The King's Buccaneer by Raymond E. Feist
Nicholas spoke to Marcus. “What has your father told your?”
Marcus looked at Nicholas with a sour expression. “I know of the Great Rising of the moredhel. I know of the battle, the aid from Kesh and from the Tsurani.”
Nicholas took a deep breath. “There is a secret, known only to the King and his brothers. My brother Borric knows, because he will be King next. My brother Erland knows, because he will be Prince of Krondor after my father. Now I know.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “What secret would my father tell you that he would hold back from me?”
Nicholas withdrew the ring from his belt pouch and handed it to Marcus, who examined it and passed it along to Amos. Amos said, “Those damned snakes.”
Marcus said, “What is it?”
Nicholas said, “I’m swearing you both to secrecy. What I say now to you both must stay in this cabin. Do you agree?”
Marcus nodded, as did Amos. Nicholas said, “What few people know is that the Great Rising, when the false moredhel prophet Murmandamus invaded the Kingdom, was the handiwork of others.”
“Others?” asked Marcus.
“The Pantathian serpent priests,” said Amos.
Marcus looked confused. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Few have,” said Nicholas. “Murmandamus was a false prophet in more ways than one. Not only wasn’t he the long-dead leader returned to lead his people against us, he wasn’t even a true dark elf. He was a serpent priest who had somehow been magically transformed to resemble the legendary leader. The moredhel were duped and never knew of the deception.”
Marcus said, “I see. But why is this so secret? I should think it would help us along our northern borders if the moredhel knew they were led by an impostor.”
Nicholas said, “Because there is much more at risk. Within the city of Sethanon is an artifact. It is a great stone fashioned by an ancient race known as the Valheru.”
Marcus’s eyes widened at this, and Amos nodded as if he saw pieces in a puzzle falling into place. Marcus said, “The Dragon Lords?”
Marcus glanced at Amos, who sat in open amazement. Nicholas continued, “The Pantathians are some sort of race of lizard men, so your father says, Marcus. They worship one of the ancient Valheru as a goddess, and they wish to seize the Lifestone to use its vast power to bring her back to this world.”
Amos said, “But Sethanon was abandoned. Rumor has it a curse was laid upon the city. None dwell there. Is this precious thing left unguarded for a reason?”
“Martin said there was a guardian, a great dragon who is also an oracle. He wouldn’t say more save to tell me to go there someday. After we return from this journey, I will ask my father for leave to visit the oracle.”
Marcus said, “Why didn’t my father tell me this himself?”
Nicholas said, “Your father was sworn to an oath by Lyam. Only the King, my father, your father, and Pug knew of the existence of this stone and the guardian.”
“Macros knew,” said Amos. “I’m certain.”
“Macros the Black vanished after the battle,” answered Calis as he opened the door.
Amos roared, “Do you not knock!”
The Elf Prince shrugged. “My hearing is sharper than others, and these cabin walls are not as thick as you would like.” He leaned against the door. “And my father also knows of the dragon who guards the stone, as she was once a friend to him, and he has told me of the battle at Sethanon. But why do you break your oath, Nicholas?”
Nicholas said, “Because Marcus is my blood and of the royal family, even if his father has renounced all claim to the throne for his line. And Amos is to wed my grandmother, so he will be family as well. But more important, because I trust them and because should anything happen to me, others must understand the stakes here. More seems to be at risk than the lives of those taken, no matter how much we love them. There may be a time when it seems prudent to quit the chase, and if I am not here, I want you to know why you can never give up.” Nicholas paused as if weighing his words. To Marcus he said, “Your father is not the type of man who is given to overstating anything, but I can scarcely believe what he said last. This thing, the Lifestone, is somehow linked with every living creature upon Midkemia. Should the Pantathians seize it, they will attempt to free their mistress, she whom they count a goddess, but in so doing they will be destroying every living creature on this world. Everything, he said to me, from the mightiest dragons down to the smallest insect. Our entire world will be reduced to an otherwise lifeless place, with only the returned spirits of the Dragon Lords walking the land.”
