Raeth pounded the strip of smoldering, red hot iron, alternately heating it over a small, pedal-blown forge and working it on a curiously shaped anvil. Satisfied, he pinned the metal to the anvil and then twisted it slightly with a pair of tongs. The tumbler, so intricate and precise, slowly came to life as he worked. He began tapping at it again, carefully now, with yet another hammer. Finally, he buried the tumbler in the glowing coals of the little forge. Each time he worked the metal, more of its impurities would spark away, finally leaving steel where before there had been only iron.

Raeth enjoyed his work despite the rigors of his apprenticeship to Jhold Mendynn, the master locksmith. Raeth wanted so much more from life than a mere, "respectable" trade, but for now, it would do. He was vain and well aware of his skill, which, for a boy of eleven, had already far outreached that of the other apprentices his age. 

His master, oblivious to the merciless racket that Raeth raised below, lay unconscious in the little bedchamber above the shop. Raeth did not mind his master's tardiness, though, for there were certain liberties to be had in being a drunkard's apprentice. When sober, Jhold sharply criticized every aspect of Raeth's craftsmanship, yet the old locksmith never failed to present it as his own work when dealing with customers. When Hold was drunk, Raeth was in charge of his own time.

In three years, when Raeth completed his eight-year apprenticeship, he would be eligible for the status of full journeyman locksmith. Once certified, he then technically would be free of Jhold. The hard, economic truth, of course, was that, once Raeth was a journeyman, his status would change from Jhold's ward, with its guaranteed food and lodging, to that of a wage earner who had to see to his own needs. As such, Jhold would owe Raeth nothing, and he would be more a slave than before, beholden to his master's grudging generosity: Raeth could have his wages cut, be laid off in the slow times, or be fired. Only the protections offered by the locksmith’s guild would stand between Raeth and ruin.

Raeth preferred not to look at it that way, of course. 

Once certified, he thought with a smile, I'll be free of Jhold Mendynn forever—free to make my fortune in the world. Jhold can starve, for all I care, and, without me to carry his workload for him, he probably will! 

Using iron tongs, Raeth pulled a nearly completed lock casing from the coals. It was black, yet in the shop's dim light he could see the ruddy glow that emanated from within the metal. He plunged the casing into a small cask of fish oil, and the fluid hissed in reply. Once polished, this piece would be complete, ready to house an intricate (and expensive) lock mechanism. In the empire of Aorlis, where skilled handiwork and ferrous metals both commanded high prices, true locks typically were reserved for members of the aristocracy, high churchmen, and the fabulously wealthy merchant princes. 

From the street beyond, a shrill whistle cut the air. It was Murt's standard rallying call, used to gather the gang. All prospective customers and ongoing projects were forgotten immediately, and Raeth, always ready for an adventure, closed down the locksmith's shop in record time. Jhold, lying comatose above, would never know the better. 

"Hey, Murt. What's the news?" Raeth locked up the shop as he spoke, hanging the key around his neck by a thong. 

The older boy, never quick to answer, regarded his Karmithian friend for a moment. 

"Gang meeting. Everyone'll be there. Come on."

Once upon a time...

The port town of Enlith, capital city of Burlamshire, had been Raeth's home all his life. He barely remembered his parents, for he was only six years old when they apprenticed him to Jhold the locksmith. That was the last time he ever saw them, for they never visited. Raeth grew up lonely, without parents or family, and Jhold took no other apprentices. As for Jhold, well . . . 

Raeth found no parental substitute in his new master, only a cruel taskmaster, and a grudging instructor. Raeth, in that innocent pragmatism unique to children, realized early on that his new master was a man bent on slow self- destruction; Jhold spent most of his evenings—and many of his days, too—fueling his depression with wine. He was not young when he first took Raeth in, but now, due to the locksmith's excesses, he appeared far older than his age warranted. It was Jhold who taught Raeth when to run, for the craftsman could be an abusive, angry drunk. 

Still, Jhold had been an able teacher, through example if not instruction, and, when sober, a superb craftsman. Raeth learned quickly, and from the age of nine on, he already was capable of many of the more sophisticated aspects of his craft, work typically reserved for full journeymen, not mere apprentices. Raeth felt challenged by intricate mechanisms of all sorts, and working with them came naturally to him. As Raeth's skill and productivity grew, Jhold worked less and drank more. 

