Flashback The Red Rule

[Razkar]

45th Day of Summer, 512AV
Eastern Falyndar Coastline
10th Bell

"Gods and daemons, I never thought I'd be seeing this green abyss again..."

Karastuah followed up his blunt observation with a snort and a goblet of spittle he sent flying over the rail of his saique, Commanding Fury. Before him the dark continent of Falyndar stretched out beyond the beach, from horizon to horizon, an ocean of foliage every bit as deep and dangerous as the one they were on.

Well... mostly on.

"Fucking reef ripped her open, Cap'n!" Tarar called up to him from the hold, trying to dry himself down with two hands as he wrung the other two together nervously. "We can make some spot repairs and-"

"Firstly," Karastuah said, turning sharply to him, tone just as pointed, all six arms crossed, "Do not use that language around me again. Secondly, will it be enough to get back Ahnatep?"

"Er... well... is that as far as you want-"

"Seaman, just answer the question."

Tarar swallowed and wiped his brow the fifth time in a chime. Petching jungle weather, this was; not the good, dry heat of the desert that didn't have you showering four times a day because your clothes were stuck to you like tree sap. Not that his beloved Captain was helping, though. Karastuah had a reputation as a hard master but one who well-rewarded his crew on their excursions. Those who didn't, however...

He tried not to think of the hold. The scraping. The low, bubbling sobbing.

"Yes, Cap'n! Two nights, no more than that."

"Good." A sound stopped, and it was only for its absence that Tarar was aware it had even been there. "We're behind schedule as it is."

SHHHK!

There was a wicked gleam of steel vanishing into a leather sheath. Ah. Carkare. Lidded, bored eyes stared out from under meticulously painted eyebrows. One pair of hands briefly cracked its knuckles and pocketed the whetstone, returning it to rest along with one of the half-dozen knives strapped to the his chest. A silk shirt was under it, finest quality, of course.

Tarar swallowed again and looked away. He didn't like meeting that man's gaze for too long.

Behind him there was a sort of shuffling, or what shuffling would sound like it a few hundreds gallons of water were added to it. A quartet of seamen, Svefras hired the last time they were in Kenash, rubbed their sore hands and waited for the damn Eypharian to give them the order to get supplies.

Namely, tree sap and a shyke-ton of wood, and they had their axes and knives already prepared.

"You and the barbarians get to it, then." The Captain said, resting his knuckles on the railing and glaring at the jungle as if it had done him an injury. "We'll watch the hold."

Tarar opened his mouth to query that injustice, but thought better of it. The other three of his race on the deck weren't hired for their seamanship. Stocky, sinewy and sullen-eyed were the best descriptions Tarar could provide.

He thanked Laviku this was his last run on the Fury. Slavery was all well and good, but... there was such a thing as enjoying your work too much. He nodded down to the sailors and the Svefra scurried to the deck, ropes swiftly tossed down to the surf, axes and saws and buckets strapped across lithe bodies.

Carkare watched them descend like the apes they were and waited until they'd waded ashore before speaking.

"They'll join the rest?"

"Haven't decided yet." The Captain said calmly, sucking at a marble pipe his father had given him, inlaid with gold filigree. "Hard to find good help nowadays."

"But... barbarians?"

"They have their uses." Ayetare rumbled from the other side of the deck, checking the edge of his throwing ax with his thumb, other pair of hands rolling a set of dice. "We should keep them on for a few runs."

"What's that saying, about getting attached to pets?"

"Depends on how hungry you get," Keftin said with his usual ruthless pragmatism, rolling an eight and grunting his satisfaction, "Few runs and we might need the extra few thousand. Four Svefra, good strong backs, perfect for the kreshas..."

"We'll see about that later." The Captain said, an air of finality in his voice. He jerked his head back down to the sloshing darkness of the Fury's hold. "Check on the cargo. Don't bruise 'em."

For the first time, Carkare's eyes flickered with some nameless emotion, and he vanished down below. Karastuah rolled his eyes and turned back to the tiny figures marching up the shore. Ah, youth. They would always have their indulgences.

Then he frowned. Squinted. Even leaned forward a touch...

"Is that... smoke?"

++++++++++

"Looks like a fire."

"Oh, did the fucking smoke and coals give that away?"

Tarar shouldered his way through the line of staring barbarians and frowned at the still-smoldering ring of white and black ashes. The fact that they were still smoldering was what set his head jerking back up, craning around, two hand instinctively going for his sheathed knives... but what was there to see?

Nothing but foliage that went far past "thick" and made its home a few stages past "maddeningly impenetrable". Palm fronds the size of a man's torso, tree trunks so wide two men couldn't ring them with their arms, a botanist's dream of fauna and shrubs and plants...

Tarar shivered but then let his uncertainty turn to a growl of frustration.

"Get to work." He bit out sharply, nodding to the nearest tree. "Whoever it is, obviously he doesn't want any of us. Fine by me. We'll do our business and be gone."

Ticks later the steady, industrious sound of axes biting into ancient trees sent birds scattering.

++++++++++

He closed his eyes a tick as the family of parakeets whooshed by him, screeching indignantly at the clamor from below. He wondered if Wolf would be able to taste their anger, their despair and their confusion, that not only their precious nest but their tree, their whole world would soon be claimed. And for what noble reason?

To fix a hole in a boat.

His eyes opened again. Fifty feet above the ground, he watched with patient and intent eyes. Four barbarians... no, five. The last was an Eypharian, and immediately his eyes narrowed in slow, icy disdain.

Crouching on a thick branch above them, he turned and gazed further through the canopy. Up here the view was much clearer, and he could see the low, swift vessel beached on the white sand. The figures walking around or crouching... all of them possessing more arms than any honest Myrian... and laden with weapons.

Warriors.

Razkar smiled on his perch, and thanked the Goddess for her final gift to him.

[Razkar]

12th Bell

They worked like ants under his eyes, and Tarar was still not satisfied. Paying the time-honored role of "Overbearing Eyharian Taskmaster", he strode among the sweating Svefra like a vengeful, scowling god.

"There! Faster! No, use the broad head, we haven't got time for fucking finesse! You?! Get a rope around that and pull it, fuck the last few inches!"

Being harrangued by a human is bad enough; it's worse when there are four hands all slashing through the sticky air and pointing out your mistakes. The sailors just pressed their lips together and kept working, stripped down to the waists, saws biting through felled trees and axes chopping off stray limbs, reducing mighty examples of Caiyha's glory into kindling and bland strips of wood.

Probably good they weren't too focused on their master; they didn't see the hidden look of fear in his eyes as his gaze flickered up and around the canopy. They weren't too deep in the treeline, of course; the ship was still a beached and wallowing lump in the surf to their eyes, but... the Eypharian didn't like this.

He could feel eyes on him. Cold and patient and ravenous, but invisible. It was almost-

"Alright, looks like we're ready, boss!"

He looked around and wiped his moist face for the hundredth time. Two dozen or so rough planks had been fashioned from the trees, Svefra flanking them with heaving chests, expecting perhaps some-

"What'r you expecting?" Tarar snarled, in no mood for wasting time on kind words directed at barbarians. "Load them up and... and..."

Tarar's body shuddered, then stalled like a wagon losing a wheel. A sudden lance of pain flashed through him and then ached dully. He could hear his heartbeat loud in his ears, like distant surf suddenly made close... the Svefra's faces crashed from weary exhaustion to nerve-wracked terror in a tick... why was...

He coughed and something lodged in his throat. He wiped his lips with a trembling hand and... was that blood? He felt... lightheaded. Drunk. With eyes that didn't seem like his anymore, he looked down at the arrow head pointing out of his stomach. Even as he stared at it, birthing terror rising behind his clouded mind, some part of it still muttered, "That's... wrong..."

