In this fog, time and movement lose all meaning.  There is no frame of reference.  No sun, no stars, only a growing darkness to tell you when night falls.  No wind, no sense of movement other than that rocking of the ship, the fluttering of the limp sails, and the straining of the engine.  Occasionally, the lookout will report the sighting of land as they pass an island.  Occasionally, a sailor will report the passing shallow or drowned ruin as he tests the water’s depths.

The Knight’s Torment travels slowly, cautiously, and the crew measures the water depth frequently.  They are traveling through waters unknown to Radla, uncharted by his maps, and hidden by the fog.  At any moment, a reef or island may loom before them without warning, eager to consume their ship.

These waters are ever-changing, and much of the Weaning Shores are uncharted.  There are nearly countless reasons why—tidal waves, magic, monsters, pirates, or simply Radla’s inferior maps and logs—but if Guiromélans’s guess is right, and the Ravens are looking for him in Ledus, his best chance of intercepting them would be to cut through these waters.

The crew is tense and alert, again wondering if their trust in this Raven is well-founded.  Guiromélans guards his thoughts well.  If they knew his true intent, if they knew he was leading them towards an ambush of a Raven man-o’-war, they would almost certainly kill him on the spot.

Right now, however, Guiromélans has other things to worry about.

“Beware!” Guiromélans shouts.  Balen slowly circles him, sword held at the ready.  With a snarl, he feints and lunges, just as the knight had taught him.  Guiromélans lets himself be tricked, parrying the feint and allowing the cut to strike his side.  “Excellent!” he gasps.  His wound from the duel with Mogens is still tender.  Striking it with a piece of wood doesn’t help matters.  “Now, stay focused!  Stay focused!  A wounded enemy can be more dangerous than a fresh one!”

Balen backs away as Guiromélans slowly limps towards him.  The tip of Guiromélans’s wooden spatha cuts back and forth just above the surface of the deck, almost to the rhythm of the rocking ship.  The boy licks his lips, his eyes trying to stay focused on Guiromélans’s rather than the blade.  “What will happen next?” Guiromélans asks quietly.  “Where will the attack come from?  What do you watch?  What do you watch?”

Most of the crew observe the lesson with mixed feelings.  The mock battles are entertaining to be sure, but it is not often that they are witness to a knight giving lessons on how to kill Bracks.

Guiromélans closes carefully, watching each time Balen’s eyes steal a glance at his swinging sword.  He bides his time and then lunges suddenly, spatha held high for a downward stroke.  Balen reacts perfectly.  Side-stepping the attack, he lays a hard cut across Guiromélans’s knee, a second to disembowel him, a sharp blow with the pommel to the temple to stun him, and a third cut for the beheading.

Guiromélans rises, his hand massaging the back of his neck, and smiles down at the beaming boy.  “Well done.”

The crewmen around them exhale the breaths they’ve been holding and turn back to their tasks.  Many of them shake their heads, surprised by how tense they felt.  Each silently plays-out possible duels with the Raven, and each are quickly disappointed by the imagined outcomes.  These exercises are as much warnings to them as they are lessons for the boy.

As Guiromélans collects their rude practice swords, Balen slumps to the deck and picks at the splinters in his hands.  “Why yä teachin’ me this buachar anyways?” he moans.  “If I was tä be a Raven like yä, I’d just shoots the Bracks with me pistol!”  He pantomimes a two-fisted execution, with sound effects.

“Easily said,” Guiromélans answers, “but your pistol can answer for only one foe.  If there are others, chances are, you would have to face them with your blade.”

Today the fog is as thick as ever, thicker perhaps, and despite their tough workout, the drizzle chills Guiromélans.  The deck is slick despite the generous amounts of sand laid down by the crew.  He sits next to the boy and shakes his head.  “It is true that since the coming of gunpowder and guns, swordplay has fallen into some disuse in the Seven Kingdoms.  Most common soldiers think as you.  If enough of them line up with their rifles, they think they can defeat any foe.  In Ehre and the EroBernd Empire, primarily only the knights and nobles still practice fencing, and many of them, only for sport and dueling.”

He reaches over and picks up the slender rod he plans to use to simulate a rapier.  “They use weapons like this.  Four feet long, thin, and very, very sharp.  Designed for speed.  Designed for quick wounds, but not necessarily fatal ones.”

“Not very effective against a cing’s charge,” Balen snorts.

“But very useful in the foyers of the EroBernac court,” adds Guiromélans, “and you’d be surprised how lethal they can be.  I’ve seen Bracks killed by these weapons…”

He makes a couple practice feints, cuts, and thrusts.  In his hand, the stick almost vanishes, cutting the damp air like a whip.  “Cut to the eyes, cut to the throat, cut to the heart, or lungs, or kidneys.  By the Prophets, just about any deep wound will discourage any but the most determined opponent.”

Guiromélans holds the faux blade out for Balen’s examination.  The boy touches the stick, trying to imagine the real thing.  “And yä knows how tä fight with these?”

“Oh yes,” Guiromélans nods distantly, testing the weight of the wooden blade.  “The rapier was the first sword I learned, and I had to become very, very good at it…”

“Why?”

The question startles Guiromélans out of his reverie, “Maybe another time.  Yes.”

