‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’

‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’

‘How many guards does he travel with?’

Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’

The guards pulled truncheons from their belts – no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.

All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.

‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.

‘Don't think that's likely.’

‘I fear you're right.’

The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.

‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.

The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’

‘I thought I would do you the courtesy first.’

‘Well, to the Abyss with courtesy. Just shoot.’

Hesalt paused. What a price such a fighting man would bring! What a shame to have to kill him like a rabid dog. Still, he had earned death many times over and the hired crew were watching… He fired. The quarrel took the man low in the chest throwing him back against the gunwale where he slumped. Hesalt lowered the crossbow. What a loss! Still, if the other ten were anything like this one he might yet squeeze some profit from this debacle.

A low groan brought the slave master's attention around. Incredibly, impossibly, the man was now struggling to rise. An arm grasped the side, pulled, and he stood, quarrel jutting obscenely from his chest. Hesalt backed away, his throat tightening in horror. What magery was this? Did some God favour this man?

‘It never,’ the castaway ground out, ‘gets any easier.’ Ignoring the quarrel, he addressed Hesalt. ‘Now, yield this ship to me and no more need be hurt. What say you?’

The slave master could only stare. He'd heard stories of such horrors… But he'd never believed…

The castaway lurched a step closer. ‘Speak, man! For once act to save lives!’

‘I… That is… Who? What… are you?’

Snarling, the man grasped Hesalt by the front of his shirts and yanked him to the gunwale. ‘Too late.’ In one swing he lifted the slave master and tossed him, screaming, over the side. He turned to face the stunned sailors. ‘I am Bars. Iron Bars. I claim this vessel in the name of the Crimson Guard. Tillerman!’

‘Aye?’

Make southwest round the Cape for Stratem.’

‘Aye, Captain. Sou'west.’

‘Jemain!’

The sailor straightened, dread stealing the breath from him. ‘Aye?’

‘You are first mate.’

Jemain wiped the cold sweat from his face, swallowed. ‘Aye, sir. Your orders?’

A cough took the man and he grimaced at the agony of the convulsion. One hand a claw on the gunwale, he pushed back his shoulders. ‘Get my men conscious. The slaves can row for their freedom.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Now help me get this damned thing from my chest.’

From the top of the frontier fort Lieutenant Rillish watched the mob of would-be settlers, squatters and plain shiftless land-rush opportunists surrounding his command grow each day. By the fifth they must have judged their sprawling strength great enough because they sent an envoy to discuss terms. At the Lieutenant's side his sergeant spat a great stream of brown juice from the rustleaf jammed into a cheek and raised his crossbow.

‘Skewer the bastards?’

‘No, not yet. Let's see who's taken charge of that mess out there.’

They waited, watching, while a gang of twenty approached the gate.

‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.

‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’

‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’

‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have, would you? No messenger has come in – how long has it been now – almost a month?’

So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’

The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’

Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away… He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would-be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust. Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.

‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’

His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard now!’

Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’

The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’

Rillish considered ordering his sergeant to skewer the bastard. Damned Untan Great Families – they'd feuded with the Wickans for generations. Now they saw their chance.

And he was in the way.

To his sergeant Rillish asked aside, ‘You are certain you saw no soldiers out there?’

‘None. Adventurers, opportunists, squatters, shiftless frontier malingerers. Nothing but filth.’

Rillish drew off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hot here on the plains. Not like down south. Or like Korel. It'd been damned cold all those years in Korel. He cinched tight the helmet. ‘Pack up your mob and decamp and I promise you we will not pursue.’

The envoy stared, frowning, as if the lieutenant had gibbered in some foreign language. Then he rallied, flushed. ‘Aren't you aware of your situation, you ox-brained foot soldier? You haven't even enough men to properly defend your walls!’

‘And you haven't the belly for a siege.’

Raising his voice, the envoy addressed the entire fort: ‘You fools! This man has just thrown away your lives!’

‘Now I'm gonna skewer the bastard.’

‘Is the parley over then?’ Rillish called. ‘Because if it is, my sergeant here would very much like to shoot you.’

The envoy's jaws worked as he swallowed the rest of his words. ‘We are done,’ he spat and turned his back to march away.

‘What now, sir?’ the sergeant, Chord, asked beneath his breath.