"You want me," she hissed, "you come and get me." It was a bold challenge; he was between her and the only way out.
Her hope was that the restricted space would cramp his movements and perhaps give her, with the smaller frame, a slight edge. A bonus was that there were plenty of potential weapons in the galley. Or rather, missiles. She grabbed an iron cooking pot and lobbed it at him. It fell short, clattering at his feet, and Vant furiously kicked it aside. He began to advance. Spurral took to bombarding him with anything that came to hand. She threw kettles, pans, a wooden mallet, skillets, flagons, trenchers and a heavy ladle. Several of the objects struck him, but he seemed oblivious to any hurt they might have caused. The only obvious effect was that his vehemence rose to even greater heights. She started to wonder if anything would stop him.
There being nothing else within easy reach to throw, she braced herself for his onslaught. Oblivious to the broken crockery and utensils underfoot, Vant stormed her way. She stood her ground. There was little choice: the narrow, windowless galley's farthest wall was no more than ten paces behind her.
Spurral had to hold her sword two-handed to hang on to it, such was the energy of the pounding he delivered. She managed, just, to stop any of his passes getting through, but her every attempt at turning her defence into an attack was thwarted. He staved her off with almost contemptuous ease. Despite her resolve to stand firm, the sheer power of his pummelling was forcing her to retreat. And she knew that if her back touched the wall her chances of survival would be vanishingly slim.
Desperation breeds ingenuity. Or insane recklessness. Something she noticed out of the corner of her eye, and the idea it gave her, could have fallen into either category. They had drawn level with the two largest kilns. Their fires had recently been banked, and the water in the massive cauldrons they supported was boiling vigorously. The clouds of steam they gave off misted the room. Condensation ran down the walls and dripped from the ceiling.
What Spurral had in mind was potentially as harmful to her as to Vant, and she wasn't sure if she'd be nimble enough to steer clear of injury. But she did it anyway.
She swung her sword as hard as she could, not at the captain, but at one of the cauldrons. As it struck, she flung herself backwards. She hit the floor at the same time that the cauldron toppled from the oven, drenching Vant in scalding water.
He screamed in agony. Letting go of both his blades, he sank to his knees, a cloud of steam rising from his sodden clothes. His skin was already raw and blistering. A few drops of the boiling water had splashed on Spurral, and stung like hell. She could hardly imagine how it felt for him.
His screams cut through her like a knife, and she was sure they could be heard throughout the ship. Then he collapsed completely to writhe on the floor moaning.
She got to her feet and looked down at him. A quantity of the water had hit his face, inflaming it to the point where it was almost unrecognisable. There was an odour of seared flesh.
Spurral didn't know if the burns were severe enough to kill him, but if they were, it would evidently be a lingering, painful death. As much as she had grown to hate Salloss Vant and all he stood for, as much as she resented the humiliation he had heaped upon her, it wasn't in her to be sadistic.
Somehow she had been parted from her cutlass. It was by the kiln, whose fire had been extinguished by the cascade of water. The sword's blade was broken in two, presumably from striking the iron cauldron. She picked up Vant's long-bladed knife.
He was squirming, and perhaps trying to speak, or curse, but the sounds were strangled and unintelligible. His eyes, though glazing, still had a spark of malice. If he recognised Spurral as she leaned over him, he gave no sign.
She lifted the knife high, two-handed, and plunged it into his heart.
Once the deed was done, the wider world seemed to re-establish itself. For the first time she noticed the fusty smell from the quenched fire. Again she was aware of noises from the rest of the ship; distant cries, running feet, chiming blades.
The door flew open. Several figures barged in. She snatched up Vant's cutlass, then realised it was Kalgeck and two or three of the other dwarfs.
They stared at Vant's gently steaming corpse, and at Spurral. Their saucer-eyed expressions mixed disbelief with admiration.
"My gods," Kalgeck whispered. "You all right, Spurral?"
She nodded. "How's it going out there?"
He tore his eyes away from Vant. "We've managed to deal with most of them. Some are holding out."
"They'll lose heart quick enough when they know their chief's dead. Let's get him to where he can be seen."
They dragged the body out to the deck. It left a wet trail, and they dumped it in plain view, the knife still jutting from its chest.
There was a standoff. The majority of the Gatherers who hadn't given up were occupying the bridge. But possession of the wheel meant nothing when the dwarfs had mastery of just about everything else, most importantly the rigging. Without control of the sails, the ship was going nowhere.
When the holdouts saw Vant's corpse their resolution crumbled. The dwarfs gave them assurances that they wouldn't be harmed. Whether they believed it or not, the crewmen had little option but to surrender.
The islanders found themselves with getting on for twenty able-bodied prisoners and about a dozen wounded. They herded them belowdecks to the prison hold they'd had to endure.
As they watched them descend, Spurral remarked, "Looks like you have your own slaves now."
"That's not our way," Kalgeck told her.
"It's to your credit that it isn't. Hostages, then. To deter the Gatherers from raiding your home again."
"I was thinking we might be able to trade them for some of our kin who got taken."
"Good idea."
"If we can find out where they are, of course. Which might not be easy."
"I know. But you could see this as an opportunity."
"To do what?"
"To venture out from your homeland. You've got a whole world to explore. Fear's kept you prisoners on your island as surely as the Gatherers held you captive on this ship."
He hadn't looked at it that way. "Yes," he replied thoughtfully, "maybe we could."
The sound of a splash turned their heads. Dwarfs were pitching the bodies of dead humans overboard.
"I can't believe we beat them," Kalgeck said. "It seems… unreal."
"We did it because they didn't expect it of us. It's a good lesson. Remember it."
"We did it because of you. If you hadn't — "
"You did it yourselves. You just needed to know you had it in you. That you could overcome the fear."
"At a price." He nodded towards a line of dwarf bodies, covered in blankets, laid out on the deck.
"Freedom always has its price, Kalgeck. I hope you'll come to believe it was one worth paying."
"What do we do now?"
"We sail this ship back to your island."
"How? I mean, we know a bit about seafaring, but we've only ever really done close-to-shore stuff, like canoeing."
"We'll manage. If we have to, we'll get some of those humans to help us."
"Would they?"
"What's their alternative? Drifting out here with us forever? We'll make 'em think their lives depend on it, if need be."
He smiled. "Right."
"You're learning. Only let's get underway soon, shall we? There's somebody whose company I've been missing."
Jup had sunk into melancholy. He spent most of his time standing alone at the prow, searching for a sail or any other sign that might give him hope.
Stryke laid a calloused hand on his shoulder. "There's no sense brooding."
"There's little else to do."
"Take a turn on the oars when we change over. Work off some of those worries."