Likt Vosi was as harsh a man as was to be expected of a pirate. He was a special sort of pirate, though, for he traded with goblins. His teeth were mostly overlain with gold and his eyes were ambitious. He wore a leather tunic with a sword belt that held a sword on either hip or to either side of him were two of the strongest men Alaric had ever laid eyes upon. Even Heliot Sangrey had shrunk in comparison.

“I trust you have the captive you promised me,” Likt Vosi crossed his arms. His face was pouty even before Dericore had responded.

“I do,” said Dericore. He nodded for Alaric to be brought forward. Heliot and Prysm yanked Alaric forward by the arms. He had been bound at the wrist again, but they had cut the binds on his legs. Alaric’s eyes scanned his surroundings. If there was a chance of escape, he meant to take it.

“Is he healthy?” asked the pirate. His voice was as rough as iron on iron.

“Healthy as can be,” replied Dericore. Joren was still aboard The Tycoon, coughing over the ship’s ledge and spitting into the water.

“You expect me to pay full price when my captive has been exposed to that?” he pointed at Joren whose silvery hair was getting caught in his string of spit.

“He caught the black ooze. We kept him at the prow and Lord Aymon at the bow. He’s healthy.” Dericore had a hint of frustration in his voice. Alaric was aware of Prysm breathing on his neck from behind.

Likt Vosi gave a face of resignation, and Dericore put out a reassuring palm. “Wait, Likt, this one’s close with the king.”

“King Eyowen? He’s long gone. Left just yesterday, actually. Saugmar Sans took him…you believe that?” Likt’s friendly manner had caught Alaric off guard. The pirate shoved a pile of Gajra Thatch into his mouth. “You know…I already had a plan of my own in mind for you, Dericore. You’ve relied on my coin for quite a while now. And fair enough, because not once have you let me down. However, with the Skadjans ransacking cities and putting towns to the torch, I’ve become a wealthy man beyond my wildest imagination. Can you believe that? My men salvaged every last coin they could from Khudril, and then Qolbel, and now I’ve got men searching Omniat for me.”

“I understand,” said Dericore.

“But…” Likt held a finger a loft and that murderous grin returned to his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t intend to pay you. No. I am willing to offer you twice my original payment if you make the trip to Gobblesfled for me.”

The mouths of Dericore’s smugglers opened wide. Men exchanged knowing glances, and Alaric did not know if it was good or bad news for himself. His eyes drifted beyond Likt Vosi to an alleyway beside a brothel where a woman lifted her skirts for an approaching man. The man appeared noble although Alaric couldn’t make out the sigil of along the brooch of his cloak.

“It is not an easy route, but coin is coin. I would simply ask that once you receive the pay from the goblins that you return my payment directly to me. I would supply you with a ship and a few of my men to make sure you are honest with your coin.”

Tillet had clambered off of the ship and stood beside Heliot Sangrey now. He leaned into Dericore’s ear, “Make him pay triple. He’s got deep pockets, lord.” Dericore pushed Tillet’s whispering breath away from his ear.

“I am a smuggler, Likt. Not a pirate. Pay me my share, or I keep the captive.” Dericore’s voice had risen, bordering on a growl.

“I said double the coin, did I not? It is your loss if you wish not to accept.” Likt Vosi ran a tongue along his golden teeth. His pirates began to encircle their lord, hands on the hilts of their stolen swords.

Dericore’s men subtly prepared their own weapons. It was common for traders to threaten blood, but more oft than not it was merely a threat to try to push a deal. Alaric watched Tillet the Terror’s hand go to the hilt of that flaming sword he had found.

“Triple. Triple the pay, and I will take him to Gobblesfled myself,” Dericore found himself saying. Likt Vosi chuckled, then laughed. Soon, he was hysterical and the men behind him laughed with him. Alaric had not seen worse teeth in his life, or lack of teeth for that matter.

