Chương 2: The man

Ch 2: The man Fifteen years later Felix (once Marcus) 'the Fox' held to the cracking wooden rail of his ship, and prayed to any son of a bitch god that would listen. Then he gave up and started cursing.

"Fuck you, Typha," he started with the Mezanite god of the sea.

"You won't have me. Today is not my day." He and the rest of the crew of The Hound held on for dear life as waves from the turbulent White Sea tried to turn their hull and capsize them. Rain poured from above, water splashed over the deck, and the sound of creaking rope and wood filled the air. The Hound was a pirate hunter, less than a mile from the coast. Her crew was chasing a known gang all morning as they both rowed and tacked against the wind.

More and more clouds had built as they chased, but the captain was insistent.

"We can still overtake them before the storm!" Then two more ships had come up over the horizon flying pirate flags. Their target had turned and stopped running, and the cat became the mouse. Now they were pulling with full sail, the wind so strong it threatened to rip their main mast apart. Their pursuers were smaller, less likely to break, and hadn't yet blinked.

"I told you we should have just fucking fought 'em!" shouted the first mate from the rail. Felix grinned, but didn't disagree. Their crew were outnumbered at least two to one against the combined ships, but he'd prefer to die fighting than to the bastard sea. And, of course, if it came to a fight, they had him.

"Maintain sail!" shouted the captain for the tenth time, his eyes ever backward on the pursuing vessels and the darkest clouds. He was a hard man and a good fighter, but the storm frightened him. He was trying to outrun it now more than the ships, Felix knew. Neither seemed likely. Their method to catch pirates was to find them in low wind, and overtake them with oar power. In weather like this they were at a disadvantage. Still, they tried.

For another hour they tossed and fought and held fast as they bailed, men getting more and more exhausted. But the pirates got ever closer. And then they were on them. Arrows and taunts crossed the distance as the tribal gang shrieked with bloodlust. Felix saw orcs, goblins, and a mix of men from up and down the coast.

"They have an ogre," he said with a sigh, gesturing for the boatswain and the main fighting men to get their weapons. The captain's eyes were wide with fear and Felix knew he was close to breaking.

"Captain," he yelled over the wind.

"Permission to take command of the assault?" The older man blinked and met his eyes, then gave a slight nod as he clutched the wheel. Felix was only a midshipman—the lowest ranking officer, technically—but every sailor aboard knew he was no ordinary man. As a seamen he was no better than the rest, and probably worse. But he was paid three shares instead of the usual one and a half for a junior officer, and no one ever grumbled a word. When it came to a hard fight, they all looked to him.

"Knifework, lads," he called. The waves were too rough for much else. They'd be as like to drop their weapons or kill themselves with anything bigger. One by one the men dropped their spears or longer blades.

"We'll board and win the chaos," he shouted, feeling the heat of the terror and excitement rage in his breast. He did his mental exercises, counting up in sevens as he spoke and readied the men. They took their hooks and ropes and the captain and pilot turned them towards their enemy. All around him Felix felt the power of the sea. Through the years his father had taught him how to control his magic, how to twist it to fuel his mind and body without letting it escape.

Men like him were called 'Lifestealers' back home because on land that's what they seemed—draining the strength from all around them to bolster their own. But the sea peoples had a different name. It was a title born of the fact that they could draw their power from the elemental majesty of the waves themselves, giving them inhuman strength and speed and cunning. They called them Sea Dragons. The crew of The Hound lashed themselves to the rails and the mast, and braced themselves for the madness.

The captain turned the rudder and the sail with their clever design of ropes and pulleys, and the reinforced hull of their ramming vessel slashed a path towards destruction. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Their target, as usual, underestimated the speed of The Hound's turn. They loosed fired arrows that went out in the rain, shouting and panicking as they tried to change their course. But it was too late for that.

Felix grit his teeth and readied himself, still counting, still sensing the tempest and drawing it into his muscles, into his bones. He could never release it—his father had taught him that—could never trust the raging inferno that waited inside, always hungry, always searching for any slip or crack in the fortress in his mind to escape and devour the world. But he could turn it inward, and use it. Fire and water splashed inside him like a forge, tempering and hardening the iron of his body into a weapon.

He steadied his heart and counted, well past forty thousand now. The Hound struck its target. The sound of men's screams and breaking wood and bending copper filled the world, but Felix the Fox kept his feet, his agility so enhanced time felt almost slow. He raced forward for blood. * Unlike the others, Felix didn't use a knife. As the crew struggled to stand, he lifted his heavy cutlass and leapt from the hull of The Hound to the enemy ship to face a confused and panicking orc.

