Penny

Damned to the Depths

The Weather Witch fell off to port as Markus put the helm over. The stiffening wind drove the hull deeper into the water as she took more of the wind on her quaters. They had been running southerly on a long board and would have been due tack soon in any case. Calliope’s eyes shimmered with her mage sight, and she was just able to pick out the slight glow of the enemy mage on the onrushing ship. Now that the Witch was on a perpendicular rather than a nearly parallel course the ranged closed quickly and soon the two onrushing vessels were visible to the naked eye.

They were a pair of great oared galleys, their hulls made of teak or some other dark wood. Long lateen sails drove them swiftly through the water but their speed was supplemented by two banks of stout oaken sweeps which shoved the vessels across the water like pond bettles. Galleys had gone out of style both on the continent and in the free cities, they required large crews of slaves or paid oarsmen and the space that such a crew required limited the space for cargo or artillery considerably.

Of course they were ideal ships for piracy especially close to the coast where sea room was scarce and a ship could be pinned against a lee shore with little chance to maneuver. Sketti was heaving on his balista, swinging the platform to bear on the approaching vessel though the range was surely yet to great. Grimey ran from gun to gun, pulling free the wooden tompkins and shouting at men to run them out, a task which took two or three men. To properly serve a gun required four men though Calliope had some notions for how she might enchant the pulleys to make the task more managabel for the short crew.

“Sail ho!” came the cry from the crows nest, “three points a’larboard about the beam!” Calliope turned to look in the direction everyone else did though, without the advantage of the mast altitude she saw only darkened sea.

“Two sails! Same heading.” Four enemy ships, it had to be a coordinated ambush of some sort. If Markus was disturbed by this he gave no sign.

“Stand by to come about, hands aloft to set royals!”

“Two more sails! Two points a’larbord!” The crew paused in fear hanging half way up the ratlines.

“Shut your yap be there a whole cursed fleet and set the royals you curs or ill lighten the ship of your bodies!” Markus roared and he put the helm hard over, slewing the Witch so she was on a direct reciprocal with the two approaching ships. The ships were less than a mile away now. Calliope could clearly see the gilt work about their bow, intricate script picked out in flaking gold paint. The boom, boom, boom of drums could be heard as the rowers kept the stroke. The unison in which they pulled their oars was enough indication that they were trained oarsmen rather than slaves, a bad sign. Sketti almost jumping up and down gesticulated at Markus. Above them the snap of canvas was almost deafening as the royals billowed out and snatched at the wind, adding to the Weather Witches considerable speed.

“Fire as you bear Sketti!” Markus roared and the dwarf yanked at a lever. There was a viceral thunk as the projectile leaped into the air. The dwarf cursed as the missle whistled over the deck of the nearer of the two galley, decaptaing several of the motley crew that thronged her deck, waving spears and scimitars and the occasional long jezzail. The dwarf grabbed another bolt and began cranking the great windlass that drew the weapon back into place.

“Stand to the guns!” Grimey yelled and men were already scurrying out of the rigging running to pick up pot fires and sponges to work the new found artillery. Calliope wished they had enjoyed the time and powder to practice, but both had been in short supply. At their present bearing they couldn’t fire on the ships ahead of them, but in short order they would be alongside, yardarm to yardarm.

“We can’t take on six ships,” Calliope said quietly, her understanding of naval warfare was strategic rather than tactical but that would have been obvious to a child. What she was really saying was ‘do you have a plan’ without doing so directly.

A ball of flame leaped from the trailing vessel. Calliope raised her hands and shouted a word of power. The fireball smashed into an invisible shield fifty feet from the Witch. She raised her own hand and began to chant, beginning the delicate dance of both protecting the Witch and attacking the enemy vessels with magics of her own.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The desert streaked by below them, the rock and sand seeming to glow gold under the bright moonlight. No one spoke so Sayeeda, figuring her ruse would gain her no more information, opened her eyes.

“Where am I? Who are you?” she asked, making a show of tugging at her bonds. The turbaned man was gone, presumably off to do whatever task these men were compelling him to attempt. The city was already vanishing over the horizon. As far as she knew Neil was still back at their rented lodgings, unaware of what had transpired. The armored man, clearly an off worlder, sat beside her, while the local man was in the driver's seat head of them, separated by a sheet of transparent plastic on a metal frame. His skin was bronze from the sun though he had probably been born a paler shade, his head was bald with the recent application of a razor and he kept a goatee that was beginning to get out of control. It gave his already lean head an almost gaunt look. He wore a vest of woven carbon fibre which Junebug translated as ‘light infantry’ but which she knew probably just meant he was in a dangerous line of work. As kidnapping her certainly was.

“My name is Canek,’’ he said pleasantly, “and you are in an air car with me miss…”

“I am Captain Cyckali, what the fuck am I doing here?” Canek relaxed slightly at the words as though she had passed some test she hadn’t been aware off.

