The Thorn in Verdan's Eye

“The night, tho’ clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like Hope to mortals given;
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem”—Edgar Allan Poe

The sea smelled of salt under the baking sun. Gulls soared high above the docks in the crystal blue sky, occasionally swooping down to the water’s surface to snatch a tasty fish. The carts of bread, fruit, and foreign spices were easier pickings though, and the merchants on the docks could often be seen swatting the white birds away with sticks.

Drogo Brander’s wares didn’t attract the pesky sea gulls though, and he steered his small wagon down a cluttered street parallel to the coast. A stable was ahead, just before the docks, where he could sell his horse.

He was met by the farrier, a bald, stern-looking man dressed in thick leather. “I’m looking to sell the horse and wagon,” Drogo said to him while he stepped down from his seat, the black cape over his shoulders sweeping down behind him.

“Gettin’ rid o’ them afore you take to the sea?” he asked in a hoarse voice. Drogo nodded. “Then you’ll need someone to load those boxes onto the ship,” he added, pointing to the crates tied together on the wagon. The traveler pulled up on the rope that tied them together; the cube of stacked boxes lifted easily.

“They are not as heavy as they appear,” he explained.

“Well then,” the farrier conceded, “how much are you selling the both of them for?” Drogo smiled at his marketing tactics, trying to get him to state what they’re worth so he didn’t offer too much to begin with. The large man stepped in close to inspect the tired but sturdy horse. “Where did you say you came from?”

“I didn’t,” Drogo replied. “I am en route to Eevinlore from Bithynsa. The mare has traveled with me thus far.”

“A long road,” the man said offhandedly, apparently happy with the condition of the beast. “I’ll give you twenty silver pieces for her and the wagon.”

The merchant scratched his stubbly chin in thought. “I’ll need at least twenty-five.”

“A’right.” The farrier said. It was still a bit less than they were worth.

After the silver was in his hands, Drogo walked through an alley and into the harbor section. It was the small town’s only reason for existing, and it was better kept than most of the inland streets. Still, people set up tables to sell things everywhere, and children ran free of their parents. Drogo nearly stumbled over a boy as he neared one of the only two ships anchored there, and he almost dropped his pack of boxes.

Peering around, he saw a man standing by the ramp to the vessel with a trimmed grey beard and a fine brocade shirt. “You must be Captain Maurus,” he called to the man, walking over to him with the boxes over his hunched back.

“The harbormaster said there’d be a merchant seekin’ transportation. Are ye him?” the captain asked.

“Yes. I was informed you were heading to Eevinlore? I have enough gold.”

“Well met, then. Let one o’ my men handle yer crates. I’ll show ye yer quarters.”

His ship, the Wynd Dasher, was a long, three-masted schooner with pale blue sails. It rested beside the dock, which was at the edge of an underwater cliff, with its anchor line trailing away from it on the sea side. Captain Maurus led Drogo Brander across the deck and into a doorway between an upper flat and the main deck, leading to a group of rooms. They were small, but comfortable.

“Ye’ll find this one to yer liking more than the sailor’s cabins across the way.”

“Thank you,” Drogo said, “When do you plan to set sail?”

“Afore the tide leaves tonight,” Maurus replied.

“At night?” the traveler echoed, incredulous. Drogo knew he would be leaving that day, but few ships would sail the island-cluttered sea of Verdan’s Eye in the dark. Not only was there a danger of running aground, but there were known pirates hidden among mazelike archipelagos that might be up for a midnight snack. Normally, a ship would sail by day along the concave coast, anchoring at night near the many villages and towns dotting the land’s edge. Captain Maurus meant to go straight through, and leaving in the late hours of the day only ensured that they would spend an extra night risking attack. And the Wynd Dasher would be a tasty morsel indeed.

Not that he was worried.

Later on that moonless night, when the crew had gathered to their posts, when the tide had just begun to ebb, and when the stars cut through the filmy clouds, the vessel pulled away from the shore. It listed easily in the lazy breeze on a roundabout course that would take them to the port city of Eevinlore in five short days.

