by C. B. Ash
Captain Hunter heard a soft click to his right, followed by the muted sound of wood scraping across wood. He frowned and tensed. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?” The captain asked.
John Clark casually pulled a small satchel from a hidden compartment in the mermaid’s rear. He grinned at Hunter and patted the satchel before sliding the hidden compartment back into place. “Got it,” John whispered eagerly.
“Let’s hope no one notices that you’re leaving with a satchel you didn’t arrive with,” Hunter said sternly.
“… or heard the click of the latch when it opened, eh?” said a rough voice behind and to the left of Anthony.
Hunter eased up away from the wooden mermaid, turning around to come face-to-face with Peter Bauer! The former first mate of the Revenge was dressed in fresh clothes and a relatively clean brown wool coat. However, his face was a mask of bruises, and a welt on his cheekbone practically glowed where he had been burned by steam.
Hunter’s eyes narrowed as he saw two other men of rough complexion wearing wool coats and knit caps draw skinning knives before stepping up behind Clark. Black Jack started to turn, then stopped immediately when he saw the gleam of naked blades.
“Quite a busy day, ja? We were just here to sell some things when what do we see? The two of you,” Peter Bauer said in an ugly tone, his eyes shifting warily between the two captains, watching them like a snake observing two mice. A skinning knife hissed against its leather sheath while Bauer slowly pulled it free. He turned the blade over in his hands, giving Hunter a cold, superior look. “Now, mein Kapitän, I think we shall finish what we started aboard the Revenge, eh? I will have what is ours, and you will be dead.”
Chapter 28
Warm clouds of mist rolled up from the floor, drifting past the front door of the pub and in between Captain Anthony Hunter and Peter Bauer, the mutinous first mate of the Revenge. The captain’s eyes were locked with Bauer’s; Hunter’s look was like ice, Peter’s triumphant and mocking. The first mate held the knife low, out of sight of most anyone walking by, but well within the edge of the captain’s vision.
“We are wasting time, Kapitän,” Peter Bauer said, his voice dripping with a smug sneer, “we have a very tight schedule to keep, and you are interfering with it.”
“It’s a talent I have,” the captain replied with an even, almost casual smile. Inwardly, Hunter’s mind raced, looking for the smallest opportunity for escape as one of the Fomorians took his revolver.
Bauer nodded in a direction away from the pub, towards a dark side passage from the booths and bright activity. “That way, mein Kapitän. We would not want to make a mess of the floor plates, ja? Someone would have to clean it.”
The captain stepped aside, gesturing ahead of him, “after you, Sirrah.”
The former first mate quickly palmed his knife to hide it before anyone outside the small group noticed. Peter glared at Hunter. “Oh no, after you … I insist,” Bauer said, putting a cold emphasis on the final two words.
Anthony shrugged slightly then walked ahead. Behind him, one of Bauer’s accomplices yanked the satchel from Captain John Clark’s hands.
“Oi!” the captain exclaimed while he lunged desperately for the satchel and its valuable contents. Immediately, he was rewarded for his efforts with a punch to the stomach that ripped his breath away.
“Enough o’ that,” one of the thugs growled, quickly glancing around to see if anyone in the crowd noticed before pressing the hard steel knife against Clark’s stomach, “or I’ll gut ya here and now.”
“Piss off!” Clark spat back hoarsely between coughing fits.
The thug took Clark’s revolver then shoved John hard in Hunter’s direction. The scarred captain stumbled forward, but caught himself before he ran headlong into Anthony. Captain Hunter caught Clark by the arm, helping him upright.
“Making friends, I see?” Hunter quipped. “I’d be more choosy if I were you.”
“I’m thinkin’ he likes me,” John replied with a wheeze of air. “We might try havin’ high tea.”
“Remember to check for poison,” Hunter said with a smirk.
“Both of ya, shut it and move!” The Fomorian sailor snarled.
After a hard shove of encouragement, Clark and Hunter walked ahead of the Fomorians. The group slowly navigated the crowds quietly until John managed to close the small gap between himself and Hunter.
“Might could take Bauer, maybe one of his dogs, but the third would have me,” Clark whispered.
“Understood,” Hunter replied. Suddenly, he recognized a figure in the crowd: the man he had seen carrying the bolts of cloth earlier.
