Scimitar's Heir

by Chris A. Jackson

  Huffington sighed. “I had a feeling that things might become complicated. But as we are both at the disposal of higher powers in this matter, I see no reason why there can’t be some agreement between us. Let’s find someplace were we can take our ease, and we can discuss…other matters.”

  “Dat would suit me right nice, Mista Huffin’ton,” Tipos agreed, flashing his pearly grin once again. “Right nice, indeed.”

  ≈

  Camilla existed in her own private hell…a hell of her own making.

  Parek’s hand traced lazy circles down her torso, his fingers rough on the bruises and scrapes from his sadistic play. She had thought that nothing could be worse than submitting to Bloodwind’s touch, but at least the pirate lord’s caresses had been genuine: he had loved her unto his death. There was no semblance of love in Parek’s touch, no warmth, no caring; there was only lust, hunger…pain.

  Maybe I’m paying for being happy, she thought, suppressing the fleeting memory of Emil’s sweet face on a pillow beside her.

  The physical pain, she knew, would heal. The dull ache in her soul, radiating out through her flesh; that would never go away. She tried to suppress a shudder, but he felt it and misunderstood it, and his mocking caress became more direct, more urgent.

  Not again, she screamed silently. Not again, please, not yet…

  As if from another’s mouth, she heard her own voice: calm, quiet, sensual even. “How long do you plan to stay here?” she asked. Anything to forestall his lust, maybe for an hour, maybe a minute.

  “Oh, I don’t know, lass.” Parek slid his fingers down her body, down. He had learned what made her shudder, what made her moan and cry out, and what made her whimper. He had learned her. “We should probably leave tomorrow morning, since you say there’s no way to tell when the sea witch will get back.” His rough beard scraped her, and his teeth nipped at a sensitive spot…more pain.

  She gasped despite herself, arching her neck, her hand making a fist in his hair. Disgust roiled through her like smoke from a smoldering fire: disgust with Parek, with his touch, and with herself. The false passion came too easily; her former life of silent suffering had found her, and she had slipped into it like one of her dresses. The persona fit like it was made for her…or, maybe, she was made for it.

  “And you’ll take me with you?” she asked. An errant gust billowed the gauzy drapes, and the cool morning air played on her sweat-damp skin, raising gooseflesh, lighting her abrasions like dry tinder under a match.

  “Oh, I’m taking you with me, lass,” he said, and teased her with tongue and teeth until she flinched and twisted. Her grip in his hair became more desperate, until he hissed. He grinned at her. “I’m taking you, all right. I’m going to take you places you’ve never even thought of.”

  He grasped her raw wrists and pinned them to the bed. The pain of his grip surged through her, like she had fallen into a pool of scalding water. It closed over her head, muffling her other senses. Faintly, she heard her voice crying out, tasted the salt of her own blood, smelled the thick scent of his stale sweat mingling with her own, and felt him against her, piercing her like a dagger.

  Like the dagger she had put into Bloodwind’s heart.

  ≈

  “Sun come, we go,” Sam said, pointing to Manta. “Make ready. Food, water.”

  “Aye, Capt’n! Ready! Go with sun.” Uag grinned and trotted off, shouting orders to the crew—the five other cannibals who had been sailing Manta the longest, and whose loyalty and seamanship Sam trusted most. The rest of the cannibals would be taking First Venture and the prisoners back to their own island. Sam chuckled when she considered them trying to sail the galleon themselves; she would help them get out of the harbor, but after that the ship was theirs for good or ill. Parek would take Cutthroat, with all the pirates and the treasure, back to Middle Cay, where she’d meet up with them after she had completed her own task.

  Sam hauled the heavy box of charts and fine navigational instruments aboard Manta; she had pillaged them from the Flaxal witch’s own chambers. She stowed them carefully, then went looking for the other supplies she would need to traverse the Sea of Lost Ships.

  “Some timber to make sweeps, if there’s any that isn’t burnt,” she murmured, squinting at the pile of charred wood that had been the lofting shed. “And some tools.”

