Death Flag

  Madison tilted his head back as far as he could so that he was looking down his nose while looking up at the giant. It was fairly ridiculous considering how tall he was, but it gave Madison some small bit of leverage as he pretended to examine the half-naked warrior. “You’re looking for something,” he stated at last. “And, for some reason, you think it’s on this ship. You think Captain Janos has it, don’t you?”

  The man’s eyes widened slightly as he raised his eyebrows. “Well now, here’s a perceptive lad. And just where would it be? This thing that I’m looking for?”

  “Why don’t you just cut these ropes for me, and I’ll lead you straight to it,” Madison offered. He tugged at the ropes that bound him to the railing as if trying to offer them up. “Of course, your men will have to get that door open first. But that shouldn’t be a big deal, right? I’d say it’s just a matter of time at this point.”

  “I have a better idea,” the man began calmly. He dropped his heavy blade down until it rested flat against Madison’s shoulder, and then slid it forward until the sharp edge was pressed up against Madison’s throat. It prickled and stung like being cut shaving, and Madison refused to think about what came next. “How about you tell me what I want to know, and I don’t kill you right away.”

  Madison resisted the urge to swallow for fear of what would happen if he pressed against the blade too forcefully.

  “No, no,” the giant said, leaning in close. “I have an even better idea. Let’s see if you’re willing to let our friend Haron here die before you talk. You see, I know you’re not like this other lot. There’s something about you that’s different than all the rest. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I feel something like a kindred spirit in you. My man here tells me that you were from down below, guarding what’s hidden in the bowels of this ship. So, let’s just see how long it takes before you talk.”

  “No!” Haron screamed as three men cut his ropes and pulled him away from the railing. “You can’t do this! Screw you, Fane! Screw you!” he screamed, kicking and twisting back and forth as he tried to break free of his captors. “You can’t do this! This was my last run! It was supposed to be a simple escort! Move some people, move some cargo, go home rich and happy! This was the big set up for my retirement! I was getting out of this business!” There was a brief moment where Madison thought he was going to be successful in his escape attempts, but then one of the men punched him across the jaw with a strong right hook. Haron’s screams were cut off as a ball of dirty rags was stuffed into his mouth, and he was tied up against the mast. His shirt was stripped away last, leaving his naked flesh exposed to the air.

  “Last chance,” Garin warned, unwinding a long bullwhip that had been handed to him by one of his men and looking pointedly right at Madison. One of the men twisted Madison’s head around so that he was looking right at Garin and unable to ignore the giant. When Madison didn’t respond, he flicked the whip, cracking it against Haron’s back. The sailor struggled against his restraints, tensing up as the whip bit into his flesh. The giant looked over at Madison, gauging his reaction, and then impassively snapped the whip a second time and then a third.

  Madison watched with a combination of horror and revulsion. Garin Fane showed absolutely no emotion. It was like he was just going through the motions during another day at work. His voice was oily and rich, and Madison had known at once that he was a practiced liar. Based on what he had seen before, he had also known that he was capable of inflicting brutal, deadly wounds as well. But this . . . this was torture, plain and simple. To make things worse, it was to someone whom he knew—someone whom he had served with. This was ruthless cruelty in its purest form, and it was on the border of what Madison was able to handle.

  “I already told you,” Madison began as Garin pulled back the whip for the fourth strike, his voice rising in timbre. “Just cut these ropes, and I’ll lead you right there!”

  “Fool!” a man shouted from beside him, and Madison felt his chest explode with pain as a man kicked him in the ribs. He sucked in a deep breath just in time to have it expelled from his body as the man landed another kick. “Do not lie to us, coward!” The man reached down and slapped Madison across the face with an open hand for emphasis. “You see what’s being done to your friend? If we don’t get what we want, you are next. You understand, coward?” He slapped Madison across the face again and then picked his head up once more, forcing him to watch.

  The fourth strike never came. A loud groan emanated from the bowels of the ship, stopping Garin mid-swing. “What was that?” he barked, his voice dulling and losing some of its sweetness.

  The men stopped pounding against the door with their axes, and everyone strained to listen. The groan came again, and this time it sounded like it was accompanied by the sound of wood twisting and breaking. Madison felt the ship lurch violently underneath his knees as if it had been jerked forward and then fell still.

  Garin glanced around, jerking his head from side to side. “Where are we?” he demanded. “How far off course did we get blown?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the sailor guarding him responded, panic laced through his voice. “We can’t have drifted—”

  He was choked off as the ship lurched forward violently again, stuttering forward in the water several times before falling still and then lurching forward again for the third time. There was a moment of pregnant silence as everyone waited expectantly, and then the entire back half of the ship exploded. Bits of wood and debris were thrown up into the night sky, raining down a shower of splinters and wood onto everyone waiting on the deck. Long, slimy tentacles wormed their way out of the massive hole that had been blown into the quarterdeck, waving about threateningly in the air. Two unfortunate men were grabbed instantly and jerked into the sky, where they died screaming loudly as the creature squeezed them to death.