He was a large man, just a few inches over six feet, with a tumble of tawny-colored hair atop his round head. Thick shoulders stretched the blue cotton shirt worn under his stained shopkeeper’s apron. The man carefully navigated the crowd in their general direction while struggling to keep his bolts of cloth from falling.
Captain Hunter smirked, “I need a proper distraction.”
“Now that’s a task right up me river,” Captain Clark replied with a determined look.
Without any warning, Clark paused to allow a lady carrying an overloaded basket of fresh bread to pass, giving her a gracious smile. Behind him, Bauer rolled his eyes. Catching the look, John turned to face his former first mate, while Captain Hunter quietly stepped to one side.
“Doesn’t surprise me a mutineer like yourself can’t suss out the need for some manners,” John said sourly. “You got a snake’s chance in Ireland o’ gettin’ off Port Signal.”
“Be quiet,” Bauer replied, gesturing for Captain Clark to keep walking.
John, however, had no such inclination to cooperate. Instead, he remained where he was in the middle of the walkway. Folding his arms over his chest, his sour look now mixed with a scornful one. “Wilhelm’s sure to catch you at the Revenge before you cast off. He’ll get the Whirling Strumpet out an’ run you to ground. Which is more’n you bloody wankers deserve, eh?”
Peter Bauer glared back at his former captain, even the slightest pretense of civility gone from his demeanor. “I told Herr doctor you were a mistake! I warned him to let you to rot on that penal colony. Did he listen? Nein! You are an addled waste of a man. Once we kill you, it will be a pleasure to kill your wife and son. Three less mules to manage.”
Clark’s eyes turned murderously hard, “this mule’s got a kick!” In a flash, Black Jack’s right fist lashed out, hammering into Bauer’s face.
The German tried to block, but did not get his hands up in time. His head rocked back as Clark’s fist left a welt across the Fomorian’s right eye. Before Clark could swing again, however, Bauer grabbed the man by the collar and jerked him close.
“Oh, you’ll pay for that, grub,” the former first mate snarled.
While Captain Clark and Bauer argued, Captain Hunter edged a step closer into the path of the man with the cumbersome bolts of cloth. The shopkeeper adjusted the stack of cloth on his shoulders, then made to carefully sidestep the knot of men, which was a complicated goal considering he could not quite see where he was walking.
At the moment he took a step, Hunter turned abruptly into the shopkeeper’s path. With a cry of surprise, the man lost his grip on his burden, and bolts of Highland wool spilled out of his hands and into the midst of the group. Anthony tried to help, however the captain’s ‘help’ only succeeded in showering heavy bolts of cloth down upon their kidnappers.
“‘Ere now, what’s all this?” the shopkeeper’s booming voice echoed around the group as he saw one of the drawn knives. “thievery? In broad day?”
Several other patrons of the square stopped, and three well-meaning sailors stepped closer. The largest of these, a hard-eyed, dark-skinned Moor, dressed in a long wine-tinted coat and dark trousers, grabbed one of the Fomorians by an arm. His black eyes bored holes into the Fomorian sailor, “explain yourselves! And quickly!”
The Fomorians exchanged a glance, and Peter Ba
uer made to speak, but Captain Hunter cut him off.
“My apologies, Sirrah, there just is too much. Allow me to be brief,” Hunter replied, then spun sharply on his heel, hammering his clockwork left fist against Peter Bauer’s face!
The former first mate’s nose gave a sickening crunch as it flattened against his face at an odd angle. Bauer stumbled back as the newcomers around the group jumped, startled. In the center of the chaos, John also turned, slamming a fist into the face of another Fomorian, instantly splitting his lip. The last of their captors lunged with his knife, narrowly missing Captain Clark as he danced aside.
Even though the knife missed the intended target, it cut a neat hole in the sleeve of the Moor’s wine-colored long coat. The sailor spun around immediately, producing a savage looking knife that curved gently from the hilt to a needle-sharp tip. The mahogany grip practically gleamed the lurid color of dried blood in the light.
“I believe I understand all I need to!” the Moorish sailor growled before lunging at the closest Fomorian.