“Well Captain, you saw me conducting some sensitive business with the Pasha’s customs inspector. Given that man was about to soil himself before you showed up, I had to reassure him that you weren’t going to be a problem.” The man was infuriatingly calm, Junebug tugged at her restraints but they had done a professional job, she wasn’t going to get loose of them easily.

“Alright, so I’m not a problem, any chance of dropping me back at my ship? I really don’t know or care about anything you have to talk with a customs inspector about.”

Canek looked regretful but shook his head.

“Things are very sensitive right now,” he said with a glance back towards the fading lights of the canyon city.

“I heard some talk of selling me as a slave,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Ah not as unconscious as you made out, smart,” Canek said with a sharks smile.

“Well I could probably move you I suppose, your pretty enough but your a little old for a harem or a brothel, plus you look like the sort that would be more trouble than they are worth. I don’t care if you slit the throat of some fat merchant but who wants the trouble getting back to them?”

“Well you didn’t kill me so you must have something in mind,”Sayeeda said arching an eyerow. The air car was circling now, there was a small canyon, barely a fissure in the rocky landscape, the vehicle began to drop towards it. They passed within 30 feet of the rock to where it opened out into a large cave. Inside of which men and women were moving around, some of them servicing vehicles, others operating modern communications equipment. There were several light attack vehicles and a heavier hovertank concealed by tarps and tie down. Canek pulled a knife from his belt and held it up before him. After a moment he sliced through her bonds.

“Well Captain, if you can keep your mouth shut for a few days, I thought I’d offer you a job.”

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

“I am Contessa Camilla del La Trantio and this is Cydric Becker the Graf of Estabrook,” Camilla responded in Brettonian through Cydric’s name and Imperial rank gave the sentence a guttural choppiness that didn’t flow well into that stately tongue. She frowned and then added:

“The Sieur d’Estabrook,” she clarified as the Brettonian hierarchy was a little more granular than the Imperial one. Though Camilla herself technically held the rank of Gravine in the Empire, using the equivalent ‘contessa’ of Tilean was easier to reconcile with her foreign looks. If the knight took it to mean she was the Contessa of La Trantio then she couldn’t be blamed for that. It proved not to be an issue because Beaumont’s face lit up like a lantern at the news she was a noble woman. Doubtlessly the notion of rescuing a distressed damsel was more appealing than simply aiding shipwrecked merchants.

“Ah, I might have known from your beauty mademoiselle,” the knight replied smoothly, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to it in formal Brettonian fashion. With a flourish he swept the cloak of green embroidered cloth from his shoulders and draped it around Camilla’s shoulder as protection against the cold. He turned and offered a formal bow to Cydric, whose face was stoney. If the Knight noticed he didn’t comment.

“And you My Lord, a fearsome display, worthy of any knight of the knight of the realm,” Beaumont’s spoke in thickly accented Reikspiel, an accomplishment that was unusual among Brettonian nobility. Camilla wondered if Beaumont would have been as complimentary if he knew Cydric had been born a commoner. Neither of them had ever visited the tiny estates they had been granted in Middenheim, the Count had made it clear the positions were purely ceremonial.

“You spoke of having miles to ride tonight Sir Beaumont,” Camilla said glancing around at the knights as they prepared their mounts. One of the squires was cutting fresh lances from a nearby grove of trees with the aid of one of his fellows who held a torch. Although the Brettonians appeared well turned out in fine armor and colorful surcoats closer inspection told a different story. Many of their kite shields were battered and scratched and only one night still retained a formal painted lance, about which hung a banner of green and white overlaid with a golden lion rampant. The other knights bore lances of simple green timber with steel points afixed by nails and leather bindings. The number of horses too was incongruous, even with pack horses their were more mounts than men. They had clearly seen action

“Surely we can rest until dawn and ride on when we have the light,” Camilla pressed. Beaumont’s handsome features grew harder.

“Alas madamosselle, there are worse things abroad in Aquataine this night than these villains,” he said with a dismissive gesture to the caravan of lashed prisoners.

“Such as…” Camilla said with a raised eyebrow. The knight looked uncomfortable.

“Madamosselle you are perfectly safe among us and I would not wish to distress…”

“Sir Knight.” Camilla said placing a heavy emphasis on each syllable to make the words a rebuke.

“I am blessed with a strong stomach,” she went on, touching the hilt of her sword with her hand to remind the man that she had been cutting down bandits only a few minutes before. Beaumont cleared his throat.

“The walking dead are abroad m’lady,” he said reluctantly, “bands of them move by night and it is better that we don’t tarry in open country where they can concentrate against us.” That amount of tactical acumen, marked Beaumont as an unusual man. The standard Brettonian response to any problem, large or small was to charge at it full tilt and smash it to pieces. Of course the Knights of Brettonian were renowned for smashing things to pieces in just such a fashion so it wasn’t as big an indictment as it might have been.

