“Pull!” he shouted once more to his men. “Pull with all your hearts! Pull!”
He felt the longboat surge forward beneath him as the beating drum—already a frantic rhythm— increased its fevered speed. His rowers pulled strongly. If they were tiring, they hadn’t shown it yet. Good men, all, he thought proudly. He had handpicked them especially for this mission, selecting from the three units of Grabentod Raiders he commanded. Normally, he would have used a fast sailing ship to capture a merchant vessel like the Truda Fey, but with the calm, he’d instead dragged an old longboat from storage. It would more than prove its worth tonight. It could move twice as fast as the Truda Fey.
His breath catching in his throat, Bowspear leaned forward, straining to see. There—by King Graben’s gray beard, that had to be the merchant’s ship!”
Slowly, the Truda Fey emerged from the gloom and fog. First appeared the broad high stern, painted with the bright emblem of the House of Krael and with Merchant Edom’s personal seal. According to Bowspear’s spies, the Truda Fey carried a rich cargo of silks and spices from Velenoye and Yeninskiy. He meant to have them.
Sucking in a deep breath, he loosened his sword in its scabbard. Only a few more seconds now, he thought, and they would be within striking distance. Müden might hold King Graben prisoner, but that certainly hadn’t saved any of their precious cargos. If anything, it had made Bowspear seek out Müden’s ships all the more. Of course, he also took ships from Massenmarch, Kiergard, Dauren, and the rest of the domains around the great gulf of the Thaelasian Sea known as the Krakennauricht. Highest of all, though, he prized the ships of Müden’s rich merchants.
Actually, he mused, Müden had done him something of a favor in kidnapping King Graben two years back. Once, long ago, he had been a common sailor. When he accidentally slew an awnshegh that attacked his ship north of the Drachenaur Mountains, he found he’d gained the power of its bloodline.
Fortunately there had been no outward manifestations of the change—he hadn’t been transformed into some hideous monster, like the Hag or the Gorgon. Perhaps that was because the blood of Azrai ran a hundred times stronger in them. Rather, he discovered a craving for power deep inside himself, a craving that could never be quenched by anything short of his own kingdom.
In short, he wanted to rule Grabentod.
Over the last seven years, Parniel Bowspear had worked tirelessly to clear the way for his ascent to the throne. His sudden awnshegh-given fighting prowess had quickly come to the attention of his superiors, and they had awarded him with commission after commission. Now he commanded his own ships and his own raiders.
Of course, he still swore fealty to King Graben, but the day was fast approaching when he would renounce that loyalty and seize the crown for himself. With King Graben imprisoned, the job would be all the easier. The king’s steward had done a capable enough job in holding the kingdom together, but his days had just about run out. And with King Graben far away, who could stop Bowspear?
The longboat continued to close with the merchant ship. Bowspear’s hand dropped to caress the hilt of his sword, a gift from King Graben himself at the Winter Festival, a scant two months before his capture. With a passion that would have amazed and bewildered lesser men, Bowspear longed to draw that sword, to let it taste blood again.
That passion was another reflection of his altered bloodline, and he tried to control it. But in battle, the awnshegh within took over, driving him into a berserker’s frenzy. Even now, he felt that slight slippage in his control beginning. He hoped for the sake of the merchant that no fighting would be necessary.
Only twenty yards to go now, he thought. Muscles in his neck cording like bands of steel, he held himself rigid for a heartbeat, then turned and stalked back along the deck.
“Pull!” he bellowed at his men on their rowing benches. He wanted it over as quickly as possible. “Pull, damn you! I’ll have that ship if it breaks your backs! Pull!”
Sweat gleamed on their straining bodies, but they bent to the task with a will. The wooden oars creaked; the time-beater pounded his drum like a madman. The longboat leapt ahead.
With a low growl, Bowspear resumed his position in the bow. Already he could see faces ahead, pinpricks of white against the darker wood of the ship as sailors leaned out to peer at him. He threw back his head and roared a wordless challenge into the night. The faces disappeared. Grimly satisfied, he drew back.
The slight wind picked up; with dismay, he watched the Truda Fey’s sails fill, and she began to gather speed again, gliding silently ahead. There could be no escape for them this time, Bowspear thought, muttering a quick prayer to the goddess Sera that the calm might resume. His longboat was fast, but no match for the Truda Fey under a fair wind.
He cupped one hand to his mouth. “Surrender!” he called ahead. “Surrender, and your lives will be spared!”
“Never!” Trembling with fury, eyes wild and arrogant, the ship’s captain appeared in the stem, glaring defiantly down at Bowspear and the longboat.
Despite the sudden breeze, the two ships continued to draw together. They wouldn’t escape Bowspear, no matter what they did.
Twenty-five yards, twenty, fifteen—
When ten yards separated the two, Bowspear picked up the spiked iron grappling hook. Behind him, his crewmen still strained at the oars, pulling harder than ever. The rest of his men began to assemble on deck, swords and spears held ready.
Slowly, Bowspear raised the hook and began to swing it over his head, around and around, muscles straining as he played out rope.
Nine yards, eight—
He released the grappling hook. Its line snaked smoothly through his hands, but the hook weighed more than he’d anticipated. It struck too low on the Truda Fey’s hull, bouncing harmlessly off and landing in the water. Cursing, Bowspear hauled it back for a second try.
The captain drew his rapier and stood ready, planning, Bowspear knew, to cut the rope if the grappling hook caught.
Six yards, five—
Bowspear began to swing the grappling hook again, faster and faster, paying out line. With a grunt, he released, and this time he knew his aim was true.
The Truda Fey’s captain leapt forward, sword swinging. He didn’t mean to cut the rope, Bowspear realized, but knock the flying grapple back into the water. The captain had badly miscalculated. His thin steel blade shattered like glass against the heavy iron, which sailed past him unstopped.
Jerking the rope, Bowspear snapped the hook around like a whip. Its barbed ends caught the captain’s neck and shoulder. The man screamed and tried to free himself, but only tangled himself in the rope. Bowspear heaved with all his might, and the man collapsed, body wedged tight between the deck and the stem railing. His screams became soft gurgles, then stopped altogether.
Bowspear heaved a second time. The hook pulled completely through the captain’s body and buried itself deep in wood. He heard the man’s neck break with a dry, almost wooden snapping sound.
One of the Truda Fey’s other officers appeared in the bow. He saw what had happened and ran to finish his captain’s task, his long sword sawing at the rope with the sharp steel blade. Strands started to part.
“Bring a harpoon!” Bowspear shouted, dropping his rope to the deck.
His first mate, Bruchen, a tall, fair-skinned man who wore his long blond hair tied behind his head in twin pigtails, came running with a harpoon. Bowspear grabbed it and threw in one continuous blur of motion. It flew straight and hit with a low thuck, running straight through the officer’s chest.