LLYR CRASHED THROUGH the forest, heedless of where he was going. Once they reached the foot of those treacherous stairs, Llyr and Tahn-lo had fled in full panic down the island’s rugged flank, desperate to find the beach. Llyr had left his sword and the sack of treasure behind. They were no use to him, anyway.

He would not pay the bloody price. He did not want to end up as another head on a spike, or gored at the bottom of a pit, or feel his skull crushed beneath that bastard’s massive hands. Llyr wanted to live. The desperation was high in his throat like hot gorge, bile ready to spill out.

He would get off this miserable, cursed island, he would burn incense every morning to honor Zol, say a thousand prayers, never again touch a bottle or a woman—

Llyr went down, his ankle twisted brutally in a snarled root. He screamed, low like an animal, and felt no shame for it. Tahn-lo crashed over him an instant later, and Llyr only saw the barest flicker of recognition as the red-haired man cast a pitiful look over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

Rolling onto his side, Llyr lost sight of the world. He probed gingerly at his ankle. It was caught, possibly broken. The slightest pressure made it feel as if his leg would erupt. He wanted to die.

But he would not. Llyr was a survivor. Born to the warrens of Sukudesh in his youth, Llyr had won enough to buy his collar in the slave pits and freed himself. He had sailed on the Scarlet Wind for near on ten years now, and had earned a reputation he was fiercely proud of. Blown ankle or not, he would escape.

Gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes shut, Llyr worked his ankle through white-hot pain until his leg came free of the root. Sweat burst from his brow and poured down his neck as he fought to contain a shriek of agony. He compromised on vomiting into the bushes, letting the heaving drain his misery.

Then he surveyed the damage.

The skin was not torn, but the grinding of bone told him something was probably broken. With shaking hands he began to probe the ground around him until he found a stick that was sturdy enough to hold his weight. He propped himself up and began to hobble, more carefully this time, towards the shore. Each step was agony, but he would get through it. He would make it back to the Wind and leave this hell hole behind. He was a survivor.

So it was that Llyr did not meet the same fate as his comrade when he heard Tahn-lo cry out in alarm, outrage, and pain. Instead, he drew the knife he kept on his belt with his free hand and limped ahead, his eyes fixed on the ground for any more treacherous roots, or worse.

When he finally found Tahn-lo—no particular challenge, given the huge, whimpering noises the man was making—Llyr saw that the smaller man was lying beneath two immense, fat snakes. They coiled over him, scaly bodies heaped like sinuous death.

“Llyr!” he cried. “They bite!”

Llyr nodded, suppressing his revulsion and horror. “Then you’re dead, brother.”

The other man’s face contorted in horrified realization. Already, Llyr could see the swelling in the arm, and the black corruption spreading up into Tahn-lo’s neck. Only a matter of time, now.

Llyr searched for something to say, for some word of comfort. But he found none. Exhausted, terrified, and in no small discomfort himself, he simply turned his back on Tahn-lo and limped for the shore, giving a wide berth to the snakes.

The going was tortuous, but it forced him to be careful. Llyr made it to the sands not long after dawn had begun to warm the horizon, dashing everything in vivid pinks and greens. He felt dizzy, almost delirious with relief when he fell to his knees beside the burned-out husks of the boats by the water. The tide was high, and there was no sign of Linol’s body or his loot. Back to the sea, Llyr thought wearily. Inraela always took back what was hers, eventually.

Llyr heard footsteps behind him.

His heart fell into his belly. He turned and saw Ulrem’s scowling face. Hard gray eyes bore no regret for the blood shed in the night, and he did not seem worn by his grim labors. As sleekly muscled as a great cat, the man could have been carved of stone for all he moved. Llyr cowered away from him.

“Made it back to the beach,” Ulrem said. “I’m impressed.” His big sword was propped against his shoulder insolently. The ring on his finger glittered in the morning light.

“Just do it,” Llyr said miserably. The fire had gone out of him. The sea called to him now, beckoning him home on white-capped rollers.

“Can’t. I need you.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?” His heart thudded painfully as hope was kindled.

“Not if I want off this fucking island,” Ulrem spat. “You didn’t help them toss me overboard. Think you’ll try a second time?”

“Hells, no!” Llyr said. He wanted to laugh, but the best he could muster was a choking wheeze. Gratitude bubbled up in him as he realized he was not going to die on that cursed strand.

“Fine. Here they come with the fourth boat. You wait here and call them in. We’ll need a few of them to get back out to the Wind.”

“Aye,” Llyr said, seeing what the big man was about. Even as they spoke, the fourth boat dropped into the waves beside the ship. “What if I warn them?”

