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July 24th, 1565 – Aft Quarterdeck

Renault watched as the last few stragglers made there way to his assembly point. He looked up at the sky to check the position of the sun and the felt the rhythm of the sea. Nodding once to himself he addressed his men.

“Well gentlemen,” this elicited several chuckles from various veterans of the unit, “it seems that the time has come for us to get a feel for each other. You veterans I’m not so worried about but you new men, while you proved worthy to become a Ranger you still have a long way to go. Remember none of you are dumb grunts and just because you can sneak in the bush it doesn’t mean you can tell me the disposition of enemy troops nor the inclination to slit a throat in the dark. Let me tell you first and foremost, there is no such thing as heroes in this unit. We’re Rangers, we go, we find, we report. At times we fight. That though is not our main purpose. If we have to fight we’ve failed. Is that clear?”

Several of the veterans nodded their heads, hearing the same thing before sometimes several times. Usually they got the speech before a mission. This time they knew it was for the new men. A couple of the new men had hesitant look on their faces as if unsure of what to think about that.

“Being a Ranger is not heroic nor is it glorious. Yes we are the best damn fighting man in this company, but that’s not our job. If you want to chop off heads I can send you back to the normal Infantry. Look we get dirty, nasty, smelly. We have to be able to lie in wait for days until we get the information we want or need. At times we’ll be sent to skirmish a particular army… yes I said army… and then we have a hard time of playing cat and mouse. Our intent is to slow and distract that army, not win a battle. Is that clear?”

More men nodded this time. Still several looked a little disappointed. He would know soon enough who to send back to the infantry though. Their first landfall will definitely let him know that.

“Okay with that being said we’re going to work on our silent signals. Veterans work with the new recruits and teach them the signs. Even you grunts that have moved over will need to know our pretty specific signs now. While you have a good base to work from you will need to learn the new signs for troop types and distances.”

He locked eyes with one of the new Rangers that had a bloody bandage over his left eye and motioned him over to him as the men broke into groups. He knew the Veterans would teach the new recruits quickly and efficiently, they had a bit to learn. When the one eyed man came up to him Renault voiced slightly above a whisper to him, “I know what it’s like to be limited in vision, luckily I didn’t lose my eye. I want an honest answer from you, will you be able to compensate for your lack of distance telling? I can work with you on that if need be. I’ll have no man that will be a jeopardy in my unit. You’ll need to learn to compensate or I will have you wielding a pike in no time at all. Am I clear?”

He waited for the man to respond.
 
July 24th, 1565

"Two now, two if you do it right." He pushed the youth toward the opposite side of the ship. "Go, now!"

King took the two denarii in his hand and pressed them back and forth between his palms as he ran in the direction the tall, muscular commander had instructed him to go. He felt slightly wrong for knowing more than his master, but for this price, he was willing to take the sure scorn that might come his way.

Approaching a rather undistinguished man at the end of the deck, he stopped short and slowly made his way there, apprehensive at the man's large build.

"Um, your lordship, sir?" he stumbled a bit in his speech and the man made shift to hasten his words

"Out with it, boy! What have you to say?"

"The master there, that is...the lordship," he pointed, "He's instructed me to tell ye that we are to head to Malta, sir. There be a hundred thousand Turk, sir."

The words came out slowly and worried.

Gunshy laughed, a smile appearing on his face. He thinks he has me, does he, he thought.

"Well you tell the lord that he can expect that he might have his hands on perhaps twenty of them. The rest belong to me!"

Unsure of how to respond, King waited in his place. After a moment or two, Gunshy produced two denarii of his own and placed them in the young boy's hand, making the day a profitable one.

"And make speed to tell him, will you now," a laugh escaping his lips as he said so.
 
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July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

The ship made a slight rocking motion, and Gunshy glared at it balefully. "Stupid hunk of half rotted wood." He muttered. "Probably held together by string, spit, and prayer."

Not too far from where he was, he could see that Mario's boys were starting to wander into something vaguely approaching formation. A stickler for formation Mario was, but, the ship was only so big after all. He watched their sergenats chivvy them around, snickering when one pair tangled themselves up in some stray rope and promptly fell over.

Recruits. They learned or they didn't, and most people didn't make it out of the company except feet first.

Farther away, Renault had his rangers lined up. He was probably giving them the speech, that sneaky bastard, he'd clearly spent too much time drinking the water in whatever ditch he was hiding in. "First thing I'm doing when I get off this tub is finding a drink. Then, I'm finding another drink."

The noise volume of the ship began to grow as more and more company men began to discuss the news that was being passed around, artilleryman to infantry, infantry to cavalry, brother to brother.

"Malta. Fantastic. I hate islands." Gunshy sneered at the horizon, dismissing its soft beauty.

"Hey! Have you heard were going to Malta!" A voice said from behind him. Gunshy whirled, and found himself eye to eye with good old...god damn it. He'd forgotten the kids name.

There was a long pause as the two sort of stared at each other awkwardly, then Gunshy chose to break the silence with a well intentioned, clearly meditative reply. "Where the hell did you find out?!" He roared at the youngster, startling him. "Your on his side, aren't you!" He continued, shaking a blunt finger at the now retreating youth.

"Errr, I'm not...that is to say I..." The kid kept backing up, finally whimpering. "Malta." And then he fled in terror as the blocky lieutenant began to rave, throwing his hands up in the air and cursing sulpherously at the placid ocean.