A pair of squires came forward, one with a brightly caparisoned charger and another with a dappled gray palfrey. Both man were glancing around nervously, fingering thier long knives, though the bluff was open enough that no sudden ambush would be possible.

“If its is necromancy you fear,” Cydric broke in, “you should burn the bodies of the dead.” Beaumont looked about, obviously considering it. The knight clearly didn’t want to tarry any longer than he needed to but Cydric’s suggestion made sense.

“Toss the bodies into the pyres garcon,” he called to the squires who leaped to begin seizing the mangled bodies.

“Take axes down to the beach and take their heads, hurl them into the sea,” he went on, clearly reasoning that building a fire down there, or transporting the bodies up to the bluff would take too much time. The squires set to the work while the knights affixed their lances with steel points and mounted. Camilla climbed into the saddle of the palfrey one of the knights near her gave her a disapproving look.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable riding side saddle m’lady?” he asked in his own tongue, his tone making it clear there was a right answer to the question.

“Fuck off,” she said in Tilean but in a tone so sweet and reasonable that the fellow, if he understood Tilean, wasn’t certain of what he had heard. Cydric chuckled and pulled himself up into the saddle of the warhorse he had been provided, a magnificent roan in red and gold livery. A dark stain across the saddle spoke of the demise of its previous owner. Beaumont called the order to ride and they set off at a slow trot, fast enough to be uncomfortable for the prisoners but not fast enough that they were dragged behind the horses.

A dirt trail lead away from the bluff and through a narrow copse of trees. To the Brettonians it doubtless seemed like a forest, though to Camilla and Cydric who had traveled deep into the wooded darkness of the Drakwald it was more a garden. The knights formed a loose oval surrounding the prisoners and the squires as best they could. After a mile or so they broke through onto a dirt road bounded on one side by the forest and on another a low stone wall, across which fields and orchards could be seen. The formation shifted into a column, Beaumont took six of his knights, including the standard bearer to the front of the group and sent the remaining four men back to act as a rear guard. The squires and their prisoners clustered in the middle. If this were an imperial force they would have spread scouts out to either side, though Camilla didn’t imagine the odds of a foe hiding in a field of new sown wheat were high. In the distance she could see a windmill silhouetted against the feeble moonlight, great sails turning slowly.

“If there are undead why haven’t your nobles marshalled to meet them,” Cydric asked as he guided his horse up beside Camilla and Sir Beaumont. Cydric wasn’t a good horseman despite plenty of practice, and the warhorse, more fractious and aggressive then a regular animal tossed its head and stamped its feet in protest of his commands. The contrast with Beaumont who looked as though he had been born in the saddle was obvious. The knight made a face.

“The nobles of these lands have their own grudges,” Beaumont replied in a guarded tone.

“Most do not believe the threat is as grave as it is, or believe that it is some ruse to gain an advantage.” Camilla could tell from his tone that there was more going on here than he was willing to discuss. Her knowledge of Brettonia was limited to the working of its upper echelons and didn’t include the local politics of Aquitaine but she knew it wasn’t uncommon for lords to fight bloody and bitter feuds over territory and questions of honor.

“Well your enthusiasm for the Brettonia lasted a whole minute longer than mine,” Camillia sighed in Riekspiel. Only someone who knew Cydric very well could have detected the slight grin that settled over his features.

Spinwards to the Marches

The scent of blood filled the night as bright arterial spurts pumped the man's life from him in the space of a half dozen, very obvious heartbeats. Kyra snatched the blade from the floorboard, thumbed the power and severed the loop that bound her to the truck with a quick slash. The monokife, atom thick teeth of synthetic diamond whired at several thousand revolutions a second, slicing the tether is cleanly as a laser could have done. Releasing the shackles themselves would have been extremely difficult. It was impressive that the stranger had managed it without cutting his wrists open, nearly as impressive as taking out the guards the way he had. Rather than risking it she close her eyes for a moment and focused her mind. The human body was a remarkable instrument in many ways but it was the product of blind channels of evolution. If one had the right training and the right mindset… Kyra forced her tendons to relax, her hand popped unpleasantly and she was aware of a sharp spike of pain as her hand deformed. With a sharp tug she pulled the limp hand through the restraint, it scraped her skin raw but it was cheap at the price. As she relaxed the mental technique her biology reasserted itself, painfully wrenching her hand back into its original form.

With the restrain still dangling from her wrist she scooped up the carbine and hoped off the back of the truck, yanking the door open before the driver was able to do anything but gawp. He fell to the roadside and she kicked the fallen man in the temple dropping him into unconsciousness. With long strides she moved around the engine block to the man her rescuer was covering with his pistol. She struck him a sharp blow to the back of the head with the stock of her weapon. Dropping the man with a groan to the hard packed road. The stranger was still pointing his weapon but if he were going to shoot her he would have done so already.

“Alright,” she said as placeholder.

