The Ring of Eman Vath

Samson shouted into the face of the raider as he brought his axe ripping down into the man’s chest. He watched as the light in his eyes died, then kicked the body away with a bare foot and freed the axe with a frantic twist that wrenched the muscles along his side. His breath ripped through his dry throat like fire, and his thin clothing was drenched with sweat beneath his leather armor.

He pushed past the downed man, up and through the short hall and out the door of the ship’s small hold. He emerged on deck in the middle of a rainstorm. The water poured down in waves that were almost as vicious as the ones rising beneath the ship. There was motion everywhere, and the ironbound lanterns that lit the deck at night were being lashed and blown about so much that they did more harm than good, throwing distorting shadows across the deck.

His men were up and fighting – many of them bedded down at their oars, beneath the rowing benches that doubled as sleeping compartments and contained belongings and bedrolls – and they were engaged with a dozen attackers clad in black and wielding weapons with flashing blades. Samson shot a look over the side of Longrider.

A huge, two-masted, double-decker frigate rode beside them, flying black sails that drank in the little light that illuminated the stormy night.

They found us.

He hefted the axe and swung hard at the first man he saw; the blade bit deeply into his exposed back, and the raider went limp and fell, revealing behind him Selor, white as a sheet and desperately holding a spear with shaking hands.

“Get back!” Samson yelled, sweeping his brother behind him. He raced forward into the fray, saving another of his men as more of the crew came to life and joined the fight alongside him. But the Black Ship was tied to them with long, thick ropes attached to grappling hooks sunk into the wood of Longrider’s deck, and more raiders were crossing over. He had to cut the hooks away – the Black Ships could hold more than a hundred men, and there was no way Longrider’s surprised and sea-weary crew could fight them now.

“Jolly!” Samson shouted into the night. His voice had grown with him over the past several months, and the sound of it boomed out like thunder across the deck. He turned around wildly, looking for the first mate, only to find instead a fresh wave of raiders washing over the side, ignoring the howling wind and rain.

Samson felt more than heard something whistle through the air toward him, and he dropped immediately. Two slim arrows rocketed through the place he’d been only seconds before and bored into the wood of the ship’s wheel, their broadhead points twisting in deeply.

“Shoot the archers!” Samson shouted over the wind and rain. Two of the crewmen nearby heard him; they strung their sea bows, nocked, drew, and loosed. Samson didn’t see if they hit their targets, though; he was already on his feet again, ducking and weaving and making his way toward the form of Jolly amidships.

The big bear of a man was laying about him with a cutlass, attacking two raiders who’d crossed the divide of the ship. There was a third behind him who’d been stunned but not killed and had just regained his footing. A long dagger gleamed in his hand by the bare light of the swaying lanterns, and Samson dove for it. He caught it just as it plunge toward Jolly’s back, then managed to turn the blade aside and knocked the man down.

“What the hell is going on?” Samson shouted over the noise.

“We found our Black Ship!” Jolly called back.

The sea surged beneath them and threw the ships together. There came a sound like a whole forest of trees slammed together in a high wind, and Longrider’s angled battering-ram prow slammed into and through the lower deck of the frigate.

The impact knocked both crews off their feet and to the deck. Samson lost his borrowed axe in the process as an enormous wave swept up and over the starboard side and washed it away into the darkness.

“They’re taking on water!” Jolly shouted.

Samson spun to look, pushing himself to his feet. Longrider’s prow, stronger than the side of the Black Ship and with the propelling power of the swelling sea behind it, had slipped into the black behemoth as easily as a naked blade into bare skin. Black water was gushing into the hole with every swell, and Longrider itself had seemed to come alive, holding down the Black Ship with its weight, forcing it lower and lower as the water flowed into the breach.

Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the scene in its entirety and searing the image onto Samson’s vision, along with the sudden realization of what must happen next. A gust of wind roared through the tangled ships like the voice of an ancient god, just as the pirate ship’s mainsail unfurled and flapped about.

They were trying to disengage.

“Push them back!” Samson roared to his crew, all of who had taken heart with the sudden change of fortune. Thunder echoed him and seemed to swell his heart inside his chest. He bent to retrieve a cutlass and then launched himself with renewed fury at the few raiders still alive aboard Longrider.

