CHAPTER XIII
A Mace, a Trap, and The Fuck's a Mordhau?
Tom had decided one thing...he did not like Ser Dick Fossoway.
Name Derrick but actions of a dick really. Pompous, overfed, always slinging those clever little insults like Mors did when he was in a mood...only Derrick didn't have the charm nor the rank. Just the smug look of a man who thought he was the sharpest blade in the sheath, never realizing someone like Tom would rather use that sheath to strangle him.
He took a little too much joy in watching the knight lurch over the side of the Ironspur and retch his guts into the sea.
"Ain't eating fish again," Tom muttered, shaking his head.
He shouldn't have looked...now he felt queasy too.
Why not? Both of them were landlubbers, had no business on the sea- hailed from the Sunset Lands, though that didn't mean a thing out here. Tom had clawed his way up from Flea Bottom's piss alleys; Derrick had crawled out of some gilded cradle on the wrong coast. Noble in blood, maybe, but raised in Essos like the rest of the rootless bastards. Half-Lorathi, half-swine by the look of him...especially the way his nose flared out when he got self-important.
Perfumed pig.
"Looks like a green boy's first whore," Mors muttered behind him, squinting out over the sea. "Hard to tell if he's more sick from the waves or from sharing a bunk with 'commoners'."
Tom grinned, the wind lashing his cheeks raw. "He'll be praying to the Maiden next. Or shitting out his guts into the bilge."
"Either way," Mors said, "less meat to carry."
The Ironspur creaked underfoot, sails taut, prow cutting hard toward the Salty Step. Around them, two more smaller ships fanned out in loose formation, flying colors no sellsword would recognize. A trick of canvas and silence...Tom's idea.
Disguise as raiders, smell like bait and wait for the bite.
Three days out… it was working. It had to-
Tom turned from the rail and stepped down to the deck, eyes scanning their men. Hundred aboard, rough mix of green-lads and hard-eyed veterans… none talked much- good! Talking got men careless.
He leaned near the archer posted at the stern. "Spot anything?"
The man, a beady-eyed Tyroshi with a twisted scar through one eyebrow, nodded once. "Faint smoke, strange…a signal," he pointed, "-there, west of the reef! Wind's masking it, but it's there."
Tom grunted- smoke meant fire as fire meant ships, and ships meant men.
Maybe theirs. Maybe not.
"Get the gulls and rouse the deck. Quiet."
He turned back to the rail.
The sea looked calm enough, flat as a grave cloth. But he'd been at this too long to trust a quiet sea, for it always screamed the loudest right before something broke.
And in his gut, something twisted, for he saw the smoke too, a think line, steady but breaking in pattern. Hmmm? They couldn't be that stupid, could they?
Anyone worth their salt could see what they were trying to do- but what if they are doing it deliberately? A trap- thinking them green, what if he found himself lured into their net instead?
He ducked below deck and grabbed the satchel hanging by the chart table. Inside: three trained gulls- trained to return to specific ships by scent and sight. Mors' idea, years back- just like the ravens of the west, but for the seas.
Clever bastard.
Tom tied the red-threaded scroll to the first bird's leg. It bore one word:
"Fan."
He let the gulls go. They flapped up, wheeled once, and soared toward the other two ships- Hookjaw and Stray Bitch waiting behind the far shoals.
But none went west- that solves one problem, those fuckers were not one of ours.
If this was the trap he thought it was, he'd spring it first.
He came back topside.
"Mors," he said flatly. "Wake the deck. I want every man with steel in hand. No noise, no horns. Silent rigging. Get them to oars if we need it."
Mors just nodded and moved like a storm in chains, gruffly barking without raising his voice. The deck shifted to life, men unsheathing blades and stringing bows, quiet and fast. Oil was poured into the lamps; pitch lined the rags on the bolt heads.
Tom stared out toward the reef, where the smoke lingered. The seabirds were circling tighter now. A ship was there. He'd bet the rest of his coin on it.
Then...
A flash.
Sun off metal as the sails caught the wind too suddenly. A hull pivoted sharp-
"Raise the shield boards!" Tom barked. "Shields up! Archers ready!"
The first volley came in sharp, tight...dozens of quarrels screaming in from low-built galleys tucked behind the reef. Not pirates, not freebooters.
Professional fuckers- he laughed. It worked!