Down in the mine the freighter was setting down on a landing pad. That shouldn’t be here. Stabilized uranium was a bulk commodity, according to her information it should be shipped overland to a collection port before being lifted out. Why were freighters landing here? Did it matter at this point? Her cover was blown and she needed to get off planet before one of these yokels got lucky. She glanced up at her apparent rescuer.

“I’m Kyra Ren,” she said by way of introduction.

“I’m looking to get off world.”

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

By the light of springs new moon.
The dead stirred in their tombs of ancient stone.
And though brave knights with lance and sword did strive.
To quell that fearful tide of graves dark dust.
Little did their feat of arms prevail.

Then from the dark and strom rent sea
Awash with reknown from the nightless cold of north
With naught but swords and hearts of God loved steel
Came aid to Aquitaine in time of darkest strife
The Lioness and the Wolf.

The Lioness and the Wolf ~ Brettonian Troubadour Song.

The waves crashed on the shore of the stoney cove battering the two survivors as the fought the icy water to reach the shore. Morsliebb burned in the sky casting the whole scene in ghastly green light as they struggled onto the shore, sliping on the slimey shale in their haste to get ashore. Camilla quietly vowed that she would never in all her life set foot on another cursed ship. Cydric emerged from the surf behind her gasping for breath, his great chest heaving. Across his back hung his wolf pomelled sword, golden hilt catching the moonlight. Instinctively Camilla touched her own hip, relieved but not surprised to find her own elven weapon still snug in the sheath Cydric had bought for her name day a week and a half ago.

The Bonaventure, a trading vessel that ran the coasts between Brionne and Marienburg, had set sail from that great entrepot nearly three weeks ago. Using what little money they had left following their adventures in the north, they had booked passage on the ship following the rumored trail of the dark wizard Keffman whose schemes and betrayals had caused so much carnage in the north and taken the lives of Dietricha and Yanz, friends and companions on many a strange and perilous adventure. Ivan Petrovich too, lay grievously wounded, though the Tzarina said that with the aid of Ursan and her magic he might yet recover.

All had gone well for a time and the fresh winds of spring, so much a relief after a northern winter had carried the vessel south past the great cities of Lyonesse and Bourdelaux. The trader was loaded with fine Imperial steel, swords and lances meant for southern knights in exchange for wine and cloth from Araby. Not three days ago they had passed the cursed city of Moussilin and seen fell lights on the horizon, though she ship master had kept well of the coast and offered prayers and sacrifice to Manaan, God of the Sea. It had seemed that their goal was in reach, they were no more than two days from Brionne, when disaster had struck. Spying lights in the night the Captain had altered course and ran upon a submerged reef. The Bonaventure had been battered to pieces by the waves, the great vessel breaking apart under the relentless pounding of the surf. Camilla and Cydric had leaped into the sea at the last, clutching wreckage and each other as they struck for the distant shore and their mocking fires.

Having finally reached the shore Camilla found herself shivering and soaked. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, chosen as a child to become a courtesan, and though the adventurers life had toughened her, there were few men whom her gentle curves, raven locks, and flashing dark eyes couldn’t tempt. Cydric by contrast was as solid and reliable as the winter snows. His body was broad and muscular, with the leanness of a wolf and though he would never model for a Tilean sculptor, there was a severe nobility about his face that leant him a compelling intensity.

“Ranalds cock, If I ever set foot on another bloody boat again it will be to soon,” Camilla cursed as they reached the high watermark, evident from a line of seaweed and other detritus kicked up by the tides. Cydric smirked, amused as much by the way her Tilean accent clipped the words as the words themselves.

The beach was a broad expanse of flat shale beneath a lowering cliff, at either end of the cliff wind and rain had crumpled the rocks into what looked to be climbable slopes. Above them she could see the faint fires which had prompted the ill fated change of course. Camilla looked out to sea, keen eyes piercing the darkness nearly as well as Cydrics, searching for any signs of their former crewmates. There were none. Men had fled to the ships single boat in a panic but they had seen it founder only a few dozen yards from the ship, so badly was it overloaded. Other men had leaped into the sea like the two adventurers, but if any of those had survived they currents had bought them ashore elsewhere.

A sudden movement in the darkness caused both of them to tense. Men were creeping down the bluff towards them weapons in hand. Cydric’s nose wrinkled as though detecting some scent that warned him clearer than his eyes. All Camilla could smell was salt and seaweed.

“Evening gentleman,” he called in his ringing basso voice. He spoke in Riekspiel, out of habit, though she knew that he had enough Bretonnian to curse with . The men started and froze before coming unsteadily to their feet, doubtless shocked that they had been spotted. More men appeared on the bluffs above, having been crouching in the long sea grass that carpeted the rock eminence. Camilla could see the occasional flash of steel, though by and large the men seemed to be carrying staves, reaping hooks, or other tools of agricultural practice.

“Well a few of the fish managed to swim ashore,” came a course voice speaking in Brettonian. Camilla, having studied Brettonian as a major language of song and poetry, could follow it without undue difficulty.

