Matteno of Myr
Were it Matteno's will, they would have rammed the cog, smashed her oars, and left the Tarth boy dead in the water. Quick. Efficient. If he lived, it would be easy to pick him off with some archers among the shipwreck.
But he was not in charge. Rolleo Drahiz, the turd of Tyrosh, was a greedy man. All ringed-fingers, feathered-hats, and silk sashes to go with his dozen mistresses back on his shit island.
Matteno and his men would've been enough to kill a boy and shatter a tiny merchant cog, but the contract from the Westerosi whore demanded surety. And so, the magister had tasked Rolleo with seeing it through, which made Matteno, a foreigner in Tyrosh, his subordinate.
And Rolleo wanted the cog for himself. He promised to kill the boy and tow the cog back to their hideaway nest in Torturer's Deep, another ship added to his dreamed pirate fleet. Given how foolish the man was, Matteno doubted such would ever come to pass. To be a pirate was to be a shark, and a peacock like Rolleo Drahiz would be nothing but exotic feed for the sea beasts that roamed the Stepstones.
His most recent idea only confirmed the man's inadequacy.
When the scout came back whispering about a second ship, a carrack, no less, flying the crimson and gold of Lannister, Matteno saw the change in him at once. Rolleo's eyes lit up like a whorehouse at dusk. One prize became two in his mind, and the risk doubled with it.
"They weren't in the contract," Matteno had said flatly.
Rolleo waved him off. "The contract is a morsel, westerosi peasant slaves that won't fetch me more than a pursefull of gold. The lion carrack, now, that is a full meal indeed. My appetite is not as easily sated as yours, Myrmen."
Matteno could only seethe.
Granted, they didn't know if the Tarth boy had switched ships somewhere between Lannisport and the Stepstones. They didn't know if he rode the cog still or sat fat and safe beneath the lion's banner. But Rolleo didn't care either way. He just wanted the shiny, golden ship for himself.
So it was decided. Rolleo's galley would take the carrack, he would take the cog. With his debts with the magister mounting and the promise of gold upon completion, Matteno had no choice. He bit his tongue and obeyed.
He watched as the cog grew near. With no tailwind, she was a fat, slovenly bitch in the sea. Meanwhile, his longship cut clean through the water, oars rising and falling in a practiced rhythm. Fifty men under his command—Lyseni, Myrmen, a handful of Pentoshi exiles. Killers, all of them. Any with a black heart had a place in his ship.
And more than enough, according to the information they'd been given. The cog was supposed to be lightly crewed. A soft bite.
Hate for Rolleo Drahiz came easy to him, and Matteno let that red, ugly feeling fester inside him. He felt his heartbeat pick up, fingers dancing across the hilt of his trusted falchion. He held no rancor for whoever this Tarth boy was, but as a Myrmen himself, there was something appetizing about killing the heir of that island in such a way.
As they closed on the Fair Winds, he decided to enjoy this in spite of Rolleo's idiocy.
The first arrows disabused him of that notion. They came down from the cog's deck in a sudden black shower, spraying blood across his ship. One of his bowmen took a shaft through the throat and toppled soundlessly. Lysandro, his third officer, screamed as an arrow punched into his eye.
Another arrow slammed into the shield rim in front of Matteno's face with a crack that rang in his skull. Men shouted. The discipline of the oarsmen faltered.
"Shields up!" Matteno bellowed. "Up, you dogs!"
Too late for some of them.
Still, numbers were numbers. Fifty to a handful more than twenty. Even with losses, they had the advantage. The longship struck the broadside of the cog with a jolt that rattled his teeth. He held onto the rigging and managed to keep his balance.
Gleefully, he saw one of the men above the cog stumbled over the railing into the sea. One down. Arrows flew each way. Three of his men died before he saw a friendly arrow punch someone in the cog's deck through the stomach.
Once the two ships were side by side, his boys were quick. They all knew their business. Grapnels flew, rope ladders thrown, and then they were boarding. The roar of men became louder than the rumble of the ocean.
Steel already rang above when Matteno climbed up onto the Fair Winds. A dozen of his men had scaled the ship before him. Yet as soon as he stepped aboard, he saw four of them already dead on the planks, their life's blood mixing with ocean spray.
He didn't let that stop him. His falchion came singing out of its scabbard, and he cut down the first man who came at him, opening the fellow's belly with a short, ugly stroke. The man folded with a sound like a burst wineskin. Matteno shoved him aside and pushed forward.
The cog's crew gave ground, faces tight with fear, backs pressed toward the mast. Matteno felt the familiar heat settle into his limbs, the steady rhythm of killing taking hold. He split a skull, crushed a collarbone, kicked a wounded man over the rail without looking.
Then the screams changed.
Matteno glanced right and saw bodies hitting the deck faster than they should have. Three men went down in the space of a breath.
That second cost him. An axe came down on him as if from thin air. He jumped back, but the blade cut a shallow line down his chest. Matteno didn't have time to do much beyond defend himsef as the man before him swung again with his other arm, his sword parrying the axehead before it found itself lodged in his skull.
Not quite a man, he realized, as he finally caught the eyes of the boy before him. Young and fierce, his tanned face screwed together as Matteno counterattacked with a flurry of blows.