Marcus’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Calis. The half-elf said, “So my father also has warned me. He, too, is not given to overstating things. It must be so.”
Marcus’s voice was almost a whisper. “Why would these Pantathians do such an evil thing? They will die as well?”
Nicholas said, “They are a death cult. They worship a Valheru who gave them shape and intelligence, for, before, they were merely serpents.” He shook his head in disbelief at what he heard himself saying. “I wish I had known of this before Pug left. There are questions I would ask. In any event, they think she will rise to rule all and they will rise at her side, as demigods, and all who went before, all who died, will rise as well, as their servants.
“Even if they know the truth, death holds no fear for them. They would welcome the destruction of the world to recall their ‘goddess.’ Now you can see why we must continue on, even if some of us perish in the cause?”
The last was said to Marcus, who nodded. “I understand.”
Calis said, “Then you wisely know when blind obedience is foolish.” He smiled.
“Do you see that there can be no contention between us?”
Marcus stood and said, “Yes.” He extended his hand. They shook, and suddenly Nicholas was looking at the same crooked smile his father showed, as he added, “But when this is over, and Abigail is safely home in Crydee, look to guard yourself, Prince of the Kingdom.”
The challenge was half in jest, half-serious, and Nicholas took it in the spirit it was made. “When she’s safely home, with your sister and the others.”
They shook again, and Nicholas and Marcus left the cabin. Calis glanced at Amos, who was smiling faintly. “What do you find so amusing, Captain?”
Amos sighed. “Just watching a couple of boys becoming men, my friend. The fate of the world perhaps hangs upon what we do, yet they still find time to contest over a pretty girl.” Then his expression turned dark as he roared, “And if you ever dare enter my cabin again without leave, I’ll have your ears nailed to my door as a trophy! Understand?”
Calis smiled and said, “Understood, Captain.”
Alone in his cabin, Amos Trask thought back to the dark days of the Riftwar and the Great Rising that followed hard after it. Many people he had known died, aboard his ship Sidonie, during the siege of Crydee, then later when the Royal Swallow was burned by goblins and he and Guy du Bas-Tyra were captured. Then came the years at Armengar and the constant warfare between Briana’s people and the dark elves in the northlands, ending at the battle of Sethanon.
Sighing at the memories, Amos Trask addressed a small prayer to Ruthia, the Goddess of Luck, followed by the injunction, “Don’t let it happen again, you fickle witch.” Thinking of Briana made him sad, and he hoped Martin would pull through.
Then, impatient at memories and morbid thoughts, he pushed himself out of his chair and left the cabin. He had a ship to captain.
9
FREEPORT
The girl wept.
Margaret said, “Will you please shut up?” Her tone wasn’t threatening or commanding; just a request for respite from the almost constant wailing and crying of one or another of the town girls and boys.
Duke Martin’s daughter had fought the entire way as she had been carried like a trophy animal to the boat waiting in the harbor. The image of her mother lying facedown on the floor of her family’s
The days that followed were no less a nightmare for being a blur. The captives had ranged in age from seven or eight years of age to a few in their late twenties. Most were between twelve and twenty-two, young, strong and certain to fetch a good price at the slave docks of Durbin.
Margaret had no doubt that these murderers would find a royal fleet waiting to intercept them somewhere between the Straits of Darkness and Durbin. Her father was sure to get word to her uncle, Prince Arutha, and she would be saved along with all the other captives. So she turned her mind to protecting those around her until help arrived.
The first night had been the worst. They had all been packed together in the holds of two large ships, lying just over the horizon from Crydee. A few of the smaller boats were sailed away, but the majority were sunk out in deep water, their crews crowding the decks of the larger ships for the trip to their destination. Margaret had been around enough ships to guess they couldn’t be traveling far, for there wouldn’t be anywhere near enough provisions for both crews and captives.
