> -Updated-
>
> Imperial Bank’s and Goras Bank’s board –mentioned or serving in both reiterations.
>
> First Director Helven, (>first Era Elderblood. From 302 –until moon Lassel-lanta* 3196)
>
> Director Luvon, (b. 1700 Altariel –Galadriel’s Watch, IB 1797-3196 and GB 3399-?)
>
> Secretary of Trade and Commerce Riston (b. 1816 Elauthin, IB 1922-3196 and GB 3399-?)
>
> Naug (Collector) Taranir (b. 1806 Myrdiel River-Rain Minas, IBOR** 1899-2389, 2456-2461, 3194-3196 and BGOR 3401-?)
>
>
>
>
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> *Dying-Leaf fall moon (voiced munth, or month), similar to the Galleass Lassel and the capitalized Fall, used to mark the date, as first month of fall 3196.
>
> ** Terms at IBOR (Imperial Bank’s Office of Reacquisitions from where he was forcibly removed with royal decree, in order to be imprisoned for sixty seven years, before been brought back in 2456 IC, again retired, and then asked to return in several different occasions.)
>
> ***The 9th Marine hadn’t served with the Imperial Trade Company (ITC) as it was stationed at Serpent Canal, but Mirthral’s 13th Marine had for centuries, as well as the 3rd and the ‘mighty’ 6th which had stormed the beaches at Plague Isles in 1801 during the Aken-Zilan war (1798-2006), but the latter had been both destroyed during the Fall.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/7xsZRcmh/Trade-routes.jpg]
> 17th of the Imperial moon (or month) Cainen (Decimus), the Imperial year 2007
>
> IBHC (Imperial Bank’s Holding Company) central building on the elongated Peninsula of Elauthin
>
> City of Elauthin
>
> The Diamond Sands District facing Kallister’s Canal and Hector’s Peak volcano
>
>
>
> Helven’s long face said it all. The news kept getting worse by the hour. Luvon and Riston stood at one corner of the ten-meter long conference table with the map of all the realms carved on it. An artist’s rendition of the map, since no one really knew how the realm was truly shaped. Some of it was known through ‘ship and wing’ as the expression went, but the rest of it was words and tales from visitors, or exiles. Anything in between. Some of the names and places depicted on the map exotic and mysterious even to the most knowledgeable. The latter, largely secluded souls like Taranir that favored reading of distant cultures and exotic, sometimes viewed with a certain amount of aversion, flavors.
>
> Reading about the rich, absurdly distant, Slave Bay cities of Nedale, Phaenos and Foracan and the west shores of Tull Cautara Major Island facing the Quivering Deeps. East of them the ruins of the Temples of Light on the same island chain. The rubicund people of Anduril south of them. The expansive Annas-Kelon Spine River on infamous Mistland and the fabled Caras O’ Alafern. The silent domains of the Alafern in the common tongue. Gecataten, Dehmaz, Kerbe and the baleful Nigbau deep in the desert. The wyvern lands to the southernmost side of them, where the world ended. The stench of Godseye Isle on the monstrosities-filled Galith to their west and the mighty mercantile cities of the Kaletha Triarchy at the continent’s shores. The Sinking Isles of the crafty, freedom-loving Gish in the Scalding Sea, lonesome Hissing Coral Cay and beyond Abrakas Gullet -far in the southeast, the horrors of the Split Isles, where the curious, savage Harpies flew uncontested.
>
> “The Queen died as well,” a sleep-deprived Helven finally said looking at the stack of scrolls in front of him and Taranir turned his eyes on the Foremost Director of the Imperial Bank. “They’ll swore Baltoris in within hours, if they haven’t done it already. Anfalon’s Hallowed are killing anyone approaching the palace without papers.”
>
> “The Elderblood haven’t agreed to a primogeniture succession, agnatic or cognatic,” Luvon pointed out. A quick-thinking bureaucrat, much younger than the rest of the bank’s hierarchy, but older than Taranir by a hundred years at least. Luvon was born around 1700, with Taranir arriving at 1806. “An Elderblood, Sintoriela had decreed and they had all agreed on.”
>
> “That was Kallister’s idea.” Helven replied with a sigh. “Continuity. How does one train to be a Monarch? It’s antithetical to our beliefs.”
>
> “After two thousand years, those beliefs are just in your mind Helven,” Taranir said and the Elderblood set his eyes on him frustrated. “The common folk love their Monarch, good luck explaining to them that his daughter shouldn’t take over.”
>
> “Baltoris is poisoned with Goras’ ideas. All those bragging Lorians. Reforms, philosophy of struggle bullshit!” Helven grunted, pursing his mouth. “She might even look to put a stop to the slave trade. The Peninsula would revolt! Not to mention she’s rumored to be a Gish lover and an army brat. We don’t want a kingdom ruled by an Onas with tits, or the conservative priesthood of Feyras and his nutty squad. The day we think like wyverns, this world will burn.”
