Chapter XXXVII: For the Fire

Komali awoke to the sound of explosive thunder. "What-the-blazes?" he blurted, jolting to an upright position in the infirmary bed. The skies had been clear when he retired for the evening, perhaps hours ago… Had they been suddenly overcome by a squall? Another thunderous explosion erupted somewhere to his right, and shook the ship so hard that he was thrust from the little bed.

Just then, Gonzo blundered into the little infirmary and nearly tripped over Komali as he was scrambling about the floor. "Oh good— yer awake," Gonzo observed rather casually.

"Yes, I'm bloody awake!" Komali cursed, struggling to rise. "What's going on out there, then? Have we sailed straight into a thunderhead?"

"Ah, that ain't no thunder," Gonzo corrected. "It be cannon-fire. Come on," he bid, turning to stalk out of the infirmary.

"Wait, what?" Komali stammered, starting after him. "We're under attack?— why are we under attack?"

"Well actually, they be under attack," Gonzo corrected again, making a left down the main companionway. "The slavers," he clarified. "We caught up with 'em."

Komali reached out to slow the man's hurried pace. "Wait— wait," he demanded. "Why are you dragging me into a naval battle— what am I supposed to do?"

Gonzo turned and glared at him. "Yer gonna do what the cap'n says yer gonna do," he growled. He grabbed a fistful of Komali's tunic and practically threw him down the companionway, toward the stair that led above deck.

He had little time to do more than glance back at the man's resolute expression. It made no sense that he be so determined to adhere to Graybeard's maniacal fancies… but something told him that any further attempt to resist might provoke the larger man to violence. He practically stumbled up the stairs when the ship received a few more blows from their agitated targets. The night air was clear and cold, but crowded with the clamor of men's voices the smell of gunpowder.

Their opponent was some three-hundred yards or more northwest of them. Their ship was squat, with a single large mast in the center and two smaller ones— fore and aft— to supplement it. Komali didn't know much about ships, but he thought it was out of place, this far out to sea. And even more oddly, she was disproportionately equipped for a ship of her size— boasting three cannons on each side (two guns less than their own, considerably larger ship). Behind him, Gonzo came out of the companionway and groaned at the sight. "The cap'n was right, 'e was," he grumbled, his voice almost inaudible in the din.

"About what?" Komali asked, wincing at the noise.

"Thought 'e knew who we was after," Gonzo answered. "'Ad me own suspicions, I did…"

"Who is that?" Komali nodded at the vessel.

Gonzo shook his head. "Jus' a bunch o' freebooters," he said, glancing about at the frenzy around them. "A glorified rum club based outta the southern coastlands o' Hyrule. Been earnin' a name fer 'emselves edging smugglers an' other such folk outta business in what they claim to be 'their turf'— an' they been known to dabble in other sorts o' merchandise, lately…"

"Slavery?" Komali clarified.

Gonzo shook his head. "Gun runnin', mostly. Slavery's a new low— prolly what's got the cap'n so bent on chasin' 'em down."

Komali glanced up at the poop deck, where Graybeard was barking orders at the men around him— some operating hand-cannons fastened to the taffrail (but mostly hitting water at this distance); others relaying his orders via a talk-box that carried sound from a receiving horn above deck, through a tube, and to the gunners below deck; and of course, at the pilot, ever maneuvering the ship to better assault their foe.

Gonzo elbowed him. "Come on, then."

Komali shrugged, his irritation returning, and looked around. "What do you want me to do? That ship's gotta be nearly a quarter-mile out, and—"

Gonzo swatted his arm and pointed at a couple of the unmanned hand-cannons on the port side. Several barrels nearby held fist sized cannonballs that one loaded down the front with a "black-bag" (a charge of gunpowder)— and with a turn of a wire mechanism, the charge would ignite and the resulting explosion would fire the ball. Komali eyed the cannon with suspicion, looking back out to the ship in the distance. "Why are we bothering with this?" Komali piped over the cannon-fire all around him.