There was another flash of lightning, and then a roar of thunder, and the two ships were slammed together once more. Thrown to the deck, Samson knew they were running out of time.

If we don’t disengage, we’re both sunk. How do we pull her back?

He jumped back to his feet, and then, with a savage overhand cut, he dispatched the raider who’d fallen to the deck beside him. He ran to Longrider’s side to see if they had clearance between the ships…

They did.

“Let them go!” he shouted, spinning back to his crew. “Man the oars! Reverse beat – pound the drum, Selor!”

His crew scattered immediately, leaving the last half-dozen raiders either dead or dying on the deck. The wind was whipped fiercely against them, but they fought it manfully. Samson turned back to the Black Ship. They’d succeeded in unfurling their mainmast.

There’s too much weight and the angle’s wrong – the next big wind that comes will tear right through that. Fulking piece of –

He shouted again for the crew to man the oars, and saw them fall finally into place, exhausted and scared for their lives, but strong enough to fight. Selor began pounding the drum, his young face pale but determined. Longrider’s prow pulled back from the side of the Black Ship as the grappling hook ropes went slack and disengaged.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

The wind swelled again, roaring down on them with such fury that Samson almost lost his footing yet again. He grabbed for the railing, caught it, and just managed to hold himself upright.

With a sound like the sky split asunder, the Black Ship’s mainmast broke in twain. Samson watched it, transfixed, as a single question raced through his mind:

Which way will it fall, which way will it fall, which way will it fall…

The heavy mast, as thick around as a sizeable tree, swayed and toppled… away from Longrider. It landed against the opposite railing with a crash that tore through Samson’s ears. He shouted at his men anyway, walking up and down the deck, calling for them to row for their lives. The mainmast continued to roll, and then it fell over the side and into the sea.

“It’s going to act as a sea anchor!” called Jolly from the wheel.

“I know!” Samson shouted back. “Take the far side – we need to cut loose now!”

Jolly handed off the wheel and rushed to where the grappling hooks were still embedded. Samson turned back just as two raiders who’d been left behind attacked him with wickedly curved swords. He rushed them and bowled them both over. Immediately, a half-dozen roaming members of the crew were on them, and Samson passed by as the bodies were rolled over the side into the sea.

He reached the first grappling hook and looked around desperately for something with which to cut the thick rope – almost as thick as his fulking leg – that held it in place. Something nudged against his foot as the waves swelled and tilted the deck. He looked down.

It was the axe he’d lost.

He grabbed it up without a second thought and brought the blade crashing down on the rope, driving it through the taut fibers and into the side of the ship. The rope snapped away into the night, and Longrider shuddered and twisted, ripping its prow through yet more of the Black Ship as it went. Jolly cut another rope on his end, leaving only two between them. Samson cut the next one, and then the final rope snapped on its own as a swell came up between the two ships and pushed them apart.

The last Samson saw of the Black Ship was it sinking quickly beneath the stormy sea. Selor continued beating time for the oarsmen, and with their sail stowed, Longrider was able to pull away with relative ease, bucking the wind and slipping threw the worst of the waves. The Black Ship, by contrast, slipped slowly but surely beneath the waves.

Three. That’s the third.

He collapsed against Longrider’s own mainmast, the weariness of a dozen sleepless nights and now this unexpected fight suddenly crashing down upon him as the heat of battle passed. It was the same as it had been the last two times. Maybe less so… nothing could be worse than that first time, when he’d been forced to…

He pushed the image of that first man from his mind. The staring eyes, the pleading mouth that had gaped back at him after he’d unmasked the raider. That face haunted him enough in his dreams; there was no cause to let it plague him during his waking hours too.

Jolly came up beside him and rested one of his huge hands on his shoulder. It was strange to see now that Samson was nearly as tall as the first mate. The realization frightened him to some degree, as it had when he’d first noticed it a week or so prior.

“We need to put back into Gol,” he told the first mate with a grimace. He looked up as the rain lessened by degrees. The storm was blowing north as it often did in winter, and the rain was tapering off as the clouds were dragged up and away, following the flotsam left by the drowned ship. He turned his gaze to Longrider and took in the damage: their own mainmast was solid, but stress cracks had begun to form along the pressure points at the base, and the oarlocks and bow rail were heavily scarred from where they’d been thrown against the Black Ship by the waves. They were in no shape to go chasing after another ship.