The effect the crisp night had on the crew and its few passengers—other than Drogo Brander—was tangible. Songs were sung, and a fine meal for a ship journey was shared by all. If any of them were nervous of an ambush, they showed no indication of it, beside the usual lookout in the crow’s nest.

Drogo sat on a bench next to the captain, across from other paying travelers, in a circle on the deck. The majority of the crew was at their posts, steering the ship in a long zigzag pattern to catch what little wind there was in its blue sails, which blended in with the horizon. Perhaps that was why they thought it unlikely they would be spotted, Drogo thought.

“That’s why the Tauragua are tightening their reigns on the eastern cities,” a tidy weapons trainer from Sky City was saying in his regal accent. He was lekrin, and he taught soldiers of the Tauragua army his skills with the sword. Drogo paid closer attention to him above the rest of the crew; Nikomedes was his name.

“Means there’ll be more taxes in the markets,” a middle aged woman said. She cast an apprehensive look at her two little boys.

“Possibly,” Nikomedes replied. “Here the Empire has less power over the merchant class, though. Since we’re so far from the capitol, much of the money behind the governing establishments comes from local trade. If they raise tariffs too high, or for too long, merchants will simply trade with other lands,” the lekrin offered in consolation. A couple glances came Drogo’s way at the mention of the merchants.

“What do ye sell?” Maurus asked him.

“Wine and ale,” Drogo replied quickly. The faces of a couple of the men in the circle brightened.

Captain Maurus laughed. “Surely they’re to ask ye for some. Don’t worry, I’ll tell ‘em yer wares are for trade.”

The merchant snickered. “No, I had planned to part with a bottle or two as further payment for your hospitality. Given the nature of the folk of Eevinlore, I would have trouble selling the liquor anyway. Their taste is for fine wines.” There was a hushed cheer all around, as not to attract the crew at work. At this, the captain chuckled again.

Drogo went through the hallway between most of the sailors’ quarters, down a turning stairway, and into the storage rooms between the many lower bulkheads, taking a lantern with him. He found his boxes where the captain’s deckhand had put them, among several large crates and bundles of wooden drums. The bottom four boxes in the two by two by two cube were empty, the merchant knew, and the top four were filled each with four bottles, packed in with cotton.

Drogo opened one of his top boxes and eyed its selection of spirits. Two were bottles of red wine, and a third was light golden ale. The last bottle in the crate was black, and it sloshed sluggishly to the gentle sway of the ship compared to the others. Drogo grabbed the ale, closed the crate, and went back to the top deck.

“I noticed you had a sword on you when first I saw you before we departed,” Nikomedes mentioned as the merchant passed the bottle along. “Have you had structured training?” he asked.

“Yes, but undoubtedly not as thoroughly as a sword master.” Drogo said with a slight bow.

Nikomedes nodded at his unelaborated reply. Though the trainer did not doubt his superiority, he thought the merchant peculiar. The blade Drogo had sheathed on his hip before the journey—now probably in his cabin—was short for a single weapon use. Either the merchant did not place much importance on his sword (which was unlikely, given the wild and dangerous trails someone would have to travel to go from town to town), or the merchant was accustomed to fighting in closer quarters.

When the bottle came to Nikomedes, he politely declined.

“I am afraid I must spend the remainder of this fine night in quiet sleep,” the trainer said to the group.

“As am I,” Drogo echoed, standing up and stretching. A couple of the men beckoned him to join in and drink, but he declined as well.

When both Drogo and Nikomedes had left, Captain Maurus tried to understand the suspicious glances between them. Someone passed him the ale, and he soon forgot about it.

* * * *

Morning seemed to wash up on the deck like driftwood, waking the ship’s deck hands for their early charges. A brisk wind tugged at the sails, coming from the northwest and propelling the Wynd Dasher swiftly to the southern port of Eevinlore.

