Chapter 7

The morning meal was uneventful. Biscuits, gravy, some roasted meat and a tankard of weak ale to wash it down, enough to fuel the body without tempting gluttony in any way. His hunger satisfied without being overly filled, Dent made his way to the main deck. It was a pleasant morning weatherwise, the clear skies promising the cool morning would soon progress into seasonal warmth. The winds off their beam were steady but not extreme. Half the distance to the horizon the little merchant Pinya could be seen making way with ease.

There were a number of arms lockers placed around the main deck ready for immediate use if needed. One contained nothing but practice arms: regular swords and pikes edges dulled and a few wooden practice sticks. Confident he knew the equipment he had to use and there being still almost two full bells before the squads arrived, Dent began his T'chi exercise, gently entering that world between awake and sleep where the body and submind controlled his actions and the foremind watched with calm acceptance. Again as he moved through the various forms he was aware of watchers hovering around the periphery of his vision.

He was finishing the last form as two bells struck. A deep cleansing breath, a final stretch and eyes opened to a world coming back into focus. A group of about twenty men lounged around him in a semicircle, some sitting, most just leaning against a rail, bulkhead or mast. Quickly he surveyed the group sighing softly to himself. He knew what needed to be done but wasn't sure if he could do it or even if it was possible.

"Boarding party?" he said loudly to the group at large. There was some muttering and even some chuckling but no one answered directly back to him.

"Very well. Let's get started." Pointing to an open space on the deck he said, "Please form two lines of ten each right here." Some of those sitting struggled to stand up but nobody moved to form any lines.

"I see. So that's how it will be. Fine, let's start with an easy question: How many of you think it is your job to die for this ship?" There were a number of frowns and the muttering increased in volume but still no one answered. "What, no one? Surely some of you must think it's your function to die fighting. Now which ones are you?"

"Ain't none of us supposed to die, ya daft bastard!" came a cry out of the crowd.

"You're not?" Dent feigned a surprised look on his face. "Well, let's see: Yesterday morning you boarded a ship with approximately forty men and the last I heard fifteen died during or as a result of the action."

"Seventeen!" someone else shouted. "It was seventeen and you killed nine of them, you whoreson!"

"Ah, so two more died of their wounds," he said thoughtfully, ignoring the personal attack. "Pity. But regardless of fifteen or seventeen, the fact is you lost almost half the men sent over in the boarding. What that means is between you and your mate standing next to you, one of you will die in the next boarding. So certainly some of you must reasonably expect to die during the next boarding. Now who will it be?" He looked expectantly around at the crowd. With the exception of a few shuffling feet, the silence was total.

"Still nobody? Maybe I'm asking the wrong question then. Very well, how many of you want to live through your next battle whether it's a boarding or on land?"

"We all do of course!"

"Ain't nobody want to die, ye fool!"

"I don't have a death wish that for sure!" The calls came quickly and loudly.

"Good. At least we can assume we're not a group of fools here." Taking a deep breath Dent continued as emotionlessly as possible, "One of my functions here is to improve your chances of living through the next battle."

"Why should we listen to some pissant little boy?"

"That's right he may be some big warrior but he ain't no older than some of the bastards I've left behind!"

"I got me some small clothes older than him!"

Laughter followed the last cat call.

"Your first mistake," he shouted above the din, "is to make assumptions about the ability of your enemy based on unsubstantiated, unreliable or irrelevant information... such as his age. A demonstration: Who here believes he can best me one on one?"

"I figure I can." Pushing a couple of his fellow sailors out of the way a large middle-aged man came forward. He was very large and by no means was all of it fat.

"Your name, please?" said Dent.

"Well it do please me and me name be Corred. Best ye remember it," he turned to his fellows and favored them with a wide grin.

"Oh I shall, Mr. Corred, I shall. Now if you would be so kind, the locker over there has a number of practice weapons. Please pick one for yourself and one for me."

The big man lumbered over to the locker and hefted a large cutlass. Then scratching his head he turned back to Dent. "Which one do ye want there, little feller?"

"Doesn't matter; just pick one, any one you want me to use."

Laughing Corred reached in and brought out one of the practice sticks. Practice sticks were about five feet in length, two inches in diameter and used for light workouts or pike practice. Nobody considered them to be a true weapon of war. Still grinning, Corred threw it at Dent who grabbed it lightly as it passed by.

"Good. Now, Mr. Corred, your job is to strike me with your blade in such a way that we could reasonably conclude that you have killed me. You may start anytime you are ready."

The big man didn't even wait for Dent to finish the sentence. Immediately he started running at the younger man as fast as possible with the blunted sword over his head in a two handed grip ready to slash the death blow. Calmly Dent waited, the practice stick held loosely in his left hand watching as the big sailor closed with him. When Corred thought he was within striking distance he began his downward stroke trying to split the annoying youngster in half.

