The sound of a warning shout cut fatally short drifted in across the water, and then they could wait no more. Drake signalled his group and the pirates emerged from the trees, moving as stealthily as possible.
Drake was at the front, with Beck just a crouched step behind him. The first of the Drurr to notice them was dozing with his back against a boulder. No doubt the fool was one of the watch and was taking the opportunity to catch up on some sleep. He woke with a start as Drake moved past him, but the shout was killed in his throat by cold steel. Drake kept moving.
They were still a good ten feet from the first tent when a warning shout went up to Drake’s left – either one of the watch they’d missed or just plain bad luck. There was no sense in staying quiet any more; now they had to kill as many as they could before their enemy realised exactly what was happening.
With a roar, Drake launched into a charge, his sword drawn. He leapt over a rock and slashed at the back of the nearest tent, cutting a wide arc through the light cloth, and stumbled through only to trip over something and find himself sprawled in the sand with a rock for a pillow. Drake rolled to his feet just as Beck leapt through the slash behind him, missing both the bed that had sent Drake crashing to the ground and the Drurr lying on it. The Arbiter jumped up onto the bed and crushed the Drurr’s skull with the butt of her pistol even as the man tried to rise. Something heavy crashed into Drake and he found himself flat on his back in the sand again, this time with a half-naked Drurr straddling him and aiming a punch at his face. Drake threw his head to the side and the woman punched only the well-placed rock. As she pulled back her hand with a howl, Drake snatched the dagger from his belt and thrust it into her stomach once, twice, and a third time for good luck. Hot red blood washed down upon his chest, and Drake heaved the wailing Drurr aside and snatched his sword from the sand.
By the time Drake regained his feet, Beck had a second dead Drurr on the ground and a third on its way down to join the others. A fifth Drurr turned and ran; Drake had no intention of letting any of the bastards get away, and he rushed after the woman.
The Drurr was bolting at a full sprint, and Drake was losing distance even moving as fast as he could. He passed small skirmishes and bodies lying in the bloody sand. He passed tents and cook fires and even a turagar, one of the small, blind, dog-like pets that some Drurr kept.
Slowing to a stop, Drake had to admit that he’d lost the fleeing Drurr, and he leaned forwards with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. It wasn’t really his fault; Rag, the giant centipede, was wrapped around his waist like a heavy belt, and it was slowing him down. That the creature seemed unperturbed by Drake’s recent rolling in the sand, and by the smell of battle and blood around him, gave him some cause for concern, but he had little time to dwell on it. Three Drurr were closing in on him fast.
Two of them fanned out to flank him, while the biggest of the three, a man wearing leather armour and wielding two curved scimitars, came straight on.
Drake held up his left hand to show an open palm. “I’m here to help,” he spat in the chaotic jumble that was the Drurr language. It had the desired effect. The three Drurr faltered in their advance, obviously unsure what to think of the human who could speak their tongue. Drake capitalised on their hesitation.
Leaping at the Drurr in front of him, he aimed a sword slash at the man’s face. The Drurr stumbled backwards and away, and the strike missed. Drake turned and launched himself towards one of the others.
He slashed twice at the smaller man, who had a look of rampant terror in his black eyes. The first strike crushed through the Drurr’s weak defence, sending the fool’s sword sailing away through the air. The second slash laid open his belly, spilling intestines onto the sand. Drake danced away, turning to get the two remaining Drurr in front of him before they attacked.
The scimitar-wielding Drurr started forwards, then stopped. Drake saw the feint coming and blocked the attack from his other enemy.
“Rag,” he shouted, hoping the beasty would respond to its name.
In a flash the centipede uncoiled from around Drake’s waist and struck, aiming for the attacking Drurr’s sword hand and taking it off at the wrist with scythe-like pincers. The Drurr fell backwards, screaming and clutching at the stump. Rag, still anchored to Drake’s waist, drew backwards and coiled back around him. The whole strike had taken less than a second, but it threw Drake so off balance he very nearly ended up face-down in the sand.
The remaining Drurr, the one with the dual scimitars, looked a lot more cautious now, and Drake decided to play on it. The sounds of battle filled the air along with the smell of blood and fire. It seemed some of the tents were burning.
“You’ve got no chance,” Drake hissed in the Drurr language. “Your ship’s been taken.” He bent his knees and drew a finger through the sand. “This beach will be your grave.”
There was fear in the Drurr’s eyes. It didn’t stop the fool rushing forwards, both his scimitars raised for a strike. Drake plucked up a handful of sand and threw it in the man’s face, then stepped aside, out of the way of his wild slashes. The Drurr was thrashing about like a drowning rat. He’d already dropped one of his weapons and was busy trying to rub the sand from his eyes while flailing with his remaining sword. Drake approached slowly, cautiously. He waited until the man had swung around to face the other way, then poked him hard with his sword. The blade went deep into the Drurr’s side, and he spun and swung towards Drake, but he was already back out of reach.
Drake picked up the dropped scimitar and whistled through his teeth. The Drurr turned and swung. Drake blocked the fool’s strike with his own sword and stabbed the man through the neck with the scimitar. Stepping backwards, he let him collapse into the sand to lie bleeding and gasping out his last.
The clamour of battle had stopped by the time Drake got back to the camp. As he drew closer, he saw a number of his men standing around a tent, not moving. He had to shove through them, they were crowded so closely together, and not one of them seemed to notice him. As he pushed through he saw something that tugged open an old wound in his heart, one he’d thought healed a long time ago.
Standing in front of the tent, lit by the flickering light of a nearby fire, was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that beauty hadn’t waned a drop in the years since he’d last seen her.
Eriatt, the Drurr matriarch who had once owned him, stood just outside the tent as naked as a person could be. Her pale, perfect skin. Her full, pear-shaped breasts. Her perfect face, framed by sunset hair. Drake felt his stomach flutter and his heart ache. Eriatt smiled, and a number of Drake’s crew dropped to their knees, their weapons forgotten. They could no more attack the radiant creature in front of them than they could their own mothers. The power of a Drurr matriarch’s glamour was far more than most folk could bear, and it was why scores of slaves served Eriatt willingly.
“Drake.” Her voice was like a silken caress to his ears. “I have missed you.”
Drake’s sword dropped from his hand, and he felt his eyes grow moist. Eriatt opened her arms wide and Drake stared at her breasts. He remembered how they felt, how they smelled, how they tasted.
“Come to me, my love,” Eriatt said. Even the harsh Drurr language sounded beautiful when it came from her lips.
Drake took three faltering steps forward and punched the bitch as hard as he could. Her head rocked back and blood erupted from her nose. Eriatt dropped to her knees and squealed in pain, and just like that the spell that held Drake’s crew in thrall vanished. The men behind him shook themselves and drew in ragged breaths, and some even broke out in tears at the loss of the deepest love they would ever feel.