“Should we wait until sunrise?” Jolly asked. Something about his voice was odd; Samson looked at him and saw that the big man’s face was pained and that he was holding his side. There was blood there, and his skin was unnaturally pale.

“What happened?” Samson asked. He grabbed Jolly and turned him so that he could look at the wound, and saw it was a clean slice along the ribs. It was bleeding freely, but it wasn’t deep.

“Bloody bastard caught me in the ribs,” Jolly grunted. “I’ll be right as rain soon as Rebin has time to sew me up. Just answer the question.”

He grinned at Samson with some of his usual humor, and the young captain was reassured. He let the edge of the bloody shirt fall but made a mental note to check it again soon. It needed to be washed and wrapped, and Jolly was not the most trustworthy man where his own health was concerned.

“We don’t have time to wait for dawn,” Samson replied. “We need to get as far from the shipping lanes as we can – if more Varanathi stumble on us now, we won’t be fight them off. We row for an hour at least, south and east.”

The first mate’s face tightened and the lines around his mouth and across his forehead deepened, but he nodded. “The men are dead tired,” he said, leaving it at that. Samson grimaced and ran a hand through his long hair – it had been months since he’d last had time to have it cut. Months since he had last seen his mother. He tried not to think of the welcome she’d give him when they put into Gol again.

“Quarter shifts,” he said finally. “You and I can take the wheel, Rebin can spell Selor on the drum, and we’ll all take it in turns to get some rest.”

Jolly nodded.

“You’re becoming more and more like your father every day,” the man said, his voice gruff. He looked away from Samson out over the sea. There was some light now through the clouds – patches of moonlight filtered through to play about the calming waves. “I’m glad to see it. And… sad he couldn’t be here to see it with me.”

He looked back at Samson, seemed to become aware that he’d uttered these sentiments out loud, and shook himself. He cleared his throat loudly, as if the sound could block out the feelings, and fixed his rakish smile back on his face. He clapped Samson on the shoulder, rather more roughly than he might have done normally, and went to give the orders.

Samson went to Selor and told him to hand over the drum to Rebin, the medic and former coxswain they’d taken on after Timlin’s death. He retreated to the wheel, pulled off the rope restraints that had kept the ship running straight, and turned them back into the wind as the oarsmen changed the stroke to accommodate the shifting course. His younger brother came up beside him.

“How much longer?” Selor asked quietly. Samson did not respond, and Jolly, who’d just joined them, didn’t either. Selor moved around the side of Jolly and stood in front of Samson, blocking his view of the ship and the water beyond.

“How much longer?” he repeated, this time up in Samson’s face. “Don’t ignore me Samson, don’t!”

Jolly stepped up then as the younger boy’s voice carried; he caught Selor by the shirt and pulled him around to slam him against the heavy bulwark of the stern. The boy, to his credit, did not cry out or try to resist – he let himself be pulled and thrown away, but he never took his eyes off his older brother.

“Watch yourself,” Jolly growled. “Everyone’s a mite tetchy right now, and I’m flaming bleeding. I like you, boy, but this is a ship, not a fruit stand – you want to mouth off to the captain, you’ll get a lashing just like everyone else. Try it and just see if you don’t.”

But Selor never even paled – he ignored Jolly’s threats entirely and focused on Samson, his gray eyes bright and gathering the light of the lanterns as they flared slowly back to life, free of the drowning influence of the drenching storm.

“We’re a few days out,” Samson said finally. “You should know that by now, even with the clouds. Off in the distance there you can see – ”

“That’s not what I fulking meant and you know it!”

Jolly looked ready to go get the whip, but Samson held up a hand. The big man growled deep in his chest, for all the world like an enormous guard dog, but made no further movement save to clap a hand to the wound along his side.

“Jolly, go see Rebin,” Samson said. “Get Lisle or Carthin to take the beat until he can stitch you back together, they can keep us going straight. You’re not to die – that’s an order. And don’t faint either.”

“Women and children faint,” the big man said with a touch of his normal humor. “Men fall unconscious.”

Samson arched an eyebrow at him.

“Then don’t fall unconscious until Rebin sees to you.”

