Chapter 10

The pirates were busy gathering the dead—both friend and foe—and throwing them overboard. A handful stood guard over their prisoners, cutlasses ready. The survivors of the attack—the Plainsfolk, Captain Ar-Tam, and eight sailors—sat at the foot of the mizzenmast, hands bound behind their backs.

“These waters are infested with sharks. Did you know that?” the pirate captain asked them. He nodded toward his men, just as they heaved the dead helmsman over the rail. “All those bodies. All that blood in the water. It’s bound to draw attention.”

Brightdawn looked up from Swiftraven, who lay unconscious beside her. The quarrel was still embedded in his shoulder, and blood continued to seep slowly from the wound. “What are you going to do with us?” she asked.

“Ah, lass,” the half-ogre replied, “what I do with the rest of these fools and what I do with you will be two quite different things.”

“I thought you were slavers,” Riverwind muttered.

“Oh, we’re slavers, all right,” the half-ogre said. “But I’m afraid our hold’s a bit full right now. You’re not the only ship we’ve waylaid since we last saw port, and we don’t have room for any more slaves aboard the Reaver. So that doesn’t leave us with much choice, does it?”

“Are you going to kill us?” Kael asked.

The half-ogre’s smile broadened, revealing even more rotten teeth, “Let’s just say we’re going fishing,” he rasped.

“What’s happening now?” Kronn demanded, standing on tiptoe at the bottom of the ladder.

“Shhh,” Catt hissed. “Keep your voice down.” She stood above him, near the ladder’s top, and peered out through the hatch. “Captain Ugly just said they were going to go fishing.” She glanced down at Kronn and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. The pirates are gathering them up and taking them over to where they’ve been dumping the bodies—except Brightdawn. They’re bringing her over to him.” She craned her neck, then winced. The pirates’ coarse, brutish laughter rang out loudly. “He just kissed her. I don’t think she liked it very much.”

“I imagine not,” Kronn agreed.

“Look out below,” Catt whispered. Kronn stepped aside, and she slid down the ladder, landing with a thump beside him. “Come on. They’re up at the bow. There’s portholes up there. We can get a better view.”

The two kender scrambled forward through the hold, dodging between barrels and crates, until they reached the crew’s sleeping quarters. They threaded their way among the bunks, coming to a halt at a pair of portholes. Catt tried to peer through one, standing on her toes and craning her neck, then stopped and shook her head. “Too high,” she said. “You’ll have to give me a boost.”

Kronn knelt down, and she climbed nimbly onto his shoulders. Grunting with the effort, he straightened back up again. “Branchala bite me, you’re heavy,” he groaned.

“Keep still,” Catt returned. She leaned forward, peering out through the porthole. “That’s better. I can see pretty good now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Shhh. It looks like they’re setting up some kind of block-and-tackle,” Catt noted. She shifted on Kronn’s shoulders, looking down toward the water, and caught her breath. “Reorx’s beard,” she swore.

“What?”

“Sharks. The dead bodies must have drawn them, like Captain Ugly said.”

She shifted again, looking up. “They’re looping a rope over the block-and-tackle, and—oh, no!”

Kronn glared up at her. “Oh, no—what?”

Catt didn’t answer. She simply stared out through the porthole, her eyes wide. Listening, Kronn could hear a voice, taut with panic, from the deck above. “No!” the voice called. “You bastards! You can’t do this!”

“Who’s that?” Kronn asked.

“One of the sailors,” Catt replied. “He’s on the end of the rope.”

“Stop!” cried the voice from above. “No!”

Suddenly, something fell past the porthole. There was a splash, then laughter from above and screaming from below. Catt looked down toward the water. “Great Fizban’s ghost,” she swore. “They’re dragging him through the water, like—like bait. Dipping him in and out. I think he’s—”

A cry of agony tore through the air. Startled, Catt stiffened, pushing away from the porthole. Kronn stumbled back, then the two kender fell in a heap.

“What happened?” Kronn asked, straightening himself up.

It was a moment before Catt found her voice. When she did, it was quiet and small. “Shark got him,” she replied, leaning against a bunk and breathing heavily.

“We’ve got to do something quick!”

“Like what?”

“Let me think,” Kronn answered. He tugged on his cheek braids, pondering, then snapped his fingers. “All the pirates are over here on Brinestrider?”

“Yup.”

“All right, then,” Kronn said. “If they’re going to board our ship, we’ll just board theirs.” He stood up and hurried to the starboard portholes. When he got there, he shrugged off his pouches, then turned to motion to Catt. “Come on. My turn for a boost.”

The sailor’s screaming carried on until the other prisoners were on the verge of tears. The rope threaded through the block-and-tackle went taut, and it took six pirates, hauling with all their might, to resist the pull on the other end. The rest of the raiders lined up along the gunwale, peering over the edge. They laughed and cheered as the sharks tore the sailor apart below.