>
> “Can you stop it?” Taranir queried.
>
> “Can I stop you from being a flesh-eating enthusiast?” Helven retorted. “You fed a leg to the wolves and the neighbors made a complaint about it. You know these beasts can hunt for themselves right? The woods at Geese Feet are public lands. City folk make trips there lad. Excursions.”
>
> “If they can’t defend themselves in the wilderness, they should stay in Elauthin and watch a play. You eat what you kill,” Taranir replied and Luvon blinked shifting nervously on his seat. “Raw. That’s our nature Helven. You can polish us for a while and you might get a Baltoris, or something worse. Someone that pretends to understand, but loathes this nation’s soul inwardly.”
>
> “You’ll quote ancient scripture to me lad?” Helven snapped. “I can’t use you like this. I smell a shift in policy coming soon. Can’t you take something else on? Look to alleviate your cravings? Poetry. Drawing, hunt deer for crying out loud, but bring back the bank’s bounties, and I mean the bodies… so we can fucking display them!”
>
> Live long enough within four walls and you’ll forget all about your ancestors’ habits.
>
> Oh, well… fine.
>
> “I might have to test some different things. Less sensitive,” Taranir admitted and scratched some of the plaster away from the table. “Will it affect trade?”
>
> The change in leadership was his meaning.
>
> The rest of the Zilan present grimaced, each opting for a different mannerism. Luvon pressed an index finger at the corner of his forehead, with Riston scowling at the reports he was reading and Helven just stood back on his high-back chair furrowing his thick white brows.
>
> “How do you change someone’s opinion, or prejudices?” Helven asked. A man of numbers and well thought-out plans, he was always fascinated with the weird mystiques of nature and its supernatural, or more gifted creatures.
>
> “What’s the saying Riston?” Taranir asked, as he’d an axe to grind with the influential secretary of commerce. Never trust a dude that holds two posts, one supposedly appraising the other to keep it honest.
>
> “Pleasures of the stomach, or songs of the heart. If a purse of coin fails.” Riston replied with a smirk.
>
> “Food and love,” Helven murmured and then blinked in surprise at the way their conversation had gone. “We need to clean up our act gentlemen. The war is over and some activities can’t be brushed under the rag anymore. The Company needs to flush all potentially uncomfortable dealings out of its merchant fleet.”
>
> “We have banned the Cofol slavers from using the ships,” Luvon started and then paused to read some of the reports. “But the four Sisters ports have more cargo delivered each season, since pirates probably picked up the slack. The Lorian ‘cultured’ warlords are still getting low-quality steel weapons in large quantities, although it’s banned for centuries and they have started using them, replacing bronze. Sooner, or later, they’ll learn to work it themselves.”
>
> “Taranir, I’ve given you strict orders to root out these rascals. We had an imperial mandate on the matter already, but surely my orders mean something to you?”
>
> “We have a leak,” Taranir replied evenly. “A wicked ratline built during the war with the Aken and taken over by talented criminals. It fattened and enriched itself because of our inaction for centuries. Spread alike cancer to ports and cities everywhere. It poisoned officials, common people and sank its cadaverous fangs into the company’s and the empire’s profits. Undermined the King’s rule and our position in the Cosmos. A pallid web of unlawful activities bordering the grotesque. Every time we attempt a search, all illicit goods are flushed to the bottom of the sea, or hidden away.”
>
> “The crooks employ a Seer?” Luvon jested nervously and Taranir stared him with sober eyes. “What else is going to come out of your mouth I wonder? Helven, your mislaid goods Collector is in way over his head, I reckon.” Luvon added with a grimace.
>
> “I think Aeson’s criminals are still fully operating under everyone’s nose, ours included,” Taranir said pursing his mouth. “The arms trade and anything deriving from it never ceased, it just switched markets and continents, and this is my working theory.”
>
> “Oh, by Abrakas tentacles!” Luvon exploded. “That murderous knave was executed by his own people in Far Cove. Riston saw his head at Marble Gardens twenty years ago! Delivered it to Alenia his daughter and all.”
>
> “How did you know how Aeson looked?” Taranir asked Riston. “You are a decade younger than me and I was in my mother’s womb the last time Aeson was seen in Cyran, back in 1799.”
>
> “His daughter recognized an earring and the face.” Riston replied.
>
> “I would to, in her stead,” Taranir retorted mockingly.
>
> “The late King agreed it was him,” Luvon snapped. “How about leaving the boogie-man stories and deal with the matter at hand?”
