“Wait!” cried Alaric Aymon. “I’ve got something more valuable than anything on that ship.”

Dericore scoffed, “Your title and your lands are not wanted here, unless you have a way to transport that across the Draining Sea.” Laughter followed his words as they spilled.

The galley was moving quietly through the dark waters. The looming ship before them had cast a shadow over them so that the moonlight no longer illuminated their galley.

“I can’t do that. And I know there’s slaves on that ship. But I know a man who’s worth ten-fold anything you hope to earn from taking that ship.” Alaric was desperate, and they knew it.

“Well unless he’s on that ship your words have no weight to me,” came the reply from the captain. “We’re pirates, Lord Aymon. And you…you are no lord to us.”

The large ship was only a hundred yards away, but they were making for the coast to dock for the night. Any ship carrying a large number of slaves and was wise to stay off the water unless they were deep at sea.

“Are you pirates or are your smugglers, then?” Alaric hoped he had not pushed his luck too far. His ear was still dripping blood from where Tillet had bitten off the top. He felt queasy and the swaying sea had not helped that one bit.

“You do not get to ask what we are, Lord Aymon. We do as we wish, and my word is final. Did you not learn a thing just now about respect?” he had grown irritated, but Alaric Aymon had no choice. They were nearing the trading galley now. Heliot Sangrey was hoisting lines of ropes with grapnels attached to prepare for their raid.

“We must be quick, lord. A few of their men have seen and went scurrying from the rail side. They are also making for the coastline with speed. This is risky.” Aymon looked up to see a concerned Joren staring across the waters from the prow end of the galley. He had seemed a cautious man—the kind who did not like to get his hands dirty.

“And how do we mean to bring all of this coin on board? We’ll have to leave this galley behind and all the coin in it.” Came another comment from Mott Soulton.

“You can stay with the ship. I don’t want a fisherman fighting for me. It’ll only give them the allusion that they have a chance when they stick the tip of their swords through your belly. Stay on board with Aymon. Lord Aymon, if you as much as glance at Mott Soulton I will have him take your eyes, do you hear me? Like I said, if we are to take that ship, you are worthless to me.” Dericore was cold. He turned away from Lord Aymon finally, the rest of his men intent on the ship that they approached.

Tillet the Terror was filling his sword belt with small knives and daggers. Heliot Sangrey sheathed a smaller curved sword made of iron. He buckled leather straps over his wrists and crammed a stolen half helm that was badly dented onto his block of a head. Dericore had a sword across his back and a pickaxe in hand. Boiled leather covered his cloak. The men set about covering themselves in dark cloaks, keeping them concealed against the dark of night.

“It’s going to be a close one, lord. We aren’t far from the coast. If they are close enough to sound their horn, then Lightenbrag’s coast will be aware that they’re in trouble.” Once again, it was Joren who expressed his concern.

“Then let’s attack sooner rather than later, shall we?” replied Tillet the Terror. Lord Aymon could once again see the blood in his eyes. He was desperate for killing. He did’nt like how pointed Tillet’s features were. That chin could cut the rest of his ear off. His cheekbones slid up his face and his hair hung in straight lines down his forehead. The teeth were worst of all, as straight and pointy as small daggers as he smiled.

“We’ve got eight, how many do we think they have?” asked a man whom Aymon had not heard speak yet.

“I reckon around four. Their crew is small because they’ve got a lot of slaves. They’ll try to get away with as few numbers as possible.” Dericore tested the weight of his pickaxe, swinging through the air.

Alaric pointed to the prow of the ship they were to raid. “Don’t do it. They’ve got archers.” Dericore and Heliot let their eyes follow Alaric’s pointing finger.

“They don’t got archers you bloody fool, they’d have hit us already. Keep your trap shut.” Heliot’s temper was showing through.

“Archers can’t see in the night. Their arrows are wasted if they try.” Joren spoke calmly.

“No, I swear it. I saw the light of the moon reflect upon their bows. They’ve got longbows, look! That is not a bow belonging to a novice, those are expert bowmen I swear it by the Common God and the gods of the Slabrakhi.”

“How can you be sure? If you are lying, I don’t see why I shouldn’t heave you over the side with the rest of the lying bastards we’ve encountered.” Heliot’s patience wore thin. He had never had a talent for taming his tongue. It had gotten him banished from the service of his lord when was still a man of the nine kingdoms.

“Calm, Heliot. He may be right.” Dericore watched warily where Lord Aymon had pointed. It was still too far to see. “Let’s hope your eyes are wrong, Lord Aymon. Elsewise It just be you and the fishermen who live to tell the tale.”