He drops the stick and picks up a Muttese short sword they’d acquired during their raid on Praggan.  It is a lethally efficient weapon, 2 feet long, and strongly made, well used and often used.  “In Mut,” he says, “most Muttese—even þiudas—carry blades like this one, but they really only use them for dueling.  And they duel frequently.”

Balen grunts at the smallish weapon, “I saw yä lay out 10 of the boduuses all by yerself!  They had guns too!  Worthless inigenas!  I coulda killed them meself!”

Guiromélans smiles at the boy’s disappointed expression.  “Perhaps.  So Muttese fencing does not impress you?  The Bracks and the Söderkarl may be a different story.  Those peoples most enthusiastically practice swordplay…”

Rising, he draws his cavalry saber and displays it for him.  Even in the fog-dimmed light, its edge shines.  “In the face of such foes, this is the Raven’s weapon, and in many cases, his only weapon.  The Raven cavalry saber.  It is curved for ease of drawing on horseback, for most Ravens fight from the saddle.  It is crafted of the finest Plainas Sarvas steel.”

He runs his thumb across its edge and then shows Balen the bead of blood drawn despite its callus.  “The blade is 3 feet long and 2 inches wide.  The edge runs the entire length on the bottom and the last 12 inches on the top.  It is a holy weapon, a sacred weapon, symbolizing my oath to honor, God, and nation.  So long as I wield it only in the lands of God, it will never need sharpening and it will never rust.  There are so-called ‘enchanted’ swords created by devil-worshipping primitives and maniacs.  Such things are inferior and empty, drawing only upon the evil power forced into them.  Blades like this one,” he sighs, cradling the sword, “are pure, empowered by the masters that forged them and the blessings of God alone.  Nowhere outside the Seven Kingdoms would you ever see their equal, in purity or in purpose.  By what it represents and what it is capable of, some would consider it priceless.”

Balen stares at the sword with newfound awe, as do several of the nearby Bracks.  “Do yä?” he asks.  “Do yä thinks it’s priceless?”

Guiromélans smiles, “Of course I do.”

“And every bod— Cathubodua gets one?”

Guiromélans nods, “On the day he becomes a Raven, he is given his silver emblem, his spurs, and his sword.”

“Such a mirain toy,” Caidryn spits suddenly.  Guiromélans turns around and looks at her with surprise.  He wasn’t aware that she was listening.  “Why don’t we just puts the pretty thing on a silk pillow, uh?”

Several of the nearby Bracks laugh nervously.

Guiromélans sheathes the blade smoothly.  “Pretty, perhaps.  But it is as effective a tool as the knight who wields it.”

Caidryn snorts derisively.  “Yäh.  And why don’t yä teach him a real sword?”

“You mean the spatha?” Guiromélans asks as he sets the sheathed saber aside.  When she nods, Guiromélans smiles.  “Of course.”  He looks at Balen, “You should learn all weapons—just as you should learn all music, languages, and poetry—but it is most important that you pick one or two you like the most and master them.”

“And what did yä pick?” Balen asks, looking uncertainly from Guiromélans to Caidryn.

“The saber and the rapier, of course.”

Turning, Guiromélans picks up the true spatha Quartermaster Abandinus set out for them.  Drawing the huge broadsword, he is always surprised by how heavy it is.

“The spatha was designed after the Synesi cavalry sword,” Guiromélans says, “The same basic leaf-bladed, hiltless design, only much, much larger and longer.  The pommel remained the same, you see, requiring only single-handed use.”  He grips the off-balance blade, and hefting its weight, he demonstrates some practical moves.  “No matter how much you might be tempted,” he grunts as he turns the blade, “there’s no way you could use two hands.  There is reason behind this madness.  Only the strongest can wield a spatha, thus ensuring only the strongest of Bracks can become cings.  You fight with a spatha using deep thrusts and cuts.  You must keep your entire body balanced and behind the motion; otherwise, there will be no power behind your attacks.”

Sinking the tip into the wooden deck, Guiromélans tests the sword’s blade with his hand and shows Balen the result.  The edge is weak and heavily nicked, and it fails to cut his skin.  Nevertheless, the boy admires the dull shine of the worn metal with a gleam in his eye.

“Yä don’t like spathas?” a nearby sailor asks.

“They serve their purpose,” the Raven admits, “but I would almost hesitate to call them swords.  Brackish steel is typically substandard—so spathas don’t hold an edge well—but as I’ve tried to show you, Balen, in the hands of the average Brack, that doesn’t necessarily matter too much.  The spatha is so heavy, usually you just rely on its weight to crush your enemy, like a club.  It almost doesn’t matter if you are striking with the edge or the flat of blade.”

Caidryn grunts and wrenches the broadsword from the deck, “Then yä haven’t been fightin’ the right Bracks, uh?”

“I fought Mogens,” Guiromélans says blandly, “and most of this crew—you included—considered him the best among you.”

Caidryn’s face twists with anger, but Guiromélans refuses to be drawn into a fight with her.  Looking back at the boy, he says, “These are the Bracks.  The other great swordsmen of the Skudd Sea are the Söderkarl… in all likelihood, a people we will encounter very soon.”

