Devil in the Smoke

Devil in the Smoke

Along the line of the horizon flames licked at the darkness of the night. The burning ships - there were three of them left now - lit the sea with a hellish glow and there was not much left to the drama that had played out there over the last few hours. The sea was calm this night, the ships lay among gentle swells that barely moved then at all. Funeral pyres for the men that had been slain there. The flames escorting the souls of the dead; sending them to hell with a special preview of the torments to come.



These had been the ships of raiders. Ships of the Wolves of the Northern Lands. Long haired and bearded brutes that had terrified the lands to the south but would no longer bring misery and suffering to any. On board two of the ships nothing more could be seen than the flames and the bodies of the dead raiders and marines that had fallen victim to the blades of hated enemies. But on the third ship, bow down in the water there was still life to be seen. For how long this life would remain though, that was the question.



Flickering in and out of the flames were three almost spectral figures. Two of them bellowed cries, threats and imprecations at a third figure that wove deftly among the flames and the two large Ratikian Marines. They all knew that this was the end of the drama. As with most sailors of that age the two marines no more knew how to swim than they could read or divine the will of their gods. They only knew one thing: that unless they could put this one last raider down here and now, and fast, their own lives were forfeit.



The Marine who had been born Berengor but was now known as Whiskers to his shipmates for the fiercely bristling beard that covered his chin and flowed down to his chest now paused, glancing about him warily.  The flames on board this ship were not as terribly potent as on the other two vessels but they seemed eager to reach that point. They had spread throughout the rigging quickly and now with most of the mast and spars having fallen to the deck the fire was spreading rapidly. He ran his fingers through his now ruined beard and glanced about him. The smoked obscured almost everything and he choked as he drew in a lungful. Behind him someone was approaching. Clumsy, heavy footsteps, Rugr then and not his opponent. She was, he grimaced at the thought, as quiet as a hunting cat and as fast. Her skill with that sword of hers was nothing to make light of either. Berengor turned about and just to be safe raised his sword to the defense. But it was Rugr, the big lummox coughing and stumbling about, wiping a hand across his eyes and blinking stupidly.



"Brother! These ships are doomed and we are with them unless we try for land!" The larger man blurted out as he approached. "There is no point in this fight any longer and no honor! I will not fight for the coward that fled and left us behind!"



Berengor's only response was a snarl almost feral sounding, "Nay, flee if you will dog and good luck with that. You no more know how to swim than I do to fly. I'll not leave this vessel while that she-devil yet lives!"



Motion out of the corner of his eye; a flickering, fast moving shadow slashing between two flames swift as an arrow, deadly as a sword blade. Berengor was just turning, bringing his sword up to deflect the expected blow and knowing it was already to late when her foot caught his chin. Strangely he could clearly smell the scent of wet leather, blood, sweat and the ever present smoke even as the booted foot smashed into his chin. The force of the blow was enough to shatter his jaw - the crack of breaking bone and the lightning sharp bolt of pain brought stars to his and a pained gasp - which only doubled the pain from his shattered jaw. The kick and the pain from his shattered jaw was enough to send the burly man staggering backwards, falling to the wooden deck of the ship with a dull thump. His sword flew from his suddenly nerveless fingers and he couldn't be bothered just then to wonder just too where that faithful weapon had suddenly vanished. Damn her to hell but that she-devil could hit almost as hard as any man he had ever fought.



He sat there, back against the wooden wall of the pilot house, uncomfortably warm from the nearing flame, his jaw sending agony tearing through his body, choking on the thick smoke, trying to regain sense enough to move. Sense enough to rise to his feet and defend himself, to kill his last opponent before the dark waters of the ocean claimed him for its own. One last slaying befre the dark, uncaring waters of the sea all about him claimed him. He cursed the faithless Captain of the vessel that had left him and his fellow marines here to die alone. He cursed his fate and because he couldn't think of anyone else he cursed his parents for bringing him into this world, his brother, finally he cursed the Gods themselves - since someone should curse them if for no other reason and besides, he didn't want them to feel left out. Damn them all, every last one of them.