"Um, your lordship, sir?" Gunshy stopped ranting and turned aroung, again finding himself staring at another would be herald. His eyes narrowed as the servant stumbled through his words.

"Out with it, boy! What have you to say?" He growled.

"The master there, that is...the lordship," King pointed, "He's instructed me to tell ye that we are to head to Malta, sir. There be a hundred thousand Turk, sir."

Gunshy laughed, a smile appearing on his face. He thinks he has me, does he. "Well you tell the lord that he can expect that he might have his hands on perhaps twenty of them. The rest belong to me!"

Unsure of how to respond, King waited in his place. After a moment or two, Gunshy produced two denarii of his own and placed them in the young boy's hand, making a shooing motion. "And make speed to tell him, will you now," a laugh escaping his lips as he said so.

Cavalry, all fools. Glory would never say no to double or nothing.
 
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July 24th, 1565

With his bronze mistress gleaming in the darkness, Llywarch ap Rhys made his way back topside of the ship. He took a deep breath of the sea air, and watched a pair of gulls battle over a bloodied piece of cloth. A large gray and white one with one mad eye was trying to rip it away from a smaller, tannish bird, the better to feed on the small gobbets of congealed blood. Their squaks grew in rancor, and they seemed to circle like gladiators.

"Aye there, little gwylans, what a tasty morsel you've found there, eh?" He took a seat on a barrel to watch, as a lute skittered past and the rangers gathered on the aft quaterdeck. He sat long enough to make up his mind as to which bird was stronger. "Here now, my gwirionyn," he sang out to anyone around, "the gulls are putting on a show! I'll put three pieces of copper on the little brown one there, and give two to one on old one-eye!" He stood, looked around and tossed his three coins on the barrel.

"Well, come on, not like we're going have dockside whores come aboard for our pleasure! Two birds in a fight is as good as it'll get."
 
July 24, 1565

“I know what it’s like to be limited in vision, luckily I didn’t lose my eye. I want an honest answer from you, will you be able to compensate for your lack of distance telling? I can work with you on that if need be. I’ll have no man that will be a jeopardy in my unit. You’ll need to learn to compensate or I will have you wielding a pike in no time at all. Am I clear?” The Sergeant was damn near glaring at him, or at least that was what it felt like.

Arpad nodded. "I hope you'll excuse me" he said, the casualness of his tone surprising even himself "this eye was dug out of my head the night before we set sail. I'm still adjusting. I'll learn to compensate, but your help will be most welcome, Sir. I won't put any of your Rangers in danger...I killed three men and escaped several dozen after giving up that eye." He suddenly realized he had probably said too much, and looked down nervously at his boots. "Sorry Sir, forgive my brashness." He looked back up at the Sergeant, meeting his gaze with his one good eye.

"My life has changed a lot in the last few weeks, Sir. It's all taking some time to get used to, but I've always adapted before and won. I'll do it again." An icy determination had formed in Arpad's eye and voice as he had spoken. He thought of Ava, of Julia, of 13 years as the Ghost of the Danube. Two eyes, one eye, or none, he was good enough to be here.

"Sergeant, if I may be so forward, what happened to your eye? And I'm ready for your help whenever you're ready to give it."
 
July 24th, 1565 – Aft Quarterdeck

"Sergeant, if I may be so forward, what happened to your eye? And I'm ready for your help whenever you're ready to give it."

Renault noticed the icy look and nodded internally. He’ll make it… he’s got the mental capacity.

“Well I didn’t loose the eye just looks that way. The nasty scar I have was from many years back. That’s all you need to know for now. As for the help well the main thing you need to do is keep your head and eye constantly moving. It will feel strange at first but keep at it. You’ll learn to gauge distance from you to other spots and learn from there. It will take time, but if you keep it up then it’ll be second nature. Now get back in with a group and keep up the work.”

The man walked away from the Sergeant and fell in with a group of veterans.
 
July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

Captain waited until the last officer had left the tent before turning to Henri. “Well that caused quite a stir. The men are more eager to fight than I thought.”

Henri shifted in his chair, a grimace passing his face. “They are Company men, David. We have a contract, we fight.”

The Captain sighed, putting hands to hips. “Don’t preach me the obvious. I spent seven years fighting under my father’s command.” He softened, shrugged. “I suppose I should have exercised more control over the meeting, eh?”

The envoy shifted again. “That would have been helpful.” He paused. “Ah, it probably wouldn’t have made much difference. I’ve been through this before. Look, the men know you as one of them, and not as their leader. Most of the officers are your senior. They’re testing you, seeing what you have. But when the time comes, they’ll be there.”

Captain pondered it, then nodded. He looked at the chest. “You think the Spanish will be good for the balance?”

Henri shrugged. “Time will tell.”

“Right.” With that Captain walked onto the aftdeck, paused to watch the flurry of activity as the men reacted to the news of their destination. Stopping at the rail, he leaned on it, saw Mario and Renault gathering their men, chuckled when Renault launched into the speech. He remembered the speech; had served as a ranger for three years under the stern sergeant. There wasn’t a man he trusted more.

For a few moments he caught the sounds of an instrument, perhaps a lute. Its notes carried clearly through the ebb and tide of noise. Then he was distracted as he watched a boy run the length of the ship, straight to Gunshy. What now?

The lad reminded him of young Stiles, the Company annalist. The boy, 14 years of age, was around somewhere, probably holed up near Henri, whom he adored for teaching him how to read and write. Not that Captain disapproved. The Company always had an annalist. It was important that history remembered their deeds.

