Cursors's Fury

“Take me to the coin, scribe.” He turned to one of his men. “We set sail at once. Get a slave detail and take any women or children you can see on the way back.”

The men nodded and started back to the harbor. Demos turned to find Ehren frowning at him. “We’d best move.”

Ehren jerked a nod at him and led him to the back of the bungalow, where Ullus thought he’d built a clever hiding place into the woodpile. Ehren recovered the entirety of Ullus’s cash fortune in a leather sack and tossed it to Demos.

The captain opened the sack and dumped some of its contents onto his palm. They were a mix of coins of all sorts, mainly copper rams and silver bulls, but with the occasional gold crown mixed in. Demos nodded and headed back for the ship. Ehren followed, walking on the man’s left, a stride away, where he would have time and room to dodge should the pirate draw his sword.

Demos seemed briefly amused. “If I wished to be rid of you, scribe, I wouldn’t need to kill you. I’d leave you here.”

“Call it a professional courtesy,” Ehren said. “You aren’t a smuggler or a pirate.”

“I am today,” Demos said.

Armed members of the Slives crew rushed past. Behind them, Ehren heard screams as the men began seizing women and children and shackling them.

“And a slaver, too,” Ehren said, trying to keep his tone calm. “Why?”

“This most recent enterprise has ended in a less-than-satisfactory fashion. I’ll sell them when we reach the mainland and defray some of my expenses,” Demos said. He glanced out to the west, as they headed down the quay, his eyes on the rising blackness of the storm there.

After that, Demos fell silent until they boarded the Slive. Then he began to give orders immediately, and Ehren hastened to stand out of the way. The slave patrol brought in a score of chained prisoners, while several other men fought a brief, ugly brawl with inhabitants of Westmiston who objected. A pirate was slain, the townsfolk beaten back with half a dozen dead. The women and children passed within a step of Ehren when the slavers hurried them into the hold, and he felt nauseated at their distress, their sobs, their cries of protest.

Perhaps he could find some way to help them when they returned to Alera. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and tried not to think on it, while Demos and his crew rigged the ship and headed for the harbor, tacking against the strong wind while men strained at the oars to give the ship all possible speed while the darkness of the storm grew and grew, until it looked like nothing so much as great mountains looming up on the horizon. It was unnerving, as every sailor aboard the Slive threw his strength into driving the ship directly at that glowering, ominous tide of shadow, until they could clear the harbor and round the island.

They had just broken into the open sea when Ehren saw what his instincts had warned him about.

Ships.

Hundreds of ships.

Hundreds of enormous ships, broad and low-beamed, sailing in formation, their vast, black sails stretched tight and full by the gale sweeping along behind them. The horizon, from one end to the other, was filled with black sails.

“The Canim,” Ehren whispered.

The Canim were coming in numbers more enormous than any in Alera’s history.

Ehren felt his legs turn weak, and he leaned against the Slive’s railing for support, staring out at the armada plunging toward them. Distantly, in Westmiston, he could hear the storm chimes ringing in panic. He turned to see the drunken, disorganized crew of the other ship rushing down to the docks-but at the speed the Canim fleet was moving, they would never escape the harbor before they were cut off by black sails.

The Slive rounded the northernmost point of the island of Westmiston, and her crew adjusted the rigging for running before the wind instead of into it. Within minutes, the Aleran vessel’s grey canvas sails boomed and stretched tight before the dark storm’s windy vanguard, and the Slive leapt into the open sea.

Ehren paced slowly aftward, until he stood staring off the Slives stern. Ships detached themselves from the Canim fleet and fell upon Westmiston, wolves to the fold.

Ehren looked up to find Demos standing beside him.

“The women and children,” Ehren said quietly.

“As many as we could carry,” Demos said.

Smoke began to rise from Westmiston.

“Why?” Ehren asked.

Demos regarded the Canim fleet with dispassionate calculation. “Why let them go to waste? They’ll fetch a fair price.”

The man’s lack of expression, whether in word, movement, or deed, was appalling. Ehren folded his arms to hide a shiver. “Will they catch us?”

Demos shook his head. “Not my ship.” He lifted a hand abruptly and pointed out to sea.