Voyage of Slaves

Ghigno drank from the flask, then sat staring into the fire. Immediately he began to blink. He drank again, deeper this time, looking away from the fire. Picking up a stick, he tossed it, catching a guard on the back. The man turned. Ghigno mouthed the words, “Stay awake!”

The guard nodded and stood to attention. After another drink of wine, the Corsair found his gaze turning back to the flames. Then his eyelids started to droop. He yawned silently, allowing his head to nod forward.

Ghigno was almost asleep when he heard the far-off rumble. The air was still and close. Again the rumble sounded, this time slightly closer. With his chin now on his chest, he sought an explanation for the dull, rumbling noise. Probably thunder, they might be due for heavy rain before dawn. Ghigno fell into a slumber.

Magda glimpsed the firelight through the trees. It was difficult keeping the teams to a canter. She tossed her lighted pipe back to Katya. “Here we go, girl!”

Janos Cabar kicked her stallion into a gallop, cracking her bullwhip as her Istrani Wolves bayed.

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

They hit the camp like a sudden thunderbolt. Ned was howling like a wild beast as Ben passed the bombs to Katya. Touching off the fuses, she slung them, one at the fire, the other at the closest two men. “More, Ben, more, keep them coming!”

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

Musket shots sounded out; a man’s cloak took fire; explosions showered earth, pine needles, branches and foliage widespread. Two women leaped down from a cart. Grabbing the extra horses, they swiftly lashed two to either sides of the shafts and two in front. Jumping up onto the cart, they spurred the new team out of the camp.

Ben caught sight of the hobbled mare. “Poppea!”

Ned leaped from the wagon and ran to her. Luckily it was only a slipknot around Poppea’s front legs. As Ned dragged at it, the thing came undone.

The black stallion, Hari, was up on his hind legs, kicking and flailing out at guards on both sides. They fled from the steel-shod hooves, the whip that was like a deadly snake, snapping and stinging everywhere. Poppea took off after the troupe’s cart.

Katya hurled another bomb at the wreckage of the fire, and another which sent up a spray of water from the stream. Then they were off, rattling along the northeast trail. Ned made a spectacular leap, landing on top of Ben, and sending him sprawling in the back of the wagon.

“Howoooooyaaaaah!”

Even the Rizzoli Troupe took up the wild cry as the rescue convoy hurtled off into the night.

Behind them, the camp looked as though it had been struck by a tornado. Guards lay moaning, caked in sludge, many clutching injuries they had sustained in the whirl-wind attack. Some threw themselves headlong into the stream to quench their burning cloaks.

Ghigno had been blown clear of the canvas awning. He sat up, spitting mud and wiping dirt from his eyes, staring about vacantly. Crawling over to the smouldering shelter, he pulled his master from it. Al Misurata was unconscious. His turban hung in rags from his brow, blood oozed from an ugly wound to his right ear. The Corsair dragged him to the stream, and splashed water on his face.

“Master, Master, can you hear me? Wake up!”

After a few moments, the pirate’s eyes flickered. He stared at Ghigno, blinking to bring his face into focus as he croaked, “Whu . . . ’appened?”

The Corsair snatched a half-consumed flask of wine from a guard who was reeling about in a daze. He held his master’s head, allowing him to sip slowly. “We were ambushed by a crew of women. At least I think they were women. I saw the boy and his dog!”

Al Misurata stared at him uncomprehendingly; all he could hear was a noise like a high-pitched siren. He grabbed Ghigno by the arm. “Say again?”

Realising that his master had been deafened by the blast of the bombs exploding, Ghigno mouthed words, trying to suit actions to them. “Ambush, we were attacked, I see boy, Ben, and dog!”

Al Misurata sat up straight. He winced, touched the wound on his ear and stared at the blood on his hand. “Boy, dog, how?”

Ghigno was at a loss to say or do anything. He held the wine flask to his master’s mouth, but Al Misurata dashed it away, hauling himself to his feet. He stood swaying momentarily, then rasped out, “Find the horses!”

Ghigno dispatched two guards who looked reasonably fit to seek out their mounts. The pirate had taken off his waistband to bind up the wounded ear when the Corsair attracted his attention, mouthing, “What are your orders?”

The pirate cocked his good ear. “Say it aloud!”

Ghigno placed his mouth close and shouted, “Master, what are your orders?”

Al Misurata heard him faintly—his hearing was coming back slowly. He drew his sword. “They must die, all of them! Rally the guards, make sure their weapons are loaded and their blades are ready. We will hunt the boy and his friends down like dogs, but first we need horses, transport. Listen carefully, here is what we must do!”