Moving from the rail, he strolled to stand near the tiller. Beyond, on the turquoise sea, was the remainder of the fleet. It was large, impressive. It could have served almost any city-state in Italy, but it didn’t. It was a corsair fleet, the only ships ready and foolhardy enough to do what Captain had asked – for a price.

Their leader, ‘Red Hand’, was somewhere on the foredeck. Just as well. Captain had his own thoughts to tend to. He looked out over his men again, saw the faces, old and new, and wondered how many he’d have to bury by the time this was over.
 
July 24, 1565 - At Sea

Mario shook his head in disgust when a couple of men tripped over some coiled ropes and hit the deck.

This is supposed to be an elite unit! he thought with some irritation, Now they are clowning around pushing each other to get into place in too small of a space.

"Fall in, damn it!" he shouted," By rank and file! This is the elite unit you are a part of, not some newly recruited army for the Turk! Get it together!"

He watched as Von Stark and the others got the men chivvied into place and they all looked expectantly at the lieutenant.

"Yes, as you have possibly heard by the rumors," Mario began," We're going to Malta. We go to succor the Knights of St. John against the infidel. Yes, the Turk again! It's been a long time since we've crossed swords with them, and it is time to get our own back!

Some of you may have never heard the stories of Constantinople and the company's heroic stand against the Turk. We had to flee. Many of you probably have heard of the stand the company took against the Turk again in Hungary. We lost a lot of men there. Granted it was over 100 years ago. But the Free Company never forgets, and we will yet again teach the infidel that this company is their worst nightmare!

There is a reason our motto is Death Rides With Us! We harvest windrows of the enemy with our blades and our guns. We will wade through rivers of blood to make sure the Turk never ever forgets the calamity of encountering the Free Company yet again!

We have a glorious history. Our reputation preceeds us. Enemies have run from us knowing we are coming. The Turk is no different. You can be absolutely certain that when they know we face them that they will shiver in their boots!

We are the best damn army in the world. The Free Company is your family. We take care of our own and we make sure that our enemies forever regret crossing blades with us.

Our discipline and skill are legendary. Rightfully so, and God help any of you who fail to live up to that high standard! You won't have to worry about me or your sergeants getting our hands on you. You'll be dead at the hands of the infidel and beyond our power to make you regret your foolishness. We will still be training once we reach the island.

Let me tell you something, men. This is going to unlike any other campaign we've been on. There are no streams, rivers, or lakes on Malta. Precious few trees either! I've been in the officer's meeting. I know this because I paid attention. You'd better pay attention as well.

There are wells on Malta, but no surface water as I mentioned before. So we will have to have water rationing to ensure that we have enough to make it through the entire campaign."

"How long are we contracted for?" Von Stark inquired loudly.

"Six months," Mario replied," Or we drive the infidel from Malta. Whichever comes first. Next question?"

"What are we being paid?"

"What you contracted for," Mario snorted," You'll not be getting a bonus just because we go to Malta, Jenick."

"I can but hope, Lieutenant."

"Anyone else?" Mario looked sternly at Jenick.
 
July 24, 1565 - At Sea

Andre waited until the one eyed man stepped away from the sergeant before approaching him.

"Sergeant?" Andre said quietly.

"Yes, Aeshir?"

"What kind of conditions can we expect once we reach Malta?" Andre inquired.

"Well, I could tell you," Renault slightly smiled," But that might spoil the surprise. It is important for a Ranger to not have any preconceived notions of what they might encounter. I want you all to have no such preconceived ideas of what you might encounter. You have to have your eyes open, your ears pricked to every type of sound, and your nose capable of smelling any kind of aroma."

Andre nodded slowly," I suppose that makes some kind of sense. It's a bit more involved than what I learned with the Neapolitan scouts."

Renault's lips quirked," Well they are not the Free Company. We live and die by what we do. If we don't do our jobs more than just us die, the whole company could die. There is little room for mistakes."

"Understood," Andre nodded once more," Thank you sergeant. You've been most helpful."

"Go find a veteran and get to learning the hand signals of the company," Renault ordered.

"Of course," Andre strode off to find a Ranger veteran to start learning the seemingly all important hand signals.
 
July 24th, 1565 - Aft and below

"Meeting of the Company officers." Martel's hand set the quill down and he blew gently on the text. After a moment he stood and pushed the heavy wood hatch cover out further from the hull. The light of the sun fell on the improvised desk, illuminating the tools of his trade. Logs, maps, endless scrolls of details, manifests, contracts, writing instruments, ink and rulers. He stretched his arms up and pushed against the overhead beams, arching his back and tightening his muscles to get his blood flowing again. And then he began to work the numbers again.

He didn't know how long had passed since the meeting began, but he could clearly discern when it ended. The heavy thudding of cannoneers echoed down the ladders to the deck, and again into the hold in a horserace. An energy seemed to expand in their wake. Shortly after Renault's voice pierced the decks calling his scouts. Somewhere a lute abruptly stopped, and he knew it was time.

He stood again, turned and walked around the impromptu 'wall' of barrelled stores. Two young men looked up from their own scrolls with the question on their faces. "Richard, kindly find Lord Robertson and get his word to discuss our destination." The young man grinned and leapt to his feet. Nathaniel grabbed him by the arm. "He's likely busy, and if so the word of the Envoy will do just as well. Under no circumstances interupt him. Understood?"

