02 The Invaders (16 page)

The oars dipped into the water, paused, then sent the pirate ship surging forward with a sudden burst of energy. The lead rower, seated halfway along the port side where he could be heard by all his companions, called the stroke for a few beats, then they settled into their rhythm and he needed all his breath for rowing.

Gradually, the other two ships climbed over the horizon as
Raven
swept toward the battle. In a few minutes, Zavac could make out details—his own men swarming over the bulwarks onto the trading ship, hemming her crew into the bow as they forced them backward along the deck. The dark figures of the pirates seemed to cover the deck of the other ship. Zavac could make out no more than eight in the trader’s crew. Possibly less.

He turned to Andras.

“Bring us along her port side,” he ordered. The
Viper
was already grappled to the trader’s starboard side, clinging like a leech.

Andras nodded and leaned into the tiller. The
Raven
swung until she was on course, then steadied.

“Faster!” Zavac shouted, and the lead rower called a new cadence, increasing the pace of the oars. The
Raven
seemed to leap forward.

They were close enough now to hear the cries of wounded men and the clash of sword against sword, punctuated by the dull, heavy thuds of axes striking wooden shields. Occasionally, as a blow went home, they could hear splintering sounds.

They were almost up to the two ships now and Zavac called a warning.

“In oars!”

The port-side rowers instantly hefted their oars up out of harm’s way, holding them vertically as the ship slid alongside the trader, then grated against her with a drawn-out, shuddering crash.

Other crew members were standing by with grapnels and they hurled them now and hauled in tight on the ropes, locking
Raven
to the trader. As the two bulwarks ground together, Zavac drew his sword and led the way onto the other ship.

“Come on!” he shouted, and a score of battle-ready pirates followed him.

There were only four of the trader’s crew left alive by now. At the sight of the overwhelming numbers facing them, they let out cries of despair and then, in response to one who was obviously their captain, they let their weapons fall to the deck with a clatter.

The gesture of surrender was too late for one of them, as a pirate’s spear was already thrusting forward. It took him in the middle of the body and drove him back. He screamed and fell to the deck, the spear still transfixing him as the pirate struggled to free it.

“Enough!” roared Zavac. “Lower your weapons!”

A few of the men from the
Viper
seemed reluctant to obey. Their fighting blood was up and they had no wish to stop. Zavac had expected as much and he’d prepared three of his own boarding party, all big men armed with clubs, to take charge. He gestured them forward now.

“Stop them,” he said.

It wasn’t done out of any sense of mercy. He’d noted the captain, who had given the order to surrender, was one of the survivors. Zavac wanted time to question him. Sometimes, trading captains could provide very valuable information.

The three big men barged through the
Viper
’s crew, shoving them out of the way. They reached the spearman just as he freed his weapon from the sailor’s body. His eyes were still wild and he was looking for another victim. One of the big men stunned him with a blow to the head. It was so offhand, so casually brutal, almost an afterthought. The spearman crumpled and fell to the deck.

Zavac then shoved forward through the group who surrounded the remaining three sailors. He grabbed the captain’s collar in his left hand. His right held his long, curving sword.

“You!” he shouted. “You captain, yes?”

The man looked at him, contempt in his eyes. Then he spat on the deck.

“
Oui
,” he replied. “
Je suis le capitaine
.”

“Gallican?” Zavac demanded, and the man nodded. Zavac glanced quickly at the other survivors. They were both common sailors. Their plain, rough clothes, weathered faces and hands and tarred pigtails made that obvious. They’d have little useful information. Zavac gestured at them with his sword.

“Kill those two.”

As the captain, realizing what was about to happen, tried to shout a protest, two of the
Raven
crew stepped forward and cut the sailors down. One died in silence. The other gave a brief cry of pain and despair, then fell to the bloodstained deck.

“Search the ship,” Zavac ordered. He re-sheathed his sword, then jerked a thumb at the Gallican captain. “Bring him aft,” he ordered.