Abigail alternated between fitful dozing as her mind retreated from the horrors witnessed and fearful speculation about their eventual fate. Occasionally she would show a spark of alertness, but all too quickly the oppression of their surroundings came crushing in upon her, reducing her to tears and, finally, silence.
After the first day, some semblance of order had been established, as the prisoners made the most of their cramped quarters. There was no privacy, and everyone was forced to crawl to a corner of the hold to add to the growing pile of human waste accumulating in the bilge below. The stench had become a mute thing in the background of Margaret’s awareness, unpleasant but only that, as had the constant background noise of the wood hull groaning, people crying or cursing, and soft conversation. What caused her concern was the prisoners who had developed stomach illness or chills and fever. They were not doing well in the confines of the hold, and she attempted to make their lot more comfortable. She ordered those in the hold to move around so that the ill might have some shred of comfort. Between her rank and her natural confidence, she was obeyed without question.
One of the older girls from the town muttered, “They’re the lucky ones. They’re going to die soon. The rest of us are doomed to be drudges or whores for what’s left of our lives. We might as well get used to the idea: no help’s coming.”
Margaret turned and struck the woman hard across the face. With narrowed eyes she stood over the now cowering woman. “If I ever hear that drivel from anyone again, I’ll tear her tongue from her head.”
Another voice, a man’s, said, “Lady, I know you mean well, but we saw the raid! All our soldiers are dead. Where could help be coming from?”
“My father,” she said with certainty. “He’ll return from his hunting trip and send word at once to Krondor, and my uncle the Prince will have the entire Krondorian war fleet waiting for us before we reach Durbin.” Then her tone turned softer and she pleaded, “We need to endure. Nothing more. Just survive and, if we can, help each another to survive.”
The woman who had voiced her doubts said, “Sorry, milady.”
Margaret said nothing but patted the woman’s arm in a conciliatory fashion. Sitting back down in the cramped space allotted her, Margaret saw Abigail staring at her.
“Do you really think they’ll find us?” Abigail whispered, a faint flickering of hope starting to show in her eyes.
Margaret only nodded, but silently she said to herself, “I hope so.”
—
A SCRAPING SOUND caused Margaret to come awake. During the day, light entered through the latticework hatch cover, the only source of air in the otherwise fetid hold. At night, faint moonlight cast a pale glow across part of the hold, while the rest remained in inky darkness. Margaret heard the scrape again and saw a sliver of moonlight above. She saw a rope drop and a figure shinny down it. One of the raiders landed between two sleeping prisoners, a dagger between his teeth.
He went to a young girl nearby and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock and she attempted to move away, but was held in place by the bodies on either side of her and the man’s weight on her. He whispered, “I’ve a knife, dearie. One sound and you’re dead, got it?” The terrified girl stared at him with wide eyes, luminous in the faint light. He put the point of the dagger to her stomach and said, “Either I stick you with this or with something more friendly. All the same to me.”
The girl, barely more than a child, could not react for her terror. Margaret stood, keeping her balance as the ship rose and fell through the swells. Margaret whispered, “Leave her alone. She doesn’t understand what men like.”
The man turned, pointing the dagger in Margaret’s direction. All the captives wore the same garment: a simple piece of cloth with a hole to stick the head through, tied around the waist. Margaret untied the thong around her waist and pulled off the garment, leaving herself nude. The man hesitated, obviously able to see her movement in the faint light. Smiling at the would-be rapist, she stepped forward into the moonlight, so he could better see her, and said, “She’s a child. She’ll just lie there. Come to me and I’ll show you how to ride the pretty pony.”
Not a beautiful girl, Margaret was still attractive, and years of riding, hunting, and an unusually rigorous life had left her with a firm, fit body, which she displayed to good effect as she stood erect and proud. In the faint light, she looked clearly inviting, with her shoulders thrown back and a welcoming smile.