Jolly left, and Samson turned back to the wheel. Selor hadn’t moved; he was still staring at Samson as though trying to burn a hole in him with his eyes.

“How long?” the younger brother repeated as Samson turned the wheel and held it carefully against the shrinking swells.

“As long as they keep raiding,” Samson said through clenched teeth. Now that the shock of sudden battle had worn off, his body was slowly shutting down again. He had barely slept the last three nights, and had slept only marginally better the three before.

“We’ve been patrolling the sea lanes for months, Samson!”

He stopped focusing on the waves and tried to listen to his brother. His fatigue was almost too much, but he managed to push it back. A few of the words slipped and got lost between his ears, but he followed the rest of the diatribe.

“We’re chasing shadows. After we outfitted Longrider for battle, we were out here all bloody fall and there wasn’t a ship to be seen. And then when winter came, which was supposed to be when they wouldn’t come, we found scores of them! Sure, they aren’t going close to the mainland or the Archipelago, but they don’t mind trying to kill us out in the middle of the sea! There’re too many, Sam. Everyone knows it. Even Jolly knows it, but he won’t admit it because you’re Clan Captain. We can’t keep doing this on our own. We’ve lost half of the fleet from Gol, and the other islands aren’t doing any better. After you and that Caelron prince told the Clan Heads what happened with Solom and they authorized use of the fleet, they said you couldn’t have any more unless the Black Ships came for the islands themselves. We’ve been fighting them all winter, but they haven’t gone for Gol or anywhere else. We have to send more missives to Caelron for the Great Ships. That prince said we’d have them, but there’s been no sign! It’s just like mother said before you stormed out on her and the full council – mainlanders never keep their word!”

“Be silent.”

The sharp command cut through his brother’s words. Selor was being reckless saying all of this to the captain of a ship, much less his Clan Captain, and if he’d been any other person than Samson’s brother, he would have been whipped immediately. But even in his anger, Selor had kept his voice down and his back turned to the rest of the crew. They could see the two arguing, and Jolly was staring murderously at them from where Rebin was stitching him up, but they couldn’t hear the words, and so Samson could afford to be lenient.

“They’re not ready yet,” he said, repeating to Selor what he’d been saying to himself ever they’d receive the missive from Caelron saying they needed more time. Prince Rewlyn had promised they would send the fleet – he’d promised that he would tell his brother, King Malineri, everything he’d seen.

But Selor was right. No help had come.

“He said that Caelron would help us,” Samson continued, relentless; he was trying to drown out his own thoughts as much as he was trying to contradict his brother. “Prince Rewlyn saw what happened. He saw what they did to Sol –”

He cut off and looked away. He tried to keep talking, but his voice shook and failed him. He turned the odd sound into a gruff throat clearing and then lapsed into silence. Selor stiffened beside him, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, all anger and heat gone out of it.

“Sam… whatever we do… it’s not going to bring Solom back.”

“I know that!”

Jolly pushed Rebin away, making for the wheel, but Samson held up a hand to forestall him. The first mate fell back, but the look on his face quite clearly told both brothers that this was the last time he would be put off.

Samson took a moment to examine his brother. He was going through the same growth spurt Samson had undergone at his age. His clothes, oft-repaired and threadbare as they were after months at sea, were too small for him now. His hands had grown heavy callouses, and his arms were slowly gaining the muscle that came from heavy rowing. His gray eyes, so like their mother’s, were tired, and his young face was prematurely etched with lines of worry and lost sleep.

“I know that nothing will bring him back,” Samson repeated, more calmly. “I know too that mother’s never going to be the same, no matter how many of them we find and take. But every one of them dead is one less chance that someone else’s brother will die. We need to do this. Besides – you’re right, we’re going back to Gol. We’ll rest up, and when Longrider is ready to sail again, we’ll come back and – ”

“Sighting a larboard!”

The interruption took both brothers by surprise, and for a moment neither did anything but stare at the other. And then together, in a sudden rush of movement, they were up and looking over the side as Jolly disengaged himself from Rebin and went to grab the wheel.

There was a ship coming toward them, the wind stretching its full panoply of sails wide across both masts. Black sails. Black sails over a narrow body with a double row of oars.