>
> “You got this all wrong,” Taranir retorted warningly and Riston’s face paled at his next words. “I’m the boogie-man they all fear. The sharp blade of lawful procedures. I’ll find out what’s going on and what is true, or not. Then I’ll deal with the matter at hand the way I know best.”
>
> “Enough! You’ll do what I tell you to do Taranir,” a red-faced Helven intervened. “Have your guys clean up the fleets. We can’t have the new Queen interfere with our business. It could affect everything.”
>
> “I hear the Queen hates flesh-eaters,” Riston said, having recovered his wits somewhat. “Maybe she’ll start her purge with you Taranir lest you clean up your own act. That would be a mirthful twist right?”
>
> “Nobody is going to get the bank’s employees in danger, or expose them to outsiders! We deal with our own problems and don’t taint the company’s reputation through gossip!” Helven blasted him and Riston gulped down nervously. “You’ll tread carefully henceforth, but keep at it Taranir and look to find out what’s going on. I’ll know more about the new politics in the coming weeks. Worst case scenario, it’ll sort itself out.”
>
> But it didn’t.
>
>
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Shamil Al-Bagi
SETC | Mutiny Moons
Part II
-The White Deceit-
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1394 years later
29th of month Sextus, the Imperial year 3401
The shallow waters between the Tits and Worm Isles
“Hey,” Shamil asked the thoughtful Taranir back on the sailing Express’ bridge. “What are you thinking mister?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Taranir replied coming about and glanced at the sailors working the sails and those that didn’t. Two big groups of them gathered around Hartford and Mau-Mau, then at Larsa who was arguing with Zaine about the direction he’d taken the ship. “Can you use an axe Sam?”
“I’m good with a skinning knife,” Shamil replied.
“Um. You got one on you?”
He did.
“Keep it for an emergency. Go stand next to that barrel with tools and see that you locate that axe,” Taranir replied and removed his hat. He folded it and placed it inside his satchel. He unbuttoned his coat next to reveal a weapons and utilities harness from where the Zilan got a large gardening clipper out. It had good leather strips laced at the wooden grips. The blade on it over a foot long and the size of a shortsword.
“The fuck is this thing?” Gonodir asked with a grimace.
“A gardening tool,” Taranir expounded calmly. “But it can help straighten out all kinds of shit.”
“God darn stubborn fuck,” Larsa cursed climbing down the stairs to reach the main deck. He marched past the marines and walked towards his friends frustrated. “We might have weather he says and then sails straight for the straits.”
“Come,” Taranir said with a glare at Gonodir that clenched his jaw and went to grab one of the harpoons they had stored in the barrels. They climbed up the stairs to reach the open bridge where Zaine was handling the wheel, his face ravaged with nervous ticks.
“Give me a bit of time,” Zaine told Taranir, an eye on the rest of the crew that talked amongst themselves some twenty meters away, on the deck bellow.
“Can the Gish fight?” Taranir asked and Ab, who was hiding behind a large coil of rope raised his head, ogling red-rimmed eyes filled with righteous indignation.
“I’m a navigator!”
“Are ye any good with the wheel Gish?”
“I haven’t admitted that I’m a Gish yet. Please don’t spread it around,” Ab protested and stared at Zaine. “He’s… better.”
“Are you sure? It’ll be safer if you stayed at the rudder.”
“Yeah, he’s a fighter,” Zaine assured Taranir.
“He doesn’t appear comfortable at all,” Taranir noticed. “If you’re coerced, you better speak now mister Ab. What is it? The real name. Abix? Abarix?”
“Abrix,” the Gish croaked visibly shaking, as if beset by inner turmoil. “Don’t trust the Trickster, mister Taranir—!” He finally cried out, before getting abruptly assaulted by the snarling dog that grabbed at his foot with its jaws and violently dragged the screaming masqueraded Gish over the soaked deck boards.
“Shut yer bitchy mouth! Ye little shit!” Zaine snapped raucously. “That’s it dog! Finish him off. Eat his fucking tongue!” He added and blinked in shock when Taranir took a large step forward and kicked the snarling dog at the sides. He send it flying over the rails of the quarterdeck. “Fuck! You violent idiot! You doomed us all!” Zaine cried out with a snarl.
“You’ll get us back to the Lassel,” Taranir warned him. “It’s moored in deeper waters and could react faster.”
“In this darkness? Ye think they’ll just allow me to bring yer arses back?” Zaine grunted irate and then recoiled backwards when Taranir placed the sharp tip of the closed clippers under his chin to lift the snarling sailor’s head up.
“Stay the course mister Zaine,” Taranir cautioned evenly. “No matter what may happen.”
Shit.
“Ship ahoy!” The lookout bellowed. Shamil turned his head right and then back to port, until he managed to discern the flickering lights dancing in the murky darkness of the ocean.
