blink. Here was a human who had killed her people. Here was a human who had committed the one sin all shicts were sworn to avenge. Here was a human who could be one less slayer of her tribeskin, a human the world wouldn’t miss.
They can always make more, she thought.
‘Do it,’ the Serrant hissed.
Kataria’s hand moved in response, wrapping around the Serrant’s wrist.
‘Don’t be such a whiner,’ the shict grunted, straining with the effort of hauling up the bronze-clad woman. ‘Just because,’ she paused to breathe, ‘I took my time,’ she gasped, ‘Riffid Alive, but you’re heavy.’
Suddenly she paused, as the woman’s chest rose just above the basket’s edge.
‘Wait a moment, how many did you say that last one was worth?’
‘What?’ Hate vanished in a moment of puzzlement in Quillian’s eyes.
‘When the ships collided,’ Kataria repeated, ‘how many was that worth? How many did I kill?’
‘I don’t know,’ the Serrant snarled, ‘I was a bit busy nearly falling to my death.’
‘Just take a guess.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ She drew in a breath through her teeth. ‘You killed . . . perhaps eight heathens.’
‘EIGHT?’
Quillian’s shriek was short and brief as the shict released her. She came to a sudden, jerking halt, her bronze fingers digging deeper into the wood to suspend herself. A staggering gasp that sounded as though the woman’s stomach was on the verge of spilling out of her mouth went unheeded by Kataria.
‘That had to be fifteen,’ Kataria protested sharply, ‘at least twelve.’
‘You’re delusional,’ Quillian growled in response. ‘Eight is being generous. You didn’t do more than shoot one man and send a few others into the sea.’
‘In a chunky jam I sent them! Give me a better number!’
‘Lying is a sin in the eyes of all Gods.’
‘Then you’d better cut it out before I send you to meet them.’
Until that moment, it hadn’t truly occurred to Kataria that she was prepared to send the woman to her death for refusing to concede a few extra Kou’ru when she hadn’t been willing to condemn her for supposedly killing her own tribesmen. It bothered her little; whether by righteous vengeance or petty numbers, still one less human.
If, Kataria told herself, she continues to act in such a human manner.
‘Do you concede?’
‘Not a chance,’ Quillian snapped back.
‘Lovely.’ The shict put on a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Bid your smelly Gods good day on behalf of Riffid for me.’
She turned about, folding her arms over her chest. She could resume shooting in a moment, when this particular distraction was over. Absently, she scratched her flank as she waited for the sound of bronze grinding against wood, gulls crying above the inevitable shriek, a pompous melon exploding in a barrel.
Either that or a plea for mercy. They’d be equally satisfying.
‘Shict,’ Quillian gasped.
So soon? Kataria resolved not to turn just yet; that would be too easy.
‘Shict!’
She can hold on for a few more moments . . . or not.
‘Damn it, you long-eared vagrant! Something’s happening below!’
Kataria’s ears twitched. The Serrant’s concerns were confirmed in a cry of pain from a familiar voice. She whirled about, leaning over the dangling woman to peer at what was occurring below.
What had begun as a melee had degenerated into a matter of swaths: swaths fleeing before Gariath as he tore through the ranks of the pirates, swaths collapsing before Dreadaeleon’s fiery hands as his arcane chant went unchallenged.
‘That hardly counts as a “happening”,’ the shict sneered. ‘I’ve already killed as many as they have.’
‘Not that, you imbecile!’ Quillian pointed a bronze finger across the deck.
Kataria’s eyes widened immediately, ears pricking up in alarm at the sight. The greatest swath of all lay at the Riptide’s helm, the sailors who had been guarding it now cast to the timbers like scythed wheat. The figure of Rashodd was immense amidst the carnage, wading unhurriedly up the steps towards the sole figure, short and wiry, standing in his way.
‘Lenk,’ she whispered.
Her arrow was up and nestled in the bowstring in an instant, aimed squarely for Rashodd’s massive back. The pirate, however, seemed less than interested in standing still and suddenly twisted, drawing up beside Lenk, uncomfortably close. Even as wiry as he was, as skilled as she was, and as massive as the Cragsman was, her fingers quivered.
No, she resolved at that moment. She would not add Lenk to her score. Besides, she reasoned, a shot from such a distance into a man of Rashodd’s girth had no guarantee to kill. To waste arrows on a single Kou’ru, no