Chapter Forty

Two piers over from the docked galley, Tarn waded into the surf. Winter cold water snatched his breath away and numbed his limbs. Cloaked beneath a partly cloudy sky, he breast stroked patiently, working the water gently so as to not create a splash, or to leave a betraying ripple in his wake. At the end of the pier, he paused by a piling that supported the boardwalk overhead. Beards of green algae, anchored to the column, undulated to the surface, waving back and forth, set dancing by the motion of Tarn treading water and the receding tide. Ensconced behind the piling, immersed in darkness, he waited, watching, ensuring the galley's sentry looked elsewhere than into the cold black depths below his post. With the same careful strokes which brought Tarn this far, he moved silently to the galley's wide rudder.

Tarn grasped the barnacle- and mussel-thick rudder and pulled himself up out of the water. He stayed close to the surface, braced against the rudder, mapping out his route to the quarterdeck, while the water ran out of his clothes. Above the rudder, where the bay windows of the captain's cabin jutted outward, he sighted a series of thin-lipped ledges. Tarn reached the ledge and shuffled to the right window pane. The catch on the window was locked. He stretched upwards, using the rudder arm for support, and hooked his fingers on the deck directly beneath the taffrail. Had someone viewed him from below, they may have been inclined to believe that a giant fly scuttled up the back of the ship.

His left, buckskin-clad foot slipped. One leg flailed, slipping again as he sought a reliable hold. Breathing smoothly, he covertly lifted his eyes above the lip of the pitch-sealed quarterdeck, which brought the sentry into sight. The man stood with his back to him, leaning against the helm, staring into the city, disregarding the very direction danger lurked. A boisterous laugh echoed from a nearby street. Two drunken sailors exited a drinking hall. Arm in arm, they wove their way along the street and past the galley. Tarn placed a dagger between his teeth, and slowly swung one leg, and then the other over the taffrail.

Wet boots squished softly as he crept closer to the unwary guard, leaving watery footprints glistening under the silvery moonlight. Four paces short of his goal, the man heard the soggy footwear and turned to look for the source of the noise. The man's jaw gaped, and then grew pursed. He drew in a breath in which to cry out an alarm. Tarn threw his dagger. It spun end over end to sprout hilt first out of the man's throat, just above the collarbone. Raspy guttering noises escaped his pallid lips. Desperate hands reached for the dagger, whose bloody hilt grew ruby droplets.

Tarn stepped forward, caught the guard's unarmoured head between both hands, and gave it a quick, left/right twist. Sharp snapping noises of neck bones breaking heralded the sentry's death. Tarn laid him down quietly and retrieved his dagger. As an afterthought, he used the man's studded sword belt to lash him tight to the wheel mast. Unless anyone called to him or came close, it would appear as though he stood on duty.

An indiscernible stealthy black shape slunk along the gangplank, hugging the oily boards, blending seamlessly with the shadows. Barath padded silently across the main deck to the lightly snoring form, and unceremoniously ripped out the sleeping guard's throat. He looked toward the sentry leaning on the bow rail. The wary man turned around and walked to the port side of the galley, indolently gazing out across the dark expanse of the bay, and the few stars that were not blocked by heavy cloud cover, thinking that if it did not rain tonight, it would on the morrow. Barath froze behind the mainmast. There was plenty of cover between him and the guard up to the last ten paces of open deck.

Tarn tucked himself behind a barrel and peered out across the ship, searching for a means of gaining the bow unnoticed. Crossing the deck was out of the question. The sentry commanded an excellent field of vision. His eyes roamed upwards. A series of lines were attached to the mainmast and tied off around the quarterdeck railing. Once the guard turned his attention to the city, Tarn cut the closest line, approximated the distance to the lower deck, and swung along the length of the galley like an elusive scrap of shadow fleeing the sun.