"Aim fer the pilot!" Gonzo bellowed, stalking away to man his own gun.

Komali nearly called after him, then chose not to bother. He looked around him at the other men firing the hand-cannons. Most were shooting openly at the broad side of their opponents bulwark— which would likely do them little good (Komali doubted if the small balls could do any real damage to anything larger to a fishing schooner). Probably the hand-cannons were meant to pick off men scrambling about above deck, at best. Komali had little confidence in his ability to operate one of these cannons, much less hit the pilot. The idea made sense— take away the pilot, take away their ability to maneuver.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that. A chorus of cheers and outstretched arms directed Komali's gaze to a breach in the hull of the smaller ship made by some of their cannon-fire. It would drastically affect their ability to maneuver the ship, tilting the advantage considerably in their favor. In a few minutes they closed the distance between them and the team of hand-cannons was suddenly incredibly effective. Their opponents' enthusiasm for the battle seemed to lose no steam, however, and Komali began to wonder if this would lead to hand to hand combat.

A few more minutes, and both of the smaller masts were down. At this, the slavers' ran the white flag and all hostilities ceased… well, mostly. Coming alongside the ship, a gangway was laid across the taffrails and a few of the slavers' tried to gut the crewmen of the Anathema as they came aboard. This was met with swift retribution, and the dead were thrown to the sea.

In all the confrontation took less than an hour— a realization that was of little consolation to Komali (the sea didn't agree with him, and neither did being disorientingly awakened by explosions and thrust into combat).

He was watching the crewmen of the Anathema secure the deck of their hostage when he noticed Graybeard approaching, looking him up and down. "Where's yer sword, boy?"

Komali felt his brow sharpen to a daggers point. "I don't have a sword."

Graybeard shook his head, almost casually. "Lotta good you'll do, without one." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Suddenly Gonzo was at his side.

"Aye, cap'n?" the pirate inquired.

Graybeard indicated Komali with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Fetch the lad a blade, then send 'im over." He started away.

"You want me to go over there?" Komali repeated, incredulous.

Graybeard grinned venomously over his shoulder as he approached the gangway. "Yer me letter o' introduction, laddie. Git to it!" And with that he crossed the gangway and began directing his men on the slavers' vessel.

"Ever handled a sword, boy?" Gonzo asked.

Komali sighed, resigned. "Yes. Well, not a real one. A practice sword."

Gonzo's expression was one of profound disinterest. "Slim an' pointy, or heavy an' fat?"

Komali blinked. "What?"

Gonzo rolled his eyes. "I give ye somethin' ye ain't never used afore, ye'll be jus' as likely t'poke yer own eye out as that o' one o' theirs."

Komali made a face. "That's… surprisingly considerate of you."

Impatience reddened the man's face. "Look, ye want me t'send ye over there with a boot instead o' a blade?"

Komali raised his hands before him in somewhat-sincere-surrender. "It was a short sword; broad."

Gonzo nodded, then fidgeted with his sword belt. "Here," he said, handing it— blade and all— to Komali. "Ye'll have t'wear it with the blade on yer left, so ye'd best be right-handed."

Komali took it and fixed it to his waist. "Whatever." As it happened, he was right-handed.

He turned and made for the gangway, crossed it to find Graybeard waiting for him. "Took ye long enough," the surly old pirate grumbled. Turning, he knelt before a man bound hand, foot, and mouth. "Well, then? Be this all yer comp'ny, or should we expect a similar welcome below deck?" The man bellowed unintelligibly— the bandana tied around his head and stuffed into his mouth largely dulling his ability to articulate. Graybeard tisked, resting a knifepoint against his jugular. "Ain't no use in resistin' now, jus' answer me questions."

