The Death of a Swordsman 10

10

From the shadows of the dark mountains a horde of night-gaunts was rising. They rose like the boiling sulfur that poured from the dragon's mouth. With them came fury.

Al'Varad had lost. There was no equivocation possible. Morryin had beaten him in a sword fight on dragonback, and now he was falling to his death from an island on the far side of the sun. No one would know the situation or conditions of Varad's defeat and now it didn't matter. The Swordsmaster of the Red Guard had not trained hard enough, nor practiced enough, and for that he had been defeated. He did not deserve to be called Al.

A seizure hit Varad. He twitched violently, erratically, and spasms of tension shot through his arms, twisting his muscles about the bone until his joints ached. His stomach felt ill and boiled. Even vision seemed to escape him, and the whistling roar of air that flew by his ears sounded far away, like wind outside a tunnel. His pulse was a thunderous drumbeat at his temples. It was beyond the simple nausea of falling, and the old fear of heights couldn't touch this horror at being defeated. He was going to fall to his death and there was nothing he could do about it, but he had lost first.

Varad was sailing slowly away from the dragon that was even now rolling backwards through the air. the casket tumbled off the other way. That did not matter now. They were on the backside of the sky, and the drake had miles of open air to catch up with it in.

Turning his attention to the shadowy night-guants, the falling swordsman noticed they were they similar to the emaciated forms who had waylaid him earlier. Their faceless heads didn't reveal anything, but the cluster of them moved in silence like the others had. There were perhaps twenty of them, carrying no weapon but their unnaturally long, thin fingers that tore flesh like razors and the barbed tips of their tails. Varad vomited slightly, and it tasted like pure spite in his mouth. Spreading out to stop his tumbling, he set himself to meet them in mid-air and plunged into their midst.

His first swing set him spinning. Uncoiling behind the slash flipped him about head over feet, and he shot through the cloud of viscous black goo the leader had for blood. Behind it two flying beasts reached for him and couldn't get a grip with his erratic motion, but a third caught him about the waist. Dizzy and operating on blind reflex, Varad flipped his grip and smashed more than stabbed his blade through the roof of its skull. That didn't stop it, and bladed fingers went for his back. He shoved hard to create space between him and it, and the open wings resisted until the Song of Winter dragged itself out the beast's back, ruptured tendons caught in the hilt. Then the grasping hands went limp.

Yet this time he did not twist. The corpse's wings stabilized him amidst the surging wind of freefall. Varad flipped his grip again and returned to a one-handed hold, snagging the eviscerated corpse by the gaping hole in its head. Now he could lay about him, hacking through the vile beasts that swarmed close as they fell, chopping them apart. Simple decapitations weren't enough to stop them, forcing him to hack away at arms and wings until they fell, remaining limbs spasming wildly. The Horned Lords were like that, Varad mused as he dismembered in midair. Killing one required damaging the body until its mobility failed or fire. He wondered if there was a connection.

More came until they clouded out the sky. No sound ever passed their lipless heads, but the roar of the wind made up for it. It was a battle roar, and the scream of furious lions. Combined with the sick feeling of falling, it affected Varad's head. The horde grew so thick that Varad finally released the stabilizing corpse and threw himself from enemy to enemy without restraint. Everyone that died lost control of its dive, and the wind sucked them upwards and away. New guants always replaced the dead.

Suddenly one tumbling lunge kicked him out of the pack, and spinning about he saw the world. Spectacular scenes of all the world laid out below, wreathed by low lying clouds luminescent in sunshine, passed by him like the air. Varad saw Morryin atop the dragon, diving towards the earth. Not far away was the discarded corsair, tumbling end over end with broken spars stung together by the lines. Morryin didn't have the casket. Its fall was too erratic, and the huge drake was having difficulty getting close enough to it to catch hold.

Glorious victory and the chance of spiting Morryin suddenly appeared. The drake was vast, and surely its wings would blot out the sun over an army. Yet any twitch sent it shooting sideways while plunging as fast as it now fell. Even the changes in shape from moving a claw to catch the sarcophagus would move the great beast, to say nothing of the quick motions necessary to catch the small, dense object. The casket was still partially enmeshed in a net of lines and nets, and they caught and dumped air.

The pack moved to recapture Varad, and instead of killing them, he simply chopped fingers from hands and tails from bodies. When he could slit the batlike membranous wings, he did. Now there was a pack of them, partially out of control, driven to catch him but lacking the body parts to press the advantage in the air. In the process they cut his flesh and tore his limbs, until he had his own comet's tail of blood shooting up behind him. Intermingled in it were bits of his enemies. Finally he cut a way to the outskirts and straightened his body to a spear.

Those night-guants who were uninjured had to scramble around their hurt comrades to get after him. From thence they could dive, but he had a lead. Morryin, focusing on catching the coffin, didn't look back, and his lone pursuer and the horde that pursued him in turn slowly overtook them.

