-- Chapter 1 – A chance rescue --
The pirate ship fired its last broadside into the guts of the crippled imperial sloop. Grapples were thrown and a long-rehearsed boarding action swung into play, giving the famed pirate Francis Quickblade a sense of enormous pride as he watched his crew bind their ship to what was rumoured to be a vessel with some rich pickings.
Grapeshot cleared the deck and the boarding party followed. The pirates had the numbers, but Francis felt a knot of apprehension when imperial temple knights appeared on deck amongst their target’s defenders. Unnaturally calm warriors, changed by arcane ritual to make them resistant to magic and without emotion, they were and uncommon and unwelcome sight.
It didn't put Francis off completely. They still had the numbers to win, but it wouldn’t be an easy victory. It did confirm that whatever the ship was carrying was valuable however, the empire only sent out templars to fight the ancient magic of the dreaded elves or to protect it’s most valued assets.
He slapped the shoulder of Beren, his first officer. "I'm going over. Can't trust those thieving bastards with whatever's in there," he said, forestalling any complaints about putting himself at risk.
“Those thieving bastards are your crew, sir,” replied the gruff northerner.
A bloody skirmish later, the temple knights were defeated and the pirates had control of the deck. The silent warriors had fought like lions in their heavy armour and Francis had lost far more crew to injury or death than he would if they had only faced sailors and marines. With their most deadly defenders gone the regular sailors were keen to surrender and plead for mercy. Francis was a pirate, but he liked to think he was one of the more reasonable ones, and so ordered his men to accept any surrender.
The Empire was the dominant power in the world, their ships hard pickings, but often lucrative. It was unusual for one so small to be so well defended. It made Francis wonder what or who was onboard. He reasoned that there needed to be some secrecy, otherwise it would have had an escort, but whatever it was it was still important enough for a company of temple knights whose usual place was the front line in the Empire’s holy crusade against the hated fey.
Francis took personal charge of investigating belowdecks. In the hold the victorious pirates found a newly built wooden bulkhead wall, neatly dissecting what should have been the cargo space. The wall had a sturdy door upon which was emblazoned the imperial seal. Despite the battering the ship had received in the battle it seemed undamaged, though that didn't mean that a cannonball hadn't blown through the side of the ship on the other side and wrecked what was inside...
"One of you with me, the rest spread out and search the rest of the ship." he ordered, sure that whatever was behind the door was the real prize and not wanting too many hands stuffing riches into pockets before it could be counted. He checked the door carefully then, realising that is had not been locked, opened it. The inside of a ship was gloomy at best but this compartment was pitch black inside apart from the dim light admitted by the open door. He picked up one of the oil lanterns hanging outside the door and turned up the wick.
Francis heard the noise of chain mail scraping on metal plate before he heard the grunt of his crew-mate. He nearly dropped the lantern as he turned to see the headless corpse slump in a fountain of red blood. Another templar stepped into the light of his lantern.
"Oh fuck!" swore Francis, "another fucking templar!" he cried, though it was to no avail – nobody would hear him over the racket of the looting happening around the ship still.
He drew his rapier as he backed away, the warrior had him trapped. Francis was one of the best swordsmen on the coast. His finesse and skill had earned him the nickname ‘Quickblade’, he could disarm a man in seconds, but he had never duelled a templar one-on-one. They were not men, they were war machines. Whatever rituals they took dedicating themselves to the Empire's god robbed them of humanity. Their single-mindedness in battle that was hard to deny, or defeat. They obeyed orders, they fought to the death. They had no fear.
The Captain dropped the oil lamp and dived, spinning to dodge the expected sword blow which fell wide of its mark. He caught a brief glimpse of another person in the shadows, a bound and hooded figure, but it was in no position to help or hinder and so he concentrated on his immediate threat.
The daunting warrior he faced had the same blank expression, shaved and branded head and the same plate armour as his comrades, decorated with temple seals for the various actions he had taken part in. Francis knew that he wasn't hiding there, they didn't hide, so assumed he was a last resort, guarding the bound figure. Such thoughts were a luxury during a fight to the death however, so he concentrated on survival as the man came at him with his huge longsword, stabbing and swinging with a relentlessness that did not tire.
The Captain’s mind raced. He wouldn't last long in such a confined space if he waited for his crew to muster the strength of arms to rush this monster, calling for help loudly enough to be heard would distract him from fighting for his life.
Attack then. He darted past a hard sword thrust and lashed out with the razor tip of his blade, carving a gauge across the man's face that would have caused any normal man to be debilitated. Instead, a mailed fist grabbed the blade and twisted it, almost wrenching it from the surprised pirate’s grasp. The templar was mutilated, bone and grinning teeth showing where cheek should have been, yet he had hardly flinched.
"Oh for the love of the gods, what is wrong with you bastards.." muttered Francis as he finally gave up on the tug-of-war for his blade and drew a long knife from his belt. Instead of stepping back he stayed close, both of the Templar's hands were busy, one with his own longsword, one still gripping Francis' rapier. Francis jabbed his dagger with the kind of precision and speed that made him an excellent card sharp, right through the Templar's eye and into his head. The warrior stood for what seemed like far too many seconds, before crashing to the floor.
It was all Francis could do to keep himself from joining his dead opponent on the floor as he took a number of deep, ragged breaths, hands on his knees.
Finally he turned and looked around him. No other guards, just the slight figure bound to a sturdy X-shaped oak frame with a rough woollen hood over its head. Francis wasn't sure who or what warranted such precautions, but he wasn't about to take too many risks. He's already taken plenty today.