They weren’t on a straight course to the city, though—more of a slight bow shape that would keep them from tangling with the Flutesong Isles. Drogo knew this, and he wasn’t surprised to see patches of dark green on the portside horizon as the ship skirted the islands’ edges.

Captain Maurus was peering in the same direction, putting his hand up to block the rising sun. Seeing the merchant up, Maurus waved him over to his perch on the schooner’s prow. “Have ye been along this route before?” the captain asked coolly, yet in a way excitedly.

“Twice, but I passed on the other side of the archipelago. I was heading north, to Crystalith,” Drogo responded, again almost too quickly to have considered the question.

“A fair city, but its presence has calmed the waters below it. The stretch o’ sea we now sail is quite dangerous. Ye’ve heard o’ the Starlight Pirate?” the captain asked with a sly expression.

Drogo frowned. “Of course. Everyone in this region has heard of the Thorn in Verdan’s Eye. Why do I get the impression you know something I do not?”

Captain Maurus pointed to the closest island, to the east and south. “I didn’t want to scare any o’ my passengers, but it’s soon to be irrelevant. Binjar saw a ship late last night up in the crow’s nest. It turned around ahead o’ us and sailed away, but now I know where it went.”

Trying to see what the captain was talking about, Drogo leaned against the rail. The schooner sliced through the waves, spraying salty mist up at him. A dark shape huddled next to the island Maurus indicated, a three-masted carrack shape. The only part of the broad vessel not hidden in the island’s shade was its mainmast. A twinkle of metal from its crow’s nest caught the merchant’s eye.

“You will engage them?” Drogo asked nervously.

“Only if we cannot outrun ‘em. That’s a heavier ship for sure, but we’ll need to use the islands to prevent ‘em from cutting us off.”

On the captain’s signal, the crewman at the wheel turned the Wynd Dasher left, into the cluster of islands, the rest of the crew tugging ropes to adjust the sails. Maurus and Drogo, standing against the prow rail, held on tight as the schooner careened to the starboard side. The southwestern wind was right in line with the sails then, pushing the ship from directly behind.

“Monshol, get to the polybolos on the stern!” Captain Maurus called to a man standing ready on the deck. “They’re gonna be right behind us when they come around.” Monshol climbed onto the aftcastle and began loading javelin-sized bolts into the siege weapon from a tied down crate. The polybolos, a ballista capable of firing multiple consecutive shots, had a wooden magazine above its firing tray, which dropped a bolt into the loaded mensa every time a windlass was rotated clockwise. Drogo had seen the same thing atop castle walls.

Every person, except for the woman, who took her children below the deck, moved about the ship with a singular purpose. Archers with longbows lined up at the starboard rail, ready to fire as the Wynd Dasher made its one fleeing pass. Every man was armed with a cutlass or saber on his belt, and a calm confidence pervaded every one of them, Drogo noted. They were doing their job.

Up came the sails of the stalking carrack, and it pulled ahead in pursuit. Heading generally north, it angled to intercept the Wynd Dasher before she rounded the first island. Captain Maurus’ schooner was fast, though, and it finally met the pirate ship only two hundred yards from the shore, ahead and to the carrack’s port.

“Will they catch us?” Drogo asked, thinking he should go and retrieve his sword.

“I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve.” The captain was about to say something else, but he turned and called to his archers.

On the count of ten, they loosed their arrows. Most of the shots fell short, but some thudded against the carrack’s hull, sticking in no more than an inch. The second volley was more effective, and farther as the schooner came directly upwind of the pirate vessel. Some of the men aboard were struck, but most of the arrows glanced off the deck.

Then something happened that Drogo did not immediately understand. The carrack seemed to fall behind for several moments, its sails going limp. Then it picked up speed again and continued the chase, though it was now out of range for retaliation from its own archers.

Captain Maurus winked at the merchant, saying, “Our sails were parallel with their own, each trying to catch the same gusts o’ wind. In trying to cut us off, they sailed directly downwind of us, and too close!”