The bolts hammered the side of the Ironspur, a few glancing off the fresh pine boards Tom had ordered nailed just this morning. The rest clattered off shields, or punched into the mast. One man cried out and dropped, bolt in his thigh.
"Fallback, you fool- someone get him under deck- errkk!"
A second volley hit...less tight this time. Panicked return fire. They knew they'd lost surprise.
Tom grinned.
He'd already turned the Ironspur broadside, revealing her hidden rear scorpions. Two iron-bellied monsters, covered with canvas before, now swung out on winch arms. The crew loaded each with a pitch-soaked bolt the size of a dwarf's leg.
"Burn 'em," Tom growled.
The scorpions thumped. The bolts aflame… screamed across the water- one skimming over the reef, the other burying itself deep into an enemy hull with a crack and a sudden plume of smoke.
"Boarding crew- brace the hooks!" he shouted. "Ramming line, on me!"
He was already at the prow, mace strapped tight, eyes locked on the smaller ship swinging in toward their right. Not the lead, not the real threat… just the first to die.
The gulls had flown true, in minutes- Hookjaw and Stray Bitch would round the coast and hit from the rear. All he needed to do was keep them busy.
And bleed them.
A horn sounded from across the sea. A new ship, larger, heavier, emerged from behind the bluff. Painted hull. Black sails. Red trim.
Tom's gut twisted again; something did not sit right- that wasn't local.
That was outfitted.
The Tyroshi was suddenly at his shoulder. "Same sigils. I saw 'em before… on that same crew! SSame fucking helmets-" he spat, "Look!"
Tom nodded once. "Then we kill them fast and loud."
He turned back to the deck.
"Charge in thirty! Fire arrows at the sails- grapples on my mark. I want their captain pissing in his boots before I split his skull."
The men gave no cheer. Just nods with gritted teeth and raises their blades.
They didn't need speeches. Why? They had Tom.
The grapples flew first...thick-iron hooks slung by seasoned arms, clanging against enemy rails. Some missed. Most didn't.
Tom leapt the gap before anyone else.
His boots hit enemy deck hard. His mace swung harder.
First man up was young...too young. Helmet askew, eyes wide. Tom smashed him across the chest, and the crack of ribs echoed over the water. The boy folded without a sound.
The second came with a cry and a spear. Tom rolled under, shoulder-checked the man into the mast, then buried his mace in his hip until it crunched bone.
The deck was chaos now...steel on steel, screams, the sharp twang of bows loosing at close range. Smoke blurred the sky as sails went up in fire. The enemy had numbers, yes...but they hadn't expected Spotted Tom to come to them. And they hadn't seen the gulls.
A horn blew.
Far off, two ships came around the far reef like hounds let loose...Hookjaw and Stray Bitch, sails fat with wind, cutting straight into the flank of the enemy line.
Tom smiled through bloodied teeth.
The trap was reversed.
Stray Bitch slammed into the broadside of the black-sailed galley. Boarding planks dropped fast. Hooks flew. From here, Tom could see Daven- Hookjaw's scar-faced quartermaster already knee-deep in the melee, swinging his poleaxe like a madman.
Behind him, Mors roared.
The old bear carved through the enemy with brutal grace...not flashy, just deadly. Shield low, axe high, he moved like a man half his size and quarter his age, ramming into enemy formation with grunts and hooking away their shields.
Tom grabbed a foe mid-swing, twisted his wrist until the blade dropped, then headbutted him hard enough to break the man's nose through the helm. He didn't stop as another swung for his ribs...Tom caught the blade on his vambrace and shoved forward, elbowing into his throat until he gagged and went down.
Above him, arrows rained from the Ironspur's nest...short range, tight groupings. Each enemy archer that tried to line up a shot took one through the throat or the eye.
Tom saw Derrick too, shockingly still alive, wielding a longsword with stiff form and too much flair...but killing, somehow. Maybe the bastard wasn't completely useless.
A bolt screamed past Tom's ear. He turned.
The red-trimmed galley...the enemy flagship- had turned and begun to flee. Sail torn, rudder damaged, but not finished. A few of their men were trying to cut loose the grapples, shouting in some guttural Braavosi tongue.
Tom wiped blood from his lip.
"Get me a torch!" he shouted. "And a cask of pitch!"
One was handed up. He dipped the torch, lit it, then flung it onto their central sail, now luffing wild in the wind.