  “It’s the magic!” Garin shouted, pointing to the glowing orb in the sky. “The magic is drawing it to us!” He charged forward, drawing his sword once again. “Line!” he shouted. “Form a line and get that door open! Now! And cancel that spell before I kill you for casting it!”

  Men rushed to obey his commands, but there was little that they could do at this point. Madison watched in shocked fascination as the sailors struggled to form a coherent line and keep working at the same time. Some seemed to be confused about how to do both, and instead, they stood staring without doing either. Those who ventured too close were instantly grabbed up and flung about by those long, grasping tentacles.

  Whatever treasure they hoped to get to behind that locked door is gone. The only thing below the deck now is that . . . thing.

  “Come on,” a voice snarled, and he felt a hand grab him by the back of the neck. He heard the sound of metal hitting wood as the ropes binding him were cut, and he was roughly hauled to his feet. “You’re the last clue we have. There’s no way you’re going down with this ship.”

  The man shoved him forward, intent on somehow marching him to the other ship, but Madison wasn’t having it. As soon as he was free and on his feet, Madison threw himself forward and back to the deck. The man’s fingers dug into Madison’s neck as he tried to maintain his grip, but it was no use. Madison broke free and rolled to the side, instantly scrambling across the corpse-littered deck and then pushing himself up onto his feet. He heard someone roar behind him in anger, but he didn’t spare a last look over his shoulder before vaulting over the port railing.

  He hit the water hard, plunging beneath the waves, and he started kicking almost instantly. The freezing water pressed in around him, threatening to suck the air right out of his lungs, and he had to stop himself from gasping in shock. The salt stung his eyes as he opened them and looked about to get his bearings, and then he started swimming away from the ship for everything he was worth. The water was pitch black underneath, but a red-hued sky above the surface told him everything he needed to know about which way not to go. All he had to go on were the last words of a dying man for direction
s, but it would have to be enough. If he stayed where he was on that ship, he was a dead man for certain. At least he had a chance at sea.

  He broke the surface when he couldn’t stand it any longer and sucked in a huge breath of air, feeling it fill his burning lungs. He heard something hit the water hard behind him, and he looked back just in time to see a massive tentacle rise into the air after having slapped the water. The eerie, glowing orb suddenly disappeared out of the night sky, plunging everything into darkness. He heard screams of the men on the ship as they fought and died, but he pushed them out of his mind and tried to focus on the pounding of his heart and his ragged breathing as he tried to swim away. Still, their voices echoed out across the water, and they followed him through the dark ocean.

  He had no way of keeping track of how far he swam. Any sense of direction he might have had disappeared along with the glowing red orb the moment it faded from the sky. The screams eventually stopped—or, at least, he couldn’t hear them any longer, and no tentacled monster threatened to drag him down into the murky depths of the ocean. He tried treading water when he got tired of swimming, but that seemed to be even more exhausting, so he settled on alternating between each in short bursts. His biggest fear wasn’t exhaustion at this point, although he was long overdue for a rest. He wasn’t up to par with an Olympic swimmer, but he was certain that he could keep going as long as the alternative was an endless slumber. Instead, his primary concern was slowing down and succumbing to the frigid water and drowning.

  As if by some small miracle, something bumped up against him. Scared to death of what it might be, he instantly jerked around and flailed about, his hand striking against something hard. Realizing what it was, he gratefully grabbed ahold of the driftwood and hauled his upper half out of the water. The round log was about ten feet long, about two feet thick, and must have broken off from the ship’s mast early on during the battle. Madison straddled the log and lay down face-first, hugging it to his chest. The sharp air and icy water stung as it beat against his exposed skin, reminding him that his saving grace might end up being a death sentence if he stayed still for too long. He heaved in several deep breaths, appreciative for the chance to rest but shivering against the cold and did his best to find what rest he could.

  Seems to be floating in the right direction, but what do I know? I guess my best bet is to just hang on. I just need to wait it out and hope for the best, right? I need to find a way to keep moving, or I’m going to freeze.

  Lightning crackled across the sky in the distance, and he groaned to himself as he felt the wind start to pick up, blowing against his already-sensitive, freezing skin.

  CHAPTER 3

  Madison groaned and shifted against the sand, restlessly digging his heels in to make sure that he hadn’t slid down into the surf during the rising tide. His muscles were tired and stiff and sore, and they protested even that small movement. His entire body felt like it had been used as a punching bag, and he was exhausted in a way that he had never known before. He had run a 5k race a year ago during July, and then he had been called into work that night. He had ended up working for a solid eighteen hours that day after running a marathon, and he still hadn’t been this exhausted when he was finished. He had at least been able to walk home afterward. Now, he felt like he just wanted to curl up and sleep until everything went away.

