At first, he was not sure what had awakened him. Then he heard it again. A creaking, scraping sound. The sound of a boot being dragged slowly over the splintered deck boards. His hand slid immediately to the pommel of his knife. Hard fingers closed in a claw-like grip over his wrist. “Milord!” he managed to get out, but then they fell upon him, and he could not make a further utterance. He suspected his throat was about to be slit. He struggled with an animal strength while blows fell upon his body and oaths and grunts of displeasure were muttered by men who received his kicks and blindly thrusting elbows. “Where is the other?” asked a rough voice. “He’s not here.” “Find him, fool,” said the rough voice. Gruum now recognized the voice. It was Bolo, and he had betrayed them. The man Bolo had spoken to thumped away. Gruum bit down on a filthy set of salt-crusted fingers. The man’s hand leapt away from his face with a curse. Gruum spoke quickly while he was able. “Bolo, I beseech thee for all our sakes, do not provoke the sorcerer.”