“Turn to the North darn you!” Larsa barked at the grimacing Zaine, who squinted his eyes tensed, but kept both hands steady on the wheel.
“Another one! Two ships!”
“Lame Zaine, ye rotten turtle turd!” Larsa cursed and pointed his finger at the nervous and conflicted sailor.
“Hold steady now for the Worm Isle turn, mister Zaine,” Taranir countered and stooped to grab Rudix’s crossbow with his free hand, before proceeding to hang his oversized clippers from a hook at his harness.
“Milord Taranir, leave steering advices to the professionals.” Larsa admonished half-threateningly half-tauntingly, whilst looking a little perturbed at the unruffled Zilan that expertly used the weapon’s stirrup and crank, to arm the crossbow’s string. “What do you think yer doing?”
“Um,” Taranir murmured, passing the strap of the wooden quiver over his head, and then found a bolt to insert in the flight groove, hint of smile on his lips. “This is an interesting idea. The mechanism simple but effective. Might do the job.”
“What job?” Larsa grunted crooking his mouth and then ogled his eyes at the two ships silhouettes heading towards them. The waves had increased, the nimble Express dipping and rising in the frothy waters well-illuminated itself with several oil-lamps hanging from its masts and secured on the deck.
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Too many, Shamil thought, while the Zilan raised the crossbow and replied with a strange verdict delivered coolly.
“Shed more light to this affair.”
Making no sense at all.
“Honest folk might perceive yer actions as threatening Taranir!” Larsa barked and one of the sailor groups led by Hartford started approaching the much smaller group of marines with Shamil and Taranir. As if in silent agreement, no one attempted to hide their weapons anymore. Swords and knives, harpoons and axes were at display.
“It’s signaling us! Hither be their flags unfurling! Skull ‘n Bones mister Larsa!” The unseen lookout screamed from the top of the mast, afore Taranir had the chance to reply. Not his friend Nery, Shamil hadn’t seen the teenager anywhere, which was worrisome.
“Raccoon, or Prohibition?” Larsa snapped with a smirk, an eye on the visibly preparing for a scrap marines of Gonodir and the other on Taranir, who was still testing the sights and weight of Rudix Knupp’s –now loaded- crossbow.
“The Raccoon! No sign of Prohibition!” The initially excited lookout retorted hoarsely, sounding a little spooked now. “Can’t see the other ship well, ‘Crocked’ Larsa!”
“Eh, finger in the mincer,” Larsa was heard cursing, a permanent crook in his mouth, the Express rocking on the waves, Hartford approaching from the starboard passageway with his armed group of twenty, the latter exchanging warning looks with the scowling armed marines and behind them –up on the quarterdeck- Zaine jumped to action. He started turning the rudder-wheel towards the pirate ships with strong heaves.
“Stay the course Zaine!” Taranir warned him and Zaine groaned loudly when Abrix rushed to take the wheel from his hands.
“Keep turning!” Larsa barked at the wrestling duo.
“White sails, white hull and white masts!” The lookout cried out over all the noise and Taranir’s finger snaked around the trigger of the still aimed crossbow. “Harlot’s tits! That’s the White Deceit!”
Eh?
“Motherfucker,” Larsa cursed and moved to hide behind the mast with a curt gesture for Hartford to charge at the much-fewer marines, but Taranir raised the muzzle of the weapon and then fired a bolt at the central bronze and glass lamp hanging from the mast.
The bolt punctured the container and the impact smashed the square glass-case on the hardwood. Flames erupted, splashing oil ignited above the pirates heads and a huge ball of flame engulfed the mainsail.
Taranir shoved Shamil’s right shoulder with his free hand to push him backwards, dropped the crossbow and then unhooked the clippers with the other. The Zilan immediately swung at the first arriving pirate, splitting his face in two from forehead to chin. Blood erupted, the flames setting flesh and wood alight in front of the stumbling back Shamil and the marines closed with Hartford’s group as the scrap begun in earnest.
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A marine savagely harpooned a pirate through the gut, used the weapon as lever to swerve the groaning human hard left and onto another. Both pirates were hurled over the side rails and into the frothing waters. Shamil grunted, hefted the axe’s shaft with both hands, and then went to hack at Hartford who attacked the distracted Feredir. He slipped on the soaked deck boards, lost the grip on the shaft and the axe flew between a group of fighting pirates and marines.
“Jinn’s curse,” Shamil groaned and grabbed Hartford’s arm to stop the pirate from stabbing Feredir. Hartford swung a fist at the teenager, knocked a tooth out of Shamil’s mouth and split his lower lip. Shamil stumbled back dazed, his ears ringing and gulping down blood. He tried to find purchase, failed the first time, his legs not working properly and the ruckus of the savage scrap disorienting.