“We were passengers on the Bonaventure, wrecked on the rocks,” she called back in the slowly rolling syllables of the language. There was a mutter among the men and some evil sounding chuckles.

“Ah we will be happy to offer you aid and ahem hospitality m’lady,” the leader replied, his voice dripping with nasty innuendo. The commend drew more hungry rumbles of agreement from the dozen men that were clambering out of the rocks towards them. Camilla realised that her accent, learned for reciting poetry, would be closer to that of the ruling class than to rude peasants like these fellows. The looked out to sea, eyes peeled though for what she wasn’t sure.

“Shipwreckers,” Cydric muttered, his eyes narrowing. Camilla wasn’t familiar with the term though it was clear Cydric didn’t think much of their apparent rescuers.

“They light fires to lure ships onto the rocks, then loot what washes up ashore,” he said disgustedly. The leader was close enough now to make out. He was a beefy looking man with a massive maul, probably intended for slaughtering cattle clutched in his arm. There was a faint miasma of unwashed bodies and garlic about them which turned her stomach.

“Aha monsuier and madame, let us show you our hospitality,” he said switching to Rieksiel which he spoke with a heavy lilting accent. His hungry eyes roving over Camilla, her soaked clothes leaving little to the imagination.

“You are, how do you say, our guests afterall,” he said. Camilla looked at the motley bunch, with caution but not yet fear.

“Perhaps we shall be on our way,” she said in Brettonian, her face twisting into a disdainful sneer despite her best efforts. Camilla was a consummate actress under most circumstances but she was cold and exhausted and in no mood for dealing with men who murdered sailors for a few crates of wine.

“Ah but mademoiselle we insist, you cannot deprive us of your company before we have a chance to share some of our sausages.” The mob rushed forward howling with raucous laughter brandishing their crude weapons with looks of bestial glee. Camilla stepped forward, whipping her sword from its sheath in a glittering arc that sliced the throat of the leading man, a one eyed brute with a woodsman's axe. She checked him with her hip as his momentum carried him on, even as his eyes glazed, unwilling to let his body foul Cydric’s draw. She needn't have bothered, the familiar sound of the wolf pommeled blade clearing its sheath sounded behind her and he stepped forward into the onrushing crowd, swinging the weapon in a vast syncthing cut that opened a man from shoulder to hip, sending him tumbling back over the rocks in a welter of blood and entrails. Camilla stepped to Cydric’s left, footing sure despite the shifting rock. With a flick of her wrist she batted away a staff blow and thrust into the fellows chest, twisting the blade before it could stick in his flesh.

Screams of pain and panic filled the night as the salty tang of blood added to the scent of the sea. The peasants drew back in confusion. They had expected to find defenceless sailors, not hardened killers. One man screamed like a dying horse, clutching the stump of a hand Cydric had evidently severed while she had been focused on protecting her shield side.

“We should, be on our way,” Camilla repeated, her voice quiet and grim despite the musicaly lilting syllables.

“Alas mademoiselle you are worth more than we can make in a decade, you have a rich family that will pay your ransom, and you will entertain my men while we wait,” he replied, still leering though a tremor of fear had slipped into his voice. Hard men they might be but five of them had been killed or maimed in less time than it took to call a warning. The leader made a gesture with his hand. Camilla didn’t immediately realise what was happening but Cydric, ever the soldier, didn’t hesitate. Dropping his sword he snatched up a large section of driftwood, probably part of a wrecked ships decking and thrust Camilla to the ground. She cried out in surprised protest but Cydric crouched and covered her body with the sea soaked timber. Arrow head thunked into the improvised shield as the men on the cliff top losed a lazy hail of arrows down at them. Most few wide, but they likely would have been wounded or killed without Cydric’s quick reflexes.

“Bravo monsieur, bravo,” called the leader, applauding mockingly. Camilla wished that the powder in her pistol wasn’t soaked to uselessness.

“Surrender now, you cannot hope to get passed us while my boys rain you with arrows, let us be reasonable.” Camilla pressed her lips together in a frown.

“Cover us with the shield, if we can reach them, the archers will have to worry about hitting their friends,” she said reaching forward and lifting the hilt of his sword to his hand. It was an awkward grip but Cydric managed to hoist the wood, gripping a cross member. It wasn’t a great plan, a fact pointed out when a bodkin arrow struck the shield with a thunk, its point protruding a half food through the ancient timbers. But it wasn’t as though they had any real alternative. Camilla felt that there was no chance they could prevail against the rain of arrows and the clubs and axes of the renegades. She hoped the archers would be careful shooting in to a melee but the odds were just as good they would put arrows in their backs despite the risks. It seemed like a stupid way to die. Her mouth was dry and she wanted to kiss Cydric one last time before it was all over but there was no time.