The Tycoon was close enough to the trading galley now to man a takeover. Heliot slung his grapnel with strong arms up towards the rails of the ship where crowded slaves stood, watching. They had begun to chatter anxiously but the ships commandeer were still nowhere to be seen. Heliot handed off the ropes and grapnels to Tillet and he swung towards the galley until his feet met the stiff boards of its side. He began to work his way up whilst Tillet’s grapnel landed and was pulled tight against the railing. The two hoisted themselves up and Joren and another followed after them.

“I speak truly when I tell you they have archers. I have spoken with Lord Ryn Malarin himself. He’s a large man who drinks too much ale and therefore he tells me. He arms his slave ships with archers to fend off pirates.” Alaric was pleading with Dericore. He did not want to become one of the slaves he saw standing aboard the trading galley. They were packed together like a swarm of ants, all too crowded to walk even one step. The slaves on the outsides were near to being pushed off the edge due to how crowded it was.

“I don’t see any archers.” Dericore’s voice was fading as his eyes scanned the ship.

“Archers!” he yelled. “Heliot, Tillet! Abort, they’ve got archers!”

Archers in dark clad clothing were climbing atop their mast to the lookout from up high. The black paint upon their longbows was indeed shiny under the moonlight. Dericore looked to Alaric, the two exchanged knowing glances.

Tillet and Heliot were nearly to the top of the railing now as they glanced back at their small galley below.

The first archer had gathered himself at the top of the mast and knocked his arrow. He pulled back, released. The first arrow whizzed by Tillet’s face, missing by inches. Tillet nearly lost his grip on his rope and the grapnel slid to the side. He was thrown off balance but clung to the rope by one hand, swaying away from the ship and then slamming his side against its hull.

Heliot held onto his rope with his hands and pushed off from the hull of the ship, letting go as he went and flinging himself into the water just short of The Tycoon. He floundered around in the water and it took all of the crew’s might to pull him in. He had lost his curved sword in the process.

Tillet tried the same but he landed in the boat, rocking it greatly as he landed—or fell, rather. Joren was nervous to jump, so instead he remained hanging from his rope which clung to the rail by its grapnel above. The slaves moved closer to the piece of iron that clung to their ship. It was only a matter of time before they heaved it down. Joren glanced down. The water underneath him was churning from the underside of the ship. He was sure to be sucked under if he didn’t leap to safety. And yet, he could not jump.

A second archer had arrived at the top of the mast now, and the two archers took aim. The other man who had latched onto the trading galley flung himself towards the boat, purposely missing short but he was a good swimmer and so he made quickly for The Tycoon. Two arrows pierced the water either side of him. Another thudded into the water of The Tycoon’s hull beside his head. The men hoisted him over the side and into their galley, patting him on the boat and ducking below the side so that the archers could not hit them.

Joren was still clinging to his rope.

“You must jump! Do it now!” Yelled a man called Prysm. He was the same man who had nearly been pierced by the arrows as he swam. He was dripping water from his soaking clothes as he lay. Alaric had was ducked just beside him. A quiet man who had been sitting alone at the stern of the galley was motioned by Dericore. No words were spoken but he had seemed to understand what needed to be done. He unwrapped a set of cloth and linens that covered what happened to be a longbow.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Why the hell did it take him this long?” Asked Heliot. Others murmered agreement. Dericore ignored them.

“Quick, Kivan. Before Joren is killed,” ordered Dericore. The man called Kivan set to work knocking his bow. An arrow sailed harmlessly past him as he knocked it. Another sailed wildly over his head. Alaric watched as he aimed. He noted only four arrows in his quiver, five including the one knocked. They were all gold, which Alaric found odd.

The arrow was more a bolt than an arrow. The tip was pure steel, he noticed, as Kivan drew back on the bow.

“Loose!” yelled Dericore.

The archers upon the ship made the mistake of aligning themselves one behind the other. The golden arrow took flight and pierced the first archer through his neck and out the other side—piercing the archer behind him. The two simultaneously dropped from their perch along the rasied mast, falling into the crowd of slaves who screamed as the bodies created a chaos upon the ship. Slaves pushed and shoved to get out of the way and bodies began seeping over the edge and into the waters. Most of them were sucked under the ship by the tide. Alaric had raised his head over the side of the ship to watch.

“That is all they have. We raid now.” Demanded Tillet.

“No. It is too late,” said Dericore. “We are too close to the coast, soon they will bow the—”

The sound of a horn blown long and hard interrupted his words, piercing the night air with no regard for the peace of waters they flowed upon. If there had been anyone asleep along the coast, they were no longer. Alaric covered his ears with his hands, forgetting his ear was half gone on one side. He winced and quickly withdrew his hand to see fresh blood upon his palm.