Black smoke had covered the burning Express and half the pirates onboard rushed to douse the leaping flames out. They fought it on the decks, but Hartford’s group was repulsed by Gonodir’s hard-hitting marines and Larsa stood forward amidst the smoke and waived his cutlass for Mau-Mau to send more men into the bloody scrap.
“Don’t let them reach the bridge!” Taranir bellowed, when a marine went down with a cracked skull. The pirate extracted the heavy mace from the dead Zilan’s brains and swung it at the advancing Taranir, who ducked under it, flipped the closed clippers in his hand and stabbed the tip right through the pirate’s boot. The steel blade hit the hardwood, but Taranir yanked it out, whilst the pirate doubled over to grab at his maimed foot.
He side-stepped out of a spear’s thrust, gave the injured pirate a brutal shove that send him crashing on a barrel head first, then flipped the monstrous garden scissors the right way, released the safety lock and opened the blades whist twisting around to face the pirate wielding the spear.
Taranir parked the opened clippers over the lump on the pirate’s throat and dragging it sideways slit it open. The pirate raised an arm to grab at the wound, but the Zilan caught it between the blades and chopped it off above the wrist. A kick and the mutilated, bleeding pirate was hurled back towards his cursing friends, but the injured Feredir got stabbed in the kidneys in the meantime and was pushed back. The single file marine frontline cracking.
Shamil rushed there to stop the pirates from advancing, arrived just as Gonodir decapitated a charging Lorian with the harpoon and speared the one next to him on the return through the mouth. Gonodir received a cut himself in the process.
People screamed in several tongues, from the fancy Imperial and the Cofol Old Tongue, to the gruff Lorian Common and the colorful pirate jargon. Shamil found a harpoon to use, but lost it. Got his hands frantically on a cutlass next and scored a blind hit on Hartford’s thigh, but almost lost his own head for it. He did lose the cutlass too though. Shamil dived after the weapon, landed between several legs, a boot missing his head for a hair when it landed and the teenager cursing the Cofol that had tried to squash his skull indignant.
“Damn you Mau-Mau!”
“Name’s Terku you little imbecile!” The Cofol growled and tried to hack at the snaking away on all fours teenager. The blade landed next to the rolling away Shamil’s shoulder, the next hack hitting the drenched floor decks. A gasp and he was engulfed in heavy smoke, banged on the burning main mast and by Luthos touch found his lost axe.
A snarling, covered in blood and mire, Shamil rose up now armed, sucking air through the gap in his teeth and stared at the unfolding chaos with blurry eyes. Terku, also known as Mau-Mau, glanced over the ship’s port side at the approaching brig, the White Deceit and the smaller brigantine, the Raccoon.
Both ships were locked and engaged in a fearsome fight.
“Pirates fighting each other?” Shamil asked hoarsely, spitting a mouthfull of blood down and Terku’s slanted eyes turned on him again.
“What are you fighting for goat-herder?” He asked Shamil amused.
“King and coin?” Shamil retorted smartly, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” the Cofol pirate cursed and attacked him. Shamil swung the axe in a diagonal arc, but Mau-Mau dodged jerking his torso aside. Shamil got carried by the heavy axe’s momentum, the pirate tried to set his feet to stab the reeling teenager, just barely managed as the ship rocked back and forth, but when he tried to move his arm, Terku realized he couldn’t.
The soaked one-eyed dog had closed its jaws on his forearm and let out a prolonged growling sound that raised the hairs at the back of Shalim’s neck.
GRRR.
“What freakish fuck…?” The bewildered Cofol pirate cursed and tried to free his arm, but failed. Shamil’s face distorted in shock upon hearing the dog’s teeth breaking the bones, after mauling the flesh in retaliation, whilst the Cofol’s curses turned into a pained scream of agony.
Ah.
The dog growled gutturally again, sole eye a dark-red almost and a slurping sound was heard in between Terku’s desperate groans of pain. The flaying pirate tried to reach for a dagger sheathed on his waist, after another attempt to extricate his arm failed that is, but Shamil stepped forward this time and kicked the dagger out of the pirate’s hand, breaking two of his fingers in the process.
“Argh! Ignorant piece of shit!” Terku snarled irate. “Little ruffian!”
The screaming, fully burning, lookout’s body crashed on the deck boards three meters away, afore Shamil could reply. The haplessly broken, half-melted and charred human rolled once and then laid on his back, his mouth still opening and closing even after the cries had stopped.
“Sam!” Taranir bellowed to snap Shamil out of his shock-induced stupor and the teenager turned around, the blade aimed at his back missing and penetrating Shamil’s right bicep instead.