“Monshol!” Maurus called, and it was all the man at the polybolos needed to hear. He was already aiming directly at the pursuing ship, and he immediately began cranking the windlass. Loud ticking noises rolled over the expanse of water between the ships, alerting the pirates, but it was too late.

With a snap, a bolt zipped over the water and sunk into the hull of the carrack, slamming through to the other side just above sea level. Figures darted all about the deck of the attacking ship as they tried to get their ballistae to bear. Monshol reversed the direction of the crank until the mensa dropped another bolt into the firing tray. He repeated the process again, shooting seven quarrels in the next minute.

One bolt from the pirate ship skewered the water just behind the schooner, and it made a dull thump when it struck. “Check the hold,” the captain ordered the closest crewman. “We might be hit.”

Still on forecastle, Drogo could see the whole exchange, especially when the Wynd Dasher began rounding the convex shoreline. The carrack was keeping up, and the merchant grew worried. “What if they hit us?” he asked, Maurus standing next to him. As soon as he said it, a quarrel launched by the polybolos sliced some of the pirate vessel’s gaff rigging. Men scrambled over to the cut lines to tie them in place.

“We should lose them soon,” was all the captain said, confidence clear in his eyes.

As the carrack paced the Wynd Dasher, both ships drew closer to the island. Captain Maurus intended to turn back to the south on the other side, but Drogo didn’t see how that would help. If the carrack could keep up around the bend, it could keep up in the open sea, and any turns the schooner made would be an opportunity to close in further, cutting the angle of each turn.

But, being heavier and deeper in the water, the pirates soon steered away. Drogo looked sideways to see Maurus smiling. They could cross shallower waters than the carrack, and the island offered many sandbanks to run right over. Apparently the crew of the pirate ship knew the area well, for they avoided such an obvious tactic.

“They’ll not be able to turn back south for another fifteen minutes,” the captain beamed. “By then we’ll have put another island between us. If they still want a chase, so be it. We can keep ahead for the rest of the day, and when night comes, we can disappear.”

Several more ballista shots pocked the water behind them, but the Wynd Dasher was out of range, and getting farther away.

Hours later, it became apparent that the chase had ended. The pirates either did not want to continue, or the cut rigging was more of a problem than Captain Maurus thought. Not that it mattered, a disaster was avoided with hardly any damage; the small hole found in the bottom of the hull was clean and easily repaired.

Drogo did not doubt the effectiveness of Maurus’ crew when they worked together. He also thought they were terribly lucky.

* * * *

Later, Drogo Brander leaned on the starboard rail, watching the setting sun set the sea ablaze. Everything was quiet, and the merchant heard Captain Maurus amble up behind him, coming to lean against the rail beside him.

“Do you really think that was the Starlight Pirate?” he asked the captain, even though he already knew the answer.

“Nah. I’ve sailed this way for more than ten years, and I’ve never even seen ‘im. I’m not doubtin’ the scalawag exists, though. Maybe I’ve been sailing here for more than ten years because I’ve never met ‘im,” Maurus said sarcastically. “Sailors have reported the charred remains o’ ships washed up on the islands. Some ships have disappeared altogether. He’s called the Starlight Pirate ‘cause he strikes at night, so the tales say.”

“You’re not worried about being attacked in the late hours? Surely a ship looking carefully could spot you.”

Captain Maurus nodded. “If any ship can catch us, she’s most likely too small to overpower us. It’s a risky trade, but not one of my crew would leave this life for the world.” Maurus bellowed suddenly and spread his arms out wide. “What d’ye know, this is the world.” Seeing nothing but shimmering waves under cottony clouds in a fiery orange sky, Drogo didn’t disagree.

A flicker of light far to the south, directly ahead, made both men turn their heads. “It looks as if we will sail through a storm tonight,” the merchant remarked.

“Aye, but nothing we can’t handle. I should tell ye o’ some o’ the storms I battled on the Ocean.” The captain sighed and left to help his crew prepare for the squall.

