between Artavash and his mother.
Artavash turned her strangely burning eyes on him.
“Well!” said the red-haired warrior. “Here’s a young hero.
Another Brightblade, I’ll wager.”
“Sturm, Angriff’s son,” the boy said.
Artavash smiled. “How old are you, boy?”
Sturm was put off balance by this ordinary question.
That, and the smile of one who was in fact quite beautiful.
“E-eleven years,” he said.
She unlaced the mitt from her right hand and ran
tapered fingers through his long brown hair. “Ah, yes. Our
master will be pleased to meet you.”
“Lady, I do not think – ” began Radiz.
“That I know,” Artavash snapped. “Take the boy and
the women to the SEA RAVEN.”
Radiz glared at Artavash, but held his temper in check.
A quartet of Kernaffi shepherded the women and Sturm
toward the boarding bridge. Soren started to struggle
against his captors despite the naked blade at his throat. A
sharp exclamation from one of the soldiers brought
Artavash and Radiz up short.
“What about him?” asked Radiz.
“Kill him,” said Artavash with a shrug.
“No!” cried Sturm. He ducked under a hedge of
javelins and dashed to the sergeant. “Please do not harm
him!”
“And why not?” demanded Artavash. “He is a man-at-
arms, and dangerous. I cannot take him aboard the SEA
RAVEN as a guest.”
“He is my f-friend,” Sturm pleaded.
Artavash went to where the five Kernaffi held the far
bigger Soren immobilized. The sergeant was the only man
present tall enough to look her in the eye.
“Give me your oath,” she said, “that you will be
peaceful, and I will let you live.”
Sturm looked up at him and his eyes said, “Please,
Soren!”
“Don’t do it, man!” Captain Graff shouted. “Don’t trust
that bloody sea witch!”
Artavash whirled and flung her knife at the old captain.
It buried to the hilt in his chest. The soldier holding him let
Graff sag to the deck. Sturm stared in shock at the growing
stain of red soaking through the captain’s coat.
Artavash stood over the dying man. “Do you think I am
to be trifled with, old fool? Mine is the power of life and
death here.” She flung her unmailed hand at Soren. “Will
you give your oath?”
“I cannot,” said Soren. “While I live, I cannot willingly
allow my lady or my lord to enter anyone’s captivity.”
Artavash smiled again. The effect on Sturm was near
magic, for, in spite of her violent acts, he was charmed.
“Good, good,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to hear.
Sir Radiz! Strip this man of his arms and armor. Set him to
an oar on the SEA RAVEN, and mind you, double-chain
him. It would not do to have him loose among the other
slaves.”
The Kernaffi hauled the belligerent sergeant to the
bridge. Lady Ilys and Carin waited until the men surged by.
Artavash went to Graff and rolled his limp form over with
the toe of her boot. She freed her blade and wiped it clean
on the captain’s sleeve.
Lady Ilys and her maid started for the bridge. Sturm
moved in behind his mother. Just as he was about to step
up, a hand grabbed his ankle. He almost cried out in
surprise, for it was the captain who held him.
“Boy,” Graff whispered.
Sturm knelt. He swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir?”
“Take . . .” Graff’s leathery fingers were twined in the
wind cord. “Take . . .” he gasped again. “Ver’ strong …” Dry
rasping filled the old man’s throat, and the captain breathed
his last.
Sturm stared at the dead man until a voice broke his
trance.
“What have you got there?” said Radiz. Sturm showed
him, his heart pounding for fear he might be punished.
Radiz looked uncomprehendingly at the strip of rawhide.
He rolled it between his fingers and gave it back to Sturm.
“Come along,” he said.
From the forecastle of the SEA RAVEN, SKELTER
seemed small and forlorn. The impact of the ram had been a
glancing one, and the hull was crushed rather than torn
open. The surviving Thelite sailors lined the rail as the
galley backed away.
“What will happen to them?” asked Sturm.