Komali watched the scene impatiently. It quickly became clear that Graybeard was trying to agitate both his hostage and his hostage's crewmen— one doesn't successfully interrogate a man whose mouth is stopped. Graybeard's nonsensical behavior continued for a few more minutes, gradually escalating until he ordered the man dragged below deck of the Anathema by several of it's larger crewmen. Muted cries and pummeling sounds informed of his condition.

Once the slavers' captain was out of sight, Graybeard turned to one of his crewmen— a man who despite his obvious hostility appeared sufficiently cowed. "Alrigh', ye wretch. What's waitin' fer me in the gut o' this bilge rat?"

The man eyed those around him nervously— most of whom stared into the deck between their legs, with a few glaring daggers at the man in warning. With one more glance in the direction of the Anathema, he answered, "Nuttin' ye want."

Graybeard tensed, then sighed and shook his head. "Take 'em down," he ordered. His men snapped to attention and began hauling each of the bound slavers' below deck of their ship. "Wait, what are they doing?" Komali asked.

"Lockin' 'em in their casket," Graybeard answered, sheathing his dagger behind his belt and making for the gangway.

"W-why? They haven't told us where—"

"Their mongrel leader'll tell us where to find yer kin," Graybeard cut him off, crossing over to the Anathema. "An' no, 'e ain't dead— that was jes' fer show," he added without looking back. "Prob'ly is a bloody mess, though. Oughtta be more talkative when 'e wakes up."

When the men were finished stowing the slavers in their ship, they returned to the Anathema and put out to sea a few hundred yards, bringing the slavers' ship up on the starboard side. Komali was watching Graybeard direct the helmsman when Gonzo suddenly appeared at his side. Gonzo gave him a dark look, then approached Graybeard. Between the calls of the gulls hovering about the ship and those of the sailors about their work, Komali couldn't make out what the men were talking about— but by the older man's disposition, it seemed he wasn't eager to discuss it.

When it seemed their conversation reached a standstill, Gonzo glared and turned to look at Komali. With a flick of his head, he called him over. Komali frowned, but acceded. "Do yer folk have some kinda burial rite?"

Komali's brow leapt. "What? Why?"

Gonzo opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted when the canons beneath their feet fired suddenly. The burst made Komali jump, and he turned to find the slavers' ship taking considerable damage. Then the ship erupted in flames and the deed was done. He couldn't hear it over the explosion, but Komali thought Gonzo growled at the sight. "It weren't yer place to decide that!" Gonzo bellowed at Graybeard, his voice dulled by the still lingering thunder.

Graybeard snarled. "Ye'd best thank me I didn't leave ye in there with 'em— didn't have t'take ye aboard me ship when—"

"I was there because he— yer precious little hero— asked me t'look out fer her afore he left," Gonzo roared. The clamorous noise had mostly passed now, and Gonzo's voice surprised everyone within earshot. "'At's more'n ye ever did— an' she was yer own kin! Ye sail around dolin' out what ye call justice, but ye leave yer own kin to rot— an' ye bury those what ain't yers t'bury!"

Komali felt alarm shoot throughout his extremities. "What's he talking about?" Komali pried.

Graybeard didn't even turn to look, so Gonzo answered for him. "It weren't just the slavers down there in the 'ull," he said. When Komali didn't draw his own conclusions, Gonzo filled in the blank, "They were 'aulin' a small number o' yer kin."

It took a moment for the answer to sink in, but when it did he felt his knees give a little in shock. Despite that, he tried to turn and intended to leap down from the poop deck— as though he could somehow reach the sinking ship. Gonzo caught him about the arm. "Let me go!" Komali shrieked, desperate.

"They were dead afore we even took the ship," Gonzo insisted. "They cut their throats while we was gittin' ready t'board."

Komali shook his head. "N-no, no! Maybe someone is still—"

"They're gone, boy!" Gonzo insisted, with a firm shake. The sudden jolt caught Komali by surprise and all the fight went out of him. He went limp and dropped to his knees, silent tears streaming down his face as muffled sobs wracked his body.

