Night of the Black Ships - The Pearldiver's Adventures #1

Being one of the Pearldiver's Adventures; a tale of Swashbuckling, Slavers, and Sorcery.

Welcome, dear readers, to the first entry in what has become a serialized anthology of pulp sword & sorcery adventure stories, The Pearldiver’s Adventures. Based off of a character created by my very dear friend, John Heavypaws, these stories chronicle the adventures of the suave seafaring tradesman, Captain Molo Pearldiver. This first story, “Night of the Black Ships,” isn’t the first in the chronology of Molo’s adventures, but has served as an exciting introduction to his tales all the same. With that said, I hope you enjoy.

If you’d like to read the rest of The Pearldiver’s Adventures, you may find them in the index:
The Pearldiver's Adventures, Index

Image by DCartwork, sourced from Artstation

Captain Molo Pearldiver embarked from Puerto Nuevo for the ever raucous port of Dagger Bay with expectations of fair winds and smooth sailing. The skies were clear and bright when he set sail, and while scattered clouds came and went throughout the prior three days, no signs of rough waters or oncoming storms could be seen. Indeed, the Sea of Swords was pristine on late Spring days like these; its crisp blue waters dotted with islands large and small, and all covered in lush green. His ship, an aged but sturdy Riverran brigantine dubbed The Lady Florenz, carved a path clear and straight through these idyllic sights. Yet as the third night descended upon him, the good Captain wondered if those perfect spring days may have been an ill omen in disguise.

Good Captain? Bah. He could hardly lay claim to that title anymore. This wasn’t due to a fault of leadership on his part, nor a lack of respect from his crew. Molo was quite liked by his men, and his penchant for merrymaking did him well within the alehouses and brothels across the many ports strewn about the Sea of Swords. His talents in drinking and song made him popular amongst workmen and wenches alike, and his business partners appreciated his tendencies for timeliness and secrecy. A reputation for reliability kept him in the good graces of many a wealthy tradesman and aristocrat, and his willingness to look the other way whilst maintaining a quiet tongue earned him favor with those who dealt in the sale of illicit goods.

Nay, ‘twas neither incompetence, nor lack of his crew’s faith that gave question to his title. In his seven years as captain of The Lady Florenz, he’d never once had to put down a mutiny or surrender his cargo to the buccaneers who plagued the Sea of Swords in recent decades. Alas, no man’s luck lasts forever.

There wasn’t a sailor on the Sea of Swords who hadn’t heard of the Black Ships. Black as pitch from hull to sail, superstition held the twin frigates to be ghost ships that appeared from dark nothingness to leave only wreckage in their wake. Treasure of all sorts was always claimed in these stories, as was usually the case when legends of the foulest pirates were whispered by fearful seafaring men.

Yet the Black Ships were different. Rumors were long spun that treasure alone wasn’t the only plunder they claimed; that the bodies of the slain were the prize they truly sought. This led to the belief that the claimed dead were press-ganged, forced to serve this unholy crew until the stuff of their souls had burnt out.

Given the superstitious nature of most sailors, Molo found these claims unsurprising, but he wasn’t truly sure whether he believed those stories or not. Before tonight, he wasn’t even sure if he ever really believed in the Black Ships, simply because he never put much thought into it. Regardless of what he thought then, he certainly believed the tales now. How could he not when a pair of black frigates emerged from the inky blackness of night’s darkest hours to assail him?

Pity the young Captain and the poor souls of is crew, for the Black Ships descended on The Lady Florenz.

Molo was not considered a physically impressive man. He lacked the height and musculature of those imposing Stenisian northerners, had not the swarthy debonair of Bertosian men, nor was he gifted with the classical beauty and refinement of the Riverrans. No, Molo was on the short side, and a bit round, too. He’d also been reliably told that his soft features, tawny skin, bristly moustache, and short goatee gave him something of an otter’s mien. Charisma can do much to help a man make up for less than ideal looks, though. The young Captain may not have had the physique and appearance of a legendary hero or a great romancer, but would those men be as deft in turning an insult to a compliment by proudly declaring themselves, The Prince of Otters? He doubted it.

