It was night, and the galley rode the gentle swells of the gulf. Lanterns lined the rail. The mob of pirate captains talked among themselves until Tol appeared on the sterncastle above them. He was flanked by his two men, Faerlac, the Dom-shu, Dralie, and Inika. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Men of the Blood Fleet! I am Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Champion of the Regent of Ergoth, and Rider of the Great Horde!” He hoped the list of titles would give weight to his words. “By right of combat, I have become master of this fleet. If anyone cares to dispute my claim, let him do so now!”
The pirates eyed each other, muttering. Finally, a veteran captain with black hair and the features of a half-elf said, “What is your will, my lord?”
Tol folded his arms. “I intend to take the fleet to Thorngoth.”
That set off a rumble of surprised conversation. A young captain with a potbelly and a shaven pate yelled, “You mean to sack the port?”
“No. The town will not be molested. I will walk ashore and greet the imperial governor.”
More consternation. The pot-bellied captain shouted, “The garrison will attack us without mercy!”
“Not if we fly the flag of Ergoth.”
Silence fell. Tol let it stretch for a few moments, then explained.
“For years you have preyed upon the ships of every nation with skill and success.” Brutal skill and ugly success, he thought, but wisely did not say. “Your number has grown from a handful of independent vessels into a mighty fleet. Now I offer you a chance to become even greater. Submit to the authority of the empire, and I guarantee all of you will receive amnesty.”
Some greeted this offer with harsh laughter. Others did not. The half-elf captain shouted down those around him, then asked, “If we are pardoned, my lord, then what? How do we live?”
“As captains in the Imperial Navy of Ergoth.”
This caused even more harsh laughter followed by wrangling. A few pirates came to blows, and one band of hotheads charged the ladders leading to the sterncastle. Tol’s companions, supported by Faerlac, drew swords and prepared to stand them off. Tol contented himself with glaring fiercely at the charging pirates.
“Stand down!” he barked. “By your own law, I am commander of this fleet!”
His words, backed by a quintet of naked blades, cooled the rebels’ ardor. Grumbling, the attackers backed down.
The bald, pot-bellied captain called out, “What if we don’t want your pardon? Will you force us?”
“I haven’t the time or the power to force anyone. I’ve been summoned to attend upon the new emperor, and I want to reach Daltigoth in two days. Any ship and crew that wishes to take advantage of my offer is welcome. The rest may go and consider themselves absolved of their oath to the Blood Fleet.”
Fifty captains left immediately. The remaining one hundred fifty-eight argued loudly among themselves about the merits of Tol’s plan.
Stepping back to let them hammer it out, Tol said, “What do you say, Faerlac?”
The bosun sheathed his cutlass. “I go where this ship goes,” he said firmly.
The half-elf captain stepped forward, and the rest quieted. “My lord,” he said, “what about our property? What will become of it?”
Their loot, he meant. Tol had no time to dispute every coin and trinket the pirates had purloined. He said as much, and most of the remaining captains looked relieved.
“And the galley slaves?” the half-elf asked.
The wretched captives chained to the oars of the pirate ships were not criminals or prisoners of war, but unfortunates taken on the high seas by the Blood Fleet, even as Tol’s party had been. That he could not countenance.
“All slaves must be freed,” Tol stated flatly. “If you accept the emperor’s charge and become officers in his navy, new rowers will be supplied from the prisons of Ergoth.”
On this point he would not bend, and another thirty-odd captains departed. More disputations on various points saw another two dozen pirates leave Thunderer.
To the one hundred or so remaining, Tol declared, “Welcome captains! You’ve made a wise decision.”
They would make landfall at Thorngoth just before dawn. Tol thanked the loyal masters and dismissed them-all but the half-elf.
The half-elf pirate was called to the sterncastle. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was cut short. Light gray eyes watched Tol warily. Tol asked his name.
“Wandervere, my lord, of the galleot Quarrel.”
After questioning the captain further about Quarrel’s capabilities, Tol revealed he wanted to ascend the Greenthorn River at Thorngoth and proceed inland via the canal that joined the river to the capital. A journey over water would be far swifter than galloping on horseback the thirty-eight leagues from the coast to Daltigoth. Amused by Tol’s bold suggestion, Wandervere agreed.
Thunderer got under way again, oars rising and dipping in time to the great drumbeat. Before turning in for the night, Tol went below for the first time and addressed the rowers. As soon as they reached imperial territory, he told them, all slaves would be freed. Hundreds of gaunt, haggard faces stared at him without reaction, unable to believe his words. The rhythm of rowing was lost, and the galley wallowed to a stop. Tol repeated his promise.
From a rear bench a hoarse voice cried, “May the gods bless Lord Tolandruth!” A surprisingly strong cheer rose from the exhausted slaves.
Tol ordered water and extra rations for the slaves and returned to the deck. On the stair, he met Wandervere.
“You’re not just a good man with a sword, I see,” the half-elf commented, and there was no mockery in his gray eyes. “You know how to lead men. Those rowers will need no lash to spur them tonight. They’re rowing to freedom.”
The last of the loyal captains departed. From Thunderer’s stern windows Tol watched the lamps on the bows of the pirate ships turn away. He passed the night alone in Xanka’s broad bed. Dralie and Inika slept in the outer cabin with his comrades.
Some of the captains had a change of heart during the night. By the next morning, only sixty-six ships still followed in Thunderer’s wake.
Before dawn, squalls of rain lashed the bay. The heavy elevener pitched and rolled in the shallow waters off Thorngoth’s guardian fortress. Makeshift imperial banners whipped from the masthead, but in the swirling rain, Tol wasn’t sure anyone on shore could see them.
Thunderer crept ahead. The rest of the pirate fleet trailed behind in a wedge formation. High and dark, the stone walls of the fortress were forbidding in the grayish light.
“Steady,” Tol said. “Let them see our flags.”
“Oarmaster, eight beats!” Faerlac called out. The tempo of the rowing slowed.
The thin sound of a brass trumpet carried across the water-the call to assemble for battle.
“ ’Ware off!” Tol said, voice taut.
Even as he spoke, there was a thump, and a flaming missile arced up from the dark battlements. Frez scoffed. No catapult in the world could reach them this far.
A blazing javelin two paces long hit the water amidships and sizzled out, putting the lie to Frez’s confidence.
“They can’t see our colors,” Tol said. “I’ll have to go ashore. Prepare a small boat.”
“In this weather, my lord?” Darpo protested, holding a rail to keep his balance.
“No one need go with me.”
“Someone has to man the boat,” Faerlac said. “I’ll go.”