When his duties were completed, or when Jhold was lost to the wine, Raeth would slip away and run wild with the local boys. Some of these lads, like Raeth, were derelict apprentices, while others were the children of the urban poor and laboring classes, the accidental sons of whores, or the orphaned children of sailors. Many of these boys were homeless, forced to fend for themselves or starve; they lived with the specter of death, and often were subject to the malnutrition, chronic illnesses, and parasites that were synonymous with life in large towns. For some of these children, the only means of survival was prostitution. (So precarious was this pursuit, however, that more than half of them ended up face down in the bay, their throats slit, half-eaten by wayward sharks.) Consequently, the roster of boys rotated regularly, and only the hardiest survived for long. Those rare few who survived to adulthood invariably became as tough as iron, bled free of the petty empathies that plagued most humans. These boys had a hungry gleam to their eyes, a feral light that promised little compromise. 

The boys gathered in mobs, loosely knit bands that fed off the city. If Enlith were likened to a moldy crust of bread, then the boys were the maggots, maggots who produced only flies. They vandalized, mugged, and practiced petty theft with near impudence, for in Enlith the law belonged only to those who could afford private armies or hired bodyguards. The boys, of course, were wise to the ways of the town and chose their victims carefully. They feared no one except rival gangs, and the intermittent gang wars that racked the port town were celebrations of sadistic desperation, fierce and bloody. 

It was rough going for Raeth at first. He was born of Karmithian blood, but the other boys (like most of Enlith's population) were born of Jotundgorn stock. The Jotuns were a tall, rawboned race of sea rovers; they were wild-eyed, red-bearded berserkers who made natural warriors. Karmithians, with their dark eyes and keen minds, were uncommon this far west in the empire. They were a small-boned, wiry people, easily tanned and sometimes a bit hirsute. They, too, made fine warriors, but theirs was an art of discipline, speed, and cleverness, not brute force. 

Boys who are different always have been marked for the worst kinds of attention, but Raeth was a stubborn lad. His short lifetime of hard work, abuse, and loneliness had earned him a heart like iron and fists like boiled leather. He never backed down from a fight, no matter how badly he was outmatched. Consequently, it did not take long for tales of his spunk and sheer meanness to establish his place among the bigger boys. That, and Raeth's swelling reputation as a poor loser, for he never admitted defeat, never gave up, and never gave in. 

The "captain" of Raeth's gang was a burly fifteen-year-old boy named Drak who had crooked teeth and dirty-blond hair that hung limply over his eyes. Drak remembered no parents and had survived all his days by his wits and meaty fists alone. His "first mate" was the taciturn Murt, a gangly youth who spoke little but was as rangy as a wolf. 

Raeth's initiation into the gang came when he tangled with Murt. It was a lost fight from the beginning, but one that Raeth was determined to win. Slowly, inexorably, the larger boy had pounded Raeth to within an inch of his life; the Karmithian boy called for no mercy, admitted no pain, and battled on long after his strength had failed him. Raeth had been a small nine-year-old, and Murt about thirteen and already quite formidable. Still, it was a noble defeat, and Raeth was part of the gang thereafter. It was a probationary membership, of course, because Captain Drak hated him; Raeth was a stupid Karmithian, after all, and not to be trusted. 

As the months rolled by, Raeth roamed with the boys as often as he could. The climate varied little on the coast; generally, it was comfortably cool and humid, with a salty sea breeze blowing in by day, and a warm land breeze blowing back out to sea by night. Thus, the gang was active around the calendar. Raeth's days, at least those when Jhold was sober, were spent at the locksmith's shop, and most of his nights roving the streets. 

Raeth's popularity among the other boys grew steadily. He never refused a dare, and he cowered from none of their antics. He pelted off-duty soldiers with offal, swam beneath the piers on the bay, stole food from market stands, and even knocked hidden holes in unguarded fishing boats. By now, most of the other boys conveniently overlooked Raeth's cultural heritage and considered him a Jotun but for an accident of birth. 

The underlying tension between Drak and Raeth never eased, however, and Drak's practical jokes almost always centered on the Karmithian boy. As 1196 passed (Raeth's second year in the gang), Drak grew taller, ganglier, and he even took to toting a fearsome meat hook that he'd stolen from a dockside warehouse's salt lockers. If it were possible, Drak grew moodier as he matured. Now, when the gang's captain called out his orders, his voice often cracked into a broken falsetto. 