Similarly, he doubted that the reavers swarming from the Black Ships onto the deck of The Lady Florenz expected that the quite unassuming Captain would be as skilled with the saber as he was. The roundness of his frame, which mostly showed in his slight potbelly, belied a dexterous grace one might expect from a trained fencer or the old tales of the dervishes, the sword dancers of the ancient desert lands. So deft was Molo’s blade, so precise his cuts and thrusts, that he’d managed to fell seven of the black clad picaroons - three on his own, four with help from men in his crew - before he’d been clubbed unconscious. His crew, for their part, slew twelve of the dastards before they’d either been killed themselves, or similarly clubbed and taken.

While being hauled with his crew and cargo into the holds of the twin frigates, Molo witnessed his captainship end. With The Lady Florenz stripped of its valuables, the decidedly living crews of the supposedly phantasmal Black Ships set the old brigantine ablaze. It was then shorn in two, its middle blown to splinters by a keg of black powder the attackers left somewhere in the ship’s hold before departing with their ill gotten gains. As Molo was dragged into the lower decks, so too did the burning remains of The Lady Florenz sink beneath the Sea of Swords.

Rusty irons were clapped around his wrist, and Molo was led past the Black Ship’s stores with the rest of the survivors. Plunder of various sorts was piled there. Gold and gems. Portraits and statuary. Fine silks and barrels of expensive spices, all stacked high.

Yet none compared in their volume to the rows upon rows of people packed end to end in the ship’s fore half. Chained together in tight clusters and forced to stand shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, this cargo of men and women shone the light of reality upon the myth of the stolen dead. This wasn’t a press ganging by a ghost crew. These fiends were slavers.

Some among the captives, very few by their number, slung angry insults at the slavers. Others begged for scraps of food and sips of water. They were savagely caned by the black clad picaroons. In most cases these violent beatings rendered them silent. They soon took on the same vacant look of hopelessness that lingered in the eyes of those whose spirits were already shattered. A select few, a number small enough to be counted on a single hand, pleaded for the beating to stop. The picaroons answered by striking them harder, only ceasing when they went silent.

One man, however, remained stubbornly resistant.

In that moment, as he and half his crew were shoved into a leaky section beneath the ship’s prow, Molo couldn’t decide whether the stranger’s defiance was foolish or courageous. The man was large and dressed in a tattered waistcloth. He was tall and broadly built like a Stenisian, but had dark complexion and hair of the desert folk.

The pride of this giant of a man was unquestionable. Though he was caned across the chest, legs, and collar, he stood unbowed and unflinching. Only once the black clad reaver smashed the butt of the rattan switch into his gut did the dark skinned man flinch, and even then, only because the air was knocked out of him.

White hot pain flared in Molo’s neck and shoulders. He winced and groaned, sounds which were followed by a second cacophonous thwack of the switch against his nape. “Walk, slave! Into your place!”

Again the pain flashed. The third strike landed before Molo could either obey or defy the command. Suddenly a boot was shoved into the small of his back, and he stumbled forward. His foot caught on the short chain that bound his feet and he fell, nearly landing face down on the floor of the hold. It was only by the grace of his crewmen, chiefly his First Mate, a lanky sailor named Francis Arnold Wuthers, that he didn’t. Despite the limits imposed by their own shackles, the six men present caught their falling Captain. The Lady Florenz may have been gone, but their loyalty hadn’t sunken with her.

Of course, the man driving them into their tight corner wasted no time in lashing those men with his rattan. Four more quickly joined him. They swung upon them with their rods, spat at them when they spoke back, and kicked and stomped when the group went down. The beating continued for minutes on end, leaving Molo and his men welted and bruised. If that wasn’t indignity enough, the black clad reavers furthered their punishment by taking their boots from them, forcing them to stand barefoot on the cold, wet, rough wood floor.