For a moment, he thought it might be the Tarth boy, but the description didn't match. He had the height, but not the build or the blond hair. This boy was good, though. Good, but inexperienced.
A double feint saw him twisting his falchion and prying one of the axes from the boy's hands. It was quick after that. He scored two cuts on the chest and a leg, but before he could apply the killing blow, one of his own men fell between them, his guts spilling from his stomach to pool into his trembling hands.
When he turned to see the culprit, he knew he'd found his mark. The Tarth boy.
He was everywhere at once, it seemed. Steel flashing in tight arcs, feet planted wide against the rolling deck as if he could stop the ocean with his legs. One of Matteno's men lunged in and lost his arm at the elbow. Another took a blade through the throat and collapsed, blood pumping between his fingers.
"Flank him!" Matteno ordered. "Don't rush, circle, you idiots!"
Three men moved in together to obey him, shields raised, blades probing. Good, he thought. That ought to do it.
Facing forward again, he kicked his gutted fellow onto the axe-wielder, the two falling over each other as the ship lurched beneath them. Nearby, he saw another who stumbled to the floor and nearly rolled off the cog.
Matteno himself moved as if on dry land. He'd lived more years on board ships than above solid ground. Another man came to face him, and his falchion dispatched him after three exchanges.
For a heartbeat, he thought they were nearly done. He had killed some five men by himself.
Then a familiar voice cried to the side, and he saw the hacked leg of his boatswain rolling on the deck. Matteno looked up to see the Tarth boy killing the last of the three men. A shield cracked beneath his sword, and the fellow behind it screamed when the sword swooped low to cut him at the groin.
Matteno hissed. A cruel death, that. Looking about the boy, he noticed the many bodies spread around him like some macabre ritual. Too many dead. Too fast. If he let it go on, his boys would be overrun.
Growling, Matteno shoved through his men and met the boy head-on. His slice at an arm was deflected, a thrust to the abdomen dodged. When the boy hacked at him and he blocked, the impact jarred his arm to the shoulder.
He clamped down on his teeth. The boy hit harder than he had any right to.
Matteno parried, countered, felt another shock travel up his bones. Steel rang so loud it hurt. He saw the look on the boy's face then—blue eyes wide and unfocused, mouth set in a snarl that made him look older than his age. He was breathing hard, his hair was hair slick with blood.
When one of his men tried to sneak up on the boy, a swordsman wearing the same face of the axe-wielder stopped him. A brother, perhaps.
Matteno scoffed. No matter. It came down to the two of them.
They circled each other, boots slipping on blood-slick planks. Matteno's own breath came fast now as they traded blows, each inhale sharp with the stink of iron and sweat. He struck for the boy's shoulder, missed by a finger's width. The return blow rang off his guard and nearly tore the sword from his hand.
Gods, he's strong.
Matteno pressed, teeth bared, drawing on years of fights in alleys and decks and docks. He nicked the boy's thigh with a clever feint and felt a flicker of triumph light him up inside.
The boy didn't even seem to notice.
He came on like a wave breaking, all forward momentum, forcing Matteno back step by step. After another five passes, his arm was burning. His wrist screamed. Somewhere behind him, he heard one of his men curse and turn to flee.
Matteno's heel suddenly slipped. And it was luck that it did, as the sword that would've taken his head at the shoulders kissed the air above him. He scrambled back quickly, jumping like a nimble cat.
When he saw the boy moving forward to meet him again, body moving like an old-hand at killing, a cold certainty settled in his gut. He would lose.
Matteno disengaged with a snarl, slashing wide to force space. "Back!" he shouted. "Pull back, you fools!"
Some of his men hesitated. He did not wait for them. As he fled, he took a glancing blow across the ribs that stole his breath and left fire in its wake. It did not stop him from jumping over the railing in a mad scramble.
He fell badly on his heel, something snapping like the crack of wood. "Fuck," he swore, sprawled on the deck of his longship.
Above, the men fell back in clumps, dragging wounded, abandoning the dead.
Matteno staggered to his feet despite the pain, pushing any able-bodied men to row frantically. They cut the ropes attaching the two ships and their oars splashed against the ocean. The spray of water a cold relief after the hot blood.
"Row," he heard his first-mate yell, and he lent his voice to the call. At the very least, the cog would not be able to follow them.
As they pulled away, Matteno looked back and spotted a figure watching them withdraw.
The boy stood like a statue amid the carnage, chest heaving, blade dripping red into the scuppers. Bodies lay at his feet like broken dolls. The men too slow to fall back.
Adding the men who died in the initial boarding, how many had fallen?
He looked about his longship, scanning the faces of his men, bloodied and antsy after such a heavy defeat. More than half his crew was gone, by his count.
Matteno spat into the sea. Something twisted inside his chest. A feeling worse than the hatred he felt for Rolleo Drahiz.
Fear.
And fear he despised more than any Tyroshi. It was not something Matteno of Myr liked to feel. Not since he was a boy, scurrying through back alleys looking for scraps like a rat.
That's who fear was for—rats. He would not let a boy yet to grow a beard turn him into one again. One day, he would repay this feeling ten times over. That Tarth boy would die by Matteno's hands still.
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