  She found a rack of spars that hadn’t burnt, and another rack of planks that had been draped with canvas to keep the rain off. She conscripted a few cannibals to haul the wood to Manta and lash it down on deck. Most of the tools had burned in the shed, but she found one blood-caked adze that was undamaged. For the rest, she confiscated heavy cutlery from the kitchens, cleavers and heavy butcher knives. They would work for shaping the planks into rough sweeps. If, as Parek had said, there was no wind in this gyre of drifting weed, she would need some way to propel Manta.

  As for her crew, she wouldn’t tell them where they were going until they were in the thick of it. If they didn’t like it, they could swim home. Her only goal was to rescue Edan from the sea witch. Once they were together, and she had a pyromage under her control, everything else would come easy.

  ≈

  “We’re comin’ up on her again, Captain,” Horace said, nodding forward. The transom of Peggy’s Dream was closer than it had been only a few minutes before. “Must be the firebug on duty again.”

  “Shorten sail, and try to keep in her wake,” Feldrin ordered, lifting his viewing glass to scan the deck of the larger schooner. “Aye, I see the little rat’s red mop on the foredeck. I hope Cynthia’s gettin’ some sleep this time.”

  It was easy to discern when Cynthia was controlling the winds; Edan had no control over the sea and couldn’t part the endless raft of seaweed that slowed Peggy’s Dream, so Orin’s Pride, unimpeded in the larger schooner’s wake, would slowly catch up. The mer, Feldrin knew, were trying to keep the worst of the floating vegetation from catching on the Dream’s bobstay chains, but they tired quickly. No wonder, since they had been swimming nonstop for almost eight days, albeit slowly for the last five. Cynthia and Edan had settled into somewhat of a rhythm: she would sleep for two hours, then part the raft of weeds for two hours while Edan continued to coax the winds along. Then Edan would sleep for four hours while Cynthia did both. Only two hours of sleep in every eight was leading Cynthia to utter exhaustion. It would not be long, Feldrin knew, until that exhaustion ended in collapse.

  He had tried to lure her over to the Pride again, planning to ensure that she at least ate and slept, but she had balked, arguing that he distracted her from her duties. He couldn’t disagree; distracting her had been his intent. Unfortunately, he had only pushed her away. The only time he saw her now was when he glimpsed her through his viewing glass.

  Mouse flew up to him, chittered, and handed over a scrap of paper, then hovered while Feldrin read it. It was a reply to the last note he had sent over, more than an hour ago. He frowned to see the spidery script—Cynthia must have written it with a trembling hand—but reading it brought a tight smile to his lips.

  “Good news?” Horace asked, his face a hopeful mask.

  “Aye, good enough. Her fish friends say the scent is strong and clear. We’re gettin’ close.”

  “About bloody time,” Horace replied scratching at his unshaven stubble. “We’re puttin’ a pinch on the water supply with this many people aboard, sir. We’re down by half already.”

  “Cut the rations by a cup per day. I’ll ask Cyn if she might conjure us a little rain. There’s no turnin’ back now.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Horace turned and strode away, while Feldrin sketched a quick reply and handed it back to Mouse. “Hand this to her only if she’s not sleepin’, ay Mouse? You understand?”

  The seasprite nodded, saluted and started to dart off, but stopped as Feldrin called him bac
k.

  “I got another job fer you, my little friend,” the Morrgrey said with a grin. “How high can you fly, and how far can you see? If you get high enough, you’ll be the first to see this floatin’ city. Look for a bit of cloud, like you see over an island, or maybe a reflection. Anything outa the ordinary. Got it?”

  Mouse chittered in agreement, his countenance brightening. Feldrin watched through his glass as the sprite flitted over to Peggy’s Dream, deposited his note, then soared aloft like a silvery arrow.

