Corsair

EIGHT

30 Eleint, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

Moonshark sailed at dawn, as Narsk had promised. Before the lower limb of the sun had cleared the horizon, the half galley hauled in her lines and sculled slowly eastward with the current of the Tesh. By daylight the taverns and dens huddled in the ruins of Zhentil Keep struck Geran as squalid and small. None of the people living there showed themselves as the pirate ship set sail.

As he bent his back to one of the oars and pulled, Geran began to second-guess his strategy. The moment the ship got underway, Narsk and Sorsil dropped any pretense of civility. The burly first mate armed herself with a small cudgel and roamed the main deck freely employing the weapon against anyone who seemed to be shirking. Narsk prowled the quarterdeck, snarling savagely as he issued his orders. Worse yet, Geran’s new shipmates seemed a vicious lot. Most of the crewmen were humans from a wide variety of lands, but some were dwarves, some were half-orcs, some were goblins or kin to goblins, and there was even one ogre-a strapping, dimwitted creature called Kronn, who manned one of the ship’s oars by himself. They wore threadbare tunics, scraps of armor, tattered cloaks, and sodden hoods or misshapen hats. Geran caught more than a few studying him and his friends with calculating looks. Some grinned threateningly at him when he met their gaze. If there weren’t a dozen ready to slit his throat for a silver talent, he would have been astonished.

“Pull, you sorry bastards!” Sorsil roared. “The captain doesn’t want to bob around in the river all damned day! The sooner we cross the bar, the sooner we’ll raise sail! Now pull like you mean it!”

The man sitting beside Geran at the oar bench chuckled to himself. He was a weatherbeaten old Shou, with a face like seamed leather and a topknot of gray-streaked black hair. “Every time we leave port, it is the same,” he said between strokes. “Pull harder! Pull faster! But do not worry, stranger. Narsk knows that the crew does not like to row, and he’ll take the oars in soon enough.”

“You’ve sailed with Narsk a long time?” Geran asked.

“I joined Moonshark three years ago. Zaroun was the captain then, and Moonshark hunted the Sea of Fallen Stars.” The Shou gave Geran a bitter smile. “Zaroun was a good captain, but he was not a good judge of men. Or gnolls. He signed on Narsk in Impiltur as we sailed west toward the Dragon Reach and within the month he was dead and Narsk was captain. That was a year ago now.”

Geran looked up at the quarterdeck, where the gnoll paced. “Did Narsk challenge Zaroun or just murder him?”

“Challenge, of course. That is the Black Moon way. But you should know, stranger, that a captain is within his rights to order a challenger killed. If the crew thinks the challenger is not fit to seize the ship, they’ll deal with him. No, one should be sure that the crew will stand aside before one challenges the captain.”

“I see.” Geran wasn’t surprised to learn that the Black Moon pirates chose their leaders in such a manner, or that the challenge process didn’t offer any guarantees to the challenger. Many outlaw gangs and brigand companies worked in much the same way. The captain could count on the protection of the crew against many challenges, but only so long as he held their confidence. “Has Narsk faced many challenges?”

“Some.” The Shou gave Geran a sly look. “You speak like a man who has an interest in becoming captain.”

Geran snorted. “I don’t think so. Narsk doesn’t scare me, but the rest of you do.”

The Shou laughed aloud, attracting the attention of Sorsil. The mate growled and struck him across the shoulders then gave Geran a clout as well. “Enjoying the morning, lads?” she snarled. “Now pull!”

Geran saw stars. He started to surge up from his bench, but he stopped himself short. It was far too early to think about fighting anyone, and he knew that the mate had meant the blow as a sharp warning and nothing more. Instead the swordmage clenched his jaw and chose to endure the blow with a hard look at the mate.

Hamil and Sarth, sitting at the bench in front of him, hesitated half a moment in their sweep, and Hamil glanced back to meet his eyes. Are you certain you want to continue? he asked silently. We can dispatch a few of these villains and make our escape any time you like.

