Kharak of the Blackmarsh Isle
Kharak kicked his legs, pushing himself upward toward the air that waited for him, above. It had been a long swim from the ship’s hiding place outside the harbor to here, but Kharak knew that the reward would be worth the effort.
He spread his long, scaled arms to slow his ascent, ensuring that only his eyes and nostrils would crest the surface of the black river water. He made no sound as he turned his yellow, reptilian eyes toward the harbor. He did not smile, for Kharak’s people were incapable of such expression. His scaled lips unmoving, Kharak parted his jaws, allowing the stagnant water of the harbor to rush past dagger-like teeth; flowing over his long, forked tongue. He was pleased. They had arrived as they intended.
He looked to his left, and saw two of his brethren – Ghornek and Bharok – cresting the water just behind him. Their eyes slowly turned to his, hardly disturbing the water of the harbor. He could not see it, but their jaws opened in chorus with his. Tonight, they would taste blood.
Kharak dove back below the water, sliding forward toward a low, torchlit building. A tiny silhouette against the hulking city it protected, light burned through the windows of the guard post. Kharak could hear voices speaking the heathen language of the Forsaken. They would soon be silenced. Kharak had never failed the
Mordredeen. He would not begin tonight.
* * *
Arfin Kegsplitter
Arfin stood, staring down at the black iron of the steeldrake cannon. This was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. He needed a drink. He needed a drink
right now.
It had seemed like such a
good idea at first, but now he was unsure. Using a steeldrake was highly illegal. Even standing this close to a steeldrake was highly illegal, south of the Wall. But he wasn’t going to swim out and tell the thing to stop. They needed to sink it, and nobody had a better idea.
The others stood behind him, the big half-orc staring with wide-eyed wonder around the gunnery hold. Moments before, as they climbed up the ramp to the main deck, he had happily informed them that he had never been on a ship before, at all.
Perfect, Arfin thought.
This is exactly the kind of help I need.
He had been ready to run at Edriss’s suggestion – he had learned how to pick his battles after less than a year above the Wall, and experience had refined the instinct. But the fey lass was as right as she was ugly – if they didn’t put that hulk of timber at the bottom of the river, he was going to have to find a new place to drink. The thought was not a pleasant one.
Edriss jogged forward, poking his head through the hull where the cannon would fire. “It’s getting closer…” he said, ominously, his quiet voice echoing across the hold as it crept back into the hull from outside. Crazily, for a moment, Arfin thought he was laughing. Yet, when the sallow mid-elf turned back to face them, his face was serious, and Arfin dispelled the idea. “Somebody needs to load that thing, and fire it. I don’t want to be sitting on this much drakespowder when that ship gets here!”
It was now or never. Sighing, Arfin heaved himself to action, dropping his axe at his feet. He stepped forward, short fingers wrapping around the loops of bent steel at the back of the cannon. Grunting with effort, he pulled back on the metallic tube, hoping to slide it back toward the center of the hold. It didn’t budge.
Gray-green hands closed over his own. Without making a noise, the half-orc heaved back, sliding the cannon’s rust locked wheels back toward him. “There!” the jovial hulk announced, grinning broadly.
Arfin scrambled back onto his feet, lurching toward the end of the metal barrel. “Edriss! Hand me a charge!”
Gingerly, the mid-elf picked up a burlap-wrapped charge from the neatly stacked pile near the cannon, passing it to Arfin; it was a drakespowder infant, being passed to its father. “Do you know how to fire it?” Edriss asked, worry painted over his normal sardonic smile.
“I’ve seen it done,” Arfin muttered as he slid the charge into the barrel. “Lad,” he called to the half-orc, “get me a ball! Like lightning!”
Arfin turned back to the cannon, tamping the powder down with a long padded shaft that Edriss had handed him, stuffing rags into the cavernous steeldrake after that.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning to face it, he watched as the half-orc tossed one of the balls toward him as if no more than a toy. He threw his hands up, catching the shot mere inches from his face. The weight of the ball knocked him back, slamming his compact form against the inner hull of the vessel, leaving an indentation in the shape of the royal crest standing out on the palms of his hands. “What in the name of yer father were you doin’, ya fool!?” he sputtered, heaving the ball off of his chest and scrambling back to his feet. “Not everyone is as strong as you!”