Quickly, Hunter stepped out of he fray, “Clark! Step lively!” Anthony called out before ducking into the crowd.
John slammed an uppercut into the midsection of the nearest Fomorian, doubling the thug over. The man gasped in pain, falling to his knees, his knife clattering to his feet followed by Captain Clark’s canvas satchel.
“Right behind you!” Clark replied, scooping up the satchel and racing after Hunter.
The two men dodged through the crowd, running towards a cluster of booths stacked with wooden crates which gently held small pyramids of fruit. At the first crate, the two captains paused. Clark pulled open the satchel to check its contents while Hunter glanced back the way they had come.
Behind them, Hunter watched as the Fomorians were making quick work of the newcomers that had tried to help Clark and Hunter. Peter Bauer was already glancing around in search of any clue as to the two captain’s whereabouts. Around the fight, the crowd was starting to thin as the bravest of their number were laying in a groaning heap on the floor.
“We can’t keep running,” Clark said slightly out of breath and looking around at the fruit seller’s shop, “the Square’s not all that large and the station’s only so large. They’ll eventually catch us in a corner.”
Captain Hunter watched as Bauer withdrew a small flask from a pocket, taking a short drink from it. Momentarily, Anthony was sure he saw Bauer’s face flush a deep red before the former first mate shuddered as if suddenly cold. Slowly, the bruising faded a shade from Bauer’s broken nose.
“That elixir also compounds the problem,” Anthony commented to his companion. “It’s the source of their abilities. Yet, they can’t fully use it here,” Captain Hunter glanced around at the nearby shops. “We can use that, provided we select the battleground. We need our surroundings working to our advantage, not theirs.”
John Clark frowned, “I see where you’re steerin’, but there’s not a place down here with enough stout bars to cage them monsters, especially when their drink’s on ‘em.”
Anthony smiled as through the crowd he saw a booth selling ‘rare antiquities’, among which was a collection of wine of some unknown vintage. Bottle upon fragile bottle was stacked neatly at the entrance. He glanced over at Clark, indicating the wine booth. “Then my good man, we use a gilded net to slow them down.”
Captain Clark’s eyes widened as understanding dawned upon him, “They call me balmy! Trap them in there? You’re as mad as a bag of ferrets if you think a bunch of old wine bottles will keep ‘em on their best behavior!”
Suddenly, a knife slammed into the wooden crate between the two captains. Both men jumped back from the weapon as it sat there, quivering from the force of the throw.
Chapter 29
The gleaming, thin blade quivered in the wood like an angry snake, mere inches from Captain Hunter's thigh. Two oranges tumbled off the pyramid of citrus in a race to the floor. Immediately beyond the fruit, the shopkeeper, a portly man with a normally jovial face, turned a sickly shade of white, staring in dread at the lethal weapon shivering ominously in his produce crate.
"Now isn't the time to discuss this, Clark! Move!" Captain Hunter exclaimed as he raced out of the booth with Clark close on his heels. A few seconds later, Peter Bauer and his two Fomorian companions tore through the booth after them.
Hunter and Clark dove into the crowd, quickly putting as many people between them and the Fomorians as possible. By the time the two captains had reached the antiquities merchant and surrounding booths, Bauer and the Fomorians had quickly lost sight of their quarry. Anthony shoved Clark, who was still complaining, into the merchant's booth and hauled him behind a large cask, supposedly containing a well-aged bourbon.
"This'll never work!" Clark exclaimed.
"It has to, if we've ever a chance to get clear." Hunter snapped back. "John, you wanted me to trust you before you hurled us both into the teeth of that propeller, and I did. This time, I need you to trust me. If this is to work, you must."
Clark frowned, staring at the floor, wrestling with his imagined horrors. After a moment, he met Hunter's gaze and nodded. "Fair enough. So, how do we cast this net of yours, eh?"
"We lure them in, then once caught inside the booth, one of us catches them from behind." Hunter explained quickly. "You have the satchel, so I'll get their attention. That will leave you a chance to work."
Black Jack considered that a moment, "as long as you keep 'em busy, I can catch 'em unawares."