"Yes Mr. Martel." The boy stood frozen, waiting for his release. Nathaniel chuckled and waved him on his way. "William, kindly inform the others to keep a close eye on our stores. No one is to distribute anything without written approval."

The redhaired boy looked at him quizzically. "Does that mean the officers approval?"

"No. For now until further notice mine alone. It is temporary, but it has to be this way to ensure that we have enough. Once I know who will be in charge for the Company, then I will pass the word."

"Yes Mr. Martel!"

Nathaniel returned to his desk and moved a vellum map into the fading sunlight. He opened a ledger next to it, opened to a well worn page and began working down the columns with a finger. After a moment he placed a metal weight with a string on the map and began a series of deliberate movements. For each column the movements were repeated. "There's no other location that makes sense," he concluded. "Which means that the supply raiding will begin in earnest now." He turned and removed the cork from the inkwell, dipped the feather into it, and then wrote carefully on the ledger page.

"Destination - Malta"

The noise and activity had only begun to increase as he began writing an endless series of alotments down for the various formations in the Company. He'd planned for this sudden adventure as well as he could. Powder, ammunition, arms of all sorts, metal, leather, oils and coke, water and wine, food and feed. In the end, far too many things were dependant on the hands of the glorified corsairs that carried them by charter. Should they take a cut, should the blockade close, should the Knights demand tribute...

Martel chided himself for getting carried away. The potential disasters were many. He had done the best that he could do to ensure their supply. It was out of his hands, and in the hands of Almighty.
 
July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

Cai smiled ruefully,” I’ll leave you to your letter.”

As Mario started reading the letter, Chen moved away to the aft of the ship to give Mario some privacy.

“Morning Lt. Chen.” A young sergeant greeted him. Cai nodded his head in acknowledgement. A group of even younger looking artillery men passed him with a slight bow of their heads in respect at this veteran of the Free Company.

Looking around at the activities on the ship, it suddenly struck him how young looking most of the soldiers were. Most of them are in their 20s or 30s. A few are in their 40s. Barely a handful of men are his age and even then they had not been in the Company for as long as he had.

Leaning on the rails on the ship, he gazed out into the horizon, taking in the peaceful sky and calm clear waters of the sea. Beneath his boots, he could feel the gentle rocking of the ship as she cuts through the waves on her way for another campaign. Behind him and all around the ship, he could hear the excited voices and growing excitement from the rest of the men as news of their final destination was announced.

So it is Malta, Cai nodded to himself. Until today, no one, save the Captain and Henri, knew where they were headed. Cai and Mario had speculated among themselves and Malta had been one of several guesses where the Company could be headed. Cai smiled grimly to himself, so it was the Turks again. The Free Company had first come up against the Turks in the 1400s, in their valiant attempt to defend Constantinople. Since then over the next century, starting from Belgrade, the Free Company had been involved in many campaigns in the attempt to stem the Turkish westwards expansion. Cai himself had battled the Turks in past campaigns and now he would battle the Turks again in yet another campaign.

Another campaign, thought Cai. 12 campaigns he had been through and now on his way to his 13th. The Europeans believed 13 was an unlucky number, none so more his wife Serena. She had protested most vigorously when he made his decision to go on one more campaign. He could still remember the last conversation with her the night before his departure.

They were walking in one of the gardens in their host city and the topic of his departure had come up again.

“Husband, please bad things always happen on the number 13. I think you should really reconsider.”

“Please dear, that is just a superstition. Do you really honestly believe that myth? I for one won’t and I am definitely going on this campaign.”

“You sure you won’t change your mind, dear?”

“Dearest Serena, you know very well as I do that once I make up my mind, I won’t change it. Besides with WeiBao injured, someone has to be there to look after YaoHui. Won’t you feel more reassured if I am there to look out for him?”

“Reassured? One is young and rash, the other is old and as stubborn as a bull. Besides you are already 55. Do you think you are still as fast and strong as last time?

“Oh come on, I am still as fit as ever.” Cai protested strongly. Looking around for an example, he pointed to a tree nearby standing about 7 feet tall.

“See that tree, I am just like that tree, tall proud and strong and a few enemy soldiers won’t be able to topple me so easily.” He announced and to emphasize his point gave the tree a push.

The tree toppled.

There was a stunned silence for a moment and suddenly Serena started her protests anew. Cai peered over into the hole which once supported the tree.

“Oh, it’s just termites. I just chose the wrong tree as an example that’s all.”

It had taken a whole night to reassure her but even after starting the trip, this episode had been nagging away at him throughout the trip. He just couldn’t help thinking if this is a bad omen. Not to mention the number 13…

He stroked in beard in deep thoughts. Grey now, he noticed, no longer black. Perhaps he was really getting old.

It has been a very long time indeed. 3 Captains he had served in a long and illustrious career spanning 35 years. It had all started when he joined the Company in 1530, then under Acting Captain de Bloomfielde. A very experienced man in military tactics indeed, the only weird thing about him is that he always wore this large Floppy Hat, a hat in Cai’s opinion which doesn’t go along on him at all. Once on guard duty, de Bloomfielde had walked past and Cai had plucked up the courage and asked him about the Floppy Hat. The Captain only smiled and said it was a family inheritance that had been passed down for the past few generations.

