When Cracked Jaw Daggmo's skinning knife slid between the first captive's thumb and forefinger, the scream that burst across the deck was shriller than a seagull's cry as a harpoon punched through it.
"Bones are the Drowned God's harp... finger bones are the Drowned God's keys..." The old pirate rasped an off-key tune as he turned his wrist, the blade darting nimbly like a bloodthirsty silverfish. Skin peeled back from the fingertip, exposing the faintly quivering red tendons beneath. Beads of blood rolled down the gleaming blade and, in the pale moonlight, formed a broken, lurid ruby necklace.
"The spice ship's course... number of guards... speak!" Balon Greyjoy's roar drowned out the sticky sounds of flesh and bone being torn apart.
The captive convulsed, spitting out a few muddled, broken syllables. Balon's battle-axe didn't hesitate—crack! The little finger was severed at the root, and a piece of stark-white bone bounced across the deck, rolling to a stop beside Euron's sea-salt-stained boot.
"Liar!" The eldest Greyjoy son kicked the severed finger into the black sea. The icy blade had already shifted toward the ring finger. "I'll ask one last time?"
"The truth... please... let me go..."
Balon grinned, revealing teeth yellowed by sea salt. "Wrong answer!" His axe fell, and another finger left the captive's body.
Then he tapped the captive's still-intact right little finger with the bloodied back of his axe. "Which hold are the Rhoynar's gems in?"
The captive bit down hard on his bloodied lip. The blade flashed—crack! The little finger was chopped off at the root, and bone shards and blood spattered Euron's leather boot.
At last, the dam of the captive's will broke beneath the agony. He screamed hoarsely, "Port side! The second hold on the port side!"
Euron, who had been watching coldly, finally moved. He extended the toe of his boot and prodded an old arrow wound on the captive's right shoulder. "This mark was left by a barbed arrowhead... You've risked your life for money. You were a sellsword." He leaned down, scooped up a handful of wet rust flakes mixed with salt, and mercilessly ground them into the depths of the old wound, crushing new flesh against old scar tissue. "A sellsword keeps his eyes on the edge of the blade. He cares most about who lives and who dies, so he'd surely count how many armed fighters were on his side. How many?!"
Under the precise torment and crushing fear, the captive completely broke. "Nine! Only nine! Including two unarmed attendants! It's true!"
"Free City... They flew the flag of Braavos..." A third captive nearby muttered, his mind shattered.
Two hours later, the intelligence wrung from three captives interrogated separately had come together like driftwood washed ashore, forming a complete and tempting picture: two merchant ships, laden with rare spices from Tyrosh, Myr's softest silks, and Lysene gems that captivated countless nobles. Their guard was laughably weak—only nine men. Daggmo licked the half-congealed blood from his knife. His eyes, reddened by greed and slaughter, fixed on the ink-black horizon to the northeast. "Tomorrow night, when the moon sets, they'll have to pass through Widow's Pass!"
"Have you all understood?" Euron's voice was low and calm. He even offered a little sour freshwater to the three captives, who were barely alive and no longer looked human. Half-crouching before them, he let the moonlight cast one side of his face into deep shadow, while the other was as cold as a statue. "Tomorrow night, moonset. Widow's Pass. Two ships. Nine men. If any part of this intelligence is wrong, if anything goes awry during this hunt..." He paused, his voice edged with a chill sharper than the ice of the North Atlantic. "I swear by the Drowned God, you'll regret not tearing out your own hearts and lungs to tell the truth. They'll start by flaying you, then cut your flesh away piece by piece, slowly, until at last they bind you to the reefs and let the rising tide spend days and nights gnawing the exposed bones from your bodies."
Then his tone shifted subtly, taking on an almost merciful lilt. "But if all goes well... perhaps you'll keep your lives. You surely know my name and who I am. On these seas, even the god of death has a hard time taking those I choose to protect. So think carefully now... Is there anything useful you forgot to mention?"