The angle. Almost vertical. As the Svefra began to babble and pray and shake he felt upwards. Some fucking mosquito again, probably, right behind his shoulder-

-where slick fingers found the stiff bristles of of the fletching. He tried to breath in and now the pain struck him like a hammer against the anvil of his sense, but when he tried to scream on a pink froth spewed forth below wide, staring eyes.

"Oh, gods..."

Tarar looked up at the words, but found his terrified work crew no longer watched him. They were looking beyoung him, heads craned, one of them clutching some talisman from their Anchorage, lips moving in a lightning-fast prayer. The Eypharian shuffled around, as a shadow fell...

He looked up, and didn't see eyes, or teeth, or even the scarred and tanned body that dropped towards him.

He saw the ax.

++++++++++

The chorus of screams set every head snapping around to the faceless canopy. Faceless, but not figure-less. Within a tick four Svefra were pelting through the sand and pebbles and rough grass, falling into each other, over debris, running and bellowing and not once looking back.

"What in the name of all the gods...?!"

Karastuah couldn't have cared less for the fear and terror in the barbarian's eyes; he was a man used to order and command, and the sight of such unbridled panic was like a slap in his face. When the first man scurried up the rope, he was there, two hands snapping out to lift him up by the throat.

"Where is Tarar?!"

"Th-Thing! Kil... Killed..." Eyes still bulged and veins were pulsing all over his face, but not just from the lack of oxygen. The other Svefra cowered on the deck, hiding behind the deck railings, not even daring to look over into the jungle. "Some... Something..."

"What?!" Karastuah roared, incensed by such mindless babble, "What was it?!"

"M... Myrian..."

The word was a curse and a threat in many places of Mziahar. As dirty as a Myrian. Eat your turnips or the Myrians will eat you. All the culture of a Myrian. Fierce as a Myrian. The mercenaries on deck stood or shifted to a new alertness, hands sliding to weapons... but the blast of invisible, sobering atmosphere was lost on the chief Eypharian, sneering into those terrified yes before dropping the sailor down to the deck in disgust.

"You stupid savage! You ran?! Ran and left him? With the timber we need?!"

The Captain of the Fury strode away, hands on his hips, shaking his head at the sheer injustice of this fucking fiasco. Carkare's expressionless eyes tracked him silently, fingers caressing the ivory hilt of one knife. Ayatare and Keftin watched the canopy, squinting as if it was some puzzle they could solve if they just found-

The noise... it wasn't a scream. Nor a warcry. It was something that burst from the gently undulating mass of green like a boulder from a catapult, assaulting the ears, battering away at one's calm at a pitch like a screeching ape.

Captain Karastuah turned and glared at the sound of it. They all did, because it... chattered. Laughing. Mocking them...

Until a small shape flew from the canopy, a fat bird fleeing whatever it was... but without wings. Then Carkare stepped forward, seeing it for what it was right away. It spun lazily through the untrammeled morning air, bathed in Syna's rays and fresh blood-

-until it thumped onto the sand, raising a halo of it as it landed, rolled closer to the Fury and its captive audience...

"Savages..."

Seaman Tarar's wide, stricken eyes stared at them in mute, doomed pleading. Karastuah spat over the railing and started rapping off orders.

++++++++++

Razkar's mind whirred and planned like a fleeing hummingbird. So many factors were crucial here, and they filled his mind but in a way that focused it so sharply... yes... his gnosis purred in approval.

Kill one, but leave the boat people. Let their fear spread to others. Taunt them with the head of their fellow. Let them see your work and know their own is yet to be done. They have to come collect their timber, and now they know it means stepping into a jungle that will consume them...

But as he climbed across the branches, sticking close to the wide ones, as he was not like Wolf with her sure feet, Razkar saw the pitfalls of his on-the-fly strategy, too. He found a decent spot, covered and shaded but overlooking the Fury, and crouched there, brow furrowed.

They must know it is only the work of a single enemy. A fang or hunting party would have attacked them by now. If they move in force... you will not be able to defeat them all. Humans, perhaps, but not those with four arms, or six, and a blade to fill each. But they cannot leave; they must repair their boat. They would not have risked beaching if that was not the case...

He glanced up at Syna, full and high and at her proudest. Nearly noon. Below him the Eypharians murmured and debated, but Razkar saw no panic or fear on their faces. He was both disappointed and pleased, oddly enough. The former because his mind tricks had not worked; the latter because it showed them of mettle, courage perhaps... and thus far more worthy to offer unto Blessed Myri.

Cowards. Weaklings. Fools and half-soldiers with neither conviction nor skill. All are unfit for her altars. But these...?

Red heads were dragged back up to their feet, cowering and trembling, not daring to look at the beach. The Eypharians were on the move, two issuing orders, the other two readying weapons and scanning the beach and treeline. Razkar licked dry lips and notched a fresh arrow. Firing damn-near vertically from his perch in the trees, Tarar had been a gift, an easy target from thirty feet.

But now his enemy was aware. They knew he was out there, and they would be as much hunter as he.

Razkar smiled again, goaded by the delicious thrill of uncertainty, the whiff of mortal possibility. Sandaled feet began to splash down into the waves, Carkare leading the way, the Captain staying where he was, arms folded, pitiless brown eyes fixed on the jungle as his men trooped ashore for their second sortie.

The Myrian slid down to the next level of jutting branches and vine-encrusted limbs. Two bells... maybe three. He read the slowly setting ball of glorious fire as easily as any who lived in the jungle their whole lives.

Keep them on the beach. Keep them beached until darkness falls. Until then...

Razkar slipped from cover to cover, Caiyha's chaotic domain covering his movements, his enemies still too far to make him out. But they were coming, and he wanted to be ready...

[Razkar]

If you'd asked Razkar, say, a year after the fact, the Myrian might have agreed his decision was... somewhat cold-blooded. But you would be missing the point, as well. It's easy to see something from your own perspective; much harder to see it from someone else's. Variables need to be considered. The desired outcome. And while a more creative mind may have figured out a way to have accomplished Razkar's objective without Semia dead on a beach far from his pod, on that day, that mind was not present.

Cue the screaming.

Semia and his three comrades had to be marched back up to their pile of timber nearly at knifepoint by the growling Eypharians. Ayatare and Keftin were bad enough, wielding vicious-looking crossbows with cruel, barbed bolts, but the calmer, stoic Carkare was worse. He never spoke, just prodded and gestured, inexorable, inarguable.

They needed the timber; that was all that mattered. Going back to that blood-spattered clearing was of no consequence to him.

Easy for him to think, Semia thought bitterly as he tied the ropes around the largest plank, he didn't see what happened to Tarar...

"You petching done yet?"

"Just gimme a tick!"

Keftin gave him enough to grind his head into the grass-flecked sand with his boot, Ayatare warning his gasping cousins away with one flick of his crossbow. Cakare tossed them a glance and got back to watching the jungle. Labor disputes. Always tedious.

"You've had plenty, barbarian. Now get the rope tight and fucking move it."

Semia swallowed what pride he had and grunted back to his feet, face raw and tingling. He promised himself yet again this was the last voyage, the last time, and concentrated on taking the strain, heaving with the other Svefra as they started to drag the log towards the Fury. Gods, it must have weighed-

-a glimmer, the merest flash of Syna on steel, Chatare's mouth opened-

-then there was a tiny twang, the flash became a streak-

-and Semia fell backwards with the arrow punched through his guts.

"Father!"

Bonagrus and Yilman dropped their ropes in a tick, scrambling away from the shrieking man rolling around and spreading and and blood in equal measure. The Eypharians were already reacting, Chatare gesturing to the jungle, the other two screaming oaths in their tongue, firing at movement, at branches in the breeze, anything-

"Sem?! Sem?!" Jedri crouched over his cousin, his labors forgotten, trying to hold him still, not let him move that arrow around anymore than he had to. "Stop it, man, c'mon!"

"G-Gooooooods!"

"Help me, for fuck's sake?!"