Likt Vosi approached Alaric, and Heliot tried to step out protectively but Dericore lifted a hand for him to stop. Likt circled Alaric, studying him. He sniffed Alaric, causing him to shift uncomfortably. He tried to look anywhere but Likt, whose stench filled his nose. His eyes found the nobleman who had approached the whore outside the brothel. They had taken to making out aggressively, but she pushed him away. Alaric watched in silent horror as he withdrew a dirk and gutted her. It was nearly too far away to make out her face, but Alaric needed not to see it in order to feel his blood go cold. He split her groin to breast, taking her satchel and her coin and disappearing from the alley.

“The Lord of Khudril,” said Likt, which snapped Alaric out of his transfixed stare beyond. “A goblin told me he would pay a fine, fine price for your liking. Says he’s tired of your men cutting off ships travelling along his trade routes. I can’t imagine what he’ll do when he gets his hands on you—or should I say, claws.” Likt laughed obnoxiously again, and then stopped almost as suddenly. Alaric didn’t like how easy it had been for him to do that.

“The asking price you seek is no problem for me,” said Likt. “What is a problem, is that you have not travelled the long route to Gobblesfled. Even for a pirate it is a strenuous trip. How can I be sure you will find your way? I will not be denied my pay from the goblins, even if it is you who delivers the slave.” Likt was in Dericore’s face now. The two men just stared each other down. Alaric thought Dericore looked more a pirate than Likt, with his dreads and his bronze skin. Likt was slimy and cunning like a smuggler. Perhaps there is little difference, thought Alaric.

“I do not have trouble navigating,” came Dericore’s response after some time.

“It is not the navigating that worries me. You have no more than eight men, nine men.” Likt did a brief count, bobbing his head as he counted. “There are ships that roam these waters in recent times. Ships that sail under the sigil of the Blackwater Creed. Mercenaries sail the waters as well, transporting men from Middigol to Lightenbrag. Those ships are full of Slabrakhi faithful, and they do not take well to ships that enter their sights. What makes you so sure you’ll find your way? Hm?” Likt’s nose snorted hot breath in Dericore’s face. He didn’t flinch, returning a cold stare.

A ranging of a cold steel escaping its scabbard turned heads towards Tillet. His eyes flashed a dangerous glint and the special sword was bare, but flames did not dance upon the steel as they once had.

“If you have doubts, allow me to cast them aside,” said Tillet. He was bloodthirsty, and Alaric had seen it building. He’d gone too long without death, and he’d meant to solve that when they were forced to withdraw their attack on the trading galley at sea.

Dericore did not even gesture for Tillet to back down. Instead, Likt’s best man stepped forward. A man with dark hair and olive skin. His mustache and goatee drooped below his chin and his eyes were scarcely apart. His withdrew a machete knife that was longer than a dagger but shorter than a sword. He held one in each hand.

“Away,” said Likt. His man sheathed his machetes to Tillet’s dismay. He snarled, cursing so crudely that even Kivan had flinched. His mouth was foul, Alaric noted.

“It takes more than one troubled man to defend from raiding ships. But I will give you one of my own, and a score of men to accompany you. As for the pay—”

“—triple. Triple…the price,” demanded Dericore. Likt drew coiled his bottom lip inward and grinned.

“Fine. You are lucky your captive is a lord of Khudril. Otherwise, I would pay you less than my first offer.” Likt straightened his posture and withdrew three fat sacks of jingling coins. “Here you are. My ship is moored by the Red Gailing where the man in white linens chews his Gajra Thatch. I expect you gone no longer than a month. And whatever you do, do not bathe in the waters until you are father out to sea. The black ooze will kill a man.” Likt eyed Joren warily from his fetal position inside The Tycoon.

Likt Vosi gave a curt nod to Dericore, departing with a score of mountainous men. His ship already held a healthy host of experienced pirates who waited for them to join. Tillet was cackling to himself, quite pleased that it was his idea to triple the price.

As the men boarded the new ship, Alaric took a side on glance at Rivertrade as he ascended a plank to get onto the ship. Down below, he watched as a man with the sigil of House Malarin exchanged coin with a smuggler that wore tattered brown robes and a greasy beard. Four women in chains left the man with the sigil of House Malarin and followed the greasy brown-robed man towards his skiff that was docked beside The Tycoon. They were gone before he had finished stepping onto his new ship.