Having ever so slightly unfurled its wings to match the casket's speed, the drake was moving slower than Varad. He came upon it suddenly, snagged one of the wide, soft scales on the tail used for inflight stability, and ran two feet of steel through it. Biting shock hit the shadow-green drake, and the huge beast spasmed. Unconsciously it flicked its tail forward, away from the source of pain, and threw Varad past its head. It also spread its wings more, and the sudden resistance yanked it backwards. Night-guant's like falling darts smashed into the broad dragonback. Varad shot ahead, spun, and snagged a bit of netting. While the infuriated drake massacred the night-guants, thinking they'd attacked it, Varad sheathed the long katana and clambered to the coffin itself.

With the distraction annihilated, Morryin turned the drake back to resume trying to snag his prize. His eyes found it against a backdrop of distant clouds and saw Varad holding it tightly between his knees. The lacerated swordsman was smirking, a vicious grin of arrogance, spite, and insufferable self-satisfaction. Morryinwent as purple with fury as Varad had.

Then he realized he had the thing with wings, and they were falling from hundreds of miles up. He waved at the dragon, and then sent a cocky glance at Varad, asking him what he expected to happen. The other replied with a shrug, waved at the coffin, and put his hands behind his head, interlacing his fingers. If anything he looked even more smug.

Varad guessed Morryin didn't want the coffin destroyed. If he had, the drake's fiery breath would have done that quickly. He also could have simply set fire to it in the Old City instead of attempting to open it. Which meant Morryin wanted to catch it before it hit the ground, and Varad was perfectly prepared to make sure he couldn't do that. Catching the small, tumbling coffin was difficult enough for the man and his mount. With active resistance, Varad aimed to make it nigh impossible.

He could see the wheels turning in Morryin's head. Morryin, he guessed, was wondering if Varad was spiteful enough to insure Morryin failed even at the cost of his own life. He also saw Morryin realize beyond a shadow of a doubt he was. Speaking was impossible with the wind, but Varad's smirk and Morryin's scowl communicated like drums. The look of anguish on Morryin's face as all his advantages and plans came to naught was worth the price of the world.

Yet Morryin was not stymied forever. As they began to draw nigh the sun, the immense fell beast banked off and shot wide. It went wide and latched hold of the ruined corsair, discarded far above. Then the beast banked back. As the shadows moved, the creature and rider had to search for Varad and casket, small against the vastness of space, but that only took time. Then they were past the sun, and the flickering light across the buckles lit up the swordsman's location like a beacon. Morryin angled back in.

They cut below Varad, and moved so they were falling more or less underneath him. In the void of displaced air, the coffin tumbled suddenly faster, and very nearly hit the man and dragon when the beast breathed on the boat and set it at once aflame. Even at a distance, the dragon's fire was tangibly vile. It smelled of evil, and the radiant heat was filled with malice. But it burned in spite of the wind, and fueled a commensurate blaze within the wooden hulk. That sizzled and spat, sending up smoke and ash-filled steam that infected Varad's eyes with fury and pain. He pulled hard on the reaching sails, and tried to drift away.

It was too late. With the dragon and corsair stealing his air, the casket fell directly onto the burning deck. The impact hurt, and the former Red Guard tumbled across the flaming timbers. The burning was worse, and when he arose, sword in hand, he saw that the deck was now below the nearby sun. It had come up, vast and hellacious, over the ship's burning rail. Despite the wind Varad couldn't breathe for the air was thick with smoke. He whirled, looking for the coffin, and saw Morryin emerge through the flames.

“Didn't I just beat you?” Morryin asked, yelling his words through the hot air. Varad saw mania in his eyes, inspired by the dragon's proximity, but didn't realize the same madness had him.

“Then tits to you,” Varad retorted and advanced.

They couldn't run. The upwards suction of the wind continuously tried to yank them upwards from the smoldering deck, yet neither could they walk. Every port poured fire into the air, and the wooden ship was blistering hot. It would have been engulfed had there been enough air to sustain it. Breathing deeply and more of malice then oxygen, the two swordsmen from the Palm slunk at each other and engaged with blades.

Varad tried to fight with caution, but each pass banked his smoldering fury. He stayed on his toes to let Morryin's initial thrust miss, then came in fast for the other's knees. Morryin twisted, hopping on the hot floor, and riposted for the head. He missed and beat the slicing counterstroke away from his throat.

Part of the hull broke loose, tumbling sideways and up, briefly throwing the two into shade. Morryin lost track of Varad amidst the fire and shadow, and the other took advantage of it to circle and come from above. Luck and an instinct for treachery let the rider block, but he took the impact hard. The weakened deck buckled underneath his feet, and Varad started wailing away with fast, overhand blows. Then the sun cleared the obstruction, and hit Morryin full in the face. For a moment he was blinded, and Varad smote him so heavily that he was driven through the planking to the knees. At once the full heat of the hold burned his feet, and that set him screaming.