“What do you want from us?” Riverwind demanded, a strain in his voice.

“Want?” the half-ogre asked. “I think you’re taking this the wrong way, old man. We just want to kill you. Is it wrong that we have fun doing it?”

Brightdawn began to sob.

Below, the screams changed to a guttural, choking sound, then quickly faded away. Suddenly the rope went slack; the six pirates hauling on it stumbled back, then reeled it in. It ended in a frayed stub, soaked red with blood.

“Good,” the half-ogre declared. “Next!”

The pirates picked a second victim—a boy of perhaps sixteen summers, whose beard was still patchy and soft—and dragged him to the block and tackle. He kicked as they tied the frayed end of the rope to the cord binding his hands. Laughing, the pirates shoved him overboard. After a few moments, the rope went taut again.

Swiftraven groaned softly. He had regained consciousness, though his wound had left him weak and faint. “My chief,” he moaned.

Riverwind glanced around, to see if any of the pirates had heard, then bent over the young warrior. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Swiftraven moaned. “I failed you—my Courting Quest. I didn’t… I didn’t protect Brightdawn.”

Riverwind shook his head. “You did all you could.”

Swiftraven shook his head bitterly. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said. Below, the young sailor began to scream.

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.

Kronn was in the front of the mob, chapak in hand, gemstones and steel coins falling from his overstuffed pockets. Behind him, several slaves were pouring pitch over the Reaver’s deck and setting it alight. Black, oily smoke started to rise from the ship.

It had all happened so fast, so suddenly, that the pirates’ captain could only watch the charging slaves with open, dumbfounded shock. Finally he shoved Brightdawn away from him—she tripped over a coil of rope and stumbled to her knees—and jerked the massive hammer from his belt. “Attack!” he shouted.

His call galvanized the stunned pirates. They turned toward the boarding planks, then charged toward the slaves, cutlasses held high. The men who held the rope from which Swiftraven hung simply let go; the young warrior dropped over the edge with a shout, followed by a loud splash.

The pirate who held the cutlass to Riverwind’s throat had lowered his blade without thinking, gawking as his fellows ran to intercept the attacking slaves. It was all the opportunity the old Plainsman needed. His foot lashed out, slamming against the side of the pirate’s knee. Bone cracked, and the man fell, sobbing in pain and clutching his ruined leg. Riverwind kicked him a second time, in the head, and the man fell still.

His muscled arms bulging, Riverwind strained against his bonds with all his strength. The jute cord around his wrists snapped, and he dashed to Swiftraven’s rope, grabbing it before it could spool away. He hauled on the rope, slowly reeling it in; moments later, Kael Ar-Tam and two of the sailors burst their bonds and joined him.

The escaped slaves smashed into the pirates, hacking viciously with cutlasses and cudgels. Driven by rage, they drove back their former captors, cutting them down without mercy. Kronn buried his chapak’s axe head in a pirate’s side, then jerked it free as the man staggered into the railing and fell overboard. Catt jabbed the metal-shod tip of her hoopak at a pirate’s throat, then leaped aside as he swung back at her with his sword. A slave buried his cutlass in the pirate’s ribs.

The half-ogre captain shoved his way past his faltering men, his warhammer singing through the air. A slave fell beneath the weapon, then another, and then a third. The half-ogre roared with fury.

Then, directly behind him, a scream cut through the din of battle. The half-ogre glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes widened in surprise as he saw the steel head of a mace swinging toward his face. He opened his mouth to cry out, but the mace struck before he could make a sound, and his world vanished in an explosion of red mist. He fell, groping at what had once been his face.

Brightdawn stared at his twitching body, seething with fury, then hit him again. He jerked one last time, then stopped moving for good. Brightdawn stumbled back, her mace dripping blood.

Riverwind and the sailors were trying to reel in Swiftraven. At last, the young warrior surfaced, unconscious and bleeding afresh from a short gash on his leg. The sailors grabbed him and laid him down on the deck, and Riverwind tore a strip from his own tunic, using it to bandage his wounds. When the fighting was all but over, only a handful of pirates remained, pinned against Brinestrider’s gunwale by the escaped slaves. One by one they fell, until only one man was left. He stood silhouetted against the leaping flames that raged across Red Reaver’s deck, flailing wildly with his cutlass to keep his attackers at bay. In the end it was Kronn who evaded his blade and leapt in, chapak swinging. The pirate leaned back from the kender’s axe, overbalanced, and toppled over the railing into the churning sea.

The kender watched him fall, then looked around with satisfaction. His eyes met Riverwind’s, and he grinned.

The Plainsman stared back, still half amazed, then slumped wearily to the deck.

Red Reaver was still smoldering at sunset, creaking and crackling. The cinders of her hull glowed red in the deepening dark. She listed sideways as seawater seeped in through her fire-weakened hull, and her bow was considerably closer to the waterline than her stern, but stubbornly she refused to sink. The black, charred fingers of her masts clutched upward, toward the pale, rising moon.