In front of him the deck of the ship was beginning to slant at an ever increasing angle downward into the depths as the vessel began its final plunge into the depths. His fellow marine Rugr was casting terrified glances around, yelling something that Berengor could not hear, or could not understand, perhaps. Maybe even more importantly would not have card to understand even if he had heard it clearly. He had never respected the younger marine: Weak, cowardly, shrill and more interested in his books Rugr was just plain odd. Rugr was now looking wildly about himself. Panic was overtaking him. He cast the small axes he favored, instead of a good sword, to the deck and turned away from the flames, towards the darkling sea and began to stagger towards the illusion of escape. The sea itself offered nothing more than a painful drawn out death, but in his panic he no longer cared. Perhaps, Berengor thought, he would welcome it. He felt like spitting, but his shattered jaw of course wouldn't work so he sat there watching the end of the drama play itself out.



A breeze blew a cloud of ash and smoke across Berengor's line of sight obscuring the scene in front of him and for a moment it appeared as if some beast had swallowed this brother marine. He wondered if Rugr would ever step out from behind the cloud. Perhaps he had been devoured by some specter of smoke, ash and flame and was already dead and gone... but no there he was again. Now on the other side. But there seemed to be something wrong in his posture. If it was possible that the way a body stood, the way that a head was held, to convey shocked surprise then this was that moment.



Then with an awful slowness, as if the movement itself was something that he had no desire to complete, Rugr's body toppled slowly forward, falling first to its knees and then to falling to lie chest down on the swiftly drowning deck of the ship. At the same time as this his head slowly tilted backwards, a jet of scarlet fountaining from his neck, to fall to the deck with an audible thud.



Berengor was struggling and failing, to get back to his feet when she reappeared. At first she was nothing more than a shadow, vague and wavering with the fires behind. Fires he now noted duly that were starting to sputter and die as the ocean began to claim the sinking ship. Then she became more distinct passing from one light to another.



He noted that she had lost - or perhaps discarded - most of her light leather armor and now was not wearing any boots either. She still had that slim razor edged sword in one hand though and what looked to be a dagger strapped to her narrow hips. She approached him with the sword held almost casually at her side as if she had forgotten that it was there. Berengor attempted to raise his own blade, tried to get to his feet, but with a groan he sank back to the deck. The pain form his jaw accompanied by a rising tide of dizziness had overcome him and not even the iron willed marine was able to defeat the internal foe he now faced. All the strength seemed to have fled his body at the sight of this spectral avenger. She stood there in front of him. Behind her the sea rose higher and higher upon the deck of the swiftly sinking ship.



So this is how it feels to be defeated, to die. He thought in grim amusement, at least it was in a fight. But to be slain by a woman?



Her brown eyes sought out his own grey-blue orbs and held him. Pinned him there. Her eyes seemed to be emotionless at first glance but at a second look he could see the sparks of anger - hatred possibly - flashing in them. She loathed him, he realized. He was nothing to her. He and Rugr had both been easily defeated. The battle had never been nothing more than a game played between a cat and its prey to her. A game between a Master and a poorly trained pupil. He realized this as he looked her over - the taught wiry muscles, the hard eyes that had (or so he thought, but perhaps then again, he was just fooling himself seeking a reason for his defeat) seen to much slaughter and death. It was a look he recognized not only from the eyes of comrades of his but from his own face on those rare times he had looked in a mirror. Her face would have been pretty but for the hard lines and the scar running across the bridge fo her nose and both cheeks. She was a shapely woman as well. It was stunning to realize that at this moment of his approaching death but it was not all that surprising after all, perhaps. Berengor was after all a a red-blooded male of his species and there was something lethally attractive about the she-devil standing before him.



He wanted to spit his defiance at her but his jaw wouldn't work so he sat there and glared at her instead.



She said something to him in a language that he did not understand. He understood something of the language of the northern raiders and was certain that she had not spoken in the harsh barbaric tongue. She put the tip of the sword to his chest and repeated herself in the common tongue of the southern nations.



"You fight bravely and I would not leave you here to die by drowning. Your," here she paused for a moment considering her choice of words, "friend was not so brave. But you would have fought and fought well I think. So I grant you a warrior's death."