The Hag's Contract

One

“I’ll have them!” Parniel Bowspear roared from the longboat’s prow. “Pull, there! Pull!”

He leaned forward, straining to see through the darkness and fog. Somewhere ahead, he knew, the Müden merchant ship Truda Fey lay nearly becalmed, and he intended to have her before daybreak. The Truda Fey’s crew had long since doused their lanterns in an effort to hide from him, but it would do them no good. The northern trade winds had failed, and according to Bowspear’s reading of the weather signs, they wouldn’t resume for another day, at the soonest.

He smiled grimly as his breath plumed in the cold night air. Instead of surrendering to the inevitable, the Truda Fey’s captain had played a long cat-and-mouse game with him, bringing his ship close to shore and heading into the fog that perpetually shrouded Grabentod’s rocky coastline in the autumn months. Steering through the fog, nursing whatever slight breezes he could catch, always staying just out of reach—that Müden captain had eluded him thus far. But not for much longer, Bowspear thought. He could smell victory. It had come down to a matter of minutes.

“Pull!” he shouted once more to his men. “Pull with all your hearts! Pull!”

He felt the longboat surge forward beneath him as the beating drum—already a frantic rhythm— increased its fevered speed. His rowers pulled strongly. If they were tiring, they hadn’t shown it yet. Good men, all, he thought proudly. He had handpicked them especially for this mission, selecting from the three units of Grabentod Raiders he commanded. Normally, he would have used a fast sailing ship to capture a merchant vessel like the Truda Fey, but with the calm, he’d instead dragged an old longboat from storage. It would more than prove its worth tonight. It could move twice as fast as the Truda Fey.

His breath catching in his throat, Bowspear leaned forward, straining to see. There—by King Graben’s gray beard, that had to be the merchant’s ship!”

Slowly, the Truda Fey emerged from the gloom and fog. First appeared the broad high stern, painted with the bright emblem of the House of Krael and with Merchant Edom’s personal seal. According to Bowspear’s spies, the Truda Fey carried a rich cargo of silks and spices from Velenoye and Yeninskiy. He meant to have them.

Sucking in a deep breath, he loosened his sword in its scabbard. Only a few more seconds now, he thought, and they would be within striking distance. Müden might hold King Graben prisoner, but that certainly hadn’t saved any of their precious cargos. If anything, it had made Bowspear seek out Müden’s ships all the more. Of course, he also took ships from Massenmarch, Kiergard, Dauren, and the rest of the domains around the great gulf of the Thaelasian Sea known as the Krakennauricht. Highest of all, though, he prized the ships of Müden’s rich merchants.

Actually, he mused, Müden had done him something of a favor in kidnapping King Graben two years back. Once, long ago, he had been a common sailor. When he accidentally slew an awnshegh that attacked his ship north of the Drachenaur Mountains, he found he’d gained the power of its bloodline.

Fortunately there had been no outward manifestations of the change—he hadn’t been transformed into some hideous monster, like the Hag or the Gorgon. Perhaps that was because the blood of Azrai ran a hundred times stronger in them. Rather, he discovered a craving for power deep inside himself, a craving that could never be quenched by anything short of his own kingdom.

In short, he wanted to rule Grabentod.

Over the last seven years, Parniel Bowspear had worked tirelessly to clear the way for his ascent to the throne. His sudden awnshegh-given fighting prowess had quickly come to the attention of his superiors, and they had awarded him with commission after commission. Now he commanded his own ships and his own raiders.

Of course, he still swore fealty to King Graben, but the day was fast approaching when he would renounce that loyalty and seize the crown for himself. With King Graben imprisoned, the job would be all the easier. The king’s steward had done a capable enough job in holding the kingdom together, but his days had just about run out. And with King Graben far away, who could stop Bowspear?

The longboat continued to close with the merchant ship. Bowspear’s hand dropped to caress the hilt of his sword, a gift from King Graben himself at the Winter Festival, a scant two months before his capture. With a passion that would have amazed and bewildered lesser men, Bowspear longed to draw that sword, to let it taste blood again.

