Belle and the Pirate

by Vivienne Savage

  Sorcha placed her hand over her husband’s mouth before he could utter a complaint. “That’s more than understandable,” she said. “Is there anything else we can do to help you with your trip? Maybe go halfway with you?”

  “No. I need to do this alone.”

  “Then we’ll see you off with all our love and support. Won’t we, Conall?”

  “I think—” Sorcha elbowed her husband. Appearing grumpier by the moment, the wolf scowled in return before murmuring, “Aye, we will. Whatever you need for your wee journey, you’re welcome to have, Tink.”

  * * *

  The journey south through Cairn Ocland passed as swiftly as a pleasant breeze. Maeval’s defeat had returned safety to the kingdom, restored green to the land, and obliterated the remaining Scourge. If any of the wicked fairy queen’s abominations had survived, they didn’t dare to show their malformed faces.

  Tink made good time, crossing to the southern reaches of the kingdom in less than a week by resting only at night. She usually slept in the trees or curled up in a flower, but twice she ventured into a home and received warm welcomes from its inhabitants.

  Thick, ancient forests grew on the border of Cairn Ocland and their southern neighbor, Liang. Tink lingered at the tree line and peered into the thick growth. Vines clung to the trees and draped to the leaf-strewn ground. Little light penetrated through the branches, creating a sinister air.

  During Maeval’s reign, poachers and thieves from Liang capitalized on Cairn Ocland’s weakness and began prowling the woods in search of rare ingredients for their alchemical concoctions. They also liked to capture woodkin, as well as any other magical creature they could get their thieving hands on.

  Not me, Tink thought, confidence bolstered by the peaceful atmosphere. She hadn’t encountered anyone with nefarious intentions since her departure from Braeloch.

  Zipping to a low branch dangling above the ground, she settled on a stem weighed down by a scarlet rose hip. She loved the little pods most of all, being the sweetest before they ripened and turned orange. As she sated her hunger with the delicious treat, she eyed her surroundings and noticed a golden glint amidst the foliage to her left.

  Skeptical of it, she surrendered to her natural curiosity and flitted down to investigate, only to catch her mistake at the last second. Trap. It had to be a trap. She’d heard rumors from the other woodkin that Liangese trappers placed fairy mirrors in the bushes to lure their kind.

  “Ha!” she cried out gleefully as she zipped away. “I’m on to your sinister plans. You can’t fool—oof!”

  A cage dropped from above her, slamming down to the ground with a sharp crack. Tink picked herself up from the metal floor and glanced around dizzily. Once her eyes focused again, she realized she was trapped, caught in a cage no larger than a breadbox, with fine wire mesh stretched between the bars. She flew at the door and slammed against it, but it wouldn’t budge, and a bell tinkled somewhere above her. Each time she tried to shake the bars or pound the door, the alarm sounded.

  Footsteps crunched over the ground.

  “Ah, look what we have here,” a gruff voice said.

  Like the rest of fairykind, Tink understood and spoke all languages. Liangese was among the ugliest, full of harsh, guttural consonants and shrill vowels.

  “Another sprite,” a second voice said. “We have half a dozen already at the market.”

  “Yes, but I have a buyer in search of one. This little bit will do.”

  The cage jostling as it was picked up allowed Tink a closer look at her captors. Both men wore shades of black and dark green to blend in with their surroundings. Their brown hair was cut short, cropped close to their scalps, and their faces were smeared with dirt.

  “Yes, we have just the place for you,” the first man said. He put his face close to the bars and laughed when Tink charged at him. She struck the mesh and bounced off. “Spirited, this one.”

  The second man huffed. “Let’s be gone then, before their patrols find us. I hate venturing this close to the border.”

  “Help!” Tink cried. If they were worried about patrols, perhaps someone would hear her and race to her rescue. “Help!”

  “Silence the pest before its tinkling brings the shifters down on us.”

  A fine mist filled the cage, bringing with it the overwhelming scent of poppy. Tink pressed herself against the mesh and tried to gasp fresh air from beyond her prison, but the poachers spritzed her face. Dizzy, she stumbled back and dropped to her knees on the floor. No matter how hard she tried to resist, her eyelids grew increasingly heavy.

  The blurring world around the small sprite swirled with dim colors as darkness overtook her.

  Chapter

  HEAVY FOG SHROUDED the sea, enveloping the Jolly Roger in a white blanket. James stood on the forecastle with his eyes closed and his face turned into the misty breeze. This early in the morning, with most of his crew below deck, the only sound that reached his ears was the quiet lap of water against the hull.

