The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1) (28 page)

Ahmed finds himself in charge of a
small group of men, marooned on a desolate shore, penniless, with no
supplies to speak of. An ocean stands between them and home.

First,
I must take stock of what I have
.
Ahmed
counted the faces. Nineteen men, plus himself, an army of twenty.
How many were Brutus’s men, and how many were sailors?
It doesn’t matter.
They are all Xanthians.

“Our
goals are simple. We must survive, and we must find a way home. We
have neither supplies nor a ship. We have no money, and so we cannot
pay. We have no friends, and so we cannot borrow. How many are
armed?”

It was so easy, it was improper
to even consider it ‘combat’. Under cover of darkness,
they had entered the sleeping town and made their way to the
wharves. They had met all of three men, single foot patrols, guards
looking for thieves, not soldiers. Not a one had offered resistance.
One had even volunteered his own rope so he could be tied instead of
knocked out or killed. They had obliged him, once they finally
understood his words. The accent here was different than in Nihlos,
the words even harder to understand until the ear grew accustomed to
them.

Ahmed looked down the pier at
the ship, then cast Sandilianus a glance. Sandilianus nodded. “It
will do.”

Ahmed was about to give the
order to take the ship when he felt his focus shift to his left, as
if an invisible hand were literally turning his head toward
something it wanted him to see.

Sandilianus noticed the change.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

Ahmed peered into the dark to
his left, trying to answer that very question. “I don’t
know. Something…” He trailed off, letting the hand in
his mind guide him. He felt connection as a clicking sound in his
mind. What was pitch black moments before was given form, black on
black, dark, hooded figures skulking through the night. He pointed
at them. After a moment of squinting, Sandilianus nodded. He could
see them as well. They were carrying something that looked for all
the world like a corpse, but it was too dark to be certain. He spoke
what he felt as a command in his soul: “I must go.”

Sandilianus shot him a
withering glare. “Now?”

Ahmed did not even see the
expression on the other man’s face. He continued to peer into
the darkness, his eyes tracking the nearly invisible group. There
were three of them, and they were without doubt evil men. He could
taste the wrongness of them on his tongue like spoiled milk. The
thugs turned down an alley and faded into deeper darkness.

“Ilaweh calls. Can you
take the ship without me?”

Sandilianus raised an eyebrow
and grinned. “We’ll manage somehow.”

“Then do it. I will
investigate. If I am not back in ten minutes, leave without me.”

Sandilianus chuckled softly.
“That’s time enough to kill a man, I suppose.”

“Or three. Or be killed
myself.”

Sandilianus clapped him on the
back. “Good luck.”

“And you.” Ahmed
laid his right hand on his sword pommel and set off in the direction
of the hooded figures as Sandilianus issued hand signals for the men
to advance on the ship. The men raised shields, formed a phalanx,
and began to advance down the pier.

Ahmed ran quickly toward the
alley. As he lost sight of his men, he mused to himself that they
were quiet about their warfare when they needed to be. He could hear
nothing of their progress. Surely, it would be a simple thing, then.

He, too, would be stealthy. He
moved as quickly as possible, but low and close to the wall,
listening. It was always better to surprise the enemy than be
surprised by him. He smiled as his prudence was rewarded by the
sound of voices.

“We do it here,” a
deep, gravely voice insisted. A moan, distinctly female, followed
this pronouncement.
Not a
corpse, then. A captive!
Ahmed ground his teeth in rage,
but stayed his hand. Successful warfare requires intelligence.

He moved forward as silently as
possible. At the corner of the wall, he stopped and peered around.
Three hooded figures, one large and with a great belly, two smaller,
stood facing each other. On the ground between them was a bound and
gagged woman. The larger man was shoving a torch at the bound
woman’s face, chuckling as she cringed away.

“Fool!” one of the
smaller men said, his voice higher-pitched and nervous, perhaps even
reluctant. “What will you do if a guard comes upon us?”

The third man sneered. “The
he will meet the same fate!” his words slurred as if he were
drunk or injured.

“It’s madness!”
Cautious complained. “We risk exposing the whole murder!”

The fat man slammed a meaty
fist into Cautious’s face, and the smaller man fell to the
ground with a small cry.

Slur gave a nasty chuckle.
“Elgar does not reward cowards!”

Ahmed felt as if he had been
struck by lightning at the sound of that name. The Dead God was the
very definition of unspeakable evil, and his followers depraved
madmen! If these men served him, they must surely die, and quickly,
before they could carry out whatever vile plan they had hatched.

Ahmed heard someone cry out in
the distance, “’Ware boarders!” Sandilianus had
engaged the ship, then. Time was short.

With his left hand, Ahmed
reached to his back and hooked his fingers into his shield grip. His
right gripped Brutus’s sword.
My
sword, now,
he reminded himself. He took a deep breath.
Ilaweh be with me
.

Ahmed sprang from behind the
corner, sword and shield slipping from their places and locking into
battle positions as easily as a man might point his fingers. With a
cry of fury, he charged them.

