Marchesa Damati gave her passengers a tour of "The Black Rose." Introducing them to the only other flesh-and-blood member of her crew: Blue Bart. A tinker gnome, from the far-off Faerunian land of Eberron, who served as her chief engineer. It was his duty to insure the wind-powered gears of the airjammer were kept in tip-top shape. Along with the enchanted suits of armor he referred to as "iron golems."

"Golems?" echoed Helene, wondering why that word sounded so familiar to her.

"Yeah," replied the tinker gnome. "We can't afford flesh-and-blood mercenaries to serve as marines. So we have to make do with these poor-man versions of the warforged!"

"Why would a vessel that magically sails through the skies need that kind of protection in the first place?" asked Kaulder, with fast-growing suspicion.

Marchesa wisely decided to tell them the truth.

"Because to get to Pylea in the timeframe you desire, we'll have to pass over the Pirate Isles. An archipelago inhabited by just what that name implies. Some of the worst sea-going scum imaginable. And among the most dreaded... are the vampirates of Ulgar's Island!"

"Vampirates?!" exclaimed Kaulder and Helene in perfect unison.

"Blood-sucking werebats," explained Logar. "Led by Ulgar the Undying. Supposedly, a once-mighty archmage from the long-lost Kingdom of Unther who was ultimately seduced- -and forced to inhale vampiric mist- -by a half-succubus tiefling!"

"You know all that about him," replied Kaulder. "Yet, with all the free-lance paladins and white wizards in this world, nobody has once tried to slay him and put him out of everyone else's misery?"

"Oh, there have been several attempts to do so!" declared Marchesa. "Every single one of which... has ended in miserable failure. That's why the other pirate bands finally decided it was more practical to just bribe him to stay out of their way by smuggling him kidnapped landlubbers to feast upon!"

"Or, at least, they used to; no?" countered Helene, in sudden realization. "Till the sudden acquisition of three extra moons rendered conventional seafaring almost impossible. Thereby forcing them to resume their marauding ways. Yes?"

Marchesa nodded, again, adding. "That, in turn, is why half of the other pirate bands- -along with a growing number of mainland outlaws- -have turned to high-jacking other people's airjammers. It's become even more lucrative than the slave trade!"

As if on cue, Drenax suddenly called down from the top of the companionway in unmistakable alarm.

"Cap'n! Cap'n Damati! We have visitors approaching."

Everyone rushed to the bottom of the wooden stairs.

"Where away?" demanded Marchesa.

"Off the port bow... and closing fast."

"What colors are they flying?"

"The Kraken Society."

To her credit, the buxom brunette did not miss a beat. "Bart! Get those hunks of junk up and running."

The tinker gnome did not even bother saluting as he ran back down the corridor, wiping his greasy hands off on his blue smock.

"Aye-aye, cap'n!"

Everyone else ran up on deck, with Marchesa taking a spyglass from Drenax.

"Is it those vampirates you were telling us about?" asked Kaulder.

"Nope!" she tersely replied. "But, arguably, just as bad."

She handed the spyglass to Kaulder, who promptly raised it to his right eye. Sure enough, there was another airjammer headed their way. With the logo of a giant squid, outlined in red, on a white flag waving atop the crow's nest.

"Who am I looking at?"

"The Dire Shark. Crewed by a motley band of scrags, half-orc merrows, and Black Blood seawolves, under the captaincy of a half-knoll corsair... called Errol the Flind."

Kaulder's ensuing response was instinctive, instantaneous, and yet, from the good captain's point of view, strangely incredulous.

"You got to be frigging me!"

But, before she could even think of asking him to elaborate, Drenax yelled out in alarm once more.

"Cap'n! Closing fast off the starboard bow!"

Kaulder shifted the spyglass in the indicated direction and swore even more loudly.

"Looks like they've formed a temporary alliance with this Ulgar."

Marchesa grabbed the spyglass back and peered at what he was talking about. Hoping against hope that she had guessed wrong about what he meant. But, that hope was almost immediately dashed by the sight of giant vampire bats flying beneath an equal number of "cloakers." Semi-vampirized manta rays used as living parasols for diurnal flight!

It was at this point that a rhythmic metallic clanking came from behind the on-lookers. It was the iron golems being guided up out of the companionway by the blue-smocked tinker gnome.

"All hands on deck, cap'n!"

"Then, all hands to battle stations, Bart."

At which point, Kaulder doffed his black cape in order to don his red-plumed helmet, battle-ax, and shield. With Helene and Logar doing likewise in their own fashion.

BASEMENT OF THE GRAY HAWK INN

(TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER)

Shandalar put down his pestle before carefully lifting up the porcelain mortar. The contents of which he just as carefully poured into the uncorked top of the whiskey bottle labeled "Blue Dragon."

"Hello-ello-ello! What do we have, here?"

The innkeeper was so startled by the unfamiliar voice that he dropped the mortar to the floor, where it all too-easily shattered. Thereby making Ethan Rayne chuckle as he emerged from the shadows underneath the cellar staircase.

"Spikin' your customers' drinks with liquefied illithid tadpoles?! Whatever would Lady Vestress of the Kraken Society say? I can tell you for a fact that it ain't hard to guess what she'll do. Somethin' a whole lot worse than callin' you a naughty boy, Shandalar. Or would you prefer... Endrek Sahr? Last of the Mages of Netheril."

The innkeeper's posture suddenly became rigid with fear. "I b-beg your pardon?"

"Oh, there's no pardonin' you, mate," replied Ethan. "You're a fugitive necromancer! Wanted for desecratin' the bodies of sun elf bionoids slain by the Phyrexians prior to the Battle of Myth Draenor. That's why you temporarily fled to the pocket realm called Shandalar in the first place! To escape well-deserved execution for your crimes."

The innkeeper called Shandalar clenched his fists in helpless rage.

"How...?" he began.

"...much will it cost you to keep me from relayin' that knowledge?" Ethan interrupted him. "Just one little reanimation, mate. I have some clients who want to turn a recently deceased Flaming Fist into an elite armored thrull. Or, as they like to call them, hereabouts... a Death Knight!"

The iron golems of The Black Rose numbered three dozen, all together. Each of them with a great sword strapped to their backs. The first twenty formed an outer square comprising four sides of five; each of them bearing a cranequin crossbow in its arms. The remaining sixteen formed a middle square -four per side- each one with a brace of pistol-grip blunderbusses belted to its hips. The inner square, however, consisted of Kaulder, Helene, Marchesa, and Logar. With Drenax, Blue Bart, and Coucou right behind them. For, as Kaulder, himself, had pointed out: "You know those vampirates are just the first wave. Meant to keep us occupied long enough for The Dire Shark to catch up and ram us!"

The good captain had nodded. "That's why we have to carve up these sons of liches as fast as possible. Bart can't direct the I.G.'s, and Drenax can't keep us on course, if either of them are distracted."

But, it was the French werewolf huntress who had the last word before battle was finally joined.

"Attention! Ils sont ici!"

GLOSSARY

Warforged: sentient suits of magically animated armor.

Scrags: sea trolls.

Merrows: aquatic ogres.

Black Blood: a Faerunian confederation of various lycanthropic tribes.

Seawolves: basically, a cross between werewolves and mermaids.

Errol the Flind: sorry, Harry! I just couldn't resist.

Illithid: a race of humanoids with cephalopod-like features who are more commonly referred to as "mind-flayers."

"Ils sont ici" = (French for "They are here").

tbc