  Peace. A quiet moment before the inevitable hustle of the day.

  “We should come upon our prey within the hour, James,” Nigel said from behind him, his low voice shattering the serenity.

  James opened his eyes and turned to face his first mate.

  “Good. Rouse the men, make sure everyone is ready. If those route schedules we intercepted were correct, this will be the largest haul we’ve captured. The Golden Goose is rumored to be the most prosperous of all their merchant ships, which means there will be a bounty in slaves as well as treasure. Be sure Smee is ready for any children we might bring on board.”

  “The berths have been readied, but I’ll double check with him.”

  “Excellent. Let the hunt begin.”

  James took one final deep breath before abandoning the forecastle and crossing the main deck to the helm. Within minutes of receiving his command, men and women arrived to take positions throughout the deck.

  A young man moved up the steps and approached James at the helm. A leather thong bound his long, golden brown hair back from his slim face. “I couldn’t have called a better fog myself. They’ll never see us coming.”

  “So long as you can clear it if we have the need,” James said. Little Wolf had joined his crew only five years ago and quickly become an invaluable addition. His ability to shape and control the weather with magic kept their pirate vessel ahead of patrolling ships from Eisland and the Ridaeron Dynasty.

  The boy’s older sister had promised to skin James alive if harm came to Little Wolf while aboard the Jolly Roger. If any woman could follow through on such a threat, it was Tiger Lily, their tribe’s courageous chief and leader. Lucky for him, Little Wolf was more than capable of defending himself.

  The ship’s combat mage joined them next. Callum was the oldest crewmember on board, at the battle-hardened age of sixty-two. Strands of silver glinted in his auburn hair, though his beard was untouched by age, remaining the same bright copper it had been the first day James met him sixteen years before.

  As the thinning fog revealed their prey ahead, the galleon moved effortlessly through the water, white sails taut and billowed outward with the wind. James grinned.

  “Be ready, Little Wolf. If they’re unable to maneuver to engage us, we’ll be spared any cannon fire.”

  As Little Wolf’s magic manifested, the wind current dwindled first to a tender caress then nothing at all, its absence causing the Golden Goose’s sails to slacken. From their hiding spot in the mist, James watched as their quarry’s sailors scrambled around the deck, but it was too late. The majestic vessel slowed to a complete stop and wouldn’t budge despite their efforts.

  “Nigel, bring us in closer. Let’s give them a true reason to panic. Callum, prepare yourself in the event that our friends are equipped with a mage of their own.”

  The older man sneered. “They’re Ridaeron. What mages?”

  For some reason, the people of the Ridaeron Dynasty lacked the aptitude for learning magi
c. James found it a curious phenomenon that affected their entire kingdom, reaching out like magic-negating tendrils to anyone who dwelled on their nation’s shores.

  “Ah. But let’s not underestimate our foe. They’re not fools.”

  “You think they’ve hired mercenary assistance?”

  “I don’t discount the possibility,” James replied. “Place a wall before a man, and he’ll find a way to tunnel below it. You know that as well as I do, old friend.”

  While they approached the Goose from the rear, avoiding potential cannon fire, a scarlet glow flared from the taffrail of the ship’s stern and hurtled toward the Jolly Roger. James stared at the fireball sailing across the distance, and then he turned his head to raise both brows at Callum. “You were saying?”

  Callum chuckled. “Just watch.”

  Distance dampened most of the power from the fireball as it splashed into the ocean, sizzling and sending up boiling water and steam.

  “How did you know it wouldn’t reach us?”

  “The fact of the matter is that no slaver could ever capture any wizard worth his bloody salt, and a jinn couldn’t cause harm under direction of a wish. That fireball was launched from a child. Probably a Samaharan half-breed and unable to control their spells. We have nothing to worry about.”

  “And the child?”

  Callum’s amusement faded. “A good thing we’ll be freeing the poor tyke.”

  On the typical boarding, James stayed behind on the ship, but he had a score to settle with the captain of the Golden Goose. A somber mood fell over him, the moment bittersweet after years of searching for his prey. He’d wanted to dispense justice to Captain el’Vartellan for years, but the elusive slaver had always wiggled free of the Jolly Roger’s grasp.

  Not today.

  Due to sails augmented by magic and their weather mage stirring the wind to their flavor, the Jolly Roger flew on a perfect course to intercept their quarry. Her enchanted sails billowed out and magical glimmers danced around the rigging.

