The Black Ring

Chapter One: Fortune and Blood

The Hunting Maiden rode atop the Sunset Sea with a summer gale at her back, her canvases stretched to their limit, and cyan sea hissing along her sharply angled hull. Her Drukerian crew knew their trade well, gliding across the pitching deck like hungry shades at the barking orders of their captain. They wore light ivory robes of cloth and thin blue leather hauberks to keep out the punishing sun, and their dark eyes glittered like onyx between the folds of white woolen scarves. They were racing against the storm with a whole load of cargo chained below, the craggy southern coastline and the mouth of the river leading to Vor Surya laying only a few miles off the bow. The wind howled hungrily in the scarlet rigging, singing an eerie counterpoint to the muffled scrapes and cries rising from the hold; the sailors laughed in quiet, sepulchral tones, thinking back to the revels of the night before.

Darius Nightblade stood at the reaver's prow, one gloved hand resting on the ship's rail as he watched the blunt towers of the sea chain rise before him. A heavy cloak of raptor hide hung from his broad shoulders, and strands of black hair spilled out from a voluminous hood to flitter and dance amidst the wind. The sun clawed at his face, and he furrowed his brow at its touch. The highborn Drukerian pulled a carefully folded silver token from his pocket and held it against his lips, breathing in its intoxicating perfume. It smelled of honey and fresh blood, the fragrance setting his senses on edge.

This is the smell of success, he thought, his cracked lips twisting into a cruel smile. The raiding party had been a gamble from the outset, and he'd pushed his luck every step of the way. With only one small cruiser, an equally minuscule crew, and a sluggish start hindering his efforts, nothing short of a rousing triumph would impress his allies back at Nul Archid. So they had lingered along Assanian's western coast weeks after their peers had set course for home. The former captain had complained bitterly about the turning weather and the damnable Atrean Sea Guard until Darius had put a blade through his stomach and threatened to take command of the Hunting Maiden himself.

When a gust of wind blew up in the dead of night off the shores of Darkholme, all had seemed lost, and seven sailors had vanished into the black waves while fighting to keep the ocean and drafts from dashing their vessel against the cliffs. But by morning, their luck had turned along with the gale; The Assanian coastal patrols had fared far worse than they, having been smashed against the stone or blown down the long inlet towards the pirate city of Devil's Bay. In swift succession, the raiders hit four villages along the coast and sacked the beaten fort at Monte-Carlo in four days of plunder and slaughter before escaping out to sea with a hold packed of slaves and three chests brimming with gold and silver.

He would see to it that his supporters were well paid for their investments; to risk the wrath of his family by borrowing the funds he needed for his voyage from other sources had been a risky strategy. But after being deadlocked for so long, it was a tempting idea to let the money flow through his hands like spilled wine, hiring assassins, tormentors, and retainers to revenge himself on his sisters and brothers. A chunk of him lusted for revenge, for violence, for murder and torments that lingered beyond physical suffering. The desire was sharp, like steel on the skin, and sent a shiver of anticipation along his spine.

I hope you're ready to see me now, beloved siblings, he thought, his eyes alight with malice. You'll pay for what you did to me. The water-stained deck squeaked slightly and heeled to starboard as the ship settled onto a course for the thin mouth of the river that led to the city of merchants. Closer now, Darius could make out the tall, blocky towers of the sea gate rising on both edges of the lean approach; a heavy steel chain stretched between them, hiding underneath the surface of the quickly-running water. Orange-hued sun clung to the rocky shore and the flanks of the tower in a warm embrace. From high in the ship's rigging, a sailor blew a hunting horn, its long, ghostly wail echoing across the surface of the water. There came no reply, but Darius's skin prickled as he peered at the thin murder holes of the two bastions, knowing that wolfish eyes were staring at him in turn.