Komali awoke to the sound of a heavy thunk in the room, though one less alarming than the last. After the evening's earlier events, he'd slunk down to the infirmary to drown his grief and frustration in sleep. The ship was rather quiet, which meant it was likely still a few hours before sunrise. He cracked open his eyes against the infirmary's flickering lantern light, eerily illuminating Gonzo's tanned face. In his hand was sizable jug (possibly a few gallons in size), which he lifted to take a hearty draught— thunk-ing it back down onto the table once his mouth was full. His eyes flicked over to Komali, and he smiled nervously. "Sorry, lad… did I wake ye?"

Komali frowned, shifting up to lean on his elbow. "Why are you drinking in the infirmary?"

Gonzo shrugged and chuckled helplessly— clearly drunk. "Ain't got nowheres else t'go— yer sleepin' in me bed, anyhow."

Komali's frown deepened, though he lost grip on his embittered attitude. Sitting up all the way, he realized aloud, "You're the only one left, aren't you? All of your friends are…" He trailed off. Gonzo didn't respond, but merely took another draught of his drink— some of it spilling out over his chin. "Is that why you drink?"

Gonzo laughed. "I been drinkin' longer 'an I been on this ship, laddie. I drink 'cuz it dulls the anger, at least a little bit."

Komali blinked. "Anger? About your friends, or…?"

"Ye ain't much o' a listener, are ye," Gonzo hiccuped, sucking down yet more of his drink.

Komali sighed, his self-reproach spoiling under the waft of alcohol and Gonzo's inebriation. He decided to change the subject. "What happened with the pirate captain?"

Gonzo burped. "Graybeard interrogated 'im, then stuck 'em an' threw 'im to sea."

"Do we know where to go?" Komali prodded.

"Aye," Gonzo nodded, taking another draught from his jug— Komali wouldn't be surprised if the man fast drained it. "An' I'm even less thrilled 'an a was 'afore."

"Why is that?" Komali asked. "Were they the slavers you mentioned before?"

Gonzo nodded. "Aye, but that ain't the problem," he said. "The problem be who they sold 'em to. Usually smugglers an' their kind only deal in people if they be sellin' concubines an' the like…" Komali felt himself tense in offense at the suggestion, but bit his tongue. "Not too many folk interested in buyin' up slaves fer much else," Gonzo observed, "an' even that's finicky work— even among the rougher coastlands o' the south. But folk o' yer kin?" Gonzo shook his head.

"What, what about it?" Komali pried, indignation coming out in his tone.

"Couldn't sell 'em, 'e said," Gonzo recalled. "Only folk what can pay fer such things be noblemen, wealthy merchants, the like… an' yer kin be too dark fer their tastes. Only one place 'e could take 'em, 'e decided." Gonzo took another swig at the thought, stoking further Komali's frustration. With a pointed look, he drew it out of the man. "The scum took yer kin an' sold 'em to the cannibal tribes, in the deserts west o' Hyrule. If we don't hurry, there may not be much left."

The words washed over Komali and sunk him deep into the infirmary bed, where they haunted him until morning.

Komali watched as the desolate landscape rolled by— a vista of obsidian crags and blackened earth that grimaced under gray skies, with jaws of smoking mountaintops that yawned drearily. Growing in the distance, just off the nose of the ship, was what Komali suspected to be the first approachable shores he'd seen in days. It seemed incredible to him that a single continent could have such diverse terrain—

"It didn' always look like tha', y'know," a gruff voice observed to his left.

Komali felt anger swell in his chest, but he did his best to stifle it as Graybeard approached to study it with him. "What do you want, Graybeard?"

Graybeard sighed, irritated. "Do ye really hate me that much, boy?"

Komali felt the muscles in his face twitch. "My father taught me that hatred will destroy you long before it destroys others."

Graybeard murmured his agreement. "On that, yer Pa an' I agree. But it's there, ain't it?" he prodded. "Ye feel it in yer gut, don't ye?"