He grunted with effort, straining against the weight of the ball. He got it off of the floor, then to his chest, and then rolled into the cannon’s maw. He heard the scrape of metal upon metal as it slid home, followed by a muffled
thump as it reached the packed charge.
“Now,” he puffed, stepping back from the cannon to catch his breath, “We need to slide 'er back to the wall, and aim 'er true.”
Without waiting for further instruction, the half-orc stepped up to the cannon, pushing the heavy wood and metal monster back to its home. He smiled uneasily, shrugging at Arfin and Edriss’s stares. “I strong,” he said, uneasily rubbing his monstrous arms. “It not
that heavy,” he weakly assured his stunned audience.
Arfin shook himself out of his stunned revelry. There was still a job to do. “Missy,” he shouted, urgency once more entering his gruff voice. “Help me aim this thing! I think ya’ need to sight it along the barrel!”
As the unsightly mid-elf moved back along the cannon’s length, Arfin risked a look outside the hold, stepping forward to stand next to Edriss. The
Skyracer cut through the water like a knife, flames trailing behind it as it hurtled toward them. It was much closer than he thought it would be. And closer yet than he would have wished. They were going to have to make this shot count. It might be the only shot they had.
Arfin Kegsplitter needed a drink. He needed a drink
right now.
* * *
Kharak of the Blackmarsh Isle
He had stayed close to the shadows, compressing his massive body into the shadows the forsaken’s torchlight had provided. He slid slowly around the building’s corner, keeping one clawed hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his dagger. His tongue flicked out of his jaws. He could smell no fear – not yet. They had not seen the fireship, even now heralding the end of this place. Kharak’s jaw waggled in ecstasy. He would taste blood; his ancestors would find greater places in the Shadowhome for his deeds, this day.
The door was closed, and Kharak could hear two voices inside, arguing in their heathen language. He glanced over his scaled shoulder, signaling to Ghornek and Bharok.
Now.
Kharak took a single step back. Momentarily illuminated by the torchlight, free of the comfort of the night’s shadows, he suppressed a triumphant roar – subtlety was required. He reversed direction, great legs driving his massive shoulders forward toward the solid portal. He hit the door as hard as he could, smashing it from its hinges, showering the guards inside with splinters.
Their eyes opened in shock. They had never seen the glory of the
Dahaka in bloodfury. Kharak knew it would be the last thing they saw.
There were three of them, crouched over a crudely drawn chalk circle. Coins lay scattered across the floor, and Kharak could hear the sound of bones (they called them dice, he would later learn) clicking against the small building’s wooden floor. None of them moved, their jaws slack. A puddle of foul smelling liquid appeared beneath the knees of the one closest to Dahaka warleader. Kharak had been warned that such weakness would be common. It was as he had feared: they were unworthy of the Shadowpath.
Kharak’s senses absorbed all of this in the fraction of a second after his entry. He didn’t slow as he burst through the doorway, his dagger seeking the closest target. He stayed low, charging the urine-soaked guard first. His right hand flew toward the stunned guardsman, separating skin and bone as if the man were nothing more than hot butter.
The force of the blow lifting the man off of his soaking knees, his dying weight rested easily on the crude crosspiece of the Dahaka’s dagger. Kharak’s slitted eyes met his as the last light of life fled them.
Let him look upon the face of his conquerors, Kharak thought.
“
You are honored,” Kharak said to the corpse in his own pure language, while its feet dangled high above the blood that now pooled with its urine on the guardpost’s floor, “
to be the first to fall on this heathen shore!”
“
Who wishes to be honored next?” he continued, as Ghornek and Bharok burst out of the shadows behind him, hurtling toward the two remaining guards.
They were honored within seconds of each other. No alarm was sounded. The
Skyracer loomed closer.
* * *
L’Aurel of Greenwood
She had never even seen a steeldrake before. Now, she was crouched behind its cold black barrel, helping three people she had never met try to sink a burning ship that hurtled through the harbor toward a town she was
just visiting. This was not how she had anticipated spending her evening. She supposed it could have been worse. At least she wasn’t dead.
