Corsair

you have is a strong fist. If your fist is strong enough, even the first mate and the captain must think twice before dealing harshly with you. After all, you might challenge the captain, and if your fist is very strong, the crew will stand aside. I see that you have a small fist already, you and your two comrades here, but that is not enough. No one has reason to be wary of such a small fist.”

“How many fists are there on Moonshark?” Geran asked.

“Four that matter: Skamang and his Impilturians, the dwarves and Teshans, the Mulmasterites-they follow Khefen, the second mate-and the goblins and their kin. Remember, if you pick a fight, you’re taking on the whole of your foe’s fist.”

“Up oars!” Sorsil shouted. Geran and Tao Zhe pushed down on their end of the heavy oar, raising its blade up out of the water, as the other pairs of oarsmen along the ship’s side did the same. The mate waited a moment to make sure that all of the rowers had obeyed then called, “Take in and secure your oars!” They pulled the oars inboard and set them in chocks bolted to the deck, making them fast with iron pins that held the oars in place. The rest of the crew stood up and pushed their way clear of the oar sweeps; Sorsil ordered crew to set Moonshark’s sails.

“I must go and see to our stores before I prepare the midday meal,” Tao Zhe said. He studied Geran for a moment. “You may not need any advice from me, but I offer it anyway: Sorsil is no one’s friend, and watch your back around Skamang there.” The cook nodded at a tall, stoop-shouldered Northman with blue whorls tattooed on his face. “He’s got a fist that not even Sorsil wants to cross, and he’s the one man on this ship other than Narsk that you do not want for an enemy.”

“I’ll remember what you’ve told me,” Geran answered. The cook nodded and went forward to the ship’s galley. Geran went to lend a hand with the job of raising sail. Some galleys carried masts that could be unstepped and laid down flat inside the hull, but Moonshark was made for sailing first; her two masts were fixed in place and carried a typical fore-and-aft rig. The pirate crew managed the task with a fair bit of fumbling and plenty of cudgel-blows from the first mate; many of the deckhands were no more familiar with the work of sailing a ship than Sarth was. Moonshark might be able to outsail a round-bellied cog or outrow a coaster in a light wind, but her crew needed more practice to handle her well under sail. Geran decided that Narsk had manned her with whatever fighters and outlaws he could scrape together in the most wretched taprooms of the Moonsea, whether they knew a thing about sailing or not.

They passed the rest of the day working through the dozens of tasks that kept a deckhand busy. Geran quietly related to Sarth and Hamil everything Tao Zhe had told him, and the three made a point of watching out for each other. The weather was fair and cool, with a steady light wind out of the west that drove Moonshark at a slow-footed, rolling pace. The pirate ship carried many more deckhands than she needed; the sailing watch could have been handled by four or five men, but a big crew was needed for rowing and fighting. Consequently, most of the crew worked little while the ship was under sail and undertook routine tasks only when unable to pass them off to some more luckless hand-for example, the three new hands signed in Zhentil Keep.

The sullen Northman Skamang held court by the foremast for most of the day, surrounded by his fist of seven or eight deckhands who did nothing at all the whole day, as far as Geran could tell. At one point, Skamang called Geran over when Geran was carrying fresh water from the ship’s casks up to the galley for Tao Zhe. “Ho there, new man,” he said in a rasping voice. “What do you call yourself?”

Geran set down his yoked buckets with care before answering. “Aram.”

“I heard that you and your friends cut up a couple of Robidar’s lads back at the Keep. Is that right?”

“That’s what happened.”

Skamang smiled without humor. “Six of them, they say. You, the seasick sellsword with the mustache, and the little fellow. I find that hard to believe. The three of you must be some fighters.”

Geran shrugged. “Ask Sorsil if you don’t believe me. She watched the whole thing.” He picked up his yoke and continued on his way. He could hope that Skamang would decide that he and his friends were likely more trouble than they were worth, but somehow he doubted they’d be that lucky. He didn’t need Tao Zhe’s warning to sense that the tattooed Northman intended trouble for them sooner or later.

