The raiding party set sail that evening. Anaea plus five of her warrior sisters set out to sea on small fishing boats, chasing the slave ship that had sailed too close to their territory. Though the ship posed no threat to the magically protected island chain of Joros, it was a matter of principle that the ship should be looted and sunk. Sometimes they had valuable supplies that the woman of Joros could not acquire any other way. Sometimes the ships carried a hull full of captured slave girls that could be inducted into the tribe or used to expand the network of mainland informants friendly to the Jorosians. Anaea’s own grandmother had been liberated from a slave ship and become a part of the tribe. 

As the sun set behind the island and the world grew dark, Anaea looked towards the horizon, eagerly awaiting her chance to fight. It was a warm evening so many of the warriors had decided to go naked. Their firm, muscular bodies were wet with sea water and shimmered in the warm, dying light. 

Lyra, a warrior in her 30s, sat at the prow of the boat, scanning the horizon with her keen eyes for any sign of the slave ship. She was the oldest of the warriors on the boat and even had a young daughter back on the island who was well on her way to becoming a warrior as skilled and ruthless as her mother. Her daughter was left behind to be looked after by Lyra’s third husband. She had claimed two husbands before him but ended up killing both of them for different reasons. She seemed to like the third. Lyra was leading this raid as she had led many before it. Anaea felt safe knowing her commander was one as infamous as Lyra. Her breasts were quite large and often interfered with combat so she wore a tight breast wrap at all times. Her body was still strong and firm despite her age and upon it were the signs of her warrior life. She had small scars and impact wounds across her body, healed by the magics of the village shaman. But some marks could never fade. 

Anaea was the youngest on the boat and the least experienced. The other women had been on at least one raid before this one. Anaea was keen to prove herself to her companions. She had succeeded in acquiring Batavia but that was merely an initiation. This raid would be what made her an equal in the eyes of the other warriors. She looked at the other women and examined their behaviour. Most of them were naked and busying themselves with small tasks like sharpening their weapons or preparing their armour. One of the women was asleep. Anaea would have liked a rest but the tension she felt made such a thing impossible. She looked back at the island one last time as it faded into the mist and darkness.

                                                             + + +

The warriors didn’t catch up to the slave ship until the early hours of the following morning. When Lyra spotted the point of light on the horizon she quickly whipped her warriors into a fighting mood. The women dressed in their dark armour and prepared their weapons. Anaea slipped her daggers into their scabbards on the small of her back and hung her short sword from her hip. Lyra pulled her clawed glove on to her left hand and admired it in the moonlight. The sharp hooked claws glistened menacingly in the pale light. They were made from the claws of mainland lyon which were sharp enough to rip through flesh with ease. Soon they would taste blood. The boat pulled into the slave ship’s wake and followed closely behind it. The sails were pulled down and the women resorted to oars to catch up with the slavers. They worked hard to get within range of their hooks and by the time they did their muscles were aching and sweat covered their bronzed skin.

With the hooks now firmly attached to the stern of the slave ship, the women snuck aboard. Anaea did not feel fear. Rather she felt a calm exhilaration as she climbed the rope between her boat the ship. Ahead of her were her sisters, climbing quickly to get to the ship. One by one they stepped onto the deck of the stinking ship and drew their weapons. The deck seemed clear. Likely the crew were asleep inside or sleeping towards the bow of the ship. 

With a gesture of her clawed hand, Lyra ordered the warriors forward. Moving as silently as they could, the team of six moved towards the front of the boat; swords, spears and claws at the ready. 

The slave ship stuck of humanity. A foul odour of faeces, urine and sweat wafted from every doorway into the hull. Rotten meat could be picked up to, but whether that came from the kitchen or from the slaves that had not survived the journey, Anaea did not want to know. She held her breath as she peered into a dark doorway. There was no one around, which unsettled her. She moved forward, creeping towards the staircase. The other warriors fanned out and began exploring the ship. Sailors were kill-on-sight with silence being the preferred way. If they could kill off the crew without a fight it would be the best outcome. 

Anaea crept further down, into the stinking depths. The ship creaked and groaned around her. It was a living beast of wood and metal. Judging by the smell, Anaea was working her way through the intestines. The obvious inference was not lost on the young warrior. Suddenly the gloom was disturbed by a strangled groan and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Anaea turned around quickly to see a dead sailor bleeding out onto the floor of the ship. His throat was a blood gash of leaking meat. Standing over him was Lyra. Her claws glistened red even in the gloom. Before Anaea could indicate her thanks, there came the sound of a fight. It came from elsewhere on the ship but it was loud enough to attract attention.

Lyra and Anaea froze as the sound hit them. With baited breathe they listened to the sounds of the fight until they went quiet again. The voice of a man called out.

‘All hands on deck! Wake up! Wake up!’ he shouted.

Lyra spat a curse and grabbed Anaea by the arm as she rushed back towards the deck. They burst into the open air and ran towards the ship prow where they could the man calling. Anaea readied her sword and prepared for a fight. 

Anaea could tell immediately that the raid had gone wrong. Slumped against the side of the railing was the body of a warrior. She was dead already and bleeding from several deep cuts in her armour. Standing next to her was the man who had killed her. He was a fat and hairy man with long hair and the facial features of a Vrotaran; large nose, pale skin, wide forehead and wide-set eyes. He’d been cut across his chest and was bleeding badly but still standing. In his hand was the dagger, long and curved, that had slain the Jorosian. Behind him, spilling out of the doorway, were more men. Some were armed with knives and swords. The fat man saw the two warriors just in time for Lyra’s dagger to meet his throat. Blood splattered across the slavers standing by the door, dumbfounding them for a moment. 

