Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “Well, man,” the huge mate leered. “If ya’re to be one of us, let’s see how ya fare at tidying up a ship.”

  The gangplank touched the dock, and the corsair captain began to move toward the open way. In that moment a cold, chilling fear washed through Shanna, and her eyes turned a last desperate plea toward her only hope, Ruark. She saw him standing with several crewmen, and he made no move to come to her. His frown deepened even as she looked, but he seemed willing to surrender her to this pig of a pirate.

  “So much for his high ideals and wedding vows,” Shanna thought bitterly.

  His lack of action stung her to the quick. Their eyes met, and, threatened with a rush of moisture in her own, Shanna lifted her chin with a defiant gesture of dismissal. Then the leash tightened about her neck, and she was jerked stumbling along in Pellier’s wake.

  Shanna was paraded behind the pirate captains as part of the booty which was carted after her, the only exception being the large chest; it was left where it sat on the deck of the schooner. Her wrists were bound before her, and her long hair tumbled in wild disarray about her shoulders, half masking her face from the curious eyes of the waiting townspeople. The sting of ire she felt at being so crudely displayed was sharp, though it gave her cause to remember Ruark being hauled aboard the Marguerite in chains.

  Some of the strumpets poked grimy fingers at her and tugged cruelly at her golden hair. Shanna bristled angrily and snatched away, but this show of temper only aggravated their pestering. Viciously they began to pinch her limbs and buttocks, calling coarse insults, many of which Shanna could only just grasp the meaning of.

  By the time she emerged from the press of bodies and snatching hands, Shanna was much the worse for wear. Her appearance no longer bore any resemblance to a highborn lady. Her dressing gown was torn, the remains of a sleeve hung in shreds from her shoulder, and her bare feet were bruised by the pebbles and blistered by the hot sand. Still, she walked with the unbowed dignity of a Trahern and allowed wrath to mask her pain and trepidation.

  A sigh of relief almost escaped her when she was urged on no more. Wearily she lifted her gaze to the large, white-washed structure before her. A broad veranda stretched across the front, and a gaudy figurehead carved in the likeness of a heavy-bosomed mermaid hung from a post above their heads. The place was badly worn and shabby, in desperate need of repair, but Shanna had already guessed that most who lived here were hardly more than parasites doing as little as possible in the way of work and honest labor.

  Beneath the coyly smiling nymph, a monstrously huge man, every bit as tall as Pitney and half again as wide, called a greeting to the victors. His bald pate glistened with sweat above long sideburns which were braided into queues with bright ribbons adorning the ends of each.

  “So, ye scurvy swine!” his oddly tenor voice rang. “Ye’ve gone to Trahern’s isle like ye said ye would, and I see ye return whole.” He giggled in glee as he surveyed the crates and chests they unloaded onto the veranda. “And ye’ve even brought back some baggage.”

  A quick pull on her tether, and Shanna was yanked before the enormous man and there made to stand while he rudely evaluated her. She shivered in disgust as the man cupped her chin in a hamlike hand then turned her head from side to side, inspecting her much as one might a steed.

  “A pretty filly, to be sure, though Trahern left me little enough to appreciate her with. But why bring her here?” he questioned his cohorts.

  Pellier grinned slyly. “This is the plum of Trahern’s orchard, Mother, his own daughter. She’ll bring us all a fine lot of coins.”

  “Aye, if we live long enough to enjoy them,” Harripen snorted.

  “ ‘Tis impossible for him to get a big enough ship through the reefs without going aground. We’re safe enough here,” Pellier argued.

  The giant pursed his lips and let his gaze scan the horizon, seeming to grow nervous.

  “H’it’ll set Trahern on edge, to be sure,” he half mused in a worried tone. Then he gestured toward the prisoners who huddled behind Shanna and mumbled, “We may need extra hands if Trahern decides to make himself felt. Bring the wench inside, hearties, and we’ll have us a mug.”