“I fear we’re going to die here, Captain,” Wuthers said. His voice was deep and gravelly, the sort you’d expect to hear from a statuesque warlord as opposed to a wiry middle aged sailor. By contrast, Molo’s voice was honey smooth, with a lilt common to the people of the Thousand Isles of Sanja-vai, far to the south of the Sea of Swords.

“I doubt it,” Molo replied, careful to keep his tone hushed. He didn’t wish to invite further lashings upon himself or his men. “These devils are slavers from the south. Telari, by the sounds of them. Dead bodies won’t fetch them coin. They’ll want us alive, but placid.”

“They certainly mastered making men placid,” Wuthers grumbled. “Half the captives are nigh dead on their feet, and the rest aren’t far behind.”

Molo eyed the other slaves. The darkness of the hold made it difficult to see, but since the Black Ships hadn’t moved yet, some light managed to seep in through narrow splits in the hull. Molo knew source from its flicker and orange color; the burning shrapnel from his ship, still lingering on the water’s surface. A ship he’d worked hard to purchase and maintain, a life which he made for himself, reduced to naught but burning flotsam. It left him with a stabbing hate in his heart, and that feeling deepened as he looked upon the other captives

As Wuthers said, many appeared all but dead on their feet. Sunken eyes, sallow cheeks, and old welts and bruises marked those who’d been here longest. Most were men, swarthy sailors from the Gold Coast or island dwellers plucked from their homes across the Sea of Swords. Roughly one in eight were women, mostly from the islands by their complexion, though a handful appeared to be from the Riverran coasts. Alas, no matter where they hailed from, they all looked worse off than the men.

Molo grimaced, a knot of disgust forming deep in his rotund gut. He didn’t want to imagine the awful things their captors subjected those poor women to, but the vile thoughts came to mind anyway. From the look on Wuthers’ face, with his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched tight behind his thick brown beard, he was thinking much the same.

Other than Molo’s crew, only one captive stood out as an exception. Despite the beating he received, the towering desert man still stood tall and proud. The Telari picaroons clearly detested this about him, as one made quite clear when he marched into the hold to check on the captives.

Molo noted that he brought no food or drink with him, not even of the maggoty or meager sort. He simply checked to see who was alive and who wasn’t, as well as who stayed quiet and who dared beg. The beggars, as before, were caned, but the quiet ones weren’t necessarily left alone. Some he struck simply for his amusement. Others he beat to force them aside when he found a man who actually was dead on his feet.

The giant from the desert loomed over the picaroon as he unshackled the dead man. He spoke no words, and in the dark of the hold Molo could barely make out his face. All the same, he saw the gleam in his eyes. Hatred. Anger. A desire to kill his captors and, most importantly, a desire to break free. The usually pleasant Captain shared these dark feelings, and he believed his crew felt the same way. Molo continued to watch, and the churning sea outside caused the burning wreckage floating atop it to illuminate the desert man’s face.

The keys. He was staring right at the pirate’s keys! Molo watched as the man’s fists clenched. The madman was going to try making his escape now? Damned fool. Even if he did manage to get the keys without raising the alarm, he’d either be spotted in his escape attempt or find himself stranded in the middle of the open ocean. Worse still, such rash action would make escape impossible for the rest of them.

If the desert man understood this, he didn’t seem to care. He brought his hands together, ready to raise them high and club the picaroon. Before he could, Molo shattered the general quiet by coughing loudly. Startled, the picaroon cursed and leapt to his feet, rattan cane in hand. His attention never came to Molo, though. The imposing figure of the desert man towering over him stole that away.

The slaver spat an insult at the stone faced man, lashing him twice across the legs. The desert giant merely grunted, so the picaroon spit in his face and dragged the unshackled corpse topside to toss the body into the sea. A couple minutes later, they heard it splash into the water.