Nikomedes was on the main deck when the pirates attacked, and he had watched Drogo Brander carefully. He had seen through the man’s nervous facade, the questioning glances at the captain and the crew. What the weapons trainer saw was a steeled man in absolute control of himself. The way the merchant—if that’s truly what he is—gazed at the pursuing carrack, his hazel eyes intense, seeming almost red, Nikomedes knew he wanted to fight. The image was burned into the trainer’s mind, but he didn’t understand its significance.

The trainer walked up to stand right where the captain had stood. “What might a business man such as yourself find in Eevinlore, Drogo Brander?” Nikomedes said with hidden undertones of distrust. The man was so different from the merchant, in appearance and mind, but he was similar in posture and gait. The trainer’s dark blue eyes and light brown, shoulder-length hair stood out in contrast to the merchant’s cropped black hair and darker skin. Both stood with their hands folded on the rail, both looking to the darkening horizon.

“I have several expensive wines the el–”

“But that will obviously not be enough to warrant such a trip on such a fine ship.” Nikomedes interrupted. “Your profit would be meager if the market was at its best, which it is most certainly not, given the Tauragua unrest.”

Drogo considered several replies, but he knew the man next to him was smart. He had to be careful if he wanted the true contents of his crates to remain a secret. No need to spoil the fun. “Then you know my market better than I do?”

“Not at all, but it does make me wonder. If you are smuggling something, it would be very unprofitable to get the captain in trouble. I’ve come to like the man and his crew, and I would not want to see his lucrative trade lose all its credibility.” There, Nikomedes said it, as open a threat as Drogo would hear from the normally reserved lekrin.

The merchant grinned. “Nor would I.”

* * * *

Heavy rain pummeled the Wynd Dasher, and large swells heaved the schooner high atop the waves, only to send it crashing back down into the violently rolling water. Bursts of water rushed across the deck, shoving the frantic crew and pulling at anything that wasn’t properly tied down. The sails were down, and the ship was a puny thing to be thrashed by the storm.

Captain Maurus was above deck with several of his men, trying to shout over the shrieking wind and the booming thunder. When everything was in place, as prepared as a ship could be for the vicious squall, they came below with the rest of the crew and the passengers. There was nothing to do but wait it out.

The hatch closed, but water still seeped in through the planks. “Pass buckets out,” the captain said to Cayvis, a shipmate in front of him. “And use rope soaked with tar from the hold to fill any leaks in the hull.” The Wynd Dasher lurched to starboard, then forward, as it struck a wave at an awkward angle. Lightning crashed close by, and Maurus feared one of his masts hit.

Dozens of eyes looked to him for support when he entered the main enclosure below the deck, a long, narrow space between two main bulkheads. He blew a sigh, spraying droplets. He was glistening wet in the lamplight. “I’ve weathered worse ‘an this,” he huffed, realizing they needed his confidence yet again. “We’ll hold.” The schooner swooped down the backside of a swell and came tilting up hard on the next one. Everyone already had hold of railings along the walls and ceilings made for such pitching.

The circular storm trampled them, but it pushed them aside its northward path. An hour and a half of churning had seen the end of it, and all were relieved to breathe fresh air again. Captain Maurus could tell the water at the bottom of the hold was causing drag, so he ordered some of his men to scoop it out while the rest fixed the rigging and brought up the sails. It was a mess topside. Rope lines were twisted and snapped, including some of the running rigging. In glancing at it, the captain could tell they would go nowhere until it was fixed.

But with most of the crew working hard to replace the lines, the work went quickly. By the time the sails were back in line to push the ship south, the clouds dissipated, revealing the startlingly clear stars.

The night turned into a celebration, the passengers toasting the crew, and the crew toasting their experienced captain. Drogo brought three bottles of ale from his wares, and cups were passed to any who wanted it. The Wynd Dasher was well stocked for a five-day journey—six nights—and the cook made a large stew with beef marinated in wine. Captain Maurus even brought lanterns onto the deck, figuring that no pirates would be about so soon after a storm.

