Read Online Byzantium's Crown by Susan Shwartz - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Shwartz
Tags: Science-Fiction
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brought it crashing down onto a man who slashed at him from below. The chain ripped half the pirate's face away.
But step by step the pirates were backing him up toward the ship's forecastle.
"Look out!" Nicephorus shouted. A light exploded about him, blinding several fighters. Four more jumped Marric. He brought up his sword in time to impale one. The dying man's weight tore the sword from his hand. He swore as he had the night Alexa fell, longing for her magic—regardless of its consequences—to aid him. To his battle-maddened senses it felt like forever until the remaining Arabs brought him down. He feared a blow to heart or throat, but forced himself not to flinch.
I die in battle. That is more grace than I expected.
Marric lifted his chin to look about him before death. Sunset and burning ships Cast a bloody glow over the sea and the sweaty, intent faces of his captors. Screams and splashes told him that others were disposing of slaves and sailors too badly wounded to be worth healing for the block.
He pressed his fists against the deck. "Get on with it," he muttered. A gleaming blade hissed back over one man's head in a fast, deadly arc, then swept forward—
"Hold!" a voice ordered from the forecastle. "Bring him here."
Marric's captors hauled him unceremoniously to the pirate captain's feet and let him fall.
Chapter Five
Marric shut his eyes, then opened them again. He tried to study the lateen rigging of the pirate dromonds as calmly as if the ships performed naval maneuvers in his honor. He would try anything to cover his fear that he might beg to be allowed to go on living. The sinking ship's deck had dropped almost to the water line. The pirates were busy transferring cargo onto their own vessels. Slaves, among them Nicephorus, were being herded over the side. One man fell into the water and was fished out with curses and blows: he was too valuable to be allowed to drown.
When he had himself firmly in control, he permitted himself to look at the pirate leader. Ironically the man saluted him. Marric touched his hand to lips and heart with equal irony and added greetings in Arabic.
"You fought well," the captain observed, one hand on the nephrite handle of his scimitar.
Marric folded his arms on his chest. He did not want to provoke the Arabs who eyed him so suspiciously, too close to their leader for their liking. The evening wind chilled Marric's bare body, but he mastered his shivers as his sweat cooled. A cut he had not noticed before dripped down his side. The rest of his wounds began to ache.
"How does such a fighter become goods for market?" asked the captain.
"I was unlucky." Now that the sun was down, the water looked dark and cold. Most of the burning spars had already sunk.
"Unlucky!" The Arab roared with laughter.
Marric stood motionless. Imperial Cleopatra's first husband, he remembered, had been captured by pirates, but he had managed to turn them into his own private bodyguard until he was ransomed. Of course, he had vowed to hang them all. They had laughed at him too. But the next year he had led a fleet against them and hanged as many as he caught.
"Is there someone to ransom you?"
Irene would give gold to know that her plans for Marric had miscarried, and more gold to have him back in her grasp. At least this attack had enabled Marric to escape her.
"No one," said Marric. "Unless, of course, you appeal to the Consort. But I fear the fleet might burn your ships to the water line before you reached the Horn." He braced himself for the blow that might repay his insolence. It never came.
"Then, fighting man, I offer you a choice. A warrior's choice. Swear loyalty to me—and to the jihad!—and you will share with us, rise in the ranks," he offered. "Or, you can rejoin . . . your fellow slaves." The contempt in his voice lashed Marric as he made this suggestion. "Or return home free."
His gesture showed Marric what that meant: over the side and into the water to drown.
So
But step by step the pirates were backing him up toward the ship's forecastle.
"Look out!" Nicephorus shouted. A light exploded about him, blinding several fighters. Four more jumped Marric. He brought up his sword in time to impale one. The dying man's weight tore the sword from his hand. He swore as he had the night Alexa fell, longing for her magic—regardless of its consequences—to aid him. To his battle-maddened senses it felt like forever until the remaining Arabs brought him down. He feared a blow to heart or throat, but forced himself not to flinch.
I die in battle. That is more grace than I expected.
Marric lifted his chin to look about him before death. Sunset and burning ships Cast a bloody glow over the sea and the sweaty, intent faces of his captors. Screams and splashes told him that others were disposing of slaves and sailors too badly wounded to be worth healing for the block.
He pressed his fists against the deck. "Get on with it," he muttered. A gleaming blade hissed back over one man's head in a fast, deadly arc, then swept forward—
"Hold!" a voice ordered from the forecastle. "Bring him here."
Marric's captors hauled him unceremoniously to the pirate captain's feet and let him fall.
Chapter Five
Marric shut his eyes, then opened them again. He tried to study the lateen rigging of the pirate dromonds as calmly as if the ships performed naval maneuvers in his honor. He would try anything to cover his fear that he might beg to be allowed to go on living. The sinking ship's deck had dropped almost to the water line. The pirates were busy transferring cargo onto their own vessels. Slaves, among them Nicephorus, were being herded over the side. One man fell into the water and was fished out with curses and blows: he was too valuable to be allowed to drown.
When he had himself firmly in control, he permitted himself to look at the pirate leader. Ironically the man saluted him. Marric touched his hand to lips and heart with equal irony and added greetings in Arabic.
"You fought well," the captain observed, one hand on the nephrite handle of his scimitar.
Marric folded his arms on his chest. He did not want to provoke the Arabs who eyed him so suspiciously, too close to their leader for their liking. The evening wind chilled Marric's bare body, but he mastered his shivers as his sweat cooled. A cut he had not noticed before dripped down his side. The rest of his wounds began to ache.
"How does such a fighter become goods for market?" asked the captain.
"I was unlucky." Now that the sun was down, the water looked dark and cold. Most of the burning spars had already sunk.
"Unlucky!" The Arab roared with laughter.
Marric stood motionless. Imperial Cleopatra's first husband, he remembered, had been captured by pirates, but he had managed to turn them into his own private bodyguard until he was ransomed. Of course, he had vowed to hang them all. They had laughed at him too. But the next year he had led a fleet against them and hanged as many as he caught.
"Is there someone to ransom you?"
Irene would give gold to know that her plans for Marric had miscarried, and more gold to have him back in her grasp. At least this attack had enabled Marric to escape her.
"No one," said Marric. "Unless, of course, you appeal to the Consort. But I fear the fleet might burn your ships to the water line before you reached the Horn." He braced himself for the blow that might repay his insolence. It never came.
"Then, fighting man, I offer you a choice. A warrior's choice. Swear loyalty to me—and to the jihad!—and you will share with us, rise in the ranks," he offered. "Or, you can rejoin . . . your fellow slaves." The contempt in his voice lashed Marric as he made this suggestion. "Or return home free."
His gesture showed Marric what that meant: over the side and into the water to drown.
So
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