see Ghassan behind him, sword raised and blood running down the razor edge, dripping to the timbers of the deck.
“Ghassan?”
Samir put his hand to his neck. It was just a small flesh wound that would heal quickly, but it was a wound nonetheless. He glared at Ghassan and spoke through clenched teeth.
“You will have to sort out your rigging before you can make sail again, you’ll have to be careful around the burning merchant, and our men have put your artillery out of commission and jammed your rudder. You won’t be able to follow us or fire on us.”
He growled.
“We’re leaving now, Ghassan. For the life of every one of your men, do not try and follow us across or we will be forced to take a more violent approach.”
He wiped the blood from his neck and flicked it at Ghassan, spattering red droplets across the uniform.
“And there is blood between us, Ghassan. For the sake of mother at her rest, I will not kill you now, but rest assured that the next time we meet I will give you no quarter.”
“Nor I you” barked Ghassan.
Samir, turning to make sure the last of his men were disengaging and crossing back to the Empress, threw a last vicious glare at his brother and jumped across.
Some days were designed just to test a person to his very soul.
In which the wheel has turned many times
Samir prodded the fresh wound above his right eye. The last engagement had been one of the most precarious yet. He smiled weakly as he looked down into the foamy water racing past below the rail. Yesterday had been his twenty second naming day and the event had passed him by entirely unnoticed for most of the day. Indeed, he’d still not have thought about it now had the crew not made something of it.
When they’d scuttled the Pelasian merchant yesterday afternoon, they had cast the survivors adrift in the lifeboats and then spent the next hour stacking and storing the booty that would have to be transported back to Lassos where the affectionately-named ‘Eyeball’ could add them to the Empress’ takings roster and move them through his ‘channels’ to various ports of dubious ethics on the eastern coast.
A few hours later, Samir had been examining the cargo when he had been accosted and dragged back, kicking and arguing, up the stairs to the deck. It had been a natural assumption that his time had come. He’d risen through the ranks on board the Empress so damn quick that he’d put a lot of peoples’ noses out of joint in the process. Indeed, when Sharimi had been laid to rest two years ago, the victim of a heavy artillery bolt during a boarding action, Khmun had barely glanced at any of those who probably had much better claim to the position, and had promoted Samir to first officer without a moment’s pause.
Of course it turned out, as he was dragged, blinking, into the sunlight, that they had a few naming day ’surprises’ for him: several uncomfortable and even painful practical jokes and games at his expense and then enough date wine and powerful spirits that he felt lucky to be alive this morning. That being said, there was a reason he’d spent the last hour leaning over the rail and ‘alive’ might prove to be a relative term.
He spat away the unpleasant taste in his mouth as he drifted off once more into musings on past events.
It was no surprise to Samir really that Khmun had chosen him on Sharimi’s death. He had proved himself time and time again over the years. His uncanny knack for tactics, combined with Khmun’s genius for innovative thinking in combat, had resulted in the Empress racking up almost twice as many captures as any other vessel that worked out of Lassos.
The name ‘Scourge of the Seas’ had been heard applied variously to the Empress herself, to captain Khmun and recently to his infamous first officer, Samir. And yet, despite their fearsome reputation, the officers and men of the Dark Empress were proud of the fact that they could sometimes take a merchant down without inflicting any permanent harm on the crew. Often the mere threat of violence, combined with the name of the dreaded vessel was enough to bring about a peaceful surrender. Certainly their kills were among the lowest in the ledgers of Lassos. It all went to bolster Samir’s growing reputation.
Those who had beaten Samir repeatedly in those first weeks on board had changed as much as he. The weak, greedy or stupid ones had died early on through bad luck or their own actions, while the clever and loyal ones had been finally forced to accept the fact that Samir appeared to have been born for this life. Indeed, several of them professed a grudging admiration for this man that they had tormented as a boy. Afad, the first face he’d seen on board, was now a boarding party chief and a trusted lieutenant of Samir’s.
He turned his rubbery, sweaty, pale grey face to the water once more and groaned as a fresh wave of sickness overtook him and all thoughts but the regret of the morning after were forced aside.
A full minute of such horrendous activity and he finally settled back in ragged breaths to feeling weak and draping himself over the rail. Occasionally he would hear a gentle laugh somewhere. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold his drink, so much as no one could hold that amount of drink! He would occasionally look up when he heard a laugh and give the man a weak smile. He could have disciplined them for taunting a superior, but this wasn’t the navy. Order relied as much on trust and respect as on discipline. Besides, his head might crack if he tried to shout at someone.
Now, where was he…
Ah yes. Every man on board could be considered a rich man by the standards of Samir’s youth. Certainly any one of the officers could have afforded to buy Asima’s father…
He blinked and focused on the water rushing past. Curious. While he had been forced to think about Ghassan quite a lot over the years, he’d not given a thought to their childhood friend for so long that it took a moment’s dredging of memory to construct a reasonable image of her in his head.
He smiled as he remembered her; headstrong and controlling, almost always, he realised these days, playing the emotions and affections of he and Ghassan against one another. His thoughts drifted to the sands of Pelasia for a moment and he wondered how she was doing now, even what she was doing now. Was she still in the harem of Akkad? Knowing her steadfast refusal to bow to the will of others, she may well have been executed by the vicious satraps or the royal family by now.
That thought brought with it an unexpected sadness, but he soon brushed that aside. No. She would be alive; probably alive and well. Asima was a survivor as much as Samir; probably more so. She would probably be running Pelasia before long.
She must be a stunning woman now.
Samir realised with a laugh that he was starting to drool and hoped beyond belief that this was a further effect of the hangover and not some childish infatuation coming back to haunt him. Besides, she’d been closer with Ghassan most of the time…
Ghassan.
Why the hell had he had to join the naval militia, of all the stupid, brainless things to do. Samir had been pressed without choice. Ghassan could have done anything, but no. And Calphoris liked to think of itself as a continuation of the collapsed Empire that continued to wallow, treating its militia as if they were still the Imperial army; all straight laced and order and discipline. If only Ghassan could see that the driving principals of the militia allowed for no grey areas and had killed off his ability to reason beyond the blind acceptance of orders. Then he and Ghassan…
His jaw hardened.
No.
Samir was sick of feeling guilty and sorry for his brother. It had been Ghassan that had drawn blood when Samir refused. Ghassan had been the one to label him a murderer and bring their mother into it. Samir had been happy to let things go.
Over the last few years, with the increasing reputation of the Empress and her crew, interest in her capture had grown and it had become the life goal of many militia captains and probably among the Pelasians too, to capture the pirate ship and put an end to her activity.