Drak was absent more often these days, and no one knew where he spent his time. In Drak's absence, the remainder of the boys looked to Raeth and Murt for guidance. Drak and Murt now spoke little, and they were rumored to have had a falling out. Murt, despite his higher age and fighting build, now acted as Raeth's unofficial second in command, just as Murt still sometimes did for Drak. 

Some people, reflected Raeth, are born followers, just as others are born leaders. 

As the year gasped its final breath, and old St. Chroneoss looked to his rebirth on New Year's Day, Raeth came to believe that his position among the boys had nearly solidified—on the day he contested Drak for the captain's "chair," most of the guys would rally to Raeth's banner. He was tough and agile, and a real contender for Drak's position. As the Karmithian boy saw it, Drak's day had nearly reached its dusk, and the dawn of Raeth's was fast approaching.

Raeth and Murt spoke little as they ran through the streets. Their silence was not unusual, for Murt was closemouthed by nature. The two boys enjoyed an easy camaraderie, the kind of bond that can only result from once having fought each other, a tie of shared respect. Evening approached, and shopkeepers already were beginning to pack their wares away and load their carts for the long ride home. 

The two boys swerved off the street and into a close, which was a type of covered alley. As they did, Murt, apparently winded, fell behind. 

Thus, Raeth walked into Drak's trap. 

Raeth recognized the setup for what it was immediately. The gang, or at least part of it, was waiting for him; these were Drak's cronies, his favorites. Raeth turned to Murt, only to discover that the other boy now blocked his retreat. Murt, whom Raeth naively had believed to be his friend! Dully, Raeth knew that he had been betrayed. Counting Drak and Murt, the odds were their ten to Raeth's one. Nine of the boys, including Murt, quickly surrounded the locksmith's apprentice, drawing the circle closed. Drak stood deeper in the close, out of the way of the coming conflict. 

"Hello, Raeth. Glad you could make it," said Drak, his voice a gruesome parody of good fellowship. He smiled maliciously, exposing his rotting, yellow fangs. 

Raeth knew that his time of reckoning had come—he had to make his stand now or never. He vainly wished that the circumstances of this get-together were more to his choosing, but he just would have to make do. Boldly, with a swagger that felt unjustified, Raeth stepped forward, acting as if this were his meeting and Drak was the unwilling guest. 

"Come on, Drak. Just you and me—unless you're chicken!" challenged Raeth. 

"Forget it, you Karmithian turd—you’re not worth my time. Besides, I'll have my chance at you once the guys are through with you." Drak giggled and then barked in his broken voice, "Get him, guys!" 

The boys, grim-faced and determined, closed on Raeth. He took the initiative, his fists flying desperately; had he made a run for it, it would have been all over immediately. The first blow took Raeth in the ribs, and then a terrible free-for-all began. 

Fists assailed him from every direction, almost beating him to the packed dirt beneath. Raeth flailed back in blind fury, his small fists striking flesh more often than not. One boy fell back, his nose bloodied, but another took his place, his eyes narrowed with hate. Raeth, small and dark, fought with twice the intensity of any of the big Jotun lads. He swung wildly, missed his intended victim, yet still managed to take another boy in the throat. The gang's jeers filled Raeth's ears, and his eyes began to explode with rage. 

Suddenly, they had him, pinning his arms behind his back. Helpless, Raeth struggled like a cat hung from its tail, spitting mad. Not just a few of his captors felt his vicious kicks, but it was not enough. Raeth's curses fell on deaf ears, for the boys were alone in the close. 

"Hold him still," snarled Drak. "I've got just what this stupid Karmithian boy needs." With that, Drak reached inside his ragged tunic and pulled forth the hook. 

The Hook. Stolen from the wharves, it was wicked, curved, and pointy enough to wreak grievous harm on Raeth. Drak, reveling in his dominance, loomed above the captive apprentice. Although Drak had yet to fill fully out, none of the boys in the gang had had the guts to call him out or question his authority. 

None, of course, but Raeth. 

"So you wanted to fight, heh? You thought you were ready to take Drak's place? Well, I'll show you, you runt!" Drak raised the hook to Raeth's face, and the younger boy could smell Drak's foul breath, and see the blood lust in his eyes. The hook, made to snag sides of beef, crept toward Raeth's eyes. 

"Uumph!" 