“Back on the oars. Everyone. Mott stay out of the way. I’m rowing.” Dericore took his seat at the oars and heaved with his men to steer out from behind the trading galley and away from the coast. The ship must have had more archers than they’d known, more had gathered to the stern to fire at them as they rowed. Most of them sailed uselessly over their heads or fell short.

“They’re trying to fool us. Those are slaves shooting at us,” said Alaric. He was right. Slaves stood with the bows in their hands. Their aim was horrendous, so The Tycoon cruised by them, taking only three arrows to its wooden hull.

“Raise the sail.” Said Dericore Badrome.

It was not long later that they were out of sight and the winds had picked up. The oarsmen could rest, and the breeze took them down the coast, although they were farther north from the coast to avoid being seen. The horn had alerted the majority of Lightenbrag’s coast of their presence.

“You’ve made your own life worth something again. I do not like the say it, though.” Said Dericore to Alaric. His ear had stopped bleeding again, but dried blood covered the tip of it.

Alaric shrugged, “I did not mean to become a part of Lord Malarin’s slave trade. That is one way to live a life of hell before you die.”

“What do you mean to say, captive. You’re still a slave, you’re just under our rules, and not theirs. I’ll make sure to find the ugliest, cruelest buyer to sell you to at Rivertrade. I don’t like you one bit.” Tillet’s voice was full of venom. Dericore pursed his lips but said nothing.

“Where do you mean to take me? Just tell me and I’ll quiet up. I’ve kept my mouth shut but I think I’ve just saved the skin on your arse, so why don’t you quit scoffing at me.” Alaric was angry now and Tillet grinned.

“Oohhh, I like that,” said Tillet. “Do you want to play knives with me and see who comes out on top?” His eyes were dancing with menace and Alaric was still seething.

“Tell. Me. Where we’re going.” Said Alaric through gritted teeth.

“If you kill me then I’ll tell you.” Tillet bared his two small knives from his belt and rubbed the metal together viciously.

Heliot cut Alaric’s bonds and held out the hilt of his dagger. Alaric refused to grab it.

“No. I am no fool. If you mean to kill me then be quick about it. I don’t think it would please your master.” Alaric crossed his arms.

Tillet looked to Dericore, who shook his head. Tillet snarled and yelled, returning his knives to his sword belt. “I don’t like this one at all. He’s got a mouth on him.” Tillet spit into the waters.

Dericore looked to Alaric, “We trade with the goblins down at Rivertrade where the Splitter’s River meets the Draining Sea. You ain’t gonna be no slave, Lord Aymon. You’re going to Gobblesfled.”

Alaric’s skin went cold. His wounds were forgotten. His breathe came short. Gobblesfled. He had heard the stories of the place. If the stories were true, it was its own land across the Draining Sea that was taken over by goblins hundreds of years ago. Man wielded that land after putting up a short fight, but a pact was made that saw man agree to occupy Osknia, and goblin to occupy Gobblesfled—then known as Rotkin.

Tillet was likely laughing at him, he knew. He could make out Heliot staring at him oddly. Dericore asked him, “Are you okay? You aren’t going to heave chunks from your belly on my ship, are you? You’ve gone quite pale.”

Alaric heaved over the side; chunks exploded from his mouth. Sweat ran down his face despite the cold of the night bringing a cool breeze over them. He watched as his vomit mixed with the waters. Black ooze floated along the surface of the water and met with his vomit, disguising it now.

“I’ve heard stories. I never thought—” His own words were disrupted by another spell of vomiting.

“That’s great. I can’t wait to see his face when he meets his buyer.” Tillet let off a nasty howl of a laugh that sounded like a squeaky wagon wheel. “Do you want me to slit your throat now? That might be the better option now that you know where we mean to take ya.” Tillet’s words bounced off Alaric’s head like bricks.

He looked to Dericore. He had seemed like the only man worth speaking with.

“Who are you?” it was more of a statement than a question, but Alaric shivered as he said it.

“Who am I?” Dericore repeated the question to himself. “I am my own man, a warrior in my land. I hailed from the badlands before I became a smuggler. Ruled over many men. Many.” He was beginning to soften up, Alaric realized. It did not appear easy for him as he struggled to get the words out now. “Most of us upon this ship have the same stories. But we come from different places. And by the way, I am only sharing this because you gained a rice sized level of respect from me. You saved us from that ship. Some of us would have died.”