  Chapter 12

  Strategic Withdrawals

  Camilla stifled a cough as she followed Parek through the smoke-hazed halls of the keep. The fumes of a dozen bonfires wafted through the passages, heavy with the smells of burned wood, thatch and scorched flesh. She descended the stairs behind two pirates hauling a chest of her personal effects and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. Her knees threatened to buckle with every step, and she ached from a hundred bruises, scratches and abraisions—the tracks of Parek’s brutal lust, the price of the lives of the people she loved.

  Camilla stepped out of the keep into the dawn twilight and stopped short. The beach was littered with ash, refuse, bones and bits of rotten flesh, and her legs simply refused to take her any closer to the carnage that lay before her. That she knew what—no who—those bits of bone and meat had been in life, appalled her on a level that made Parek’s brutality pale by comparison.

  No more, she thought, clenching her jaw against the gorge that rose in her throat. No more.

  She tore her eyes from the horrific spectacle and looked toward the pier. The huge galleon had already pulled away, poorly tended sails flapping from her yards as her cannibal crew hauled inexpertly on lines and shouted at one another. Manta, her black sails trimmed smartly, was helping the galleon along, towing her via a bridle and long line that trailed from her twin transoms to the bow of the larger ship. The third ship, Cutthroat, sat low in the water beside the pier, her hold full of finery stolen from the keep, ready to leave…with Camilla aboard.

  A chill washed down Camilla’s spine. An unending hell awaited her if she stepped aboard that ship, an eternity of pain and brutality…forever Camilla the slave. She knew that it would only end when she took her own life, or put a dagger in Parek’s heart and fell to the unmerciful attentions of the pirate crew. There is a way out, she thought, but at such a risk! Her heart beat so hard it pained her, but she knew she only had two options: go with Parek, or save herself and put those she loved at risk. Parek was already at the pier, calling orders to the crew of the Cutthroat to stow the last of the loot and set sail. The two pirates with her chest were picking their way carefully through the shifting sand and refuse of the beach, laboring with their burden. None had noticed that she was no longer with them.

  Now, or never, she thought, and with a heart-breaking wrench of guilt, she made her decision.

  She turned on her heel and ran back into the keep, not looking back to see if anyone pursued her; she knew they would. Parek would come after her, but she didn’t have far to go to reach the only refuge available to her.

  On the far side of the foyer stood the door to the dungeons and Hydra’s old lair. When Cynthia took over the keep, she had locked and barred the door, and it hadn’t been opened since. The pirates knew what lay behind the door, and had no interest in breaking it down to look for additional spoils. There was only one key, and it had been in Cynthia’s desk until this morning when Camilla had pocketed it, unsure if she would have the courage or opportunity to use it. Now, she thrust the key into the lock with trembling hands and turned it.

  The lock clicked, but didn’t open.

  “No…” she muttered through clenched teeth. Distant shouts reached her ears. She pulled and tugged on the huge padlock, rusted closed by two years of salt air. When she glanced out the door, icy fingers gripped her heart; Parek was walking back toward the keep, his brow furrowed with suspicion. He was coming after her. “No, no, no…”

  Her fight with the lock became frantic. Finally she backed up and kicked it with all her might, slamming it into the iron-bound door.

  It fell open.

  Camilla pulled the lock off the hasp and dropped it, heaved up the wooden bar, and yanked at the door with all her strength. The rusty hinges squealed, but it opened. She glanced again, and Parek was only strides away, rage darkening his face.

  She slipped through the gap and hauled the door closed. Darkness enveloped her, leaving her utterly blind, but she knew this door well; she had passed through it hundreds of times at the end of Bloodwind’s tether. There was a bar on the inside as well; a disused mechanism to seal off the lower regions of the keep against assault. Her fingers found the bar and pulled it down. Its pivot was rusted, too, but the weight of her body and the strength of her panic brought it slamming down just as a hard blow struck the other side of the door.

  Parek.

  She leaned against the door and felt the tremors of his assault, heard his muffled curses through the rough wood. No more pain, no more submitting to his touch…no more Camilla the slave, no more Camilla the whore. Once again, she was free. Laughter bubbled up from her throat, and her knees failed. She slid to the floor, her back to the stout wooden door, and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was safe.