Fatso, wielding a torch,
charged to meet him and got a sword through the throat for his
stupidity. The torch fell to the ground and spun, sending shadows
scurrying over the alley walls like a flock of crows. Slur jerked a
dagger from his belt and came as well. Ahmed boggled at such
stupidity, but went along with it. He slashed Slur’s hand off
at the wrist. It’s spiraled off into the darkness, still
clutching the dagger, as Slur’s face contorted in agony. Ahmed
smashed the edge of his shield into Slur’s ugly face for good
measure. Blood and teeth flew as Slur slumped to the ground,
unconscious.

Cautious stood blinking at him.
Ahmed cocked his head and stared at him in sheer amazement. “Shall
I kill you, too, fool?”

Cautious turned and bolted.
Ahmed watched him until he was out of sight, wary of treachery, but
the man seemed well and truly fled. Who could blame him?

Ahmed bent to the gagged and
bound woman. She was frenzied, struggling against her bonds, her
eyes fixed upon him and filled with raw terror. “You are safe
now,” he said softly, and took her hand to untie it.

Rather than calming, the woman
redoubled her efforts to escape. She tore her hand free and began
trying to snake away, at last settling for rolling.

“Fool! Hold still!”
Ahmed grabbed her and forced her against the ground as he cut the
rope binding her wrists. He immediately regretted it. The woman
lashed out at him as he reached to remove her gag, raking his face
with her nails.

He slapped her sharply in the
face, trying to break her from her panic. “You are safe now!”

The woman stared at him in
silence for a moment, then screamed, loud and long. “Demons!
Black skinned demons!”

Ahmed leapt to his feet, shame
and fury boiling within him, and struck her with a furious backhand.
“Barbarian bitch!” She fell over backward, blood flying
from her lips, sobbing. Ahmed immediately felt guilty, even as he
felt justified, but it mattered little. Sandilianus would even now
be boarding the ship. Between the sounds of battle and this idiot’s
screams, the guards would surely descend en masse any moment.

“Demons!” the woman
moaned as he rifled the corpses. One had a few coins, but they were
otherwise paupers. Ahmed ground his teeth. Ilaweh wanted her saved.
Fine, she was saved. There was nothing in the bargain about liking
each other, or gratitude. Still, just a bit would have been nice.

“You can find your own
way home. I’d hurry before Cautious finds his balls and comes
back to finish his business!” He spat on the ground beside her
as he put away sword and shield, then turned and sprinted for the
ship.

He was heartened to see that
his men were indeed in command of the vessel, and it appeared there
had been precious little bloodshed. A number of crewmen were being
persuaded at sword-point to get on with the business of casting off.
Ahmed saw only two bodies, and for all he knew, they may have simply
been unconscious. All was good after all.

Shouts from behind him quickly
shattered this illusion. He cast a look over his shoulder to see a
large group of men heading toward him, at least fifty. Sandilianus
ran to the bow and, shifting his voice an octave higher than normal,
shouted “Ware archers!”

As if queued, arrows zipped
past Ahmed, whizzing like bees, one coming close enough to graze his
already injured cheek. Onboard the ship, his men brought their
shields up and formed a wall, reserving their blades for the seamen.
Ropes flew from bollards and sails billowed from their resting spots
as curses and threats rang through the night.

Ahmed began to zig-zag as
erratically as possible as he sprinted toward the gangplank. It
would do little against massed fire, but it could certainly spoil
any shots aimed specifically at him. He was more of an ‘extra
points’ target for most of his run, but getting up the
gangplank would take him into real danger. At that point, it would
be in Ilaweh’s hands.

He was ten yards from safety!
The ship was moving now, and the gap between the hull and the pier
was widening. Ahmed gritted his teeth as the gangplank fell away
into the water. It was too far. He would never make it! Another
arrow whizzed past him and left a crease in his left shoulder. He
had to try.

There was no time even for a
small prayer. He would just have to hope it was part of the plan. He
reached the edge of the pier and leapt, hoping against hope, but it
was as he had known all along: too far to jump. His boot missed the
deck by two feet, and he plummeted toward the dark water. He would
surely die this time, either drowned or punctured by arrows. Ah,
well. The mission would continue without him. He had done his part.

Sandilianus moved quickly. He
hurled a rope toward Ahmed. The line was weighted for throwing, and
Sandilianus was a marksman. Ahmed literally caught it in his chest,
a hammer blow that knocked the breath from him, but he managed to
grasp it, and he held on for dear life.

Arrows sunk into the wooden
hull as Sandilianus hauled him up. Another thudded into the shield
he wore on his back. He was a tempting target now, indeed, helpless
and hanging from a line, swinging just enough to add sport to
shooting him in the head like a dog. Moments later, several of his
men lowered their shields over him as well. Ahmed sighed in relief
as he heard the arrows thunk against the shield frames. His death
had once again been forestalled, by the grace of Ilaweh.

Sandilianus took his hand and
hauled him over the railing. Ahmed sank to his knees, gasping with
exhaustion. He waited there, just breathing, until they were beyond
arrow range, then stood and called out, “We are victorious!”

The men raised a great cheer
and pounded their swords against their shields in celebration, all
the while keeping a wary eye on their captive crew.

Ahmed nodded and smiled. It was
enough for now.