Darma ran onto the deck; the others were in a panic.
"Where were you?" Maynar shouted ahead of him.
A ship had come dangerously close, and no amount of maneuvering would save them from collision. Darma cursed—the ship was familiar.
"Your door was locked, voices from within were strange, and you were nowhere to be found!" Maynar continued. Darma was trying to piece together what had happened, but now wasn't the time. He grabbed Maynar by the shirt.
"Bard, shut up and listen. This here is a slave ship. See the oars? There are no volunteers in there. I know what it is, and I know who it belongs to. So I advise you to find your courage, because I've seen the kind of men who stand up to the oars, and you're not one of them."
Maynar turned pale. He had never imagined he would fight an entire ship.
"There are more of them than us. What do you think we'll accomplish?"
"Dogs!" Darma shouted to the other three sailors. "Grab your weapons and get ready! These guys here will fuck you in the ass before they have you rowing to your death!"
The men armed themselves and showed composure, but Maynar was still yellow.
"They're at least twice our number if they get the slaves to fight."
"If?"
"They'll hardly risk it. The slaves might turn on them."
Maynar suddenly felt a glimmer of optimism.
"How can we get them on our side?"
"I don't know, poet, now shut up and get ready. If I still had my fucking wings..."
Darma was filled with tremendous confidence. It was as if the woman had imbued him with energy; he was thirsty for battle and blood, and there was no trace of fear in him.
As their ship sailed closer, ugly faces appeared, weapons raised, thirsting for blood and violence. Darma almost felt nostalgic. Even now, I could betray the bard and the others, he thought, and convince them to take me. I'm sure they'd make me leader in no time. On the other hand, he thought, I might end up a slave at the oars. Then I'd turn to stone, and soon I'd be back in the same spot again.
"Fuck it," he said, spitting in front of him.
An arrow whizzed by and struck him in the shoulder.
"Darma!" Maynar shouted in panic.
Darma snapped the arrow in half, the blood running over the kraken tattoo on his chest.
"Come on, motherfuckers!"
"The Stone Kraken!" someone shouted in the distance, and Darma felt fear in his enemies.
Darma pointed the trident at the archer. Before the man could place a second arrow in his crossbow, lightning flew from the tips of the weapon and struck him in the chest, the thunder frightening others. Warriors charged forward, their swords clashing with those of the sailors. Maynar threw a knife into the eye of one attacker before stepping on the boat. The second knife struck another in the neck. Blood spurted out, staining Maynar's hands red as the man tried in vain to close the wound. The deck was awash with blood.
Darma made a huge leap and crossed to the opposing ship. Upon landing, he grabbed a pirate and threw him overboard, then stabbed another in the eyes with his trident. The unfortunate youth screamed and fell into the belly of the ship, landing among six chained slaves. They began to beat him mercilessly with their chains. An archer shot an arrow into the back of one slave, killing him instantly. The archer then aimed a second arrow at a thin, upright slave who was staring stoically into his eyes. The slave was bald, sickly-looking, and his body was covered with strange markings. A moment before the archer released the arrow, a second bolt of lightning struck him in the sternum, sending him into the sea.
Maynar was forced to sword fight with one of the pirates. His opponent was experienced, in his fifties, grimacing as he struck, and completely toothless. Maynar began to lose his footing. A blow cut through his abdomen, and he felt a line being drawn as blood ran hot down his body, hitting the deck. His vision blurred as his enemy stood over him, smiling. Just before the pirate could lower his sword, he received a blow to the ribs from one of the slaves. It was the man with the markings. He was holding a small blade lodged in his palm. Slowly, he raised it, slicing open the pirate's ribs, and thrust his hand into the pirate's guts. To Maynar's surprise, the man was still alive and struggling. The slave pulled out the pirate's intestines before letting him fall to the ground like a bag of blood. Maynar immediately vomited and passed out.
Darma stood on a high part of the opposing ship. One of the sailors had been badly wounded, and three slaves had died. The pirates, however, had all been wiped out—ten bodies on deck and perhaps two or three more in the water. Maynar regained consciousness, surprised to find himself alive. The wound in his abdomen was not deep; the blood flowing had been more frightening than the reality. The marked slave was bathed in blood that wasn't his own, a sick smile on his lips as he seemed to enjoy the moment immensely.
"You work for us now!" Darma shouted to the slaves.
