L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

Abruptly, staff in one hand, Kharl swung himself over the railing and clambered down one of the ropes left hanging by the pirates. When he was just slightly higher than the aft deck of the pirate vessel, he twisted his body and jumped. Even as close as the two vessels were, he barely cleared the railing and landed heavily on the deck.

The two pirates remaining were surprised enough that Kharl had a chance to get the staff into position before the first charged.

Kharl parried the slash by the pirate, and the cutlass clanked against the black iron band. The blade shattered, and Kharl reversed the staff into a wicked riposte into the man’s guts, then, as the pirate staggered, finished him off with a blow to the side of his head.

The cooper barely managed to get the staff back and balanced in time to ward off the attack of the second helm guard, who was using two shortswords, one in each hand.

Kharl let the other attack, using a balanced two-handed grip on the longer staff to block or deflect the other’s slashing attacks, giving a little space, and watching.

Then, after the pirate made a particularly vicious cut that left him slightly unbalanced, Kharl slammed the staff into the other’s knee with enough force that something crunched, and the pirate sprawled sideways on the deck. Kharl brained him, then turned to the helmsman.

The helmsman released the helm and grabbed for the cutlass at his belt. His hand closed on the hilt just as one of the iron bands of Kharl’s staff crashed into his temple.

As Kharl surveyed the deck, he could see that there was no one near him, and forward on the pirate ship, no one had even looked aft. With a cold smile Kharl strode forward, toward the handful of pirates, along the railing, clearly wanting to board the Seastag .

The first two went down, one right after the other, without anyone noticing.

The third turned. “They’re behind us!” He got his blade, more of a rapier than a cutlass, up and into a rough guard position. Kharl slammed the blade aside and brought the staff up from below, doubling the man over, and finishing him off with a reverse.

Then…there were pirates all around Kharl, and the most he could do was try to weave a defense.

He stepped back, still creating a blur of blackness, when a taller man, taller even than Kharl, lunged forward with a huge broadsword. Because of the force of the cut-that missed-the big man was off-balance for a moment, and Kharl struck.

A shocked expression froze on the pirate’s face, and he brought the broadsword around in a last desperate swinging lunge.

Kharl managed to get the strength from somewhere to parry, but he slipped on a deck wet with blood and salt, and the flat side of the blade crashed into his chest, then slammed down into his foot. With a last effort, Kharl brought up the end of the staff straight into the pirate’s throat. Kharl could feel something give, and some of the pressure on his leg abate. He tried to lever the staff upward, but it was caught under the body of the fallen pirate.

Then something struck him from behind, and wave of red blackness crashed over him.

A reddish dark haze swam around Kharl, and much as he attempted to grope his way through it, it merely thickened. When he tried to rest, it seemed to constrict around him, like an iron band across his chest and ribs, with an agonizing pain so sharp that he felt he could hardly breathe. He wanted to move, but neither his arms nor his legs would budge, and his head was a mass of flame.

In time-how long it had been, he had no idea-the haze thinned, and an image swam into his view, except that it was a pair of images. Kharl squinted, and the two images resolved into one, that of a single face, one he thought he should recognize, but did not.

“You’ll be all right, cooper. You’re acting like you’re still fighting. You don’t have to keep fighting. Try to loosen those muscles.”

“Pirates…?” Kharl mumbled, his mouth so dry that the single word was a croak.

“You need to drink. Open your mouth.”

Kharl did. The coolness was welcome. His tongue was swollen, and swallowing was difficult.

“Pirates?” he asked again.

“Most of ’em are dead. We brought in their ships. Not bad prizes. Worrak isn’t prime, but the captain figures that, even after replacing the engine, be a goodly prize share for everyone. That’s for you, too.”

Kharl didn’t care about that. He just knew his leg hurt, especially his foot-and his chest.

“Hurts…a bit…”

“Your ribs are cracked…bruised, and there’s that right foot. It’s going to hurt for a while, but you’ll walk fine. Your boots won’t be so cramped on that side. That last pirate blade took the two smallest toes, but…wound came up clean. Healing good. Worried about you. Been a couple of days now.”

“Hit my head.”

“Big lump, but nothing’s broken and no soft spots there. Local healer says you’ll be fine. He’s looked at all of you.”

Kharl finally grasped that Rhylla, the third mate, was talking. He hoped his memory would improve. “Thank you.”

“You need to drink some more.”

So Kharl did, then drifted back into sleep, back into the reddish haze, except at times there were periods of black coolness.

He woke in dim light, either dawn or twilight, he thought, before realizing that all light was dim in sick bay or anywhere belowdecks. He only saw two other bunks, besides the one above him, and the two-those across from him-were occupied. He lay back on the narrow bunk, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the dull aching in the toes he no longer had, and wondering what would happen next. He could hear voices from the two men in the opposite bunks, whispering as they were.

“…thought he woke…”

“…back asleep…”

“…you’d be sleeping, too…what hit him. Tough old guy…”

Kharl didn’t think of himself as old, but he must have seemed so to young seamen.

“…never saw anything like it…cleared off everyone on the one…looked like…”

“…Reisl said he used that staff and batted down arrows…”

Kharl wanted to snort, but it would have taken too much effort. No one could do that.

“…saw him take out three pirates with that big staff…one hit it with a blade, and the blade shattered…”

“…blackstaffer…”

“…he’s not…used to be a cooper in Brysta…what the third said…did something to piss off the Lord…”

There was a laugh. “Got to like that…anyone with enough guts to piss off a lord…good man…”

Kharl drifted back into sleep.

When he woke for the third time, the space was brighter, and the aching in his skull was only the faintest throbbing, although his foot didn’t feel that much better. He was alone in sick bay, and the other bunks had been stripped.

Still, he thought he ought to try to sit up, and he gingerly eased into a sitting position on the edge of the bunk. Knives jabbed through his ribs, and he could barely hold himself erect. Still…he wasn’t going to get better lying flat.

He slowly levered himself into a standing position, although he was as much leaning against the bulkhead as standing. He coughed, two or three times, and the sharp knives that went through his chest made him wonder if he would collapse right there. He just stood, hanging on until the coughing passed and he could breathe easier. Then he took one step, and another. He finally made it to the hatch, and looked out onto the main deck. It was midafternoon, and the ship was tied to a pier.

He stepped slowly out onto the deck, barefoot he realized, but he had no idea where his boots were, or if he could even bend over to put them on, or if they would fit. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he eased sideways until he reached the ladder to the forecastle deck, where he sat down.