Alaric nodded his head solemnly, slowly forgetting the sickening news of his fate. “I am a man of honor, lord Dericore.”

“Anyways…I do not know what you know, so I shall tell you. The badlands are outside of your king’s jurisdiction. As in, he can wipe his arse with whatever rules he wants to write on his fine parchment. We don’t have squires to clean up our mess and feed us our fodder like you men do. We fight for what land we have. We work all day so that we can get one meal at night. So that our family can eat. I was nine years old when I killed my first man. And I liked it.” Dericore paused at that, waiting for Alaric to soak that in. Alaric was surprised as he had expected. “Why do you not widen your eyes? When did you kill your first?”

“I have not killed a man.” Said Alarc, unabashed. Even quiet Kivan with his golden arrows chuckled under his breath.

“This is what I am talking about. You are from a very different world than me. Your people live in their kingdoms of splendor and riches, but not for one day have you ever worried about your food. So, when the Thousand Years peace ended, and the Men of Bones died off, there were two groups of men. Those who wanted to be led and controlled like dogs, and those who wanted to live their life the way it is meant to be. It was then that the badlands broke off from the nine kingdoms, and thus Osknia has been divided ever since.”

“The Men of Bones you spoke of…I have seen them. Recently.” Said Alaric.

“Unless man sleeps in a cave and never leaves, I cannot imagine that you have not the Men of Bones. They are not extinct as we once thought,” replied Dericore. Mott Soulton sat listening quietly for the first time in his life.

“No, it is known across the nine kingdoms that they were extinct. The last man made of only bone that dwelled in Osknia was slain by Ser Hen Bregnor during the Siege at Splitter’s River, and that fact is as strong as stone, my friend.”

“Easy there, kingdom dweller. I am no friend to you, firstly. Secondly, although you may be right in what you say, do you forget that there are countless trade routes between here and Gobbesfled? Just because your king has banned trade with the goblins does not mean that we have too. Rivertrade is a goblin route. The only reason Osknians use that port is if they mean to transport slaves, such as Lord Malarin.”

“How much do you know of the nine kingdoms? You seem to know Lord Malarin, you seemed to know I was a lord of one of the nine…” Alaric trailed off.

“Men of the badlands are no fools, Lord Aymon. Smugglers are no fools. We do not become what we are because we lost something, but rather, it is because we want to gain something. We dream of grandeur and wealth, far more than you can imagine even as a lord. Because believe me, there is a wealth of gold at the end of the rainbow, and I mean to find it.” Dericore had become passionate with his words, smiling at the thought of wealth.

“Your people attacked our lands the day you captured me. A man named Thorck. Infiltrated the castle of Creppenhal amidst a wedding—my own, actually—if you know so much, then why did your people decide to end the peace?” Alaric had grown frustrated now. His minds were darting from King Eyowen to Sarin to Aslay to Troisten Brackos. Even the Rat had been desperate to salvage what he could, saving the life of a man he had come to despise since childhood—himself. And yet, he had not been able to stop the invaders despite the warning from his king. He wondered if the king had meant for him to do something even though he had warned against it.

“As I said, I am no longer associated with the badlands. I am a smuggler now, and I did know of the attack before it was to occur. And that is how I found you.” Dericore smirked.

“Yeah? Well my little sister was left to wonder the streets on her own amidst an ambush by an entire army of wild men. I was left chasing after some little girl in a matching green cloak. Happen to know how that is possible, lord Dericore?” Alaric spit out the word lord with spite. It was his sister, and her death would be on his hands since he had failed to find her, to save her.

A man at the prow of the ship interrupted, standing beside Joren. “My lord, we’re making good time. At most we are two days from Rivertrade.”

“Hear that, Lord Aymon?” asked Dericore. “Soon you will see what the nine kingdoms have been missing. With Thorck on the throne, trade with the goblins is about to be revolutionized. I hope you could stomach the sight of the Men of Bones, because the lands where they’ve come from…those men are the least of your worries.” The crew chuckled again, eager to please their lord.

“Aye, do you truly mean to turn the entire realm into a slave trade with the goblins? How do you call that righteous, but the way of the kingdoms is not?”

“I am not the man on the Throne of Thorns,” replied Dericore Badrome. “I am simply a man who happens to make his coin by selling men to the goblins. Are you suggesting I have the power to prevent this slave trade you speak of? If so, I have mistaken you for a man, rather, you are just a piece of scum like the rest of the nobles!”

“If you aren’t working against them, then you are one of them. You’re terrible men, all of you!” He shouted.

“Well then…if you don’t like us, then perhaps you’ll like the goblins better.”