“No,” Selor whispered under his breath. “No – no there was only supposed to be one in this area, the Thalin ship was supposed to draw the other one off! Pollar and his crew, they – ”

“They didn’t make it through the storm,” Samson said. He took a breath to fortify himself, knowing as he saw the ship come bearing down on them that this might be the last action any of them ever took again. They were bloody and beaten, going on little to no sleep, and the Black Ship bearing down on them was fresh and fully armed, with oars to fight against the wind once they engaged.

“Battle stations!” Samson called out, flying back to the wheel. Jolly handed him control and then went down to the main deck and began calling orders. The crew shipped the oars and secured the lines, and the Samson readied Longrider to turn against the wind.

“They’re coming up fast!” shouted Linur atop the mast. “There’s light… braziers!”

“Damn damn damn damn,” Samson repeated under his breath. They’re too fast for us with our mast compromised and the men tired. We can’t outfight them, we can’t outrun them… what do we do?

His mind felt like a wet sponge that had been twisted, turned, folded over, and twisted again until every last drop of thought had been wrung from it. He could think of nothing to do, not a single way to survive this. He could feel desperation coming off of his men in waves and knew they were all looking to him for answers, for a plan. He looked around desperately, trying to fight off the despair that threatened to swallow him as well.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the storm moving northward.

He took a shaky breath, and pushed it out.

“Unfurl the sails!” he shouted. “Beat to quarters – all men to the oars, every last hand! We make for the storm!”

The crew rushed to obey, but a heavy hand caught Samson’s shoulder. Samson glanced back at Jolly; the first mate’s face was ashen gray. He knew exactly what Samson was doing, and knew just how impossible it was. Samson tried to say everything he could to the man with a single look – tried to thank him for all he’d done for him, to tell him it had been an honor sailing with him like his father had.

The moment passed, and Jolly turned and began shouting further orders, calling out men and directing them around the ship. The crew looked shaken, and they moved with a lethargy born of desperation; more than one face was blanched to the point that even the deep bronze of true Golish stock looked pale with fear. Before Samson knew what he was doing, he’d given Selor the wheel and strode to the edge of the quarterdeck. Raising his arms into the air, he called for their attention. He felt the strands of their emotions, felt them like the strings of a lute, and without knowing how he knew he had to make them sing a song of defiance.

“Stand fast!” he said with a savage intensity that took even him by surprise. “Stand fast! We’ve taken down three of those ships and we’re still here. They think they own the waves because they come in their Black Ships – but we are the men of Gol, and we were born of the sea! Salt runs in our veins, not blood! If we go down, if we are taken in the final embrace of our ancient mother, we go down reminding them they’ve broken their backs on the island of Gol. Fight them! Fight them with every last ounce of strength in every last inch of muscle and bone – do it for every child that was taken, for every daughter or son, wife or husband that they stole. Every one of them that we end is one more Golish soul avenged. Remember why we’re here – remember that we fight to keep Gol safe, that we fight to keep them from ever setting foot on our island – our home – again! They aren’t hunting us, we’re hunting them!”

The feeling of power that had come to him left as suddenly as it had come, and the savagery that swelled from inside him, the certainty of his words and of himself, faded away abruptly. But it didn’t matter: the job was done.

The crew cheered their approval, their faces flushed with anger now instead of white with fear, and they threw themselves into furious action. The Black Ship continued to gain on them, though, and Samson squinted at the upper deck and saw the bright, unnatural light of their braziers.

Sorcery. This ship isn’t like the others. This one has a witch man onboard.

It should have daunted him. It should have made him cower and question himself. But the odds were already so overwhelming that it only made him more determined. He snarled silently at the ship and vowed to himself that if he did nothing else, he would kill one of their sorcerers.

With her oars out and sail unfurled, Longrider raced back northward, hastening toward the storm. The heavy beat of the drum consumed those who rode her, knocking their hearts together into the same, inexorable rhythm, and they flew over the sea like a strange bird made of wood and flesh.

The Black Ship raced toward them on an intercept course. The distance began to shrink between them until the two ships were racing through the edge of the storm and veering dangerously close to one another. Longrider began to pull ahead, though, and the Black Ship was forced to slip in behind them, losing precious time. Flaming arrows blazed through the air, but they were taken by the wind, and the few that touched down on Longrider’s deck found only soaked wood and fizzled out. Samson sneered at the pursuing hulk, standing openly at the wheel on the upper deck, daring them to shoot him.