Raeth's foot cleanly connected with Drak's crotch. The bigger boy collapsed in shock and agony.

The surprise was complete, and the ensuing chaos total. In that instant, Raeth's arms were free, and he launched himself forward with a new fury, this one born of fear. This time there would be no fight, just flight. Through the boys Raeth shot, his feet never seeming to touch the ground. Bewildered attempts were made to grab him, but all were unsuccessful. Raeth tore into the street beyond. 

Drak, huddled on his knees, his cheeks wet with tears, gasped for breath. 

"Get him," he finally croaked, "GET HIM!"

Raeth raced through the crazy alleys and muddy streets of Enlith. He ran around carts, vendors, and jongleurs, past laborers, teams of horses, and goodwives. With every backward glance, he saw more boys, all doggedly fixed on his trail. They swore, yelled, or pursued him in determined silence, but, whatever their postures, they all had murder in their eyes. If he were caught, Raeth had but one thing to look forward to—the hook. 

But Raeth would be no easy quarry, for he was very fast for an eleven-year-old. He knew every street, alley, and almost every empty building in town. But, so too did his pursuers. 

Raeth knew that it would be futile to flee to the locksmith's shop, for part of the gang would be lying in wait for him there. That left him only one other option. His heart pounding, Raeth lurched down the street toward the wharves and the safety of the docks. The shining Corlin Ocean filled the western horizon, so inviting, a promise of haven. 

Suddenly, Raeth's heart leaped into his throat! 

Two boys blocked his path. Somehow these, with their longer legs or superior knowledge, had headed him off. His legs pumping, Raeth charged straight at them. Then, with a desperate lurch, he threw himself beneath a nearby vegetable stand, grabbing its cloth liner as he tumbled. Vegetables flew wildly, and pursuers, ambushers, and venders were all temporarily confounded. Scuttling with the speed of an inspired fiddler crab, Raeth dodged this way and that beneath the stand and the adults' milling legs. His ears were greeted by the screams of the enraged peddler, boys slipping and stumbling among the produce, and the hearty laughs of nearby pedestrians. Then, Raeth was free of the table and wildly weaving his way through the onlookers and their animals in the street beyond. Behind him, the two boys who had tried to head him off, only shaken by his ploy momentarily, were in hot pursuit again. 

And Drak was with them, his teeth bared, and his face crimson with rage. 

A new and even more profound fear lent Raeth wings, fear and perhaps St. Rathia, who also was called Lady Luck. As he ran, the town proper began to give way to docks, warehouses, and the questionable institutions common to wharfs the world over. Fewer folks lined the streets here, and those who did bent their backs to the jobs before them or slumped comatose against convenient walls, lying prostrate in pools of their own urine. There were no women to be seen, nor would there be until Salearr (called the "Day Star") had fallen from the sky. 

I thought Murt would back me up, that snake! 

Raeth's breath only came in ragged gasps now. Behind, Drak pursued him alone, his own pain forgotten, his meat hook bared and thirsty for blood. His fellows, winded, had dropped away, one by one. 

Before Raeth lay an intersection that was jammed with horse-drawn carts and screaming teamsters. Neither teamster seemed willing to back up and let the other through, resulting in the current impasse.

Raeth was trapped. 

Rush hour—what a time for a chase! 

Raeth beat a reckless path straight for the tangle. Drak, driven by unearthly fury, poured on the speed in an attempt to intercept him. Never hesitating for a heartbeat, heedless of his own safety, Raeth cast himself beneath one of the stalled carts. He hit the planks that lined the wharf's streets and rolled crazily, sliding to a stop beneath a pair of skittish draft horses. Behind him, Drak threw himself into the morass of vehicles and animals with wild abandon. When Drak clawed his way to his feet, dodging iron-shod wheels, stomping hooves, and grinding axles, Raeth screamed loudly and started slapping at the two horses. 

The explosive chaos that erupted was more than either boy would have expected. 

The frightened animals, already tense and excitable, began to buck and rear. One cob, a biter by nature, chomped the neck of a nearby horse, and the fight was on. Carts, tethered to the battling beasts, became locked together at the wheels. The other animals trapped in the intersection panicked in quick succession, and teamsters, horsewhips in hand, began laying all about them (which did little to calm the frightened animals, of course). Raeth ran for his life, scrambling through a gauntlet of flailing hooves, tipping carts, screaming drivers, and vicious curses. 