He glances at Caidryn, but she has turned away.  “Söderkarl long swords are a bit different from the spatha.  They are longer, but thinner, and hold a better edge.  Where Brackish steel is brittle, Söderkarl steel tends to bend.  In battle, it is common to see a warrior stop and stand on his blade in an attempt to straighten out a bent sword.  They are better balanced, more comfortable to wield, and have a longer hilt that permits the use of two hands.  In the hands of a Söderkarl, it is a very dangerous weapon…  As we saw on the storm-queans’ island.”

“Which is the best?” Balen asks.

The Raven shrugs, “Perhaps that is something you must decide on your own.  Train.  Master them all.  Let your own skill and experience decide.  In the hands of the right person, just about anything can be the ultimate weapon.  My preference is the saber and the pistol.”

“Guns?” a Brackish sailor laughs derisively.

“Of course!” Guiromélans replies, surprised by the reaction.

“But there’s na honor in shootin’ a cing with a gun!”

“You find many different kinds of honor in nearly every place you look,” Guiromélans says quietly.  “What you speak of is Brackish honor, a variation that I most certainly do not practice.  In EroBernd, a duel by pistol is almost certainly considered more honorable than one by rapier.  It is more feared as well.”

“Yäh!” the sailor says, “One shot, one kill, uh?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Not in the way that you mean it.  Certainly, a head or chest shot could be fatal, but without a sorcerer nearby to tend to you, almost any bullet injury would mean death.  Arm, leg, anywhere.  Even in a duel that was only to the first blood.”

“Why?” Balen asks.

“When the bullet strikes, it carries pieces of whatever it passes through first into the wound.  Threads from your clothes, leather from a belt or jacket, wood, metal, hair.  While a surgeon could pry out the slug—assuming it doesn’t shatter against a bone—he most certainly couldn’t find all the rest.  It would fester in the wound and eventually cause gangrene.  If you cannot amputate, and there is no sorcerer around, death is almost certain.  Frankly, I would very much rather be cut by a sword.”

He looks at Balen and then at the proxy students that have been listening and watching.  “Now, Balen.  We are finished for the day.  Take these swords and put them—”

“Touto!  Touto!” a sailor in the rigging shouts.  “Hoyw!”

Men across the deck turn in all directions, looking for what’s so alarmed the morwr.  “Gwrach fflam!  Gwrach fflam syth ymlæn!”

Guiromélans looks for Abandinus.  “What?  What is it?”  He looks down at Balen, “What is he saying?  What does he see?”

The boy screws up his face with the effort of translation, “Witchfire?”

“Go!” Guiromélans directs as he heads for the bow, “Put those swords away.”

Much of the crew is already at the prow—many of them leaning dangerously over the rails or clinging precariously from rigging—but they allow their Captain to push his way through.  Adalgis looks at him with a bemused expression and then gestures down to the water.  “Witchfire!  The hair of the gwrach!  What could it mean?”

Guiromélans peers down at the waters before them.  Even as the Knight’s Torment cuts through them, he can see the wispy trails of white-green fire flickering across the waves.  Guiromélans mulls this over briefly.

“What could be afore us, uh?” the Master Carpenter asks.

“Someone!” Guiromélans barks, “Go aft and check our wake!  Go!  Now!”

He looks at the Brackish officer, “What could be ahead of us?”

“The gwrach fflam is there!” a sailor pants, “Our wake’s afire too!  We’re travellin’ through it!”

Guiromélans nods.  “Something is ahead of us,” he wonders.  “We’re traveling in its wake.”

“A ship?” Adalgis asks, “How can that be?  Accordin’ tä Radla, we’re nearly 100 leagues off the main shipping lanes.  A beast then?  Sea-tera?  Nicors?”

Guiromélans shakes his head and turns away.  Clapping his hands loudly, he orders the men back to their posts and the deck cleared.  He looks at Abandinus, “I want this ship running silently.  No sound.  No talking.  No shouting.  Everyone keeps their ears open.”  He gestures towards the witchfire ahead of them.  “Change our course.  Keep the witchfire in sight.  Try to close on whatever it is.”

Abandinus considers this and then nods, “Yä thinks it’s a ship, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles.  “I think it may just be the ship we were looking for.”

As the Quartermaster turns to the task, Guiromélans’s blood runs cold.  Can this be the ship?  Can this be the Ravens?  Could his plan have worked this well?  It must be!  They must have changed course!  Perhaps they somehow sensed Guiromélans’s presence?  Perhaps they were guided by a Divine Hand?  How else could it have succeeded so well?  He smiles and tries to catch his breath, surprised by the mixture of excitement, fear, and relief he feels.  At last it will soon be over.  This façade will be over.  His punishment will be over.  God has finally seen fit to bring to him his appropriate redemption.

“Cathubodua?”  Guiromélans is startled by the small voice.  Glancing down, he sees Balen looking up at him.  “What’s goin’ on?  Did we find a ship?”

“Yes,” he answers, suddenly feeling a heavy weight of sadness fall upon him.

“Yä thinks it’s the same as we saw that night with the paqa?”

Guiromélans hesitates before answering, “Yes.  I think it might.”

“What’re we goin’ tä do?  Attack it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t it have a lot more gun than us?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”  He nods towards the aftercastle, “Go below and prepare my weapons.  It may not be the ship we’re looking for, but if it is, I’ll need my gun ready.”

Balen bobs his head in agreement and retreats to the cabin.  Guiromélans watches him go.