  The sun beat down on him, offering a small bit of warmth, but it wasn’t nearly enough to chase away the cold that had sunk into his bones. He had spent the last few hours of the night at sea, riding out the storm on a piece of wreckage as the massive waves crashed down around him. He had clung to the shattered mast with all of his strength, wrapping both his arms and legs around it and hoping that it didn’t roll over in the water, forcing him under. He had been contemplating lashing himself to it at one point, but the only bits of rope clinging to the broken timber were far too short and frayed to make use of, and his aforementioned fear stopped him from trying outright. The thick black clouds had blanketed the horizon with their voluminous, rolling masses, so he had no idea when the sun actually came up, and it wasn’t until the storm finally passed on and the clouds parted that he realized that it was already midmorning. He had been at the point of passing out by then. His eyes were red and irritated from the salt spray, his body was beaten, and his soaked clothes clung to him like a stiff and rough outer layer of skin. He must have actually passed out at some point after that because he only barely remembered crawling up onto the shoreline, pointing his head away from the water, and passing out.

  He shifted again and forced himself to roll over despite his protesting muscles. The sun was still high in the sky, though it was well past midday and into the late afternoon, and he knew that he had to get moving before nightfall. The only problem was that he had absolutely no clue where he was supposed to go. He had no idea where he was, how he had gotten there, or how he had even managed to survive. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had been cursed by some witch and flung into what was apparently an alternate time or reality, he would have considered himself fortunate. After all, he had somehow managed to survive the slaughter fest onboard that ship and then rode out a raging storm on a log at sea.

  Thinking back, there were just too many things that already didn’t make sense, and he was beginning to doubt his memory of the details of certain others. Not even half of a day had passed, and he was already starting to question whether or not many of the things he had seen had been what he thought they were at the time.

  He was certain that he had somehow ended up on small, sea-worthy vessel that was in the middle of the ocean. He was also certain of the fact that his timing couldn’t have been worse. The ship’s deck had been littered with corpses, and he had survived by scurrying around like a frightened rat running from an angry cat. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure of anything. He knew he had seen a monster at work—a terrifying and barbaric, larger-than-life brute who had pushed the boundaries of his imagination with his cruelty and strength. But he had trouble swallowing that there was someone could be so savage as to lash a man to a mast—a man he had known—and then beat him to get information from someone else. Worst of all, the man called Garin hadn’t even been fazed by it. He had been as removed and impartial to the entire fiasco as a man making a sandwich was over the plight of the cheese.

  Then there was the glowing orb that had served as illumination for the entire fiasco. It had hung suspended in the air like a midday sun at night, bathing everything in an orangish-red tint that might as well have been straight from the pits of hell. There was also that creature, whatever it was, that attacked the ship. Garin and his men seemed to recognize it. It was almost as if they had known that it might show up, and Garin had said that it was attracted to . . . magic. They said that it was attracted to the magic. He twisted the word around in his mouth and tried to come up with anything that sounded remotely like it. ‘Tragic’ was about as close as he could get, and he would have chuckled at the irony if he wasn’t so tired.

  He sheltered his eyes from the sun in the crook of his arm and slowly opened them so that he wouldn’t be blinded by the glare cast off of the ocean. When he was satisfied that he wasn’t going to hurt himself, he sat up and cracked his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that there was something stuck to the back of his arm. He had just thought that the light was playing tricks on him before when it was draped over his eyes protectively, but he realized now that it was actually something different. He rubbed at it with his opposite hand absentmindedly and looked around.

  The beach itself was rather narrow and sloped, and it was little more than a jetty of sand at the bottom of a steep cliff. The sands were extraordinarily white, reminding him of the beaches he had seen on the Gulf coast during a vacation one summer, and they were littered with pieces of wreckage and debris. Some pieces were old, having clearly drifted at sea for ages and before sitting in the sun and bleaching, but others were still fresh, most likely from last
night’s events.

  Glancing down at his arm again, he realized that whatever was stuck there wasn’t coming off. Then it hit him: it wasn’t something stuck to him, it was something marked on him. There on the back of his arm, On the back of his arm, where his forearm met his wrist, was a tattoo of a large human-shaped skull with fangs. It was colored with deep, dark purples and black inks, and it stood out against his skin like a sore thumb. Madison just stared down at it in disbelief trying to figure out when and where he might have picked up a tattoo. He knew that fresh tattoos should be red, raw, and sore, but this one was fully healed and looked like it had been there for a while. Out of everything that had happened, this is the last thing he ever would have expected. The shock started to wear off, and he realized that he had more pressing concerns at the moment than trying to piece together what amounted to a night out drinking that he didn’t even remember starting.

  He gazed off down the shoreline in both directions and tried to figure out which way would be most likely to offer the best chance for making it inland and off the beach. When he failed to discern any actual difference, he pushed himself to his feet with a heavy sigh and started trudging through the sand. He picked up an empty glass bottle he came across just in case he happened to find any fresh water, and he realized that he was already subconsciously planning ahead as he made his way down the beach. Like everyone else, he had been fascinated with survivalist shows on television for a while. Unfortunately, other than being amazed by the outrageous facts that you could crawl into an animal carcass and survive a night in the cold or that you could drink your own urine to stay hydrated a little longer, he remembered very little other than that he needed to find water, shelter, and food. He stopped at the first bits of recent debris he came to and picked through them for a bit, rummaging around as he looked for anything that might save him later on. He collected a few different pieces of rope, all of varying lengths, thinking that they’d be useful if he had to build a shelter or carry something, but for the most part, he didn’t find anything that might actually be helpful.