His eyes slid down the larger frigate, and by the light of the lanterns from both ships, he saw the name written on the Black Ship’s side:

Desecration.

A chill rushed through him that stilled his heart, and he looked up from the name along the ship’s side to the high deck, where stood a man masked by a cruel and laughing skull, a man that had haunted his dreams for nights uncounted.

The man in the bone mask saw him too, and smiled.

Samson’s mind broke. The fatigue, the fear, the lack of sleep, and the utter hopelessness of the coming fight all came together and consumed him in a rush of sound that then disappeared into complete silence. He saw his men rowing frantically; he saw Jolly shouting at the top of his lungs and Selor rushing toward him, pointing at the distant storm bank and shouting something. But all of it was too slow, like something seen through the haze of memory.

Abruptly, time resumed its normal pace, and sound came rushing back in on him. The crashing waves continued to grow, and the surf was rife with white breakers. He looked up at the storm and saw what Selor was pointing to: it had gained in power and fury, and had also slowed its pace.

Wind and rain lashed them, and in the distance there came a flash of light and a ripple of thunder that cracked the sea and sky.

“Samson!” Selor was screaming. “We have to turn back! We’ll both go down if we go into that! There’s no way we come back out again!”

Samson glanced back again. Desecration was behind them, tacking against the wind and running out their own set of oars. They had more, but they also had a bigger, heavier ship. With the wind, they could match Longrider and even overtake her, but under oars alone they were even.

She’ll be coming at us. Straight at us. If we turn and run with open sail –

“Turn to starboard! Turn!”

It took a moment for Samson to realize that the voice that was shouting this command into the night was his own. When he did, he spun the wheel, throwing the ship into a hard turn. The coxswain, Rebin, keeping time for the rowers, was the one who saved the ship from capsizing – he heard Samson’s cry and immediately changed beat and shouted new directions. The oarsmen, like true Golishmen, turned on a dime, accepting with perfect equanimity all that was happening and trusting in their captain to see them through.

How am I going to do this how am I going to do this how am I going to do –

The world narrowed in on him, his vision flattening and stretching. He saw again the giant mast of the Black Ship, the central mast that held the most sails, and flashed back to what had happened to the other Ship just hours before. Desecration was running toward them with full sail, sail that was soon to be caught in the heavy winds of the storm…

Longrider finished its turn, and the two ships raced toward each other.

Something tickled the back of his mind. Yes, the Black Ships could outrun them and chase them down with a favorable wind, but in this storm, it made no sense to have full sail… and yet, the other Ship had done it too. They both… they both had…

“Sails down and slow the beat!” he roared, then, “Battle stations – keep us mobile, but get the arrows! Light when you can! We’re going head-on; use the ram!”

“What?!” Selor shouted from his place beside the coxswain. He’d unlimbered his bow and was readying to light it as the two ships raced toward each other, but as second mate he was close enough to Samson still to shout out and be heard.

“Trust me!” Samson roared back over the wind.

The wind – the wind had changed.

He spun, keeping the wheel in check, and saw that the storm was expanding.

The higher wind that had been driving the storm north must have hit a pocket of cold air and twisted around. It began abruptly to blow from all directions, shifting and changing, swirling around them in a huge maelstrom. The rain was caught up in it, and fat droplets began striking the ship’s deck so hard they made it ring, like stones thrown against a hollow box.

“We’re in firing range!”

Desecration was flying toward them, and once more Samson saw the mast rising up above the deck, the sails already overtaxed by the wind.

“Selor! Take the wheel!”

His younger brother came forward immediately and seized the wooden spokes just as Samson released them. Samson grabbed up the axe he’d used before, the haft strong and solid in his hand, and hurried toward the bow. The crew not busy rowing had strung their short, compact sea bows and nocked arrows; Jolly was shouting orders to hold steady, for those who could to take cover under the high bulwark edge of Longrider’s side. Arrows began to fly from the Desecration, which had enough height on the Golish ship to turn the arrows into deadly rain. They were not aflame now – the rain prevented that – but they were no less numerous. They fell like rain themselves, slicing through rope and rigging and uncovered flesh.

“Return fire!”