So sad.  So sad to sacrifice one so young.  Most of this ship is crewed by lost souls, but that child is still an innocent.  It is so sad that he is to be sacrificed in such a way.

Is this the right thing to do?  Should he sacrifice the boy, the girl, and everyone else, merely to redeem himself?  Guiromélans stands at the rail for a long time.

“Witchfire, hmmn?” Baldruus intrudes cheerfully, tauntingly.  “Odd that, seeing as we’re so far west.”

Guiromélans clenches his teeth.  “Yes,” he murmurs.

“You know what they say,” the sorcerer continues, “Food of the Maggot Sea.  Where there’s fire, the worms aren’t far away.”

“We’ll have to post extra lookouts,” Guiromélans agrees flatly.  He jerks his hand away as the railing he was leaning on suddenly blooms with greenish fire.  Looking all around him, he sees it burning across every rail, rope, and spar.  “By Hoël,” he gasps quietly.

“Yes, quite an outbreak, indeed, ” the sorcerer chuckles as he runs his hand through it.  The flames coil around his fingers teasingly before evaporating.  “If I was a superstitious man, I’d say this was a dark omen.  Certain death for us all and all that… or at least for most of us.  I’m sure our good Radla is nearly faint with terror.”  He looks at Guiromélans, his eyes knowing, “But unlike him, I am not a superstitious man.  Are you?”

“Perhaps you should be,” Guiromélans warns.  “If you were to die today, what would be the condition of your soul?”

“By whose measure?” the sorcerer grins.

“Ah, yes,” Guiromélans sighs darkly, “You are a henotheist.  Convenient.”

“I am comfortable with the fate in store for me, Raven,” Baldruus states, suddenly becoming serious.  “Can you say the same?”  He gestures towards Guiromélans’s breast, “Perhaps you should check your little enchanted bauble before you pass any judgments, hmmn?”

Guiromélans nods to himself, “You speak like a man with all the days of the world still ahead of him, but I know the time left to us is much more limited.  You might want to reconsider your attitude… or if not, then at least release your hold on the girl, Caidryn, and give her soul a chance.”

Baldruus’s eyebrows slowly rise in reaction to Guiromélans’s words.  “Your choice of words are not lost on me, Raven, and I find them very… odd.  You speak like a man who knows Death stands at his side…”  He frowns at Guiromélans’s weary smile, “Now, how would you…?”

Abandinus hustles over, his eyes alit with excitement.  “One of me morwr’s heard somethin’ ahead,” he hisses in an exaggerated whisper.  “Now we all hears it.  Dead ahead.”

Guiromélans rubs at his beard, “Not a sea monster, I take it?”

“Nage,” the Quartermaster smiles, “A ship.  There be a ship dead ahead of us.  We can hear her engines plain now.”

Guiromélans smiles at Baldruus’s worried expression, “Then gather the crew.  Should they find the conditions favorable, break out weapons for everyone, and we’ll see about taking our first prize on the sea.”

The straining of the ship’s engine is evident even to Guiromélans.  Something must have happened to the man-o’-war for it to be so crippled.  This makes sense to him.  Under normal circumstances, the Knight’s Torment would have no chance of catching the warship while under full steam.  It is merely one more obstacle to his redemption that God has swept aside.  He smiles and inhales the moist air deeply.  It carries the scent of oil and smoke.  The ship is very close now.  He can almost smell the men on board.  Soon, it will be in sight.

Guiromélans stands at his station on the poop deck.  He is shaven, washed, and wearing the best garments he could muster.  His saber is polished, his pistol oiled and loaded.  Leaning against the rail is one of their rifles, its temperamental fuse tended by Balen.  If Guiromélans is to die at the end of a Raven’s blade, he wants to look his best.  It seems only proper, considering the honor God is delivering him.

“Yä thinks this is the Raven’s more’da?” the boy asks.

Guiromélans glances around at the nearby sailors.  They frown at the question but keep their peace.  “Perhaps.”

“Yer hopin’ sä, uh?”

“Yes.”

“Sä’s yä can goes home?”  The boy’s voice sounds hurt.

Guiromélans smiles.  “In a way, yes, but not in the way you are thinking.  Now hush and do the prayer I taught you.  It will keep you safe in the hands of God.”

Balen nods meekly, and bowing his head, he dutifully begins uttering the prayer for the passing of a child.

Guiromélans’s eyes bore into the gray wall before them.  The fog is as thick as it ever has been—perhaps even thicker—standing aft, the prow of his own ship is completely obscured.  The fog may pose some difficulties in the attack, but in the end, it should help more than hinder their efforts.  At the very least, it should allow the Knight’s Torment to close to within grappling range with the Raven ship before her cannons can blow them out of the water.

Guiromélans had always worried about dieing that way.  Impersonal, anonymous, and ignominious.  Personal combat is much more satisfying.

Conditions for the ambush are nearly perfect.  They are almost directly behind their prey, and both ships are heading into the wind.  The pounding of the Knight’s Torment’s engines are masked by the sea, the air, and the man-o’-war’s own engines.  The fog covers their approach, and the witchfire burns across everything now, mast, rails, and waves.  Should their prey look behind them, all they’ll see is what they’re used to seeing:  the endless glow of witchfire in the fog.

