"All right, fletcher. Get your bow and get right back here." The first mate cupped her hands over her small, cruel mouth. "All archers to the starboard rail. Bring your weapons."
The cry was relayed around the cog, and John listened to men and women grumble as they gathered up their weapons from the spots where they slept. The fletcher took his longbow from his bed near the bowsprit and returned to the first mate's side.
Much of the ship's attention was focused on the little boat as the sailor and the cleric made their way across to the Turmish ship, then boarded her. Only the gold-haired priest climbed up to the carrack's deck. The few mottled seabirds that had gathered along the rails scattered into the air when he got close. Squawking and screeching angrily, the birds circled over the two ships. A few of the men attempted to shoot the scavengers out of the sky, but the first mate swiftly ordered the men who'd fired at the birds be put to hard labor for the afternoon. John simply frowned at the waste of good arrows for impromptu target practice.
After a few moments the priest appeared at the Ouroboros's rail and waved to the Sarnath. "No one left alive," someone muttered behind John. The fletcher was thinking the very same thing.
The Sembian sailor rowed the small boat back to the Sarnath faster than he had rowed away from her. The priest seemed to be bowed in prayer the entire way back.
"Well?" the captain asked when the ship's boat got near. "What did you find?"
The priest tried to stand, but the boat rocked so much that he nearly tumbled into the sea. His companion grabbed him by the hem of his scarlet robe and yanked him back to a sitting position. From their erratic, almost frantic actions, it seemed clear that both men had been frightened by what had been discovered on the abandoned carrack.
"Plague," the priest replied at last. He took his holy symbol-a wooden disk painted a rosy pink-and rubbed it between his hands. "They're all dead."
A rumble of concern and fear ran along the rail, as those who heard the priest's report discussed it with their neighbors. The first mate cursed and spat into the water. "Well, Captain," she said at last, "there's not much doubt about what we should do now."
Again the captain nodded. "Not much doubt at all."
The two men in the boat couldn't hear the discussions held at normal levels onboard the ship, but they must have sensed something was wrong. They both grabbed for the oars and attempted to push the small boat closer to the black-hulled Sembian cog.
The first mate turned to Razor John. "Kill both the sailor and the priest, fletcher."
John gasped. "No!" he said, outrage in his voice.
The first mate raised her callused hand as if she were going to strike the fletcher, then she stopped. "Those men have been exposed to plague," she hissed. "Kill them before they get aboard, or we'll end up just like the Ouroboros."
The comment stopped John cold. He stared out at the two men in the small boat, then thought of a plague spreading through the ship, killing everyone on the Sarnath. I'll die, too, he realized. And Kiri. That thought, above all, disturbed him terribly.
He met the cold, hard gaze of the first mate. "Why me?"
She smiled a malevolent, evil grin. "Because you're a soldier now, Cormyrian, and I'm an officer. You do what I say. Besides, do you want a ship full of crusaders to die because of two men? You won't beat the Tuigan that way."
Closing his eyes, John came to a decision. He hesitated for only an instant, pulling his black, fingerless gloves tight on his hands, then snatched a blue-fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it in his bow. The sailor in the small boat looked up just as John let the arrow fly.
The Sembian sank down, an arrow through his heart. The cleric wailed once and got to his knees. "I can cast a spell!" he cried. "I won't spread the plague."
"We just can't take that chance," the captain replied coldly. He turned his gray eyes to John and casually flicked two fingers toward the ship's boat.
The fletcher sighted the cleric's heart and pulled back on the bowstring. The fine cord bit into his fingers, then he let another arrow fly. The Lathanderite futilely tried to get out of the way. Instead of striking him in the heart, the blue-fletched arrow hit his shoulder, knocking him from the boat. He struggled for a moment, then sank. The cleric's wooden holy symbol was left floating on the surface, but soon it, too, dropped beneath the water.
"You eight archers to my right," the first mate yelled, "get some pitch and lob flaming arrows onto the Ouroboros. I want her fully engulfed before we leave."
After glancing at the still form in the boat, she turned to John. "You do your job well. Now all you have to do is get used to following orders." When he replied with only a blank look, the first mate added, "This is a war, fletcher, not a contest of skill at the spring festival."
Silently John walked back to the bowsprit. Along the way, a few sailors slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his fine marksmanship.
As he leaned back against the gunwale, the fletcher pondered why no one seemed especially chilled by what had just occurred. After a little while, he decided that the first mate was correct: he'd only done his job. Razor John wasn't proud of the task he'd reluctantly completed, but he went back to working arrows convinced that King Azoun would at least understand he'd killed only to save the ship and further the cause of the crusade.
The port of Telflamm was crowded with ships of every sort. As King Azoun scanned the harbor from the deck of the Welleran, he estimated that about two hundred vessels from the crusaders' fleet lay moored nearby-almost half the total armada. Boats of many sizes shuttled between the docks and the larger ships, carrying soldiers and sailors to shore. The piers were filled to capacity with cogs and carracks, which were being unladen by longshoremen. Crates of food and weapons, horses and livestock, even parts for mobile forges and supply wagons, covered Telflamm's docks.
"We're ready to go, Your Highness."
Azoun nodded. "Then let's be on our way," he said to Farl Bloodaxe. "Will we be to Torg's camp before nightfall?"
The general shrugged. "I don't know these waters very well. I would say more likely before sunrise tomorrow morning." The dark-skinned man shielded his eyes with his hands and looked toward the sun, which was now high in the east over the onion-shaped domes of Telflamm's temples and civic buildings. "Yes, definitely by dawn tomorrow."
"King Torg awaits," Azoun noted cheerfully, motioning for Farl to give the orders to proceed. The Welleran was quickly under way north along the coast of the Easting Reach, two other Cormyrian carracks following close behind.
Azoun glanced back at Telflamm once, then began a leisurely stroll around the ship. For the first time since the carrack had left Suzail-a little over a month before-the Welleran was quiet. Most of the passengers had been dropped in port so that extra supplies could be loaded aboard the Cormyrian tri-masters. This food and other essentials were destined for King Torg and his dwarven troops, and whatever soldiers Zhentil Keep had seen fit to send. Only a skeleton crew remained aboard the flagship, commanded by Farl Bloodaxe, who had won the men's support during the storm.
With Lord Harcourt and General Elventree secure in Telflamm, keeping the troops in line, Azoun had time to discuss the use of magic in the upcoming conflict with Vangerdahast. The king's trusted advisor was along on the crusade to supervise the use of the War Wizards against the Tuigan. Azoun had no doubts that his old tutor would wreak havoc upon Yamun Khahan's army given the chance.
"From everything I've heard," Vangerdahast had said during one meeting, "the Tuigan don't like magic very much at all. In fact, their permanent capital-if you can call a tent city a capital-is set up in a magic-dead area. Spells won't work there." The mage had stroked his beard then and looked wistfully at the flickering lantern. "A few well-placed lightning bolts ought to shake them up quite a bit."