When the pirates tired of guard duty, they fettered Tol’s feet and left him with his shackled comrades. The Ergothians sat in a circle, their backs against the galley’s main mast. Their supper was brackish water and biscuits so hard Kiya vowed an ogre’s tusks couldn’t gnaw through them.
Thunderer was brightly lit by night, lamps glowing every few steps along the rail. As the hold was crowded with slave rowers and whatever booty had been garnered this trip, the pirates spent most of their time on deck. Eating and drinking were pastimes with them, not just necessities, and they gamed constantly, casting dice against the forecastle bulkhead.
Behind Thunderer, the pirate fleet spread out as far as Tol could see. Yellow lanterns winked from every mast. Kiya said Xanka commanded two hundred nine ships.
“How did you get such exact information?” Tol wanted to know.
She shrugged. “I asked.”
The ships ranged from the mighty Thunderer down to light galleots such as Torwalder had destroyed. Xanka’s was just one of several pirate fleets in the gulf.
The empire had nothing fit to oppose so many crafty pirates. Egrin, Tol’s former mentor, had been sent south after the defeat of Tylocost in Hylo to organize defenses against pirate raids. A dedicated warrior, Egrin had established flying patrols along the coast, to oppose any landing the pirates made. He tried to set up a squadron of fighting ships, but Ergothians weren’t sailors and their ships were usually swiftly destroyed. A stalemate had existed for ten years. Egrin’s troops foiled the pirates’ attempts to raid the rich coastal districts, but the swarms of pirates completely choked off the Ergothians’ sea trade.
With only his four companions, Tol couldn’t hope to destroy an entire pirate fleet, but he could try to unman the pirates by defeating Xanka. Although ruthless and powerful and half again Tol’s size, Xanka seemed too far gone in the pleasures of the table and bottle to be much of an opponent. The fleshy pirate reminded Tol of Lord Odovar in his later years, changed from a vigorous, hearty warrior to an overfed martinet because peace bored him.
The captives dozed, sitting with their backs against the mast, until early in the morning, when a change in the cadence of Thunderer’s oars roused them. The ship was slowing. Men stood at the bow, sounding the depths with lead lines.
As the galley crawled through the Turbidus Sands, the leadsmen sang, “Six fathoms, an eighth!” then, “Full fathoms five!” The ship’s keel scraped. “Three fathoms, a fourth! “The oarmaster stilled his drums, raising all oars, and Thunderer slowly glided to a stop.
The sea was flat calm. They were at the extreme north tip of the Gulf of Ergoth, only two leagues from shore. Pulling himself to his feet, Tol peered over the bulwark. A fantastic scene greeted his eyes.
Many more than just Xanka’s two hundred ships were gathered here. Hundreds of vessels, most much smaller than Thunderer, crawled through narrow channels in the shoals. This was the pirates’ lair, their hideout from the potent Tarsan Navy. Only an experienced pilot, familiar with the shoals, could navigate safely through the maze of sandbars.
Faerlac appeared. Accompanying him were two sailors bearing a short pole from which hung a steaming iron pot. The pot contained nothing more exotic than white bean porridge, but Tol and his companions fell upon it hungrily.
Faerlac squatted by Tol. “We’ve come to the Sands,” he said. “Two bells after sunrise, you and Xanka will fight.”
“May I have my sword, the one taken from me?”
“When the time comes.” The bosun gestured to the congregation of vessels around them. “Most every free chieftain is here. Word will be sent round to all the flagships. You’ll have a mighty audience for your duel.”
So it proved. The day waxed hot. In the clear air, the reflection off the water was intense. Pirates smeared black grease below their eyes to cut the painful glare.
Boats arrived from other ships, bearing pirate captains of every stripe. Many were obviously petty thugs, but a few arrived with more panache. Among the early arrivals were two striking young men in identical outfits-billowing trousers, high boots, and studded leather vests-identical but for one important detaiclass="underline" one’s garb was all black, the other’s pure white. These were the brothers Hagy and Drom, hailed as the Firebrands for their habit of burning looted ships.
A squat, swarthy figure with a drooping mustache reaching halfway down his chest proved to be Morojin. His left eye was gone, gouged out in a fight long ago. In its place Morojin wore a carved ivory ball. Watching the pirate climb aboard with cat-like grace, Tol was grateful he wasn’t dueling Morojin.
Hagbor, the notorious ogre pirate, was not present. His squadron was cruising the Cape of Khar. However, the lone female pirate, Hexylle, did come, with her female crew. Thick-armed and stout, Hexylle had skin brown and leathery as an old boot and deeply wrinkled from years of sun and wind. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, but she was as coarse and brutal as success in her chosen trade demanded.
The chieftains took up places of honor along the sterncastle rail. Crowded behind them were assorted first and second mates, bosuns, and other officers. The long waist of the galley was kept clear, although the rigging was black with clinging crewmen. Frez, Darpo, and the Dom-shu sisters were held under guard on Thunderer’s forecastle overlooking the scene of the duel.
In the sweltering heat, Tol had stripped off his cloak, tunic, and shirt. Bare to the waist, he looked pale among the sun-baked pirates. Sailors in the rigging hooted when he appeared, led up from below by Faerlac.
Thunderer’s bosun gestured fore and aft. “Here is your battlefield. You may not leave it unless your opponent leads you away.” He bade Tol look up. “There are archers in the crow’s nest. If you try to escape, they have orders to shoot you and your friends.”
“I’ll not run,” Tol said.
Faerlac cupped a hand to his mouth and called through the open hatch. Two pirates climbed out, arms laden with weapons. They scattered daggers, pikes, swords, axes, and billhooks around. Tol’s sword and dagger were returned to him. He shoved the ornate dagger into the waist of his pants and rested the flat of Number Six’s blade on his shoulder. He was ready.
Xanka did not appear. A long interval passed. Tol and the spectators sweated under the remorseless sun.
Just as the crowd began to murmur and stir impatiently, the doors of the sterncastle cabin were flung open. Four dirty, barefoot pirates, got up in fancy stolen livery, strode out and put cornets to their lips.
Faerlac announced, “His Excellency, Xanka, master of the Thunderer and all squadrons of the Blood Fleet, the King of the Sea!”
The horns blared. The pirate lord stalked out of the cabin into the bright light, clanking as he walked. He was clad from head to toe in elaborate armor.
At some point in his career, Xanka had taken a warlord’s parade armor and altered it to fit himself. Every surface was embossed with fantastic details: panthers roared at his shoulder joints, bears and bison snarled along his arms and legs. The helm was a fantastic rampant dragon, fanged mouth gaping at the crown. Tol had never seen such bizarre decorative armor, not even on the extravagant nobles of Daltigoth.
Xanka’s men cheered as he advanced between the rows of heralds. Tol looked beyond his opponent and saw that unlike the mass of sailors, the other pirate captains were not impressed by Xanka’s show. They sat along the rail, watching impassively and drinking from heavy, stemmed goblets.
Xanka halted a few steps from Tol. He carried four swords, one on each hip and two crosswise on his back. The greaves on his legs had special sockets to hold daggers. The spiked tail of the dragon on his helm was detachable. It was a mace.