Anthony eased out beside the cask, keeping to the shadows of the tent as best he could. Out in the crowd, the three Fomorians were clustered in a knot. None looked at all pleased. Bauer seemed the most incensed. After a brief discussion, the trio split up, with Peter Bauer stalking off through the crowd while the other two meandered in the direction of the tents concealing Clark and Hunter.
“They’ve divided up the search,” Hunter told Clark, “Bauer is off in the other direction, which just leaves the other two.”
Suddenly the shopkeeper, an older Charybdian dressed more as a gentleman of means in his Prince Albert suit than a simple shopkeeper hidden away in the underbelly of a relay station, walked around the side of the cask. His greenish, reptilian-scaled hair-tendrils were smoothed back, giving his face a more angular appearance. Reminds me of a shark, Hunter thought, stepping back in surprise.
"Might I be of assistance ... Gentlemen?" the antiquities merchant asked, his Portuguese accent held a note of suspicion.
Captain Hunter smiled pleasantly, "No need. Just browsing while waiting for someone, actually. Quite good of you to ask, though.”
“Yer not the help they’ll be needin’,” said a rough voice behind the shopkeeper. “Now go find somethin’ to peddle!”
Behind the Charybdian, the two Fomorian thugs slowly navigated the stacks of wine bottles and other exotic items, making their way towards Hunter and Clark. Quickly, Hunter stepped in their path, buying time for the shopkeeper to dart out of the way. Quietly, John ducked down and slipped around the far side of an enormous liquor cask.
“Had enough o’ you two,” the closer of the two Fomorian’s snarled, drawing a knife. “Should’a killed you when we had the chance.”
Captain Hunter braced himself for a fight, but held his ground, “in here? Really? As I understand it, your crew sells to the merchants here. How would they react to you devastating one of the booths?”
“We were told ta watch what we did here, Jessup,” the second Fomorian said.
Jessup, the Fomorian with the drawn knife, shrugged. “So we lose a few merchants. More spring up every day. The ‘Square is crawlin’ with ’em.” An ugly smile crept over his flat face, “besides, what’s a little blood, eh? Give the junk here … ‘character’.”
A hiss of metal against leather cut the air just before Clark popped up behind Jessup with a drawn Bowie knife. He pressed the sharpened blade against the side of the Fomorian’s neck. “Just what I was thinking!” John said wit
h an impish smile. “Now, drop the toothpick.”
Jessup hesitated a moment, then let the knife fall from his grip. It clattered to the metal floor with a sharp rattle. The instant the weapon struck the floor, Hunter rushed forward, taking weapons from both Fomorians and tossing them aside.
The captain then recovered his own pistol from the thug’s belt. “I’ll take that back, Sirrah,” he said.
Clark chuckled, “Well! It actually worked to catch ’em in here!”
Anthony smiled in reply to Black Jack’s comment, instinctively checking the ammunition in his Schofield. The captain hesitated as from the corner of his eye he saw something on a nearby table.
Laying on the table, draped in Highland wool, was a dirt-stained bag quite literally falling apart. Next to the bag was a pair of ancient leather-bound books and two leather tubes capped in a tarnished brass. The tubes were sealed with a small tarnished eagle, its wings spread above a series of Latin characters.
Captain Hunter frowned as a memory stirred. “The Roman legion's eagle standard. Angela’s message mentioned a ‘sealed Aquila’. I wonder if she meant: 'a seal styled as an Aquila'. Like one the Roman legion might have used?"
The sharp click of the cocking of a revolver’s hammer rang in the captain’s ears as loud as any cannon. Hunter spun around, raising his Schofield only to find himself staring down the barrel of the gleaming single-action pistol in Peter Bauer’s hand. People outside the tent screamed and shouted in alarm, running frantically away from the German. Inside the tent, the second Formorian quickly recovered his own sidearm from the floor and aimed it at Captain Clark.
Clark’s eyes darted between Peter Bauer and the Fomorian with the drawn pistol. He checked the grip on the knife held against Jessup’s neck. “It had worked,” he groused under his breath.
“Ah, mein Kapitän, I am not stupid. I know Market Square like the back of my hand,” Bauer said coldly with an evil smile. His eyes, still blackened from where Hunter had broken his nose, glittered like an excited snake. “I suspected you might be in one of these tents …with the other relics. Now, your weapon. Place it on the floor.”