The Eypharians ignored him, crouching behind the fallen trees brought low by them earlier, bright, quick eyes alert for anything... but there was nothing. No sign. Ayatare growled in frustration. The archer had taken his shot and vanished back to cover, robbing them of another workhorse, buying himself time, hiding like a-

"Coward!"

Razkar heard the word, but his shock was hearing it in his own tongue. He peered through a screen of leaves at ground level, saw one of the four-armed barbarians with braided hair and dark paint on his face shout the word over and over. His brow furrowed, gnosis urging him to rise and-

No. That's what they want. They want you to play the stupid savage Myrian and rush over open ground at an enemy outnumbering you and armed with crossbows. They are desperate; nothing more.

He listened to the screaming as it changed to a gurgle. That was... regrettable. But the boat-people, the... Svefra, they were called, were as much assets of the Eypharians as their weapons or their stricken ship. They were shields that needed to be stripped away, and that was what he was doing.

Keeping his belly in the dirt, the Myrian crawled sideways, staying under the cover of the shrubs, shifting position as bolts flew over his head and Jedri's pleas became choked with tears. The screaming stopped... became a rasping rote of breathing that cut like a rusty saw... until it stopped.

"... he's dead..." A small, disbelieving voice said, then rose with fury as Jedri did, heedless and uncaring of the monster he knew was watching him. "You killed him! YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM!"

"Boy, get down!" Ayatare snarled, peering over the timber with one eye, keeping the other on the distraught Svefra. "He's trying to-"

"WE DIDN'T WANT THIS!" Jedri shrieked out his anger, marching towards the uncaring treeline. "WE JUST WANTED TO GO HOME! WHAT THE FUCK DID WE DO TO YOU?!"

Razkar rose into a crouch, feet apart, fresh arrow notched. It was a difficult angle: Jedri was stomping towards where he had been, but where he was now was about thirty yards to the right... so he sighted down the arrow... at the right side of the crying, screaming, insult-hurling sailor.

"Jed, fucksake's, get down, he'll shoot you, too!"

Bonagrus didn't speak; he knew Jed couldn't be reasoned with now. He got to his feet and started moving, aiming to bring his friend down and fucking knock him out if he had to, drag him back to the boat and fuck the timber-

-and saw the second arrow fly just in front of Jed's chest, a blink's worth of movement topped with a steel head, snapping Jed back into reality-

-just before Bonagrus' massive body bore him down to the sand, flattening on top of him.

"We're fucking going!"

"There!"

"Fuck!"

Razkar was already running by the time the crossbowmen opened fire. He jumped behind the nearest tree and felt bolt thud into it, four, one after the other, the Eypharians reloading and firing much faster than those with just two arms. He waited for two more, giving him a chance-

-then stepped out from behind cover, aiming through the tangle of foliage-

-locking eye with Keftin, placing a fresh bolt into his bow with two hands while his other two brought it upright.

A broken tick of recognition passed between the two warriors. Now the jungle had a face for Keftin. Scarred, tattooed, wild and wide eyes staring balefully out from behind a tree trunk-

-over an arrow-

"Petch!"

-and his finger tightened on the trigger-

-just as Razkar's straightened, sending an arrow hurtling through the distance between them, maybe fifty yards-

-then jerking his body back to cover, not seeing if it flew true... but not needing to. A sharp bark of pained anger, then the sound of a heavy body falling to the ground... curses and shouts in three languages passing between the Slaves and the Masters... running feet...

Razkar peered from behind his cover, and saw the fleeing backs of the invaders. Keftin was hobbling-running with his arm over Ayatare's shoulders, Chatare's mask of unfeeling completely off now as he beat at the fleeing Svefra's with the hilt of his dagger, gesturing back at the timber.

Which was still on the beach, and out of their hands. Semia's cooling body lay next to it, one hand draped over the rope-lashed plank, as if still trying to haul it even in death...

[Razkar]

"Do you run mad?!"

"Mind your tongue when you speak to me!"

Chatare paid no mind to the battle of wills raging behind him as the Captain and Ayatare squared off, Keftin grunting and gasping at their feet, teeth gritted and skin pasty as he wound a dressing around the gaping wound in his stomach. A slaver and sellsword for many years, he knew a bad, perhaps mortal wound when he saw it. They needed to get back the Crown and the Scepter; back to civilization and educated healers.

They might not even make it.

"We open those doors and that rabble will fucking overrun us!"

"What option do we have?!" Karastuah snapped back, ignoring the profanity he disliked to intensely, given the heat of the moment. A contemptuous sweep of his two right hands took in the three Svefra, hiding behind the rail. "They won't go back out there!"

"I'm sure Chak could persuade them..."

Karastuah rolled his eyes. "Gods, you think I haven't thought of that? Of course I have! But those sniveling savages are more afraid of what's out there than they are of us! Besides, we need them to get across the Suvan-"

"We can crew the ship!" Ayatare spread his arms wide to take in the beached and gently creaking Fury. "We've lost two sea dogs, we still have us-"

"Oh, really? Can you rig a sail? Navigate the swells? Clear barnacles? Patch the hole ten feet wide in our hull?!"

With the last handful of words the Captain strode forward, driving his underling back and down with his presence, his birth, his rank. He glowered down at him and his voice lowered to an ominous growl.

"I know what that monster out in the trees wants. He wants us to waste our assets. The sailors; the men who can repair the Fury, get us off this thrice-cursed beach. He wants to keep us here until nightfall, then he'll come in close and you do not want to mix it with a Myrian within smelling distance."

Ayatare glared sullenly at the deck but could find no fault with his Captain. He knew all the stories of Myrians; the lurid, the ridiculous, the probably-true. The cannibalism and sacrifices and legends about them being like birds or tigers, well, a pinch of salt was definitely needed. But as warriors and killers? Oh, yes... he'd seen the evidence of that.

"There's fifty of 'em down there." He said, his tone already telling Karastuah that the argument was over, but the terms were not set. "We let them all out and-"

"Not all. Just... ten." Some awful, inhuman calculus was clicking its way to fruition in Karastuah's mind as he came to the number, nodding to himself as he did. "We rush the beach with them. Under the cover of you, Chaktare and me. We grab what timber we can, rush it back here. We'll have to manage with that, get the repair done tonight."

"Will that be enough?"

The Captain glared at the Svefra, now steadfastly refusing to leave the Fury, no matter what threats were hurled their way... all save the youngest of them, barely a boy, face white with rage and grief, staring a hole through the side of the boat. Opportunistic as ever, the Captain approached him... and waited for him to look up.

"Want a chance to avenge your kin, boy?"

"Yes. I do."

Karastuah nodded, and one could easily think it was a fatherly, understanding gesture. They would be wrong. It was the quiet, cold satisfaction of a man who had yet another scrap of meat to throw to the beast, and he aimed to do just that.

"Ayatare? Get our new recruit a crossbow. Chatare? You know the cargo. Pick out ten. Send them up here." A cynical sneer spread over the regal Eypharian face as he looked back to the jungle, where two of his men already lay dead. "Tell them they have a chance to buy their freedom..."

[Razkar]

Razkar watched with dawning horror as a rank of human misery closed on the timber pile. At first he'd stiffened in surprise, not expecting the comparatively small ship to hold so many warriors within it... then they came closer, into focus, and comprehension crept into his mind.

Slaves. They're driving their prisoners into my arrows...

The closer they marched, the clearer their stratagem became. Ten men - young and still with muscle on their bones, but paled from day after day in that stinking hold - staggered before the three slave drivers behind them. Two Eypharians, each holding a crossbow in one hand and a whip in the other. Those demeaning weapons cracked and lashed over and over, driving on their captives ruthlessly, Carkare whipping one fallen slave until he kicked him back to his feet-

"Move, dogs!" He bellowed, though Razkar could not make out his tongue. "Move and earn your freedom! Fail and we'll leave you for the bastard beyond the trees!"