When the crew had finished settling inside their new trading galley, Tillet was scanning Joren head to toe, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re not fit to travel. I reckon we’d be better off leaving you at Rivertrade. You’ll only get the rest of us sick.”

Dericore held out his palm to calm Tillet. “No Tillet, he comes with us. We are his home.”

“If he gets our captive sick, then this voyage is for nothing. I say we toss him a sack of coin and let him be on his way. He’ll die soon anyways and floating the ocean’s bottom is not a worthy way to be honored.” Tillet’s tone was uncharacteristically calm, and Dericore seemed to consider the presented course of action.

“Joren, are you too sick to travel?” asked Dericore. Alaric followed Dericore’s gaze to find a sweating, pale Joren. His neck had black veins travelling up to his chin. His pupils were huge, and he staggered as he boarded the galley.

“I’m…coming,” he managed.

“Off with him, he’s too sick,” grumbled Heliot Sangrey as he finished tossing their coins and their silver cups from The Tycoon into their new ship.

“No, he comes with us. He’ll die out there without us.” Dericore’s word was final and the plank kicked off the ledge of the galley. Dericore ordered the ship to set off. The galley sat at the oars this time—men of Likt’s that he had provided to row for them. Tillet was seething to himself, rage contorting his face into a red cherry. Alaric was the only one who noticed, and he feared that rage. He dared not provoke it any further, if he could help it.

The ship provided by Likt Vosi unmoored from Rivertrade and was soon sailing smoothly along the green waters of the Draining Sea. The oars pushed the gushing waters away from its hull in a rhythmic motion. The sky overhead wept gently as the sun retreated behind the clouds. Dericore Badrme, Tillet the Terror, Joren Keltin, Mott Soulton, Saliske Granyon, Virion Elvesbane, Prysm Grail, Heliot Sangrey, and Kivan Kalmar were the new men on board The Skadskull. The rest of the men had been Skadjans turned pirates, and the two groups of men eyed each other warily as the Skadjan men took up the oars whilst Dericore’s men worked to settle themselves in.

The ship was much larger than The Tycoon and it held around five captives in addition to Alaric Aymon. Kivan Kalmar had been stationed up onto the crow’s nest with his quiver of golden arrows. Tillet paced from bow to poop deck, eyeing the Skadjan men with a thirstful look of murder in those sharp eyes. Heliot Sangrey took Alaric Aymon down below deck, Dericore conferred with the Skadjan captian, Joren heaved bile over the side of the ship, and Prysm Grail found himself wasting no time entering an argument with a Skadjan pirate regarding religion and whether the Blackwater Creed were justified in skinning heads as part of their rituals.

Alaric had been shifting restlessly upon the stiff, wooden floorboards in his cabin below deck when Mott Soulton found his way into the cabin. Alaric’s neck had a rope around it and the other end was secured to a resting Heliot Sangrey, whose ankle had the other end of the rope tied snuggly around it. Heliot’s eyes were closed and his arms closed, although Alaric was unsure whether he was truly sleeping. His legs were kick out instinctually as he hovered on the verge of sleep, and Alaric would be thrown forward gasping for air when the rope around his neck tightened threateningly.

Mott took a seat in between Heliot and Alaric. He had found himself some gin and so he took two large gulps from the bottle and then offered it to Alaric. The lord of Khudril waved it away, he had never enjoyed spirits or whiskey of any sort. His father had shown him the worst of his temperament whenever he drowned himself in his cups, and so Alaric had never desired to encounter that side of himself.

“You’re a calm man for one who is being shipped across the world as a slave. Gobblesfeld is no place for a lord.” Mott Soulton tossed the bottle back again, grimacing when the bitter gin skimmed over his tongue.

“What else am I to do? There is no escape when one is at sea. Unless I mean to drown myself,” said Alaric.

Mott Soulton puffed his lips out and nodded his head understandingly. Mott looked to Heliot, presumably checking to see if he was asleep. Alaric nodded his head affirmingly. The sound of loud orders being shouted above deck could be heard.