That passion was another reflection of his altered bloodline, and he tried to control it. But in battle, the awnshegh within took over, driving him into a berserker’s frenzy. Even now, he felt that slight slippage in his control beginning. He hoped for the sake of the merchant that no fighting would be necessary.

Only twenty yards to go now, he thought. Muscles in his neck cording like bands of steel, he held himself rigid for a heartbeat, then turned and stalked back along the deck.

“Pull!” he bellowed at his men on their rowing benches. He wanted it over as quickly as possible. “Pull, damn you! I’ll have that ship if it breaks your backs! Pull!”

Sweat gleamed on their straining bodies, but they bent to the task with a will. The wooden oars creaked; the time-beater pounded his drum like a madman. The longboat leapt ahead.

With a low growl, Bowspear resumed his position in the bow. Already he could see faces ahead, pinpricks of white against the darker wood of the ship as sailors leaned out to peer at him. He threw back his head and roared a wordless challenge into the night. The faces disappeared. Grimly satisfied, he drew back.

The slight wind picked up; with dismay, he watched the Truda Fey’s sails fill, and she began to gather speed again, gliding silently ahead. There could be no escape for them this time, Bowspear thought, muttering a quick prayer to the goddess Sera that the calm might resume. His longboat was fast, but no match for the Truda Fey under a fair wind.

He cupped one hand to his mouth. “Surrender!” he called ahead. “Surrender, and your lives will be spared!”

“Never!” Trembling with fury, eyes wild and arrogant, the ship’s captain appeared in the stem, glaring defiantly down at Bowspear and the longboat.

Despite the sudden breeze, the two ships continued to draw together. They wouldn’t escape Bowspear, no matter what they did.

Twenty-five yards, twenty, fifteen—

When ten yards separated the two, Bowspear picked up the spiked iron grappling hook. Behind him, his crewmen still strained at the oars, pulling harder than ever. The rest of his men began to assemble on deck, swords and spears held ready.

Slowly, Bowspear raised the hook and began to swing it over his head, around and around, muscles straining as he played out rope.

Nine yards, eight—

He released the grappling hook. Its line snaked smoothly through his hands, but the hook weighed more than he’d anticipated. It struck too low on the Truda Fey’s hull, bouncing harmlessly off and landing in the water. Cursing, Bowspear hauled it back for a second try.

The captain drew his rapier and stood ready, planning, Bowspear knew, to cut the rope if the grappling hook caught.

Six yards, five—

Bowspear began to swing the grappling hook again, faster and faster, paying out line. With a grunt, he released, and this time he knew his aim was true.

The Truda Fey’s captain leapt forward, sword swinging. He didn’t mean to cut the rope, Bowspear realized, but knock the flying grapple back into the water. The captain had badly miscalculated. His thin steel blade shattered like glass against the heavy iron, which sailed past him unstopped.

Jerking the rope, Bowspear snapped the hook around like a whip. Its barbed ends caught the captain’s neck and shoulder. The man screamed and tried to free himself, but only tangled himself in the rope. Bowspear heaved with all his might, and the man collapsed, body wedged tight between the deck and the stem railing. His screams became soft gurgles, then stopped altogether.

Bowspear heaved a second time. The hook pulled completely through the captain’s body and buried itself deep in wood. He heard the man’s neck break with a dry, almost wooden snapping sound.

One of the Truda Fey’s other officers appeared in the bow. He saw what had happened and ran to finish his captain’s task, his long sword sawing at the rope with the sharp steel blade. Strands started to part.

“Bring a harpoon!” Bowspear shouted, dropping his rope to the deck.

His first mate, Bruchen, a tall, fair-skinned man who wore his long blond hair tied behind his head in twin pigtails, came running with a harpoon. Bowspear grabbed it and threw in one continuous blur of motion. It flew straight and hit with a low thuck, running straight through the officer’s chest.

With a shriek, the man toppled into the sea and vanished from sight.

Three yards—two yards—

“Ship oars!” Bowspear shouted.

A cheer went up among his men as they pulled their oars from the water. Half a dozen Grabentod Raiders ran forward to take Bowspear’s grappling line, and others arrived with more hooks, casting them up to the Truda Fey. Heaving, in seconds they had the two ships touching, and then they began lashing them together. Now, Bowspear thought, there could be no escape for the merchant ship.