The man grinned, revealing teeth blackened with decay as he released the girl he had been threatening. “Good,” he said. “They’d kill me for messing with a virgin, but it’s clear you’ve been down this path afore, darlin’.” He came to her, holding the knife outward, and said, “Now, be quiet and old Ned’ll give you as good as he gets, and we’ll both have some fun. Then I’ll climb up and my friend can come down here and do you.”
Margaret smiled and reached out to touch his cheek tenderly. Then she suddenly gripped the wrist of his knife hand, and with her other she reached down and grabbed him hard between the legs. Ned howled in pain. While bigger than the girl, he was not much stronger and couldn’t free himself from her painful grasp.
The prisoners began shouting. Quickly a pair of guards and a slaver came down the rope from above. The guards pulled away the would-be rapist. The slaver took one look at the nude girl and at Ned, and said, “Take him up on deck. And seize the one who let him open the hatch cover. Bind them, cut them deep on the arms and legs so they bleed, then throw them to the sharks. I will have it known that no one may disobey our orders and go unpunished.”
Another rope was lowered and the two guards were hoisted up by those on deck, each of them holding firmly to the sobbing Ned.
The slaver turned to Margaret and asked, “Did he harm you?”
“No.”
“Did he take you?”
“No,” she answered.
“Then cover yourself.” The slaver turned as one of the ropes was lowered again. Shortly the captives were alone once more. Margaret found her eyes fixed on the faint sliver of moonlight as the slaver crawled through it. The lattice hatch scraped loudly, then slammed home with a note of finality that underscored their helplessness.
—
THE SHIP DROPPED anchor a week after the raid and voices from above shouted for the captives to get ready to leave. The hatch was moved aside and a rope ladder was lowered. The week of cramped quarters and scant food and water had taken its toll; as Margaret assisted the wobbly-legged prisoners up the ladder, she began to notice those who had died during the night. Each morning a pair of slavers had come down into the hold and carried those who had died to a point beneath the hatch where a rope with a loop in it hung. They fixed the rope under the arms of the dead, and they were hauled upward. One of the men had mentioned that there were always sharks following the ship,
Margaret was kneeling beside two townspeople, a man and a woman, who were too weak to climb the rope. A rough hand fell on her shoulder and a voice said, “Are you ill?”
With no attempt to hide her contempt for these men she said, “No, swine, but these are.”
The slaver who held her shoulder propelled her toward the ladder. “Up on deck. We’ll care for these.”
As she climbed the ladder, she saw a second slaver kneel beside the woman and, with a swift move, wrap a cord around her throat. He twisted once, crushing the woman’s windpipe. She twitched and convulsed, then died.
Margaret looked upward, refusing to watch the man die. The blue sky above was blinding after the week in the darkness, so her tears were not remarkable to those already on deck.
Abby kept close to Margaret as they were moved slowly toward the rail. A dozen longboats, with masts folded down the middle, waited with four rowers each. The prisoners crawled down nets hung over the side, and when twenty were in each boat, they were rowed to shore.
Margaret climbed down the ladder, her arms and legs shaking with the effort. As she reached the boat, a hand ran up her leg as a sailor assisted her into the boat. She kicked out and the man ducked easily away with a rude laugh. She glanced over to see Abigail shrinking away from another who fondled her breast through her robe. From the deck a warning shout came: “Leave those girls alone, Striker.”
With a laugh, the man waved back. “We won’t damage the merchandise, Captain. Just having some harmless fun.”
Under his breath, the man muttered, “Damn Peter Dread’s eyes, but this is the last I’ll sail with him. Ripe beauties to gladden the heart of a Durbin whoremonger, and not so much as a tweak on the rump or it’s over the side to the sharks.”
Another man said, “Shut yer gob; it’s more gold than you’ll see in your life. You’ll have enough to spend on whores until you can’t walk and then some. It’s worth it to behave.”