  ≈

  “Bloody lying bitch!” Parek shouted, hammering the door with his fists, pulling on the handle until the skin of his palm split. “When I’m done with you, you’ll regret the cannibals didn’t get you first! Open this gods-damned door!”

  “Sir?” one of his men said, his tone bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

  “That red-headed bitch has locked herself in!” He cast about for something, anything, to bash the door to splinters. “Find me a ram, and be quick about it!”

  “Aye, sir!” The man turned to dash away, but ran into Kori, the lookout.

  “Sir! We got trouble!”

  “What now?” Parek snapped.

  “Sails to the north, sir, and not just a few. They gotta be warships!”

  “Warships?” Parek stopped short. His hand slipped from the door handle, rage subdued by this more pressing threat. “How many, and how far?”

  “A whole damn fleet, Captain. More’n a dozen.” Kori’s eyes were wide, his breath coming in gasps. “I could just see ‘em with a glass from the mountaintop, sir. They’re still far enough that they can’t see us yet. We got maybe an hour ‘til they sight our tops’ls, another hour ‘til they’re here.”

  “By the hells!” Parek glared at the door and considered his prize behind it; a rare beauty, to be sure, but not worth risking capture. He shook his head. “No time, my dear,” he whispered, leaning close to the door. “No time to break down this door and give you what you deserve for lying to me, but I’ll thank you for the treasure, and leave you with a parting gift.”

  Parek threw down the bar, flipped the hasp closed and picked up the lock. The key was still in it. He put the lock through the hasp and closed it with a click, then pocketed the key.

  “Have fun in the dark, my sweet Camilla.” He rapped on the door with his knuckles, then turned away, grinning with the memory of their brief but rewarding time together. He’d never had a woman quite like her, and likely never would again, even with a king’s fortune at his disposal. But he’d take what he could get; if gold couldn’t buy quality, it could certainly buy quantity.

  “To the Cutthroat!” he ordered, and strode toward the doorway. “We’ve got to get around the southern point and up the windward side of the island before they spot our sails, or we’re done for, lads! We’ll never outrun ‘em, laden like we are. Make sail, and don’t spare the canvas!”

  Parek followed his men and leapt aboard Cutthroat. The ship, her foresail already aloft and billowing in the breeze, strained at the dock lines, and Pare
k ordered them cut. They made for the channel, piling on more canvas, and left the smoldering ruins of Scimitar Bay behind. Captain Parek glanced back once, and tipped his hat to the lady he had left in the dark.

  ≈

  Cynthia leaned against the foremast, staring into the distance through slitted eyes that saw nothing. Though her eyes were unfocused, the rest of her senses were keenly attuned: she felt the water around the ship as if it bathed her own skin, sensed the winds as if they were her own breath. She pushed the slick of seaweed away from the bow to ease their passage and urged the winds to fill the sails, propelling the ships ever forward. She felt the solidity of the mast against her stiff back, grateful for its sturdy support; she doubted she had the strength to stay upright without it.

  Beyond exhaustion, she kept herself going with blackbrew and sheer stubbornness, refusing to relent, refusing to sleep. Feldrin thought her determination was spurred only by love for their child and her resolve to get him back. To a certain degree that was true, but Cynthia knew that something darker drove her: guilt.

  This was all her fault.

  She had overlooked the true nature of the mer, had not seen Eelback’s subtle manipulation. She had never dreamed any mer would do what he had done: call the mer to war, sacrifice so many lives, lure her into a confrontation that she had promised them she would not back down from, all just to steal her child. She had let herself be blinded by the dream of peace, but the dream had ended up a nightmare that she relived every time she closed her eyes. Behind her lids loomed no sweet unconsciousness, but images of a blood-choked sea, slaughtered men, dying mer, the war she had vowed to prevent, and an innocent child in the cold clutches of traitors. So many lives had been sacrificed because of her own failure.