There were no Minion warriors about. Not a single one. The fighters who were struggling alongside him and his fellow slaves seemed to be a ragtag, unorganized lot at best. Each of them fought with skill and abandon, as if every moment were his last. They seemed to have precious little fear of the demonslavers, and relished killing them, almost as if they all had personal scores to settle. Amid the blood, the screaming, and the clashing of weapons, Tristan found himself stunned and confused.
A trident came whistling through the air, to bury itself directly beside his head in the thick mast that stood just behind him. Instinctively he reached behind his right shoulder to grasp one of his throwing knives, only to remember that they weren't there.
Cursing, he finally saw the demonslaver that had thrown the trident. He stood a little way across the bloody deck, glaring at him. Sword in hand, the monster smiled and nastily beckoned the prince forward.
On impulse, Tristan raised his sword high and ran toward the slaver across the slippery deck. As he neared, though, he caught a glimpse of yet another slaver running around the corner of the wheelhouse, and realized he was trapped. Tristan knew he couldn't possibly take them both-especially without his usual weapons at his command. So he kept going for all he was worth, intent on cutting down at least the first of them.
Holding his blade in a one-handed grip straight out before him, Tristan ran in and roughly pushed the slaver's sword arm to one side with his free hand. Then he plunged the point of his sword directly into the demonslaver's throat. He turned the edge of the blade sharply, then raised one foot and pushed the body off his sword. Blood rushed from the slaver's neck as he fell to the deck.
Tristan turned around as fast as he could to face the one rushing up behind him. If he died this day, so be it-at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken several more of the awful demonslavers to their graves with him. But what he saw surprised him.
A great bear of a man had come up behind the other slaver and taken it around the neck with one of his huge arms. The man's other arm was pushing on the back of the demonslaver's head, forcing it down and forward. Suddenly the man gave the slaver's head another forceful shove downward, and Tristan heard the neck snap like a dry tree branch. Then the giant picked up the dead body and threw it a good five meters across the deck, as if it weighed nothing. Tristan couldn't help but stand speechless for a moment, looking into the eyes of the fighter who had just saved his life.
He was the largest human being the prince had ever seen-even taller and heavier than most of the Minion warriors. Easily topping seven feet, he wore torn, bloody breeches and nothing else-no shoes, shirt, or weapons of any kind. He seemed to be a bit older than Tristan, and his eyes were dark. His head was clean-shaven, and his hugely muscular body was covered with scars of every description, one of which ran diagonally down across his forehead, over his left eye, and onto his cheek.
Tristan watched in awe as yet another demonslaver, his sword held high, rushed toward the giant. With a speed Tristan would have thought impossible for one so large, the man turned and grabbed the slaver's sword arm, giving it a sharp twist. The arm broke, blood and splintered bone erupting through the white skin. As the slaver screamed in agony, the giant picked him up easily and then let him fall straight down onto his raised right knee. Then he lifted the dead body up into his arms as if it, too, were weightless, and it went flying across the deck.
After giving the prince an expressionless look, the giant turned away, searching for another victim.
Tristan looked around but could find no immediate enemy. The battle was clearly subsiding, and it seemed that his mysterious saviors had won the day. Exhausted, chest heaving, Tristan lowered his sword.
His first impulse was to find the Sojourner, but clearly she was not here. Turning to the east, he squinted into the sun and let his gaze pan across the horizon. Finally he found it: The white speck of sail in the far-off distance that meant Krassus and his herbmistress had escaped. Angrily he turned back to the now-quiet battle scene.
Bodies-human and demonslaver alike-lay everywhere in impossible poses. The Wayfarer and the Stalwart lay low in the sea, and the fires upon them were still flaring up here and there. Groups of the still-unidentified crew were busy trying to put them out before the flames licked their way over to their own ships. Weapons, bone, and organs littered the decks, which were awash in blood. Slaves walked vacantly amid the carnage, staring at nothing. Others simply sat on the bloody decks, sobbing in horror and gratitude. Some of the victorious fighters were already looting the two slave ships, loading their bounty of humans, food, and water aboard the three mysterious frigates.
In one corner of the aft deck of the Wayfarer, part of the crew that had saved them were busy lining up the surviving captive slavers, forcing them to their knees, and beheading them one by one. The bodies and heads were thrown overboard. Drawn by the blood, packs of sharks had begun to form, their dorsal fins curving ominously through the waves.
At first Tristan's heart recoiled at the casual beheading of the demonslavers, and he gave momentary thought to trying to stop it. But then he remembered that he wasn't in charge here. He finally decided that after witnessing all of the brutality the slavers were capable of, he simply didn't care what happened to them.
He walked on, deciding that he had to discover who was in command. Surely this group of saviors would have a captain, and Tristan was anxious to meet him.
Then one of the men who had helped free them began rounding up the slaves. In a firm, controlled voice he told them to walk to the bow deck of The People's Revenge, the ship still barring their way. There they were to await further orders. Tristan soon found himself among a trudging crowd of slaves as the pitiful mass of humanity slowly made its way across a gangplank and aboard the mysterious frigate.
The crowd quickly became huge, and at first Tristan couldn't see what was occurring. After a time he could tell that the slaves were being asked to come forward one by one, to be viewed by the captain, who was seated in a red-upholstered, high-backed chair that had been brought up on deck. After the captain had carefully looked at a slave, he would then motion him or her to one side, to receive food, water, and better clothing.
Tristan desperately wanted to tell the captain who he was and request that he take him to Tammerland as soon as possible. However, he was reticent about revealing his identity to a stranger. As he neared, he decided to ask for a private meeting.
At last Tristan's turn arrived. He stepped forward, he looked up, and his jaw dropped.
The captain was a woman.
Stunned, Tristan looked again. He had at first mistaken her for a man, due to her short hair and manner of dress. She sat very casually in the high-backed chair, with one long leg thrown up over one of its arms. She wore battered black knee boots. Tight breeches of brown and tan vertical stripes ran high up her waist, ending just short of her breasts. One of the demonslaver's short swords hung low on her hips, from a wide leather belt that stretched suggestively from the top of the right hip to the lower part of the left. Blood still dripped from its hilt, telling Tristan that she had done more than simply give orders this day. Her stiff, brown leather jacket was buttoned about halfway up. It was topped with an open, equally stiff collar that ran up around the back of her neck in a semicircle that reached almost as high as her earlobes.
Her face was pretty, but also conveyed a strong sense of power. Dark, fine brows, arched over large, expressive blue eyes with exceptionally long lashes. Her nose was short and straight; her lips were red and full. The unusually short, dark brown hair was some sort of outrageous, urchinlike affair that went every which way. It was almost as though she either had no conception of how to wear it, or didn't much care how it looked. For some reason, Tristan thought it was the latter. From each of her earlobes dangled large gold hoops. The scarred giant who had saved Tristan's life stood obediently by her side, his arms folded over his great, barrel chest.