Two of the big men who had followed him aboard grabbed the captain by an arm on either side and marched him to the stern of the ship. At Zavac’s signal, they threw the captain onto the deck. Zavac leaned against the bulwark close to the tiller, looking down curiously at the captain.

“Now, let’s see what your ship is carrying,” he said mildly.

It turned out that the trader was lightly laden, which indicated that she’d already sold most of her cargo farther to the south.

“You were quick off the mark,” Zavac said cheerfully as he inspected the small pile of remaining trade goods dragged up from the cargo space. There were a few barrels of wine and ale, some clay jars of oil and several bales of wool.

Andras inspected the latter. “Pretty poor quality,” he called.

Zavac nodded. They must have been unable to find a buyer for the wool, he thought.

“So, you’ve traded all your goods,” he said to the captain. The man glared at him, seeming to not understand, until Zavac’s thin veneer of good humor was cast aside.

“Don’t playact with me!” Zavac shouted, drawing a long dagger from a sheath on his belt. “You speak the common tongue! You’re a trader!”

Quick as a striking snake, he slashed the thin blade of the dagger across the Gallican’s face, laying open a long cut. The man’s hands flew to his face, then he stared, uncomprehending, at the blood staining them. Zavac’s attack had been so fast, and his blade was so sharp, that the captain had barely felt the cut. Now the pain registered with him, a burning sensation across his face, accompanied by the rush of blood dripping down onto his clothes.

He huddled away from the Magyaran, hunching his shoulder in a futile attempt to avoid further punishment.

“Speak to me,” Zavac demanded, his voice quiet once more.

The captain, one hand still pressed to the cut on his face, answered slowly. “What should I tell you?”

Zavac smiled, and pointed the tip of the dagger at the man’s face, holding it loosely on the palm of his hand and letting the blade bounce up and down on his fingers.

“You’ve sold your cargo. That means your cash chest will be full of gold. Where is it?”

A lifetime of preying on other ships told him that somewhere there would be a concealed strongbox, where the gold they had earned would be kept. Of course, his men could find it eventually, if they tore the ship apart. But gold was relatively easy to conceal and it was generally simpler to have his victims tell him where the strongbox was.

The Gallican, however, shook his head. “There’s no gold,” he said. “Trading has been bad. The ship was damaged in the storms and I had to pay for repairs. There’s nothing left, I swear.”

Zavac looked at the dagger in his hand, seemed to come to a decision and re-sheathed it. He sighed deeply, looking up at the sky, rather than at the surly figure of the captain on the deck in front of him.

“You know,” he said in a musing tone, “I wonder how many ships I’ve taken and sunk over the years. One hundred? Two hundred? Probably two hundred is closer to the mark. And I have to wonder why, in just about every one of those cases, the captain told me that there’s no gold. There’s no strongbox. There’s no hidden compartment on his ship. They say the same thing every time. And do you know what?”

Now he let his gaze fall on the captain. The man was still nursing his injured cheek, although the blood was starting to congeal and wasn’t flowing as freely. The captain looked up at the pirate with fear in his eyes. Zavac prompted him to answer his question.

“What?” said the captain.

“They were all lying. Every one of them. So, why should I think you’re any different?”

“I… ,” the captain began. Then he fell silent. He sensed it was useless talking to this man. He knew his life was forfeit and the only possible revenge he could have was to deny Zavac the knowledge he was seeking. Zavac looked at him with mock pity. Then he made a dismissive gesture.

“I can see you’re not going to tell me,” he said. He turned and walked away, heading back toward the bow. He hadn’t gone more than three paces before he turned back to his two big henchmen.

“Torture him,” he said briefly. “Call me when he’s ready to talk.” He considered his statement, then he amended it. “On second thought, when he’s ready to talk, keep torturing him for another five minutes. Then call me.”