  The sun rested on the horizon, and night would soon spread its velvet cloak of darkness over the island. As she was led inside Shanna threw a glance behind her, but she saw no sign of Ruark. Resentfully she wondered if he had already found some wench on the dock to fill his time.

  A short stairway led down to a tavern room where lanterns were lit to ward off the coming shroud of night. The large, flat stones beneath her feet were cool and a welcome relief from the burning sand. Pellier crossed the long, dark room, yanking her along with him, and he joined Mother at a long table. A fist crashing down on the wooden planks startled Shanna as their host bellowed for ale. Immediately two women appeared and from barrels lining the wall filled immense tankards. Harripen caressed the bovine breast of one and grinned into her face.

  “Carmelita, ye’re as pretty as ever, me lovely. Care for a toss?”

  A voice chortled loudly from the rear of the common room. “He bet on ya, Carmelita. And he’s trying to win the wager.”

  With a fling of her dark head and a wanton smile, Carmelita roughly pushed a mug into the Englishman’s groping hand, sloshing a share of the contents over his breeches.

  “That should cool yer loins ‘til me work is done, ye lusting rogue. I’ll bed whom I please, and ‘tis not likely to be you, you scrawny gander.”

  Loud guffaws sounded around the table until Harripen glared his fellows down. Eager to demonstrate his own prowess with women, Pellier threw an arm about Shanna’s waist and sought to snatch her to him for a quick kiss and a long-awaited fondle. In violent reflex Shanna swung out with her bound hands clenched into fists, intending only to hold the stinking, sweaty body away from her. The blow struck him just beneath the ribs. Startled and gasping for breath, the half-breed stumbled back. As he fought for balance, one foot waving precariously, Shanna saw her chance. She caught her toe behind his heel and kicked hard. Pellier spun about then dusted a full six feet of the floor as he slammed down upon it.

  The smaller of the serving women, a plain, drab thing with a listless manner, who had stepped near to fill Pellier’s tankard, gaped in horror. Shanna began to realize the danger of what she had done. The mirth of the corsairs shook the rafters, and it dawned on her that she had embarrassed Pellier before all the others—to her a well-deserved deed but one quite likely to bring her end.

  Harripen snickered. “Hey, Robby, get up. Ye’ll do no good down there alone. Ye forgot the wench.”

  The Frenchman’s dignity was sorely bruised, not to mention his backside where he had struck the floor. His eyes were shot with blood, his face scarlet with rage as he came to his feet, glowering at Shanna. The words sounded choked in his throat.

  “You high-flown bitch, I’ll teach you to be a proper doxy who’ll come when she’s called.”

  Savagely he snatched the leather thong, nearly jerking Shanna off her feet and raising a welt where the rawhide strip sawed at her throat. Half dragging her after him, he strode across the room until they reached a large, open hole in the floor. Pellier drew a blade from the top of his boot and to her amazement slashed her bonds, setting her free of both her collar and wristlets. Shanna frowned at him inquiringly, but smirking, he kicked a ladder into the hole and gestured for her to descend.

  “Unless of course you wish my assistance,” he sneered and reached for her, but Shanna avoided his grasp and obeyed. She climbed down into the dark, rank pit and then raised her gaze in wonder at what was expected of her. The ladder was pulled away, and she saw Pellier reach over into the shadows near the wall. A heavy, iron-barred grating crashed down to cover the hole. In some bewilderment Shanna glanced around her. A checkered pattern of light from above filtered down, and she realized she stood on the top of a pile of rubble beneath the opening. Did Pellier intend to frighten her with isolation and darkness? The idea was lu
dicrous, of course, when she was more terrified of his loathsome attentions.

  A skittering in the dark chilled Shanna’s confidence like a flood of icy water. A squeak near her pierced the quiet, and she glanced down as a large rat ran across her feet. Her shriek brought guffaws of glee from Pellier. Anxiously Shanna strained upward to reach the grating, but the pirate wheeled a weighty barrel onto the grill to preclude her moving it. A scurrying came behind her, and Shanna whirled to see several of the gray furry beasts crouching on the edge of the light. Their eyes gleamed oddly red and evilly bright as if they contemplated her end. Gasping, Shanna scrambled away from them further down the slope of the debris— from them.