Edward Robertson, of the line of the first Free Company Captain Robert of Brandon, had taken over the Company in 1532. And it was under him that Cai served most of his career and as far as Cai was concerned, Edward was the best Captain any man could serve under. And now he was dead and there’s a new Captain at the helm, Edward’s son David, young, inexperienced and not even half Cai’s age. Captain Edward had always treated Cai well when he was alive. Now that he was gone, the least Cai could do to repay the favor is to look out for the new Captain and to protect him even if means dying in the process.

Dying, thought Cai, strange, for some reason, he’s been thinking of death quite frequently in the recent months. Ever since he joined, he knew death could strike any time and he had always put the thought at the back of his head. If death comes, it comes, no point thinking about it. But yet, he’s thinking about it very often nowadays. Is this a sign of things about to come?

Cai shook his head violently. What was he thinking? The elders had always say, thinking of death is an open invitation to YenLowWang, the Chinese King of Hell, to come visiting and that was the last thing that Cai wanted. Cai hurriedly put all thoughts of dying out of his head.

Cai stretched. He decided he had had spent enough time on the decks, perhaps it’s time to go below decks to check on his cavalrymen.

He turned to head below decks only to run into another Company man. As both men stumbled and caught their balance, Cai was about to bow in apology when he noticed who it was. The man was dressed in bilious yellow tunic and lime green pantaloons. Andre Aeshir. Cai hesitated for a moment before finishing his bow.

Straightening his back, Cai stared across at Andre. He knew very well the story of Alaric and how he tried to prevent the marriage of RongCai and Alyssa, how he left the Company when he failed and his ban on future generations of his family to join the Company. But yet, now standing before Cai was a man of the Al’Aeshir family. Cai wondered if this Al’Aeshir still had the bigotry that plagued Alaric. Cai decided to put it to the test, perhaps here was a chance to start the reconciliation of the 2 branches of the family.

Cai extended his hand. Andre stood there motionless, just staring at Cai but not saying a word. Cai waited for a moment more before breaking the silence,” Well, are you not going to say hello to a distant relative.”
 
Glorious was reclining against the rail muttering to his fellow reiters when King reappeared. "Sire," he said breathlessly, "I did as ye asked. The man over there told me to tell ye that only twenty Turk be yours, and the rest be his."

"What?!" Glorious hopped to his feet. "What man?"

King pointed. "That man, sire."

Glorious gritted his teeth and looked down at the teen. King smiled nervously and held his hand out. For his trouble, he got boxed around the ears.

"Fah! He probably paid you twice what I offered just to annoy me!" Glorious turned and stomped off across the deck, toward his artillery counterpart. So that's the game we're playing now, huh?, he thought.

Along the way he heard a Welsh accent offering a bet. Missing a beat, the knight ambled to a stop and stared at the birds, then at Gunshy, then back at the birds. He gritted his teeth, struggled, gave up. "I'll take your bet!" he shouted, tossing a couple of coins at the deck as he allowed himself to be pulled into the fight. Gunshy deserves to wait a minute, anyway.
 
July 24, 1565

Main Sail

They couldn't see him, he knew. At the top of the mast, crouched on the cross beam, lost in the glare of the Mediterranean sun. His men would jest he watched them all in the many hours he spent here, but they always knew he was there and so knew better. He had no need to use his eyes. He could hear them. Rat’s cinching on the prow. Lorenzo and Abdul climbing the stern, the palms of their hands scraping along the wood, the pads of their feet kicking against it. A sound so unlike his own as he went, silent, feline, up and up, and yet to the same place. “What use is it,” they would say when he admonished them, “to prowl like a thief around your own woman?” He could hear the defensiveness, the knowledge in their breathing of their illicitness, their small rebellion.

The rocking of the cannon. It had thrown him for a week when he’d taken command of the Fatima, this new noise, but after a year they had found their way into the hum and song of his ship. So much that if they ever fell silent he would miss them terribly, as he would miss the wind breaking against the sails. The oars dipping into the water. The glide beneath the waves and the reemergence. The pop as the sea tried vain to hold on to its prize.

He could feel them, too. Their sweat gathered together like dew in the air. The push and pull of their breathing. The beating of their hearts. The boy who snuck a denar from his treasure, a gleam in his eye at defeating the tall, ebony figure who watched over it, and the sag of his heart each morning to find his denar gone and a single ivory bead in its place. Ralah who the Sultan had made forever childless smiling a father’s smile as he taught the young one how to steal. Their quarrels, Rat and Tamil amidships hands on their dagger hilts, their men rallied about them, ready to kill their brothers because they are certain they will not have to. His voice, soft and final, as near to them as their skin. Their joys, from which they fear he is excluded, that rise up into him as he squats on the beam. Laughter and song. Their sleep.

Their dreams. And Amina. The light of her when she is aboard, her footsteps soft, swaying, a woman’s footsteps on a man’s land. The awe of her, her beauty like a gale, stupefying them, paralyzing them, leaving them begging to do her every bidding. The change now, in these last years she has risen through their ranks, an awe of a different sort. The awe of command. Her bidding orders they will follow as they follow his, and his heritage assured.

Her mother, lost. Lost Amara. Amara found in her eyes.

All of them he feels in his ship. As they feel him and the sea, the sea all around them. Where they were born their true births and where they live and earn their living and where they will surely die. The sea that nourishes them and that they will all nourish in the end.

Not these ones. These ones do not know the sea. They know only the flat dirt before them, the pitching deck that sends so many to the sides retching and longing, in their hard hearts, their mercenary hearts, for their mothers’ soft caresses. They see nothing but the green and the blue. They do not know its ways, its sinews and rhythm. They do not see its soul. And they do not look up. They do not see him.