“Finally!” yelled Varad, going for the coup d'etat. It was not to be. A single immense swipe of the dragon's claw shattered the prow of the craft and spun it aft over bow. Now it tumbled as it fell. Varad's swing went wild, and Morryin ripped his legs free. Briefly they stood upright, with their heads pointed at the world far below and now the wind pressing them to the boat. In another instant that changed. The stern sank, and they shot across the decking for the nose in the grip of the great wind.

Varad caught a railing, but Morryin chopped it out of his hand. They both shot upwards until the spinning ship blocked the air below them once more, and they came crashing back down. Varad hit first, and sprinted along the rotating hull. Morryin hit further above, and bounced down to meet him. They darted over the edge, rolling as the corsair did to stay facing down. There the air was breathable, and the pressure kept them to the boards. They fenced over the spinning side and down the rudder, to chase each other across the keel and leap upwards from shattered beam to crumpled timber over the ruined front end. When they hit the deck again Morryin was leading, trying go get away far enough to use his reach advantage, while Varad harried him endlessly.

While they ran, burning bodies of the original crew tumbled from the hold below. Corpses burn poorly, but the wrath of the dragon fire was in them. Lit up garishly, spewing ghastly fumes, and erupting from holes in the deck, they crowded around the ship like a horrid fog. Varad and Morryin hacked their way through them as necessary, otherwise ignoring the distraction. Of knives there were a plenty, and the former Red Guard snagged one as he went. It burned until he shoved it through his belt, and then he had more important things to worry about.

Suddenly Morryin had stopped and held his ground. The other came sliding into him, and they bounced apart. Varad arrested his fall at the very lip of the railing and looked up to see a grin of demonic triumph.

Morryin was standing next to the casket, which had broken half-way through the deck and become lodged. Now he yelled again, and the dragon smote the ship a second time, shattering it completely. The casket tumbled free while Morryin lunged for the claw. He caught it and was yanked away. Varad looked up, and saw then that the ground was so close it looked touchable. The ancient mahogany of Hysterai construction hadn't caught fire, and nor did it have the partial shrouds attached to make its flight erratic. The dragon went for it and snatched the tumbling wooden box from free air.

Varad realized he had lost again.

Now fully mad, he hurled himself away from the single spinning fragment of ship he had clung too, and reached across space. Going for either the casket, he reached out as if by sheer desire he could grab hold of it again. He almost did.

The black dragon banked off only moments before the broken corsair hit the ground. At once it imploded in flames on wide, flat plain lands, filled with browning grass in the autumn. The weather had been hot to begin with, reducing the scrub grass to tinder. When burning embers splashed outwards from the main point of impact and pieces torn free during the fall fell around the main site, brown plains instantly exploded into a blaze. The grass fire reached up to the dragon.

Fire was raining down around Morryin as well. Astride his dragon and not intending to leave anything to chance, he guided the beast on a long, low lap, outside the epicenter of the burn. By the time the last bit of debris crashed into the flat earth, circles of flame were expanding outwards from impact points. They merged until it was only a single, vast prairie fire that suddenly died and went out as the dragon lapped it. The smaller blazes flickered and died in its wingbeats like the torches had on the corsair, leaving the circling drake with an idly pleased expression.

Eventually Morryin settled at the center of the ash circle and surveyed the area carefully. Fearing an ambush he didn't dismount, but there seemed to be little worry of that. Of Varad or his body there was nothing to be found. Finally, in aggravation, the mounted man took to the air once more and had the dragon release another burst of its own maleficent fire. This seared the earth, turning dirt to ash, and burned a crater into the ground. Reveling in the destruction, the dragon banked several times pouring out plumes of its fire in ropes of red, green, and yellow. The colors were off, vivid but diseased, and when they had ravaged the ground, the motes of fine ash blew away in its wing beat. Only then did Morryin guide it away, though he looked worried as he flew. His enemy's body was nowhere to be found.

The Death of a Swordsman 9

9

Descent woke him up. The ship was dropping fast, angled down in front. Sore from his exertions, Varad poked his head up through then hatch. The casket hadn't moved. The light of day was wan, and the deck was in shadow. He looked up and around.

The beast's torso was dark, little more than a black haze, but its wings were brightly lit against a dim sky. They were huge, leathery, and laced with veins. Long fingers of bone went through them and at every joint was a small talon. They weren't scaled, but the claws definitely were. Those still held the sides of the vessel in an iron grip. Varad grew confused by the peculiar play of light and shadows on the beast's body. It was black as night, yet the underside of the wings were sunlit.

"No!" he gasped, running to the rail to look down. Many miles below in the direction they were sinking rapidly, the sun burned above a distant blur of blue and green. He was far above it, on the backside of the sky. The ship cast its shadow upwards onto the scaled belly.