Extreme fear could sometimes wring out the most deeply buried secrets. After a brief silence, broken only by the sobbing waves, a feeble voice forced its way out:
"...Wildfire..."
Wildfire was older and deadlier than ordinary wildfire, an extremely flammable liquid fury, as if from the depths of hell. Long ago, some merchant ships that sailed close to the edge of disaster would secretly stock a few barrels, hiding them in the most secluded lower holds. They served as a last bargaining chip or a weapon to take everyone down when escape was impossible. But its ingredients were rare, and the methods for preparing it were closely guarded by a handful of people known as Pyromancers.
Now those Pyromancers were kept in the Mad King's service in King's Landing at the cost of a kingdom's fortune.
Who could have guessed that such a dangerous secret was hidden aboard these seemingly ordinary merchant ships?
Balon and Cracked Jaw Daggmo exchanged a sharp look. The air instantly filled with a new, more dangerous greed. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, they both turned their eyes to Euron. Their gazes held undisguised admiration and awe, like beasts discovering even bigger prey.
On the fourteenth day at sea, night fell like ink.
As the last sliver of moonlight vanished beneath the churning storm clouds, the Hao Yin slid silently into the jagged reef field like a black-scaled sea serpent. The ship's hull was almost indistinguishable from the roaring darkness; only the peeling paint on its figurehead occasionally caught a faint glimmer in the sea spray.
Euron Greyjoy crouched behind the figurehead, catching a hint of exotic fragrance on the wind. The warm sweetness of nutmeg mingled with the deep scent of sandalwood, so lavish that it clashed with the sea's salt tang and the faint smell of blood. His mouth soundlessly spread into a grin, like a shark scenting death.
The merchant fleet had no idea what was coming. Like docile lambs, the ships glided into the deadly strait. On the lead ship's deck, beneath the dim glow of two lanterns, two guards shoved and cursed at each other over a limp wineskin. Their voices were shredded by the surf, their eyes bleary. They never dreamed that in the shadows of the pitch-black reefs on either side, the horn bows of twelve longbows had been drawn into cold, full moons.
"Loose!"
Captain Daggmo's roar was swallowed by the crashing waves almost as soon as it left his mouth.
The poisoned arrows, smeared with owl dung, left their bows and disappeared soundlessly into the darkness. In the next instant, the guards on deck fell like stalks of wheat cut down by an invisible scythe. Arrows quivered in their throats, and not even their final moans disturbed the night.
Almost at the same moment, the grappling hook Balon Greyjoy had thrown sank its teeth into the other ship's rail. He swung across on the rope like an agile ape, his curved sword carving a bitterly cold arc through the air. The lookout in the crow's nest had only just noticed something amiss when his throat was slit open. Clutching his spurting neck, he fell without a sound into the churning, ink-black sea below.
The Ironborn's raid displayed a terrifying efficiency, honed through countless trials. Old Wick led a group straight to the cargo hold like a wraith. They quickly smothered the heavy barrels marked with danger symbols beneath thick blankets soaked in seawater—the barrels held Wildfire, which could unleash hellfire at the slightest spark. A young attendant's hands shook so violently with fear that he could barely hold his torch. Old Wick didn't hesitate for an instant. With a backward slash, he sent the young man's head rolling across the damp deck, its face still frozen in astonishment.
On the other side, Grenn's skinning knife found the helmsman's ankle with unerring precision. The tip flicked, and the faint sound of severed tendons was drowned out in the din. The helmsman, who had once controlled the ship's course, collapsed like a limp rag.
On deck, Daggmo strode over the sticky mess and chaos, his roar rising above the wind and waves. "The Drowned God takes souls, not cargo! Throw all the dead overboard for the fish, but don't damage a single thing! You little bastards, keep your eyes sharp. Take the wrong thing, and I'll flay you!"
His voice was rough as a reef, every word dripping with greed and bloodshed as it echoed across these waters, suddenly gripped by death. It was like the final prayer offered up for this dark sacrifice.
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