The Golishmen rose as one and loosed their first volley. Trained at shooting sharks and fish in the treacherous, shifting waters of the Archipelago, they were excellent shots, and nearly every arrow found its mark, even in the storm. It in no way slowed the larger ship, though, and the two of them continued rushing toward each other. The Black Ship tacked one final time, bringing its port side to bear and shipping its oars just in time to prevent a collision.

The grappling hooks came next – huge iron claws nearly the size of a man attached to ropes as thick around as Samson’s arm. They gleamed from their place in enormous ballistae mounted along the Desecration’s upper deck, and the gunners fired just as Longrider came alongside. The massive iron claws found purchase in the hardened wood of Longrider’s deck, digging into the oarlocks and under the rowing benches and even catching and pulling a screaming crewman against the side, where he was impaled like a fish.

“Fire!” Samson roared again, ducking as more arrows sliced through the air toward them. The men obeyed and again found their marks, but now they’d given themselves away and the raiding archers honed in on their positions. The enemy attack came again, this time more deadly, and a half-dozen Golishmen cried out in pain, and Samson knew fear.

Now. Now or never.

He reached down, hefted the heavy sailing axe he’d let fall beside the wheel, and raced straight for the nearest grappling hook. He raised the axe high and brought it down savagely, using the whole long frame of his body for leverage. With that single blow, the rope snapped.

The ships jerked as the tension between them changed, just as it had when he’d done the same thing against the previous ship. The rain and wind had increased to a howling gale, but through it all Samson saw the Desecration pulling closer as the crew reeled in the grappling hooks so that the two ships were nigh on abreast. The more courageous or foolhardy members of the Varanathi crew braved the gap and jumped for Longrider’s deck; three of them landed, but one fell short, sinking to his death in the churning sea.

Samson rose to meet them and found Jolly by his side, the seasoned first mate wielding a makeshift wooden shield to fend off arrows along with his accustomed cutlass. They met the invaders and cut them down, but not before the ships were close enough for another dozen Varanathi to cross over. More of the Golishmen rose to meet them, abandoning the useless oars, and battle was joined.

It was like a horrible nightmare, the scene of barely hours before repeating itself. Expect that this time they were losing.

Samson saw only flashes of the battle, and none of them were encouraging. There were more attackers this time, and they were fresh, while the Golishmen were forced to struggle under the heavy weight of exhaustion.

He looked again at that central mast on the Black Ship, and his plan came back to him, fully formed. He glanced at the crew around him – at the two men there, Tirn and Lire who were dying with arrows through their chests; at the dozen or so archers still firing back but barely able to raise their heads for fear of being shot down themselves; at Selor on the high deck holding the wheel with trembling hands and terror in his eyes.

“Jolly!” he yelled. The first mate cut down the man he was fighting and spun toward Samson. His expression turned to one of dismay before a single word was spoken, but Samson gave the first mate no chance to talk him out of it.

“Get Selor back to Gol! Get Longrider back safe!”

“Sammy, wait! Don’t – NO!”

Samson ran across the deck toward the hulking form of the Black Ship. Arrows flew past him, though few were aimed at him directly. The power of the wind and water was in full force, and it threw everything awry. He cut down two raiders as he went, the axe handle warm and solid in his hand, and then he was at the rail. He climbed up and onto it, and then threw himself at the attacking ship’s deck.

For a long second of suspended time, he didn’t think he would make it. The rain and wind whipped his face so that he was forced to narrow his eyes to little more than slits, making him nearly blind. The two ships were close together, but the shifting rage of the water below made them jump up and down erratically, pushing them apart and slamming them back together again in a strange arrhythmic dance. There was nothing to hold onto, no rope or spar to catch, only a heavy black hull –

He crashed into the side of the ship and caught something with his left hand by sheer dumb luck. Stunned by the impact, the elements, and plain fear, he could barely understand where he was or what was happening. Still, he managed to pull himself up with one arm and flip over the rail of the deck.

He landed heavily on the deck, gasping for breath, and lay there for half a second too long, staring up at black sails against a black, raging sky. And then men were shouting and rushing for him, but only half a dozen or so. Most of the others had crossed over the other way, taking the fight to Longrider. Samson raised the axe, astonished he’d been able to keep hold of it, and blocked a thrust from a cutlass he could barely see. He turned and slammed his elbow into something hard that crunched and broke, then spun back and sliced into the gut of a black-clad form.

