D’zan caught the downstroke against his greatsword. The pirate was not a Khyrein, but a Jade Islander. His eyes were squinted with bloodlust, his brown face marred by scars and open sores. He screamed something in the dialect of Ongthaia, but D’zan did not understand it. Most likely a curse.
“Protect the King!” someone shouted. The middle deck was a forest of clashing blades beneath a canopy of black smoke.
D’zan’s greatsword cleaved his attacker from shoulder to breast-bone. The brigand went down howling. The decks were already lathered in blood, littered with bodies and piles of slippery entrails. D’zan’s arcing blade took the head of another charging pirate. The raiders were clumsy fighters, used to preying on those that feared them.
Yudun the Minstrel lay dying not far from where D’zan stood blinking. The singer’s throat was sliced from ear to ear. Men died every second that D’zan hesitated. The pirates had killed a dozen men already, and now they outnumbered the Yaskathans. D’zan leaped recklessly into the fray, catching a glimpse of Andolon fighting for his life atop the foredeck.
The greatsword that bore the mark of the Sun God cut men down like a great scythe. The points of curved daggers and rusty sabres bit into D’zan’s flesh, slicing deep cuts into his chest and back. He ignored them all, knowing that each wound would heal. He could not die at the hands of Men, and certainly not from the blades of diseased vagabonds. He had stood against the Manslayers of Zyung in their multitudes and stolen hundreds of their lives. These desperate thieves were no match for him. He poured his anger upon them like a poison, slicing through arms and ribcages and knees like summer grasses.
The fury of D’zan’s assault gave fire to his guardsmen, who shouted his name as they cut down pirates. This in turn inspired the sailors to fight bravely and with confidence. Soon the decks were choked with dead brigands: Khyreins, Jade Islanders, Sharrians, even a few Yaskathan outlaws. The black reaver cut loose its grapples and glided away, the last of its crew no doubt regretting their decision to raid the Cointosser.
Andolon Silver raised his dripping longblade and shouted a cry of victory. He bled from a deep shoulder wound, but his fierce skill with the sword had kept him alive. Half of the crew was dead, and only three guardsmen were left standing. The Cointosser’s losses were great, but it had survived the boarding.
If I had not been a sleeping drunkard, I would have fought sooner.
Some of these men would still be alive.
How many times must I fail those who serve me?
D’zan barely heard his name ringing out as sailors rushed buckets of water toward the burning mast and sails. He dropped his filthy blade to the deck and leaned over the nearest railing. His guts rumbled, wanting to spill from his belly into the sea.
With his eyes on the foaming water, D’zan never saw the shaft that flew from the distant reaver’s deck. Something slammed into his right shoulder, and the arrow struck with a meaty sound. D’zan fell on his left side into a puddle of congealing blood, and he retched. He rolled away from the stench and discovered Andolon lying near, the black-feathered shaft protruding from his chest. The young lord gasped for air.
He took this arrow meant for me.
Some pirate aboard the departing ship had heard D’zan’s name and tried to pin the King of Yaskatha with a well-aimed shot. Andolon had shoved him out of the way, but could not avoid the speeding shaft.
The reaver was too far out now for another shot. D’zan shouted for help. Hammon came running across the smeared planks, crying his brother’s name. D’zan sent him for bandages and wine.
“Rest easy,” D’zan told Andolon. He examined the arrow. It had sunk deep and pierced the heart. There would be no need for bandages after all. Whether or not D’zan removed the shaft, Andolon would soon be dead.
“Majesty…” Andolon’s voice was a rasping croak.
D’zan hushed him. “Don’t try to talk. You are a hero, Lord Andolon. A statue of you will stand forever in my palace courtyard. Bards will sing of your great deed.”
“No!” Andolon spat blood. He waved away those gathering about him, even his brother. “My words are only for the King’s ears.”
D’zan poured a bit of wine into Andolon’s mouth and leaned low to hear him.
“Speak quickly then.”
“The child,” said Andolon. His eyes burned, drowning in tears. “The boy Theskalus… He is mine. I am his father.” D’zan saw it clearly now, as if a spell of blindness had been washed from him. The face of Cymetha’s child mirrored the face of Andolon. The same blue eyes.
“You cried out in your sleep,” Andolon breathed. “I heard your pain. Let the lie die with me. Please… Majesty… Forgive me…”