The captives dozed, sitting with their backs against the mast, until early in the morning, when a change in the cadence of Thunderer’s oars roused them. The ship was slowing. Men stood at the bow, sounding the depths with lead lines.

As the galley crawled through the Turbidus Sands, the leadsmen sang, “Six fathoms, an eighth!” then, “Full fathoms five!” The ship’s keel scraped. “Three fathoms, a fourth! “The oarmaster stilled his drums, raising all oars, and Thunderer slowly glided to a stop.

The sea was flat calm. They were at the extreme north tip of the Gulf of Ergoth, only two leagues from shore. Pulling himself to his feet, Tol peered over the bulwark. A fantastic scene greeted his eyes.

Many more than just Xanka’s two hundred ships were gathered here. Hundreds of vessels, most much smaller than Thunderer, crawled through narrow channels in the shoals. This was the pirates’ lair, their hideout from the potent Tarsan Navy. Only an experienced pilot, familiar with the shoals, could navigate safely through the maze of sandbars.

Faerlac appeared. Accompanying him were two sailors bearing a short pole from which hung a steaming iron pot. The pot contained nothing more exotic than white bean porridge, but Tol and his companions fell upon it hungrily.

Faerlac squatted by Tol. “We’ve come to the Sands,” he said. “Two bells after sunrise, you and Xanka will fight.”

“May I have my sword, the one taken from me?”

“When the time comes.” The bosun gestured to the congregation of vessels around them. “Most every free chieftain is here. Word will be sent round to all the flagships. You’ll have a mighty audience for your duel.”

So it proved. The day waxed hot. In the clear air, the reflection off the water was intense. Pirates smeared black grease below their eyes to cut the painful glare.

Boats arrived from other ships, bearing pirate captains of every stripe. Many were obviously petty thugs, but a few arrived with more panache. Among the early arrivals were two striking young men in identical outfits-billowing trousers, high boots, and studded leather vests-identical but for one important detail: one’s garb was all black, the other’s pure white. These were the brothers Hagy and Drom, hailed as the Firebrands for their habit of burning looted ships.

A squat, swarthy figure with a drooping mustache reaching halfway down his chest proved to be Morojin. His left eye was gone, gouged out in a fight long ago. In its place Morojin wore a carved ivory ball. Watching the pirate climb aboard with cat-like grace, Tol was grateful he wasn’t dueling Morojin.

Hagbor, the notorious ogre pirate, was not present. His squadron was cruising the Cape of Khar. However, the lone female pirate, Hexylle, did come, with her female crew. Thick-armed and stout, Hexylle had skin brown and leathery as an old boot and deeply wrinkled from years of sun and wind. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, but she was as coarse and brutal as success in her chosen trade demanded.

The chieftains took up places of honor along the sterncastle rail. Crowded behind them were assorted first and second mates, bosuns, and other officers. The long waist of the galley was kept clear, although the rigging was black with clinging crewmen. Frez, Darpo, and the Dom-shu sisters were held under guard on Thunderer’s forecastle overlooking the scene of the duel.

In the sweltering heat, Tol had stripped off his cloak, tunic, and shirt. Bare to the waist, he looked pale among the sun-baked pirates. Sailors in the rigging hooted when he appeared, led up from below by Faerlac.

Thunderer’s bosun gestured fore and aft. “Here is your battlefield. You may not leave it unless your opponent leads you away.” He bade Tol look up. “There are archers in the crow’s nest. If you try to escape, they have orders to shoot you and your friends.”

“I’ll not run,” Tol said.

Faerlac cupped a hand to his mouth and called through the open hatch. Two pirates climbed out, arms laden with weapons. They scattered daggers, pikes, swords, axes, and billhooks around. Tol’s sword and dagger were returned to him. He shoved the ornate dagger into the waist of his pants and rested the flat of Number Six’s blade on his shoulder. He was ready.

Xanka did not appear. A long interval passed. Tol and the spectators sweated under the remorseless sun.

Just as the crowd began to murmur and stir impatiently, the doors of the sterncastle cabin were flung open. Four dirty, barefoot pirates, got up in fancy stolen livery, strode out and put cornets to their lips.

Faerlac announced, “His Excellency, Xanka, master of the Thunderer and all squadrons of the Blood Fleet, the King of the Sea!”

The horns blared. The pirate lord stalked out of the cabin into the bright light, clanking as he walked. He was clad from head to toe in elaborate armor.

At some point in his career, Xanka had taken a warlord’s parade armor and altered it to fit himself. Every surface was embossed with fantastic details: panthers roared at his shoulder joints, bears and bison snarled along his arms and legs. The helm was a fantastic rampant dragon, fanged mouth gaping at the crown. Tol had never seen such bizarre decorative armor, not even on the extravagant nobles of Daltigoth.

Xanka’s men cheered as he advanced between the rows of heralds. Tol looked beyond his opponent and saw that unlike the mass of sailors, the other pirate captains were not impressed by Xanka’s show. They sat along the rail, watching impassively and drinking from heavy, stemmed goblets.

Xanka halted a few steps from Tol. He carried four swords, one on each hip and two crosswise on his back. The greaves on his legs had special sockets to hold daggers. The spiked tail of the dragon on his helm was detachable. It was a mace.

From her place on the forecastle, Miya shouted, “Not fair! He wears armor, and our husband has none!”

“Tol doesn’t need it,” her sister replied.

The pirate chief drew the swords on his hips and waved them furiously over his head. His men roared approval, but Tol had to bite back a laugh. To his practiced eye, Xanka’s display was ludicrous. He had to be sweating like a war-horse in that armor, which, for all its glitter, was nearly useless as protection. Embossing stretched metal thin, making such fancy armor less sturdy than ordinary flat plates would have been. There was a lot of brass on Xanka, too, and brass was vulnerable to an iron blade.

Faerlac held up his hands. Once the cheering quieted somewhat, he intoned, “This is a fight to the death. There are no other rules.”

Hardly were the words spoken than Xanka came slashing at Tol with both blades. Tol leaped back, dodging awkwardly. Faerlac was not so lucky. The tip of one sword raked over his thigh. The bosun went down, bleeding. The startled heralds grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the way.

Xanka bulled on. Tol contented himself with parrying the swinging cutlasses. The bulky captain was surprisingly fast, and with two full-length swords, he made quite a threshing machine. Tol circled backward, avoiding an open hatch. He drew his dagger to provide some defense on his left side.

Thunderer’s deck, which had seemed so open, now resembled a trapper’s field. Everywhere were potential hazards. Coils of rope and raised coamings waited to snag Tol’s feet. Open hatches were also perils. He had to step lively to avoid these pitfalls.

He let Xanka push him back amidships. Beneath a canopy of screaming sailors, Tol wiped sweat and long hair from his eyes and wished he’d asked for a headband. Retreating into the shadow of the mast, he continued to size up his foe…

His earlier appraisal of Xanka was being confirmed; the pirate chief was no match for him. A dozen years older and twice as heavy, Xanka had probably been a formidable fighter once. Now he was weighed down by years of over-indulgence. He had killer instincts, but his movements and reactions were predictable. A few more circles around the galley’s deck and the heat would work its will on the man in the stifling armor, so Tol let Xanka put on a show for a while.