Anaea and Lyra charged into the collection of men. With a slash of her sword, Anaea dispatched one of the slavers. Her blade sunk into his neck, hit the spine and became lodged. A quick yank and a kick to the dead man’s chest freed her blade. Lyra, meanwhile was keeping three men at bay with her claws. They were trying to close in around her but none dared get close to her clawed hand. She was saved a moment later when two more warriors appeared from behind. Two men were dispatched with spears through their hearts while Lyra killed the third with her dagger. 

The four warriors now stood side by side, forming a wall across the deck of the ship while more men spilled out of the doorway, quickly tripling their number. One of the warriors was still missing. 

‘Where’s Mora?’ Anaea asked in native Jorosian so the slavers could not understand.

‘Still below’, one of the others replied. 

‘We can’t leave until she returns’, Lyra stated.

‘Unless she’s already dead’, another replied. 

The thought did not seem too farfetched. If she encountered these men as they rushed to the deck she would have been killed immediately. Her chances did not seem good. Lyra seemed to agree as she began to back off against the approaching wall of men. Step by step they moved closer to the aft end of the ship where their boat waited. A man charged at them with his sword raised and was quickly cut down by the warriors. This kept the others at bay but it would not last for long. 

Only a few metres were now between the warriors and the edge of the boat. They could leap the railing, slash the ropes and be free of the ship in an instant, but then the crossbowman appeared. The crowd of slavers separated  as the man took aim and fired a bolt. The warriors had no time to react as the bolt crossed the small gap between slavers and them and struck one of the warriors in the chest. Her armour did nothing to stop the metal spike as it embedded itself in her chest. She stumbled back and fell over the edge of the boat, into the murky sea. Anaea watched her sister vanish from sight with a mix of horror and anger.

The slavers rushed forward at once. Lyra and the other warrior were fast and jumped the railing but Anaea was a second too slow. As she jumped the railing three sets of hands grabbed her and yanked her violently back onto the ship. She kicked out with her strong legs, booting one slaver off the ship and landing crushing blows against two more but in the end they dragged her to the ground and beat her into submission. A kick to the head ended it all.

                                                              + + +

The following morning found Batavia at the docks once again. He had upturned the leaky boat and was plugging holes in the keel with the best materials he could scrounge. Having to make do with such primitive tools was frustrating but oddly rewarding when he figured out how to use them to best effect. Several hours in the sun had rewarded him with an almost completely repaired boat. Soon he’d have to find a new project.

He to the horizon, where he had last seen his kidnapper/wife sail off to attack a slave ship. One of the men fishing in the bay saw the boat before Batavia did. He shouted to the men on the shore and pointed out to sea. There it was; the small boat Anaea had left on. Some of the men sitting under the shade of a palm tree rushed towards the dock when the boat approached. Batavia watched from the little workshop on the beach he had made for himself. He noticed immediately something was wrong. Only two women stepped off the boat. The older of the two, Batavia didn’t know her name, stormed away from the boat angrily. For a moment their eyes met. She glared at him but he could not understand why. She disappeared up the jungle path, followed by the other warrior and a line of men carrying supplies from the boat. Batavia did not feel good.

He dropped what he was doing and chased after the warriors. He followed the path to the village and ducked behind a hut when he reached the line no men were allowed to cross. Just beyond it was the warrior lodge. Hidden in the bushes, Batavia moved silently towards the hut. Inside he could hear angry voices. Finding a secluded spot near the wall of the lodge, he crouched down and listened in.

‘…thirty of them! We didn’t stand a chance against that many’ came the voice of the woman Batavia didn’t know.
 
‘What of Anaea and Mora?’ asked what sounded like the chieftess. 

‘Captured or more likely killed’.

It was silent for a moment and then the sound of something being smashed on the ground was heard.

‘What port were the slavers headed for?’ 

Quiet.

‘I don’t know. They were headed eastwards so possibly Derekarkus or a dozen other ports along the way’.

‘The slavers; where were they from?’

‘Possibly Vrota but they flew no colours’.

‘Damn it all. Vrotaran slaver companies in the eastern ports! How many?’

‘As many as twenty by our last count, chieftess’ said a new voice.

‘Mainland contacts are to investigate all slave ports in the east. I want messengers out tonight!’ the chieftess ordered.

Batavia backed away from the wall of the lodge and sat quietly as he thought. These island women had their information entirely out of date. The Vrota had been crushed in a recent war and most of their ports had been captured. If Vrotaran slavers were headed east it meant they were going to Derekarkus. No other city would trade with them. It had been that way for a year and recent changes were unlikely. They were going to waste their time in cities that Anaea would certainly not be in. Even if they focused their efforts on Derekarkus that city was massive. Thousands of slaves passed through it daily. From there they could scattered to the wind. If these Jorosians had any chance of finding Anaea they would have to act fast or else she’d be gone forever. 

Batavia muttered a curse under his breath and quickly returned to the dock. The fastest way to Derekarkus would still take weeks from this island, assuming he could escape it, which he couldn’t. Or could he? He would be killed by the magics around the island if he went alone but what if he had a warrior with him? If he could be brought to the island then surely he could leave it as well. He had to make a plan.