Dark Empress (24 page)

He growled.

“We’re leaving now, Ghassan. For the life of every one of your men, do not try and follow us across or we will be forced to take a more violent approach.”

He wiped the blood from his neck and flicked it at Ghassan, spattering red droplets across the uniform.

“And there is blood between us, Ghassan. For the sake of mother at her rest, I will not kill you now, but rest assured that the next time we meet I will give you no quarter.”

“Nor I you” barked Ghassan.

Samir, turning to make sure the last of his men were disengaging and crossing back to the Empress, threw a last vicious glare at his brother and jumped across.

Some days were designed just to test a person to his very soul.

In which the wheel has turned many times

Samir prodded the fresh wound above his right eye. The last engagement had been one of the most precarious yet. He smiled weakly as he looked down into the foamy water racing past below the rail. Yesterday had been his twenty second naming day and the event had passed him by entirely unnoticed for most of the day. Indeed, he’d still not have thought about it now had the crew not made something of it.

When they’d scuttled the Pelasian merchant yesterday afternoon, they had cast the survivors adrift in the lifeboats and then spent the next hour stacking and storing the booty that would have to be transported back to Lassos where the affectionately-named ‘Eyeball’ could add them to the Empress’ takings roster and move them through his ‘channels’ to various ports of dubious ethics on the eastern coast.

A few hours later, Samir had been examining the cargo when he had been accosted and dragged back, kicking and arguing, up the stairs to the deck. It had been a natural assumption that his time had come. He’d risen through the ranks on board the Empress so damn quick that he’d put a lot of peoples’ noses out of joint in the process. Indeed, when Sharimi had been laid to rest two years ago, the victim of a heavy artillery bolt during a boarding action, Khmun had barely glanced at any of those who probably had much better claim to the position, and had promoted Samir to first officer without a moment’s pause.

Of course it turned out, as he was dragged, blinking, into the sunlight, that they had a few naming day ’surprises’ for him: several uncomfortable and even painful practical jokes and games at his expense and then enough date wine and powerful spirits that he felt lucky to be alive this morning. That being said, there was a reason he’d spent the last hour leaning over the rail and ‘alive’ might prove to be a relative term.

He spat away the unpleasant taste in his mouth as he drifted off once more into musings on past events.

It was no surprise to Samir really that Khmun had chosen him on Sharimi’s death. He had proved himself time and time again over the years. His uncanny knack for tactics, combined with Khmun’s genius for innovative thinking in combat, had resulted in the Empress racking up almost twice as many captures as any other vessel that worked out of Lassos.

The name ‘Scourge of the Seas’ had been heard applied variously to the Empress herself, to captain Khmun and recently to his infamous first officer, Samir. And yet, despite their fearsome reputation, the officers and men of the Dark Empress were proud of the fact that they could sometimes take a merchant down without inflicting any permanent harm on the crew. Often the mere threat of violence, combined with the name of the dreaded vessel was enough to bring about a peaceful surrender. Certainly their kills were among the lowest in the ledgers of Lassos. It all went to bolster Samir’s growing reputation.

Those who had beaten Samir repeatedly in those first weeks on board had changed as much as he. The weak, greedy or stupid ones had died early on through bad luck or their own actions, while the clever and loyal ones had been finally forced to accept the fact that Samir appeared to have been born for this life. Indeed, several of them professed a grudging admiration for this man that they had tormented as a boy. Afad, the first face he’d seen on board, was now a boarding party chief and a trusted lieutenant of Samir’s.

He turned his rubbery, sweaty, pale grey face to the water once more and groaned as a fresh wave of sickness overtook him and all thoughts but the regret of the morning after were forced aside.

A full minute of such horrendous activity and he finally settled back in ragged breaths to feeling weak and draping himself over the rail. Occasionally he would hear a gentle laugh somewhere. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold his drink, so much as no one could hold that amount of drink! He would occasionally look up when he heard a laugh and give the man a weak smile. He could have disciplined them for taunting a superior, but this wasn’t the navy. Order relied as much on trust and respect as on discipline. Besides, his head might crack if he tried to shout at someone.