Varad considered constructively wetting himself. It was an arbitrary decision, made consciously when the Swordsman realized he did not have to go. There were no clouds up here. Stars speckled the sky, above, before, and below, in empty air stretching out in all directions. He was having problems seeing because his vision had contracted to a narrow pinprick beyond a long, dark tunnel. Mountains, capped with glaciers or partially blocked by clouds, existed in a tiny point an infinite distance away.

It was the tunnel vision that ultimately let him regain self-control. It was a phenomenon known on the Palm, though usually from battle, and they train extensively to deal with it. Tunnel vision can kill, hiding enemies in plain sight. Reflexively his eyes flicked from the right to the left, forcing him to note the ship, its barren decks, and the silent dragon above. It all came back slowly, bringing with it realization the air was not completely empty.

There was a land mass floating in the distance, and it was towards that they were inarguably heading. Dark and wide, with central peaks mirrored by hanging stalactites, it was a grim and barren place that blocked out the stars. As they grew closer small pinpricks of red and yellow light appeared. The great beast was heading towards one of the sides, a long expanse of earth that stretched out from the central pole of mountain to root.

With movement the shadows on the great dragon moved. Only its extremities were pure black. The body was dark but rimmed with deep green. It was like the black forests of the mountains, where masses of evergreens are dark as shadow until one gets a close look. Bits of the masts were caught up in the breast scales, for the thing's approach had splintered them earlier. It had a long, snakelike tail that swept straight out behind, but this was very flat. On either side it had short ridges like fins. It also had another set of legs, matching the two that held the ship, and these were tucked under the wide tail. Only the head was hidden, for smoke poured from the mouth. That concealing cloud flickered with bright green fire. He had no idea what the shape of its snout was.

Now they were above the flying land, descending in long, spiraling loops. Being perpetually in the shadow, the top of the world was barren of all living things. Desolate bare stone swept out from the mountains. Yet it was lit by many fires, and these were red and orange. Something must be living up here. Other than dragons, Varad hoped.

Soon they were low enough to see a massive citadel rising from the foot of one of the central mountains. It was gloomy and wreathed in dun smoke, unlike the emerald and yellow dragonfire. There was a wide expanse before the gates that was brightly lit withing rings of fire. On the plain the shadows moved. If those shadows were guards, there was a great number of them.

This changed everything. Varad wasn't about to take on an army, especially not if they had dragons. Not that he intended to take on a dragonless army if he could possibly avoid it either. Running to one of the claws, he saw the scales were hard as iron and closely set. There was no way to injure it enough make it drop the ship. The wings beat again, slowly for it was gliding and rarely needed to flap they leathery expanse of them. They looked no thicker than sailcloth, and hopefully as vulnerable.

Turning to the claw again, he considered the scales. They were close set, with some being smooth but some coarse. In places the beast would need to grip, its armor was almost jagged. Varad grabbed hold and started climbing.

At once the beast twitched, and the head swung down. Its eyes emerged from the clinging fog of smoke and flame, searching for the irritation. Varad made an offensive gesture and kept crawling. At once it shook and swooped hard. He clung on as it spiraled, then fell over one side in a roll. The thing was corkscrewing with wings furled, but this proved nearly too much for the ship below. With a groan great pieces of the deck sheared away into the air. One entire claw came loose then and ripped vast amounts of the hull with it. The corsair fell free and dropped towards the flying land.

The dragon dove after it, instantly abandoning the maneuvers. Yet the speed of the plunge was almost enough to strip away the climber, for the wind shrieked as it tore at his fingers. Clouds of hot, sulfurous smoke from the beast's snout burned his eyes. It dove faster until it could snag the ship from the air. By then it had lost so much altitude that the flying ground was rushing up. The dragon juked and dodged, plunging past the floating earth and into open space. A good look at the underside of the flying world as they passed revealed the bottom of it was covered in a great hanging forest, thick as the mountain valleys.

The dragon leveled off, and the instant it did Varad started climbing again. He got to the elbow and past, heading for the broad back, and it wiggled its limb. The ripples in the great scaled hide nearly dislodged him, but they also formed deep pockets. The scales flexed, and edges came loose. He stabbed these openings as they appeared, getting a great roar in response. Fire filled the sky before and behind with a deep thunderous bellow, and plumes of acrid smoke burned his eyes and lungs. But the wiggling stopped.

Nest it tried a new tactic. Instead of tricky flying or aerial wiggling, it puffed deeply, and the screen of sulfur blew across its skin. Varad climbed on. Soon he was near the shoulder, near where the vast wings beat the air into submission, scattering winds that dispelled the foul fog. Here the air was clear enough to breath. As if the thing gave up the cloud of smoke faded, and Varad dragged himself onto the shoulder.

Morryin lunged for his head. Lying prone, eyes full of tears, Varad barely saw him come over the crest of the shoulder with the Hurt at full exstension. He abandoned his grip and rolled, letting the sword clang off huge scales. At once he came again. Varad retreated, sliding backwards towards the rounded drop off over the shoulder. Only barely did he catch the underside of a broad scale and stop his fall, but then he was outside the Hurt's reach.

