†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†¤†
A New Man
The battle, such as it was, was over swiftly. The suicidal Isafdarian charge was met with a hail of arrows from the bowmen on the deck of the
Spirit of Moai.
A Fremennik berserker reached a knot of Wushanko archers, arrows bristling out of him, cutting three in half at the waist with a mighty stroke of his greatsword before collapsing. Meanwhile, the
Crystal Harmony
sank sadly beneath the waves as the oarsmen attempted to disengage. Seawater flooded through the ruined bow and trapped all within in a watery grave.
*****
Zandos Zaahl trod carefully across the deck in the aftermath, trying to find survivors. He saw a white-haired figure in a blue uniform, blood on his face… but breathing. “This one’s still alive,” he called.
“Not for long,” a crewman spat, drawing his bow.
“The Wushanko Empire does not execute its prisoners, crewman. Stand down,” a voice boomed across the deck.
“And what would the pointy-eared freaks do to us then?” the archer sullenly replied.
“We are not them, and that is entirely the point,” the captain sternly reprimanded. “Zaahl, see to it that he is unharmed. Take him to my cabin until there’s a medic available.”
“Yes, captain,” Zaahl answered dutifully.
Zandos half-carried, half-dragged the injured enemy across the deck to the captain’s cabin. He closed the door. The screams of the wounded were mercifully muffled. Grimacing, he sat down heavily. The pale-haired figure stirred. “Water,” he croaked.
Zandos hesitated, but...
we are not them.
He sighed and took out his flask, and bent over to hand it to the prisoner.