Komali's jaw clenched. "You desecrated the remains of my people, forced me to watch as their bodies were destroyed—"

"What would ye 'ave done, haul their corpses aboard t'rot while we traipsed about th'western seas?"

Komali struck the taffrail with a clenched fist, "I don't know. But they deserved better than… that." He said the last with a brash gesture toward sea before them, where the invisible image of the flaming ship still haunted him. "Why, Graybeard? Why did you do it?"

Graybeard shrugged. "They were dead, lad. I sunk that ship 'cause it were full o' a bunch'a slavin' mongrels. I doubt whether yer dead cared, one way'r the other."

Komali pursed a sharp breath through his teeth, and felt an ache in his chest... then shook his head at another thought. "I… I just, I don't understand. I mean, I get the whole 'dead people don't care about stuff' mentality— in a way, it's morbidly logical. But why…"

"Ye jes' said it yerself, boy. What do it matter if—"

"No, no," Komali interrupted. "No that's not what I'm talking about. You kill people. Bad people. You think they deserve to die. That's the whole purpose of your existence, at this point. And the slavers are dead now. Right?" Graybeard just stared at him. "Right? They're dead. You killed them. Good job." Komali wondered if Graybeard was surprised by the contempt in his voice. "So why are we doing this?" he pondered sardonically, gesturing broadly with both arms.

"What?"

"Why are we going after the rest of my people?" Komali clarified. "In a way, it seems inconsistent with the way you… you normally do things. I mean, if we're approaching all of this logically— because that's what this is about, right? It's about logic, judgement." His voice was slowly rising in pitch, and his words becoming more severe. "No, what would make sense, is for you to turn around and head back south to see if you could wrangle up some more pirates. Maybe mount their heads along the arms of your mast? Not like they'd care, right? Because they'd be dead. Or perhaps you've a taste for the city— I hear crime's a real problem in Hyrule these days. You know, come to think of it," he mused, tapping his chin for effect, "why is it you spent all of your time on your boat, instead of dutifully patrolling the streets so you could catch the all the miscreants in their crimes? Doesn't that, doesn't that seem a little, I don't know…"

"Ye've made yer point, boy," Graybeard growled, apparently having lost whatever sadistic humor he had been drawing from this moment.

"No, no no, I, I don't think I have," Komali insisted, his anger sharpening. "You see, if you do this," he indicated with his right hand, comparing it with his left, "then you'll lose time for the other thing— you know, the 'pirate hunter, murderer murderer' thing. That's what you care about, right? Because, I mean, it can't be the innocent people they're harming that you care about, can it? Not when you and your men heedlessly waded through their corpses, and plunged them into a watery grave. You see what I'm talking about, right? This doesn't add up."

"Fer a man gripin' on crimes against his kin, ye seem pretty set on seein' done more harm!" Graybeard spat. "Them savages is worse than anythin' them slavers coulda cooked up fer yer folk, boy. Maybe it'd be forced labor or a brothel on the one hand, but at least they'd'a been put down real quick when they's all used up. But them desert people?" Graybeard shook his head for emphasis. "They'll chop 'em up bit by bit o'er the course o' a week, t'burn their limbs an' extremities fer their 'eathen witchcraft rituals— probably they won't die until at least day five. Can ye imagine it, boy? 'Avin' to taste the smell o' yer own burnin' flesh?" Graybeard paused for dramatic effect. "An' them what git chopped up?" he continued. "They'll be the lucky ones. I ain't yet told ye—"

"Stop," Komali snapped. "Don't try to, to spin this as if you were doing the world some kind of service. You've never done this for anyone but yourself. You're not out there shoving swords through men's throats because there's someone somewhere they won't trouble tonight— you're doing it because there's something in you that you can't fix. I don't know what happened to you, Graybeard, but men don't live the life you've lived because they've been called to some divine office of justice." Komali spat over the side of the boat, turning away from the bitter, old man. "You've lived your life as a murderer. The very thing you claim plagues this world, and that's what you chose to become." And then turning one more time to stare him in the eyes: "My kin. Others'. It doesn't really matter whose blood is on your sword, at this point. You're not an avenger, Graybeard. You're a killer. You can talk about the world being a sick place all you like, about how it's only getting worse— but what you fail to see that the problem is you, and people like you. It's not the world, Graybeard. It's you that's sick. You."