The rest of the day passed peacefully enough, and the night as well. Late in the afternoon of their second day out, Moonshark came in sight of a group of black, jagged rocks jutting up out of the Moonsea. Geran recognized them; they were spearlike towers of changeland known as Umberlee’s Talons, and they served as a useful landmark to ships navigating in the western reaches of the Moonsea. Most ships gave them a wide berth. Not only did the jagged rocks offer plenty of chances to rip out a ship’s bottom, but the place had an evil reputation-they were haunted, or cursed, or concealed the lair of a mighty sea monster, or some combination of the three, depending on which tavern tale one favored. Narsk steered a course straight toward the menacing islets, and none of the other deckhands seemed very concerned when he did so.

Sarth stood by the rail next to Geran, gazing at the sinister rocks; Hamil was below, sleeping after staying up most of the night on watch. Some of the rocks rose well over two hundred feet out of the water, but no seabirds hovered around them or roosted on their steep sides. “Is this the secret Black Moon refuge?” the tiefling asked in a low voice.

“I doubt it,” Geran answered. “The Talons are well known in these waters. If there was anything here but empty rocks, I think the story would have got out.”

“Could there be some hidden anchorage here? Something hiding in plain sight?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The swordmage shrugged. He peered more closely at the Talons as Moonshark drew near. If there was some sort of stronghold or secret harbor hidden in their midst, he couldn’t see it. Soon enough Sorsil ordered the sails to be taken in and called the crew to the ship’s oars. She prowled the narrow walkway between the oar benches, truncheon in hand, while Narsk carefully piloted the ship between the looming rocks to a reach of clear water he liked. They dropped anchor and settled in to wait.

At sunset the wind shifted to the east and strengthened. Moonshark rocked at her anchor, and the breeze moaned eerily as it blew though the sharp edges of the rocks looming overhead. Sarth and Geran exchanged looks; there was some subtle sorcery in the air, a breath of the supernatural, and both the sorcerer and the swordmage could taste it on the wind. “Something is approaching,” Sarth said.

“The High Captain’s on his way,” said a dwarf sitting on the capstan nearby. His name was Murkelmor, and he smoked a simple clay pipe. He’d struck Geran as the sort to keep to himself in the few brief hours he’d been around the fellow. “This is where we meet him. The wind always seems t’ turn when he’s near.”

Sarth looked at the dwarf. “Why here? Is there some harbor nearby?”

Murkelmor shook his head. “None t’ speak of. No, as I’ve heard it told, there’s a black isle that only the High Captain knows how to find. This easterly wind is the wind he needs t’ put to sea.”

“A black island?” Geran asked. Clearly, the Black Moon ships had some way of staying out of sight when they wanted to; he was fairly sure he would have found something other than a single half galley lurking in the ruins of Zhentil Keep if the Black Moon kept to the known harbors of the Moonsea. But he’d never heard of anything like a black island in the Moonsea.

The dwarf shrugged. “I’ve no’ seen it myself, mind ye. But that’s the tale that’s told.”

“Ship abeam to starboard!” called the lookout by the bow.

Geran turned to look over the starboard rail, expecting to see a distant glimmer of sail on the horizon. Instead he blinked as the long black hull of a half galley slid through the Talons, not more than four hundred yards distant. “Now where in the world did she come from?” he muttered to himself. He’d been looking in that direction only a few moments ago, and he would have sworn that no ship could have slipped so close to Moonshark without his noticing. Its approach might have been screened by one of the larger Talons, but somehow he didn’t think so.

“It’s Kraken Queen!” the lookout called again. “I can make out her figurehead!”

Murkelmor smiled and tapped the ashes out of his pipe. “See? The High Captain, as I told ye.”

Geran leaned over the rail, staring into the gloaming. Sure enough, the mermaidlike device with the twining tentacles in place of its fishy tail glimmered in the light of the rising moon. “This is an interesting development,” he murmured to Sarth. “Now we know what Narsk was waiting for.”

The gnoll climbed up from his cabin to the quarterdeck. “Put the longboat in water, Sorsil,” he snarled. He