“What was it like…being a lord? Khudril is a tough place to be a lord I would imagine.” Mott set the bottle of gin aside.

Alaric paused a while, pursing his lips. Mott had always been friendly to Alaric, but something about him did not completely garner Alaric’s trust. He did not seem a smuggler. He lacked the violent edge that his fellow smugglers had in abundance. Even the silent Kivan Kilmar would kill upon command with his lethal range when his bow was in hand.

“It is not easy. My lands are difficult to rule. I was not supposed to rule as lord of Khudril,” said Alaric. His eyes had dropped to the ground.

“Why not?” enquired Mott. He was unabashed despite Alaric’s clear dismay.

“I have two brothers who had claim to lordship ahead of me. I was the youngest of my brothers.” Alaric had not spoken much since his capture, but a part of me inwardly welcomed Mott’s questions. It was refreshing to have a voice listen to him.

“Well?” Mott gestured for him to go on. Alaric looked at Heliot quizzically to see if he was still sleeping. A snore drifted quietly from his mouth and so Alaric breathed easy. Heliot had told him not to make a noise while he slept, or he’d yank the rope so hard that he’d never breath again.

“My father…he became sick when my mother disappeared. He blamed himself for it and drank himself into poor health,” Alaric’s eyes dropped again. “The Skadjans had done another raid on Splitter’s River right along our northern bank and I sent Crenjor, my captain of the guard, to lead a most of our forces to meet them. I had not realized that it was a distraction, and their leader secretly led a force of a couple hundred men into our capital. Ransacked our city…put our stables to the torch…burned our churches and the people inside burned alive…” Alaric paused, stifling tears. He shook his head as if unable to continue but Mott sat quietly, sympathy on his face. “Their leader at the time was constantly raiding our lands. His name was Qoran the Careless. He hated my father because he had killed his older brother, and so he wanted vengeance. He ravaged his way through our capital, leaving a wake of blood and ruin as he went, desperate to leave my father devastated. My mother had been riding in her carriage through the city at the time, despite my father’s wishes that she stayed in her chambers behind doors while Crenjor dealt with the Skadjans at Splitter’s River.” A few sullen tears drifted down Alaric’s cheeks. He peaked at Heliot; whose mouth was hung wide open, but his snores had stopped. Alaric adjusted the rope around his neck.

Mott appeared sorry for him, “What happened to your mother?”

“She was taken by Qoran and after that he just fled. He took her back to the badlands where we could not find her. My brothers were seething with hatred for Qoran, and they vowed to my father that they would find mother. I was too young at the time to go with my brothers, so I stayed at Castle Hildreth and did my best to serve my father.”

Mott pushed the bottle of gin towards Alaric who took a deep swig. He grimaced at its potency. “What then?” asked Mott. Dirt still speckled his whiskers, making his face seem dark and gaunt. The ship swayed jerkily from the current of the waters. Heliot snorted loudly but didn’t move.

“My father became too sick and the council voted that he be sent away. We sent an envoy with armed men to take him to an infirmary at Brindvale, but Qoran’s men had been waiting. They attacked the envoy, taking my father away to Drotia-Quth and into the City of Darkness, Dras Kloot. I do not like to imagine his suffering.” Alaric had pushed away tears and spoke bravely. Mott sat in silent admiration as Alaric took another large swig.

“In his last wishes as lord of Khudril my father had left me in charge as lord. I do not know if it was because my older brothers were still gone—in search of my mother—or because he had grown fond of me since I was his caretaker. And so, I became lord of Khudril, and I made it a priority to heavily arm our northern border along Splitter’s River, in hopes that Qoran would return.”

“Did he?” asked Mott. His eyes were wide with awe.

“Qoran never returned himself. Years went by. Eventually, my brothers sent a raven to Castle Hildreth. I had not heard from them for ten years since the day I became lord of Khudril. In the letter, the brothers explained that they had found Qoran in an abandoned orange cave in the Middigol wastelands. They claimed Qoran swore that he had my mother hidden somewhere—alive—and so they had made a deal. Qoran would deliver my mother to the front gates of Castle Hildreth as long as we would leave our northern borders unarmed, to allow the Skadjans to patrol those waters freely. It was a truce—of sorts.” Alaric was running his hands anxiously along his arms.

