Geran risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Moonshark’s crew was boiling up out of their quarters under the main deck, most with knives, belaying pins, or boarding pikes in hand. They gaped at the spectacle of their captain fighting for his life then started to close in behind Geran-until Sarth raised his arms and wove a fence of lightning across the deck. “This is between Aram and Narsk!” he shouted. “No one else is to interfere!”
The corsairs halted, unsure about whether or not they should intervene, and were dissuaded in any event by the sudden revelation of Sarth’s magic. Narsk roared in fury when he realized that his crew would not cut down his challenger. “You miserable rrrats!” he screamed. “You will all pay for your cowardice!” He threw himself at Geran recklessly, pounding his mace against his foe with a furious barrage of overhand blows.
Geran parried or dodged the blows, although one carried through his block with enough power to drive the back of his cutlass-fortunately not sharpened-into his left shoulder, almost buckling him to the deck. Narsk snarled and redoubled his effort, but this time Geran deflected the mace past him and stepped aside. The gnoll was left off balance and stumbled forward as his mace head brushed the deck. Geran spun in the opposite direction and took off Narsk’s head with one clean cut to the back of the neck. The body crashed heavily to the deck, and the head rolled into the companionway leading down to the crew quarters, disappearing down the steps with several dull thuds.
A stunned silence fell over the crew of Moonshark. They stared down at Narsk’s body, and then they stared at Geran.
We lost the longboat, Geran, Hamil told him. The halfling stood next to Sarth, a pair of daggers in his hands. It slipped from the davit when the trouble started. I sincerely hope you have another plan in mind!
The Northman Skamang pushed his way to the front of the crew and fixed his eyes on Geran. The blue tattoos on his face seemed to writhe and jump in the flickering light of Sarth’s crackling, spitting barrier. “Where’s Sorsil? And Khefen?”
“Khefen’s passed out on the quarterdeck, dead drunk,” Geran answered. “Sorsil’s somewhere astern of us, floating in the water with a knife in her back.”
“Someone had better explain why the captain and first mate are dead and your friends were getting ready to launch the longboat,” Skamang said. He hefted a boarding axe in his hand. “And soon, at that.”
Murkelmor crossed his arms in front of his chest and scowled. “I’m wi’ Skamang,” the dwarf said. “I’d like t’ know what in th’ Nine Hells you’re about, Aram.”
Geran stared back at the two pirates and tried to think of something to say. He was not a good liar, and he knew it. Fortunately, Hamil knew it as well, and the halfling had a knack for thinking quickly in situations such as this. Blame it on Sorsil! That’s the best chance I can see, the halfling said to him. Geran glanced over and found Hamil kneeling by Narsk’s body, quietly checking the gnoll’s pockets.
The halfling offered a small shrug and nodded in the direction of the rest of the crew. I thought I’d better have a look, he said. There was a letter in Narsk’s pocket. I’ve got it now.
The swordmage frowned and returned his attention to the pirates confronting him. He let the point of his cutlass drop. “It was Sorsil,” he said. “She came up on deck and ordered us to put the longboat over the side. It seemed strange to me, but she didn’t explain herself, and Khefen was dead drunk. Then she went to the quarterdeck and sabotaged the rudder. I caught her at it and tried to stop her. Narsk came out of his cabin just in time to see Sorsil knifed and knocked over the rail.”
“Narsk didn’t give us much of a chance to explain ourselves,” Hamil added. He stood up from beside Narsk’s body and moved over to stand beside Geran. “He rang the bell and called all hands on deck, and then he went after Aram. His final mistake, as it turned out.” To Geran he added, Not bad, but don’t say too much more!
“Narsk is dead, Sorsil is dead, and Khefen’s naught but a fat, useless drunk,” Murkelmor said. “I’d like to know who captains Moonshark now.”
“I do,” Geran said at once. If he was going to try to bluff his way out of this, it might as well be a brazen ploy. He winced a little, realizing that he had no idea what that might mean at the moment. Before he could think better of the idea, he pressed on. “By the traditions of the Black Moon, I claim command. Narsk is dead by my sword. I’m captain of Moonshark.”
The crew muttered uncertainly. Some men shouted “No!” or “Not so fast,” while others cried “No, Skamang!” or “Khefen!” instead.
I hope you know what you’re doing, Geran, Hamil said. This’ll be another fight.
“He’s got th’ right t’ make his claim,” Murkelmor said. The old dwarf shook his head. “We all saw it. This is no’ the way it should be, but Khefen’s no captain, and Sorsil’s as dead as Narsk if Aram’s speaking true. My fist stands for Aram.”
“Mine doesn’t,” Skamang snarled. “I won’t follow some stranger who’s been aboard Moonshark less than a tenday simply because he bested the gnoll.” He pointed the spike of his boarding axe at Geran. “I say I’m the captain of this ship.”
Before Geran, the sixty-odd brigands, outlaws, cutthroats, and pirates who made up the ship’s crew stood watching him-and each other-as they waited to see whether he or Skamang would seize control of the ship. No one wanted to be remembered later for backing the wrong man now. Geran forced himself to put on a cold, confident sneer as he studied the ship’s crew. The appearance of confidence might be the difference between life and death-not just for himself, but for hundreds of Hulburgans too. He had to make the crew think he was as hard and deadly as a well-sharpened blade, or Skamang might succeed in overthrowing him. In that case, Geran had no guarantee that the Northman would let him live, let alone sail Moonshark in the direction he needed to go.
“A ship can’t have two captains,” Murkelmor growled. “It’s no’ possible.”
“No, it’s not,” Geran agreed. He fixed his eyes on Skamang, mustering every ounce of icy contempt that he could find. “Will you fight me yourself this time, or do you want to send your ogre to die in your place? My fist will stay out of this if yours does the same.”
“Your fist? All two ofthem?” The Northman laughed. “Drop that cutlass, let every man on this deck hear you call me captain, and I’ll let this whole thing pass. You and your friends can go ashore the next time we make port, with no hard feelings.”
I doubt that it would be that simple, Hamil told Geran. He’ll kill you if you give in now, just to make sure no one else thinks they ought to be in command.
“In other words, you don’t want to meet me with steel in your hand,” Geran retorted. If he could goad the Northman into a duel, he might be able to take the ship with a single sword stroke. He risked a quick glance over at Sarth, who stood near the foot of the ladder up to the quarterdeck. Sarth had a tight grimace on his face, but he gave Geran the slightest of nods. Whatever came, he would be ready.
Skamang’s laughter faded, and a hard edge came into his voice. “I won’t be in such a generous mood if you keep up with this nonsense. You might not care whether you live or die, but I’ll gut any man that stands with you and toss him over the side.”
“D’you mean to gut me too, Skamang?” Murkelmor said. The dwarf took two steps toward where Geran and his friends stood, and turned to face the Northman. “Aram’s got me fist at his back, if that’s slipped your mind. We stand wi’ him.”
Skamang scowled at Murkelmor. But then Tao Zhe stepped out of the crew and went to stand by Geran too. The old Shou cook’s footsteps broke the remaining indecision among the crew, and in twos or threes most of the rest of the men shifted over to Geran’s side. Only the half-dozen goblins and half-orcs remained by Skamang’s fist, and they began to mutter and shift restlessly as they realized that their party was now outnumbered.