The Red Sail

Kereb loved this weather. Most sailors, maybe even every sailor who ever sailed but him, despised sailing before a winter wind. Rime fringed the rigging. Frost and ice slicked the deck and everything a man’s hands had to touch. Even below decks was not entirely proof against a freezing squall’s bite.
Yet, as miserable as he and his crew might be, Kereb knew the pirates they were currently running down suffered far more. Skilled sailors they often were, but committed to coin and not a cause. The crew of his beloved Heartsblood and her squadron mate, the Pride of Ars, would endure anything at his command, and gladly. His prey, he knew, were cursing their own mothers at this moment. He would give them much more to curse very soon.
The chase was almost at an end. The pirate galley had done what they always do, the only thing they could do given the speed the Heartsblood could maintain. A brief attempt at a straight run to gauge the Haradelan’s power and seamanship and then an attempt to lose the larger ship in Erlen’s shoals. And that is where the Pride came in. She had lain off the lee of the island and now slid through the shallows to cut the dogs off before they could beach. Erlen had been neutral ground for centuries and for centuries, pirates who reached its shores before royal pursuit claimed neutral ground and waited out the law who could not station permanent pickets to keep them from slipping away at night. The Pride of Ars now made that ploy nearly impossible. Haradel’s newest ship had no appreciable draft and was built for speed. She carried the minimum crew and almost no cargo. She would tie up to the Heartsblood for meals and to make use of her stores. But today she raced through the water mere yards from Erlen’s shore and would easily reach the pirate before he ran aground. Or she would have.
A sharp call from the crow’s nest drew Kereb’s attention to a spot a half mile off Pride’s bow. Taking shape from the icy mist stood a Falkaaran war galley, raising sails and just starting to make way. With her sails doused, and Erlen’s ice-coated pines as a backdrop, she had been easily missed in the damnable weather. She was clearly attempting a similar move to the Pride, but in Kereb’s keen judgment, she would not make it. Not unless the Falkaarans were far better sailors than he would ever give them credit for. Either way, she stood directly in the Pride’s path. The Pride could not slip to her lee without running aground herself and if she passed her windward, the prey would outpace her to safe haven. It was not in Kereb’s nature to berate men for not accomplishing the impossible. The pirate would make the island. He focused on the Falkaarans.
“Signal the Pride to box in the dogs,” he commanded the bo’sun, using the simplest slur for those of the so-called sister kingdom. Their first king had been a wolf tribesman and for many centuries their enemies had referred to them as “dogs.” He intended to board the Falkaaran if she moved windward, and let the Pride do the same if she held course. She did neither.
Even as their signal flags ran up, the Falkaaran galley veered shoreward.
“Captain,” called out the bo’sun. “I think she means to make land.”
“Tell the Pride to follow. Haul out windward and drop anchor where he cannot leave without passing us, say…there,” he pointed to a spot off the shore to starboard. “Prepare the boats.”
By the time Kereb stepped into the surf of Erlen’s south coast, a strange scene had been set. The three ships were beached nearby, evenly spaced down the strand with three groups of men a little inshore. Clearly the Falkaaran captain had been talking to his pirate counterpart. Half the Falkaaran’s crew stood off to their right and most of the Pride’s crew and her captain stood off the same distance to the left. The pirate crew appeared to not have disembarked, likely cowering aboard. Kereb approached the two captains.
“Commodore,” said the Falkaaran, with a tip of the head. Kereb thought he looked a boy, but at least he knew his courtesy. The pirate displayed a mix of sullenness and defiance, a man trying to make the best of a very bad situation, with only a thin law of far away lands between himself and many swords.
“Captain,” Kereb answered. “I appreciate your help in running this criminal to ground. I will take it from here.” Kereb did not turn, but he could hear the boots of the crew of the Heartsblood splashing out of the remainder of his boats behind him. The dog was outnumbered badly and they both knew he knew it. Kereb was giving the man a way out. He hadn’t helped at all. Though clever, his ship’s lack of agility had prevented any of the three naval vessels from intercepting the rover.
Over the man’s shoulder stood an older mariner, her face carved in deep lines by wind and sun. Kereb assumed she was the Falkaaran bo’sun. Kereb could feel the woman’s eyes on him, studying. Does he know who I am? Do any of them?
“Commodore, my orders permit me to wait these men out. The law permits only three days ashore. Once they leave I will board them. Or they can surrender now. Either way, this vessel’s roving days are done.”
Kereb suspected the man believed what he said, yet he knew it was not true. The Falkaarans would try these men and if their captain, or some crime lord who commands them, had the right advocate or paid the right bribe, many would walk. Even more unlikely that the ship itself would not be right back to marauding before Spring. He felt his anger rising within him, a small but growing tide that caused him to set his shoulders in reflex.
Before he could speak, however, the old mariner stepped forward and whispered in the boy-captain’s ear. The other man did not take his eyes off Kereb, and when the whispers ended, he swallowed. There, Kereb thought, the bo’sun told him who I am. And who was he? The man whose ruthless pirate hunting matched any of their legends. The man whose father had slipped into the dark depths of the Inner Sea at the hands of dog-captains like this child who stood before him. The man everyone knew hated Falkaarans with an unquenchable passion.
To his credit, the boy-captain almost looked like he would stand his ground. He even started to form words, likely of rejoinder and counteroffer. Kereb almost casually placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. The words died on the other man’s lips. New words came instead.
“They are yours by right, commodore.”
“Thank you captain.”
As the Falkaarans began to move off to their vessel, the pirate captain suddenly spoke.
“Captain Veret,” he hailed, and the Falkaaran captain turned to him. “I request asylum in Falkaar.” And without anyone having seen how it happened, Kereb’s sword was in his hand and pointed at the raider’s throat.
“Close your mouth,” he said flatly. Everyone stopped moving. Veret looked for the briefest moment like he might reply, but then simply turned back on his heel and led his crew toward their ship.
Kereb lowered his sword and watched for a minute as the Falkaarans made short work of shoving their galley into the surf and sweeping towards open water. Then he turned to the pirate. The man’s fear only showed in his eyes. He remained motionless, neither fidgeting nor looking about to flee. With his back to his two crews, Kereb called out in a voice loud and strong.
“I claim this island for the Kingdom of Haradel!”
Silence. Kereb waited a seemingly very long moment before someone behind him shouted.
“Haradel!”
Others took up the call.
“Haradel! Haradel! Haradel!”
Kereb watched the situation dawn on the pirate captain. It pleased him that the man drew his cutlass. He parried the attack low and slashed him across his throat. He could hear swords being unsheathed and shouted commands from the pirate galley as their captain’s blood darkened the frosted sand.
His men started drawing their own weapons as Captain Laris of the Pride of Ars stepped up beside him on his right and the Heartsblood’s bo’sun on his left.
“Hang the ones you don’t kill. Burn their ship.”
He turned to the bo’sun.
“And get me a sail and spar.”