Amid the fire’s dim light, the survivors of the battle wrapped their dead in blankets and lined them along the bloodstained deck. It had been a heavy toll. Nine of the escaped slaves, and all of Captain Ar-Tam’s crew save three young seamen, had been slain. The pirates were all dead, too, but the slaves and sailors had given them to the sharks without a funeral.

The slaves’ black-bearded leader, a Khurrish mariner named Alaruq ur-Phadh, bent over each of his dead fellows and placed a steel coin—given to him by Kronn, who had salvaged some small part of the Reaver’s spoils—in each man’s mouth. It was an old rite of the Mikku, the clan to which Alaruq and his fellows belonged; the coins were payment for the guardians of the underworld, so the dead could pass by the Abyss and find peace among the stars.

Kael Ar-Tam gave his men no coins, nor did he speak as he looked over the corpses of his men. The creases on his scar-lined face deepened as his eyes flicked from body to body.

Swiftraven lay on a bundle of sailcloth, moaning as Brightdawn tended his wounds. Catt knelt at his side, holding his hand. He managed to smile at the kender.

“I doubted you,” he murmured. “I thought you were hiding, that you were afraid to help us.” He drew a deep breath, summoning words he found hard to speak. “I’m sorry.”

Red Reaver’s mizzenmast, made brittle by burning, groaned loudly against the gusting wind, then snapped and fell with a crash. Everyone on Brinestrider jumped at the sound. Then Alaruq spoke a word to the other escaped slaves. The men were dressed now, having taken clothes from the dead sailors’ lockers, but there was no hiding the hollow pallor of their faces or the difficult shadows deep within their eyes. One by one, the slaves lifted the shrouded bodies and dropped them into the sea. The corpses bobbed briefly on the waves before the waterlogged blankets dragged them down.

When the last of the dead had been cast overboard, Riverwind stood at Brinestrider’s rail and stared silently out across the sea. After a time, he reached into his fur vest and pulled out the Forever Charm. He looked at it accusingly, his fingers tracing its endless loop. Then he heard footsteps on the deck behind him. Recognizing the rhythm of his daughter’s light but confident stride, he curled his fingers around the charm, hiding it from view.

“You’re mad at them, aren’t you?” Brightdawn asked. She drew up beside him, leaning against the rail and following his gaze across the water. “The gods.”

“I braved death on black wings for Mishakal.” Riverwind said, frowning. “I brought her staff out of Xak Tsaroth, and your mother and I restored mankind’s faith in her.”

Brightdawn looked at him. “And, in return, she abandoned you.” She reached out, rested a gentle hand on his arm. “She owes you more than this, Father.”

The Plainsman sighed, a deep, woeful sound.

Her grasp on his arm tightened. “It’s all right to be angry, Father,” she murmured. “Do you remember Snaketooth?”

Riverwind nodded. Snaketooth had been the war priest of the Qué-Kiri . Two years ago, when he’d learned that Kiri-Jolith had left the world, he had stopped eating out of despair. Young and strong at the start of his self-imposed fast, he had withered to a skeleton within two months, refusing even simple gruel or broth. Then, still grieving, he had died.

“Chief Graywinter told me, not long after the funeral, that when the women were washing Snaketooth’s body, they found something in his hand,” Brightdawn pressed. “Do you know what it was?”

Her father shook his head.

“It was a bison’s horn,” she said. “Kiri-Jolith’s holy symbol. They had to pry it from his fingers.”

A shudder wracked Riverwind’s body. He opened his fist and stared at the Forever Charm. Then he shook his head and draped it around his neck once more. He turned to Brightdawn as he tucked the medallion back into his vest. “I must ask you to do something when we reach Ak-Thain,” he said.

“I know.”

“Return to the Plains,” he pleaded. “Take Swiftraven with you.”

She shook her head. “No. There is more at stake now,” Brightdawn answered. “I owe my life to Kronn and Catt, after today—so does Swiftraven. Neither of us is going to turn our backs on a debt to the kender.”

“You would go against your own father’s wishes, then?”

Brightdawn closed her eyes. “Father,” she said, “have you heard the story of the princess who loved the shepherd boy? She went against her father’s wishes, too.”

“Don’t play games with me, child,” Riverwind snapped.

“I am not a child!” Brightdawn shot back. “I am a grown woman, and I know this isn’t a game. But what would have happened if Mother had heeded her father instead of following what was in her heart? I wouldn’t be standing here, for one thing.” Her strong, sky-blue eyes, so much like her mother’s, fixed on his. “I will go on to Kendermore, Father, because I must. Please don’t ask me to do otherwise.”

With that, she turned and walked away. Riverwind closed his eyes, but tears spilled forth anyway, leaving trails on his cheeks that glistened in the moonlight.

Out across the water, Red Reaver tipped up, slowly sinking beneath the waves.