Mott grabbed the bottle of gin back and took a sip. He scrunched his face as he washed it down. The sound of orders from above deck could be heard faintly through the spitting rain and slashing oars. “Well…did they return your mother?”

It took Alaric quite some time to muster his next words. He gave a shake of the head to signal he could not speak. He would open his mouth, but the words would not form.

“Forgive me, lord Aymon.”

“Do not call me that. I am no lord here. I am your slave. Your captive! You’re no better than Qoran and his Skadjan scum!” Alaric was screaming at Mott now, and Heliot’s eyes flickered open. Heliot gave a yank of the rope with his leg and Alaric was flung across the cabin with hands grasping at the rope.

“Get lost, fisherman!” yelled Heliot at Mott. The fisherman scrambled along the floor of spilled gin to make his way above deck. Patience ran thin when Heliot was awoken rudely, and this time Mott and Alaric were the perpetrators. Heliot loosened the rope’s tight grip on Mott’s neck.

“You are right. You are no lord here, just as I am no knight. Your past is gone when you cross into these waters. The only thing you are worth to me is the fortune you will bring us.”

Alaric stared crossly at the giant of a man, Heliot. The stare was so contemptuous that even Heliot was forced to back down his glare. His eyes searched for something else to occupy them, but he found none as Alaric refused to back off his own glare.

“Who’s to say the goblins will not refute a fallen knight with shoulders as broad as an ox to do their work for them? Smugglers are known to befall one another, surely you must know?” Alaric’s teased Heliot in a tone that he had not known he had. “What are you going to do? Harm me? Choke me? Your captain would be none too pleased. I am worth a thousand gold and a thousand silver, and you think Dericore Badrome would overlook visible attempts to suffocate his prize? I guess we’ll find out, Heliot Sangrey.” Alaric’s hands yanked at the rope, tightening the rope around his neck so tight that his face went purple and his mouth and eyes gaped wide with grief. Heliot scrambled from his seat in a panic.

His hand withdrew his sax knife, desperately sawing at the rope that dug into the skin of his neck. Choking noises drew attention from above deck as Prysm Grail and Saliske Granyorn made panicked approaches from above deck.

“What are you doing?” cried Prysm.

“He’s choking him!” yelled Saliske, a plump man with fat hands.

“No, I’m—” Heliot had not finished his sentence when the bludgeoned tip of a pike drove down onto the disgraced knight’s head, sending him unconscious onto his back. Prysm finished Heliot’s work at cutting the rope from Alaric’s neck. Alaric gasped desperately for air, the color gradually returning to his face.

From then on it was Mott who accompanied Alaric. The lord’s hands were then bound behind him around a support beam of the ship in the cabin while Mott sat watch to make sure there were no attempts to escape or take his own life. Dericore had cursed Heliot initially and sworn he would have him sent overboard to drown in the black ooze that cursed the Draining Sea. He had eventually calmed down and returned to his senses, sending Heliot to the oars with the men that Likt Vosi had provided.

It had proven a pivotal move for Alaric’s spirits, who had grown to enjoy Mott’s company. The two spent hours swapping stories, talking of women and family and old memories of lives before their current ones. Heliot came below deck every so often to pass by the two, as his quarters where he slept were just beyond theirs towards the hind end of the ship below the poop deck. He would shoot a dark glance at Alaric, whose face would never flicker. Heliot’s head been bashed badly by the pike and so he had a dent on the top of his head. He earned the nickname Dent Head from the ship’s crewmen, but the nickname was quickly lost when one of Likt Vosi’s oarsmen had his neck snapped by former knight and was then swallowed up by the blackening waters below.