If Raeth had allowed himself a backward glance, he would have appreciated the damage he had wrought. Two horses struggled helplessly, each ensnarled in the other's harness. Nearby, two teamsters grappled in deadly earnest as they sought to flay each other with their horsewhips. Broken crates clogged the tiny intersection, and spilled citrus fruits, shipped from distant Emirkand, smothered the planks beneath. Soon, this fruit was pounded into a muddy paste. 

Drak did not emerge from the tangle. 

Raeth, not wanting to take any chances, jumped for the first alleyway he could find. The day's shadows had grown quite long, and Raeth hoped to find the darkness deep enough to conceal him from Drak. The alleyway's floor, which was sheltered between two tall, frame buildings, popped and creaked lightly beneath Raeth's tread. The passage grew darker as he advanced, but his eyes adjusted as he scurried along. Above, angry red cirrus clouds and a blue-gray sky were Raeth's ceiling, and they were all that remained for him to navigate by. 

Raeth could hear the rolling advance and retreat of waves beneath the alley's planks, and he knew that he was out over the bay. The place stank like dead fish and rotting kelp, and its only decorations were columns of trash and refuse. Raeth, cautious in the dim light, slowed to a walk. He heard no pursuers, yet he dared not turn back. Before him, the alley cut sharply to his left. 

"Oh, St. Rathia, let this alley empty onto a street— please don't let this be a dead end . . ." 

Step by deliberate step Raeth advanced, his ears questing ahead for hints of a possible ambush. He put his hand on the building's corner post and eased forward. 

Slowly, he peered around the corner. 

A big hand struck with lightning speed, snaring Raeth's tunic. He choked in terror, too afraid even to scream. 

"Got him!" cried a bearded man. 

Suddenly, caught up in a seeming whirlwind of force, Raeth was buffeted around helplessly. He felt a bag fall over his head, its rough sackcloth scraping eagerly at his cheek. He hit the alley floor with a resounding thud, and his entire world was limited to the bag's black confines. He looked up just in time to see the exit of his prison constrict and disappear, its drawstring pulled tight. He struggled for the surface, afraid to somehow drown in the cloth, but he was quickly stifled by a series of swift and brutal kicks. 

The blows were merciless, and they only subsided when Raeth, all but unconscious, finally ceased to struggle. Bagged and beaten as he was, he was only vaguely aware when they hoisted him into the air. 

"Ah, we got us a good one, we did." This voice rumbled through his bearer's body. 

"Yeah," agreed a disembodied voice, "the captain likes 'em young."

For Raeth, The rest of the night was a living hell. He was hauled around beneath someone's arm, and when his captors traded him back and forth, they were anything but gentle. Raeth, bagged as he was, was totally helpless. 

At some point, the rough jostling of Ignarth's alleys and streets gave way to a gentle, rolling motion; Raeth almost got sick, and the only thing that kept him from throwing up was the idea of sharing the bag with his own vomit. Besides, he had no idea how long he would be confined this way. 

Raeth changed hands again, and his new pack handlers were no gentler than the last. "Put 'im in the hold, lads," said the familiar voice of the man who had captured him. "We'll keep 'im there till the captain gets back." 

Raeth passed out soon after that. He did not remember being laid on tightly bound bales, the door that closed behind his captors, or the utter darkness that followed. Instead, he lolled unconsciously, drifting in and out of awareness.

Raeth came to with a thump! He hit the floor like a sack of wet flour, dumped unceremoniously from his confinement in the bag. He shook his head, trying to remember where he was, and soon it all flooded back on him in one, ugly deluge. 

He was on a ship. The gentle roll of the floor beneath and the asymmetric swelling of the cabin around him alerted him to this fact immediately. The chamber was semiprivate, with three bunks and a desk. This cabin, Raeth reasoned, could only be the property of the ship's captain or navigator, since no one else onboard a vessel warranted so much privacy. Judging by the luxurious quality of the drapes and furnishings, this more probably the captain's quarters. 

Before Raeth stood a crew far worse than Drak could ever hope to employ. Three men, presumably those who had captured him in the alley, towered above him. Two of them were teenagers; they had blond hair, green eyes, were very fit, and were obviously brothers. The third man was much older, with huge earrings, a disfigured nose, and only three fingers on his right hand. 