And it is a good thing, too, because he must watch for a while, while their sounds are still foreign. Their armor, heavy, clanging, rusting in the mist and the salt. Their loud chatter. Their drills so absurd here. He must watch so that he knows. He knows all that happens on his ship.

He watches the grim sergeant with his spies. No horses here. Most of them don’t even have legs.

“Young, those ones.”

Saul smiled, breaking the intensity, the taut pull of his dark face. And what he didn’t know, Seer would.

“Not so young, to those of us who are not so old.”

He shifted his gaze toward his sudden company, who had silently taken a seat on the other side of the bar from wherever on the rigging he’d been lurking. How long the old man had been there he was sure the old man himself couldn‘t say.

“And how would you know?”

“You don’t need eyes to spot virgins, boy. I could hear their bravado even as I smelt their fear. Putrid and damp. Like the reek of piss in their tin skirts when they come face to face with their first janissary. “

“You speak gibberish, old man,” Saul chuckled. “You think without seeing.”

Seer snorted.

“And what will the Tartars think when they see the children you’re bringing to fight them?”

“What all soldiers think when they see that banner before them. That they have lost before they have begun.”

Seer snorted again and picked at the scabs on the knobs that were left of his knees. They sat in the breeze for several minutes before he spoke again.

“They brought women aboard, you know,” he said. And then he grinned crookedly. “I could smell them too.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll do nothing? Nothing to those who break the Laws of Red Hand?”

“They are not the subjects of Red Hand.” Saul sighed. “As long as they come to no harm, I will not interfere. They seem to ease the passage.”

“You know what I think?” Seer grumbled. “I think you are cowed by this Captain of theirs, his lips still wet from his mother’s teat.”

Saul looked away, out to the horizon and shook his head.

“It is not that boy I expected,” he said, softly. “But he is still the Captain.”

“The Captain. The Captain. Hallowed be his name, his Kingdom come, his will be done, among cowards as it is with scum. That is how the ones of the book say it, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.” Saul laughed.

“How do you think they feel going to do the bidding of the Holy Father in defending crusader pirate scum on the Prophet’s ships?”

“On Fatima’s ships, Khalid. Fatima’s ships.”

Seer grimaced. It was his birth name and only the Captain knew it. He spoke it rarely. When he did, it was an order. He lapsed into stony silence again, but he would not be deterred.

“Why do we transport the infidels? Why do we bring them to their deaths for the sake of our enemies?”

“You judge too quickly. Many are green, their commander is green. But I suspect you shall see before we are done that it is not their deaths that lie before us.”

“They are spit.”

“They are the Company.”

“They are not the Company,” Seer growled. “I know more of Sir Robert of Brandon and his heirs than you, boy, whether you believe it or not. And these are not them.”

“We shall see,” Saul said, tightly.

“Yes. Yes. We shall see. We shall see. Meanwhile, why are we even here to see in the first place?”

“For the reasons I gave you when we set out from Tunis. Will you question them yet again?”

“I am an old fool. Give humor and tell me once more.”

Saul regarded him evenly.

“Because the annihilation of the Knights of St. John by the Sultan will deliver all the spoils of that Order into his own hands. Not to speak of bringing the Western Seas still further in sight of the Porte. And because the King of Spain made me an offer I could not refuse.”

“What? For a few chests of gold the Red Hand may be bought? That pittance will hardly cover our expenses on this voyage.”

“It will do more than that. The half we have already been given pays the outfitting and crewing of three of the new ships when this is over. The other half and our small errand for the Doge will buy a fourth Galleass.”

“These beasts do not fill the pockets, Saul.”

“They ensure our independence. And with a fourth, the Oran can be assigned its own flotilla and Diego may put into practice his grand designs against the Provencal.”

“Flotilla? Speak what of flotillas? You are a corsair, boy. And I think there is more to this than you say.”

“There is. His Majesty Felipe has been generous with things other than gold. We have only to deliver the Company to Malta and then you shall see, old man.”

“I see! I see perfectly well! Better than those dogs rowing down there below. I know what you are up to, boy. And you are mad.”

“Perhaps.” He smiled and stood. “But for now, let us go down there below and see about these children of yours.”

Seer remained where he was. He grunted and gazed up at this Red Hand, the best under whom he had ever served and he had hoped the last, but now he was not so sure.

“And if they do come to harm, Saul?” he asked, quietly. “The women?”

The younger man fixed him with a hard gaze. It was a terrible, steady gaze. No rashness or anger in it-just cold steel resolve. It was what men feared most in him. Seer could not see it, of course, but he could feel it. Scorching the sand papery folds of his face. It was not bravado. And there was nothing to smell.

“I will hang the mercenaries’ skins from the stern, Captain or no.”

And with that, he touched the slight bump on his chest for a moment and threw himself off the yard arm.
 
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July 24th, 1565

The one-eyed Ranger mingled in with a group of the veterans and watched as they demonstrated the hand signals, then started holding conversations among each other with them. He picked them up fairly quickly, but they insisted on continuing, and so he allowed his mind to wander. He saw a particularly flamboyant looking individual talking to the Sergeant, and overheard a chunk of the conversation. Nose capable of smelling any kind of aroma? Did the Sergeant actually just say that? Was he ordering the men not to stick things in their noses? Arpad began to wonder at just what he had signed up for...still, it was a far cry better than the gallows. He wondered if any of the other men on board had heard much while in Sicily...the only question would be whether or not it had gotten out during the morning before the fleet had left. But the circumstances would be fairly damning...how often did an item like an eye turn up at the scene of such an incident? And he hadn't exactly hidden when he had lost it, though he had trouble imagining how he would do such a thing...