Now, where was he…

Ah yes. Every man on board could be considered a rich man by the standards of Samir’s youth. Certainly any one of the officers could have afforded to buy Asima’s father…

He blinked and focused on the water rushing past. Curious. While he had been forced to think about Ghassan quite a lot over the years, he’d not given a thought to their childhood friend for so long that it took a moment’s dredging of memory to construct a reasonable image of her in his head.

He smiled as he remembered her; headstrong and controlling, almost always, he realised these days, playing the emotions and affections of he and Ghassan against one another. His thoughts drifted to the sands of Pelasia for a moment and he wondered how she was doing now, even what she was doing now. Was she still in the harem of Akkad? Knowing her steadfast refusal to bow to the will of others, she may well have been executed by the vicious satraps or the royal family by now.

That thought brought with it an unexpected sadness, but he soon brushed that aside. No. She would be alive; probably alive and well. Asima was a survivor as much as Samir; probably more so. She would probably be running Pelasia before long.

She must be a stunning woman now.

Samir realised with a laugh that he was starting to drool and hoped beyond belief that this was a further effect of the hangover and not some childish infatuation coming back to haunt him. Besides, she’d been closer with Ghassan most of the time…

Ghassan.

Why the hell had he had to join the naval militia, of all the stupid, brainless things to do. Samir had been pressed without choice. Ghassan could have done anything, but no. And Calphoris liked to think of itself as a continuation of the collapsed Empire that continued to wallow, treating its militia as if they were still the Imperial army; all straight laced and order and discipline. If only Ghassan could see that the driving principals of the militia allowed for no grey areas and had killed off his ability to reason beyond the blind acceptance of orders. Then he and Ghassan…

His jaw hardened.

No.

Samir was sick of feeling guilty and sorry for his brother. It had been Ghassan that had drawn blood when Samir refused. Ghassan had been the one to label him a murderer and bring their mother into it. Samir had been happy to let things go.

Over the last few years, with the increasing reputation of the Empress and her crew, interest in her capture had grown and it had become the life goal of many militia captains and probably among the Pelasians too, to capture the pirate ship and put an end to her activity.

The ridiculous thing was that, with such attention being paid to Samir’s ship, those captains who had fewer morals were considerably freer to go about their bloodthirsty and murderous business. Samir had seen some of the nastiest captains at Lassos buy Khmun a drink for taking the heat off them.

The last half dozen years had brought a few near misses between the brothers. Samir had privately explained the situation to Khmun and the captain had agreed that, in addition to the desire to save the crew from unnecessary loss of life, the fact that someone on board the Wind of God may be able to predict their tactics meant that they should avoid contact with that particular vessel at all costs. On a personal level, Samir knew he must stay out of contact with Ghassan. What had been done could not be undone and they had both sworn to give no quarter when next they met. As far as Samir was concerned, that simply meant that they must, under no circumstances, meet.

There had been a number of engagements with ships of the Calphorian militia and black vessels bearing the flags of the satraps of Pelasia, but in all this time, Khmun and Samir had succeeded in pulling out of any engagement that involved Ghassan’s ship. The closest Samir’s brother had managed to boarding the Empress was last year when they lay in wait, hiding in a cove near the current arbitrary border of satrap Ma’ahd’s lands. They had just been getting underway when the Wind of God appeared around the headland at full speed and ready for action. The artillery master on board the militia daram had managed to strike their foresail with a flaming mass and the resulting combustion and panic had almost cost them their lives.

Khmun and Samir, thinking quickly, had sacrificed a lifeboat to save the ship, filling it with combustible materials and quickly severing the ropes so that it dropped to the water behind the Dark Empress. As they did so, Afad and his men managed, with only a few minor wounds and burns, to cut the flaming sail free. As the drum began to beat out the rhythm and the oarsmen rowed as though the guardian of the underworld were slavering at their heels, the crew dumped the burning mass into the lifeboat and watched it explode into a fresh inferno.