“Will we hit it, lass?” the dwarf asked, desperation evident in his gruff voice. His cheeks were flushed, probably from a combination of effort, stress, and drink. If L’Aurel had to guess, she would have given drink most of the credit.
She grimaced, “I think so…” she began.
The other mid-elf whirled around, suddenly furious, “Will we, or won’t we!?” he shouted. “We need more than, ‘I think so’!”
“I’ve never fired a steeldrake before,” she answered, anger creeping into her voice. “Let alone a cannon! If you think you can hit it, you fire it,” she said, half-standing from behind the weapon. “Whether this works or not,” she continued, rising all the way to her feet, “we’re taking our lives in our hands just by touching it. None of us are Talons, and I don’t think any of you three are Apectan Priests. They hang people like us just for carrying steeldrake pistols, and we’ve just commandeered a
cannon. If we don’t burn to death tonight, we’ll probably hang tomorrow.”
“So please,” she said with finality, gesturing toward the steeldrake, “fire it yourself.”
“You act like this,” Edriss retorted while leering at the offending cannon, “is going to make a difference in our collective fates. We’ve already assaulted and killed members of the King’s Army. This is just the icing on the cake!” he shouted.
The massive half-orc – she still didn’t know his name – spoke quietly then, as if afraid to interrupt a man less than half his size. “
You kill men, not us," he clarified, his grey-green features downcast. "We just…salt.”
She thought he meant ‘assault,’ but there was really no way to be sure.
He held up his hands, his brow furrowing as he stared at them, continued to speak. “Six men breathe, two don’t,” he said, his gray-green hands triumphantly showing only six fingers.
Edriss scowled at him, anger flushing his normally pale skin. Before he could start to harangue the simplistic half-orc, the dwarf – Arfin – interrupted.
“We don’t have time fer this! Aim an’ fire, now! We may not have a second chance!” Looking down, he muttered, “Let it hit…” pleading as much with the Light, as with them.
She sighed, crouching back behind the cannon, wishing that she had chosen somewhere other than the Rusty Scabbard to begin her evening. “As I said before,” she continued, ignoring Edriss’s angrily twisted lips, “I think so. When no one is standing in my way, all I see is flames. We’ve got to hit, don’t we?” she asked no one in particular.
Arfin nodded, the half-orc shrugged, and Edriss’s expression didn’t change. She waited only a split second, knowing that with time so short, their silence would be the closest to assent she would receive. Not waiting for them to cover their ears, she yanked back on the pull, igniting the drakespowder they had hurriedly packed into the weapon’s barrel.
In the fraction of a second it took for the spark from her pull to ignite the drakespowder, the Exeter bucked as the first wave of water pushed ahead of the Skyracer rushed toward the docks. She watched in horror as Edriss lost his balance on the no-longer stable deck, his hands reaching forward toward the steeldrake, as he unconsciously tried to keep his face from smashing into the floor that was unexpectedly leaping beneath his feet.
It boomed, almost deafening her. Smoke and iron spewed from the barrel as the cannon slid toward her on its locked wheels, almost crushing the surprised young woman as it did. She stumbled back, soot staining her already painfully unpretty features.
She heard the ball whistle through the air, and then heard it stop, momentarily replaced by a loud crack, as it plowed through a ship’s deck. They cheered, almost in unison. She’d hit it!
The dwarf moved back to the cannon’s opening in the hull. When he turned back, his face had fallen, paling to a deathly, ashen hue. Now she was worried. “We hit it, didn’t we?” she asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.
“Aye lass,” he answered, hurriedly, “We hit a ship. One across the harbor!" he continued, now shouting. "She’s sinkin’ even now. But the flame ship’s still a’ comin’! We need to fire again, or we’re all dead.”
L’Aurel wanted to cry - or at least to scream. Instead, she said, “Then load it! Now!”
She wanted to know how close it was – how much time they had left. She shook her head. She knew enough. It was too close. This would be their last chance, if it was a chance at all.
* * *
Justice Fairweather
Her heart pounded in her ears, her breath roaring in and out of her mouth and nose. The bard – Selura, she had learned – was fast. It seemed like they’d been running forever.
