Richard Baker - The Falcon and The Wolf

Late in the second day of sail, as the sun was setting, Viensen knocked on the cabin door and entered. “Excuse me, m’lords,” he said, “but it’s getting dark out, and I wanted you to know that I’ll be setting on shore for the night.”

“Where are we?” Madislav asked.

“Ghoere lies on the south bank, and Alamie on the north,”

Viensen replied. “I’ve got surer soundings on the south bank.”

The other men looked to Gaelin. He folded his hand of cards on the table, thinking. “We’d prefer it if you stopped on Alamie’s bank tonight, captain,” he said, “unless there’s significant risk to your boat involved.”

Viensen shrugged. “M’lords, if it was that difficult, I wouldn’t have asked your opinion. I can put us ashore now, or we can try for a landing in a town about an hour downriver, but it’ll be pretty dark by then.”

“Put us ashore, captain,” Gaelin said. He didn’t really think that stopping in an Alamien town would be a problem, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful.

Viensen brought the keelboat into shore skillfully and tied it up on a deserted stretch of riverbank. After checking on the horses and scouting the area around the boat, Gaelin and his companions took the deckhouse for the night, while the keelboat’s crew slept belowdecks. The captain posted two sailors as deck watches, and despite the dropping temperatures he ordered no fires above decks. After a bland meal of fish and hot porridge from the crew’s galley, the travelers settled down for the night. Gaelin drifted off almost immediately, the lapping of water against the boat’s hull soothing him to sleep.

He was awakened some time later by a touch on his shoulder.

Madislav’s whisper came from the darkness beside him.

“Something is happening,” the warrior said. “Another boat approaches. The captain’s sentries are speaking to them.”

Gaelin rose quietly and picked his way past the sleeping Daene and Ruide to peer from the cabin’s porthole. The moon was setting, so a thin silver gleam illuminated the decks and the water. Nearby, a yellow lantern shone over the river, bobbing up and down. He could make out the shape of a dark hull gliding nearer, but no one seemed to be on deck. While it was not unusual for boats to pass each other in the night – after all, the Maesil was the busiest river in all Anuire – piracy was also common, especially in the river’s lonelier stretches.

“What do you think?” Madislav asked.

“It’s probably routine,” Gaelin replied. “Boats like – ” Suddenly, Gaelin heard a muffled snapping sound as black-clad shapes rose from the other boat’s decks, firing crossbows. The aft watchman clutched at a bolt in his chest and crumpled to the deck without a sound. From the bow, Gaelin heard the forward lookout cough once and then topple over the side, splashing into the icy waters. The pirates’ boat veered toward them, its blunt bow aimed for the middle of the keelboat.

Gaelin ducked out of sight before someone thought to shoot at the cabin’s porthole.

“Get ready for a fight,” he told Madislav. “Wake Daene and Ruide. I’m going below to wake the crew.”

Madislav’s eyes flicked toward the door, which led directly to the exposed deck. “Stay low when you go out,” he said, and then turned to shake the others awake. Gaelin bent double, opened the cabin door, and threw himself flat on the deck just outside. The air was cold and clammy, and a dense fog wreathed the water.

“There goes one!” The twang of a crossbow sounded just as a bolt struck the cabin’s side, mere inches above Gaelin’s head. The other boat was no more than twenty yards away, near enough for the keelboat’s decks to be illuminated by the lanterns the pirates carried. Gaelin glanced fore and aft. Their weapons and armor were on the boat’s foredeck, where the horses were tied up, but the ladder leading down to the crew’s quarters was back by the keelboat’s helm. Muttering a curse, Gaelin scrambled aft, crawling and slipping over the damp deck. Several bolts hissed across the space between the boats, striking around him. With one last lunge he dove headfirst into the ladderway, tumbling into the crew’s quarters with a deafening clatter.

Around him, the boat’s crewmen began to wake, some faster than others. “What in Azrai’s hells was that?” one said.

“Someone took a tumble down the ladder,” another voice replied.

Gaelin regained his feet and started shaking the closest men. “Wake up! We’re under attack! Pirates are coming alongside!”

A dozen oaths filled the air as six men in a tiny compartment jumped out of their hammocks and pallets at once. A small door on the after bulkhead popped open, and Viensen emerged from his cabin, heading toward the ladder with a battered old cutlass in his hand. “Up and at ’em, lads!” he roared. “We’ll not lose our boat tonight!” Sailors seized any weapons near to hand and swarmed up the ladder after their captain.

Suddenly, the whole compartment pitched violently to one side, throwing everyone off their feet, as timbers creaked and popped in protest and the horses abovedecks whinnied in panic. Gaelin crashed into the opposite bulkhead, stunned a moment before he realized that the pirates’ vessel had rammed and grappled them. Viensen and his deckhands scrambled to their feet and started up the passageway again.

Gaelin joined the press. He could hear shouting and the clash of weapons above. At the top of the ladder, the man immediately in front of him screamed and fell, curled around a quarrel buried in his belly. Gaelin picked up the man’s blade – a Rjurik fighting knife – and hurled himself into the fray.

The keelboat was pitched over on her side, pinned against the bank by the larger vessel. It was a two-masted ketch, a common merchantman on the Maesil, and a dozen cutthroats had already boarded the keelboat.

Men shouted and cursed all around him. In the moonlight, it was difficult to tell Viensen’s sailors from the boarders.

Gaelin ducked and bobbed along the shore ward rail, sliding past the press of struggling men. He was almost clear of the fight on the afterdeck when a beefy Rjurik wielding a leaden maul struck him a glancing blow across the left shoulder, spinning him against the gunwale and numbing his arm. He gasped in pain as the world went hot and white before his eyes.

“He’s over here!” the bandit called. “This is the prince!” He raised the maul again for a blow that Gaelin could not block.

Gaelin wheeled and slashed at him with the knife, driving him back a step, and then Daene appeared. Roaring, he threw his body into the Rjurik bandit, crashing into his legs and knocking him down to the deck. The cutthroat rolled to his hands and knees to scramble to his feet, but Gaelin stepped forward and kicked him under the chin as hard as he could.

The man’s head snapped back and he collapsed, unmoving.

“Thanks, Daene,” Gaelin said. He reached down to haul the squire to his feet. Daene started to stand, but at that moment a dark-clad bandit lunged forward and buried his cutlass in Daene’s back. Daene grunted and sagged to the deck.

“Daene! No!” Gaelin reached past his squire and ripped a long, deep cut up the sword-arm of the bandit before he could pull his blade from Daene’s body. The man screamed in a highpitched voice and released the hilt, dancing backward. A moment later, one of Viensen’s sailors stabbed him in the belly, and the brigand reeled to the side and went over the rail into the dark water. Gaelin grabbed Daene’s arm and dragged him forward along the side of the deckhouse, getting him clear of the fight. He propped the squire against the bulkhead and knelt beside him. “Hang on, Daene! Let me see what I can find to bandage the wound and stop the bleeding.”