Where had they got them, Razkar wondered as he sat astride his perch, hefting the unfamiliar construct of wood and metal to his shoulder. Most of them had fair or dark hair, and all were humans. No red heads... none from the Sea People, though that would make sense, since they were crewing the ship, too, and would be unlikely to work a ship transporting their own into bondage.

Misery. Horror. Fear. So strong in the eyes and actions of all that even his merciless heart wrenched at the sight of it... but with a slow sigh, he pushed the thoughts of clemency away.

They did not choose this, true enough... but they are here now. What follows in on the hands of their captors.

He'd been busy, after all, and would not have his preparations all for naught.

In the bell or less since the last party had withdrawn, Razkar scuttled over the timber pile like a jackal and liberated the fallen crossbow from where Keftin had dropped it. The Myrian had scowled at the strange device for several chimes, turned the bulky quasi-bow over in his hands until he'd some idea of how to work it. Yes, his foot went... there... and he pulled the bow taut... not, taut-

He had a vicious-looking welt on his arm from where he hadn't quite managed that, but eventually he had. There was a latch you had to fasten to keep the string bowed, primed. The Myrian had to admit, it as a fine and lethal device, just... a little impractical when speed was called for. Which was what he would have to call on within a few chimes: speed and accuracy.

The first he had; the second, however...

"Fuck is he?! You see him anywhere?"

"Stop talking!" Carkare snarled to his jittery partner, all stoicism gone now in the face of a cowardly foe who would not face him. "All of you! Get to work! Start grabbing what you can! MOVE, GODS DAMN AND FUCK YOU ALL!"

They did - for what choice did they have? - and Razkar watched it all from his perch. The timber pile was half as tall as a man, enough wood to repair the ragged hemorrhage ripped into the Fury by the reef, and it all lay where the Svefra had left it, roughly shorn of branches and leaves, abandoned in the midst of transport. Now the slaves clustered around it, getting a firm hold where they could as the two Eypharians jerked their crossbows from shadow to shadow, sound to sound...

Two Eypharians, and one Svefra.

Razkar remembered the features of that screaming, grief-wracked sailor from before. Now Jedri was back on that cursed beach, forcing himself to keep his eyes off Samia's already-white and stiff body, crossbow on his shoulder, watching... hoping...

From about twenty feet up and fifty feet away, Razkar did the quick and cold math of battle. Jedri was jumpy, and not a trained fighter; he was unlikely to be accurate with the unfamiliar weapon. The two Eypharians, though... he'd wager they had experience, and had enough hands to aim and fire and keep a hold of their whips, too.

Based on the right side of the timber pile, Ayatare was closer to him. Jumpy and licking his lips over and over, eyes wide... not at all like the contained effrontery that was stamped all over Carkare's features. No, the second-in-command of the Fury was out for a kill, to erase the stain of his dishonor; that he had let an enemy best him. Ayatare simply wanted to live and to flee... not much different from the slaves.

Razkar made his decision quickly. It was not perfect and would only work once... but given how the barbarians seemed to be running low on fighting men - not to mention daylight - it would only have to. Besides, he'd only bothered looting one crossbow bolt from the handful Keftin had left behind.

It had taken him near a chime to load the fucking thing, and that was without being shot at in return. No, he'd make use of the barbarian tool, then abandon it for something... more proven.

"C'mon, what keeps you?!" Ayatare said with a snarl, turning his gaze from the treeline to the milling slaves. "Just grab a handful each! A beam each, that's all!"

"S-Sir, they're heavy, and-"

"And nothing!" Chakare said, punctuating the word with a bloody slash across the arguing slave's back, making them all tremble, eyes cast down just like they'd been brutally ordered to do whenever their "betters" spoke. "Two each to a beam, one on each side, pick it up and go!"

With no more room nor will for debate, the slaves did as ordered, heaving five of the beams upward, occupying their arms, levitating the timber away from the pile like leafcutter ants-

-as Razkar sighted down the crossbow... hovering the tip over the back of the slave walking away... not seeing the wide, terrified eyes, the lips silently moving in pleading prayer...

They should not have bought you here, barbarian.

His breathing slowed... crossbow stilling as much as it would in hands alien to using it... Razkar's finger slid over the odd little stick that apparently fired it... and-

A twang from the trees that cracked nonetheless like a falling oak across the beach, the brief whistle and dark blur of a bolt in flight-

-and the slave screamed high and piteous, falling next to Chakare with a bolt sticking out of his shoulder, beam falling, crushing down hard on his shoulder as he fell under it-

"ZULRAV! PLEASE, HELP ME!"

In a flash, all was chaos again, but the slavers and their new recruit would not allow it to devolve into failure a second time. Even as the slaves began to waver, whips cracked and voices roared commands-

"RUN! RUN, YOU FUCKS, AND IF YOU DROP SO MUCH AS A TWIG I WILL RIP YOUR EYES FROM YOUR HEAD!"

"DON'T LOOK BACK! MOVE! MOVE!"

"WHERE WAS IT FROM?!" Ayatare screamed over the noise, crossbow darting around in his hands, jumping like it was trying to escape him. "I didn't see it! It must've been from the left!"

"Fuck did you figure-"

"Because it took the man at the end!" Jedri shouted over the two many-armed foreigners, vengeance and terror of the moment giving him courage. "It must have come from the same side!"

"Well, find something!" Chakare barked, swinging his crossbow around to the left, along with the other two, eyes scanning the trees. "Look up! He's in the trees!"

Which was very accurate. Razkar was in the trees, and now he set aside the crossbow, but didn't drop it to the jungle floor below; such a crash would only alert them. Instead he picked up his bow, notched and arrow and bought it up and the smoothness, the rightness of the action would tell any observer just how much he preferred that simple, deadly weapon.

Speed and accuracy. Now he would have both.

And deception, too. Because he was not on the left. He was on the right.

It had been a risky ploy, developed on the fly, but it had worked... for the moment, anyway. Razkar knew he had only ticks, but that was enough to sight down the arrow... feel the worn grip of his bow fit into his hands... pull it back... level it at Ayatare's back-

"THERE! OTHER SIDE!"

The fucking Svefra.

Out of the corner of his eye Razkar saw the Sea-Man swing about, eyes pinning him though he'd yet to pull around his bow. Ah, he hadn't been so easily fooled, it turned out, and now the Eypharian's were following his lead, Ayatare's back jerking down Razkar's arrow-

Now, damn you!

"Fuck!"

The arrow snapped free from the bow and Ayatare bought up his own just in time to fire at the figure now scrambling for a lower branch, his comrades crossbows twanging out either side of him, trio of barbed little bastards winging their way to Razkar-

-who screamed as one of them ripped into his right shin, impact causing him to fall down one, two, three branches-

-vision shattering, blurring as pain battered into him from all directions, bow falling from his fingers as something hard, furry and very surprised smacked into them-

"Go!" Chakare screamed, tossing aside the bow and pulling his knives, filling his hands with three of them. "Tare, c'mon, let's... ah, petch it!"

Ayatare tried to reply, but only frothing bubbles came out. Surprised as he'd been, Razkar's arrow had flown true for the tick that counted and burrowed deep into the Eypharian's chest. One hand gripped it, slick with blood, gritting his teeth, pulled... pulled...

But it snapped, leaving half the arrow grinding against bone, piercing organs, shadowy figures of the slaves milling around him, blotting out Syna as they fell and fled over him-

"Fuck're you waiting for?!" He managed to roar, bloody flecks peppering his speech and the salty air. "Back to the fucking boat! NOW!"

Faced with such fury and purpose from one mortally-wounded, the slaves wordlessly started to move again, all intense purpose, loads over their backs, humping it back across the shifting sands... and far away, the Captain's lips creased into a smug, snake-like smirk as he screwed an eyeglass to his face.

"That's more like it..." Then he shifted his view from the downed mercenary to Chakare... and the Svefra. "Hmm... not a good idea, boy."