Unfortunately for him Dent didn't wait and deftly stepped to the side letting the practice stick remain outstretched to tangle with the big man's legs resulting in a truly amazing face-first smash into the deck. While the laws of man may at times be avoided, the laws of nature cannot. His speed and bulk ensured that not only did he hit the deck but that he would continue sliding until finally hitting the rail and coming to a stop.

The silence was total. Finally someone spoke up, "That weren't exactly a manly way to fight, now was it?" Suddenly there were grumbles from the crowd on how it hadn't been a fair fight at all.

Walking over to the fallen man he tapped his back with the stick and turned back to the group.

"What's fair is that I am standing and he is not. The objective was for him to kill me and for me to prevent that from happening. This I have done. I am truly disappointed in you, gentlemen. I would never take you for people who let a little thing like fairness get in the way of winning. 'Fair' is for duels between foolish nobles or arena fights, never in battle.

"Now," he continued before more could be made of it, "does anyone else think he can take me? No? Well how about any two of you? Any two of you think you can take me? Come on, gentlemen, remember I'm just a boy. Surely there are two of you who can bring me down?" Silently two sailors looked at each other, nodded and broke ranks. Heading over to the locker they each took a sword, hefted it and started to stalk the young warrior.

"Good! Glad to see there is some life in this group after all," Dent continued talking as the two circled and bracketed him on opposite sides.

"Now these two have made the assumption that by coming at me from two different directions at the same time they will overwhelm my defenses, thus allowing them to take me down. However I decline..."

Moving like a cat Dent stepped toward one of the sailors, dropped down to rest on one hand and shot a foot out to hook around the leg of his opponent. Pulling with his leg the sailor lost his balance and started toppling backwards. Without stopping Dent jumped up, turned and leaped for the second man. Sidestepping the sword cut, he grabbed the hilt as it passed. Using his arm as a lever and the other man's momentum he quickly had the sword out of his opponent's hand and into his own. In a flash the sword came up and gently caressed the sailor's stomach. His first victim was just trying to upright himself when Dent smacked him across the ass with the flat of the blade sending him back down to the deck in a heap.

"... to oblige them." Turning back to the crowd Dent dropped the sword to the deck and leaned on the practice stick. "How could I defeat two men to my one? They didn't work as a team. That is your secret to survival. You cannot be a mob of men storming over to another ship; you must be a team working together to achieve defined objectives. Otherwise you're a mob whose members get killed as individuals. Now if there are no further objections would someone wake our sleeping friend and let's form two lines over here."

For the next two hours Dent worked like never before. Using drills he had learned years earlier, they worked on footwork, swordsmanship, defense and the beginnings of the two-man battle teams. He figured squad tactics would come later after he fed them the basics and since, regardless of what he told them earlier, all had been in battle and had at least a rudimentarily knowledge of fighting.

By the end of the two hours, each and every man, Dent included, was bruised, battered and wringing wet with sweat. The demeanor of the sailors was considerably different than it had been just two hours earlier. While there were still a good number who turned their backs on him when he passed -- after all some of their friends did died just one day ago -- there were more that welcomed him with either a smile or at least a nod of the head. After rinsing himself off with seawater he stood by the rail letting the sun and wind dry and cool him.

All in all it was a good start, he thought, as he moved forward to check on the women. For the first time he was thinking about a future other than just bell to bell. It was a beginning, he thought, and maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for their survival. Shaking that thought off as being far too optimistic just yet, he climbed down the ladder to the lower decks.

After the bright sunshine of the main deck, their little hole in the wall seemed very dim but not dingy. He could see where even more effort had gone into cleaning another layer of grime off the bulkheads, lockers and deck. The lantern swung from a hook and short chain overhead and even though it meant he had to watch his head, he could see where it helped shed light throughout the tiny cabin.

He was somewhat surprised to discover Sosho sitting alone crossed-legged on the bunk/bench, needle in her hand peering intently at the stitching she was working on. Hearing his footsteps, she looked up sharply and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw it was him.

"There you are," she said. "I see you survived your morning workout."

"Barely," he retorted as he peeled off and hung up his woolen undercoat. Moving nearer to the lamp he tried to inspect a rather painful bruise and pressure cut that he had received from the wild swing of a blunted sword from someone standing behind him. At least he hoped it was a wild swing. He couldn't really get a clear view of it but as painful as it was, it didn't feel like it was very serious. "Where's Nesho?"

"She said she was going to look over what they call sick bay, and maybe a few other things. What's the matter?" Sosho asked unfolding her legs and standing up in one graceful motion. "Oh come here, you silly thing!"

Grabbing his shoulder -- not the injured one, thank goodness -- she pushed him firmly to the stool that she pulled out into the middle of the cabin. "Sit!" she said, making no doubt it was a command and not a request. Using the light from the lantern she poked, prodded and studied the wound.