“Eh, ye treacherous knave,” Hartford grunted and pulled the sword back tearing at the flesh. The axe Shamil held clanged down, released from his useless fingers. Nothing can prepare you for the pain of sharpened steel cutting through your own flesh. It numbed his whole arm. Hartford grabbed the injured Shamil by the neck with his left hand and pulled the right back, to stab the immobilized teenager in the gut.
Shamil dropped his left arm to his belt, got the small curved dagger out and stabbed the pirate in the face first. The skinning knife sinking to the hilt into the stunned Hartford’s right eye. The pirate leader shuddered and toppled backwards taking Shamil’s father’s knife with him, and a moment later his body hit the deck with a loud thud.
Damn.
“Ouch… oh… gods…” Shamil cried clasping at his bleeding right arm, the blood leaking between his clenched fingers. He faltered forward, the ship shaking violently and his ears ringing and popping in quick succession. Shamil took another drunken step forward and heard the main mast creaking something fierce. Several parts of burning sails dislodged and crashed all about them. Amidst the smokes Shamil spotted Taranir plunging the monstrous open clippers in a pirate’s groin and slapping it close, savagely spilling the man’s innards on the floorboards. Less than two hundred meters away the White Deceit detached itself from the Raccoon, with its crew using lines to return, not always successfully.
Gonodir had been cornered by four pirates and Larsa, but was still blocking their access to the bridge. Glavon had a bleeding cut on his face a couple of meters to his right with Feredir missing the better part of an arm, but still fighting with the other, along with two marines Shamil didn’t know. The Express’ deck was littered with dead bodies. Each time the ship moved back and forth fighting the waves, more rolled into the frothing waters and the gore was washed away.
Shamil looked for another weapon to use, half-conscious and barely standing upright, and he almost plunged headfirst for the hardwood boards, when he attempted to pick up a discarded cutlass that rolled by his feet.
Taranir reached the faltering teenager just in time. He dragged him along towards the starboard side of the rocking ship where one of the two boats was tied.
“Gonodir!” Taranir bellowed to get the Zilan officer’s attention. The marine leader had managed to cut down three of the four pirates facing him and Larsa had to retreat a couple of steps looking for reinforcements. Unfortunately for them, many of the pirates that had tried to save the ship earlier were now gathering near the quarterdeck, offering Larsa exactly what he looked for. “The Lassel spotted us!” Taranir barked and used the gardening tool to cut the ropes securing the boat one after the other.
Uh?
Shamil turned his blurry eyes to the south and saw the large warship sailing towards them, its black lines highlighted by the red-mauve horizon, as the sun’s barely visible disk had started rising.
“Jump down and into the boat Sam,” Taranir grunted, holding tight the last taut rope and the large boat fighting the waves two meters from the Express’s hull.
“I can’t swim,” Shamil croaked and looked at the still fighting marines. The alert, badly injured Glavon had moved to reach their position and above them at the quarterdeck, Zaine watched with ogling eyes Taranir lowering the lifeboat. The shifty sailor then glanced at the approaching White Deceit, with the crew of the Raccoon scrabbling to do the same and crooked his mouth in a nervous grimace.
“We all start someplace kid,” Taranir agreed in a reasonable manner and then shoved a yelping Shamil over the guard rails.
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Shamil gulped down a mouthful of brines, burning eyes seeing the keel of the Express knifing at the waters above him. He kicked arms and legs maniacally to get out of the way, half-swimming half-drowning in the blind and banged his head on the lifeboat that suddenly appeared in front of him.
Gurgling and coughing through mouth and nose, getting more water in than what he expelled while lost in preternatural panic, the struggling teenager started sinking under the frothing waves despite his frantic efforts to stay afloat. The sinister darkness engulfing him absolute. The silence tomblike. Seconds that felt like hours later, something swam nearby and grabbed his flaying arm. With a yank it started pulling him to the surface swimming fast in front of the drowning Shamil.
They reached it a long moment later, no more than two meters from the rocking boat with the Express now at least twenty meters away. Abrix’s disheveled head popped out of the waves, makeup running down his face and his short-cut painted dark hair, slowly turning a striking shade of pink over his weird face.
“To the boat mister Sam. Big sharks in these waters,” the Gish told him and dragged the panicking Shamil after him with surprising ease.
Shit.
Shamil barely remembered how they climbed on the boat. He did remember Taranir being already there, the Zilan’s clothes wet but not soaked and waving both arms over his head whilst standing in the middle of the boat with the bloody Glavon sprawled near the bow.
Waving at the Lassel that had started angling hard to present its broadside to the Express and the ships behind it.
What is this? A confused Shamil thought vomiting seawater mixed in with blood, mainly from his mouth, but also from another darn cut that had appeared on his forehead and couldn’t for the life of him remember how he’d gotten it.
