“Ahoy, there, is that you, Gimp, you little tub of rat puke? Speak up, lardguts, if you’re not afraid to.”
Bald Roke, his orange suit glittering even in the gray light of the cloudy sky, hung rakishly from one of his ratlines, leering across at the Foam Girl. As he shouted, his crew exploded in a storm of laughter and obscene jeers, glad to have a relief from the strain of watching the great birds, whose appearance seemed sheer magic to them.
“I’m here, Roke, you dirty corpse-eater!” Gimp yelled in reply. “Better get your carrion barge out of here before we turn our little friends loose on it!”
“Will you indeed?” Roke said, smiling” gently. He seemed to ignore the giant birds, and Hiero silently gave him credit for possessing his share of nerve, Roke went on.
“Tell you what, fatty, I think whoever runs these two pretty chickens would have turned ’em loose already, that is, if he dared. What do you think of that, now?” Again his crew screamed in delight, and a sea of edged weapons was brandished as they did. Moke waved one skinny hand and they quieted instantly.
“We could take you, birdies and all, you little blubber bag, but it might cost me some paint,” the pirate continued, staring hard at the silent group on the poop of Foam Girl. “So, being inclined for fun, I’ll make you an offer, a generous one. Give us the dirty-looking rat with the paint on his nose and the whiskers, and the girl. In return, you’re free to depart. What say you, short pizzie?”
Gimp answered instantly, but not before spitting into the sea. “Go fry your crew of man-eaters in human grease, Roke. You’ll get nought from us. But you brag, don’t you, about how tough you are, skinhead? I dare you to fight me for a free passage, under Inland Seas Truce, man against man, hand weapons of choice. What do you say to that, you bony bag of slave girl’s gauds?” This time it was the Foam Girl’s crew who shouted and brandished weapons, while the Bride’s crew were silenced. The wonderful birds still held their place, as if they were mere ducks on some farm pond, Hiero thought absently.
After a brief colloquy with two of his subordinates, Roke swung back into the rigging, a vicious look on his face, the smile gone.
“All right, you little blot of slime weed, I take you. Anchor, and so will I. But not us two alone, see. Me and one of my mates will meet you and that brown-skinned savage with the painted face. Otherwise no go, and I gives the order to attack. What do you say now, turdhead?”
“They’re determined on you, Master Desteen,” Captain Gimp said in a low voice. “They want you somehow, and what’s more, Roke’ll risk his whole ship and crew to get you. Can you fight? Are you game?”
“Try me,” Hiero said, slapping him on the back. In truth, he was tired, but he saw no way out of this. “Will these dirty rogues keep such a bargain if they lose?”
“Oh, yes!” Gimp was shocked. “Even the worst sea scum will honor a Seas Truce for single combat. Oh, yes, have no fear. But Roke is a notable fighter. And who knows whom he’ll bring with him? We’d better get ready.” Captain Gimp turned and waved assent to Roke, who left the rigging at once.
Hiero now saw a ship’s boat launched from The Ravished Bride; and while Gimp armed himself, he explained that the challenging vessel was always the scene of the combat.
“We have nought to lose,” he went on. “All of the others will be slaves if we two are killed. But at least not killed and eaten. And if we win, we get their cargo or a good part of it; all we can carry, at any rate.”
Luchare helped Hiero strip to his pants and soft boots. Daughter of soldier-kings, she said nothing and did not need to, but he could feel her body trembling through her hands. He knew she would not survive him by a minute, should he fall. Brother Aldo simply patted his hand and then turned away, back to his control of the birds.
Hiero weighed his short sword. He then turned and, from a pile on deck, selected a heavy, square brass shield, curved from side to side, for his left arm. His poniard was thrust, unsheathed, into his belt. With his bronze helmet on, he was ready. Gimp was now stripped to his kilt and was barefoot as well. He bore no shield, but a long, gently curved sword, rather slender, something on the order of an immense saber, save that the point was slightly angled. It was designed, obviously, for both hands. His arms were very long and rippled with muscle as he waved the big sword delicately about. He no longer appeared comic, and his square jaw was set.
The boat of the enemy grated alongside. Over the rail first came the bald head of the pirate captain, and behind him came his partner. Hiero shuddered inwardly. A Leemute, and one of unknown type! And it also wore a mind shield about its neck.
The creature was as tall as a man and, Hiero realized, might really be descended from men. It wore only a short leather jerkin, but its natural skin was a mass of tiny, dull gray scales. It had no visible nose or ears, only holes in both places, and its dull eyes were lashless under massive, bony brows. In one powerful arm it carried a single-edged, heavy axe; in the other, a small shield. The crew shrank away from it.
Bald Roke still wore his orange finery, and numerous rings glittered on his hands. Brooches and necklaces spangled his stained jacket, which had slashed sleeves for easy movement. He carried a slender, straight sword with a basket hilt and, in the other hand, a long, two-edged dagger.
The men of Foam Girl now scattered to the extremes of bow and stern, with a good few hanging on to the ratlines, but all well out of sword stroke.
“We fight around the ship, Skinny,” Gimp said, “up to the fore-peak line and back to these steps. No holds barred, no survivors. You get forward now, we’ll stay here. At my word we’ll start for each other, you and Corpseface there against me and my friend.”
The creature with Roke snarled, displaying a mouthful of sharp, yellow fangs, but Roke laughed jeeringly.
“Suits me, Low-pockets. But you and your mind-twisting magician here ain’t met a Glith before. Loaned to me, he was, by good friends up north and west of here. We’ll see how funny you think he is in a minute.”
Hiero spoke for the first time, in a calm voice which nevertheless carried easily. “I know your fine friends, Captain Roke. They are among the living dead. The grave yawns for all of them and for this creature and for you as well.” His vibrant tone seemed to carry flat certainty.
For a second, Roke appeared to pale. If the horrid thing with him, the Glith, was new to the company of Foam Girl, the Metz priest was equally so to him; and despite his new amulet’s protection, Roke was unsure of himself. But he was a hardy scoundrel and rallied.
“Glad you found a voice, Whiskers. We’ll mark your pretty paint in a few seconds. Come on, Daleeth, let’s get forr-ard.”
In a moment all was ready. The ship fell silent, save for the creak of timbers and straining cordage as her anchor line sawed the hawsehole. The two rogues who had rowed Roke and the Glith over clung to shrouds above the rail by their boat’s painter, eyes glittering with excitement. A sea bird called, far off, a faint, piercing cry.
From his place to Hiero’s right, Gimp shouted, “Go!” and marched forward. The four, two and two, one to each bulwark, advanced cautiously toward one another. This care alone would have told anyone of experience that trained warriors were meeting. There would be no headlong rushes and novice blunderings here. All four of them knew their business.