Deadhouse Landing

This newcomer, however, trod the dry boards with firm and heavy conviction. When he entered everyone looked up: everyone being Lars; the innkeep, Funal; seven crew members from the three corsair vessels that happened to be laying over for repairs and supplies; and the notorious murderer, Shorty Bower.

The stranger – a great novelty on Seven Ruins Island in itself – was an old man with a lean face ravaged by age and scars. His hair and beard were long and ragged, and iron-grey. Even his eyes shone a sort of pale pewter. But most arresting was his habit; from some ancient hoard or pit the fellow had got hold of the most archaic armour imaginable. A long coat of fine-mesh mail covered him, dragging in ragged ends to the floor, where armoured boots peeped out. The cuffs likewise draped down over his wiry age-crooked hands.

A ridiculously huge two-handed chunk of iron at his side completed the costume.

Everyone stared at the apparition.

Lars was wondering: Where’d he come from? No other vessel had dropped anchor in days.

The fellow studied the room and everyone present, then looked to Funal and mimed raising a drink to his mouth. Funal blinked as he recovered from his astonishment and drew a stoneware mug of ale. The fellow’s face almost lost its scowl as he drank it down. He handed the mug back to Funal, and, in a clash of rustling mail and articulating iron boots, he approached the main table where most of the sailors were seated. They all peered up at him, curious.

‘I require transportation off this island,’ he said in a thick, strange accent.

The corsairs exchanged amused glances. One cleared his throat, sitting back, ‘We’re not a ferry service, old man.’

‘I will pay.’

The corsair’s lips twisted up in a half-sneer. ‘As I said – we are not for hire.’

The newcomer dug at his belt and came away with a leather pouch, which he held out over the table and upended. A glittering cascade of flashing rubies, emeralds and sapphires fell bouncing and clattering across the table in a display of the greatest treasure hoard Lars had ever seen or expected to see. Everyone in the alehouse stared, completely frozen, open-mouthed, enthralled.

‘All this goes to the vessel which transports me,’ said the man.

Torreth, of the Bright Spear, slid his narrowed gaze over to Grace of the Striker, who dropped a hand down to the horn-handled knife at her belt.

Patch of the Tempest suddenly swept a hand across the table in an effort to snatch up a swath of the gems. Dim of the Striker slammed a knife through Patch’s hand, pinning it to the table. Grace slashed at Torreth but he blocked her arm then grasped her throat. Patch yanked the blade from his hand and thrust at Dim who threw himself back so violently that he toppled backwards. Stinkfoot of the Bright Spear kicked him in the head.

Meanwhile, Shorty Bower, being a wanted murderer, had obviously reasoned that the stranger must be filthy rich and so leapt on to his back and attempted to draw a knife across his throat. The stranger somehow snapped up a hand to block the slash, grasped Bower’s arm, and in a display of astonishing strength tossed him across the room.

The table was kicked over, gems flying in a glittering rain, and the corsairs fell into a free-for-all, fists pummelling and knives slashing. Behind the bar, Funal, rightly blaming the stranger for the disturbance – or perhaps reasoning like Bower that he was damned rich – raised a crossbow and shot him.

The bolt glanced from the fine-mail coat; the stranger grunted, was knocked back a half-step, then closed on Funal, grasped his head, and slammed him face first down against the bar. Funal slid from sight behind the bar, leaving behind a bright red smear of blood.

Bower had somehow produced a long curved sword honed down to a sickle, what some might call a falchion, and came at the man, screaming. He was not notorious for nothing.

The fellow drew the comically huge two-handed blade at his side and proceeded to somehow parry Bower’s frenzy of slashing, thrusting attacks. Lars was amazed that the man could move the gigantic bar of iron so deftly; but perhaps the widely spaced hands on its long grip gave him the leverage necessary.

Of the corsairs, Grace of the Striker and Tampoor of the Tempest now circled one another. Both bled from countless minor wounds; both panted, exhausted.

The stranger flicked his heavy blade in such a way that it drove Bower’s falchion aside, then thrust. The archaic weapon actually held a point, and a good third of the iron was driven through the murderer’s torso and out his back. Shorty fell to his knees. The man raised an armoured boot to his chest and pushed to yank the blade free.