The Wind of God had been forced to reverse their oars and arrest her speed as much as possible in order to give them the time and space to turn and avoid the burning obstacle, by which time the Empress was already accelerating and racing across the waves to freedom.

By the time they’d gone half a league, the replacement sail was already up and the artillery armed and positioned. Twice in Samir’s time on board they had come very close to disaster with Ghassan’s ship and both times they had been saved by fire.

The time was coming when he would have to deal with matters, though. He would soon be forced to move on either Ghassan or the satrap Ma’ahd. Samir had tried several times, both on board and back in port at Lassos, to persuade the captains that M’Dahz was a prime target and that Ma’ahd needed removing for their own safety.

That last was true, as well. Ma’ahd had constructed quite a navy over the years since he had taken M’Dahz and the black ships plied the coast dangerously close to Calphoris and even close to the island of Lassos, though should they ever find it, which was said to be impossible, they could never navigate the reefs of the dead.

There was another long pause in Samir’s train of thought as he retched repeatedly, failing to bring up anything. He slumped once more, his mind spinning. What was he thinking about? Oh yes… the reefs.

No… Ma’ahd.

That would have to wait, he’d finally realised, until he was a captain in his own right, though such a time may not be far off.

Though Khmun had made no announcement, things were falling into place that suggested a certain sequence of events in the coming days.

Firstly, Khmun had, over the last year, increasingly involved Samir in his strategy and planning meetings. The captain had shared what wisdom he had with his first officer and seemed to Samir to be grooming him for the position.

Secondly, there was the wound. A few years before, a lucky shot from a defender on a Calphorian ship had sent a missile through Khmun’s leg and the arrowhead had lodged in the man’s knee. Though it had been removed and the captain had made what he deemed to be a ‘full recovery’, Samir had noted the wincing that went on whenever the ship lurched or shook. Moreover, Khmun had acquired that age-old mystical ability to predict cold and wet weather by the discomfort in his leg. Khmun was starting to tire of life aboard ship.

Finally, there was the matter of the council of twelve. The council was to the pirates of Lassos what a government was to a country, and the head of the council, a retired captain by the name of Surafana, was ailing fast. Word among the drinking pits of Lassos was that Khmun was the favourite to replace him.

Of course, the moment Samir could be sure would be when Khmun gave him the compass. In seven years of serving in various capacities on board the Empress, Samir had never found anyone that could tell him how the captain navigated the reefs of the dead, and it had only been with his ascension to the position of first officer that things had been made relatively clear to him.

On every ship based in Lassos, only two men knew the secret. For centuries the captains had used the so-called ‘dead man’s compass’ to find their way through the reefs. There were said to be only two of them, and no more would ever be created. And, even as first officer, in two further years Samir had never seen the compass but, in a way, that was comforting. The day Samir knew that Khmun was ready to retire and Samir to take his place as captain of the Empress would be the day that Khmun showed him the compass and explained its use.

The time was coming for Samir to take on the ultimate challenge that life on board the Empress had to offer, and when that time came, he would use it to turn the wrath of the most dangerous men within a thousand leagues on the satrap Ma’ahd. Whatever Ghassan thought he was doing, Samir had not lost focus on the goal ahead.

Soon, Ma’ahd… soon.

In which a fleet is found

The wind rushed through Ghassan’s hair as he leaned over the prow and gazed ahead. Without taking his eyes off the black sail some distance in front, he sniffed. There was a barely-perceptible change in the wind and he bellowed commands over his shoulder back to the men under his command. Captain Jaral, way back at the stern with the other officers, would receive any appropriate information, passed from man to man along the deck, while relevant instructions would reach the correct people en-route.

Since Ghassan’s promotion to second in command this summer, there had been a shift in the purpose of the Wind of God that only he and the captain seemed to have recognised. There had, over the last year or more, been fewer and fewer complaints among the merchants of Calphoris concerning pirate activity. Looking into the incidents that had been reported, along with information from other sources, it was clear to Ghassan and his captain that the pirates of the coastal waters had inexplicably turned their focus toward Pelasian shipping.