[Razkar]

Hound turned to hare with all the speed and shock such upsets always fall upon a man. In the handful of ticks it took Razkar to tumble from his perch, his bow was lost, his shin was pierced and a half-dozen branches swiped and beat at him until-

WHUMP!

-he touched down with a grunt and a groan onto the jungle floor. "Touched" would be a nice way of putting it, however. Completely inaccurate, too. He crashed, impacted, slammed against the fortunate buffer of dead leaves and vine roots, breathed knocked out of him for an instant, vision shattering into black and starry shards that seemed to spread and neuter his vision, too.

Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Stay awake, find your enemy!

The first rule of combat: know where your enemy is. Right now, Razkar did not. He lurched into a sitting position, ears strained, hearing something crashing through the undergrowth, snapping limbs and cursing in speech like a wave smashing onto rocks-

The sailor.

"Bastard! Show yourself?!"

Razkar couldn't remember the last time a Myrian had run from one of the Sea People... but he was guessing this particular circumstance hadn't happened before. Wounded, disoriented, not even upright, he was in no condition to take the man head-on, so-

Retreat. No... "withdraw". Pull him into the jungle until you can get steel in your hands.

Jedri broke through yet another thick, biting rank of shrubbery and saw a pair of tanned legs, one gleaming wetly, scrambling under a fallen tree. Blue eyes wide and enraged, he flung himself after his quarry without a pause, throwing aside his crossbow in favor of his knife. Hardly a warrior's weapon, but all Svefra carried something of the like for their duties, and it would slash a throat or pierce a heart as good as the finest Isurian Steel.

Or cut it out. That's what he wanted. His kin's dead blood demanded it.

"Face me!" He screamed in his own tongue, heedless of the chattering monkeys or wailing birds all around him, stumbling through the foliage on unsteady feet, used as they were to rolling and sea-soaked decks, not roiling, chaotic plant life tangling around them. "Call yourself a warrior?! Running from a sailor?! Killing an innocent man?!"

Razkar wondered what the hells the barbarian was talking about. By the inflection, he'd guess it was questioning his honor, but how original was that? Even scrambling and crawling from cover to cover, keeping low and out of sight as much as he could, some spark of remorse flared briefly like a campfire flare.

You killed his friend. Perhaps his blood. Would you not be so enraged and plunging towards vengeance?

Yes, he answered himself as he came to a clearing, twisting himself around with an agonized snarl, one good leg braced under him, hands grasping for his weapons, but I would get it.

The foliage before him erupted as he jerked himself upright, one leg bruised but at least not pierced, ripping his gladius free with his left hand and slashing madly at the charging figure-

-forcing Jedri to skid almost to a stop, swaying back to avoid the blade, but fear was no bar to him now, eyes clouded with rage and hatred, throwing himself forward again with his knife held to stab, shrieking through the muggy jungle air-

"DIE!"

-only to bury it in the trunk of the tree as Razkar swayed to his left, the juicy target of his chest replaced by thick and mossy wood, arm jarring with the impact-

-as the Myrian's right vanished behind his back, gnosis mark burning, gripping something, the two of them making eye contact just long enough for-

You are a monster and you must die.

THUCK!

"You... should not... be here..."

Jedri breathed, and it hurt. The red cloud was still thick around him, but fading like fog fled before bright and ascending Syna, eyes forced down... seeing one of the two blades of Razkar's double-headed dagger buried just below his breastbone-

-and he breathed again, or tried to, and a blade made of ice, not steel, ripping into his punctured lung-

-warm wetness filled his throat, cutting off the scream of pain...

Razkar's eyes softened a fraction as he saw a fear he knew all-too-well enter the barbarian's eyes. He knew he was going to die. It was not some distant thing now, to be planned for or perhaps avoided. It had arrived, and he was not ready. He wanted so much to live, and even the stifling, alien world of Falyndar was so beautiful now.

"I... uh..."

Razkar twisted the blade and Jedri's body spasmed from tip to toes. Pain. Now it was remembering pain, overriding even the shock of imminent death. He started to shake and trembles and as he slid down, Razkar went down with him. The ache and stinging agony in his own leg was numbed slightly... he didn't break eye contact... he owed the man that much, if nothing more.

"My... muh..."

"Go now," Razkar said softly, and as he withdrew his unseen blade a waterfall of steaming heat streamed onto the mud and dirt between them, "Go to your gods..."

Jedri panted, with blood oozing from the corners of his mouth. His head tilted back and Syna's rays painted the queerest pattern of slashes and darkness and brilliance upon his dying features. The Myrian fancied there was the hint of a smile on his face, just before...

Mayhap he sees his kin. It would not be odd: his spirit is so recently released.

... and then the bright and living eyes glazed and became as glassy stones in a still head. Jeri's head fell back limply, and Razkar let him fall with a crinkle of crushed leaves.

No time to wait. No time to stop. There is more to be-

"There you are!"

-fuck!

Something glinted amid the brown and green, fast and sharp and incoming. Razkar dropped back down to the ground, grunting as the crossbow bolt in his leg continued to work its evil will-

-and yet another knife thudded into that poor, maligned tree, hilt still vibrating softly above Razkar's head as Chakare stepped into the clearing, hand refreshed with another knife, grin that reeked of smug, sophisticated sadism showing yellowed teeth.

"I was hoping you'd take care of that." He pointed at Jedri's wafrm corpse with a dagger and then flipped it, holding it by the blade and cocking his arm. "You probably don't even understand me, do you?"

Ah. One of them, like in Ayatah's old stories. They always love to gloat and enjoy the fear in their victims. Play into that. Play for time.

So, employing as much guile as his honest soul (comparatively) could summon, Razkar raised his arms, making them shake... well, not even having to try. The leg was bleeding bad and his hands were weary from climbing and scrambling.

"No. Not bad. Go." He said, exhausting most of his Common in those heavily-accented words. "I go."

"After killing my friends? After making a fool of me?" Chakrare spat back, delighted the savage would have at least some understanding of what he'd be saying as he slowly took him apart. "Oh, no. I wouldn't even make this quick, not when I can make this fun-."

His arm blurred and Razkar flung himself to the ground, knife barely missing his torso-

-but the Eypharian was already throwing another, forcing the Myrian to roll, guessing, desperate, hoping-

-knife slapping into the soft dirt where he'd just been, Chakare's mocking laugh rich and sickly above it all, toying with him-

Enough!

-until Razkar threw out his gladius-arm, stopping his roll and hurling the double-headed dagger in a backhand at the smirking barbarian.

"Ha! A bit of life to you still, I see!" Chakare swayed to his side and the blade flew harmlessly by, but he didn't capitalize, reaching from a fresh one instead. "Well, that makes it a little more amus-

But Razkar wasn't done. The Eypharian was so certain of victory he was squandering his chances, still talking, still treating it like some grand and twisted game, like he was some slave to be tormented-

He was not. He was a Myrian, and they were just as dangerous wounded as they were fresh and vital.

Desperation helps, too.

He swung himself up to his feet in a low crouch, using his gladius as a crutch, forcing himself to ignore the throbbing, snarling pain in his leg, gnosis now roaring, flooding through him as his free hand snapped to his ax-

"Ah, going to try-"

The ax flew swift and true as lightning from Zulrav's fingers. The dagger was far from Razkar's best weapon, and the throw had been one of desperate time-buying, a distraction... but the ax? It swung sideways through the air at stomach-level, Chakare's eyes popping open in shock as he saw the danger, the accuracy, the fact he could sway or catch it-

"Fuck!"

-and he threw himself down to the jungle floor as well, just as Razkar howled like an Akila being ripped in two, pulling the bolt from his leg as he flung himself forward, raising the bloody missile like a dagger as he reversed his grip on the gladius-

-throwing it like a spear as the prostate Eypharian as he ran-

Chakare's features were shorn of amusement and sadism now. What should have been a fun little game was now a real fight, and he always tried to avoid them. His eyes shone with and flickered as each now shock was filtered through his mind, always a touch too slow-

-as he skittered backward on his rump, arm raised to throw another dagger before he jerked to his side, yelping as he tried to avoid the gladius, two feet of shining steel flashing by him-

-a shadow falling over him instead and he slashed outward with a dagger in his right hand-

Razkar screamed again as it slashed open his left forearm to the bone, blood spraying over the Eypharian's face as he fell towards him, Chakare cursing as he screwed his eyes shut-

Bolt of red and silver catching the light and throwing rays of the same around for a stolen tick.

