He scratched his snout and considered. 'There'll be a dock fee to pay and a tax on the booty.'