“Ready,” she whispered, gripping her own sword and picking her footing across the beach. A heart beat before she could tell Cydric to charge the night was split by the warble of a hunting horn. Suddenly the thunder of hooves could be heard above and the horn continued to sound with enthusiasm if not with musical skill. The ship wreckers recoiled in confusion at this unexpected event and Cydric shouted a war cry and rushed them. Camilla dashed along side him, trying to keep in the shelter of the improvised shield but no arrows fell. Ahead of her a man fell from the cliff, his body smashing to the shale, a broken lance point in his chest. Others jumped screaming from the precipice, breaking legs or arms in the fall. Camilla glanced up and saw armored men with lances and swords, hewing the peasant bowmen down even as their great horses bit and kicked. The cut through the ship wreckers like a scythe through fresh corn. Routing them as suddenly and completely as Camilla had ever seen.

Cydric was not to be shamed by their example. He cut into the party on the beach with the savage fury of a starving wolf. His great blade sheared their improvised weapons and cut through their bodies like water. Blood flashed red in the moonlight soaking the stones as they men tried to flee back up the escarpment. Camilla and Cydric followed at their heels, choping and stabbing at the backs of the retreating men.

Suddenly a voice called from above as cheerful and out of place as a choral choir in an abattoir.

“Mon Dieux, monsieur! Save a few rogues for the rope!!” the voice had the same upper class little as did Camilla’s and a moment later a knight in green and white livery appeared at the top of the tumble of rocks. His face was young and handsome framed by carefully curled dark hair with a neatly maintained mustache. Despite his stylish appearance he held a blood stained sword in his hand and his eyes were alight with the thrill of battle. As he spoke more armored men appeared in similar though varicoloured garb, perhaps a half dozen in total, barring the escape of the shipwreckers as completely as a city gate. Camilla saw that one of them held a brass chased horn, his face flushed from the effort of blowing the thing. The bandits glanced between the cast aways on the beach and the knights above, and began to throw down their weapons, raising their hands in surrender.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Timeskip

Damned to the Depths

Calliope grinned, though the expression was not one of humor except of a very dark sort. Markus spoke lightly of attacking Calaverde but in truth that was a massive undertaking, perhaps as massive as attacking the treasure fleet once it began its eastward voyage. Still it was nice to contemplate Sebastian’s face when a fleet appeared on the horizon.

“See what I mean about power?” she said, “One fortune just isn’t enough.”

___________

They beat south easterly ahead of the storms, the Weather Witch slicing through the choppy grey waters under full sail. Calliope sat in the fighting top, black tresses whiping to the wind. She had to admit that Makus had been right not to risk the westward voyage this late in the season. On the western horizon lighting flashed and stabbed down at the sea. While the costal trade never ceased, the storm season would keep ships in port rather than risking the passage across the Sea of Swords. Right now the officers of the Treasure Fleet and there men would be drinking and whoring in some well protected anchorage, waiting for the weather to turn.

Markus’ plan was to head south to Arad Lind and skip westward along the corsair infested coasts of that savage land, taking ships and plunder as they went. Such a course, hugging the coasts, was safer and much more lucrative. Calliope didn’t object, she knew that the captains of the treasure fleet were a conservative bunch. Only a fool would take any chances with so vast a fortune, any captain who lost a ship and was unlucky enough to survive could look forward to an appointment with a headsman. There would be time for them to make it to the Westerlands long before their foes set sail.

Below her Grimey was hurranging the crew to get one of the guns into position. The gnomes foul language was evident even here, fifty feet above the deck. An amazing feat for one whos lungs were so small. In the weeks since they had left the keep things had settled into a routine. The watches ran smoothly and Halvard, with ship building in his blood, had partnered with Grimey to serve as the ships carpenter. Together they had widened the gun ports and began installing the looted weapons. Grimey had initially been concerned that the extra weight would cause the keel to hog, but Markus had assured her that the Witch was well found enough to take the weight.

Calliope’s time had been spent in studying the Litch’s note books. They had stowed the alchemical equipment that could be recovered below decks and she was starting to think about setting up a lab somewhere below decks, though so many open flames and the rolling pitch of the ship posed some problems. Necromancy was not a school of magic that one encountered often and Calliope’s head was buzzing with new found dark lore. Her sleep continued to be troubled with vague and unsettling dreams of beating wings and sheets of flame as well as the odd grey landscapes she had seen when using the codex and she had taken to sleeping during the day watch and wandering the decks at night. A habit that did little to reassure the crew. The fighting top was a place to find solitude and to ponder what she had learned.

Jim sat beside her, peering out into the nighted darkness. He had bought her a plate of heavily salted beef and the last of the fresh vegetables they had taken from the keep. The crew had stripped the fortress of everything that they could find. Pirate vessels were forever short of basic necessities, rope, pots, nails, booze and other such things were of more value than gold until the ship actually reached a port. Most of the food they had taken from the fortress was old salted meat but a few of the gardens had vegetables that had been salvageable. Periodically Jim glanced at her, nervous and excited to be in her presence. Calliope found that leading the boy on with the occasional ‘accidental’ contact to be a diverting game.