Maynar tried to stand and circled the bloodied man. "Darma, they deserve freedom, don't you think?"
Darma was also covered in blood, some of it his own. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
"They will have it," he said loudly so the slaves could hear him. "But by the time we get to Nalia, they'll have to earn that privilege. After that, they can do whatever they want."
The two other slaves burst into celebration. The marked man smiled calmly.
"You two," Darma said to the sailors. "Load whatever you can find onto our ship. Food, gold, weapons, women—whatever. Then sink it."
"Sink it?"
"Yes, bard. We don't need it. It's just a simple slave ship with oars. Let the darkness take it. It will be our offering to the God of the Sea."
Maynar thought it an excellent idea. He liked the thought of cajoling the gods. The sailors began loading what they could find—food and two heavy chests. Darma smiled, knowing what it meant to get good plunder.
A short time later, the ship was on a lonely course again. Two of the slaves were humans who had been sold by the Brutgors of Armorgrand, and one belonged to the Sirakrat tribe from the dark west. His name was Pale, and the marks on his body looked like blade cuts. His gaze, however, was that of someone with indomitable character; there was no trace of fatigue or fear. Maynar looked at him and shuddered.
Pale approached Darma, who was sitting comfortably in a chair, sipping a cup of wine in front of an open chest. Pale pulled out a small blade and held it up in full view of everyone. "I am Pale, the Chosen of the Blood of Caran," he said in a gruff accent. Darma didn't understand what his words meant. With a sharp movement, Pale carved his palm deeply enough for blood to flow and stain the deck. Maynar was shaken, but there was still no trace of fear or pain in the man's expression.
"I swear by blood that from now on, I will follow you as long as the Two Gods will it. As long as your cause is just, Pale will be at your service."
Darma smiled wolfishly. "Perfect," he said simply, not caring about the details.
"The Two Gods?" Maynar asked.
"Arum and Mohak," Pale replied proudly.
"Of course."
"Have you two met?" Darma asked, drinking.
"I've read about them, Darma. They are the Gods who led the Humans west after the Battle of the Four Daughters."
"That's right," said Pale. "Our fathers led us to victory. One sacrificed himself so that the other could blaze the trail westward to the Second Quest."
"Second Quest?" Darma asked.
Maynar spoke up. "Yes. The First Quest was when the Humans fought alongside the Gods in the Great War, during the First Age. The Battle of the Four Daughters took place some twenty years ago, in the Elven capital of Gualekir. Four armies fought against Nedel and his dark forces."
"Four armies, or daughters?" Darma asked.
"Same thing. The prophecy of Laraskul said that four daughters would stand against the darkness. In the end, the daughters were armies."
"He could just say armies," Darma said cynically, beginning to get drunk.
"In the Second Quest, the Sirakrat race was created," Maynar continued. "They follow the Blood Gods."
"Why?"
Pale took a step forward, the wound on his arm not bothering him.
"The Blood Gods led us to the dark lands of Nedel after his defeat. There, we fought the evil that remained, cleansed the land, and made it our own."
"You mean the Cell?"
Pale nodded.
"It no longer exists. The wall is down."
"Everyone knows that," Darma added.
"But nothing grows inside the Cell, Pale. There is no life, only endless stretches of scorched earth, forever warped by Nedel's power," Maynar said.
"Right. My people have learned to live with nothing. We need nothing beyond the blood of the Two."
"You need nothing? No food? No water?"
Pale shook his head.
"Even better," Darma added, and Maynar looked at him angrily. "What are you looking at me like that for? He doesn't eat, doesn't drink, costs nothing, and fights like a demon. What more can one ask for?"
"He doesn't fight like a demon," Pale said to himself. "Pale fights demons. He is not afraid in the face of any evil."
Darma was lost in thought for a moment. He didn't like the idea of a fanatic; it was putting his relationship with the woman at risk. But then again, this man was his sworn servant in blood bondage—the risk was minimal.
"Welcome, Pale," Darma said, raising his cup. "To your health. I'd give you a drink, but I hear you don't drink. This is going to be a great trip, I think."
He downed another cup and laughed out loud. Maynar had a very bad feeling, but Pale was smiling contentedly. He bowed, then took the remaining corpses and offered them to the Blood Gods before throwing them into the sea. Darma continued to drink, with no intention of stopping anytime soon.