The soldier turned for the starboard side of the ship when Tarn's wet boot lashed out. It connected solidly with his skull, snapping his head to the side. A sharp grunt of pain escaped his lips. The guard fell to his knees, stunned, but still conscious. Already he fought to gain his feet and to draw his sword. He shook his head to clear it and opened his mouth to cry out a warning. A black mass hurtled through the night. Several hundred pounds of wolf bore the dazed sentry to the deck, where nightmare fangs tore his throat out, ripping his Adam's apple and esophagus free in a river of pulsing blood. Tarn let go of the rope, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, beside the fallen guard, met by a blood-glistening muzzle that wore a gruesome sense of satisfaction.

Side by side the lethal pair made for the stairs that led below deck. Whereas Tarn descended the wooden steps with only a soft creak of wood to betray his passage, Barath's lesser and more evenly distributed weight travelled soundlessly. They crept up to the round-topped door described by Bartal, slinking past the cabins that housed the ship's contingent of soldiers.

Siding up to the door, Tarn tested the cabin latch. Unlocked. He raised the tarnished bolt until the portal opened under his hand. Praying the hinges were well-oiled, and wouldn't protest his intrusion, he cracked the portal wide enough to allow him to slip through. The priest lay on his side, on the lone bunk, facing the wall, covers pulled up to his chin. Once Barath entered, Tarn eased the door shut. As he engaged the lock, the mechanism clicked loudly, magnified by the nocturnal silence.

Kharstad rolled over!

Barath and Tarn froze. When the priest's breathing returned to normal, Tarn glided to the side of the bed and tightly clamped a palm over Kharstad's thin-lipped mouth. Barath jumped on top of his chest at the same time as a pair of startled eyes snapped open; growing wider yet at the sight of the furry head that was all amber eyes and curved fangs.

Kharstad panicked and began to thrash, unable to sit up, unable to dislodge Barath or break Tarn's crushing grip. His eyes grew wider yet; until they were mostly white with tiny dots for irises.

Tarn leaned in close to Kharstad's ear, and whispered fiercely, "If ye cry out, or speak except to answer my questions, my brother will rend thy throat ere the first syllable be complete. Do I make myself clear?" The panic of a startled waking to find a wolf's muzzle inches away receded. Kharstad nodded, composing himself, evaluating Tarn's merciless glare. Tarn removed his hand. "Where be the children of my village?" The priest stared at him blankly. Barath bared his fangs, growling. Kharstad did not flinch. "I'll ask ye one last time. Where be the children?"

"There are worse punishments than death. I will tell ye naught. Kill me and be done with it," Kharstad announced, calmly, bravely.

Green eyes seething furious, burning vengeance, met Kharstad's words. If not for his code of honour, he would have slit the priest's throat then and there. Barath's fangs parted, moving forward when Tarn's voice stopped him.

"No brother. We do not murder men in their beds, even one as low as this cur," then added, "We will bind him and take him with us to be questioned at our leisure. The lout is correct, there are worse fates than a traitor's death," Tarn warned, a sadistic grin igniting a cold aspect in his emerald-green eyes.

While Tarn gathered a binding cord with which to truss up his captive, a cry went up above deck. Boots pounded in the hallway outside Kharstad's cabin. Urgent knocks rapped on the door. A concerned voice warned, "Milord Kharstad. Intruders prowl the ship!"

The voice drew Tarn's attention. He looked to the door. Barath's fangs darted to the priest's throat. Bright arterial blood pumped from the wound when a large piece of flesh and cartilage was torn free. An envenomed dagger fell from Kharstad's limp hand with a clunk when it hit the floor.

"Milord! Do ye no heed my warning? We 'ave intruders aboard!" warned the voice. The knocking recommenced. There was more urgency in the door pounding. Above and the din, the guard cried, "To me! To me! Our lord does no respond."

The big youth looked for a window in which to escape. There was none! Desperation turned into calm urgency. Hob-nailed boots tromped across the deck. More booted feet clambered down the steps. They were trapped.

"We must fight our way to the galley slaves," Tarn decided, drawing his hip sword with one hand and a dagger with the other. They had passed the door leading to the slaves below. The thick stench of feces and unwashed bodies made no mistake what lay behind that door. "There be too many guards to win free up the stairs."

The cabin door shuddered under the impact of two shoulders. The next blow cracked the centre seam. It crashed inward, pulling the soft metal latch from its wooden berth with a screech. Even before the damaged portal rebounded off the wall, Barath sprang off the bed. One of the guards who kicked in the door fell screaming to the deck under Barath's fanged attack, while Tarn jumped over the pair to face the other.