“Sail HO!” the elven look out above them screamed. Calliope looked up to see the half elfs hand outstretched to the south. SHe followed the line of his finger and could barely make out a smudge of black against the night sky.

“Two sail! Two sails four points of the starboard bow!” he called through cupped hands.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Junebug had taken more blows to the head in her career than most and either hard experience, or her recent Terran enhancements bought her back to consciousness more awake and alert than might otherwise have been the case. She kept her eyes closed shaming unconsciousness until she could figure out just what the hell was going on. A man was carrying her and her hands had been bound behind her back, likely with binders of improvised plastic tie downs judging by the way the bit into her wrist.

“I swear I do not know her!” the turbaned official was bleating, “she is a starship captain, that is all, I did not hire her!” They were ascending a steep set of stairs, twisting up the spiral every few feet or so.

“If you are trying to double cross me, Acmed, I swear by the suns I will decorate the city with your entrails.” The voice was unfamiliar to Sayeeda but gravelly and authoritative. She peered through slitted eyes, though all she saw was the back of a staircase, her head throbbed painfully but the fog of booze was gone, burned off by the adrenaline that pumped through her.

“We should kill her, just to be safe,” the man carrying her declared in an oily accent that Junebug thought was probably local. She tried not to tense but she was ready to kick off the wall and try to break the man's neck while they tumbled down the stairs rather than be executed without a fight.

“It would raise suspicion, plus look at her, she will fetch a pretty price in the slave market at Dal Shem,” the leader replied. They passed through a door and the hot desert wind told her that they were on the roof of the building. Through slitted eyes she could see a small rooftop garden. An aircar sat parked in the center of a paved square, presumably provided for the purpose. It was an industrial model without frills and open topped. Without ceremony she was slung into the back seat and the security harness was locked around her chest. If her hands were free it would have been simple to release, but bound as she was it was as secure as anything her captors might have used. Both men climbed into the car.

“You have twelve hours to get me what I want,” the leader called to the bureaucrat, Achmed she presumed. The air cars fans spun to life.

“After that you can discuss things with the Pasha, I’m sure his torturers will believe your side of the story.”

With that the fans roared to full power and the aircar lifted away into the hot desert night.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene nodded thoughtfully as the continued towards the city. The scale of the destruction was impressive not only in the destroyed trees but also in the lack of light coming from the town ahead. It was full dark now but only a few houses had any light at all emanating from them. Here and there were bright pools where emergency lighting had been rigged to generators, or portable power cells, but by and large the town was unnaturally dark. Many windows had been boarded up against the storm's fury but here and there flickering lights from candles or kerosene lamps could be picked out.

“I don’t think there is anything to be gained by pretending,” he said, a little reluctant. Solae’s nobility would be immediately obvious to anyone with eyes, her beauty and coloration unmistakable. Rene might or might not have been recognised on his own, but in Solae’s company his own heritage would also be apparent.

“Beside Damaris already knows your a princess and im a knight,” he added. Mia didn’t have any reason not to call him that after all and there was no way Damaris, in her enthusiasm, would be convinced not to reveal them.

“Word might not have reached them yet,” he said judiciously. Without PEAs, interstellar communication depended on vessels carrying news from system to system and transmitting it to planetary nets. Major systems like Capella or Tau Setti were almost always up to date because the flow of merchant and naval traffic was high and because they had dedicated courier systems that ran to the other major systems. More remote systems like Panopontus had to rely on merchant traffic transmitting data from their last ports, a function most communications suites handled automatically. In order for anyone on Panopuntus to be looking for them a ship would need to have come from New Concordia or some other place where Solae’s survival had already been reported.

The climbed over a low rocky bluff, passing a memorial to what Rene assumed must have been a shipwreck or other maritime disaster. Bronze plaques were set into small sconces and a pair of flag poles had been bent by the fury of the wind and flying debris. They were close enough know that Rene could see people working on clearing destroyed houses and other projects. Here and there flashing lights indicated police or gendarmerie or whatever kind of emergency services San Roayo supported, though they seemed to be involved in rescue operations, traffic direction or perhaps only to deter looters. Descending a series of switchbacked stone steps, they came upon what must have been a sea side strand. Restaurants and taverns were dark and silent and broken vegetation half covered what must have been a playground. A series of overhead illuminators lined a concrete pedestrian path, though all were dark for lack of power.

The entire street had been smashed by the storm surge, and Damaris looked around in wide eyed shock at what must have been familiar sites. The path was torn up in places and sand swept up by the sea covered the grassy expanses. Erosion crumpled a few of the buildings and the ruins of pier and jetties left timber planks scattered around like spilled match sticks. There were a few people around, sifting through the wreckage but none seemed to pay much attention to the strangers. Solae pushed her hood up to cover her golden hair and Rene was relieved that there was so little in the way of illumination.