“You… son of a bitch,” Glavon cursed the signaling Taranir. “We… have people on that ship!”
No, Shamil thought struggling to get on his feet on the even more unstable boat.
“They might get away,” Taranir replied gruffly and put a boot on Glavon’s neck to pin him down, as the disfigured Zilan had tried to stand up to stop him. “Friends and foes alike.”
Good grief, Shamil recoiled and then dived down in shock hearing the incoming volley from the Galleass that had started firing with every piece of artillery that she had on board.
Iron bolts whistled over their heads, several bouncing off of the waves alike flat rocks on a pond’s surface and huge flaming boulders exploded on and around the smoking Express. The ship had turned to join the other two, the Raccoon already well ahead of the White Deceit that had started angling as well –though going on a different direction- in order to avoid a collision with the slow to react, injured, Schooner.
Bolts ripped through the deck, cutting down the trying to get away pirates and the catapult shots sunk deep into the bowels of the Express, pulverizing anything in their way. The ship cracked open, mainly on its port side that blew outwards revealing its cargo hull afore the wounded ship started capsizing with a mighty groan.
Pieces of burning masts rained near their lifeboat, barrels, ropes and chunks of broken wood zipped every which way and the horrified Shamil saw a lithe figure sprinting on the angling quarterdeck to escape the destruction and then leap away from the wrecked, burning Schooner, arms and legs flaying as he flew through the exploding debris.
“We must row away,” Abrix whispered to the stunned at the destruction Shamil, but quickly changed his tune when they both spotted the soaked dog standing at the stern of the boat and waggling its tail breathing heavy.
Its sole eye looking deep into the Gish’s soul.
“Help me get him out of the water!” Abrix screeched eagerly and stooped to offer a hand to the hard swimming Zaine.
“You killed… my mates,” Glavon hissed trying to get himself out from under Taranir’s boot, while a frustrated and drenched to the bone Zaine managed to get out of the water and collapsed inside the boat.
“Um,” Taranir murmured staring at the approaching White Deceit that had raised a white flag to avoid another volley from the still some ways away warship.
The god barked once but stopped when Taranir turned to look its way austerely.
“Traitor,” Zaine cursed spitting out water and then immediately started searching his tattered coat’s pockets. He found a metal flask and got it out, then proceeded to glug down its contents after uncorking it with his teeth. “Fuck. Saltiest brine I’ve ever tasted,” he commented and recoiled upon hearing a voice coming from the approaching large brig. The brightly painted white vessel was more a pale grey from up close, Shamil noticed.
“Is that ye Trickster?” A man wearing a large-brimmed hat with a white feather on it asked stooping over the brig’s quarterdeck’s rails.
“Hey, Zaine,” Abrix greeted the ship’s captain. “We’re friendlies remember?”
“Another Zaine?” Shamil asked with a groan of pain.
“Who’s the smashed up kid?” the newcomer Zaine asked with a nervous smirk, an eye on the warship that approached slowly in the distance. “Only one Zaine in this quadrant of the map. Sneaky Zaine at yer service,” the pirate added and touched his hat. “Right trickster?”
“That’s me own hat you illiterate piece of sloth!” The other Zaine cursed with a grimace. “Yer late as fuck.”
“Ye take something of mine, I take somethin’ of yours captain,” Sneaky Zaine replied. “And I had to deal with two ships, which came as a nasty surprise. Thank Abrakas for foul weather.”
“What were they?” Taranir asked looking at the older Zaine suspiciously. “What’s his name?”
“Pirates working a contract,” Sneaky Zaine replied pursing his mouth. “That’s Horace,” he added. “But the brothers call him trickster.”
“And you are not? Pirates?” Taranir asked.
“We are concerned citizens,” Horace said getting on his feet with ease, despite the unstable boat and eyed Zaine intently, until the newcomer –another Issir- relented and tossed the hat he had on down. It landed in the water some meters away from the boat, which brought a grimace of annoyance on Horace’s face.
“Citizens?” Taranir asked his voice laced with deep disbelief.
“Ayup. I’ve an understanding wit the Monarch.”
“You… have an understanding… with Hardir O’ Fardor?”
“We go way back. Now, Abrix dear, dive in the soup and get me hat,” he ordered the miserable Gish, who sighed and then dutifully jumped in the water to retrieve it.
“I see,” the Zilan said and paused as the gutted Express went under the waves with a loud roar. “Any survivors?” Taranir asked Zaine, who had a better vantage position.
“Not that we saw,” the real Zaine apparently replied. “Is why we approached, to help out?”
“Um,” Taranir replied visibly not convinced. “Prepare to be boarded mister Zaine,” he added and turned his attention on the trapped under his boot injured Glavon. “Still have that knife Sam?”