Later in the night, when many had gone to sleep, the captain, Nikomedes, Drogo, and Monshol sat on the benches in the middle of the deck again, sharing stories. Maurus told of his experiences on the Ocean, of massive tropical storms that no ship could withstand out in the open, and of unexplored islands far out on the vast blue realm. Nikomedes shared many tales of battles he had fought for the Tauragua Empire, which was too large to be completely at rest on all fronts. Monshol listened intently, hanging on every word and wishing he had seen it firsthand.

Drogo was mostly silent, though. The trainer noted this, but he attributed it to the man’s secretive trade.

When the smallest moon had passed its zenith, Captain Maurus stood up, announcing, “Well, I’m turning in for tonight. I thank ye for the tales, and ye for the drink to warm my toes,” he said, nodding to the merchant last.

Monshol followed after he had finished his cup. Nikomedes, who hadn’t taken any of Drogo’s liquor, leaned forward. “You seem not to care about losing your drinks every night,” he said slyly.

“I’m more than happy to part with the stuff to hear fine stories of distant lands,” Drogo replied, not missing a beat. He knew what the lekrin thought of him, and it mattered little. Soon the merchant would disappear.

Without a word, the trainer got up and went to his quarters. Drogo took a deep breath and walked toe-to-heel to his own cabin, not to disturb nearby passengers.

He lay there in his bed, his eyes not closing, his mind taking in the sounds of the rocking schooner. An hour went by, but Drogo did not fall asleep. In fact, he could not have been more awake. Still in the darkness of early morning, when the black-caped man was sure that everyone was fast asleep—with a bit of eighty-proof alcohol in their blood to help—he arose and belted his slender sword.

Cracking the door open and peering into the tight hallway, he saw the dim outline of the trainer’s door. He passed it by, knowing that he would never catch that one unaware. He sneaked into the cabins of the rest of the passengers, including the one containing the woman and her two little boys. He drew a dagger from his soft leather boot, and stalked forward.

Drogo Brander left the forecastle shortly after. Everyone who had slept there was dead, including the captain, their throats neatly slit. Except for the lekrin, of course. He would be dealt with when there was no one to help him.

Drogo crept onto the aftcastle, and he was upon one of the only two men awake that night before he could gasp. A thin line was across his throat, and it reddened with oozing blood as he slumped against the wheel. A quick glace at the crow’s nest made sure the watchman hadn’t heard any of it.

He climbed up the rope net slowly, making sure he didn’t cause a creak or rustle. It was dark, but he would be visible when he got closer. When Drogo reached the wooden siding, he tapped it twice with his fingernail. Curious, and not too alarmed, the sentry leaned over the edge. When Drogo’s dagger came up in a flash of steel, sliding up from under his jaw and into the man’s brain, still no sound woke anyone.

The Starlight Pirate guided the corpse’s body to the nest’s floor with the handle of his blade.

Not one sailor cried out, or thrashed, when Drogo went from berth to berth, ending the slow breathing and snores of the living one by one.

He wiped his dagger on a dead sailor’s tunic and replaced it on his leg. Then Drogo, creeping still, finally got to his crates in the hold. He opened the empty boxes and hauled them to the middle of the room, where he could begin packing the wares of everyone else. Articles of jewelry—the only wealth the woman and her fatherless family had—several leather-bound books, and a little box of crystal vials were among the things the thief collected. He turned crates and cracked open chests, looking for what he came for, but it was hidden well. In Drogo’s mounting frustration, he almost missed something important. There was a beam that ran along the length of the ship on the ceiling, and two strings appeared to have been tied around it just where the beam met the top of the door.

The thief pulled a hefty crate in front of the door and stepped on it, trying to see above the beam. His lips curled in a wicked smile as he saw what was tied to the beam, a coffer made of polished cherry wood. He cut the strings and peeked inside; an assortment of finely cut gems gleamed back at him, many of which swirled with an inner light it seemed.