Damaris lead them back from the shore down several streets of plasticized gravel. The city rose towards a rocky hill of a few hundred meters of elevation. A red beacon, a navigation aid for vehicles and perhaps ships, flashed from atop it at a long interval. The houses here were single story affairs, the taller ones seeming to cluster on the higher ground. Bare earth covered what must have at one time been kitchen gardens, the wind having destroyed what the water had not. More than once Solae had to ask Damaris to slow down as they grew closer to their destination, the girls eagerness transforming her walk into something more like a run.

“This is it!” she said as they turned into a darkened street, tugging insistently on Solae’s hand and leading her through a gate of tan bricks and down a narrow path between the ruins of a garden and a vehicle shelter, its corrugated door buckled inward by flying debris. The house itself was a simple construction of cinderblocks, with large windows protected by a latticework of metal. Several of the windows were armored with sheets of compressed fiber board although some of these had been taken down now the fury of the storm had passed. Light emenated from the largest of the clear windows and Damaris lead them without delay to the large metal door and pulled it open. Solae followed her closely and Rene bought up the rear, his vigilant eyes sweeping for threats.

Inside a middle aged woman, gaunt and exhausted, sat at a kitchen table. Dark bags beneath her eyes testified to a lack of sleep and tear stains cut lines in the dirt of several days of indifferent washing. The resemblance to Damaris was faint but unmistakable. Luminators had been tacked to the wall and plugged in to a powercell of black and yellow plastic to provide some light. Several news feeds were scrolling past on a simple, battered looking view screen. Rene realised immediately that they were lists of the dead and the missing. The woman turned at the sound of the opening door and froze with a look of shock on her face.

“Mama!” Damaris called and raced across the patterned tiles of the floor towards the woman. Her hand lifted to her mouth, the shock transfiguring into a look of joy and relief so profound that it made Rene swallow against the emotion. He followed Solae into the kitchen and closed the door behind them, eager to shield them from prying eyes, as unlikely as that seemed right at the moment.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The liquor must have been stronger than Sayeeda had thought. Her lips moved but no sound came out of her mouth. Emotions surged and eddied. Saxon was interested in her? Neil had feelings for her. Woods had been some sort of rebound for him? The idea that he would somehow fight Saxon for her tinged the whole cocktail with a touch of hysteria. She remembered their very short lived date back on Dar’mond, it hadn’t really had a chance to go anywhere, Aiden had arrested her before the evening really started.

“Neil I…” but he was already heading into the other room clearly embarrassed by his outburst. He grabbed another bottle and pulled the cork with his teeth.

“Neil I’m not going to sleep with Saxon… I mean if that is a thing that Hexs do.” She wasn’t certain if Hexs worked in a way mammals would appreciate. The whole evening was rapidly spinning out of control.

“I’m certainly not going to sleep with anyone that might be planning on killing you… I mean…” she trailed off uncertain of exactly how she wanted to finish the sentence. It was a confusing mass of feeling emotions and imperatives. Neil was alot of things, including her first officer. Instincts that had been drilled into her for years told her that opening the door on a relationship with her first officer was a terrible idea.

“Look, I need some air,” she finished uncertainty before pushing her way through the beaded curtain and heading out into the street. There were still crowds moving about from the bazaar, spacers and citizens returning from bars and clubs or just heading out to them. Without particular bias as to direction she struck out down the street, she pulled a cigarette from her pocket and tried to spark it to life. It took her three tries to get the strike plate to click and then it fizzled and failed to ignite. Hissing in frustration she pitched it into an alley.

Without any plan whatsoever she walked through the bizarre, slowly making her way up the canyon towards the sections of the city not frequented by spacers. The women she saw grew more conservatively dressed and the mismatched garb of sailors was replaced with the cotton garments of the locals. Slaves grew more numerous as well, though they kept their eyes down cast and didn’t trouble her. Her thoughts spun in confused half circles as she reached the Pasha’s palace, sectioned off by a wall that was carved with ornate scrollwork and well tended gardens.

She stopped walking, trying to decide what she was going to do about Neil. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the turbaned official who had greeted them at the Highlander. He walked stiffly with another man in the traditional cotton garb. Walked very stiffly. He had a gun to his ribs. She walked over towards the two men as they disappeared into an alley. She stepped into the darkness behind them.

The alley ran down between two sandstone buildings, there were no windows or doors at the ground level though narrow arching windows could be seen higher up. Piles of trash, old cardboard cartons and wooden crates were stacked along both sides, restricting the walkway to a narrow strip of foot polished stone. The only light was the starlight that filtered in from above and the reflected splendor of the palace.

“I swear by the suns I don’t have what you want, I cant, I have tried…” the turbaned man was saying, he was sweating profusely as his assailant pinned him against a wall. Although the attacker wore the traditional garb and turban, Junebug’s keen eye detected the tell tale bulge of body armor beneath it.

“I am not a man of letters and I am not a…” whatever else the official might not be Junebug never found out as something hard and dense cracked over the back of her head, sending her tumbling into unconsciousness.