Even as the wind shields their approach, it carries the sounds of their nearing prey.  Guiromélans can hear the creaking of the alien ship, the occasional bark of an officer, the tinny jingle of strange music.  He strains to hear something recognizable, but the fog and the sea muffle everything.

Restlessly, he paces the deck, nearly tripping over the boy numerous times.  When the glow of the first lanterns begins to shine through the fog, the Knight’s Torment becomes deathly quiet.  Heavily armed Bracks crouch behind cover, grapples and weapons at the ready.  At Guiromélans’s signal, Gofannon throttles up the engines to full steam, and the sloop surges forward.

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow as the ship looms closer.  Their deck is nearly level with the enemy’s.  Shouldn’t the cruiser loom over theirs?  Why is their draft so low?  What could they be carrying?

Snatching the rifle from Balen’s surprised grip, he leaps down to the main deck and races forward.  The enemy’s aftercastle is nearly fully in view now.  As he runs, he sees a vague figure appear at the rail and look at them.  By it’s reaction, he knows they’ve been spotted.  Without thought or hesitation, he swings the rifle up to his shoulder and fires.  The figure disappears in a dark cloud of blood.

All over the enemy ship, he can hear shouts of alarm and surprise.  He grins.  Now the battle begins.

As if to echo his sentiments, his crew rises up and roars their challenge.  Lights appear all up and down the Ravens’ ship.  He hears their engines strain to increase speed.  A mere five gun ports open across their broadside.

Even as the first grapples are thrown on their deck, an icy spike pierces Guiromélans’s stomach.  The ship’s profile is now visible to him, and something is terribly wrong.  A single cannon fires, rocking the Knight’s Torment with the impact.  Boards in the sloop’s hull shatter, and splintered wood the length of a man’s arm flies like shrapnel.  Then the two ships collide, and many men on both ships are knocked off their feet.  Guiromélans knows, with the two hulls lashed firmly together, there will be no more cannon-fire.

Throwing his spent rifle aside, he screams, “Board her!  Board her now!  Don’t give them time to think!”

As a man, his crew leaps over the rails, embracing the enemy in combat.  Guiromélans draws his saber and pistol and follows.

Now they all die.  Now, the phalanx of musketeers open fire.  Now the Ravens cut through his crew like so much wheat.

Guiromélans waits to die.  In the turmoil on the deck of the enemy ship, he looks for the silver Raven’s head of his executioner.

He finds none.

A screaming sailor, clad in a sodden loincloth and wielding a marlinspike, leaps at him.  He slays the man with hardly a thought, distracted more with how the tide of the battle has turned in their favor.  Barely seconds into the conflict, and already the defenders are in retreat.  A small pocket puts up a brave front on the forecastle, while the remainder of the surviving crew has retreated below decks.

Guiromélans looks at the build of the ship, the cut of its sails, the dusky color of crew’s skin.  This is no Seven Kingdoms vessel.  This is not the Raven’s warship!

What has God done to him?

A roar of victory turns his head.  The last of the defenders on the forecastle have surrendered.  Even as some of his men strip them of their weapons, the rest charge down to finish off the crew below.

“Sego!” Adalgis bellows to him, his bloody spatha help aloft.  “Hail tä the Cathubodua!”

The men nearby echo the salute.

Turning, Guiromélans sees the form of Baldruus crouching on the deck of the Knight’s Torment.  His eyes are dark and solemn as he tends to man wounded by the cannon ball.  Guiromélans looks down at his pistol, still unfired.  Slowly, he pulls back on its hammer and feels the click more than hears it.  He looks back at the henotheist sorcerer, Caidryn’s scheming lover.  How easy it would be.  With one shot, so many problems solved.  One witch removed from the eyes of God, one sinner given his redemption.  His crew would not, could not forgive such a betrayal.

Slowly, he raises the gun.

“Success!”  Strong hands spin the stunned Raven around, and he stares into the ecstatic face of Bellatumarus.  “Success, Cathubodua!  The ship is ours!”

Behind the Sail Master, Guiromélans sees his victorious crew.  As one, they raise their bloody weapons and cheer.

* * *

A smuggler.  A Gock-damned smuggler’s ship.

Guiromélans sits alone in the Captain’s quarters of the Paganus Humilis.  Even as the celebrations continue outside, he stares down at the pistol cradled in his hands, still unspent.  He wonders what he should do now?  How much more humiliation can he take?  What does God mean by such torture?

An abrupt rap on the door startles him from his mournful reverie, and Abandinus steps in.  Behind him is the smaller form of the ship’s former Captain.  The Quartermaster sways slightly from too much Synesi hydromel, but he still recognizes Guiromélans’s expression.  Taking an abrupt step back that nearly knocks the captive Captain from his feet, he clears his throat and nods.  “I begs yer pardon, Captain.”

Guiromélans slowly squeezes the trigger of his pistol, easing the hammer back into place with his thumb.  Both Brack and Synesi watch his hands closely.  Guiromélans too watches his hands, as if they belonged to someone else.  “What is it, Quartermaster?” he growls.

“Captain Omiros here has been most cooperative,” the big Brack leers.

“Really,” Guiromélans states, still staring at his pistol.

“Yäh!  In returns fer his and his crew’s lives, he’s given over all his cargo, manifests, everythin’.  Charts and maps too.”

