LITMIR.BIZ

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returned deflowered to her father, the king, after getting his weight in gold.

      “Well, we could tell the men what was what, cap’n.”

      “A secret, Pettit, is kept by one man. Even sharing it between the two of us endangers it. Telling a whole crew?” Raithen shook his head and tried not to wince when his neck pained him. “That would be stupid.”

      Pettit frowned. “Well, somethin’ has to be done. Them priests has discovered a door down there in them warrens. An’ if the past behavior of them priests is anythin’ to go by, they ain’t a-gonna let us look at what’s behind it none.”

      “A door?” Raithen turned to his second-in-command. “What door?”

      The big pirate, Lon, attacked Darrick Lang without any pretense at skilled swordplay. He just fetched up that huge sword of his in both hands and brought it crashing down toward Darrick’s head, intending to split it like an overripe melon.

      Thrusting his cutlass up, knowing there was a chance that the bigger sword might shear his own blade but having no other choice for defense, Darrick caught the descending blade. He didn’t try to stop the sword’s descent, but he did redirect it to the side, stepping to one side as he did because he expected the sudden reversal the pirate tried. He didn’t entirely block the blow, though, and the flat of the blade slammed against his skull, almost knocking him out and leaving him disoriented.

      Working on sheer instinct and guided by skilled responses, Darrick managed to lock his opponent’s blade with his while he struggled to hold on to his senses. His vision and hearing faded out, as the world sometimes did between slow rollers when Lonesome Star followed wave troughs instead of cutting through them.

      Recovering a little, Lon shoved Darrick back but didn’t gain much ground.

      Moving with skill and the dark savagery that filled him any time he fought, Darrick took a step forward and headbutted the pirate in the face.

      Moaning, Lon stumbled back.

      Darrick showed no mercy, pushing himself forward again. Obviously employing all the skill he had just to keep himself alive, the pirate kept retreating, stumbling and tripping over the broken terrain as he tried to walk up the incline behind him. Only a moment later, he went too far.

      As though from a great distance, Darrick heard the man’s boots scrape in the loose dirt, then the man fell, flailing and yelling, in the end wrapping his arms about his head. Ruthless and quick, Darrick knocked the pirate’s blade from his hand, sending the big sword spinning through the air to land in the dense brush a dozen yards away.

      Lon held his hands up. “I surrender! I surrender! Give me mercy!”

      But, dazed as he was from the near miss of the sword, mercy was out of Darrick’s reach. He remembered the bodies he’d seen in the flotsam left by the plunderers who had taken the Westmarch ship. Even that was hard to hang on to, because his battered mind slipped even farther back into the past, recalling the beatings his father had given him while he was a child. The man had been a butcher, big and rough, with powerful, callused hands that could split skin over a cheekbone with a single slap.

      For a number of years, Darrick had never understood his father’s anger or rage at him; he’d always assumed he’d done something wrong, not been a good son. It wasn’t until he got older that he understood everything that was at play in their relationship.

      “Mercy,” the pirate begged.

      But the main voice that Darrick listened to was his father’s, cursing and swearing at him, threatening to beat him to death or bleed him out like a fresh-butchered hog. Darrick drew back his cutlass and swung, aiming to take the pirate’s head off.

      Without warning, a sword darted out and deflected Darrick’s blow, causing the blade to cut into the earth only inches from the pirate’s arm-wrapped head. “No,” someone said.

      Still lost in the memory of beatings he’d gotten at his father’s hands, the present overlapping the past, Darrick spun and lifted his sword. Incredibly, someone caught his arm before he could swing and halted the blow.

      “Darrick, it’s me. It’s me, Darrick. Mat.” Thick and hoarse with emotion, Mat’s voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s me, damn it, leave off. We need this man alive.”

      Head filled with pain, vision still spotty from the pirate’s blow, Darrick squinted his eyes and tried to focus. Forced out as he made his way to the present reality, memory of those past events left with reluctance.

      “He’s not your father, Darrick,” Mat said.

      Darrick focused on his friend, feeling the emotion drain from him, leaving him weak and shaking. “I know. I know that.” But he knew he hadn’t, not really. The pirate’s blow had almost taken away his senses. He took in a deep breath and struggled to continue clearing his head.

      “We need him alive,” Mat said. “There’s the matter of the king’s nephew. This man has information we can use.”

      “I know.” Darrick looked at Mat. “Let me go.”

      Mat’s eyes searched his, but the grip on his swordarm never wavered. “You’re sure?”

      Looking over his friend’s shoulder, Darrick saw the other sailors in his shore crew. Only old Maldrin didn’t seem surprised by the bloodthirsty behavior Darrick had exhibited. Not many of the crew knew of the dark fury that sometimes escaped Darrick’s control. It hadn’t gotten away from him for a long time until tonight.

      “I’m sure,” Darrick said.

      Mat released him. “Those times are past us. You don’t ever have to revisit them. Your father didn’t follow us from Hillsfar. We left him there those years ago. We left him there, and good riddance, I say.”

      Nodding, Darrick sheathed the cutlass and turned from them. He swept the horizon with his gaze, conscious of Mat’s eyes still on him. The fact that his friend didn’t trust him even after he’d said he was all right troubled and angered him.

      And he seemed to hear his father’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears, pointing out his helplessness and lack of worth. Despite how far he’d pushed himself, even shoving himself up through the Westmarch Navy ranking, he’d never been able to leave that voice behind in Hillsfar.

      Darrick took a deep, shuddering breath. “All right, then, we’d best get at it, lads. Maldrin, take a couple men and fetch us up some water, if you please. I want this bonfire wetted so it can’t go up by design or by mistake.”

      “Aye, sir,” Maldrin responded, turning immediately and pointing out two men to accompany him. A quick search through the guards’ supplies netted them a couple of waterskins. After emptying the waterskins over the pitch blend torch, they set out for the cliff’s edge at once to get more water to finish the job.

      Turning, Darrick surveyed the big pirate as Mat tied his hands behind his back with a kerchief. “How many of you were on guard here?” Darrick asked.

      The man remained silent.

      “I’ll not trouble myself to ask you again,” Darrick warned. “At this point, and take care to fully understand what I’m telling you here, you’re a better bargain to me dead than you are alive. I don’t look forward to trying to complete the rest of my mission while bringing along a prisoner.”

      Lon swallowed and tried to look defiant.

      “I’d believe him if I were ye,” Mat offered, patting the pirate on the cheek. “When he’s in a fettle like this, he’s more likely to have ye ordered thrown off the mountain than to keep ye alive an’ hope ye know some of the answers to whatever questions he might have.”

      Lying on the ground as he was, Darrick knew it was hard for the pirate to feel in any way in control of the situation. And Mat’s words made sense. The pirate just didn’t know Mat wouldn’t let Darrick act on an impulse like that. Anyway, the loss of control was behind him, and Darrick

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