"Welcome to the Devil's Axe, son," said the older man in a deep, perpetually hoarse voice. Raeth, at a loss for what to do, struggled to his feet. Windows lined the aft wall, and he could see that dawn was near. Unrealistically, he found himself wondering if Jhold had discovered his tardiness. 

The three men regarded Raeth with critical eyes. There were slight differences between the brothers, Raeth noted. The younger of the two had a slimmer build, and he moved with agile, almost birdlike grace. The older brother was stockier, and his movements bespoke strength and confidence. 

Keys rattled in the cabin's locked door, and all of them turned to face the newcomer. Raeth's three captors rendered the man a sloppy salute, and the fellow replied with an offhand salute of his own. This man was obviously the teenagers' father, for they were little more than distorted reflections of his own lost youth. 

"Good mornin' to ye, Captain Singuerre," said the three-fingered sailor. 

"Louis. Boys," rumbled the captain. He turned and regarded Raeth. There was a calculating gleam in the man's eyes, an almost palpable cruelty that chilled Raeth to the bone. 

As the captain looked him over, Raeth returned his stare with wide, expectant eyes. Captain Singuerre was a burly man, fat laid on a foundation of iron. He had a brittle yellow beard; squinting, piggish eyes; stubby, calloused hands with thick, corded wrists; and the build of a superb wrestler or a deadly swordsman. 

The captain, the boys, and Louis spoke quietly among themselves for a minute, but Raeth could follow their exchange easily. The older, stockier teenager, he learned, was named Jann, and his younger, more agile brother Frances. 

"Captain," said Louis Three Fingers, "I'd like to present you with our latest boarder. Jann and I captured him this very night." Singuerre took stock of Raeth a second time. 

"What's your name, boy?" 

"R-R-Raeth, captain." 

"Hmmn," said the captain. "Turn around, Raeth. Let's see your backside." Raeth, confused, did as he was told. His eyes nearly popped free of their sockets when the captain issued his next command. 

"Strip down, boy." 

"What?" sputtered Raeth, his eyes agog. 

"Take off your clothes!" 

Raeth stood dumbfounded, afraid to believe his ears. Captain Singuerre waited for a moment, and then he turned to his sons and said simply, "Strip him, boys." 

Jann and Frances were on Raeth in a flash. He fought but to no effect. Within moments Raeth found himself naked and forced face-first across the bunk. As he struggled, pitifully exposed to his horrible captors, they laughed. Jann held Raeth cruelly against the unyielding bunk, and the Karmithian boy glimpsed a sadistic gleam in the young sailor's eyes. 

Frances held up the key that Raeth had worn around his neck, the key to the locksmith's shop. "What's this, little man?" cackled the teenager. He gave the key a negligent, backhanded toss, letting it clatter to the floor behind him. 

"How much is this one worth?" asked the captain. 

"He's young and fit," noted Louis, "and he doesn't appear to have been marked by any debilitating diseases. Have you any diseases, boy?" 

"Mmmph," said Raeth, his face shoved against the bunk. 

"Good," said Three Fingers. "I think he ought to be worth five-and-a-half silver taekles in Jerios, twice that if we sell him as a eunuch." 

What! Thought Raeth. 

"Excellent," remarked the captain. "Frances, go get the chirurgeon. We're going to make a eunuch." Then, almost to himself, the captain added, "This is just what we needed to turn a profit on this trip." 

"Uh, Dad," said Frances, "you killed the ship's chirurgeon, remember?" 

Captain Singuerre's brows knit together in frustration. "I did what?" 

"I can't get the chirurgeon, because you killed him. You said he snored too loudly, and that his smell offended you." 

"Oh yes," said the captain, "I suppose I did. He was a filthy little creature, you know." The captain thought for a moment, and then he looked at Jann. "You're pretty good with a knife, son, so why don't you do it? The real trick is in cauterizing the wound properly when you're done." 

"Captain," interrupted Louis, "it's nearly dawn, and if we're going to ride out the morning tide, then we're needed topsides." Raeth shivered wildly as he listened to the exchange, his mind too clouded with terror to comprehend any of it. 

Captain Singuerre grunted his grudging assent, and he and Louis turned to leave. The captain paused midway through the cabin's door, however, and said, "I hope you're not too attached to your name, Raeth, because we'll have to give you a new one, one more suited to your new condition." The captain laughed at his own joke. "Of course, you'll get a new name every time you're put on the block—such is the lot of a slave." 

