The King's Messenger

Chapter 6

There was plenty of room for the overseers to approach him all at once.

"Fan out," one called. "Surround him."

Messenger immediately started retreating, hoping to get a wall behind him. He ended up with slaves behind him and the overseers in front. They hesitated, nobody willing to make the first move.

"Now!" shouted a tall overseer. All of them charged, but Messenger could tell by their movement and eagerness that not all of them were fighters. He would target the threats first and deal with the fodder after.

Messenger dove toward their legs and rolled, slashing at one's calves as he righted himself. In his peripheral vision, he could see three freed slaves, one of whom holding a candle, joining the fray. Another held down the overseer he'd choked out earlier, and another pressed himself against the wall, shaking. Well, you couldn't win them all. Given that each slave could hold their own, it was now a five on one fight for Messenger. Poor odds, but much better than eight.

Of course, that was given that each slave could hold their own. If they were paired against the actual fighters of the group, they could get downed or killed quickly, leaving Messenger with a bigger problem and fewer survivors.

A club swinging toward his head brought Messenger out of his thoughts. He ducked, and it whizzed by, the air whistling in its wake. The enemy stumbled with the momentum of his unresisted blow, right into Messenger's waiting dagger. Taking no time to rest, Messenger retreated further. Four on one.

If he could help the slaves with their opponents, that would keep them safe and put him in an advantage state. If he could take out one of the overseers on the side, he might be able to burst past and hit one engaged with a slave from behind.

Messenger flipped his dagger so he held it by the blade and whipped it savagely at the rightmost overseer. He narrowly ducked it, and the blade spun into the back of another, who cried out and fell. Messenger ran up to the man who'd ducked his throw and sent his boot straight into his groin. When he doubled over, Messenger smashed his fist into his jaw in a brutish uppercut.

"Now!" came a shout from behind. Messenger caught the man he'd punched as he fell, whirling to the left and shoving him at the three goons running and yelling at him. Two of them caught the man, but the third dodged neatly. It seemed Messenger had found his fighter, a lanky, wiry man with greasy black hair.

Messenger was unarmed for now. He raised his hands defensively, guarding his jaw. The lanky man made the first move, swinging at him with his club. Unlike his predecessor, he kept his momentum in check and footing sure. Defenseless, Messenger was forced to retreat.

Watching with analytical eyes, Messenger strove to find some pattern to the advance. He retreated further, leaving the other fighting behind.

Mistake. Now, the overseer had room to use his whip without fear of hitting his allies. Pulling it from his belt, he reared back and cracked it straight at Messenger's face. He managed to get his arms up in time to block, but it left an open wound on his left arm. He could feel hot blood dripping down his arm, but the pain was dulled by adrenaline.

The greasy-haired man pulled back for another attack. Messenger tried to catch it, but it hit lower than expected, forcing Messenger to double over after his stomach took the hit. Not giving Messenger time to recover, the overseer swiftly readied another blow. Messenger rolled forward as it came, jumping to his feet and grabbing the overseer's whip hand. His opponent took that opportunity to punch him in the nose with a sickening crunch, just as Messenger's own fist collided with his stomach. Messenger reeled back, and the lanky man took his club with his free hand and swung it at Messenger's head. Messenger jumped backwards and fell, pulling the other man off his feet and kicking him in the throat as they fell. The impact with the ground pushed the air out of Messenger's lungs again, but the man he'd kicked wouldn't be playing any time soon.

Messenger pushed himself to his knees. His nose was broken for sure, and the whip marks stung madly, but he was far from done. Three slaves were engaging the last two overseers; they'd done work while he was fighting, apparently. Messenger took his dagger from the back of a body on the ground, its familiar grip slick with blood.

The last two were fighters, their movements practiced, if not incredibly controlled. Fortunately for Messenger, these two were looking in the wrong direction. He made quick work of them with crushing blows with the hilt of his dagger to the backs of their heads. They dropped like rocks, and suddenly, the only sounds were of heavy breathing and water on the hull. The slaves looked at each other; some cheered, others hesitated, uncertain. Were they saved?

"Thanks for the help," Messenger said, panting. Now that the fighting was over, some of the men seemed in awe. A Messenger of the King, standing before them, distinct white attire speckled with dirty crimson. "Pick up the lanterns; we can't have a fire on board." Some overseers had hung them up before the fight, some had dropped them.

Messenger moved to unlock more of the slaves. They rubbed their wrists and thanked him as he did so; he nodded in return. As he went, he issued more orders.

"Chain these men up; living and dead. No surprises." The three who'd helped him fight jumped to do so, enlisting the help of a few others. It took several minutes to unlock the rest of the slaves, about thirty in total.

"Take their weapons," commanded one of the freed slaves. He was a fit man, of around average height, with grey eyes and now-disheveled hair. He took a club for himself, then approached Messenger.

"Thank you, milord," he said, dipping his head. "I never thought..." He trailed off, unsure of whether he should continue.

"Never thought the king's men would help you, eh?" Messenger suggested.

The man hesitated, then shook his head. "No, I didn't," he agreed, choosing to trust Messenger. "How... why..."

"There's a woman desperate enough to ask even someone like me for help," Messenger explained. "Her husband went missing. Do you know if there's a Lias here? Lias Fisher?"

"Aye. You're looking at him," Lias said. "Did you say... Kali went to you for help?"

"She did," Messenger confirmed.

Lias simply regarded Messenger for a moment, lost in thought. "Then I'm glad you're a good man," he said, finally.

Messenger gave him a curt nod. "The rest of the crew will be here soon. Get these men organized, if you would. I can't take them all alone."

"You don't want to give the orders?" Lias asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"I'd rather not, no." Messenger, senses on alert, heard footsteps cutting through the din. "They'll be here soon."

Lias nodded and started organizing the slaves, redistributing the weapons to those willing and able to fight.

Furious footsteps sounded above, and a voice shouted down. "Sint! What's going on down there?" Lias held up a hand, encouraging a silence that let them hear the incoming crew member's grumblings.

"You goddam bastards," he cursed, boots echoing on the wooden steps. They saw his shoes first. Lias signalled, and he and two other men rushed him down.

Eyes widening, the man shouted, "The slaves are free! The slaves-" Lias and his compatriots rendered him unconscious before he could get anything else out, but that damage was done. Silence fell again, but soon, the rest of the crew would storm the hold.

"Damn," Messenger muttered. "They'll come to us. We should outnumber them."