A short sword darted in at Tarn's chest. He parried it with his and stabbed the guard in the throat with his dagger. Another soldier replaced his fallen comrade. Tarn beat aside the thrusting sword, and drove his elbow into an unprotected face; he pulverized a bulbous nose, splitting whiskered-lips and knocking a tooth loose. Blood squirted, cartilage snapped. Eyes blurred with pain and unbidden tears. The injured man fell backwards against another, granting Tarn a precious step forward. A burly sentry challenged Tarn. Ere the barrel-chested man struck, Barath's long fangs closed around his leg; the soldier's scream muted by a yard of cold steel that pierced his lungs.

Several paces in front of Tarn, a door opened. The stench of stale sweat and human waste wafted up from below deck. It was the unmistakable stench of unwashed men, of slaves.

"Through the door," shouted Tarn, pointing at the rotund man, whose belly was girdled behind a wide leather belt, filled the doorway.

Barath launched himself into the air. Two hundred pounds of airborne wolf drove the man back through the doorway, carrying him down the stairs to the floor, one hand thrown up protectively to stave off the sharp incisors that burrowed toward the tender flesh beneath his chin. Barath's teeth closed around the arm, near the elbow joint, cutting to the bone. He shook his head, ripping and rending flesh and arteries. The man, the task drummer, howled wolfish pain, and struck Barath repeatedly with his free hand, striking wildly, inflicting mild damage that did not deter the wolf.

Three more guards rushed down the main stairs. Others shouted behind them, calling their comrades to join them. Tarn darted through the door that Barath had entered and slammed it shut, glancing anxiously around the dim hold. Barath stood beside the dead task drummer, who lay in a pool of his blood, victim of a wolfish demise. Twenty-four rows of slaves, chained to benches on either side of the ship, cheered the pair's arrival. A choir of frenzied, condemned voices begged freedom, rattling ankle manacles that bound them to their oars. Some remained silent, as though they watched a spectacle that would end with an addition to the oar bench, as though they feared to worsen their already tenuous position. Some were too tired to cry out, having long ago learned the life-saving value of conserving precious energy during idle moments. And some simply refused to believe they would ever be released from their life sentence, having long ago surrendered to a fate determined by their immutable god.

"Silence! The keys. Where are they?" Tarn yelled, bracing his shoulder against the door to keep it shut under the pounding that had begun.

From somewhere on his left, near the bow, a freedom hungry, hopeful slave answered, "The first mate and captain carry a set each."

"Curse bless the belly of this galley, whose bowels be our redemption," Tarn muttered, divining a desperate strategy.

"Be quick, hearty saviour, the door isn't the only entrance. There be hatches fore and aft," said another, heaping a deeper shade of bleakness upon the night.

Tarn placed his dagger in the top of the door jam and used the heel of his palm to drive the blade deep into the frame. He repeated the process with his second dagger at the base of the door, buying precious seconds. Knowing it wouldn't hold but seconds, he engaged the door lock. Tarn sheathed his hip sword and drew Kalen's sword.

"Be there a main link or lock?"

"Over here, at the head of the chain," came an immediate response, accompanied by an arm wave. Tarn sprinted down the middle of the ship, between the rows of rag-covered slaves. An oarsman, whose back and shoulders were crisscrossed with ugly red whip welts, pointed to the large padlock. Eyeing the nearby hatch, he said, "Here. This lock, and the other behind ye, confine all."

The quarter-inch thick hasp, fashioned from soft pig iron, lay on its side, keyhole side up. Tarn stood the lock on its end, planted his feet wide, and raised his sword over his head like an axe. Inhaling a deep breath, he focused his eyes on the hasp and brought his arms down.

God-steel cut cleanly through the curved hasp and kept going to sink a few inches into the deck. Freedom-hungry slaves cheered his success. The long chain clinked and clanked as they slid it free of their ankle rings. The first to be released sprang from their benches, wild-eyed and nervous. The door shuddered under the weight of a heavy shoulder. The voices that had rewarded Tarn seconds earlier, went silent, all eyes were on the door. The daggers held. Tarn moved quickly to the other side and severed the second hasp with his sword.