He pushed toward the middle of the deck, toward the mast.

The wind was whipping the full sails mercilessly, and it was only now that the captain had sent men up to pull them down. More than one of the Varanathi fell to their death, thrown about by the heaving ship and the towering waves. The thick mast already showed strain, and Samson was almost there…

A man interposed himself. His face was cruel and scarred, not just with old wounds but with old pain and hatred. He sneered at Samson and his bright eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Samson had no room left for apprehension, though, and any second thoughts he might have had had been left behind on Longrider. So, without pause or pretense, he bull rushed the man.

The raider raised a heavy cutlass and turned aside Samson’s axe, then somehow twisted and dug into his hip, which sent Samson sprawling. He managed to hold on to his axe, though, and he turned back just in time to catch the cutlass as it came for his head, using his height and strength to counteract the man’s speed. He rolled to his feet, closed the distance, and slammed the haft of the axe into the man’s chin, sending him reeling. He then followed with a savage swing for the man’s neck, but the raider dodged away just in time, dropping beneath the blow, and riposted with an effortless thrust that raked the cutlass blade along Samson’s side. A thin red slice of pain shot through Samson before it disappeared in the rush of battle.

The scarred man pushed him back, thinking him finished, only to have Samson catch his arm and break his grip. The man’s eyes widened in shock as his cutlass fell to the deck, and then Samson sunk his axe deep into his stomach.

“You should never have touched my brother,” Samson hissed. The man couldn’t respond – he tried, but all that came was blood without words. Samson pushed him back with a contemptuous shove and then turned to the mast.

His way was clear; the others had made for the side, for the Golishmen, leaving the scarred man to take care of Samson. The men aloft were still trying to pull the sail in and still hadn’t made much headway.

Samson raised the axe high over his head and brought it slicing down in a diagonal swing.

The metal head buried itself deep in the wood of the mast, slicing right through the tension cracks that had already begun to form. Samson pulled the axe back out with joint-popping force, freeing the blade before it could bind, and almost cried out as pain raced through his side. He staggered and grabbed at the cut the raider had sliced across ribs, then gritted his teeth, and forced himself to go on.

He hacked again at the mast, using the torque of his long body to sink the blade in deeper and deeper with each swing. But on the fourth swing, he couldn’t pull the blade free. The pain in his side was too intense, and the axe was bound too deeply in the wood.

But then the mast creaked, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He swayed where he stood and looked up just in time to see the sails fill with another gust of wind as lightning broke through the clouds above them.

With a terrible burst of sound that was echoed by the booming cry of thunder, the mast snapped.

Shouts and cries went up, and the next few moments were lost to Samson. With the mast went half the lanterns and the braziers that had illuminated the deck even in the midst of the storm, and in the darkness he could see and feel almost nothing. All he knew was that somehow he made it back to the railing.

He saw Longrider, saw the Varanathi abandoning it to race back desperately across the ropes to Desecration, back to salvage what they could. He moved about the rest of his work mechanically, pushing through the pain that made him retch even as he forced himself to go on. He raised the axe that he’d managed to salvage from the wrecked stump of the mast and brought it down on the first of the ropes holding the two ships locked together. It took three swings, but he snapped it, and the ships shifted ominously. He moved to the next one, and then the next, sending dozens of Varanathi falling to their deaths.

He came to the last rope, raised the axe above his head, and saw Selor and Jolly and all the other members of the crew watching him in horror. Samson paused for the briefest of seconds, knowing that this was the end, and then he let the axe fall.

The last rope snapped, setting them free. Jolly began shouting orders immediately, and the surviving crew raced about the deck, sparing glances for their doomed captain when they could but fighting for their lives, trying to run from the storm and the crippled Black Ship.

Samson turned back, ready to fight to his death, ready to plunge overboard if that was his only hope and to seek out his father in the depths of the sea, but he never had the chance. The man in the bone mask had appeared before him.

Every bone in his body ached with hatred at the sight of his brother’s murderer. He ran forward, raising the axe for a killing blow, but the man held up a single hand, and something invisible caught Samson and held him in place. Another casual motion knocked the axe away, and then all Samson could see was a pair of bright eyes from deep within the bone mask’s empty sockets.