Free Voyage of the Fox Rider by Dennis L. McKiernan Page A

reavers back. Pirates were felled by Dwarven axes, hewn down in frightened surprise, and raiders were cut to ribbons by the cutlasses of the Elvenship’s Men. The fight was over and done almost before it had begun, the brigands slain on the decks or driven overboard by the furious onslaught, some to escape in the fog, others to drown thrashing and shrieking until dragged under the brine.
    And when the junk was cleared of enemy—“Take stock of our wounded,” cried Aravan, his call echoed by the bull voice of Bokar. And the Men and Dwarves turned to one another, seeking to find any who were injured.
    Of the Elvenship’s crew, only five had taken hurt, and of those, just one required more than superficial aid. “Hegen, thou wilt be up and about and back at the wheel within a half-Moon,” said Aravan, the Elf standing by as the chirurgeon put needle and gut away then poured a clear liquid over the side wound, the steersman drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
    “Aye, Captain,” Hegen managed to grit out, “two weeks or less, I’d say.”
    As Fager bound the now-sewn gash with a clean cloth wrapped ‘round Hegen’s waist, dark Jatu stepped to Aravan’sside. The Man was huge, o’ertopping Aravan’s own six-foot height by a good seven inches. Three hundred pounds if he was an ounce and none of it fat, his skin was so black it seemed tinged with blue, a color not found in his dark brown gaze. He was garbed in dusky leather, and brown goatskin buskins shod his feet. He cleared his throat, a deep rumble, and then said, “Not much in the way of booty, Captain—a bit of silk, some copper utensils, a few weapons, all inferior…and, oh yes, powder of the poppy, not very pure, the kind meant for smoking.”
    Aravan turned to the Man, the Elf’s blue gaze grim. “Burn it.”
    “The poppy?”
    “The entire ship, Jatu. Burn it all.”
    Jatu grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain. But shouldn’t we cast off before setting it aflame?”
    Aravan laughed a full-throated laugh. “Aye, Jatu. Burn it when we’ve a wind in our sails again.”

    The fog lingered for nigh half a day, burning off in late mid morn. Even so, the winds yet failed to blow, and the ship and her prize lay at anchor, a safe distance from the Dragon’s Fangs. Another night the doldrums loitered, but just ere dawn the silken sails of the
Eroean
belled outward, heralding the return of the air. Easterly it blew, a light westerly, the breeze channeled down the strait.
    Jatu looked up at the billowing cloth and smiled. “Bo’s’n, pipe the crew on deck. And have Tink wake the Captain.”
    “Aye, aye, Meestan Jatu,” answered the Man, a Tugalian by the name of Rico.
    Moments later, Aravan emerged from the aft quarters, turning his face to the breeze. He stepped to the wheel and grinned at his first officer, the giant black grinning back. “Jatu, set the spanker to help her to come about, manage the sails for a larboard run, then up anchor.” In the starlight, Aravan eyed the distant rocks jagging up from the water. “We’ll take her close-hauled into the wind for we’ve a bit of short tacking to do.”
    “Aye, Captain,” replied Jatu. “And the junk? Set her afire and cut her free, right?”
    Aravan grimly nodded. “Aye. She’ll not raid these waters again.”
    Jatu relayed the orders to Rico, and with a series of piping signals, the bo’s’n oversaw the setting of lines, Men running this way and that, unbelaying ropes and haling on them, all to a purpose—the turning of the yardarms to bring the sails around—the spanker alone slowly swinging the ship about, tethered as she was on her anchor chain.
    The junk was hauled astern, Dwarves tugging her aft. Bokar and another boarded her and splashed oil on her decks, then scrambled up a rope ladder and back to the Elvenship. Torches were lighted and cast o’er the taffrail and down onto the pirate vessel, and as the flames exploded upward the ship was cast loose, the breeze carrying her