Anchors lifted shortly thereafter. The clangor of their heavy chains reverberated through the cramped hold. Yet another bit of unpleasantness to add to their situation, though at least they wouldn’t have to endure that cacophony frequently. Then the ship lurched forward. All standing in the hold stumbled at the sudden movement, but none fell. Before long, what little light came from the burning remains of The Lady Florenz disappeared as the Black Ships drifted into the night.

Over the next few minutes, or perhaps they were hours–it was difficult to tell when locked and shackled inside a frigate’s lightless hold–Molo waited in patient silence. Occasionally Wuthers or one of his other men would whisper a question to him or mutter their fear in hushed tones. He was quick to shush them, having already noted how lash happy these Telari slavers were with their rattans. After a time, Wuthers wondered aloud if Molo had resigned himself to their fate.

“I’ve not resigned myself to anything,” Molo whispered, “but I want to see how often they check on us before we try for some foolhardy escape.”

“You’ve got a plan, then?” Wuthers asked.

Molo shrugged. “A semblance of one,” he said. “We have to figure out what we’ve got to work with first.”

The click of a key turning in its lock sounded at the far end of the hold. Glancing back at his men, Molo held a finger to his lips gave a low shush. Lantern light spilled in and reflected off the trickles and rippling puddles throughout the rundown hold. Four picaroons entered. Three wore the same ratty black garments they’d seen already, but the fourth wore simple brown breeches, a dirty white shirt, and a leather cook’s apron. He, along with one of the two lantern bearers, wrenched open a crate they’d stolen from The Lady Florenz. It was filled with jars of pickled cabbage, one of many popular foodstuffs Molo planned to sell to the saloons and messes in Dagger Bay.

The other two approached the captives, keeping close eyes on them until the cook called out that he was done. None of the captives so much as whimpered. Thankfully, the picaroons kept their rattans at their sides, no lashings given. When they left, the waiting resumed until another arrived to check on them.

Each time their captors left, Molo had Wuthers note how long it took them to come back. The man had an uncanny knack for tracking the passing of time, even when no clear signs could be seen to show it. Years back, Molo asked the lanky sailor how he’d developed this talent. Wuthers originally told him it was a gift given by the sea, but a night of drunken cavorting in Santuario del Puerto got him to admit it was a counting game he invented as a boy when he was bored.

Wuthers’ boring youth served them well tonight. After three rounds, they determined that the picaroons were checking on them roughly every quarter hour.

“That gives us some good time to work with,” Molo said.

“Time and little else,” Wuthers retorted. “We’ve no weapons and no plan, to say nothing of keys to get free of these bindings.”

Molo grinned. “Just because we’ve got no keys doesn’t mean we’ve got no way to get free.”

Wuthers cocked a brow, an action which Molo could see now that his eyes finally acclimated to the darkness. He couldn’t see clearly, but it was good enough to attempt his idea. Reaching up to his head - he was forced to do so with both hands, shackled as they were - Molo began to rummage through, of all things, his thick, dark hair.

“This hardly seems the time for primping, Captain,” Wuthers grumbled.

“What do you take me for?” Molo huffed. “I’m just trying to reach…”

Leaning forward, he reached up along to the short stallion’s tail he’d tied off at the nape of his neck. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of the item hidden in the tie, but they couldn’t quite grasp it. Huffing, he straightened up and rolled his neck and shoulders. Then he pitched himself forward at the waist and reached as far back as he could.

“Got it!” he grunted. When he stood upright, he held a thin lockpick up to Wuthers. “They may have our weapons and boots, but they didn’t search me well enough to find everything I’d hidden away!”

The wiry First Mate grinned wide beneath his thick beard. “Going to pick our locks so we can overwhelm the next guard?”

“No,” Molo said, turning his gaze to the towering, dark skinned desert man. “Not our locks.”

The desert man had remained stoic and silent. Frankly, Molo didn’t know if the stranger would even be able to understand him, much less be amenable to his idea. He’d not spoken a word to anyone, and his attempt to attack the picaroon earlier that night was foiled by Molo’s faked coughing. Indeed, his help was far from guaranteed, but Molo didn’t see any better options. Waiting until after the next guard came and went, he shuffled over to the giant of a man.