The flame caught fast.
Enemy morale cracked.
Some dropped weapons. Some ran. Some jumped into the sea, screaming.
One of them, bleeding from the mouth, still managed to shout something across the deck.
"Valar morghulis!"
Tom smashed his face in mid-sentence.
The last stand broke in seconds. It was over by the time the fire had climbed to the topmast. The sea was red and steaming.
Mors thudded down next to him, chest heaving, axe dripping.
"We lost fifteen," he spat. "-more wounded."
Tom nodded, wiping the gore off his gloves.
"And them?"
"Thirty-three dead, six captured. No officers really…strange but we found something in the hold, though…"
Tom turned, frowning.
"What?"
Mors jerked a thumb toward the enemy galley. "Crates. Marked. Same crab sigil with Braavosi ledger attached… looks like they weren't just mercenaries."
Tom's stomach sank.
"What then?"
Mors stared at him.
"Suppliers."
Tom looked at the burning ship, at the sails curling black against the grey sky. At the corpses bobbing in the water.
Then he turned toward the wind.
"Get the crates. Strip the hulls. Patch what we can. Then we sail."
Mors raised a brow. "Where?"
Tom didn't answer at first. Just stared out past the smoke and blood and ruin.
Then he muttered, low:
"North. I want to know who the fuck this Celtigar truly is."
The sun'd dipped low, the shadows stretched long across the deck. The quiet men turned rowdy...laughing, brawling- drinking like they'd cheated death and meant to spend the winnings.
Tom didn't stop them…wouldn't. They'd earned it.
He sat alone, hands still stinking of blood and fear, former- maybe some his but latter all them- turning one of the crossbows over in his lap.
Finely made yes… too fine for his pimpled arse, he'd admit. Better than any Myrish junk he'd laid eyes on.
He'd used this one. No, not in the fight- but in the hold. Fla…playing judge, jester, and butcher with the prisoners, letting it bite into flesh while he asked his questions- again and again. Not because he expected answers...his gut had already told him the truth. He just couldn't let it go.
He turned it in his hands, checked the weight, and sighted down the stock again.
Didn't sit right. None of it did.
It didn't make sense.
No officers. No standard-bearers. No chain of command. Just rough men, the common riffraff... big, strong- too bold for their own good- fighters, sure. But for a supply ship? It was like putting cook on the frontlines and the piker in the kitchens.
Too much blade and not enough brains. All in the wrong place.
And that was just it. The ships weren't packed- not enough crates. No copper-counters. No quartermasters. One burned, one fled, one taken...and not one of them made sense.
Tom frowned. He didn't know much of trade, but even he knew this much. And unless those crossbows were gold-laid and diamond-studded, they weren't hauling enough to pay for three damned ships.
Somewhere behind him, laughter burst out...two lads, young- wrestling near the barrels. Mors egged them on, of course, booming and red in the face.
Tom didn't smile, for he knew Mors wasn't fooled either. He knew that look- the half Ibb was chewing on the same thoughts, just slower and quieter, like a hound gnawing bone.
Mors too, was thinking the same thing.
Their tactics hadn't been right either- too many boarders with too few guarding the hold. No copper-counter barking orders... just aggression, straight and dumb, as if they were meant to be spent.
These weren't the moves of a cargo run… No! These were fighters, set to bite.
Not to defend, not to deliver, but to attack.
But why?
He scratched at his scalp, salt-stung and itching. His fingers raked through his hair like they meant to claw the answer loose.
He'd gone too far with the prisoners- he knew it, they knew it. But they squealed early and often, useless.
They were truly headless...just hands doing as they were told. They knew the steps, but not the song. No one had the whole map. Just their own little piece, and none of it pointed clean.
It felt like a puzzle he should already know how to solve. Every piece laid bare…steel, blood, numbers, names, but the damned 'why' was missing. Just that one. The one that made the whole thing make sense.
Tom sat back, crossbow still in hand, and stared at the darkening sea.
He shook his head. No point wracking his brains now, he'd scraped the bottom. Let Mors chew on it; that was his job. Tom just needed a flagon of something cold and strong…
Wine. Gods, yes.
Not Arbor Red, he wouldn't touch a drop of that shite… he'd rather gargle piss than let one copper of his coin end up in a Westerosi pocket.
Fuck 'em.