Geran shook his head slightly and went back to his rowing as Sorsil moved on to shout at a different crewman. He was here to learn more about the Black Moon corsairs, and if he drew blade the first time he met with something he didn’t like, he would never get far. Hamil shrugged and returned his attention to his own oar.

“You were wise to hold your anger,” the Shou said in a low voice. “If you had struck back at Sorsil, Narsk would have ordered her to beat you or kill you.” He paused and then added, “I am Tao Zhe. I am the ship’s cook.”

“Call me Aram. Those two ahead of us are Vorr and Dagger.” Geran nodded at Sarth and Hamil. “What else should I know about sailing under the Black Moon?”

“It would be wise to find a fist soon.”

“A fist?”

“A band, a gang-they call them ‘fists’ here,” the Shou answered. “One man alone is in for a difficult time aboard a Black Moon ship. Your shipmates will rob you, bully you, give you the worst jobs to do. The best protection 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 turned to pace the quarterdeck, eyes narrowed as he stared at Kraken Queen lying amid the Talons.

“Aye, Captain,” Sorsil answered. She turned and snarled at every hand who happened to be on deck at the moment. “You heard the captain, you miserable dogs! Quickly now, or I’ll peel the hide off the lot of you!”

Geran moved over to the ship’s boat stowed across her mid-section on a raised deck. He wasn’t particularly worried about Sorsil’s threats, but if Narsk wanted to go over to Kraken Queen, he wanted to go too. There was a chance that someone from the other pirate ship might recognize him from the skirmish on the beach, but the last time they’d seen him it was by firelight, and he hadn’t been dressed like a common seaman with a thickly stubbled chin. And he sincerely doubted that any of the deckhands on the other ship would be expecting to see him again in the crew of another Black Moon ship. Several other crewmen joined him by the boat, and together they lifted it from its frame, turned it right-side up, and maneuvered it to the rail to fix hoisting lines at its bow and stern. They lowered the boat to the water under Sorsil’s watchful eye.

“All right, I need oarsmen,” the mate said. Geran made sure he was standing in plain sight, and a moment later Sorsil singled him out. “You there!”

The swordmage feigned a grimace of annoyance, but swung his leg over the rail and dropped down the shallow rungs bolted to the ship’s side to take up one of the oars. More of his shipmates followed. He glanced up at the rail, now rocking over his head, and caught Hamil looking at him. Good thinking, Geran, the halfling told him. But pull down your hood, you look like you’re up to something.

Geran reluctantly pulled his hood back down to his shoulders and waited by his oar. A moment later Narsk clambered down the ladder and took the steersman’s seat himself. He was wearing a heavy black coat and a large, wide-brimmed hat that seemed oddly out of place atop his bestial features. “Push off and let’s go,” the gnoll ordered. The boat crew cast off the lines, pushed away from Moonshark, then fell into a strong rowing rhythm as Narsk steered them toward the other ship. The Talons seemed to catch the light chop of the surrounding waters and reflect them in confused eddies; Geran decided that he wouldn’t want to bring a ship too close to the towering rocks.

They reached Kraken Queen and caught a line tossed down from the rail; the crew of the other ship crowded around the rail, calling down offers to trade or good-natured jibes at Moonshark’s expense. As they bumped alongside the larger ship’s hull, Narsk growled, “Wait for me,” and scrambled up the side.

“Ho there, Narsk! You’re the first to arrive!”

I know that voice! Geran realized. He twisted around on his bench and peered up at the quarterdeck of Kraken Queen. There stood the captain of the other ship, a lean man of middle years with a gray-streaked beard of black around his craggy face and a big scarlet cloak bedecked with gold braid.

“Kamoth,” he whispered. “I don’t believe it.” Kamoth Kastelmar was supposed to be dead. The last Geran had heard, he’d gone down with a pirate galley cornered and sunk by Mulman warships years ago. But there was no doubt of it; the captain of Kraken Queen was the same man who’d married Geran’s aunt, Terena, fifteen years ago and brought his son Sergen to live in Griffonwatch with the Hulmasters. A “gentleman of fortune,” as he’d called himself then, Kamoth was the scion of minor nobility in the city of Hillsfar, a reasonable match for the sister of the harmach. But only two years later Geran’s father discovered Kamoth engaged in all manner of foul plotting against Harmach Grigor and drove the traitor into exile. Kamoth had left his teenage son Sergen behind-by chance or design, Geran had never determined-but Harmach Grigor had decided that the boy was not to be held responsible for the crimes of his father and raised Sergen as a member of his own family.