Arpad went back to considering the flamboyant looking man. Neapolitan scouts...the Hungarian found himself not liking the man, though he wasn't sure why. Was it the urge he seemed to have to draw attention to himself? His Neapolitan connection? Or had the Magyar just started to lose his mind? That last option was fully plausible...he hadn't been able to shake the nightmares for the last week, and he kept smelling...

"MAGYAR! You listening?! Give me the 'all clear'!" One of the vets was barking at Arpad, and it startled him out of his thoughts. He made the motion crisply, and the vet nodded. "Good. Now tell me '10 men, stationary, 100 yards northeast, facing south'." Arpad thought a moment, blinking once or twice with his one good eye, and then went through the intricate series of hand gestures to the whistling satisfaction of the vets. The group moved on to teaching slower learners, and after a while broke up. Arpad took another look at the flamboyant soldier, but saw him engaged in conversation with another man, and so headed off down the deck, moving his head and eye constantly as per Sergeant Renault's advice. Though he felt like a fool, he had to admit it seemed to help.

He came across a couple of gulls fighting over his old bandage, and saw that they were starting to draw a crowd...a betting crowd. He saw a man near the barrelhead say "I'll put three pieces of copper on the little brown one there, and give two to one on old one-eye!" The Hungarian couldn't help but smile, and reached into a pocket, retracting six coppers.

"I'll take Old One-Eye..." he said, putting the coins on the barrelhead with a smile. "What can I say, I think he's a handsome fellow. And probably meaner than all Hell." Arpad settled in next to Llywarch and Glorious to watch the two birds spar, and listened with a certain satisfaction as a few more tentative bets came in in favor of the one-eyed gull, though the consensus pick seemed to be the smaller brown bird.
 
July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

The sky looked amazing, with azure meeting the darker blue of the ocean, wisps of cloud floating along on what was a truely beautiful mediterranean day. Not that Gunshy noticed, his attention was focused on battle of nearly epic proportions between a pair of seagulls that Llywarch was taking bets on.

"Put me down for five." Gunshy grunted, tossing a few coins onto the barrel. "On the big one."

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Mario giving his version of the speech. Everyone had a version, stick around in the company long enough and even the hardest, toughest vet got a bit misty eyed everytime someone started talking about brotherhood.

Gunshy snorted in derision, talk was cheap. He never gave his boys little speeches, he reserved that for when he was stone drunk. Gunshy preferred to lead from behind, it was a hell of alot easier to kick his mob of shirkers pretending to be artillery in the ass that way. If he started standing on a dais and preaching they'd throw things that him, probably shoot at him too.

He was fond of them though, he thought of them as his exceedingly stupid children. And right now, one of his particularly irritating brats was trying to scam him out of some money. "Put that coin back Llywarch, I saw you palm it." He cursed at his best gunman.

"Your full of it Gunshy, you only put down five." The welshman rolled his eyes and counted out the coins again. "Three from me, four from Greg, six from Willie, and five from you. That's eighteen total, Ill say it again because I know your congenitally stupid."

"Shut the hell up." Gunshy spat back, abashed. He was sure he'd seen Llywarch move his hand.

Disgusted, he looked around the deck. Up near the aftdeck David was watching the various antics of his men as he talked with Henri, his eyes met Gunshy's briefly, and then moved on. Captain, he's captain now. And don't you forget it you old fool.

Moving on.

The rangers had broken up into smaller groups, and were mingling a bit with the rest of the crew. Everyone else lounged, cleaned personal weapons, drank, ate, sang, and generally tried to look busy lest someone decide to find them some work. Shirking comes naturally to good soldiers, it's how they survive.

The seagulls were going at it pretty hard now, the smaller one had torn a chunk of the bigger ones wing off. The bigger one counterattacked by bowling the smaller one over and putting a few wounds in its narrow belly. Over them crouched a half dozen artillerymen and a few others.

"I'll take your bet!" Glory wandered into the crowd, poetry in motion, just like any angel waiting around to be damned. Gunshy sneered at him, but said nothing.

One of the rangers joined them, tossing coins down onto the growing pile on the barrel.

"I'll take Old One-Eye..." he said, putting the coins on the barrelhead with a smile. "What can I say, I think he's a handsome fellow. And probably meaner than all Hell." Arpad settled in next to Llywarch and Glorious to watch the two birds spar.

Hah, Glory thinks the little one will win, he's so wrong. That small one is a scrapper. Gunshy tossed another few coins down. "Three more on the little one, I got to fleece an aristocratic bastard."

The fight continued, a full dozen people were watching now, and the pile of coins was getting impressive. Gunshy was into it as well, cheering when his champion took a nasty shot at Glory's stumbling fool of a bird.

"Gunshy." Nikola wanted something, Gunshy pretended not to hear. "Gunshy!" The gunner yelled into his lieutenants ear.

The blocky lieutenant jumped in the air in surprise, almost falling over when he turned towards the about to be harangued artilleryman. "What!" He shouted.

"One of those damn clerks won't let me look at the powder." Nikola squirmed a bit as Gunshy's jaw worked silently. "I tried, I threatened him with everything I think of, but he said the Quartermasters locked everything down."

