Ed Greenwood: The Mercenaries

"Nay, there'll be war before then. That's what wagons mean-war, not cutting us out o' trade. You think Doegan, say, and Konigheim trust each other enough to build good roads betwixt n' between, hey? Think again, addle-wits!"

"Addle-wits yourself, Rulgor-it's full of compliments y'are this night, aye? Ill grant that could mean war… but then, the whole Coast seems always close to war: we ship no swords anywhere, now do we, anymore?"

"Aye, but there's always food for our holds-even when they hate each other or march to war on each other, folk need to eat."

"Living folk, aye," another voice joined in hoarsely, as a gaunt-cheeked salt bent over the table with a dripping tankard in his hand. "But I've seen-and fought-ghost warriors!"

There was a general chorus of rude sounds and good-natured curses, but the new arrival added hotly, "Some of yell laugh a little less some dark watch, when they rise dripping out of the sea-and reach for thee!"

"Get you gone!" Rulgor said sharply, waving a half-eaten wheel of mottled green cheese in the gaunt pirate's face, but the damage was done.

Already another seaman was muttering, "I've never seen no deader rise out of the waves, but I've seen one of the ghost ships, to be sure!"

"Ghost ships," Rulgor snarled derisively, voice rising, "ghost ships!"

Half a dozen rough voices echoed his ridicule as the lammers came, shook their heads silently, and dragged the last of the drunks away. New arrivals who'd been leaning against the walls nursing their tankards crowded in to take the table.

"Ghost ships," whispered one straggle-bearded, one-eyed old pirate, in a hoarse, breathless bark that carried clearly up and down the room. "They rise from the depths on moonlit nights-I've seen 'em, more'n once! — and wallow along, mastless… and unhelmed."

"Aye? Have less to drink while ye're on watch, and theyll go away," one laconic voice observed, and there was a general roar of laughter. Undaunted, the one-eyed pirate went on.

"Rise, they do, to ram luckless vessels-if the gods think it's your time."

"It's your time, all right-sit and stow it!" someone roared.

The tale-teller glared down the room with the one eye he had left, made the whirlpool sign of the sea goddess, and added, "Sometimes-not often-Umberlee smiles, and a ghost ship runs aground somewhere… to make some lucky shoresmen rich with long-sodden gold and gems!"

"Oh, give off and get gone!" a handsomely-dressed man said scornfully. Charms of golden wire were wound into the small, jutting beard that curled from the point of his chin, and they bobbed as he sneered. The lamplight gleamed back from the rich brocade of his vest, but the shirt of fine white silk he wore beneath it was sticking to him in six places from sweat. "In every port I hear such tales. They're good for little more than to make women scream."

"Before or after they look at you?" someone said sarcastically, and the man in the vest swung around with eyes ablaze, trying to identify who'd spoken. His snarls were lost in a babble of other voices, wanting to tell everyone in the room of ships of the dead that loomed out of dark nights, scraped past terrified pirates, and plunged as quickly back into the endless darkness, or rammed and sank rivals just before a sea battle, or…

"Enough of ghosts, you loosetongues," the sarcastic pirate said, cutting through all the legends. "I've real news. You noticed, I'm sure, Orim Redbeard's Black Dragon at anchor out by the Jaws. And none of his crew here, tonight? Well, that's because a select few of 'em are skulking about us now. Hunting the last of Ralingor's crew-before those last few hunt them."

There was a sudden, tense silence, broken by someone asking, "What was that?" and someone else grunting, "Ralingor? By Umberlee's wettest kisses, what happened?"

Men made warding signs at the mention of the sea-goddess. Others, less fearful, snapped, "Aye: tell!"

Blackfingers Ralingor, for all his fabled stormy temper, was one of the most popular-and feared-pirates plying the Utter Coast. His deeds were legends, and he seemed one of the everpresent forces of life in Faerun-not something that could or should be swept away overnight.

The seaman with the sarcastic voice looked around, and then without further delay said flatly, "Orim Red-beard chased the Kissing Shark of Blackfingers Ralingor aground near Tenteeth Point six nights back."

"What?"

"Blackfingers? I don't believe it! His ship, aye, mayhap, but-"

"I've heard," the sarcastic sailor said with some satisfaction, "that Redbeard used fire-arrows, and burned all aboard her alive, as they cowered not daring to leave the hulk-for none of 'em could swim!"

Most of the men in the room were staring at the speaker. The fat man in the corner was looking at other faces-and at the man's last words, he was rewarded. The table that the drunks had been dragged away from was now crowded with seven drinkers-a dwarf and two women among them-who sat hunched forward, emptying two carry-kegs as fast as they could drain their tankards. Their faces had grown hard at the mention of the Kissing Shark, but bitter amusement had crossed more than one pair of hps at the assertion that none of Blackfingers's crew could swim.

A rather less alert man could have tumbled to the fact that he was looking at a table of surviving Sharkers… or rather, ex-Sharkers. The watcher covered his face with his tankard again and studied them more closely. This was his first chance to see more than seven wet shapes by moonlight.

Their leader seemed to be a big, heavily muscled Konigheimer… probably an escaped slave. He had the usual temper of such folk; just now, he was snarling something into his drink as one of the most battered and scarred seamen the observer had ever seen held on to one of his arms and whispered urgent soothings to him, while a moon-faced Edenvaler who had the hands and habits of a gambler clung to the other.

The bald dwarf had a nose and ears bedecked with rows of dangling earrings; the fat man tagged him as the whimsical wit of the group and looked at the others. There was the usual green youth hungry for fortune and adventure, and the two women-one a battered barrel of a wench who could probably out-muscle many men in a brawl, and the other as beautiful as a high court lady, with flawless skin, large and striking blue eyes, brows that were even more arresting, and a long, silky fall of black hair to match. The watcher looked away quickly before she felt the sudden weight of his gaze. Then he glanced back and saw the empty dagger-sheaths on her forearms, and the war-harness riding on her slim hips.

She leaned forward with sleek grace to say something to the big man at that moment, and her murmured words calmed him visibly. Yes, this one was every inch a pirate too.

The silent spy listened intently, but the seven Sharkers weren't saying much. "We must stick together," he heard the battered veteran say, his voice like gravel rattling down a metal chute.

Aye, they were grim and guarded. Time to strike them with fire and see what befell.

The fat man glanced around, saw the foppish pirate who'd been so scornful standing nearby, and noted how close he stood, face still flushed in anger, to the sarcastic taleteller. The fat man covered a smile with his tankard, and kept it raised to hide his lips as he said-in perfect mimicry of the sarcastic sailor-"Perfumed sot, what would you know of swimming?"

"Ridicule my looks, would you?" the well-dressed, scornful man snarled, voice rising, and the watcher glanced up in time to see the fop sweep a long, needlelike poniard from his boot and drive it into the face of the sarcastic tale-teller.

The startled sailor saved his eyes with a quick sweep of his arm, and with the toe of his boot lifted his stool into his attacker's face. The fop staggered back ward, spitting out teeth and curses, and the sarcastic man produced a hitherto-hidden knife of his own.