THUNK!

Chakare's eyes snapped open in utter, disbelieving shock pouring from them. His mouthed worked soundlessly, trying to verbalize his surprise, this... refusal to accept how reality had so viciously betrayed him. Razkar grinned with bloody gums and this one, he would definitely enjoy.

"Reality," he said, and twisted the crossbow bolt lodged in the side of the Eypharian's throat, relishing that look of agonized realization as he did, "Does not care if you don't believe."

With one savage jerk he pulled it free, gout of thick, sweet-smelling blood bursting forth like a hole in a dam. The Eypharian instinctively jerked a hand, two of them, to the gaping wound, but within ticks they were soaked, blood slipping and sliding down his arm, flooding across him, splashing back even as he collapsed onto the ground and Razkar did likewise opposite him.

Panting... and not wanting to look at his left shoulder.

Bastard... just had to get... one more dig in...

Every breath, and the dagger there shuddered slightly. Rose and fell like a stalk poking out of his torso's fleshy soil, blood dribbling from the hole. Goddess... and he was doing so well. Ayatah was gone... she couldn't help him... but she was safe...

Razkar sighed and watched Chakare gurgle and cough crimson pearls all around him. The air around the dying man looked like a cloud of the stuff, hanging in the thick, humid air with ease.

Razkar sighed and watched Chakare's head loll over to him, hate and anger and pain and fear all running together like a painter's palette gone mad, bubbling scarlet oozing from him so much he couldn't even see his lips.

The slaver's hands shook one more time, his eyes bugged, his breathing became a long, muffled whine... and then he was still... and Razkar hawked a gob just as red and hateful at his dead, staring eyes.

"Burn... bastard..."

Goddess, he was tired. He should get up, but it was so much work. Blood had fled from him, traitorous and quick to escape from his veins. Too bad there wasn't any shade... wait... yes, there was. A fresh silhouette hovered into view, obscured by the shadows caressing his vision...

"Quite a brawl... male..."

[Razkar]

"Useless petching bastards..."

Captain Karastuah glowered at the wriggling, twitching worm at the top of the beach, still under the shade of the canopy looming beyond it. It was trying to drag itself back towards the slip, slow but determined.

From the deck of the beached Fury, Karastuah couldn't see the smear of blood Ayatare was leaving in his wake. Nor would he care if he could, either. What mattered to him was the fact that his sellswords were gone, either dead, vanished, out of action or too petching far away, leaving him with...

Bonagrus and Yilman, the remaining Svefra, badgering and ordering around the squad of panting, sweating slaves who'd returned with their precious timber. The Eypharian spared a glower at them as they asked - asked - the slaves to lay the timber in rows for their inspection, fretting over rotten or weak wood, wood too thin or too thick to saw.

"Well?"

"Captain?"

"Is it enough, you fool?!"

"Yes, it will do," Yilman rumbled back, the events of the day quenching much of his fear of the multi-armed slaver captain. He'd seen something worse than them, now, and what he saw instead of an implacable brute was a mere man wasting his men and his time in the face of a real monster. "We'll get to work now."

"About... petching time..."

Keftin was waxing to waxen, to pick a pun. Bronzed skin was sliding to unhealthy pallor, a puddle of dried blood under his stool. The bleeding had stopped, thanks to the hasty bandage, but he'd lost much of his precious fluid and was weak... tired. Useless.

"One more damn problem," the Captain grumbled, casting his eyes at the latest one, "Right! Back down to the hold! All of you!"

The squad of slaves turned to him as one, and the Eypharian felt a very real and unwelcome shiver down his spine. They were a hodge-podge of Drykas and humans snatched and bought from wherever the Fury had docked or sallied ashore. They'd been broken with confinement, starvation, abuse (Chakare's specialty)... but these ten had been the strongest. Even the one winged by the Myrian's crossbow was using one arm instead, the wounded other in a sling, bearing the pain with stoic patience.

Their eyes matched his now. They'd seen pain and horror. They'd seen their captors cut down and butchered. The myth, the crucial myth of a slaver's power... it was slipping away...

They outnumber you. They know they do. Even with four arms, you could not stop them all if they rushed. But there is still fear in their eyes, so use it.

"Have you all turned deaf?!" He snarled, hands falling on the sword and whip at his hips. "Shall I use these to give you the orders, hmm?!"

"You promised us our freedom."

A squat, bearded human spoke. His words were mild but his gaze was not. Keftin was the only other Eypharian on deck and he could not loom or threaten as he did, not on the cusp of a deep, perhaps endless sleep. The Captain licked dry lips and maintained his glare. His whip came free in a crinkling rustle of worked, tight leather being unrolled.

"And you'll have it... after this vessel is seaworthy again. Until then, you are still my property."

"That isn't what-"

CRACK!

With the skill and ruthlessness born from many years practice, the Captain snapped the whip out and around the human's neck with a sharp flick of his wrist. The words died in the man's throat as he was suddenly throttled, the jerked forward-

-face-first onto the deck, in a blow that every other slave flinched at. He groaned and shook his head, tried to stand-

-only for a thick foot to drive him back down, pressing on his neck... and he saw a cutless just before his nose.

"Do not... test me... slave. And do not question my word." The Captain swept his furious gaze across the rest, noting with satisfaction they were cowed once again. "Now, get to-"

The roar washed over them like a black wave of primal terror. Karastuah's head spun around, the fallen slave forgotten, disbelieving and with a tremor of fear returning to him. He squinted... and the slaves forgot him, too. The Svefra among their ranks, they shuffled forward to the railing, watching transfixed and near-unwilling... as they saw a fresh figure walk slowly from the canopy.

But it was... indistinct. The glare of high and merciless Syna was blinding, the sand gleaming and shining and throwing up shimmering mirages that surrounded the prostate worm and the lurching figure both.

Only Ayatare could see it clearly. And he could see it was not alone.

++++++++++

"Myri... cast eyes on your son this day..."

"Oh, gods..."

Whatever was left of stout Ayatare's resolve vanished like parchment in a firestorm. The sight of Razkar limping towards him, covering in three kinds of blood, wounds ugly but eyes unmoving, unflinching, heedless of injury and the baking sand... and what he held...

In one hand, a blood-slick gladius. In the other, by the braids he was so proud of, the silently-screaming head of Chakare.

"Feast though your warrior on this gift I bring..."

The Eypharian dragged himself on his side through the scorching dunes. Fear gave him speed now, but not nearly enough, the slimy trail of blood behind him a testament to how much he had lost. The shadow fell across him and he raised a hand, babble of pleading the savage couldn't follow vomited from his lips-

The crimson sword arced through the air, and the watching slaves and sailors flinched as Ayatare's forearm swung slowly through the air, trailing streamers of blood...

"Goddess, I bring you victory..."

"Puh-Please-!"

Ayatare's begging was stopped the second Razkar fell across his torso, straddling him like some gory lover as he lay on his back. The severed head dropped from his grip, one hand holding the Eypharian's free arm down, the other dropping the gladius... and unsheathing his dagger... raising it high so some nameless eye could see it clear.

"I bring you souls from glorious battle-"

Karastuah nearly quailed when he saw the dagger stab down and into the screaming sellsword's stomach, the Myrian greedily ripping a hole there as they watched. Some of the slaves fell to their knees and began wailing their prayers, even Keftin had managed to hobble to the railing and watched with his face laying against it, panting through blue lips.

