Tol walked slowly around the kneeling pirate. He paused, sweaty fingers flexing around the sharkskin grip of his sword. The only sound on Thunderer was Xanka’s hoarse weeping.

Tol raised Number Six high. With a single stroke, he cut off the King of the Sea’s head.

Xanka’s headless body slumped to the deck with a clatter of ornate armor. His head, rolling with the motion of the ship, ended in the scupper.

Tol straightened his back, both hands on his saber. The King of the Sea was dead. What would his subjects do now? Hundreds of eyes watched Tol, but no one spoke. He carefully wiped the blood from his blade and flung the dark crimson droplets on the deck, then met the stares of Xanka’s pirate crew with a cold glare of his own. Although he had schemed to have Xanka fight him man to man rather than face a slow death by torture, he was unsure what would happen next. Perhaps he should treat this situation as he had the Battle of Three Rose Creek. At battle’s end, the defeated General Tylocost had admonished him to raise his sword high and accept the fruits of victory.

Faerlac stepped forward and covered Xanka’s body with a rough blanket. His action seemed to free the rest from their immobility. A scraping noise and the sound of footsteps, caused Tol to turn.

The pirate chiefs were descending from the sterncastle. The Firebrand brothers, faces rosy from drink, leaned on each other for support. Hexylle and her officers chatted in low voices among themselves. Tailing the rest, one-eyed Morojin surveyed the scene calmly. The brothers reached Tol first.

Drom, all in white, squatted by the corpse and lifted the covering for a better look.

“Neater than the headsman of Thorngoth. Look, Hagy!” he said, tapping the leg of his black-clad sibling. There was no anger in his words, only excitement.

Hexylle snapped her fingers, and one of her crew stepped forward bearing a stoneware jug. At the pirate’s nod, a cup was filled and offered to Tol.

“It’s hotter than a dragon’s gut out here. Drink!” Hexylle said, her voice as coarse as her looks.

Tol took the cup and drained it gratefully. It wasn’t wine or beer, but a clear fiery liquor he’d never tasted before. Heat flushed his face, but any liquid was balm to his parched throat.

“Thank you, lady,” he said. Hexylle grinned broadly at that, blue eyes nearly vanishing in the leathery wrinkles of her skin.

Morojin, shortest of them all, stepped around Hexylle. “That blade of yours. May I see it?” he asked.

With studied calm, Tol handed it over. Morojin hefted the saber, swung it, even sniffed the blade. To Tol’s relief, he returned it at once.

“That’s a rare blade. Dwarf work, yes?” Tol admitted it was. Morojin stroked his long mustache thoughtfully, then tapped the hilt of a dagger in his belt. “This is of the same metal. It’s said the dwarves hammer the very essence of fire into the iron. They call it ‘steel.’ ”

The metal of Mundur’s sword had a name. Tol turned the unfamiliar word over in his mind.

Morojin added, “Xanka was a fool. Got what he deserved.”

The pirate ordered his yawl brought alongside so he could return to his flagship. When it arrived, he paused by Thunderer’s rail.

“Fine fight,” he said, regarding Tol with a glitter in his good eye. “You’re a wicked hand with a sword, lubber. Some day maybe I’ll find out how good you are.”

With a casual wave, Morojin departed. Hexylle and her women likewise gave a breezy farewell and left for their longboat. The Firebrands delayed a bit, making mock thrusts in the air as they refought the duel, black besting white, then white holding sway. Faerlac steered them to the rail and their own boat.

The idle crew of Thunderer broke up then, each man going about his business. Before Tol knew it, the oarmaster had resumed his beat, and the sweeps were rising and falling again, propelling the mighty elevener toward open water.

Kiya, Miya, and Tol’s men worked their way down from the forecastle. Embracing Tol, Miya said in a low tone, “They cut us loose!”

“Are we free, do you think?” Frez muttered. None of the pirates seemed to be paying them the slightest heed.

Tol knew no more than they. “Stay close,” he said. “We may get out of this yet.”

At Faerlac’s order, four sailors removed Xanka’s body, dropping it over the side. The head Faerlac offered to Tol.

“It’s customary for the new captain to hang the defeated foe’s head from the bowsprit. Tells the fleet who’s boss now,” the bosun explained.

The Ergothians were thunderstruck. Kiya stuttered, “Husband is now your chief?”

“Of course. It’s our law, written in the articles of the Blood Fleet. Anyone deemed equal in stature to the captain can challenge him for his position. Lord Tolandruth was certainly Captain Xanka’s equal. He slew Xanka. Now he’s out leader. What are your orders, Lord Captain?”

Miya and Darpo were grinning broadly; Kiya and Frez were stunned. Tol was as shocked as they, but had been too long a warrior to let his consternation show.

He said, “Make for Thorngoth. At your best speed.” When Faerlac held up the dripping head, Tol added tersely, “Observe your law.”

Xanka’s severed head was duly hung from the bowsprit of his former flagship. One by one the other ships in the Blood Fleet dipped their pennants in acknowledgment of their new commander.

Tol and his people were escorted to the captain’s cabin in the sterncastle. The outer room was crowded with Xanka’s personal booty, the choice pickings of years of freebooting. Thick carpets covered the deck, and heavy tapestries in cloth-of-gold and burgundy brocade hung on the walls. So much fine furniture was jammed into the space one could hardly use it. Several leather-bound chests, sealed with stout iron locks, were scattered about. Faerlac handed Tol the key that fit the locks.

Exhausted, feeling his composure waning, Tol dismissed the bosun then sank onto one of the chests, mopping his brow. His wounds burned.

Miya plucked the key from his unresisting fingers. She opened a nearby chest. Tol heard her gasp.

“By Bran’s beard! Husband, look at this!”

He expected treasure, and treasure it was. The box, knee-high to Miya, was filled to the brim with raw gemstones, chiefly rubies. The Dom-shu woman dug her hand into the heap of precious stones, letting them cascade from her fingers.

“What can the others hold?” Frez wondered aloud.

Miya stared at him for only an instant before rushing to throw open the other chests. One held silver coins, another gold. A fourth contained gilded and jeweled trinkets-rings, bracelets, torques, earrings. Each chest held a warlord’s ransom, and there were nine in the room.

While his companions pored over the late Sea King’s loot, Tol went through the door into the aftmost cabin.

Xanka’s personal quarters were even more extravagantly decorated than the anteroom. Golden statuettes and gilded temple lamps lined the walls. The carpet was so thick, Tol’s booted feet sank into its softness and his footsteps made scarcely any sound. Sweet vapors wafted up from a golden censer, swaying with the motion of the waves.

The rear wall of the cabin was the ship’s curving stern. It was set with glass panes, giving a splendid panorama of the sea behind Thunderer. The glare of the midday sun off the water filled the space with light.

Squinting against the brightness, Tol took a moment to realize he was not alone. Two women rose from the couches on which they’d been lying. One was tall, bronze-haired, with hazel eyes. Her gauzy costume emphasized rather than concealed her voluptuous figure. The other woman was much younger, little more than a girl, with ebony skin and the largest, darkest eyes Tol had ever seen. She was dressed as a sailor, but neither her outfit nor her close-cropped curly hair disguised her sex.