Raeth, pushed across the bunk as he was, could not see the captain, but still, he quaked in dumb horror. He had heard countless stories about the horrors of slavery, and the prospect of having his privates cut off and then cauterized filled his stomach with ice. 

Jann and Frances released Raeth and headed for the door. "Stay there, on the cot," snarled Jann. "If you move, I'll be very sloppy when I castrate you." Raeth took him at his word. Jann picked up the lantern that had illuminated the room and stepped into the chamber beyond. As Frances pulled the door closed behind him, he threw Raeth a cruel wink. The key rattled in the door as they locked him in.

Raeth sat on the bunk for a moment, too stunned to move. Had he been a meeker person, he might well have stayed there, patiently waiting for a family of enterprising sailors to permanently rearrange his privates. Instead, Raeth was angry. He was not mad with the Singuerres alone, he decided—no, he was angry with a lifetime of Singuerres. He was furious at all the Jholds, Draks, and Singuerres that he'd had to endure in his short life. 

Raeth got off the bunk and pulled on his ripped breeches. His last few hours had been filled with grueling chases, assorted beatings, and painful indignities, and he ached all over. He still shook as he moved, but a plan was taking shape in his mind. 

Raeth rummaged through the cabin, looking for a potential weapon. He found a dagger. It was a double-edged dirk of watered steel and incredible beauty. He also located a sword, but it was far too large for him to use, even if he knew how. It was an old Jotun arming sword with a trilobate pommel, and it was part of a matched set with the dagger. Raeth, afraid to alert anyone who might be within hearing distance, began his search quietly, but soon he was ripping through the little cabin's contents with angry glee. 

Raeth spilled the contents of a small chest. Gold and silver taekles, jewelry, and a few small, satin bags poured onto the cabin's floor. A brazen amulet, etched with a black-enameled star that was centered on a bronze background, caught Raeth's attention. It was strung with a simple thong, and he put it on. There was no plan to his theft, no conscious intent—he merely intended to get even, to cause as much pain to the Singuerres, and to the world, as they had caused him. Rage had kindled a fire in his soul. He always had been a poor loser, and this time was no different. And, never before had the stakes of losing included mutilation and a lifetime of slavery. As he ransacked the cabin, he felt the ship slowly swing out onto the bay. From the port windows, he could see the wharves of Enlith slipping away. 

Indecision gripped him for a moment—what should he do? 

That's when Raeth noticed the unlit oil lamp. 

It was mounted to the wall by a brass bracket, and Raeth jumped for it and tugged with all his weight. It broke free of the timbers with a mild snap! Raeth yanked out its wick, unscrewed its cap, and splattered Captain Singuerre's bunk with the lamp's contents. Dawn lighted the cabin with rosy incandescence as Raeth searched for a tinder box. He found one in a sea chest, and he struck sparks from it until the bunk, and its bedclothes were afire. 

Raeth ripped the expensive, brocaded curtains free of their rods and threw them on the pier of his anger. Someone began to beat at the cabin's door and scream at him. Raeth knew that it would not take long for someone with a key to arrive, so he grabbed the sword he'd discovered earlier and jammed its tip into the lock. He braced the sword's hilt squarely against the floorboards, making it all but impossible to knock clear from the opposite side of the door. Raeth understood locks, and he was satisfied that this one would work no longer—the only way to get into the cabin now was to batter the door down. 

The bed and much of the cabin were ablaze, and Raeth was nearly overcome by heat and smoke. He grabbed a large book, the captain's rudder, and ran for the window. 

Raeth took the massive tome (easily as long as a man's forearm and quite heavy) and rammed it repeatedly against an aft window. Green glass showered into the ocean beyond, and smoke belched out of the newly made gap in great, heaving sighs. Raeth, careful not to cut himself, climbed onto the window sill. The brazen amulet slapped against his chest as he clambered up, and he still clutched the captain's dagger in his right hand. Far below him lay the bay's churning waters. The cabin, situated to the rear of the quarterdeck, was nearly eighteen feet above the waterline. 

The cabin door began to splinter, and Raeth had no more time to consider his options. 

He jumped. 