“We are most willing to meet all your demands,” the small Synesi insists, bobbing his head up and down like a paqa.

Abandinus’s smile is almost orgasmic.  “We’re rich, Cathubodua!  Yer choice of targets was perfect!  Yer tactics were inspired!  Yer timin’ was almost divine!  Johlpa bless yä!”

Guiromélans sighs deeply, sensing that the sorrow is almost overwhelming him.  “And what,” he asks, “is the final tally?”

“Twenty barrels of the finest hydromel,” the Synesi Captain sputters, “Five bushels of eycharistisi leaves, 12 urns of k’Lida tüzelés beans, 5 urns of drakontion, 10 bolts of Synesi silk, 100 sheaves of madness letters, 2 chests of k’Lida minted silver, 1 of gems, including leontios and dracontias, and—”

“And,” Abandinus interrupts, no longer able to contain himself, “They gots four paqa!  And not just paq-eyas, but real paqa!”  His words are thick with saliva.  “They be worth more than their weight in gold, but I says fuck ‘em!  In Johlpa’s name, I says we feast!”

“Nearly all contraband,” Guiromélans murmurs.

“Yäh?  Sä?” the Quartermaster demands, annoyance edging into his voice.

“And what of their sorcerer?  Every ship has to have a sorcerer, right?  Where was theirs in the battle?”

“Why,” Abandinus sputters, “Yä killed him!  Shot him first off!  I though yä knew that!”

Guiromélans shudders as he looks past them, at the ensign of the Synesi Republic hanging on the wall.  “Ah.  How ironic.”

He stares at the entwined serpents of the Synesi nation, one of flesh, one of ice.  Each bites the other’s tail, each consuming the other.  In the end, they will destroy themselves and the world with it.

What is it he is expected to do?  What does God require of him?  He is lost.  Abandoned.  Adrift, without rudder or wind.

Sudden rage darkens his eyes.  If God will not deliver him into the folds of death, he will have to do it himself!

“Tell me, good Abandinus, how many of our morwr fell in the taking of this ship?”

The Quartermaster stares in surprise.  “Ah,” he stammers, “Nearly five, Cathubodua.”

Guiromélans stands wordlessly and puts his sword belt back on.  He looks hard at the Quartermaster before pushing past him.  “Gather the men and the prisoners.  There is something we must address.”

The mingled crews of both ships watch the Raven with something akin to terror.  He stands at the prow of the smuggler like a brooding spectre of death, staring out at the fog-darkened sea.  Lightning flashes, and thunder echoes all around them.  The crews watch the Raven watch the sea as the rains begin again.  The waves have begun to grow once more, and the grapples tethering the two ships together have begun to groan.

A lightning flash illuminates their masts, and Guiromélans hears tentative steps behind him.

“Cathubodua,” Abandinus hisses quietly, “What’re we doin’ out here?  We gots the goods, we gots even some of their cannon and powder!  With yer guidance, we might makes some use of them!  Let’s be back on our ship and be on our way!  The brythwch is fast approachin’.  Tä stay here much longer would be cuall madness!”

Guiromélans doesn’t move.  “Tell me, how many men crewed the Paganus Humilis?”

“Twenty, Cathubodua.”

“Not quite a match for our numbers,” Guiromélans muses.  “Yet, they fought us anyway.”

Abandinus shrugs nervously, his eyes darting from the Raven to the straining grappling ropes.  “What’d yä expect them tä do?”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns, and the Quartermaster pauses under his stare.  “What would I expect them to do?” he asks with quiet fury.  “I would expect them to surrender!”

Abandinus swallows as he absorbs these words.  “Surrender?”

“Isn’t that the idea?” Guiromélans hisses, stepping closer.  “Surrender?  We make the challenge.  They surrender their goods without a fight.  Everyone goes their own way with all their parts intact?  They violated that pact, Quartermaster!”  Another step forces the Brack backwards.  “What’s the pirate law in this case?  What say our Articles?  What is it we do with crews that don’t surrender immediately?”

Abandinus swallows, Guiromélans’s meaning finally clear.  He glances back at the assembled crews.  “Yä means tä kill them all?”

“You don’t have the stomach for it?” Guiromélans sneers as he shoves past the officer.  The eyes of every man are on him as he stalks towards the Synesi Captain.

“Wait!” Abandinus shouts, “Yä can’t do this!  They’re under our protection!”

The eyes of the Synesi fill with fear as they sense the Raven’s intent.

Guiromélans stares into the pale face of the smuggler Captain, “You failed to surrender, Captain.”

“We surrendered!” he protests.

“Cathubodua!” Abandinus shouts, “Yä can’t do this!”

“We surrendered,” the Synesi repeats.

“At the cost of five of our men… and extensive damage to our ship.”

“What is this?” Master Carpenter Adalgis interrupts sternly.

“The Captain looks tä kill the boduus crew,” the Quartermaster answers quietly.

“Laws of piracy, yes Adalgis?” Guiromélans shouts, his eyes never leaving the Synesi’s.  “Surrender unconditionally, and all will live.  Resist, and all will die.  Yes?  Aren’t these the Articles you all signed?”