"Goddess... I bring you blood-"

Ayatare's body had, mercifully, almost shut down from shock and blood loss when Razkar rammed his hand into the ragged hole Aya's dagger had made for him. Strong, groping fingers wormed upward inside him, violating his innards, pushing away ribs and organs... finding the one he wanted... and then ripping it free-

Razkar held the bloody, beating heart of his last kill to the sky, the Fury, the sea and the watching Goddess-Queen... and the figures that were ranked behind him... emerging from the dark treeline like ghouls from a nightmare. Two score they were, clad in leather and fur and tanned skin from long-dead enemies, or even less than that. Tattooed and taciturn, they watched in silence with weapons of all kinds in ready hands. Before them all stood a female of terrible beauty, a face that men would kill over and bearing eyes that had killed, over and over...

War Mistress Targuv of the Shining Scales and her War Party had arrived.

"I, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, fulfill my vow, and pledge myself anew."

"Laviku protect us..."

A rank and grisly monster ate another's heart before their eyes, a legion of equal-savages at his back, a decapitation at his feet... and then he rose... unsteady... but renewed in the thick and sweet flavor of that which he had devoured... eyes bright and laughing even from the distance they watched at... taking up his sword... and pointing...

"He... wants... you..."

Karastuah thought it was his own mind that spoke the words. It was not. Finally he turned and the human was back on his feet, massaging his sore throat and glaring at him. They all were. Even the Svefra.

"The savages... they want you and yours... dead."

"Y-You don't know that!"

"He's not pointing at us." Another chimed in, arms folding over his chest; a dangerous gesture, right there. "Just you. You're the problem."

A chill wind blew over Karastuah and Keftin, though there was no breeze and the temperature could have killed a camel. The invisible walls of fear and subjugation were falling apart around them: they could feel it sure as they would feel stone blocks cascading from a fortress under siege.

CRACK!

The sound of the length of timber being ripped in two was like the crack of a volcano. Captain Karastuah shook like a child as he saw the slave heft the length of wood in his hands, eyes going from it... to him...

"I'm not dying for you, Eypharian." The Drykas spat, lifting the log like a club. "And by the looks of it, we're all dead, anyway. So before we go-"

Karastuah's whip rose again but the human from before was wise to him now. He leaped forward and his fist smashed into the Captain's jaw. Weeks of imprisonment and starvation had reduced his frame by degrees, but his whole bursting body and the shock of the gesture was enough to knock the Eypharian to his knees-

"Captain?!"

-where he saw a mass of shuffling feet. Heard angry mutters rise of hoarse cries. Felt the tremor of timber lengths being lifted into hands hungry for revenge. Something hard smashed into his arm and broke it, whip tumbling over the railing-

"N-No! Please, it was him-"

CRUNCH!

There's nothing like the sound of a skull being fractured. So wet and ripe it would almost be appetizing, if you didn't see the damage... and you didn't hear the unmistakable shattering of bone in the same mouth-watering report. As Keftin slumped to the deck, Karastuah was gifted with both experiences. He saw the impossible, surreal dent in the sellsword's skull, the grey and red filth leaking from it. The man's mouth worked out of instinct, body otherwise still-

-then vanished completely as the club came down again, crushing the last vestiges of life and the slaver's face entirely.

Captain Karastuah rolled onto his back and held up shaking hands at the shadows that surrounded him. He begged. He pleaded. He even threatened. But that which had been loosed now could never be contained...

Razkar watched with a slow, evil smile as the screaming began from the scrum of thrashing, rabid barbarians on the deck of the helpless ship. It went on for a while. When it stopped, he fell back into blissful, awaited blackness... and a sighing Targuv caught him.

"Stubborn sodding male..."

[Razkar]

16th Bell

"What... becomes of them...?"

Targuv looked up from the rib of sizzling tapir meat in her hands and saw two weak but open black eyes gazing at her. Juices still dribbling down her chin, she chuckled around her mouthful and wiped it with the back of her hand. Razkar knew he should be hungry, should have found the sight even arousing, so famed and deadly was the beauty of the Shining Scales' most fearsome warrior.

But all he felt was weariness, pain... and stickiness.

"Goddess..." He said with mild horror as he felt the bed of dried blood under his back. "That... from me?"

"The vast majority." She offered a rib and Razkar just frowned at it. She shrugged and carried on chewing, knee-walking over to him and following his gaze. "Goddess, boy, you wake from a sleep some of us thought would lead you unto Dira, and your first question is about them?"

The Fury was still laying stricken and still on the other side of the beach, silent save for the sound of hammering and the gentle swish of waves lapping against her hull. Razkar could scarce believe something so large could be rendered so powerless, but his eyes did not lie. The only figures he saw now were hurrying to and fro, collecting materials and issuing orders, the two Svefra working hard to heal their poor ship.

Two corpses lay on the beach, thrown over the railing by the usurping slaves. Prostate in the sand, fiddler crabs scuttled over and took tentative tastes from what oozed out of the ugly, seeping cracks in lumps that were once proud, cruel skulls.

Razkar allowed himself a smile, and even that seemed to hurt.

"They overcame... their captors. Impressive... for barbarians..."

Targuv grunted her response but her actions spoke far louder: or, rather, the lack of them. Four Fangs of the Shining Scales were around camp fires or keeping a steady vigil on the Fury, but none of them had attacked. By the position of Syna, Razkar could see bells had passed... and still, there had been no attack. They could have overwhelmed the slaves in ticks, but instea dthey just watched... waited...

"They did not choose to come here," Razkar said, speaking in the same frame that he had when the Shining Scales first appeared from the jungle around him, a long range patrol attracted by reports and bird calls describing a stricken vessel, "They were captured... far from here... held in... chains. The People Of Many Arms... they came here... some... damage."

"And the Sea People?" Targuv asked, voice mild but eyes hard, looking out at the Fury like it was a tasty morsel just dying to be consumed. "They sailed the ship here."

"Their ship floundered here," Razkar said, correcting as much as he could without forgetting his place. Even wounded, woozy and with a throat as dry as sand, he knew he had to be careful. "I... thought the same, when... when I saw them. But 'twas not the case."

Now a lowly and dangerous chuckle rumbled from the female, took up by a handful of her cronies. Targuv ripped off a fresh chunk of meat and nodded as she chewed, eyes dancing with amusement.

"Yes, we saw the remnants of those you killed. You did not seem to have any reservations then, did you?"

"I did not. But cir... circumstances... Mistress, may I have some water?"

Razkar slaked his thirst on the offered skin and his eyes kept darting between the Targuv and her warriors and the Fury. Goddess, why was he even bothering? They were barbarians, slaves, the dregs of a race of dregs. What did it matter if they sailed away to freedom or died her at the end of their blades? Too many questions reverberated around the young male's mind... but the one constant, the lodestone they all circled, was the simple plea that-

"It is not right."

"Excuse me?"

Razkar turned to the older, renowned female and licked his lips. Ah. Time to phrase it a little better...

"I saw how they treated the Sea People in their service. They beat them, threatened them, intimidated them, perhaps as much as their slaves-"

"Yet you killed one in the jungle," Targuv said in that same mild, confusing, deceptive voice, all-the-more unnerving for the fierce gaze the words fell from, "You had no trouble ending his life, hmm? Nor the other you left on the beach with an arrow in him."

"That was... unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" Even a barbarian would have recognized the dangerous threat suddenly in that voice, like a priest detecting doubt in a believer. "Unfortunate to slaughter those defiling Myri's domain?"

"They did not want to be here. I saw the fear on their faces when they came to the beach, to cut timber for their ship. One of the Many-Arms ordered them, drove them on with threats and harsh words, by the sound of it."

"Then why not kill just them? Why target the Sea People?"

Now Razkar's face hardened. Not with the fierce, grateful joy that Turgav approached her calling with; but with the pragmatic and nuanced attitude of a warrior... a defender. Even as he spoke he knew the words were not proper for his people, but they had to be spoken.