“A word, friend?” Molo whispered.

The huge desert man glared down at him, brow furrowed. Molo was amazed at just how massive he was. Where he was neither particularly short nor tall, the desert man loomed over everyone in the room. Why, Molo only reached the height of his chest! Even reedy Wuthers, the tallest of Molo’s crew, stood half a head shorter than this titan.

“You are the one who frightened that brigand,” he said.

Well, at least he could speak. Molo cleared his throat. “Yes, I am,” he murmured, suddenly feeling cowed in his presence.

The desert man carried a light, musical voice, unexpected for a man of such imposing physique. He spoke with eloquence and grace as well, another surprise given his appearance was that of a tribal nomad. Strangely, Molo found this unusual contrast made him even more intimidating.

“My chance at freedom was ruined by you,” the desert man continued, his frown deepening.

Molo almost shrunk under his stare. For the briefest moment he thought it due to his striking presence, but Molo had faced down northerners every bit as big as this dark skinned stranger, if not bigger. Something else was at work here, he felt it tugging at the back of his mind. Magic of some sorts? Or was it that he wasn’t truly a man? Was he of giant’s blood, gifted with unusual powers? Many of the oldest legends said that the immeasurable strength and ancient magics of giants is what shaped the world. Perhaps the desert man was a modern descendant of their ilk?

He didn’t think so. The feeling in his head was like a nudging of the mind, as though an outside will guided him to think and feel certain things. It was much closer to the tales of Bayelan mind magics. That would fit his appearance, but those tales came from the days of the old Empire. Such witchery was long believed lost to time. Could he truly have found a practitioner here, in the hull of a Telari slave ship?

There was only one way to find out.

“You’re of Bayelan stock, yes?” Molo asked.

The desert man’s frown fell away. His expression still wasn’t exactly friendly, but his stony countenance softened into neutrality, at least. “And you’re more learned than I’d expect of a picklock and thief,” he said.

Molo couldn’t resist grinning. “That’s because I’m no thief,” he said, “just as you’re not a warrior nomad.”

“Indeed? Then who are you?” the desert man asked.

“Molo Pearldiver, former captain of The Lady Florenz, which these curs scuttled a scant few hours ago,” he answered.

“Well met, Captain,” the desert man replied.

As he spoke, Molo got the distinct impression that he wasn’t so imposing as he originally appeared. He seemed shorter, trimmer, less broad of shoulder and stony of face. He still appeared strong. His shoulder length hair was still dark, his eyes still deep brown, and his chin still stubbled with his rough beard, but the stoic giant that Molo had seen was revealed as an exaggerated illusion.

“What do you wish of me?” the not-giant continued.

“Escape,” Molo said, and he held up the lockpick for the man to see. “Help me waylay the next guard, and I’ll undo your bindings. Then we can steal his keys, set everyone free, and take the ship.”

“And why would you trust me to do this?” the desert man asked.

Molo shrugged. “What other choice do I have? It’s this or be sold as a slave.”

With a grunt, the man held out his wrists and Molo began working the locks. “Do you have a name, friend?” he asked as he worked, grinning when the padlock on the first manacle clicked open.

The desert man rolled his newly freed wrist. Flexing his fingers, he said, “Malik.”

“So you are Bayelan,” Molo muttered as he picked the second manacle.

Malik didn’t respond.

“How did they catch you?” Molo asked. “From the coasts, or was your ship overtaken?”

“The coasts,” Malik said.

“So you’re from Sirocco, then? Not many other places along the coast where you’ll find Bayelan folk these days,” Molo replied.

Again, Malik didn’t respond. It was just as well. The second latch came open, and the rusty manacles clattered to the floor. Malik rubbed and rolled his raw wrists, and Molo tried to confirm their agreement. However, he was interrupted by the turning of the lock in the hold’s door, lantern light filtering through its gaps.

“Move closer to your group,” Molo whispered.

Malik gave him a puzzled look.

