Tragor’s last opponent swung a knobbed mace in both hands. Wounded, Tragor backed away from the whistling weapon, parrying only the blows he couldn’t dodge. Laughing, the warlord drove him away from Kurthak and Ruog, so when Kurthak stumbled at last beneath the hetman’s whirling axe, Tragor was too far away to help.
At that moment, Kurthak did something very strange. Reaching to his belt, he drew out a dagger as long as his arm and threw it behind him. It landed next to Grul’s limp body.
As Kurthak tossed the knife, Ruog kicked him solidly in the belly. A great whoosh of air escaped the Black-Gazer’s lungs, and he dropped his club as he fell. Roaring with triumphant laughter, Ruog loomed above his writhing, winded foe, and brought up his axe.
A shriek tore the air. Baloth, who had been watching the fight from beside Grul’s corpse, scooped up the dagger Kurthak had thrown. Then he hurled himself at Ruog, who had been a heartbeat away from ordering his death only a minute before.
Ruog could only gape in bewilderment as the hairless ogre leapt upon him and drove the knife into his throat. They fell in a tangle, the axe forgotten, and Baloth stabbed Ruog again and again, until his arms were black with blood.
The warlords watched in mute shock. On the other side of the fire, Tragor’s opponent glanced at the dais in astonishment. Tragor put five feet of steel through his chest.
By the time Kurthak and Tragor dragged Baloth off him, Lord Ruog was unrecognizable. Baloth stared at Kurthak a moment, his eyes wild, then came to himself, dropping to one knee. He extended the gore-caked dagger, hilt-first, toward the Black-Gazer.
“My lord,” he said.
Kurthak took the knife, grinned quickly at Tragor, then strode to the dais and sat upon the crude throne that had, until now, belonged to Lord Ruog.
“Hail the new hetman!” Tragor bellowed, kneeling beside Baloth.
One by one, the gathered warlords followed his example, until every ogre around the great, roaring fire knelt before Lord Kurthak the Black-Gazer.
Chapter 8
Brightdawn stumbled sideways, grabbing the railing before her to keep from losing her footing on the ship’s pitching deck. Salt spray, surprisingly cold, splashed her as Brinestrider descended into a trough between waves. By the time it started to climb the next swell, Swiftraven was at her side, touching her arm with a steadying hand. With an embarrassed smile, she let him help her regain her balance.
“Lean on me, if you will,” he offered.
She did, clutching his arm as the ship rolled under their feet.
Brinestrider hadn’t been the largest or finest vessel in New Ports-it was a simple, square-sailed double-master-but her captain, a swarthy Ergothman named Kael Ar-Tam, had been the only man bound for the port of Ak-Thain who hadn’t refused outright to take kender aboard.
“As long as the little squeakers stay out o’ the way,” he’d declared sourly, “I’ll try to keep my boot out o’ their backsides.”
His misgivings, it turned out, had been misplaced-at least where Catt was concerned. The older kender had pitched in with the sailors from the start, proving particularly adept when it came to knot work. Catt knew more about ropes than even Captain Ar-Tam himself, and had taught the sailors several new, maddeningly complicated hitches that were strong as iron but could come apart at the slightest touch in the right place. That, and the vast number of sea chanteys she knew, had quickly endeared her to Brinestrider’s crew.
Which was the main reason they hadn’t yet killed Kronn. If Catt was a boon to the sailors, her brother was the bane of their existence. They had scarcely cleared the harbor before he’d been caught poking around the hold, trying to see what was inside the great crates and barrels the ship was hauling. Only Riverwind and Catt’s pleas, and a few extra steel coins, had kept Captain Ar-Tam from heaving Kronn overboard. Since then, in the four days they had sailed the waves of the New Sea, Kronn had brought down two sails, taken the wheel when the helmsman wasn’t looking, and pulled countless ropes he shouldn’t have. Once, he’d uncleated a single halyard, and the ship had nearly capsized. Each time his excuse was the same. “I only wanted to see how it works.”
Brightdawn glanced up and down the deck, looking for the kender, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Brinestrider crested the wave and started to descend its other side. Brightdawn clutched Swiftraven, but the young warrior’s footing was no more sure than hers; he staggered as the deck shifted, and both of them nearly fell. A nearby sailor laughed as the Plainsfolk lurched about, and Swiftraven flushed with anger, glaring at the dusky-skinned mariner.
“Be easy,” Brightdawn murmured. “Mind your temper.” Shaking his head, Swiftraven jerked free of Brightdawn’s grasp. He continued to stare at the sailor, though the man had turned his back and blithely returned to his work. “I’d like to see him try to shoot a bow while riding at full gallop,” the young Plainsman growled.
“The horses are in the hold,” Brightdawn countered. “Shall I bring yours up so you can show off?”
He looked at her, then saw the sparkle in her eyes and laughed in spite of himself. He slid his arm about her waist. “I’m sorry.” he said, and kissed the nape of her neck. “I just miss having solid ground beneath my feet.”
“So do I,” Brightdawn agreed. “At least we’re not seasick, though, like Father is.” She nodded toward the stern of the ship, where Riverwind and Kael were talking together. The Plainsman was stooped and ashen-faced. He had been feeling ill since the second day of their voyage but had refused when the captain advised him to go below and lie down. Instead, though each sway of the deck brought a spasm of nausea to his face, Riverwind bore it out.
The deck shifted again, and again Brightdawn stumbled, knocking Swiftraven against the railing.
“Damn it,” the young warrior grunted irritably.
“Watch yourself there,” said a voice at their elbows.
The Plainsfolk looked down. Catt had come up, and was watching them seriously. She stood still, apparently unaffected by the pitching of the boat. Swiftraven scowled as he fought to regain his footing.
“Keep that up,” the kender observed, “and you’ll see the water much closer than you’d like.” She grinned, not unkindly. “I can tell you what you’re doing wrong, if you want.”
“We don’t need-” Swiftraven started to say.
Brightdawn dug her elbow into his stomach. “We’d like that very much,” she interrupted. She shot Swiftraven a look, and the young warrior rolled his eyes.
For a moment, Catt regarded Swiftraven, then she shrugged. “Well,” she said, “your big problem is you’re locking your knees. You’ll never get your sea legs that way. Watch Captain Ar-Tam.” She gestured down the deck. Kael was striding forward now, barking orders to his men. The sailors scrambled to obey. “See how he walks, like he’s bowlegged? That’s not just because the food on this tub’s so bad, you know. A sailor’s got to roll with the waves, not fight them like you’re doing, or he’ll spend as much time on his back as on his feet. Here-like this.” She demonstrated, shifting her weight as the deck rocked. “There. Now you try.”
Brightdawn followed Catt’s example, bending her knees and planting her feet apart. “How do you know so much about ships?” she asked.
“Oh, I served aboard a merchant ship for a few years when I was younger,” the kender answered. “Watch, now. Here it comes.”
When the ship pitched again Brightdawn still stumbled, but not as badly, and on the next sway she didn’t lose her balance at all. She grinned at the kender.
“That’s it!” Catt said, immensely pleased. “You’re getting it.”