"He what!" Gunshy roared, distracted most of the gamblers for a few seconds. None of them responded, but Glorious smiled at Gunshy's misfortune, just like he did every time. "Why that son of a..." Gunshy trailed off, his imprecations becoming muttered curses. He growled. "We'll go have a little chat with that clerk as soon as I win my money from these fools who bet on that giant freak of a seagull."
 
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Glorious smiled serenely. "Makes sense to me -- you little mutants need to stick together, right?" He guffawed, and chased it with a cheer as the big one-eyed bird fluttered his wings, backing his opponent up a few steps.

He eyed Gunshy over the crowd. "So, what's the bet, eh? Don't think you're getting off the hook for the soldi that easily -- befriending the birds won't help you! I bet you want double or nothing again, huh?"
 
"I bet you want double or nothing again, huh?" Glory looked down loftily, his perfect face a mask of indulgence.

"Sod yourself." Gunshy muttered. "Of course I want double or nothing. I need a buffer for you trying to take out another loan to pay for booze and women." The Artilleryman sneered impressively. "Besides, my bird is going to win."

At that exact moment, the smaller bird was forcing the larger one into a corner, attacking it relentlessly.

Gunshy smacked his hands together, money forgotten as he gloated internally about his rivals incipient loss. The blocky man sneered again, for effect.

Stupid effete noblility. All useless.
 
July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

Diego sat comfortably on a coil of rope twirling the handle of his sword casually between his hands. The tip of the blade rested lightly on the deck between his feet and spinning of the steel glinted in the light whenever it caught the sunlight.

Diego leaned back against the railing and closed his eyes, almost unaware of his own movements. So often had he sat like this, waiting patiently, willing away time until the next order or mission, and often not knowing what that may be. The wiry little Spaniard smiled, the weapon smith, or Rodriquez would scold him again when they had to sharpen the tip.

Across the deck, lying against the main mast Rodriquez smiled at the sight of the spinning sword. The small hairy man would gently scold his friend before carefully honing the tip once again with his whetstone.

He absentmindedly scratched his burly chest. Not an inch taller than his friend he was easily twice as heavy, but somehow it didn’t always seem so. Diego had something. Rodriquez yawned and grabbed a water skin, taking a deep drink he casually handed to the man next to him. Yussuf Ibn’Ali was darker than the two Spaniards, and dressed in the traditional garb of the Andalusian Moors. Nevertheless he had followed Rodriquez and Diego for many years and called Diego’s lands in Spain home. Nodding his thanks he took the skin, but passed it on to the rest of the men. He idly watched as the rest of Diego’s old group passed the skin around before sending it back. Yussuf had been with the fighting men for many a year, but never lifted a weapon against his fellow man, he followed them out of honour, and because he knew his services were invaluable to them, and to Diego. He smiled as Rodriquez stowed away the skin and produced a few oranges from Diego’s father’s groves between Seville and Granada and gratefully accepted one. Rodriquez gave a low whistle and tossed two at his old friend by the railing.

Diego only dimly heard the sound, but opened his eyes in time to catch the first fruit. He missed the second and watched as the golden globe rolled across the deck to find rest near the weathered stock of musket. As the owner of the gun picked it up Diego nodded for the man to have it. He was going to be a fellow soldier in the infantry musketeers after all.

He put down his sword and pulled a knife, studying the orange fruit. The skin was dry to the touch and felt hard in his hands, but inside he knew the fruit would be juicy and sweet. He was about to cut it open and peel it, when the call for the officers to meet at the main cabin came. Gracefully he stood and sheathed his sword and knife, tossing the orange to a nearby infantry man.

Rodriquez watched the young man leave and smiled at the bemused look on the infantry man and other musketeers faces as they looked upon the fruit.

“You can easily cut it open, the fruit inside is a great reward, the sergeant has brought them from his home in Spain.”
 
July 24, 1565 – The Mediterranean: Somewhere East of Malta

Ivan Kaminski sat quietly in the shade his mind drifting between a state of sleep and awakeness, the sound of the sea relaxing him. He had been put under the command of the Spaniard Diego who sat opposite him idly twirling his sword on the deck. He had laid his musket and axe by his side and had seen the glances at his Axe when he had joined the company, nobody had asked him about it and he thought nothing of it, the long handle of his axe was cut just the right length for him to rest his musket on and in close combat the weapon was lethal to anyone who got in its way.
As he drifted back to sleep his mind recalled his time in the Muscovite guard, the Streltsi, Ivan remembered the honour to be called to join the 1,000, the campaign against the Kazan and his discharge from the guard. Putting the last thought from his mind he opened his eyes and saw the golden globes being thrown around the the other musketeers, as one was thrown in his direction he held up a hand and caught it defly, looking at the fruit he sank his teeth into the skin and immediately coughed, looking around he noticed the others cutting the fruit open with their knives.
Nodding at his Axe and speaking to the man who had thrown him the fruit he said "Can I borrow your dagger Sire, mine seems to have gone astray and I fear my friend here would do to much damage to the fruit."
 
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Rodriquez handed the man one of his daggers,

“I’m Rodriquez, second in command of Senor de Priego, your sergeant I guess.”

He looked at the axe, wondering what that thing was doing as a musketeers equipment.

“Where are you from?”

He shook his head,

“Diego will be back soon I’m sure, just enjoy the fruit while you can.”
 
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