“So you can hide your hands!” Molo hissed.

Malik nodded, shifting his position so that he was no longer at the front corner of his group, but along its side. Not a moment too soon, either. Within a heartbeat of Malik getting into position, the Telari opened the door. Then, raising his lantern, his face twisted in rage when he saw Molo, Wuthers, and half the crew out of place.

“Back to the wall!” he barked, his boots splashing through the dirty puddles on the damp floor. Molo and Wuthers hurried back. Squishing up close with their crewmates before the lashes came, they grimaced in expectation of fresh welts and bruises.

The picaroon bought the act. While the rest of the crew was genuinely shrinking away from him, Molo took great care to remain at their front as he feigned his fear. It worked beautifully. The picaroon passed the weathered support beams that stood to the port and starboard sides of the hold. Once he’d moved another two steps, Molo dived forward and grabbed his pants at the waist.

The pirate howled in anger. Nearly dropping his lantern, he lashed Molo twice across the back. Then Malik emerged from behind the portside support and closed his hands tight around the picaroon’s neck.

Coughing and struggling, the slaver dropped his lantern and clawed at Malik’s tight gripping fingers with his newly freed hand. With the other, he swung his rattan to strike at whatever part of the Bayelan’s body he could hit, which turned out to be nothing. Malik, careful with his positioning, ensured the slaver would be impeded by the portside support beam. The rattan smacked harmlessly against the wooden post, and with a wordless huff, Malik crushed the cur’s throat.

“Are you well, Captain?” Malik asked as he set the dead man’s body down.

“Former captain,” Molo reminded him with a grimace as he stood upright. “Do you have his keys?”

Malik nodded, holding up a large brass ring with three keys. Molo tested the smallest of them first, figuring it was the most likely to fit the small padlocks. He was right. Within a couple moments his wrists and ankles were free, followed by Malik’s ankles. Then he freed Wuthers and his other present crewmen.

“What now, Captain?” Wuthers asked.

“They don’t know we’ve gotten loose yet, so we have surprise on our side,” Molo said, handing Wuthers the keys. “Start freeing these people. The crew and I will see to getting as many of us armed as we can with whatever’s handy.”

“There won’t be much in the way of weapons down here,” Malik said. “Likely or not, they wouldn’t risk their captives easily arming themselves.”

“We can find better along the way,” Molo said. “Right now, surprise and numbers will be our best advantage.”

Malik crossed his arms, then looked down at the dead picaroon lying at his feet. “At the very least, we have one blade for our cause,” he said, drawing the reaver’s chipped cutlass from the belt loop he’d hung it from. Stepping away from everyone else, he gave it a couple practice swings and grimaced.

“Clumsy and worn, but it will do until we reclaim my swords,” he said.

Molo cocked an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean, reclaim your swords?” he asked, coming up behind the taller man. “Do you know where they stashed our weapons?”

“These raiders surprised me in a coastal village three weeks ago. They ambushed me, and the first thing they did was steal my swords,” he said. “I managed to kill some of them, but they overwhelmed me with numbers and bound me in ropes and chains. They thought to sell me and my belongings, but they know not what they stole. I need not see my swords to know where they are.”

Molo didn’t understand what the Bayelan meant, but he asked where his weapons were anyway. According to Malik, they were in the frigate’s middle hold, one level above them. Knowing this, Molo devised a plan–he and Malik would make their way up, and Malik would fend off the picaroons while he stole back their weapons. Malik agreed, but while he was confident in his own role, he was quick to point out that Molo had nothing to defend himself with.

Molo smiled at this and hoisted up the lantern that the picaroon had dropped. “This will be plenty,” he said.

Wuthers freed and rallied the dozens of slaves crammed into the hold, and the rest of Molo’s crewmen ripped their way through the cargo the Black Ships had stolen in search of makeshift weapons. As they did this, Molo and Malik hurried up the stairs at the ship’s stern to the middle hold.