Ulrem laughed darkly. “You think they can paddle faster than I can swim?”

Llyr swallowed. “As you say, then, Slayer.”

The fourth boat came in on the tides. Sea birds circled overhead, yelping and screeching, heralding the three men in ragged tunics and patched breeches who jumped over the gunwales. They set to work hauling the boat up onto the sands. Llyr leaned on his crutch, watching.

“Where in the hells is Red Rahm? Teid?” they shouted over the rumbling surf.

“Dead,” Llyr called back. “Same as Fett, and Tahn-lo. All of ‘em.”

The pirates looked at one another in shock. “What are you playing at? Where’s Jol?”

Before he could answer, a stone struck the nearest man in the temple. Blood splashed across the sand. The man fell dead even as the others scrambled back, tugging short knives free of their belts.

“Sorry, boys,” Llyr said. Ulrem burst out of the reeds, roaring like a tiger. Upon seeing this revenant of the man they had drowned three days past, the crewmen threw down their blades, flinching in terror as he drew up before them, breath heaving and eyes wild.

“New man in charge!” Llyr shouted, and clapped his hands. “I wasn’t lying, what I said earlier. No use waiting for dead men. Let’s head back to the ship.”

The pirates of the fourth crew paddled back under Ulrem’s glaring watch. He was wearing the tunic and headscarf of Tudik, the man he had felled with the stone. The disguise was thin, as Tudik was nowhere near as large as Ulrem, but it would serve. Llyr sat at the stern, hands curled protectively over his ankle, trying to keep it from moving with the rocking, unsteady motion of the boat.

They drew near enough to hear the rest of the crew calling questions to them, but none of the boatmen responded. Ulrem’s sword, held low so the men aboard the Wind could not see it, was at their backs. One false move and he would spit them, sure as day.

Llyr felt a moment of tension as thick as the salt in the air when they knocked up against the side of the Scarlet Wind. He met the eyes of the oarsmen, who seemed to be teetering on indecision. A raised cry now would warn the men aboard, who were throwing down a ladder, of what fate awaited them.

Ulrem seized the ladder and climbed up with impossible, catlike speed. The cry warning in Llyr’s throat died as Ulrem made it to the top. Shouting broke out, and the screeching clash of blades. The pirates scurried up the ladder, eager to get in on whatever action was happening.

But the fight was over before the boys made it up to the deck. The captain’s body, wrapped in a fine silk coat of black and gold, crashed into the sea beside the little boat. The man’s head followed with a splash. It floated for a moment before the dark, glassy waves claimed it. Llyr caught a look of horrified surprise in the captain’s eyes as the head vanished below the surface.

Llyr pulled himself up to the deck one foot at a time, his eyes screwed tight against the broken angle’s screaming. At the top, he found the dozen or so remaining crewmen in a ring around Ulrem. Three other men were dead or dying on the deck around him. The savage’s broadsword had tasted blood yet again, and there was a wicked slice across his chest where someone had given him a good one.

Ulrem snarled, pacing sharply like a panther. Blood poured down from the wound, painting his chest in streaks of lurid crimson. “Anyone else want to taste my sword?” he demanded, shaking the blade at them. “It has a thirst for fools!”

Though blades were drawn, none were raised. Some of the men were breathing heavily, rage barely held in check. By now, word had spread about what had happened on the island: brothers and comrades slaughtered like pigs in the night. Llyr understood the anger, the shock, but he saw clearly that if more were injured or killed, they would hardly have enough hands to limp the Scarlet Wind back to a safe harbor.

Llyr forced his way through to the center of the carnage. He said the only thing he could think of. “The captain threw him to the sea, boys, and the sea spit him back at us!” This earned a nervous, uneasy laughter.

“Captain tried to kill him first,” said someone else. “Could have been any one of us, lads.”

A few blades disappeared, and the looming violence faded. “A man who kills the captain, is the captain.”

“Aye,” said Llyr. “Any dissenting voices?”

The crew looked at one another. Slowly, they shook their heads, absorbing this new arrangement just as dogs learn to accept a new pack leader. They drew back a step. One of the deck officers bellowed an order, and men trickled back to their duties. A few hands hauled the bodies out of the way.

“A dangerous game you played, Captain,” Llyr said, limping up to Ulrem. The big man grunted, accepting the bandage one of the crewmen offered.

They looked out at the island, which, unless Llyr’s eyes played tricks on him, seemed to be drifting away from them. Had to be the sea, he thought. The waves played strange tricks on a man’s eyes, especially when he was tired. And Llyr was deathly tired.

Ulrem sheathed his sword and leaned against the rail. His gray eyes watched the island. What he was searching for, Llyr could not say.

“What are your orders, Captain?”