“True,” the Master Carpenter answers, “but—”

“Now, wait a minute,” Baldruus sputters, suddenly concerned by the tack the conversation is taking.  “It was a surprise attack!  They had no time to surrender!”

Guiromélans smiles into the terrified face of the Captain.  “I think you should make your peace with whatever gods you hold dear, infidel.”

All blood seems to drain from the pale man’s face.  Slowly, Guiromélans removes his artifact and examines its results.  His mouth twitches at what he sees.  The Captain before him is not a perfect man by any means, but he is far from the enemy of God he had hoped.  The Median hardly tarnishes at all.  God has not chosen this man to die.

His mouth twisted with fury, Guiromélans shoves the Median back into his cloak.  Baldruus grabs him by the arm.  “You can’t do this!” he insists, “It was a surprise attack!  They never saw us coming!  You never gave them the chance to surrender!”

Guiromélans shoves the sorcerer away with enough force to illicit a cry of outrage from Caidryn.  “A chance?” he roars.  The storm has picked-up tempo, and he screams to be heard over it.  “There are no chances here!  There are no laws of nation or king or God!  There are only the laws of the sea!  There are only our laws!  And our laws say they die!”

“We has na time fer this!” Adalgis shouts.  The rocking of the waves threatens to tear both ships apart.  “We has tä go!  Leave these men in peace, I says!”

Guiromélans looks around at the faces of his men, and he sees the reaction he desires.  Horror, fear, anger.  Outrage.  Here they see their boduus Captain discarding the vows he holds dear.  Here they see him committing crimes not even they would consider.

“Do as I command,” Guiromélans shouts over the storm, rain streaming across his maddened face, “and we shall go!  Kill them!  Kill them all!”

“NAGE!” Adalgis shouts.  Grabbing all the men near him, he shoves them towards the Knight’s Torment.  “Cast off these grapples.  Everyone get aboard!  We’re leaving!  We’re leaving NOW!”

“NO!” Guiromélans howls.  Turning, he raises his pistol at the Synesi Captain’s head, “They all must DIE!”

Just as he squeezes the trigger, Caidryn smashes into him.  Raven and Brack tumble to the deck.  The gun discharges into the air, skips off the deck, and disappears over the side.  Enraged, Guiromélans tries to throw the girl off him, but she proves to be stronger and more capable than he expected.  Four more Bracks pile on top of him.  Guiromélans fights fiercely, struggling to get his saber drawn and into the melee.  A heavy blow turns the black storm into darkness.

* * *

Five days.  Five days the storm has raged, as if it were the outlet to God’s outrage.  Guiromélans peers out through his cramped porthole.  He has never seen anything like it.  Truly he must have incited God’s fury, for He seems bent on destroying this small ship.  Guiromélans smiles.  Perhaps now, God has to grant him the death he craves.

Guiromélans turns away and regards the door to his cabin.  Perhaps.  Although this fool Brackish crew has thus far failed to deliver it.  Must he wait for the storm to do the job?  He was sure the Bracks would have jumped at the opportunity to eliminate him—so many seemed to be only waiting for an excuse—and yet they’ve chosen only to lock him in his cabin.

They give him food twice a day and all the drink he can stomach.  He shakes his head.  These Bracks have all the common sense of a cauaros.  “You can’t win against fools,” he sighs.

He looks out the window again.  Despite the storm, despite the winds and the ship’s engines, they can’t seem to leave the Synesi dead behind.  They bob and float behind the Knight’s Torment like corrupt predators, vanishing beneath the swells only to pop up someplace else.  They are impossible to overlook—their sea-bleached skins almost seem to glow in the darkness—and Guiromélans has heard many an anxious word spoken about them by crewmen on the deck above.

They are angry and suspicious, Guiromélans ponders.  They blame him for the storm, for all the ill luck experienced on this voyage.  And now what shall they do about it?

Guiromélans is startled by excited shouting above.  Slowly, a commotion grows on deck.  Feet pound back and forth across his ceiling and outside his door.  Guiromélans sits in his bunk and waits.  Perhaps things will change now.

It is several hours later when his door opens without fanfare.  Quartermaster Abandinus and Adalgis—new Captain of the ship—enter without a word.  Outside, Guiromélans notes a crowd of anxious and angry Bracks.  He raises his eyebrows at his two guests, “Yes?”

“Nearly 6 days we’ve sailed,” Adalgis mutters, “and still the bodies follow.  And still the storm rages.”

“The storm has always raged,” Abandinus adds, “As long as yä’ve been with us.”

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees.

“Have yä anythin’ tä say about this?  Any explanation?  We’re willin’ tä listen.”

“No.”

The two Bracks glance at each other.  However they thought this conversation would go, it apparently isn’t turning out how they expected.  “What is this talk of yä lookin’ fer a boduus ship?” Adalgis finally asks.

“What?” Guiromélans asks, truly surprised, “A what?”

“A warship.  A boduus Seven Kingdoms warship.  A Cathubodua ship.  What’s this about yä lookin’ fer one?”

Guiromélans frowns.  “Yes, I was seeking one.”

“Yä were lookin’ tä attack this ship?”

Guiromélans is silent for a moment before answering, “Yes.”

“Why?” Abandinus insists.  “We couldn’t face one such as that!  Why?”

Guiromélans looks away, unable to face Adalgis’s gaze.