“I'd wondered where you were,” Varad admitted.

“A step ahead, and waiting for you,” he replied.

“I see that.”

Neither moved. The Al was well back, hanging on by fingertips, but the movement of the muscles made the dragon skin treacherous footing. Morryin couldn't chase him down, not with a drawn blade taking up one of his hands.

“Lying on your belly like a worm,” he sneered.

"You want a stand up fight? Back off," Varad offered.

Morryin stabbed a few more times, but couldn't get close enough to score. Varad shifted to a slightly better grip, wedging his left hand deeply in a ridge in the hide. With the freedom to release his right, he drew. Now Morryin had to lay in the full prone to stay within range and work forward on his stomach. He tried this a few times, coming from different directions, but Varad batted his awkward strikes away.

“Get back if you want me to get up,” Varad snapped.

“I'll kill you where you are.”

“No, you won't. You can't do anything.”

Morryin retreated and smiled. Varad thought he was going to allow him to climb upwards to decent footing and sought new holds, but was mistaken. The dragon twisted, got the ship swinging, and rolled to its left. Varad rose and Morryin lunged downwards, descending as stable footing appeared beneath him.

The Hurt gave him a significant advantage. It had several inches of reach on the curved blade and lent itself to lunging. The dragon's long arm was huge, but still too narrow for Varad to effectively move to Morryin's flanks. His advantage in the draw was also moot. With their platform actively seeking to help one of them, even Varad's superior footwork was countered. He hurled to his feet and gave ground, parrying and dodging while he fled backwards to escape.

Morryin pursued quickly, stabbing and lunging, until he aborted and fled himself. Varad had but an instant to halt and reverse direction before the dragon rolled under him, trying to slough him over the side to the endless fall. It even tried wiggling it's arm, but was limited by the vast weight of the swinging corsair. The Swordmaster darted forward, threw himself from the side in a leap of faith, and hit the broad back, just above where the wing met the back. He sheltered in a pocket while the beast rolled, dangling and shaking, and then leveled out. Black clad Morryin was upon him in an instant.

The rippling back was an unstable platform. As the beast's muscles bunched and released with each wing beat, they rose and sank in relation to each other. Terrain advantage came and went. It was like fighting on the surface of a windy sea.

Morryin took a forward guard, hands at waist level with blade going forward, point aimed at the Al's eyes. Given their spacing, Varad settled into a side guard, blade pointed off to the right and up. The Hurt would strike first, and Varad needed to parry or dodge before his riposte. The Song of Winter was faster at close range. The redcloak guessed his enemy would wait until the bunching muscle lifted him up, and then he would rush down with gravity while their lifting footing threw Varad onto the sword point. It would be the fastest possible assault.

He was right. Even knowing it was coming, Varad barely batted it aside, and swept the Song of Winter over his head and down. Varad aiming for the collar bone but hit steel. Without swinging the point of the Hurt, Morryin punched upwards with his hands, interposing the sword's stem in the cutting path. The Song of Winter glanced off, above his left shoulder, and over his head. Varad recovered, but Morryin was already lunging. Varad dove sideways, rolled across the rippling scales, and tumbled into the spinal ridge. Morryin chased him down the dragon's back like a fury.

Again and again he stabbed, always at full extension to maximize his advantage. Sparks jumped from the Hurt as it gouged across the iron scales. Varad tried to work angles, but the moving dragon ever brought him back to the Hurt's path. The Swordmaster retreated, rolling across close-set scales, over the great hump that sheltered the backbones, and towards the far wing. A sudden flex of contraction threw him into the air, and he twisted in midair, squirming around the cutting steel. Unburdened by a cloak, he was never touched.

He landed in a squat, Morryin closed, and a twitch of muscle threw them together. They locked blades, straining, then the footing shifted and Morryin vanished. He spun and turned, dropping his hip into a fleeing back kick that should have broken bones. The lifting motion of the dragon spared Varad that, but instead it scooped him up, sending him flying. Underneath him the dragon rolled again, taking away everything that might provide a hold. He tumbled into open air over nothing.

Yet when the dragon twisted, it spun the ship with it. Now as it moved away, he had a perfect view of the deck. Like a taunt, the casket was clearly visible, tightly tethered down. Purely out of spite Varad flung his belt knife, but the cast was good. It passed through a node of ropes at nearly a hundred feet, parting them like water, and sank into the deck. As the dragon finished the roll the casket tumbled free, arcing through the air away into space.

As he fell, Varad heard Morryin's agonized cry as the casket fell as well. That made everything better.

The Death of a Swordsman 8

8

When the sunset, the Svir advised them to sleep in shifts. It would be nearly impossible to spot the wagon in the darkness, so remaining awake looking would only make them tired in the morning. The wind was constant, and a rotation was arranged so three men could sleep at a time. The other watched the ship and sky as they bobbed at anchor. It was early in the spring, and the nights were long. Everyone should be well rested by morning.