Drogo closed his boxes and opened the ones filled with bottles. He opened the heaviest bottles and began pouring their thick black contents onto the floor. When he was done, the oil made a trail down the whole length of the hold. Taking a lantern from the wall, he lit it and smashed it down onto the flammable liquid.

Suddenly the room was bright and growing hot in the accelerated fire. Drogo quickly carried his crates up toward the deck, but someone stepped in his path right before the final doorway.

“I can’t let you take whatever you’re stealing,” Nikomedes said firmly. His sword was drawn.

The Starlight Pirate only laughed at him. “Look around you!” he yelled, not fearing that anyone would wake up. “They will not miss anything.”

The trainer’s eyes narrowed, but he looked less confident. “What have you done?”

“Do not worry; they’ve never slept more soundly,” was all the thief said as he unsheathed his own sword, placing the crates to his side.

Nikomedes knew he had a problem. He was in a corridor the width of his arm span, and his sword was longer than the pirate’s. There was little he could do, for he couldn’t let Drogo get outside where he could run. With measured steps, the trainer came in.

Drogo struck first, a diagonal slice that stopped short and went forward in a thrust. The trainer parried it easily, but he couldn’t continue his sword’s motion and counter, the wall being too close. Before Nikomedes could retaliate, Drogo thrust up high, then low, then low again. The trainer, after picking each attack off, came forward suddenly and thrust toward the thief’s shoulder, changing direction and swiping back and forth. His attempt to get by Drogo’s shorter sword was useless because Drogo had only to angle his sword across the limited trainer’s sword’s path.

Seeing he had the advantage, Drogo went into a series of short cuts and chops. Nikomedes blocked every attack with little effort. He even countered with a strong thrust. The thief moved to parry, but let the longer sword slide by instead, so that his shorter blade was inside the trainer’s arms. Nikomedes grunted at his mistake, and had to fall back before Drogo cut left and took his head off.

Thick smoke began to seep through the floor, and flames were visible down the hall. “You’ve put a fire to your back,” Nikomedes stated.

Drogo’s cape whirled in front of him, and when he came back around, a dagger was in the air, aimed directly at the trainer’s throat. The orange glint from the fire behind the pirate was the only thing that saved him. Nikomedes got his sword up to deflect the projectile, but its glancing hit was not enough. The dagger sank into the trainer’s shoulder, and he fell backward.

The thief didn’t hesitate, and he ran ahead, trying to finish the dangerous weapons master before he was up again. Nikomedes blocked the first three strikes, two chops and a downward thrust that almost got him, but he missed the fourth. Drogo’s sword darted in and gashed the trainer’s arm.

Nekimedes fled onto the deck. He spotted the dead form leaning against the wheel, its head drooping to the side. The trainer almost threw up as he considered the unresponsiveness of the rest of the ship. They had all been murdered by the man striding confidently to kill him. The lekrin looked at Drogo, rage building in him.

From his point of view, tall flames catching the wood of the forecastle, making the murderer a fire-limned silhouette, Drogo looked like a demon might look as it walks from its abyssal home.

Drogo didn’t approach the trainer at first. He stopped to drop his crates off the side of the rail, splashing down into the water.

“There is nothing you can do,” the pirate said quietly, as if he was talking to himself.

“All for some loot?” Nikomedes asked.

“All for some loot.” Drogo replied simply.

The trainer wanted to kill him, but his good arm was cut deeply. He could use his other hand, but the murderer would have an advantage once again. So Nikomedes watched as Drogo lowered a rowboat down to sea level. He stood there, the dagger still protruding from his shoulder grotesquely; he was afraid to pull it out, allowing blood to flow through the stab wound faster.

The Wynd Dasher was left to burn until the calm sea took it in.

Then Drogo Brander was gone, rowing the boat backward to pick up the water-tight crates still floating behind the schooner, rowing under the bright stars and not looking up.