It took fifteen minutes for the Gallican skipper to give in. Then, as instructed, the torturers continued their ghastly work for another five, before Zavac called a halt.

The captain was barely recognizable now. His face was a mask of blood and more blood stained his shirt. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing, as was his left ear. There was a deep cut under one eye. It was this that had finally convinced him to give in. Even though, logically, he knew he was going to die, the thought of losing that eye had been too horrible.

Zavac surveyed him with professional interest, then smiled at his two heavily muscled assistants.

“Amazing what you can achieve in a few minutes with just a couple of sharp blades,” he said. Then he dropped to one knee beside the captain, who was lying facedown in a pool of his own blood, breathing noisily past a broken nose.

“Now,” said Zavac. “The strongbox.”

He had to bend closer to hear the reply, slurred and breathless with pain as it was.

“False panel… behind anchor cable…”

Zavac slapped the man heartily on the shoulder.

“That’s better!” he said. “I’m sure the truth has purged your soul of wickedness.” He rose and started toward the bow. One of the torturers stopped him.

“Will we finish him off?” he asked, but Zavac shook his head.

“Wait till we see if he’s telling the truth,” he said. “I may have to ask him more questions.”

But the strongbox was where the captain had said, concealed behind a false panel. There was no lock. The hiding place was considered security enough. But when Zavac pried the lid open, his eyes grew wider with avarice.

There was gold there, of course. And plenty of it. But nestling in a small compartment of their own were nine magnificent emeralds—the biggest and finest that Zavac had ever seen.

“Hello,” he said quizzically. “Where do you suppose these came from?”

He repeated the question to the captain, who shook his head wearily, unable to summon the strength to answer. Zavac was tempted for a moment to hit him, to shake him and force the answer from him. But he sensed this would be the wrong approach. Instead, he dropped to one knee, leaned close and whispered to him.

“Tell me where the emeralds came from. And I’ll make the pain stop.”

The blood-rimmed eyes rose to meet his and he nodded encouragingly. Finally, the Gallican summoned his strength.

“Limmat. They came from Limmat.”

Limmat was a trading port to the south of where they now were. Zavac frowned. He’d never heard of emeralds in that part of the coast.

“Don’t lie to me,” he warned, the smile fading from his face. But the Gallican shook his head doggedly.

“True. There’s a mine in the hills behind the town. Hidden. Secret.”

“Hidden? How is it hidden?”

“A barn. Built at the base of a hill. It hides the mine entrance.”

Zavac rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to hide it,” he mused. The captain drew in another shuddering breath before replying.

“They don’t want word to get out.”

Zavac’s smile returned. “I don’t blame them,” he said. “If it was well-known, it might attract the wrong sort of people.”

He rose, a thoughtful expression on his face. He’d need more men if he was going to take Limmat. It was quite a large town and its inhabitants would presumably be ready to fight to save their emerald mine.

But Zavac knew where he could find reinforcements. There was a bay a few leagues away on the coast that served as an assembly point for Magyaran ships. It was standard practice for pirates to call there on their outward journeys, checking for word of a plum target like this one. Any captain who had come across such an opportunity and needed more men could find willing reinforcements there.

He’d go there, he thought, and see if any of his countrymen were there. If not, he’d wait a few days. At this time of year, with the hunting season starting, a ship would almost certainly call
there in the near future. He began to pace away, deep in thought, when the captain called after him.

“You promised…”

Zavac turned, frowning. “I promised? Promised what?”

“Stop the pain…” The man held out a beseeching hand. With two fingers missing and caked in rapidly drying blood, it reminded Zavac of a bird’s claw more than a human hand.

“Did I?” he said, then he smiled as he seemed to remember. “So I did.”

He turned back to the captain and, drawing his curved sword, ran the man through.

“And I’m a man of my word.”

Then he turned to his accomplices and jerked a thumb at the dead captain.

“Throw that overboard.”

chapter
fifteen