Not much later, Pittin rousted all the others out of bed, not just Garin, who's turn it was to replace him. "I saw lights passing to the south of us, and thought it was just a merchant trying to make the morning break in the tides. They drew anchor and stopped due south of us."

“There aren't many reasons for that that don't impinge on our own reasons for being here,” Varad noted.

“I thought that very same thing. Let's go say hello."

"Where're the troops?" Garin asked.

"West of us. I can't guess distance at night over water."

"Damn. I want them to come along, but if we hoist a lantern, the ship to the south will spot it."

"I've a lantern and a mirror," Krose mentioned. "I'll signal their captain, and she'll understand."

"Good. Tell them to come quietly, with no lights."

Krose agreed. Then they went back on deck and put the plan into action, moving quietly. The troopship's running lights died, and she faded into the blackness. It was noted by a silent exchange of glances that Krose seemed quiet experienced with running through the darkness without lights, keeping his vessel silent. There weren't a terribly large number of legitimate reasons for that either, but as it played to the Swordmen's advantage, no one said anything. They quietly ceded another moral high ground.

"There is one thing," Varad hissed as they approached. “There might be a man on that vessel named Morryin. He's somewhat taller than me, wields a white longsword, and has very dark hair. He usually wears a black cloak. If you see him, don't engage him.”

“You want that honor for yourself?” Garin asked.

“No. Not really. Had I my way, I wouldn't speak to him again, much less cross steel. But if it needs be done, it had best be done by me.”

“Our purpose is to get that casket,” Pittin observed. “You can handle the distractions.”

“Thank you.”

Krose crowded sail onto the Angry Gremlin's masts under a sustained westward breeze. He pointed the prow between that and where they wanted to go, and set the sails strangely. It seemed simple, but they hung almost sideways in the rigging. His boat knifed southwards through the waves.

As they approached, the target craft grew. It was a three masted frigate that dwarfed the 'Gremlin. Hanging from a spar on the midmast was a complex block and tackle, and it had laid ropes over the far side. Her anchor chain ran down by the prow.

"That more or less settles matters," Varad noted.

"Indeed. We should wait for the others," Garin noted.

"We should get close, climb aboard, and kill everyone," Varad countered.

"What exactly is wrong with you?" Pittin asked.

"I don't see any reason to make things complicated!" Varad retorted.

"Excuse me," interrupted the captain. "But that ship's a lot faster than your troop ship. If she gets underway before your reinforcements get her, she'll probably make it to the headwaters of the bay right at the break in the tides. You won't. Then you'll never catch her on the open seas."

"Why are you encouraging him?" Garin snapped.

"I'm just saying," Krose replied.

Varad started smiling. "That does simplify matters."

"You're twisted."

"I like simple."

"Bah. Pittin?"

"I always knew how this was going to end," Pittin noted.

Garin grumbled. To the captain he ordered, "Get us as close as you can. Then make for the troop ship with all due haste. Hopefully they'll get here before anything interesting happens."

"Oh, this is already interesting," Krose replied. He sounded excited.

"You want this to happen?"

"You're Swordsmen of the Red. I've been hearing stories about you guys since I was a baby. I want to see what you can do."

Garin ignored that. "Get us as close as you can. Gentlemen, we're going swimming."

The three men began stripping, removing their cloaks and carefully putting them aside in the hold. Soon they were stripped down to pants and weapon belts, lurking by the prow as Krose nudged them forward. They felt incredibly exposed, but the captain assured them they were outside the circle of light and effectively invisible.

"Here," he hissed, turning the tiller so the 'Gremlin twisted and ran parallel the beam of the corsair.

"Hold her still, so we don't make any noise."

"Oh, I will!" his whisper sounded elated. "Three of you are boarding a corsair alone! I'll tell me kids about this as soon as I get any."

"We're not alone," Pittin said suddenly. It was another old aphorism of the Red Guard.

"We've got our swords," Garin finished.

With a final exchanged glance, the three Swordsmen lowered themselves slowly into the dark water, and paddled away. Low waves rolled over their heads with barely a splash. Then Krose was gone behind them. The bay was very dark and felt infinitely deep. No one knew what was down there.

Where the hull met the water was pitch black in its own shadow. The wood was slick with algae. The anchor chain was likewise treacherous, but formed the only route upwards. As the ship rolled it clinked, so the sound of their ascent would be disguised. Like naked worms they stole upwards, one by one, and caught handholds on the gunwales. Varad lead them around to the side they'd approached from. Activity seemed focused on the other side, so they could retain some element of surprise.

The three tilted their heads sideways to present a low profile, then poked them over the side. The winches had done their work, and the massive, ponderous coffin had been lowered tot he deck. Already the men were returning to the rigging. Others were lashing it down firmly. They would be underway very shortly.