Confusion and chaos would spread swiftly on their arrival. Acting as both the crew’s quarters and storage space for the galley at the end of the long hall, the middle hold was something of a makeshift common area. Many of the black clad slavers were gathered here, eating and drinking at makeshift tables, gambling with bone dice, or debating who would go next to check the slaves. Noting this quickly, and chancing to make his move at the exact moment a picaroon chewing on a piece of salt cod noticed them, Molo pitched the lantern as hard and far as he could.

Glass shattered, and acrid kerosine spilled out. Flames erupted with curling wooshes. One of the picaroons tripped and fell onto the floor. He screamed as he spilled his rum over himself and caught fire. Others fell back off their makeshift seats, or jumped to their feet with cutlasses drawn. Malik stepped forward to meet them. With dexterous grace and deft precision, he fair danced around their clumsy blows and felled each comer with no more than two strokes from his own cutlass.

Molo had to force himself not to watch the impressive display. Malik was far more talented than he ever could have guessed. He could scarce imagine how terrifying the Bayelan would be once armed with the swords he was familiar with.

As Malik held the reavers at bay, Molo scoured the storage for their armaments. Frustratingly, he found there wasn’t any reason to what was stored here, or how. The shelves held everything from the clothes of noble ladies, to jugs of cheap brandy, to an old pry bar. Crates and barrels were full of dried fruits, moldy potatoes, hardtack, and salt. The chests were all locked, and he didn’t have time to pick them with Malik fending them off alone. Incredible though he was, eventually he’d be overwhelmed.

As such, Molo resorted to the pry bar.

Shoving it under the largest chest’s lock plate, Molo wrenched with all his might. He used the full weight of his body, pressing and twisting and wrenching the splintering wood. Teeth grit, sweat beaded on his brow. The wooden chest creaked as the long nails securing the plate started pulling free. They were thin iron nails, made rusty from the salty air and corrosive sea spray.

That rust was as a gift from the gods. “Come loose, you bastard!” Molo cried out, and with one final shove, three of the nails snapped, leaving the plate hanging loose. Throwing the chest open, he ducked low as Malik stepped over him, intercepting a picaroon that had come at them from behind.

“They’re coming down the stairs,” the Bayelan said as he booted the man back.

Molo replied by shoving a pair of matching scimitars into Malik’s hands. Weapons of the finest make, the curved swords were housed in leather sheaths trimmed with gold. Dropping the worn cutlass to the floor, Malik drew his gleaming blades and made for the stairwell.

“Arm your men,” he said, cutting the throat of the slaver he’d kicked as he passed by. “I’ll hold them here.”

Molo hurried back downstairs, his crew’s weapons cradled in his arms. He passed them out, then strapped his sword belt around his waist and drew his saber.

“Rally!” he called to his men and the shocked slaves. “ Rally and arm yourselves! We’re taking this ship!”

Just as a great fire requires just a spark to ignite, so too do the hopes of man require just one courageous soul to bloom. The slaves, man and woman alike, raised their voices as one and rushed upstairs with Molo and his crew at their lead. They swarmed the middle hold, taking every cutlas, rattan cane, or makeshift club they could. Some even raided the galley, stealing pots and pans to use as bludgeons after dousing the fire Molo started with a barrel of watery grog and pitching the cook out a nearby porthole. However, Malik was nowhere to be seen, and Molo wouldn’t find him again until he found his way topside.

In the past, Molo had heard his own swordplay likened to the dervishes of the desert. When he at last found Malik, he understood just how wrong these people were. Molo’s swordsmanship was nothing to scoff at, of course. He was swift and precise, far more than one would expect of a man with his stature and build.

Yet his skill simply didn’t compare to the flowing grace and deadly precision of that dark skinned Bayelan. With effortless motion, Malik all but glided on the balls of his feet. The swings and thrusts of at least half a dozen picaroons were evaded with fluid ease. Each dodge was followed by a swift cut, death dealt in crimson sprays by silvery scimitars that glinted in the moonlight. Within moments the four who assailed him were dead, adding to the five he’d killed before Molo’s arrival.

