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The group emerged onto the street, which was even dustier than the slaver's compound, the gathering mob stared him and his crew. The braver souls in the crowd stepped forward, swords drawn.
"Make way," the captain shouted. "You face men of the League of Black Slavers. You face the sword of Black Ox."
At the revelation that the big man before them was the infamous Black Ox, the dominant predator of the Thassa's worst depradators, the mob quelled and fell back. However, standing head and shoulders over most of them before him, Black Ox could see a phalanx of crimson tunics running double-time toward his position. He counted at least two dozen of the city-guard. Black Ox knew the wharf and their ship, their only safety, lay two streets over.
"Let's go," he growled, scimitar held high, the girl clutched on his back. "Stay together, we make for the pier and our ship." He roared, an inarticulate expression of savage rage and ran forward, into the press of the milling crowd which rapidly divided to give the beserker and his men passage.
On the captain's back, the girl still trembling from her unreleased passion, felt the strong body of her Master moving beneath her hands, arms, thighs. Her red hair trailed back behind her, waving in a breeze generated by Black Ox's rapid pregress down the street. She laughed, out of pure exhileration, she laughed.
The girl didn't know what her future might bring, but one thing was sure, she was pounding straight toward it at double-speed. #
Black Ox and crewmen, with the pack of snarling Lydius rarii fast on their heels, ran down an alley cluttered with small stalls belonging to craftsmen who catered to the needs of sailors and their ships. They reached the mouth of the alley and then they were in the open spaces of the wharf. The sea lapped at the piers.
"Get to the ship," Black Ox growled out the order at Carlos. "Relay to the First-Mate to slip her moorings and to disembark on the instant."
"But the rarii, Captain."
"I'll deal with the cursed rarii. Get to the ship, all of you." "Aye, aye, Captain."
Carlos had served under the First-Captain for over eight years, he knew better than to argue with Black Ox. He led his crewmates and the iron ko-lar'd freed slaves down the wharf, while Black Ox looked around him for a way to slow down, if not completely stop the yelling band of rarii stomping toward him. As he turned left and right, he realized the girl was still on his back. He growled, angered at himself for not sending her along with the men to the ship.
"Down, girl," he said, flexing his knees so that she could slip from his back to the stone. "Stay out of the way."
"Yes, Master." The girl's blue eyes sparkled as she looked at him.
Since the onset of his adolescent, Black Ox had been on wharfs. He'd worked the docks, in a warehouse, before being recruited shipboard. He knew there were certain things always to be found on any viable waterfront, piles and bales of trade goods, she-urt prostitutes, wood for ship-repair, along with pitch, paint, and varnishes. And the thing about pitch, paint, and varnish was they caught fire easily and burned very hot.
He shoved the girl toward a pile of pressed panther furs bales then grabbed up a roll of sail-cloth, unwinding it from the lip of the wharf to the wall of a warehouse. He then picked up a keg of ship's varnish from a stack of a dozen or so placed alongside a fortified warehouse. He smashed the wooden melons all asunder against the sail-cloth covering the wharf stones. The varnish splashed and spread across the cloth and stones. He picked up another, dashing it and its contents on the ground, picked up another and smashed it, moving from the warehouse wall to the lip of the wharf stone where it hung over the water. Pleased with his work, he reached into his belt-wallet for his firemaker.
A seaman moved from behind the stack of tarped and roped fur bales.