knows,’ Lenk whispered harshly to Kataria. ‘She knows.’
‘Who cares?’ the shict growled. ‘Stick to your plan.’
‘What? Shove her in, too?’
‘No, shove her over. She’ll sink like a stone in all that armour.’ She paused, ears flattening against her head. ‘It was my idea, though, so she counts as my kill.’
‘Deserters,’ Quillian hissed, ‘are the most grievous of sinners.’
Damn it, damn it, damn it, Lenk cursed as he watched her sword begin to slide out of its scabbard. This complicates things. But we can still—
Kill.
‘I suppose you would know,’ Denaos said with a thoughtful eye for the brand under her right eye, ‘wouldn’t you?’
Her shock was plain on her face, the kind of naked awe that came from the knowledge of a secret revealed. Her lip quivered, her spare hand going to the red ink.
‘You—’
‘Yes,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind scampering off to scrawl another oath on your forehead or something? We’ve got stratagems to—’
‘You . . .’ she hissed again, brimming with rage as she hoisted her sword, ‘you dare!’
There was a flash of steel, a blur of black. In the time it took to blink, the Serrant’s sword was out and trembling, its point quivering at Asper’s throat. The priestess’s eyes were wide and unmoving, barely aware of what had happened as two broad hands clenched her arms tightly.
Denaos peered out from behind her, grinning broadly and whistling sharply at the blade a hair’s width from the priestess’s throat.
‘Dear me.’ The rogue clicked his tongue chidingly. ‘You ought to be more careful, oughtn’t you? That was nearly another oath right there.’
Quillian’s eyes were wide, the bronze covering her knuckles rattling as she quivered horribly. Empty horror stared out from behind her gaze, as though her mind had fled at the very thought of what she had nearly done. It was an expression not entirely unfamiliar to Lenk, but it was usually plastered on the faces of the dying.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ She looked at Asper pleadingly. ‘I would never . . .’
This is it, Lenk thought, she’s distracted. Denaos has a grip on Asper. Time to—
Kill.
No, time to run. We have to—
KILL!
WE HAVE TO RUN!
‘Now,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Kataria asked.
‘NOW, GENTLEMEN, NOW!’
The voice of the Cragsman was accompanied by many others, boiling over the railings of the ship like a stew. The panicked cries of the sailors, mingled with Argaol’s shrieks for order, were hurled into the broth, creating a thick, savoury aroma that Lenk well recognised.
Battle.
Damn it.
Chapter Two
BLOOD AND SALT
In the span of a breath, colour and sound exploded.
They came surging over the railings in numbers unfathomable, the twisting wire of their tattoos blending together to create some horrible skeleton of black and blue outside the tide of flesh they arrived on. Their zeal was loud, joyous, the song of impending slaughter joined by the humming of their upraised swords and the clinking harmony of the chains they came clambering across.
‘Now, now!’ Denaos cried, lunging at the rigging and pulling a knife out. ‘We can still make it!’
‘What?’ Asper’s expression drifted from incredulous to furious. ‘You were planning on deserting?’
‘Oh, come on,’ the rogue protested sharply, ‘like you weren’t expecting this!’
‘I knew it,’ Quillian snarled. She shoved herself in front of Asper, blade extended. ‘Stay behind me, Priestess. The danger is not yet great enough that I cannot deal with a deserter first.’
‘I say, look lively, gentlemen!’
In the sound of whistling metal, the Serrant was proven violently wrong. The hatchet came whirling over the sailors’ heads, a bird of iron and wood that struck the woman squarely in her chest. A human gong unhinged, she went collapsing to the deck, Asper quickly diving to catch her.
‘Well, there you are,’ Denaos said. ‘Providence. Now, let’s go!’
‘No!’ Kataria’s bow was already in her hand, arrow kissing the string. ‘Even if we get that thing off, we won’t get far.’
As if to reinforce her point, a flock of hatchets came flying over the railings. The bold and unlucky sailors who had rushed forth to intercept the boarders went down under the sound of crunching bone and splashing liquid. The first of the boarders came sweeping over the railing, yet more of the thirsty weapons in their hands.
‘Dread!’ Kataria snarled, seizing the boy by the arm and shoving him forwards. ‘Do something!’
‘Right . . . right . . .’ He stepped forwards hesitantly. ‘I can . . . do something.’ He cleared his throat, then glanced over his shoulder to see if Asper was