"They were the tools of the Many-Arms. You defeat an enemy any way to can, yes? Sometimes you strike at the leader, and the army collapses. Other times, you eat away at their tools and men until the crumble. I saw the Sea People were not the true threat, but they were still tools." He paused and added: "The first I killed, on the beach, was kin to the one in the jungle. He came after me for vengeance, nothing more."

For long moments the female regarded him. Rarely in her time had she heard a male speak to her with such gall, and never in defense of the barbarians. But... much as she wanted to unleash her hungry dogs... she remembered the words and thus the orders of Certilop, Matriarch of the Shining Scales. The barbarians were to be given a certain leeway in their clan lands; more so than in the deeper jungle, anyway.

The female sighed, breasts rising and falling as she did, but Razkar was too intent on her eyes to notice the glorious sight. Around them he could hear the bated breath of her warriors, all waiting and doing a fine job of not looking like that was what they were doing...

"You understand..." Targuv said slowly, so soft that Razkar had to strain to hear her, words so loaded with intent that he almost shuddered, "... that if that vessel returns and repeats this... intrusion, you will be responsible, also."

So that was what it came to: accountability. The ferocious champion of the Shining Scales would grant him this mercy, in accordance with her Clan-Mother's wishes and his own courage... but he was not completely off the hook. So was it worth it? To stand his life by savages and barbarians, those who claimed no love for Myri?

"Yes. I understand."

Doing the right thing... no-one tells you how gods-damned inconvenient it is.

"Then when you are ready to move, we shall go with you. The Eastern Dock is a day away, and the next ship from the barbarian lands will be coming in two. I would hate for you to miss it."

Razkar managed to return her sardonic smile, then winced as his very face seemed to ache from doing so. His shoulder and shin were both masses of angry, crawling, bone-deep agony. He doubted he could walk on them... not judging by the thick, soaked bandages on them-

"We can carry you on a litter," Turgav said simply, then snorted at Razkar's amazed expression, "What? We should leave you here at the mercy of the barbarians? Or have you hobble back through the jungle? No, I do not think so. You did well today."

She snorted again when Razkar's jaw dropped open in shock, tossed her hair in a manner that made several nearby males shuffle and hide their... attraction. "I am capable of some equanimity, male. My warriors know I treat them fairly, and reward courage, skill... and I see five dead for the cost of one Myrian, and that Myrian is just wounded. A fair ration, I think..."

++++++++++

"What's going on? Are they coming?"

"I dunno, just gimme a tick to-"

"Gimme the spyglass, damnit! You know my eyes are better-"

"Oh, you a bloody Svefra, are you? I've been looking through glasses since before you could walk, so just-"

"Typical! Remember, we let you survive, and-"

"Quite, for fuck's sake!"

Bonagrus snarled them both into silence, Yilman and Marteen both, as he discovered the rebellious human's name was. They both glared at him but his fellow Svefra didn't flinch nor argue when he snatched the spyglass away and directed its magnification towards the milling camp of Myrians. There was more movement, now. Fires being doused, kit packed up... all signs that they were leaving.

Or getting ready to finally attack.

"What are they doing?"

"I'm not sure, but they're up to something," Bonagrus said bluntly and, if he was willing to admit it, somewhat unhelpfully. "Yes, I know it doesn't help, but until I see something definite, that's what there is. And stop arguing, both of you. We've finally got this old girl patched and ready for the sea, we don't want to fall apart now..."

He was right, and they both knew he was, so they exchanged glances of pride mingled with contrition and left it at that. All of them, slave and the pair of Svefra, had calluses on their hands and splinters in places best not described. They'd worked hard to plug the gash gouged into the Fury's side, and to throw that away now...

It would be more like the bastards that enslaved and browbeat them. They'd come too far and done to much for that.

Bonagrus struggled to keep his composure as he watched the enigmatic savages just a few hundred yards away. What was he meant to do if they attacked? Try and barter or plead his way out? He didn't see that working, not with Myrians. Mount a defense? For how long? To what end? Even if their hold of malnourished, unarmed and untrained slave comrades could be mobilized, how long would they last? What would be the end result?

He knew what. But he didn't face it, because... well, because if he did, he might as well bash his own skull in now, just like that fuck Karastuah. Many leaders in the past had spoken of destiny, divine providence and sheer tenacity as reasons for their success. But the greatest? They always had another question rattling around in their heads.

Why did the bloody gods put this burden on my sodding shoulders?

"Wait..." Hope, disbelieving and fragile, flared in his voice and swept across the deck. "They're... They're leaving!"

A murmur of likewise incredulity rattled around the slaves like an earthquake. They peered and squinted and found that... yes... the Svefra, their new Captain... he was right! One by one the Myrians were leaving, vanishing back into the dark jungle, two of the last bearing a third on a litter.

Bonagrus leaned forward, trying to focus... and he blinked in surprise as he saw the one who'd butchered his kin and his employers...

Did he raise a hand? Was it in warning or farewell? Before he could get an answer, the savage was gone with his friends... and the beach was as devoid of life as it had been when the Fury ran aground.

Chimes passed. A bubbling, giddy, shaking feeling of euphoria was in all of them, but they dared not embrace it. They'd all been snatched from families and friends - sometimes snatched with them - and hope had been a thing long-denied them. Half of them expected to see a fresh sea of furious, screaming savages explode from the trees, bent on slaughter and rape and pillage and everything else their fevered minds could imagine.

But they did not. Syna waxed and began to dip... the jungle was with eyes and sounds but none of them Myrian... until finally...

"They're gone." Bonagrus whispered. "We... We can go... home..."

The fears and dread of a season vanished in a shower of unbridled cheers and tearful, sobbing gratitude to whatever gods were listening. Flailing Drykas, humans, Kelvics, all of them hugged and cheered and cast their arms around strangers and blood kin, Bonagrus and Yilman embraced and Marteen shook the big Svefra's hand.

"Home, sailor?"

Bonagrus thought as much. It would be a long voyage, but he knew Karastuah had gold and valuables on board; they'd be enough to buy them help in Riverfall... and now the Fury was repaired, he knew they'd get there. Or at least for the humans. They'd have to let them off there, find passage back to the myriad of settlements and caravans and cities they all came from. For many... it might not be a successful journey. But that wasn't the point, was it?

"Yes, my friend," he said with a grin, rewarded for his unwanted leadership with the gratitude in a new mate's eyes, "Because it's up to us now... and we have to freedom to go there."

That was the point. They could stay or they could go; they could choose, and no whip or snarls nor manacles would say otherwise. Captain Bonagrus of the Fury set about getting his new crew in order, as Syna began her slow, unhurried plunge into the heart of Falyndar.

[Empyrean]

Razkar

Intelligence	+1
Weapon: Shortbow	+3
Tactic	+2
Climbing	+1
Stealth	+1
Weapon: Crossbow	+1
Weapon: Dagger	+2
Endurance	+1
Intimidation	+2
Philosophy	+1

Lores :

• Eypharians: Worthy Sacrifices to Myri
• The Mechanisms of the Crossbow
• The First Rule of Combat
• Consequences of Mercy: Accountability for Future Fury Intrusions

Notes :

I absolutely loved, loved, loved the style of writing you chose for this flashback. I can tell you put a lot of effort into creating this cohesive story. This kind of storytelling doesn't always agree with everyone, but I want to point out why I thought it worked so well here with you.

A number of new and unique characters and relationships were introduced, but as a reader, I actually found it easy to follow because they each stayed in their own respective roles. I was excited to see you touch upon so many important elements to the plot, like the father-son and slave-slaver relationships for example. The conflict was realistic and everything from the different characters' dialogue to their actions felt natural. And despite Razkar being a supporting character some of the time, you still managed to give him direction, relevance to the story, and a chance to evolve philosophically. More so, the reader got to see more of his humanity toward the end. All in all this was a good read and a pleasure to grade. Keep doing what you're doing, and whatever expansions you might make will surely be awesome.