Every couple night a smuggler from Dericore’s crew would sneak his way into Alaric’s quarters to ask him questions. They were curious men who liked to ask all about a lord’s life. They liked to dream that they would one day be in his position as a lord of vast land. Alaric had not minded, enjoying the chance to pass the time and exaggerate tales of his days as a lord. Most stories had not needed exaggeration though, as the many raids along their borders were bloody ones from the Skadjans. The smugglers sat like a child, listening to Alaric explain the concept of a castle and having great lumps of gold and silver. Most were intrigued by the Osknian women, sitting for hours to hear Alaric talk about his fondest memories of his true love, Aslay.

He had come to know Mott Soulton like a brother, and he was good friends with Prysm Grail who had been the one that slammed the pike down on Heliot Sangrey’s head. Prysm despised religion, explaining how his father had been a Slabrakhi priest. Alaric had been curious to learn of the Slabrakhi faith, which was a faith that only existed in the badlands amongst the Skadjans.

Prysm explained how his father had led raids along the southern border of Osknia as part of a group of mercenaries called Leiger’s Warriors who operated under the faith. Prysm was quick to explain that the reason for the raids had been due to the beliefs that the Skadjans were the first ones to inhabit the world rather than the Osknians. Because of this, it was their belief that their God’s work was not done until they had taken back the continent and disposed of any and all Osknians. Prysm had come to despise religion because of this, and eventually deserted Middigol to become a smuggler instead.

It was not until many long nights later that Alaric discovered that Prysm had fallen in love with an Osknian woman, which he kept secret from his father until he found that his lover had been killed as part of a Slabrakhi raid along the Osknian nation of Omniat.

Another man who had enjoyed Alaric’s company had been a warrior of great renown, according to Mott. His name was Virion Elvesbane, although Alaric had never heard of him. He had been one of Middigol’s best warriors, but he too had grown weary of the growing influence of the Slabrakhi faith and soon deserted those lands to live a life of thievery and smuggling along the eastern coast of Osknia where he met Dericore Badrome at Rivertrade. Although he was a Skadjan, Alaric had put aside his contempt. Virion swore he had never raided Khudril, although Alaric had his doubts in his mind.

Virion would sit before Alaric with thick eye liner under his eyes and his black braided dreads that carried charms made of brazen bronze and gold—each charm representing a kill in one-on-one combat. He appeared an intense man, but Alaric soon learned he had a deep interest for the One Tongue, and Alaric would teach him the language of the Osknians and how to write in exchange for ale, food, and eventually some Gajra Thatch.

It was near two months that the ship had been at sea before Dericore Badrome had made his way below deck to visit Alaric. He would pass by occasionally just to ensure his token of wealth was still in fine health. Virion and Prysm would pretend to be keeping strict watch when Dericore would pass by, only loosening up once he was back upon the ship’s deck shouting orders.

It was around noon each day that Mott was clamber down below deck to give Alaric an update. Joren Kilten had finally recovered from his sickness after being exposed to the black ooze, although his hair had gone from a silky white to a thick, black bush. Tillet had insisted on sending him away on a skiff, which was a near guarantee for a death at sea, but Dericore persisted that Joren remain on board.

One particular day Mott descended as he always did but this time it was with extra haste and a look of panic in his eyes.

“Alaric! Alaric! There is trouble looming. A ship with the banners of the Blackwater Creed has been following us for near a day now. Dericore expects that they plan to raid our ship.”

“What are we to do then?” asked Alaric. His hands were no longer bound now, but he was guarded by three of Likt Vosi’s men who did not speak the One Tongue and so they sat by lazily, unable to comprehend Mott’s words.

“Dericore says we should prepare to defend our ship, but if they outnumber us too badly, we must convert and skin the tops of our heads.” Mott was speaking so fast that it took Alaric a couple seconds to soak in his words.

“How close are they?” asked Alaric. His alertness had caused some of the guards to rise from their seated places with their broken swords and dirks gripped cautiously in hand.

“They just began to accelerate towards us. They had been watching us for—”

Mott’s words were interrupted when the ship lurched wildly, sending the three guards to the ground and their dirks clattered noisily to the wooden floorboards.

“What was that?” asked Alaric.

Mott tossed him a curved sickle sword. “It’s them. They’re here.”