He seemed to fall forever. Then, the choppy, gray waters rushed to meet him, and he cut through them like a knife. Deep beneath the ship he dove, his ears screaming with the sudden change in pressure. Raeth slowed his descent and got his bearings. Above, a sky of shivering quicksilver flashed eerily in the morning sun, and high overhead the ample belly and keel of the Devil's Axe lay exposed. He stuck the stolen dagger into the waist of his breeches and began to swim. 

Raeth swam underwater for as long as he could, hoping that he had aimed for the shoreline correctly. Soon, though, he had to go up for air and directions. All the boys in Enlith could swim, and Raeth prided himself in his skill. He cut toward the town as fast as he could. 

In Raeth's wake lay the Devil's Axe. She floated temporarily out of control, a derelict. Flames licked wildly from her quarterdeck, and sailors worked with maniacal effort to bring the fire under control. Raeth laughed to himself as he swam. He could not help but look back occasionally, proud of his work. 

Suddenly, the laughter died in his throat. A blond figure who was stripped to the waist and barefoot stepped up to the ship's rail. Gracefully, he dove into the ocean and disappeared beneath the waves. 

Raeth began to swim with new enthusiasm, for Jann Singuerre, the sadistic teenager who had frightened Raeth almost as much as had his oxlike father, had taken up Raeth's pursuit. 

Raeth swam as he never had before because now he was swimming for his very life. He had a good head start on Jann, and Raeth was not too far from the shore now, but this hardly reassured him. He was no longer the stubborn, cocky young man who had set the ship's cabin afire. Now, in that other's place, there was an exhausted, panicked boy. 

Jann cut the water like a porpoise. He swam with incredible speed, carving away the distance between him and Raeth with each passing stroke. Soon Jann was so close that Raeth could see the other's flashing green eyes and the wicked knife that Jann clenched between his teeth. Raeth's fear finally gave way to terror, and he redoubled his efforts yet again. The wharfs loomed near, but so too did Jann. 

Raeth leaped from the water and onto the pier as if the bay itself had spit him out. He shot down the docks, his bare feet slapping against the planks as he flew toward the relative safety of the town.

By the time Jann pulled himself from the bay, his prey was long gone. The teenager scanned the docks for his quarry, but he knew he was too late. He tried to follow Raeth's wet footprints into town, but Jann soon lost track of them.

Jann trembled with rage. He was angry both with himself and with the boy who had done so much harm to his family. Jann knew that his reception back aboard the Devil's Axe (if they'd brought the fire under control) would be a cold one. He had failed to kill the boy. 

The young pirate scowled at the faceless docks. 

He knew that he could not have endured a prolonged street chase anyway, for he was a sailor, not a runner. Jann turned and walked resignedly back to the bay. Idle dock workers gaped at him dumbly when he dove back into the choppy waters. Jann made good time as he swam for the Devil's Axe.

Captain Singuerre stalked through his burned-out cabin. His crew had extinguished the fire, but not before it had burned its way into the adjoining navigator's cabin and the deck above. The captain repeatedly cursed as he worked his way through the charred timbers and ash—all his personal effects, even his precious navigational rudders, were gone. His sword lay blackened and ruined to one side of the cabin, its temper spoiled by the heat. 

Singuerre picked up the smoking blade, oblivious to his own discomfort. This sword had been his father's, and his father's before him. Jotundgorn warriors held great store in old swords, for they believed that such weapons somehow absorbed some of their past wielders' bravery, skill, and martial spirit. The captain's face twisted into a hideous grin; the sword was destroyed, and his family's honor was defaced. This wound could only be cleansed by the blood of the boy who had inflicted it. 

Frances, the captain's younger son, poked his head into the gutted cabin. 

"Father, Jann's back. He didn't get the boy." 

"WHAT?" 

Frances did not repeat his news. He knew his father's temper well, so the young sailor ran for it. 

Captain Singuerre walked to the cabin's burned-out battery of windows and faced the open sky. His fists clenched spasmodically and his face contorted as he screamed to the uncaring fates. 

"By immortal St. Aequor, Lord of the Sea, and by St. Maeglin, Lord of Revenge," he boomed, "I will have my vengeance on this boy! For the damage he has done my ship, I will wreak sweet torment upon his flesh, suffering such as the world has yet to see. For the damage he has done my family's honor, I will pluck the liver from his still-living body and eat it raw! 

As if in response, angry thunderheads, monstrous and dense, gathered out to sea. Vengeful squall lines rushed forward to lash the coast.