Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Catt had her hands locked around Kronn’s ankles, and her brother was hanging outside the side of the ship upside down by his knees. Beneath him, below his dangling ponytail, the water churned into foam between Brinestrider and Red Reaver. He paused a moment to catch his breath, then unslung his chapak from his back. “All right,” he muttered. “Now for the hard part.”

Being a kender weapon, the chapak was much more than a simple axe. It had more uses than a dog has fleas, and one of those was as a grappling hook. Its hollow ironwood haft held a length of thin but strong silk rope. Carefully, Kronn unscrewed the cap from the butt of the weapon’s haft and let the rope spool out. He grabbed one end of the line and tied the other to the axe. Then he swung the chapak a few times, and hurled it at Red Reaver.

The throw was good. The axe clattered onto the pirate ship’s deck and caught firmly on the gunwale when he tried to reel it back in. Smiling in satisfaction, Kronn pulled the rope taut. “All right, Catt,” he said. “Let me go.”

She did, and he fell out of the porthole. He swung out and down, hitting the Reaver’s hull like a sack of potatoes. His grip on the rope slipped, and by the time he grabbed it tight again, he’d slid down until his legs were trailing through the water.

“Well,” he wheezed, wondering if he’d bruised any ribs, “that was fun. Now, up we go.” Hand over hand, he began to pull himself up the rope. He was nearly out of the water when he saw the fin.

It appeared near the sterns of the two ships, cutting between them with breathtaking speed. For a heartbeat, Kronn could only stare at it, amazed; then he started to climb again, faster than before.

The fin vanished under the water, disappearing in an eye blink. Kronn groped upward, his feet splashing through the waves. His hands burned as he pulled himself up the rope. His arms felt ready to pop out of their sockets.

His clutching fingers had just brushed the gunwale when the water below him turned into an explosion of foam. Glancing down, he saw the shark’s head burst from the water with just as many sharp teeth as he’d imagined. He looked into its empty black eyes, then-with a surge of energy he didn’t even know he had-he hurled himself up and over the gunwale, onto the deck of Red Reaver.

“Teeth…” he mumbled, lying on his back and gasping for breath. For a moment, all he could see was the wide, gaping maw, rushing up at his dangling legs. Then he shook his head. Even from here, he could hear the poor sailor screaming on Brinestrider’s far side.

He sat up, looking around as he stuffed the rope back into the chapak’s haft and stuck the cap back on the end. Yes, he was alone over here. He glanced at Brinestrider and nodded in satisfaction. None of the pirates had seen him. They were all too busy watching the gruesome show.

The sailor’s screaming was beginning to falter.

“Not much time,” he grunted, rising to his feet. He looked wildly up and down Red Reaver’s deck, spotted the hatch leading belowdecks, and ran for it. When he reached it, he leapt onto the ladder and slid down into the pirate ship’s hold.

What he saw there stole his breath away. Belowdecks, the Reaver was crammed with riches of all kinds-silver and pearls, bolts of silk and urns of rare spices. He stared at it all, his mouth hanging open, then shook his head again.

“Get a hold of yourself, Thistleknot,” he muttered.

He pushed his way past the treasure-pocketing a few loose strings of pearls as he passed-and started to search the hold. Catt had heard Captain Ugly talking about how many slaves the pirates had in their ship.

“Hello!” he called, moving toward the ship’s stern. “Anyone here?” He passed the pirates’ bunks, then heard a sound, coming from ahead of him.

Voices.

“Help us!” they cried. “In here!”

There was a door at the back of the bunkroom. He ran to it and pushed it open, revealing a large cabin at the very back of the hold. It was a supply room, littered with food, ruin, rope, sailcloth, and small barrels of pitch for sealing the hull. There was also a weapons chest, like the one aboard Brinestrider. It still held a dozen or so cutlasses.

He ignored all of these, however, moving quickly to a locked iron grate in the floor. The voices came from it.

“Help!” they cried. “Get us out of here!”

Kronn knelt by the grate and peered inside. Below him were people-dozens of them, gaunt and pale from hunger. They stared up at him silently, their eyes pleading. Hands reached toward the grate, fingers groping between the bars.

Kronn examined the lock, reached into a small purse he wore at his belt, and pulled out a long, slender lockpick. “Don’t worry,” he told the slaves. “I’m going to let you out. But once you’re free, I’m going to need you to give me a little help. All right?”

Down in the crimson surf, the young sailor’s screaming was cut off by a terrible, rending sound. For a second time the rope became taut, then went limp. The pirates reeled it in. Something still hung from its end, and they cut it loose and threw it overboard again. Brightdawn caught a glimpse of fingers before it disappeared from sight, and she choked with nausea, trying to look away.

The half-ogre, however, grabbed her by the hair and shook her. “No, you don’t,” he told her. “You’re watching this, girl.” With his free hand, he waved to his men. “Tie the spirited youngster up.”

“You want me to open him up?” asked a pirate with a gaff. His eyes glinted unpleasantly as his fellows fastened Swiftraven to the rope.

The half-ogre laughed. “Be patient, Hurth. Wait till he’s hung up first. We want the blood in the water, not all over the deck.”

“Let him go!” Riverwind roared as the pirates shoved Swiftraven toward the gunwale. He started toward them, but stopped when a blade pressed against his throat.

“I’m sorry, my chief,” Swiftraven moaned from beside the railing. “The Courting Quest-”

The pirates gave a great pull at the rope, and his words cut off in a cry of pain as he jerked up off the deck. He rose four feet into the air, the rope lifting him by his arms. The quarrel in his shoulder gouged deeper into his flesh as he swung slowly above the water. The dark shapes of the sharks circled beneath him, waiting with predatory patience.

“Brightdawn,” he moaned.

She looked at him, her eyes gleaming. “Please put him down,” she murmured. Her voice broke, and she coughed raggedly. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Yes,” the half-ogre hissed. “You will.” He bent forward, his tongue brushing her ear, then nodded toward Swiftraven. “Go ahead, Hurth.”

The glint in the gaff-wielder’s eyes became a horrible blaze. He stepped toward Swiftraven, raising the hook, and pressed the point against the young warrior’s belly, just below his breastbone. “This is going to hurt,” he breathed. “Now hold st-”

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a fist-sized stone shot through the air. It struck Hurth in the side of the head with a wet smack. The gaff fell from the pirate’s suddenly nerveless hand, hit the deck, and bounced overboard. Hurth’s knees buckled and he crumpled in a lifeless heap.

A stunned silence fell over Brinestrider. Everyone-pirates, sailors and Plainsfolk-turned to look down the length of the ship, toward the stern. A female kender stood at the hatch, hoopak in hand. There was already a second stone in its pouch.

“Reel him back in,” Catt said, gesturing toward Swiftraven with her hoopak. “And hurry up.”

A strange sound rose, then-a dull roar of vengeful hate, coming from Red Reaver. They came out of the pirate ship’s hold, pale and ragged, scrawny and battered, a tide of near-naked men bearing blades and clubs. Shrieking with bestial rage, they rushed toward the boarding planks, then surged aboard Brinestrider.