Varad glanced at Pittin. The old man nodded. He glanced at Garin. The Senior Swordsman nodded as well. Varad held up three fingers, wiggled them, and then made a fist. Slowly he counted, and at three they hurled themselves over the gunwale to attack.

Half a dozen men were dead before the screaming started. In an instant blind panic took the crew, and made meat of them at the trio's swords. This was Varad's perfect element. The deck was wide and smooth, his enemies dispersed, and there were many things to move around and behind. Even the rise and fall meant only that he could take higher ground than his adversaries with only a moment's pause. He murdered people like he was chopping firewood.

Garin and Pittin had stayed close to the railing. From there they charged the steerage. It had a single stairway, as steep as a ladder, and a low railing that made other ways of ascent problematic. Tactically, taking the steerage against serious resistance would be a nightmare. But with the crew dispersed at their labors, only the pilot and his aid were up their. Fanatical and foolishly, the pilot remained at the wheel while this aid tried to repulse the two Swordsmen. He was hamstrung from below and dragged down. Then they were up the ladder and set upon the pilot. He became meat.

“Ve, break the wheel,” Garin ordered as he returned to the single access point. "Al, come here!"

Varad did, and soon they stood side by side atop the steep ascent. By then the crew had gained some idea of what was going on.

"More must be coming!" someone guessed in a yell, correctly. "If they break the steerage we're done for."

"All against three!" yelled another, and they tried to take the stairway by sheer numbers.

Behind them Pittin charged the wheel with his shoulder until wood splintered. Then by main strength he wrenched it free of its housing and tossed it overboard. His arm was bloody and stuck with splinters. but now the ship wasn't going anywhere in a controlled fashion. This seemed to confirm the guesses in the crew's mind. A great shout went up. There were at least three dozen still on the deck and in the rigging. They surged like a tide to the foot of the stairs.

“Done,” Pittin announced in his quiet, unexcited voice. The massed crew charged the ladder.

"Come take this stairway," Varad ordered. "I'm going up."

Ve'Pittin didn't ask questions, but instantly replaced the Swordmaster. The latter retreated, took a running start, and hurled himself into the ropes. He went upwards, chopping lines and shrouds apart as he did so, and met the crew. Some of them had been positioning themselves to drop onto the steerage and attack them from behind. They fought like monkeys, and detached limbs rained onto the horde.

Before anything else, Varad wanted to know if Morryin was aboard. The Al couldn't see him, but if he was lurking somewhere then this whole preliminary was a farce. Three on three dozen, with the three being masterful Swordsmen, Varad expected them to hold out easily. They need only survive until reinforcements come. Three against Morryin, him with three dozen bodies to throw at them to wear them down, was a much different battle, one that could well go either way. As broken as the wheel was, Varad knew little of ships, There might be some way to fix it. So he went after the ropes and sails. Then surely there would be no way for the corsair to escape, even if the Swordsmen had to flee.

It appeared the spars and beams required the lighter lines and cables to stay upright. As more of the latter got severed, the rigging began groaning ominously. Lines rushed through the winches dragged by gravity. On the other side Varad began mowing ropes. Once those near him were parted, a tear burst in the thick muslin sail, and the rip raced along the white expanse. Then the anchor point between spar and mast screamed as the boom torqued downwards. Metal pins were sheared off. Varad stabbed somebody and leaped away as the massive pole tumbled to the deck.

It plunged into the center of the horde trying to take the steering deck, crushing men indiscriminately. More of the rigging followed, cables parting like twine. The starboard running light was knocked free and it broke, sending a sheet of burning oil across the jumble of ropes. They went up in a wave. Heat leaped upwards from the fire, and flames licked the mainmast's sails. Varad landed near the very front of the main deck and started hacking towards the aft, spreading what confusion and chaos he could.

Still Morryin did not appear. The main deck was soaked with seawater from the recovery operation, and there was little chance the ship would burn and sink. That had to be avoided at all costs. But the crew would not surrender. A peculiar madness gripped the lot of them, and more poured up from the hatches to replace those that fell. On the deck the two Red Guards served as an anvil, an immovable object, and with the rigging above them destroyed, there was no way to bypass their line. The crew formed a wave and broke against them, and reformed to break again.

Varad cut a furrow through men back towards the aft and was attacking the stalled horde from the side when a vast wind whipped across the ship. In its wake flames died, even the glowing wicks of the intact lanterns, sheltered behind glass shells. A scream of devilish triumph when up from the living crew. He put the Song of Winter through someone's mouth, following the sound of the noise while his eyes adjusted to the dark, and then opened his head from bottom jaw through the top of his dome. As the body crashed to a pile, the ship quivered.

“Garin!” Varad bellowed.