  The odious stench of the pit choked her and brought her close to retching. Shanna could only guess what the pirates used it for. The small, red-eyed furries grew bolder. A half dozen or more now sat watching her, creeping nearer whenever she glanced away. Shanna retreated another step, and her foot went ankle deep in the slime. A rat scurried toward her, and, stifling a scream, Shanna kicked at it, sending it squeaking back to the pack. More rodents slithered from the darkness until their number had doubled. They began to move forward in a body. A shuddering sob escaped Shanna as she splashed backwards until she stood knee deep in the foul water. A sardonic laugh came from above, and a crust of bread and pieces of meat fell through the grating.

  “Here, milady,” Pellier’s voice mocked. “Here’s your supper!” He snickered wickedly. “That is, if you can save any from your greedy little friends. And here’s something to quench your thirst, milady.” His humor was high as he poured ale through the cover, drizzling it over the squeaking, fighting rats now tearing at the food he had tossed. “Don’t be lonesome for me. Your friends will keep you company ‘til I’m ready for you.”

  His footsteps faded from her small world, and Shanna, conscious of her own ravenous hunger, stared mutely at the greedy rodents. The droplets of moisture glittering as they fell made her throat dry. The fetid stink of offal caused her to cough. The rats, now searching eagerly for any last morsel, turned as one to stare at her. Something bumped her leg, and Shanna reached down, closing her hand over a piece of wood. It was firm and real, which little else around her seemed to be. Her hunger gnawed at her belly, her thirst burned in her throat, her fatigue eroded her will, her fear undermined her resolve.

  She was afraid she might dissolve to tears at any moment and plead to be taken from this pit of hell. Even as she faced the scurrying animals, she imagined she felt small, wiggling things between her toes or something slither now and then against her leg.

  The rats tested the edge of the water but were reluctant to enter. Then one bolder than the rest leaped in and began to swim towards her. Shanna stilled her quaking and waited tensely, raising the board. A moment more! With a sob she brought the wood down edgewise upon the furry thing, and after a brief, frenzied splashing, Shanna saw no more of it. Warily the others backed away to a safer distance to consider her, their red eyes twinkling as if they whispered among themselves and plotted against her.

  A violent shaking possessed Shanna, and even her defeat of the rat could not buoy her spirit. If only there were a spot, dry and safe, to which she could escape. The board sagged in her hands. The rats grew still and watched her with a malevolent alertness. She wanted to sob but knew what greater disaster awaited her if she weakened. She was so tired! So hungry! So thirsty! So faint!

  Evil eyes stared at her from the darkness, creeping closer.

  “Someone help me!” her mind screamed. “Anyone! Ruark!”

  Chapter 16

  OVER THE MATE’S SHOULDER Ruark had watched Pellier lead Shanna across the gangplank and down into the milling throng until she disappeared from his sight. Then he returned his attention to the four who crowded before him.

  “I have more important things to occupy me than sweeping any deck,” he stated bluntly.

  “Gor, love the likes of him,” the mate guffawed. “ ’E wants to start at the top, ’e does. Well, man,” the beady eyes narrowed, “to be a captain ya ‘as to ‘ave a ship and then ya ‘as to be the best man o’ the crew. Oi’ve little enough to recommend of ya. Ya’ve done naught but eat our food and drink our ale.”

  Slowly Ruark backed away until he felt the rail behind him. His foot struck a bucket of sand kept handy for small fires. His hand found a pinrail where the long, oaken belaying pins were stored. The pirates wore no pistols but, with obvious relish, fingered the hilts of the cutlasses thrust into their belts. Ruark could only surmise that Pellier had left orders that would negate the share of the loot which was promised him. A quick end, the half-breed no doubt expected, but this colonial had other plans.