An indistinguishable mass of mast and hull rushed by to her left, as brick, tile, and timber hurtled by on her right. They had to be getting close. She couldn’t run like this much longer.
Without warning, Selura skidded to a stop while holding up her hand, signaling a halt. It was a single story stone building, whitewashed and lonely, an outpost of earth in a jungle of rope and sail. The guardpost. Finally. They could warn the guards – stop the fire. Justice smiled, silently congratulating herself on reaching the post so quickly. Confidently, she stepped past the bard, gulping air as she tried to catch her laboring breath.
Light shined from the windows, flickering orange pushing back the inky darkness around the building. She breathed a sigh of relief, her breath finally quieting enough to allow her to think. “Is this…the…place….?” she gasped to the bard, standing behind her slender shoulder.
Selura nodded eagerly. “We must warn them,” she piped, melodically. “But I think a Paladin of the Apectan Order would be far more convincing than a simple performer such as myself,” she continued, smiling shyly, her white teeth a stark – almost disturbing – contrast to the thick shadows that hung around them.
But Justice needed little convincing. The other woman was right – these un-called fools couldn’t be expected to haul themselves from their loathsomely lazy behinds to even realize the existence of a flaming ship that threatened their very lives. A curvy harlot with a pretty voice would be unlikely to move them anywhere but to the closest mattress. Justice would have to take care of this herself.
The young paladin squared her shoulders, checking her saber in its scabbard. It was clear.
If these arrogantly lethargic slugs will not raise the alarm at my verbal prompting, they will do so at sword-point, she promised herself.
Justice marched toward the small post, unaware if her guide was following her, working herself into a rage at the incompetence of these foolish, slothful men. Once the alarm was raised, they would get a piece of her mind, and that piece would not be kind. She allowed herself a smile as she imagined her righteous testimony at their court martial.
Her now-puritanical fury driving her at a frenzied pace, she did not notice that the door to the post hung loose, its lock shattered: its hinges ruined. As she kicked in the door, speech died in her throat, replaced by something that, had she not been a paladin, would have suspiciously resembled fear.
Three hideously reptilian creatures stood tall in the low-ceilinged hut, emerald scales and ivory claws glistening with water – and blood. Three broken, bleeding corpses had been carelessly piled in one corner of the hut, limbs bent in unnatural angles, eyes glazed and staring. Elongated, emotionless faces swung her way, unblinking slitted eyes and absently flickering tongues centering on the young swordswoman. The strange, yellow eyes narrowed; the largest of them half-hissed, half-barked to the other two, alien sounds abusing her ears from behind long, dagger-like teeth.
Justice had no idea what was said, but her hands and jaw went slack from shock and horror. Had they attacked at that moment, her tale would have been short, indeed – struck down unarmed, unprepared. Her mind had seized upon the thought, and would not abandon it. Monsters! her thoughts screamed. Grand quest, indeed!
* * *
Fortuitously, at that moment, man-made thunder crashed in the darkness outside the post, from the
Exeter, its lightning an iron ball. It shattered sail, mast and hull as it fell (after rising, of course) from its sulfur-stinking cloud, finally smashing through one last layer of cured and tarred timber. The harbor rushed in; the
Mourning Dew began to sink below the misleadingly calm waters of the Thanesport harbor. To the port side of the suddenly scuttled vessel, the
Skyracer hurtled onward, undamaged.
* * *
Justice shook off her shock. She slipped her sword from its scabbard, unaware of what had transpired across the harbor, save that it had saved her life. Suddenly, a lifetime of training rushed back into her mind. She watched their alien muscles bunch; she could almost hear the silent count echoing between their minds.
They were going to charge. She knew it. She could feel it. In her mind's eye, she watched the scene unfold. Two would rush to her sides, pinning in her peripheral vision, while another went straight toward her. If she let them act, one of them
would get her
. In that fraction of a second, as the world slowed around her, she imagined their claws tearing through her flesh.
Not tonight. She had been
called. For the first time, she truly answered it.
Her voice less steady than she would have hoped, she screamed, “For the Light!” and hurled herself toward them. Justice Fairweather found herself in mortal combat against a living thing for the first time.