Soldiers entered through the hatches.

The door splintered.

Vengeance and limbs unleashed, the galley slaves swarmed past Tarn to deal death to their captors. Their sheer numbers overwhelmed the first few guards through the door, whereupon they snatched up the fallen weapons, swung chains, and whatever else they could lay hands on. The slave mob clambered up hatches and stairs, heedless of their death toll, unstoppable in their gushing fury. A slave condemned to the oars fears little. Certainly not death, for it is a release from a life abundantly more miserable than death. For every three that died, one soldier fell beneath the screaming horde of hate-filled flesh, but their numbers and rage were such, that five might have fallen for each soldier and they still would have reaped victory's reward.

Tarn retrieved one dagger from the door jam. The other was gone, swept up by one of the liberated oarsmen. When he and Barath reached the main deck, all of the guards were either dead or had fled the ship when the first few rag-ridden, bedraggled slaves gained the upper hand. Most slaves streamed off the ship, some in blood-thirsty pursuit of fleeing soldiers. Others sought to put as much distance between the galley and themselves in the shortest time possible. Still, others looted the cabins for clothes, money, or weapons, looking to exact further payment for their confinement than simply the swift death of their tormentors.

Barath barked over top of the bedlam and looked to a lantern hanging from a hook.

"Aye brother. Good idea," Tarn agreed, grabbed the lantern and smashed it on the ship's deck.

As the oil spilled out, so too, did flames, flowing across the deck like water from a tipped barrel. Barath and Tarn ran down the gangplank, along the wharf, and disappeared into the inviting darkness of the alleys and avenues.

In half a turn of an hourglass, Tarn and Barath reached the inn where they were lodged. Tarn forced himself to walk calmly through the inn's drinking hall, outwardly unworried. Inwardly, his pulse thumped against the back of his throat. Heads turned as he passed through the common room. Blood and gore covered his cloak and boots. Once he ensured the presence of the hair at the bottom of the door, he unlocked it, gathered his pack, and departed the inn.

* * * * * * *

Flames spread quickly to the galley's canvas sails, throwing billowing black clouds of smoke into the sky. Hungry flames shot heavenward, licking the tops of the masts, illuminating the docks in yellow-orange, flickering sheets. An alarm bell rang out, serenading the night with a hysterical call-to-arms. Partially dressed denizens rushed outdoors and found the sky filled with tongues of fire and bright sparks—the city's worst enemy recognized.

There were repeated screams of "Fire!" as the citizens ran to the docks with pails, pots, or whatever else would hold water, ready to battle a foe capable of reaving their lives, homes, and livelihood. Bucket brigade lines were established to douse the roofs of nearby buildings, while a skiff, rowed by five brave men, towed the galley, now a fireball, casting deadly burning cinders into the air, out into the middle of the bay to burn and sink impotently.

Amongst the mayhem and commotion, a fur-clad youth and a black wolf walked out of the city and into the embrace of the dark forest. Barath led Tarn unerringly toward Mycenar and the temple of Mahnaz. Tarn would have preferred to speak with the injured sailor Hilda had mentioned, but after the battle and ensuing fire, this was impossible, for his participation in emancipating the galley's slaves would soon be common knowledge. In any event, the slave galley and priest originated from Mycenar.

When he thought about Mycenar, he remembered Valna and Barath's curse. Magic. Should he read the scroll? By Kalen's sword! he detested magic, yet he wore a pendant and swung an enchanted blade. No, he was the son of Connor, a member of the White Steppe clan from the mountains of Asgard. Steel. That was what his father trusted, what Dennen and Korub had trusted; where he placed his trust. Sorcerers bled, and bleed them he would. He despised the use of cowardly magic to fight his battles. The cold steel of Atlantis and his cunning were his weapons. Torrocka's chastising words whispered in his head, "Stubborn man." Loping through the night with a large black wolf at his side, Tarn smiled. He chose to overlook that his father, Dennen, and Korub were all dead by trickery or sorcery.