We used to rule, you know. Many centuries ago, in times the memory of which has been carefully blotted out.
Not here, not in this wasteland, but in the West. We were masters of the great cities of men, who were Our slaves and Our cattle. That was before Justinian came and threw Us down from our hidden thrones. He was mighty. Is mighty. The source of his power remains obscure to Us...and We have done much, have done terrible things and great, to uncover his secrets. Still they elude Us.
The godling's rise forced Us to flee east, to the lands ruled by his foe. The one they now call the Dark Lord and speak of only in whispers. Some of Our kind submitted to him and served him. Not Clan Stryge.
We do not serve.
So We bid our time, hidden in the great tombs of the north from God King and Dark Lord alike, feeding in secret on the norsemen who served Daigon. And when he was thrown down, and the norsemen grew desperate, we became rulers of men once more.
The Cursed Sea, North of the Broken ArmWater exploded over the prow, a huge bloom of white foam showering the foredeck, drenching the already drenched clanswords. Jago grinned as the freezing sea washed over him. His left hand tightened around the grip of his short sword, his right around the handle of his axe. He lived for this.
The
Almalexia lurched beneath his feet as the ship climbed the oncoming wave. As it crested, their quarry came into view. The
Ushtobal was listing badly, the choppy sea around it churning and red. Their prey was a chariot-ship, sleek and fast but poorly armed, pulled through the sea by a harnessed zama whale. A masterful shot from one of the
Lexia's ballistae had wounded the monster in an earlier skirmish, and now the sharks had set in on it...leaving the
Ushtobal adrift.
"Axes!" shouted Blackteeth, Jarl Valen Vymar's favored thane and right hand, "Axes out!"
A clatter ran up and down the deck as the clansmen armed themselves. Jago bashed his sword and axe and let loose a warcry so loud it left blood in his mouth. The men around him took it up.
Another plunge, another plume of water washing the warriors. Another rise...and they were on them. The
Almalexia crashed into the
Ushtobal with a splintering crunch.
"Get the child!" shouted Blackteeth, "Everyone else is sharkfood!"
Jago had leapt the gap and was on the other boat before the thane finished shouting. A deckhand rushed at him with a harpoon. He swatted the rusted tip away easily with the flat of his sword and beheaded the man with an axeswing. The head skidded across the planks, blinking in shock, before it tumbled into the waves.
The
Ushtobal crewmen fought like demons- knowing that capture meant thralldom or worse. It was well known that the men of Nagath's northern shores consorted with ghouls and monsters, that even their kings and chieftains answered to decrepit things that supped on the flesh of men. The
Ushtobal's captain had taken a real risk sailing so close to the shores of the Broken Arm, depending on his vessel's speed to outrun reavers on his dash to Port Nailbite in Northmarch.
The gambit might have worked, had the northmen not been ready for them. Perhaps the circling shadows in the overcast skies following the
Ushtobal since Ozgad's Folly had not been seabirds, after all.
Jago cut down three more deckhands. More northmen were aboard now, and the slaughter was general, the sleek ship's deck slick with blood.
"One more step and she's dead!" screamed a shrill voice. Jago glanced up. The
Ushtobal's captain stood beside the wheel, a bug-eyed dandy, his cutlass drawn across the neck of a girl of nine or ten. Dirty blond, dressed in a colorless shift, skinny. Her eyes were closed, her expression resigned.
The child they had come for. The one the Stryge wanted, gods and devils help her.
"I know you're here for her," said the captain, shaky but calmer now. A half dozen clan warriors formed a semi-circle around him, bloody weapons in hand, "I'll make a dea-"
There was a crack like thunder and the captain collapsed, his sword clattering to the deck.
Jarl Vymar stepped around the cluster of clanwarriors, a smoking flintlock in his hand. He was a tall man, grave, dressed in a salt-stained black cloak, with black hair going gray at the sides.
He grabbed the girl by the arm. She opened her eyes.
"You're safe now," said Vymar, then to the clan-warriors, "Get her on the ship, then cut this hulk loose."
Marrone
josephb