The remaining pirates threw themselves into the water, swimming desperately for the second frigate as it sped away. “Damn it all,” Molo cursed. “Those whoresons still have half my crew!”

“Do not fret, Captain,” Malik said. “Our foes are not yet beyond our reach.”

“How? They’ve got an impossible lead on us,” Molo said.

“Ready the ship for full sail and I will show you,” Malik answered.

Molo did as asked. Taking command of his crew and whatever able bodied sailors were among the freed slaves, they prepared the frigate. Within five minutes, the ship’s sails were unfurled and tethered, the sailors had taken their positions on the decks both above and below, and Molo took up the helm with Wuthers at his side. The winds were good, and the sails quickly filled. Soon the frigate was traveling at speed in the direction of its sister.

Yet Malik was nowhere to be seen. As the ship was being prepared, he’d disappeared somewhere belowdecks. And given that the second frigate was also fleeing at full sail, chances were Molo could do little more than keep pace.

“Damn it all, where is that Bayelan?” Molo cursed as they sped onwards.

“I think that’s him there,” Wuthers said, pointing to a man clad in red approaching the bow.

Indeed it was Malik. No longer clad in the tattered waistcloth he’d been wearing, he instead wore a set of fine silken robes. His long black hair was now hidden beneath a bright red keffiyeh, and a sash of red and gold bound his twin swords to his waist. Swords which he drew once he stood at the bow. Swords which seemed to dance in his hands, to flow with the movements of the wind itself. A wind that became stronger, that carried the ship faster.

It was sorcery! By the Highfather, he was using real Bayelan sorcery!

Molo felt a knot in his gut. The Bayelans were infamous for their spell-craft. It had not only enabled the rise of their ancient empire, but was long thought the cause of its collapse. To have one of their ilk practicing such arts on a ship he was sailing made the the young Captain more than a little uneasy, but he couldn’t deny the results. He swiftly gained on the second frigate, which banked and readied for a cannonade that it would never get the chance to fire.

Swords raised high, Malik twirled the silvery weapons above his head, then around himself, until he twisted with his entire body. The wind rose with his movements. It blasted around the ship, made the sails flap and whip. Crewmen held tight to their loose fitted clothes and jackets as the gale began to twist.

Water was drawn into the sky in a skinny rope. Soon that rope was a swirling column, and seconds after, the column careened forth and smashed sidelong into the second frigate. Masts snapped and fell, and the ship pitched to its starboard side. A colossal furrow was ripped in the center of the top deck, exposing the middle hold to the open air. Water cascaded over its sides and stripped of its sails, the ship slowed to a crawl.

Boarding the second ship became a simple task then. Few Telari slavers survived Malik’s spell, and those who did preferred to take their chances in the open ocean. To their minds, that was better than facing the monstrous force that brought a whirlwind to bear against them.

Within the hour, the slaves from the second ship were freed. Within two, Molo scuttled it, sending it to the bottom of the Sea of Swords. Dawn came soon after, and land was sighted on the horizon.

“Land ho!” Molo’s spotter called from the crow’s nest.

Wuthers looked at the distant island through his spyglass and smiled. “Looks like we made it to Dagger Bay after all,” he said.

“Raise the white flag, Wuthers,” Molo replied. “Don’t want them sinking us thinking we’re here to raid.”

Wuthers nodded, and left to do as asked. As he stepped away, Malik approached Molo up at the helm.

“That was quite the thing you did,”  Molo said. “You saved a lot of lives, including mine. Have you ever considered…?”

Malik shook his head. “I know what you wish to ask me. The answer is no. The sea is your home, not mine.”

Molo shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “Where will you go after we make port?”

“Home,” Malik said. “I’ve a pilgrimage to complete.

What he meant by that, Molo would never learn. Leaning languidly against the helm, he thanked the Bayelan for his aid, then rested his head against the helm. Looking down, he chuckled.

“Would you look at that,” he said as he wiggled his toes. “I forgot to put my boots back on.”

---