Let their grapes rot on the vine; he'd grown fond of that new swill from Volantis anyway. Dark, chilled, sweet like honey on a blade's edge.
Mors saw him coming and grinned like a dog with two bones. Without a word, he tossed Tom his flagon.
"You mad?" Tom barked, catching it. "You know what this costs?!"
"Ow!" he yelped as Mors grabbed him in a rough noogie, grinding his knuckles into Tom's scalp like he were ten again. The old bear let out a bawdy laugh.
"You're telling me?" Mors barked. "Drink!"
"Fine, fine!" Tom groaned, grinning despite himself, and tipped the flagon back.
Sweet. Cold. It slid down smooth… then bit the back of his throat like it hated him. He coughed once, then sighed.
"Aaahhh…"
He leaned on the rail, letting the breeze cool the sweat and blood still clinging to his skin. For a moment- just a blink, he felt at peace again.
Then the shouting started.
He looked toward the sound. The betting circle had formed near the barrels, men yelling, coins clinking, fists pounding the table. Tom's brow darkened.
There he was.
Derrick.
Standing tall and red-faced, laughing like he'd just won a tourney. Around him, his little piglets hooted and jeered as he slammed the Tyroshi's arm down against the barrel.
"HAH!" Derrick roared, lifting both arms like a conquering hero. "That's seven in a row!"
The Tyroshi staggered back, wincing, while Derrick preened in the middle, soaking up the cheers like he'd done anything that mattered- fat bastard.
Tom's jaw clenched.
Derrick caught his stare and raised his cup.
"Ser Tom!" he bellowed, grinning, flushed with drink and triumph.
Tom didn't answer. His mood had already curdled. Mors, unhelpfully, laughed even harder beside him.
"Ah, let him have it," Mors chuckled. "Pork fought well today, didn't he?"
"You- you just saying that 'cause he calls me Ser Tom."
"But you are a ser aren't y- aauurggh!"
Mors grunted as Tom jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
"-ye little shit."
Tom ducked under his paw and let the laughter pull him forward. He stepped into the cheers- the 'Captains' and 'Sers'- in the torchlit circle, where men passed mugs and clapped backs.
It wouldn't do to carry his grudges around like iron weights, not tonight, even the Pig, errr… Ser Derrick had earned a nod back.
Derrick stepped up, sweat-soaked and smiling, and he thrust out his arm.
"You fought well today, ser."
Tom clasped it.
"So did you, Ser Thomas," Derrick said with a grin too wide, did he smile like that, or was the bastard doing it on purpose? - "The way you bashed their heads in… gods! No wonder no one dares cross the Maiden's Men 'cept the Company."
Tom held back his grimace.
Maiden's Men.
Gods what a stupid name. Sounded like a bard troupe or a brothel's guard. He'd wanted to change it for years, but Mors always stopped him. "History," the old bear said. "Reputation…bleh…acclaim…bleh…coin."
Tom tried- smiled back, but it came out no doubt tight-lipped and thin. But Derrick didn't notice, he just kept his smug smile.
"You too, ser," Tom said flatly. "The way you hammered that bastard's head with your pommel- rung him like a bell."
"Mordhau," Derrick said.
Tom blinked. "What?"
"It's called a mordhau," Derrick said helpfully, lips curving in that smug little twist that made Tom's knuckles twitch. "You grip the blade, strike with the pommel or guard. Effective against armor."
Tom's face darkened slightly. The smug prick dared look down at him while explaining how to kill a man. Him!? He knew what a mard- mord..argh..merdhaus was.
Fancy fucking name, but it was just bash to the skull, wasn't it?
His fingers itched.
Control, Tom. Control.
He exhaled slow. "As you said."
Derrick clanked his mug against Tom's.
"Something my Da taught me," Derrick went on, oblivious or uncaring. "Said a true Fossoway should always wield a sword. But the gaps… gods, the gaps are hard to find. So smash 'em in. Stun 'em if lucky. The crossguard might poke an eye or two- would brain 'em if you're really lucky. A proper weapon, the sword."
"Aye!" piped his squire, a thin boy with eager eyes. "As you said, ser- thrust, cut, slash, and if need be pommel!"
"That's where the name comes from," Derrick said proudly. "Good lad. Tell Willas he'll be shining my plates tonight."
The boy lit up like a lantern. "Thank you, ser! I'll go tell him right now!" He scampered off, cackling like he'd just won a tourney himself.