The Brack grunts and shakes his head.  “Baldruus tells us the gods are angry with yä.  That yer the cause of these storms.”  When Guiromélans fails to answer or react, he continues, “He says he thinks he knows how tä make them go away.  He says the storms will not ease without a readdas.  We’ve just found an island where we can land.  Where we can performs such a readdas.”  He leans forward, his face very close with Guiromélans’s, “Knows yä of any other solution?  Has yä any other suggestion?”

Guiromélans remains silent.

It is a black island, darkened by more than merely the storm and the night, but this place holds different terrors than the häxa’s abode.

Under the lightning-shattered sky, beneath the driving rain, Guiromélans hangs from a dead tree.  Lashed to the wood at the wrists, ankles, throat, he stares passively down at the assembled crew.  He watches mutely as Baldruus chants, massaging the sorcerer’s ember in his belly.  Magic sizzles through the air like ozone.

He watches as each morwr takes a large iron bowl, spits into it, and passes it on.  Rolling around in its bottom is his precious Median.

Guiromélans’s eyes scan the crowd.  All are present but two.  Caidryn and Balen.

Closing his eyes, he pays little attention to happenings below him.  Instead, he focuses on his shortening future, on his impending death.  He prays to God.  He prays for forgiveness and hopes his death is pleasing to Him.  He hopes this will cleanse him of his crimes, of his crimes committed aboard the Knight’s Torment, of his crimes committed with and against his Gock-spawned witch-lover, and of all his crimes committed before.  If only he had his Median, he would know the state of his soul.  He sighs against his restraints.  Not that it matters, he supposes.  Ready or not, his death is just as certain.

Something cold and sharp presses against his naked skin.  Opening his eyes, he sees Adalgis below him, spear in hand.  Its unforgiving tip dimples the skin of his chest.  There is sadness and desperation in his eyes.  Guiromélans manages a small smile for his friend.  “It is OK,” he says quietly, “It is necessary, and I still count you among my friends.”

The Brack frowns and presses the point of the spear harder against the Raven.  “We has different gods accordin’ tä the distribution and necessity of people, places, and needs,” he intones as if in prayer.  “We has one god who reigns over the heavens, we has yet another who rules earth, and He is the greatest upon Zå, Mighty Johlpa, and He has other gods of lesser import at His command.  We has one god who gives us fish, another, game.  We have one god fer corn, fer the fields, fer gardens, fer cattle and other beasts of the dunum.  The offerin’ we make today, we make in yer name, Mighty Johlpa, that yä might ease the spirit of this Cathubodua and calm the storms that threaten us.”

A sailor hustles over and places the iron bowl at Guiromélans’s feet.  With a flourish, Baldruus displays a leather bag.  Opening it, he pours its contents into the bowl as well.  Guiromélans watches as the handful of black stones clatter amongst the Median and the spittle of the Bracks.  They are the stones of all the sorcerers he has killed so far.  “As we enlists the power of Johlpa,” Baldruus intones, “We seeks tä appease the fury of our fallen brethren…  With our readdas, may the Stone of Power be restored.”

Guiromélans knows what will happen now.  He will be bled, his blood collected in the bowl below, and at the moment of his death, his head will be severed and left out as sacrifice to Johlpa.  It must be a bloodless cut, else the Brack god will be offended.

Baldruus’s chanting reaches a crescendo, and Adalgis retreats the spear point in preparation of the thrust.  Guiromélans sighs and closes his eyes for the last time.  Let death come swiftly.

Despite his closed eyes, he is blinded by blue-white light.  His nostrils fill with the sickening stench of ozone, smoke, and burning hair.  Men are screaming and shouting all around him.  “His god!  His god!”

Guiromélans opens his eyes to see only the shadows of the Bracks as they run in confusion.  Fire burns some, lightning still dancing across the bodies of two men laying on the ground.  Smoke slowly rises from their eye-sockets and mouths.

“What is this?” Adalgis bellows, trying to rally the men.  Looking up at Guiromélans, his face falls.  Grabbing the nearest sailors, he shoves them towards the beached skiff and longboat, “Go!  Get out of here!  The storm has come tä claim this boduus!”

Another bolt of lightning crashes to the ground, writhing around the forms of the fleeing men and incinerating one of them.

Guiromélans rages and shakes his head.  “No,” he gasps, straining against his bonds.  “No!  NoOOOOOOO!”

Tears well into his eyes.  “NO!  You must kill me!” he screams.

Suddenly, a black figure steps into his view.  Despite the rain, smoke still rises from Gofannon’s clothes and hair.  In his hand, he holds Guiromélans’s prized saber.  Without a word, the Chief Mechanic drives the blade over and over against the rocks until the fine Plainas Sarvas steel finally gives way, and the sword shatters.

“Yä wants tä die?” he sneers, throwing the broken blade aside.  Bending, he picks up the spear Adalgis dropped and presses its tip beneath Guiromélans’s heart.  “Then fer Mogens, I’ll lends yä a hand, uh?”

With malicious joy, he thrusts the blade into the Raven’s flesh.  Guiromélans gasps as he feels its cold hardness invade his body.  Gofannon twists and rips the point away, throwing the spear aside.

He stands for several seconds, watching the blood spurt and flow from the shuddering Raven’s body, before turning and running for the retreating boats.