  His eyes fell on the half-open door to the captain’s cabin, and Ruark remembered a stack of arms he had seen there when they had questioned him. Casually he leaned against the rail and stared back at the men. He had played much the part of a yearling calf with these men, hoping they might relax their vigil of him. He should have considered they were jackals and would readily devour the helpless.

  Ruark almost smiled. “Let’s see what the jackals will do when they face a man instead.”

  Seeing naught to be gained by waiting any longer, Ruark bent and with a swift movement hurled the bucket of sand into their faces, sharing it liberally with the four of them. As the men stumbled back, cursing and rubbing sand from their eyes, he quickly snatched a pin from the rack and laid it alongside the head of the nearest. He bent another over with a hard jab beneath the ribs and parried the wild swing of the mate who had freed his cutlass. Coming to blows with the sword, the belaying pin was nearly sheared in two. Its continuing service as a weapon was badly in doubt, and Ruark hurled it into the face of the fourth man, who ducked to avoid it and collided with the mate. His respite won, Ruark ran for the cabin and slammed the door behind him as several bodies thudded against it on the opposite side. He threw the bolt and spent the few moments he had gained in search of a weapon. He cast aside an ornate dress sword and laid his hand upon the worn hilt of a long, curved sabre. He drew the piece from its sheath, and the naked blade winked blue in the dim light as if sharing a pun with him. Though sturdy, its balance was such that it scarcely weighed anything in his grip.

  Stepping back to the door, Ruark timed the heavy blows that bowed its panels. Then, in the pause between, loosed the latch and waited. The door crashed open, and the weight of the men carried them forward headlong into the cabin. Ruark kicked the rear of the last one through, and the hapless man sailed heels over head into the sprawling cluster. The mate gained his feet and with a bellow of rage charged, lashing out with his cutlass. The heavy blade turned on the sabre’s edge and smashed into an iron-bound trunk. The long, curved sabre returned with the speed of a cobra to lay open the mate’s shoulder and the front of his jacket as he stumbled back.

  His arm hung useless, and the mate gaped down at his chest where a thin, red line began to ooze droplets of blood. The other men gathered behind their helpless leader as if his body would shield them from the weaving, threatening blade. One of them hesitantly raised his cutlass, and Ruark smashed it aside, running the sharp edge of his blade along the man’s forearm where it left a trail of red, welling from its path. The poor chap screamed as if his heart had been torn from him. This was no unarmed clod who would plead for mercy, as they had been told, but a live, fighting man determined not to yield his person without a struggle.

  The smallest of the four men decided bravery had had its day; running across the cabin, he hurled himself against the stern windows. Alas, the thick glass and heavy frames had been made to withstand the force of towering seas, and he recoiled onto the floor where he rolled moaning, bleeding from the head and holding his shoulder. Another had the foresight to free the latch and swing the panes outward before he took his leave. His success led his companions in his wake. The mate cleared the transom with an agility amazing for one of his years, and as Ruark neared him, the man on the floor saw the wisdom of a hasty retr
eat. He, too, cleared the transom and took to the water, striking out for shore with one arm thrashing the surface.

  Ruark leaned out the windows to assure their hasty departure and saw a long, dark shape pass under the stern of the ship. A tall fin cleaved the surface a moment later, and the bellow of the mate announced that he had also sighted the shark. As was befitting, he passed his men to lead them ashore, and soon they had all disappeared into the swamp, leaving only four wet trails across the beach to mark their passing.

  Ruark now surveyed the cabin with less urgency, though the need to follow after Shanna made him hasten his selections. He found a pair of fine pistols on the captain’s desk and checked the load and priming. He marveled at the snug way they tucked into his waistband. A broad brim, low-crowned hat of woven straw was made with a skill of workmanship that rivaled Trahern’s headgear. Its fit justified his confiscating it. He added a sleeveless leather jerkin and borrowed a clay pipe and pouch of tobacco from a shelf. The sheath from the sabre was hung on a sash over his shoulder, and, thus equipped, Ruark went out onto the deck and made his way along the jetty to the shore. He had not seen which way the captains and their party had passed but guessed the white structure, being the largest one about, would be their quarters.