Tom watched him go, mug still half-raised.
"Oh," he muttered dryly. "Such an eager lad."
"Aye," Derrick said with the same pride as a father talking about a horse that didn't bite. "Sharp one, that."
Then he looked back. "And you, ser? What about your squires?"
"Don't have any."
"What?" Derrick looked honestly shocked. "None?"
Tom just stared at him, expression unreadable.
Derrick's eyes shifted slightly. "Ahh. I understand."
He didn't.
Tom took a long, slow drink already done with the conversation.
"The prisoners, ser," Derrick went on, unbothered. "They say anything?"
Tom didn't look at him. "Nothing of worth."
"Really?" Derrick leaned in, a little too interested. "It's just that… the screams, and the- never mind. I wish I could've helped. But noble blood like mine, well… stooping down to the work of an executioner?" He gave a small laugh, delicate and false. "It doesn't suit a blueblood."
Blueblood huh?
Tom turned to the sea instead, watching the waves break against the hull… wondering how fast Derrick the blueblood would drown if he gave him a hard enough shove.
Derrick went on anyway. "Aye, wouldn't suit me at all. Just a few more years, really… few more battles, few more victories- and His Grace will take us back to our rightful place. Can't wait for the day."
"Oh?" Tom muttered. "You're a Fossoway, yeah... from the Reach?"
"Of course the Reach," Derrick said, as if insulted. "Ah, you didn't have your lessons- doesn't matter. But yes. A proud house once.... How far we've fallen. Divided-Weak. A disgrace to Greenhand's blood- King's blood at that. One red, one green-"
"One ripe, one raw?" Mors rumbled, stepping in with a grin.
Derrick blinked, then laughed. "Aye... Aye! but it won't matter. When Maelys takes the throne, I'll unite the two houses. Make the Fossoways great again. Bring them back to their rightful place."
"Oh? That is-?"
"Aye," Derrick said, chin tilted up like a banner in the wind. "Promised by His Grace himself... Lord Paramountacy of the Reach."
Mors gave a low whistle. "That's a big fuckin' seat for y- ahem."
The Appleknight's eyes narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait.
"No, it's perfect," Derrick pressed on. "Too long the Reach has been cowed and chained by those craven stewards. Upjumped fuckers- those Tyrells, soft of belly and softer of spine. No wonder they backed the wrong king."
He spat over the railing.
"But Maelys… His Grace- he'll fix that. And when he does, I'll fix the Reach for him. One banner. One voice. No more red and green, just Fossoway."
Tom stared, expression unreadable.
Derrick leaned in, voice dropping low with venom he hadn't shown in the fight.
"The traitors? They'll find no reprieve, I assure you. I know the names. The ones who bent the knee to the false dragons and smiled while doing it. They'll hang. Or burn. I don't care which." He chugged his wine, his voice calming down.
Tom had heard enough.
Mors clapped Derrick on the back, hard enough to make his wine slosh. "Well. Cheers to a long road ahead, lad. May it bring you the success you so very much desire."
Derrick stiffened, and glared at the hand on his shoulder like it was crawling with fleas.
"Get your filthy hand off me," he grumbled, loud.
Then he shrugged Mors off, downed his wine in one angry swallow, and stalked off into the dark.
Mors looked puzzled: "What did I do?" his eyes following the trail the pig knight had taken into the dark.
Tom watched the flames. "He ain't so bad, huh?"
"Alright Tommy," Mors admitted, "Fiinne… he's a prick- ye happy?"
Tom didn't answer at first. Just leaned into the firelight, voice flat.
"Disappointed really."
"How so?"
"Thought-no, hoped he had something else to him other than his sword and his men," he said quietly, eyes drifting to the sea sat still, to the far shores west.
"But nah. Turns out he's just pathetically naïve."
Unknowing to the rebel… far across in the same western shores, the Crab Lord set the missive down, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"The men?" he asked, not looking up.
"Few losses," his aide replied. "Nothing more than we anticipated- just as you planned, my lord. They took the bait."
"Hmmm." A pause, thoughtful. "Send the raven."
"To the pirate?"
"Aye. With their description… tell him it's time."
The aide hesitated, only for a heartbeat. "My lord-"
"He knows what he has to do."
Apprentice Mattheo... or as his lord so fondly teased him, Mutt- bowed his head low.
"As you command."