“Eh,” Shamil blinked and searched his soaked garbs. “I’ve lost it.” He let out a pained moan after that and feeling dizzy sat down on the wet deck of the boat.
“See to his wound mister Horace,” Taranir said without looking at the scowling ‘man of the king’ supposedly. “Now, Glavon… eh,” he continued pursing his mouth. “Who was in on it?”
“I… have no idea… what you’re talking about,” Glavon hissed, a deep gush marring the side of his face. “If you think… I worked with the pirate scum… you are out of your mind.”
“Lanthdor said he expected a high-ranking member of the company to participate in the mission.”
“Sure. That was you… argh!” Glavon cried out as Taranir had caught part of his cheek that drooped and tore it off widening the wound that started bleeding anew. “Curse your lineage!” The marine yelled and tried to shove Taranir’s foot away but stopped again when the Zilan got a thin long stiletto out.
Not a gardening tool for sure.
“Not me. Someone else,” Taranir continued calmly and then much to everyone’s horror brought the small bloody piece of skin and flesh near his mouth. He sniffed at it once and then shoved it inside with a finger, which he licked clean.
“Lice covered black chimpanzee be hangin’ from a cannabis tree,” a spooked Horace murmured bent over to examine Shamil’s wound, just as a soaked Abrix returned with his hat.
“What?” Shamil croaked and the shifty half-breed Issir’s face was distorted with a nasty grimace.
“Nutmegs black as tea be danglin’ beneath a black schlong facing a banshee,” Taranir sang from his spot, slowly chewing at the piece of flesh, adding after gulping down. “A wicked man, in his wicked ways, be doing wicked things. Right mister Horace?”
“That’s right,” Horace agreed nervously.
“What did Larsa want from the ship?” Taranir asked keeping the stiletto near Glavon’s ogling right eye.
Horace pursed his mouth. “Fucking dog,” he murmured, staring in the confused Shamil’s face knowingly.
“Its cargo,” a resigned Horace finally told Taranir through his teeth.
“The company’s cargo is loaded on the Fat Libby mainly. They sent two ships to capture common supplies and a Schooner in the arse end of the world?”
“Eh,” Horace grunted, a tick appearing on his face hearing Lassel’s bells ringing. The warship had reached them almost, now less than fifty meters away from the White Deceit. Lassel’s decks were flooded with marines that stared their way.
“Slaves,” Abrix said and tossed the hat on Horace’s chest angrily. Horace blinked seemingly shocked at his words. “Captured Gish. But you stopped them mister Taranir.”
“First time I’m hearing about it,” Horace declared much to Abrix’s fury.
“Liar! You were going to help them out!”
“SHUT YER MOUTH!” Horace blasted the Gish and tried to kick Abrix's head, but missed, let out a yelp and then fell backwards in the boat almost capsizing it. Taranir stumbled back losing his footing and the alert Glavon snapped into action.
Or tried to.
With a groan the marine dropped to his knees, the stiletto buried to the hilt in his eye-socket and blood mixed with white fluid leaking down his scarred face.
“Ah,” a disappointed Taranir said and went to retrieve the sharp blade from the dead Zilan’s face. Glavon was still standing upright, but collapsed on his face when Taranir got the bloody blade out. “I wanted to learn who they expected to be here damn it,” Taranir hissed and used Glavon’s body as a chair to sit on.
“I knew nothing about no slaves,” the frustrated Horace grunted standing up and then wore his soaked drooping hat on his head. “That’s ‘Crocked’ Larsa’s doing. The Raccoon was his ship. Guess Larsa didn’t make it. I’d laugh on the happenstance, but I’m not in the plaguing mood!”
“Where from?” Taranir asked, whilst cleaning his weapon on the dead marine’s clothes.
“Far Cove. But the Prohibition was a company ship,” Horace replied and Taranir raised a mocking eyebrow. “Supposedly. A large Sloop.”
“What does that mean?” Taranir asked patiently.
“It had papers. Larsa said that.”
“Uhm. What was the ship’s real name?”
Shamil frowned trying to figure out what they were talking about, which wasn’t easy in his dizzy and weakened state.
“The Celeste,” Horace replied crooking his mouth and uncorked his flask to pour some on Shamil’s wound. It burned something fierce and the teenager howled loudly. “Under Rigger Vance. A nasty crew. Tack and ‘Damned’ Safford know these waters like the back of their hand, but they are all retired now.”
“Retired?”
“Ayup.”
“So they found a more profitable employment?” Taranir translated and used the stiletto to cut an ear out of the corpse’s head, he then tossed at the watching him dog.
“Holly fuck, me dude… yeah, they did,” Horace said with a shiver. “They work for Hulanor now, back in Taras.”