Muffled cries of distress from the main deck alerted all within earshot that something was afoot. The ringing of steel and a few gunshots had Graybeard reaching for his own sword. Drawing his curved blade from the sheath at his hip, he turned and made for the stairs when some… thing seemed to leap from the bottom of the stairway clear over the man's head. It fell just before Komali, who had no time to react as a limb with the density of a tree bole swept him out from under his own feet. In a moment Graybeard had turned to slash his blade through the thing that had practically flown over head and assaulted Komali, but it was already gone— passing low and to the pirate's right side, then flanking him. A hand burned a permanent dark brown and with nails like claws rose to clench the mans wrist and shake the sword from his grip, tearing his shoulder from it's socket in the process.

All this took seconds, and then the sounds of struggle ceased. The same, inhumanly strong hand wrenched Graybeard up from the ground (he had collapsed from the shock of his sustained injury), and another shot down to thrust Komali to his feet as well. Suddenly both men were hurled from where they stood— as though this being could lift them from the ground— and they found themselves crashing onto the main deck.

When they were able to breathe again, they found themselves huddled together with the other pirates above deck, near the center mast. Some were merely unconscious— presumably they incapacitated by the some figures that assaulted them. Others were plainly dead, and Komali did his best not to closely observe their terribly disfigured features. Two feet the color of sun-browned stone thudded hard inches from his face, cause him to turn onto his back and reflexively back away. His back struck the firmly planted legs of another of the attackers, surprising him yet again. They were surrounded.

There were ten of them, or at least that was all he could see— he thought maybe there were a few more back up on the poop deck: ten men with features he'd seen neither in his own people nor any of the Hylians. They were dripping wet and stark naked. Their bodies were incredibly lean but markedly muscular, and completely hairless save for wild crops of orange and red atop their heads with furious brows to match. They spoke to each other in a guttural language that Komali recognized as related to a tongue his people preserved from their days on the mainland (but one among a few they rarely passed down anymore). The words were chewed and inflected in ways he was not used to, so it was difficult to understand what was going on.

A few sharp but low whistles, followed by a punctuated grunt, drew his eyes to where Graybeard huddled, a few feet away. "Yer kin know this tongue?" he asked at a whisper.

Komali nodded. "It's deformed, decadent but… yes. Graybeard, are these—"

"Aye," the old pirate answered, studying the intruders as they moved about the deck. "I ain't ne'er seen 'em meself, but they bear the look that ol' barnacle told us of."

"How… how did this—"

"They musta swam from the shore," Graybeard decided. "Saw us comin', decided to come t'us afore we came t'them." His face grew taught a moment, "Sink that filth— this must be 'ow they greeted them slavers too. Kept it to 'isself despite how we stuck 'em— one last curse on 'is punisher." Graybeard was speaking of the slavers' captain, Komali realized. "You get any o' what they're sayin'?" Graybeard asked him.

Komali nodded. "A little. Can they pilot this ship?"

Graybeard shot a glance toward the poop deck. "The way they took 'er out from under us, so easy... I'd wager they done it 'afore. Aye, reckon they can. Why?"

"They're saying something about 'home'..." Komali translated. "And 'others'..."

"Their kin?" Graybeard clarified.

Komali swallowed a growing lump in his throat. "No." An icy glare from one of the barbarians made him bite his tongue for a moment. When he looked away, Komali clarified, "I don't think it's their people that... that are 'for the fire'."

Graybeard's eyes went wide at that, and for the first time Komali thought he saw fear in the eyes of the ruthless pirate killer.