looking for another opponent, but there were none to be had. The pirates had all either fallen or dropped their weapons.
“Horace!” he bellowed, looking around for his first mate, then checking the man at his feet. The spear had passed right through the man’s thigh, but looked to have missed the bone. The sailor was staring at the inch-thick shaft transfixing his leg, his eyes wide with pain and panic.
“Aye, Captain!” Horace came forward, sporting a gash on his forearm but otherwise hale. Horace was the only man Feldrin knew who had turned down a captaincy to be a first mate. He’d commanded the Hippotrin for Cynthia Flaxal for more than a year, then told her he’d rather go back to being mate on Orin’s Pride . Feldrin had never asked his reasons, he’d just welcomed him aboard. “By the Nine Hells! Keefer, yer supposed to knock the damned spear aside before you leap on the man, ya dolt!”
“I…I missed, I guess,” the young man said dully.
“Secure their weapons, Horace, and take a squad below decks. Be careful! I don’t want any surprises!” Feldrin knelt at Keefer’s side and drew a heavy knife from his belt. He despaired at the blood that jetted rhythmically from the wound, but kept his voice encouraging. “You did fine, lad! You got him before he could finish the job. Now hold still while I cut the head off this spear and we get it out of your leg.”
In ten minutes the enemy ship was secured, the surviving pirates were in chains, and the young man Keefer was dead. Even though they removed the spear with the utmost care, Janley, the ship’s carpenter who doubled as their surgeon, could not stop the bleeding. Feldrin had held the man’s hand, assuring him that everything would be fine, even when he knew it was hopeless. A priest or even a simple potion would have saved the man’s life, but they had neither.
“Nasty bloody business we’re in, Horace,” Feldrin said as he wearily scrubbed Keefer’s blood from his hands. Now that the energy of the fight was fading, he felt the throbbing ache in his shoulder. “Help me off with this corselet, would you? I got nicked.”
“Sorry about Keefer, sir,” the mate said, loosening the buckles on one side of the stiff leather armor. It was hard and padded thickly enough to stop an arrow, even from one of the strong Marathian horn-bows that the pirates used. It would not, however, stop a sword thrust.
“Not your fault, and he knew the risk.” Feldrin told himself the same thing every time someone under his command died. It didn’t help much, even if it was the truth.
“Aye, but hold on, there. You’re bleedin’ a bit under here.”
“Bloody hells!” Pain lanced through him as Horace stuffed something into the gash in his shoulder. “Easy there. Don’t tear my bloody arm off!”
“I’m tryin’ ta keep your bloody arm on , Captain! Now hold still! Janley! Bring a hot iron! This bleedin’ won’t stop!”
“Didn’t think it was that bad,” Feldrin said, taking a seat on the windlass cap as his knees began to shake.
“What happened?” Janley probed the wound with fingers still bloody from another man’s injuries.
“Sword, I think.” F eldrin gritted his teeth, concentrating on not fainting.
“It hit the bone, but your armor took most of the blow. You’re lucky it wasn’t a hand-span to the left. It could have gotten your spine. Now hold still.”
Burning flesh hissed and Feldrin managed to remain conscious, though he did shout a string of curses that shocked even his crew. The smell of burning meat almost made him retch, more from the thought that it was his meat burning than from the acrid odor itself. When it was done and a thick healing salve and bandage had been applied, he felt much better.
“What was she carryin’, Horace?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet with only a slight wobble.
“A mixed load. About twenty bails of good wool, some kegs of somethin’ that are marked in that western script,
“Horace!” he bellowed, looking around for his first mate, then checking the man at his feet. The spear had passed right through the man’s thigh, but looked to have missed the bone. The sailor was staring at the inch-thick shaft transfixing his leg, his eyes wide with pain and panic.
“Aye, Captain!” Horace came forward, sporting a gash on his forearm but otherwise hale. Horace was the only man Feldrin knew who had turned down a captaincy to be a first mate. He’d commanded the Hippotrin for Cynthia Flaxal for more than a year, then told her he’d rather go back to being mate on Orin’s Pride . Feldrin had never asked his reasons, he’d just welcomed him aboard. “By the Nine Hells! Keefer, yer supposed to knock the damned spear aside before you leap on the man, ya dolt!”
“I…I missed, I guess,” the young man said dully.
“Secure their weapons, Horace, and take a squad below decks. Be careful! I don’t want any surprises!” Feldrin knelt at Keefer’s side and drew a heavy knife from his belt. He despaired at the blood that jetted rhythmically from the wound, but kept his voice encouraging. “You did fine, lad! You got him before he could finish the job. Now hold still while I cut the head off this spear and we get it out of your leg.”
In ten minutes the enemy ship was secured, the surviving pirates were in chains, and the young man Keefer was dead. Even though they removed the spear with the utmost care, Janley, the ship’s carpenter who doubled as their surgeon, could not stop the bleeding. Feldrin had held the man’s hand, assuring him that everything would be fine, even when he knew it was hopeless. A priest or even a simple potion would have saved the man’s life, but they had neither.
“Nasty bloody business we’re in, Horace,” Feldrin said as he wearily scrubbed Keefer’s blood from his hands. Now that the energy of the fight was fading, he felt the throbbing ache in his shoulder. “Help me off with this corselet, would you? I got nicked.”
“Sorry about Keefer, sir,” the mate said, loosening the buckles on one side of the stiff leather armor. It was hard and padded thickly enough to stop an arrow, even from one of the strong Marathian horn-bows that the pirates used. It would not, however, stop a sword thrust.
“Not your fault, and he knew the risk.” Feldrin told himself the same thing every time someone under his command died. It didn’t help much, even if it was the truth.
“Aye, but hold on, there. You’re bleedin’ a bit under here.”
“Bloody hells!” Pain lanced through him as Horace stuffed something into the gash in his shoulder. “Easy there. Don’t tear my bloody arm off!”
“I’m tryin’ ta keep your bloody arm on , Captain! Now hold still! Janley! Bring a hot iron! This bleedin’ won’t stop!”
“Didn’t think it was that bad,” Feldrin said, taking a seat on the windlass cap as his knees began to shake.
“What happened?” Janley probed the wound with fingers still bloody from another man’s injuries.
“Sword, I think.” F eldrin gritted his teeth, concentrating on not fainting.
“It hit the bone, but your armor took most of the blow. You’re lucky it wasn’t a hand-span to the left. It could have gotten your spine. Now hold still.”
Burning flesh hissed and Feldrin managed to remain conscious, though he did shout a string of curses that shocked even his crew. The smell of burning meat almost made him retch, more from the thought that it was his meat burning than from the acrid odor itself. When it was done and a thick healing salve and bandage had been applied, he felt much better.
“What was she carryin’, Horace?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet with only a slight wobble.
“A mixed load. About twenty bails of good wool, some kegs of somethin’ that are marked in that western script,
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