Drawing his short sword, he grasped it between his teeth and pulled himself up the Truda Fey’s gunwale. He met no resistance when he swung himself over the railing; the poop deck held only the captain’s corpse. He saw no sign of the merchant or any of the ship’s other officers. Probably cowering in the hold with their trade goods, he thought with disgust.

He strode to the forward railing and gazed down at the main deck ten feet below. Twenty or so men, mostly common sailors, gazed sullenly up at him. No profits for them this trip.

“Who is in charge here?” Bowspear called.

A dark-haired man in his late twenties stepped forward. He wore a white shirt, green silken vest, dark pantaloons that puffed out at the knees, and a deep red velvet cap with a long red plume. This had to be the merchant, Bowspear thought with contempt.

“I am Edom, merchant of the House of Krael,” the man announced, smoldering hatred in his eyes. “This is my ship, sir.”

Bowspear bowed slightly to him. “An honor, Merchant,” he said mockingly. “I am Parniel Bowspear, a privateer of no small consequence in this part of the world.”

“Sir,” Edom said stiffly. Bowspear could tell it hurt him to address one whom he considered a common thief and pirate so politely. “What is your price?”

“Price? You dare speak of price like some passing caravan paying a border toll? You are mine, Edom, you and your ship and your crew. Mine. Do not forget that.”

Edom paled. He clearly wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner. Müden’s merchants had become much too full of themselves of late. Perhaps lessons such as this would help teach them their place in the world.

Müden had lost most of its true nobility in rebellion against Anuirean rule, and in this vacuum, traders and merchants had risen to great power. They prized nothing above money—neither rank nor title nor bloodline. Anyone with sufficient funds could buy the title of merchant, and all of Müden would bow before him. Having bought a title meant little to Bowspear. Now, an earned title, such as privateer, that was a different matter.

“But surely we can reach some arrangement?” Edom said with a trace of a whine. “I have silks and spices aplenty aboard—more than enough to assuage your greed, great pirate. I ask only that you leave enough to pay for my voyage and my expenses!”

Bowspear glanced over his shoulder at all his men. Most of them had climbed aboard the Truda Fey while he spoke to Merchant Edom.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we leave this fat merchant half his goods?”

They all laughed uproariously at the joke.

Bowspear turned back to Edom and gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, Merchant. My men insist—it’s been a bad season, and we’re trying to raise a ransom for our king, you know.” He gave Edom a wicked grin.

Edom began to tremble with rage, but made no reply.

“I think,” said a high, reedy voice, “that half the cargo will be sufficient for your purposes.”

Bowspear searched the deck. Who had spoken? He’d hang the fellow up by his thumbs and make an example of him—

Then he spotted a man in dark green robes standing off to one side, watching the scene with interest. He had a long black beard that reached nearly to his belly, a large hooked nose, and piercing blue eyes. Something about those eyes disturbed Bowspear—they seemed to see right into his soul.

“Half,” the man in the dark green robes repeated, making a curious motion with one hand, “and no more.”

Bowspear grew dizzy. He had to clutch the rail to keep from falling. “Half,” he heard himself murmur. Suddenly that seemed like all he needed. He began to nod. “Take half,” he said to his men, “and no more. Divide everything in the holds equally.”

“Sir,” Bruchen said, sounding puzzled, “why take half when we can have it all?”

“Obey my orders!” Bowspear roared, turning on him, fist upraised to strike. He would not tolerate arguments from his men. He’d given his orders; they would obey, or he’d slit their throats himself!

Bruchen did not flinch, and Bowspear gave him credit for that. Any other man on the longboat would have. He knew they feared him, and rightfully so.

“Aye, sir,” Bruchen said. He gave the order, and most of Bowspear’s men headed for the cargo holds.

“Get my bags, too,” the man in the green robes said. “I would like to see your pirate kingdom, Parniel Bowspear. You will bring me ashore.”

“Get his bags,” Bowspear heard himself saying. He wondered at the words—it seemed so unlike him, even to himself. “Snap to it!”