“What’s the matter with ye?” Murkelmor growled at Geran. The dwarf had the seat next to Geran’s. “That one’s as mad as Manshoon. He’d just as soon kill ye as look at ye. Meet his eye, and he’s like t’ think ye mean to challenge him.”

Geran shook his head and turned his face away. He doubted that Kamoth would recognize him; he’d been a lad of seventeen years the last time Kamoth had seen him. The strangest part of it was that he’d always liked Kamoth. During the brief time he’d spent in Hulburg, Geran hadn’t seen anything other than the man’s bluff good cheer and roguish charm. It was only much later that he’d discovered how thoroughly he and the rest of his family had been taken in. “Who is he?” he asked the dwarf.

“That’s the High Captain o’ the Black Moon,” Murkelmor answered. “All the other captains-including our own Narsk-sail at his word. Kamoth, his name is. Kraken Queen is his.”

Geran risked another look. Narsk and Kamoth were deep in conversation, the gnoll towering over the pirate lord but bobbing and nodding his head in response to Kamoth’s words. Kamoth turned aside, calling for someone near him … and Sergen Hulmaster stepped into view, a leather lettercase in his hands, and handed the packet to Kamoth to give to the gnoll. Sergen glanced out toward Moonshark and down to the longboat bobbing at the side of the pirate lord’s ship. At the last moment Geran averted his eyes and turned his back to the quarterdeck. Kamoth was unlikely to recognize him, but Sergen knew him very well indeed. A momentary hint of recognition, a single suspicion, could set a hundred blades at Geran’s throat. Not knowing what else to do, Geran kept his face turned toward Moonshark, looking away from the quarterdeck, and imagined Sergen’s eyes boring into his back, a black smile of satisfaction twisting Sergen’s haughty expression, the first snort of derisive laughter.

Well, now I know why the Black Moon pirates have been seeking out Hulburg’s shipping, he thought furiously. Sergen enlisted his father’s pirate fleet to continue his effort to unseat the Hulmasters. Or was it the other way around? Had Kamoth directed Sergen’s plots and betrayals all along?

A sudden clatter on the ladder steps climbing the ship’s side caught Geran’s attention. He glanced up, expecting to see pirates scrambling down to seize him where he sat-but instead it was simply Narsk returning to the longboat. The gnoll tucked the mysterious lettercase into his coat pocket and seated himself by the rudder. Sergen was nowhere in sight, but Kamoth still leaned over the rail. “Seven nights, Narsk!” he called. “Don’t get caught up in any other sport between now and then.”

“Moonshark will not be late, High Captain,” the gnoll answered. He waved at the oarsmen, and Geran started pulling with the rest, keeping his eyes in the longboat’s bottom.

Geran didn’t look up again until Kraken Queen was a good hundred yards astern. He could still make out Kamoth’s scarlet cloak on the quarterdeck and thought he saw Sergen’s black coat close by. He heaved a breath of relief and put his back into the sweeps. For the moment it seemed that he was safe, and neither of the two traitors suspected that a Hulmaster had been bobbing up and down in a small boat not twenty-five feet from their quarterdeck. He’d hoped to find a way to eavesdrop on Narsk and Kamoth, but for the moment he was glad to have avoided discovery.

“Pull, you dogs,” Narsk snapped. “I mean to be underway in half an hour, and I’ll flog the first ten men I see if we aren’t!”

Geran joined the other oarsmen as they threw themselves into their work. His hands throbbed and his shoulders ached, but he smiled to himself when his eye fell on the leather letter-case sitting in Narsk’s coat pocket. He might not have missed his opportunity to eavesdrop after all, if he could only examine Narsk’s letter. All he had to do was find a chance to break into the gnoll’s cabin and steal it without getting caught.