“'Varad” he bellowed back, directly above at the head of the ladder. Varad screamed again to let them know he was coming, then bounded up the wall and over the railing. They didn't cut him apart as he appeared. Sheltering for a moment behind the two resolute swordsmen as they dropped the bodies of fallen on those still foolish enough to press the attack, Varad looked around. The wind gusted and stank.

All three masts had shattered, and now they lay across the decking in tangles of line and sail. Bodies of men swords hadn't killed were laced among the mess. Blood is black in pale starlight, and half the ship looked like it was missing. Yet the crew fought on with the same malicious triumph, and their cries sounded victorious. Another ill wind swept across the ship and with it came claws.

Two black legs reached down from the dark sky as the air above reverberated with a thunderous boom. It was like all the sails on a man-of-war catching the wind at once. The noise shook the ship and affected us on board. It was hard to balance for a moment, and then the huge boom came again. It was the claws that held their attention. Each was a dozen yards across, shaped like hideous hands. Each finger was tipped with a huge talon that sank effortlessly through the wood of the hull. While Pittin and Garin stood resolute against the berserk crew, Varad looked up. The sky was black, and no stars shone above. Yet far in front of the ship garish red plumes of fire crept out of empty night. The wind boomed again, and it smelled of sulfur.

“Dragon?” Pittin asked calmly, killing a maddened sailor on the ladder. He ran the man through the neck, then kicked him backwards so the fall decapitated him. The body crashed into the press at the ladder. As things got worse, he got calmer.

“Dragon,” Varad agreed. “You two should flee.”

“Not hardly,” Garin retorted with a laugh.

“Fine. Perhaps not flee, but leave anyway.” Al'Varad tried to explain. “You remember I mentioned Morryin? There is no explanation for a black dragon to arrive now but him. The Baron must know that his enemies have this beast, possibly more, and that it may have the casket.”

“And you?” Garin asked.

“I won't leave the coffin again.”

The ship leaped, and with the next tremendous flap of bat-like wings began to rise. There was little time before we were too high to leap to safety.

“Please,” the Swordmaster begged. It was so rare for them to use true formality among themselves that it was a shocking contrast to the normal demands leveled between them. His request was abnormally poignant.

Garin chopped someone in half. Suddenly he grunted and without a word, turned from the ladder and ran. He flicked his blade back into the sheath as he leaped over the railing and dove cleanly into the water below. It was turbulent with the ship being ripped from the surface of the ocean, and there was no splash. Not far away was the troop ship. They'd relit their running lights, and cries from hundreds of men announced their presence.

Varad stepped into Garin's place, hacking apart berserk crewmen with Pittin at his side, and for a moment wondered if the older man intended to stay. He did not. He only made sure the man he had been fighting died before he too turned to go.

“You're awfully determined for a quitter,” Pittin said in passing, then leaped after his supervisor.

Varad couldn't hold the steerage alone. Without help to repulse those who combed the sides, it was inevitable it would fall. He retreated, and in the instant the horde surged up the ladder, dashed and sprang from the railing. The deck danced underneath him with the dragon's movement. Varad landed badly but rolled.

The ship lurched again, and then the rudder swung hard and crashed into the hull. The crash shook everyone. Vast wing beats fought the Al's sense of balance, throwing him back across the deck, flailing wildly. Now the vessel was airborne, and the deck leaned madly in every direction as the carrying beast moved. No longer was it a fight, but jumbled melee with bodies, living and dead, slamming into each other blindly. Ever light had extinguished, and there was no starlight beneath the beast.

Everyone aboard was tossed back and forth, sometimes crashing into each other, and in the dark no one knew who was who. Varad knew that every hand on board was his enemy and killed as he could. The crew only knew that an enemy was still fighting them, and they killed as well. Many of them crashed into each other, and the night was full of death gurgles from far places. With tumbled bodies simulating life in their gyrations, many who died were stabbed again and again till being hurled overboard. Only when the lack of berserk cries penetrated Varad's killing frenzy did he realize he alone was alive. He sheathed the Song of Winter and held on.

The rhythmic crash of the dragon's wings made thinking difficult. He wasn't sure if the beast had some magic in it beyond an evil nature and vast power, but on that ship he was beset by a desire to murder. He crawled along, hurling corpses overboard to be sure, until he came to the casket. It was securely tied, and though the ropes strained with the shifting weight, they held. Sometimes the deck was nearly vertical as the ship rocked through the air.

The tangle of rigging was unstable, swinging over the sides, and sweeping the deck as it passed. To remain above was foolish. He crawled through a hatch and found a stump of a mast. Underneath it ran straight down to the keel, as thick around as a tree trunk. With a bit of line he tied himself on and protected his head. For a long time the ship tumbled through the air, swinging wildly, and soon his arms ached. Holding on was nearly impossible, and his brain numbed, he slipped into a daze. Yet eventually the flight leveled out. Then the steady rise and fall of the ship in response to the flapping wings was like the motion of the ocean. No longer did he have to strain to hold on. A daze turned into a doze, and then he slept.