He slashed its throat, and kicked it flying to the sea. Two tribesmen came next, one slipping on water or maybe blood and dropping to his knees before he could strike. The other jabbed with a thin blade. Felix dodged it with the barest twist, letting the point of the blade stick through his shirt. He hacked off his enemy's hand, then kicked out his feet. The crew were coming in behind him now, following in his path of destruction.

He took on any man brave enough to try, moving always forward like the tip of a spear. Another orc swiped at his head with a cudgel. He ducked and cut its leg off at the knee. The men behind him finished the wounded, and they'd crossed the deck now and cut the enemy in half, their resistance pulled in two directions.

"Finish the bastards!" Felix called, then aimed himself straight at the enemy captain hiding behind his ogre. The giant brutes were no geniuses by any standard, but they had cunning. The creature saw Felix coming and stomped forward to meet him, one hand wrapped in spiked leather, the other holding a club. Felix intended to charge straight at him and slice for that ugly face, but the hull tipped from a huge wave and the swirling melee collapsed as everyone faltered. He was up first and moving.

The more the sea raged, the stronger his magic. His muscles filled with the same turbulent energy, making him restless and almost reveling in the chaos of the waves. He struck before his enemy rose, a vicious overhand chop that severed half the ogre's wrist, then a slash across its chest. It roared and stumbled forward, trying to jab its nail-ridden club into Felix's face.

He pulled back and sliced the thing's forearm, then seized its wrist and hacked again and again as the big creature slipped and stumbled, blood spraying everywhere as Felix cut it apart. With a final panicked effort, it yanked back and tried to bring Felix close enough just to grab him into a kind of bear hug. But the sea's magic was too strong. Felix was as strong as the ogre, maybe stronger. He pulled the dying creature forward and buried his cutlass in its neck, then let it fall lifeless to the deck.

The crew cheered as the enemy captain dropped his blade in surrender. Then men were screaming and Felix turned to see another pirate vessel coming straight for their own ally. He saw the men aboard were equally panicked and realized they'd lost control in the waves.

"Hold fast!" he yelled to the others, then leapt for the bottom of the mast and clung for his life. The world tumbled as wood splintered, and for a few moments Felix didn't even know which way was up or down. But he held on. Men lost their feet all around him. Weapons and bodies flew past, and something bounced hard off his scalp. He held until he felt the familiar, if terrifying, sway of the sea. He could tell instantly that both ships were lost and sinking.

"Back to The Hound!" he called, and ran without looking, jumping tumbling men and corpses until he reached the edge of the hull. And found it separated. Whether it was from the waves or the crash, all their hooks had come undone. The Hound was a good fifteen feet away, rising and falling and pulling further with every second. Felix didn't think, he just jumped. With magic-infused muscle he grabbed the rails and propelled himself, flying through the air until he struck the rail.

The air blasted out of his lungs, and the wood cracked from his weight striking it, but it held. He clambered over and dropped to the deck, seeing not a single other member of the crew had escaped. He didn't even see the captain, and expected the man had been swept over in the crash. But the ship was still holding, still alive. He knew there was nothing he could do for the others, so he wiped the rain and blood from his eyes, and took the captain's wheel.

"Not today!" he shouted to the storm and the gods. Then far more quietly to himself.

"Not today." He knew he couldn't make it to shore. Without bailers, water was already flooding the ship. He couldn't take down the sail without help, and the wind was ripping the ship apart. But there were islands, some not far. If he could only see in the damn storm, and remember where! Lightning flared and lit the sky again and again as if some God had heard Felix's prayer. He forced his eyes to focus, to lock in the image of the surrounding sea, but all he saw was a single rock jutting from the water.

It wasn't much, but it was something. Darkness fell as the flashes ended, but Felix steered for the bit of land he'd seen. He held the wheel with all his enhanced strength, shouting to overcome his fear as he heard the mast crack. If it broke, or if he lost the rudder, he was doomed. He held his course there alone in the dark, thinking on a life of brutal discipline, of long and lonely nights resisting the inferno building inside him.

Finally he thought of his mother, and then his father, and a smile crossed his face.

"Thank you, old man," he said, "for giving me this life." It brought him comfort knowing the man was there safe on the shore, no doubt looking out at the storm from the comfortable home, wondering if Felix was safe. Countless times Felix had nearly lost control, nearly killing them both in some fiery blast because he was angry or in pain or desperate for the touch of a woman he could never have. Not once had the old soldier blinked, or run, or even looked afraid.

"Count, boy. Clear your mind. Count with me," he'd always smiled.

"Or we die together." You were wrong, he thought, laughing. You survived the wars, old man, the plagues, and all the madness. Now you survive your Lifestealer son. Goodbye, Sylvio, it looks like we die apart after all. The Hound struck the rock he'd seen in the lightning, and the force of it broke off the wheel in his hands. He felt himself hurled into the darkness, time only to curl inward and close his eyes before he struck land.