The Mercenaries - Ed Greenwood [0]
The Double Diamond Triangle
Saga 03 - The Mercenaries
By
Prologue
Seven wet and bitter figures loomed up over him as he crouched in the grass, but the little man kept as still as a stone. Before him lay the curve of the Great Sea, its waves lapping fiercely at the coast of the Utter East.
The night breeze still smelt of burning wood and men, but at least the screams had stopped. As oily smoke bid the last stars from view, the flames dancing amid the rocks below found the precious smoke powder deep in the hold of the Kissing Shark and flared up in fresh fury, spitting spars and embers high into the air.
The seven pirates who'd swum out of the wreck on Skelder's Rocks watched in grim silence as the night exploded. Trailing flames, fragments of the ship hurtled high into the air above the wave-scoured rocks- only to plunge, hissing, back into the sea again.
On the cliffs, the seven turned away. They'd seen their shipmates die; watching them roast was an additional thrill none of the pirates wanted to taste on this darkest of nights.
"Redbeard will pay for this," one of them muttered, as they stumbled off through the tall, dew-slick grass together.
Behind them the sea shook, and a fierce ball of flames rose up into the sky with slow, ponderous fury. The watcher eyed those retreating backs narrowly, but none of the seven flinched or bothered to look back. His mouth tightened into a mirthless smile. Well. It was no mistake that the old ballad claimed all true pirates found their deaths through fire, sea, or sword.
He rose, like a silent shadow, and slipped away. Unheeded, dying flames danced red and glimmering above the wreck-and one by one, the stars came out again.
Chapter 1
A Night at the Masques
Red flames danced and curled like hungry serpents, hissing as some fool tossed the dregs of his tankard their way. They spat and threw smoke and then blazed up again in the smoky hearth that dominated one end of the taproom. The infamous Tavern of the Masques was crowded to the very walls this night, for it was the favorite refuge of the lawless wolves of the sea who called Tharkar their home port.
The city was a place of tight shutters and few torches, nestled in the mountains where Ulgarth and Parsanic meet and together run down into rocky, treacherous seas. Had a sober man been outside in the damp, dark night to raise a lantern and peer at the signboard above the main doors, he'd have seen the words Donder's Dancing Masques on a swirling banner carved beneath four linked black masques-but he'd have found no one in all Tharkar who still remembered Donder. The Masques was where nearly everyone in town came to drink and wench and boast and squabble-or they cowered well clear of it, especially on nights when ships without lamps or charter-papers came in.
Four such ships were creaking at the wharves of Tharkar this night, and not far away, the sprawling bulk of the tavern, in its field of tallgrass, was bulging with thirsty, sweating, heartily belligerent pirates. Inside the heat was intense, the tumult of roaring voices was deafening, and even the burly, battle-scarred guards at the doors and weapon-check rooms looked a little overwhelmed. They'd be calling in the Daggers before this night was through.
A guest had to shoulder and shove to travel three paces, and the doors of the kitchens stood open to let out the steam. The only clothing the cooks wore was tied around their brows, to keep stinging sweat from streaming into their eyes. One man silently watched those glistening bodies wrestle food over drums of hot spiced fat and wine-sluiced chopping boards. He sniffed the air. Around him the pungent, competing reeks of a dozen pipe-mixes mingled with the smells of sizzling stuffed boar, roast almonds, mushrooms fried in herbed butter, stagshead soup, and fowl doused in wine.
The sailors were ravenous. Seaports were the only places some could get more than drink, thin soup, and gnaw-fists of hardbread or salted fish. Right now most of them were doing their level best to take aboard all their