  “Cannons, men!” he cried, thrusting his hook in the air.

  Suspecting the Golden Goose to be ferrying slaves to Eisland, they’d loaded the cannons with small shot and lead pellets in advance. The pellets wouldn’t sink the ship, but they’d introduce their opponents to a world of well-deserved pain.

  A chain of explosions boomed, men screamed aboard the deck of the Golden Goose, and then grappling hooks flew.

  “Cut the ropes, you imbeciles!” the shrill voice of Captain el’Vartellan cried from the Golden Goose’s quarterdeck. “Archers, take aim!”

  “Sharp shooters, defend!” came Nigel’s responding order. Under his command, a half-dozen pirates charged forward with their pistols and fired, warding off any sailors bold enough to obey their captain. As the panicked sailors dove for cover, James prepared to join the Jolly Roger’s boarding party. While he missed having both hands—one to hold his gun and one to swing with his cutlass—he’d decided to save the former for one man in particular.

  The action moved fast, grapplers tugging both boats closely together while the initial boarders swung over on ropes from the mast. These men were the most important, tasked with disabling any defensive measures deployed by their prey, such as razor wire and nets. They’d honed the process over the years, fulfilling their duties under fire by slicing cables with magically enhanced, sharpened steel.

  Fatima, a young swordswoman from the deserts of Samahara, had joined the crew only four months prior as their newest addition, but she’d quickly earned her place among the men who led the charge. Wielding a scimitar in each hand, she dashed across the planks and into the fray before their opponents could prepare to ward off her advance. Afterward, the rest of the crew surged over.

  While their whirlwind of steel cut her swath through the initial defenders, James stepped aboard the ship. At last, it was a day long coming, the most prosperous smuggler of human cargo from the Ridaeron Dynasty would finally meet his end. James parried a sword strike with his hook, Ridaeron steel singing against enchanted metal. Then he ran the man through, kicked him off the blade, and made his way across the deck.

  Captain el’Vartellan had disappeared during the commotion, although James suspected the coward to be hiding while the rest of his crew defended him from danger. Such was the Ridaeron way, a kingdom of cheats and bastards without morals.

  Much like the kingdom James had left behind, his love for Eisland waning over the years as tales reached him of the crown’s increasingly classless behavior. Apparently Eisland had fallen so low in regard since his desertion, the parents of Creag Morden’s esteemed royal family had married their daughters to beastmen nobles in Cairn Ocland.

  He would have loved to hear that story in its entirety, but had few ties to either kingdom.

  Another sword whistled through the air to James’s left. He spun to the side, raised his right arm, and deflected it. As the hook slid over the blade’s edge, he caught the hilt and yanked it from his attacker’s grip.

  “Run, Cap’n!” Captain el’Vartellan’s would-be savior cried out for him to flee and save himself while his crew perished at the hands of the invaders.

  The blood thundered in James’s ears, and fury pulsed through his veins. No leader should ever abandon his men. No captain should ever be among the first to flee a ship. His gaze darted toward the rail where he saw a small group of sailors prepared to protect their gutless captain with their lives. They’d already drawn in one of their longboats for their esteemed leader to flee, and two were tossing in treasure.

  Ridaeron longboats appeared to be a fraction of the size preferred by their Eislander allies. While the men had chosen their fates, el’Vartellan didn’t deserve their loyalty. Without a doubt, any sailor aboard the Jolly Roger would do the same for James at the drop of a hat, but a vast distinction separated the two captains—James would never allow one of them to die for him. Ever. He’d made the decision long ago to be the last man to go down with the ship if it meant all others could escape harm before him.

  With the boarding party from the Jolly Roger occupying most of the defending sailors, James found his route to the rail unimpeded. A magical shimmer wavered in the air around the small boat, the telltale sign of magical enchantments designed to cloak a stealth vessel. Ridaeron had acquired the designs from Eisland, where every naval ship was outfitted with a similar contraption intended for the senior crew and officers to escape.

  One of the three men whirled toward James with his sword drawn. No matter the desperation fueling el’Vartellan’s guards, the day had come for him to fall. James forced the fury to subside and led with his sword, fending off two assailants with the grace of a dancer. The frenetic pace of the battle rose to a feverish pitch, and then he snuck by one sailor’s defenses with a finishing stroke to the chest. Blood splattered across the deck as the man fell, only for another to take his place. James struck with his hook, slashing another across the throat until no one stood between him and his prey.

  “There’s no one else here to defend you.” James flicked the blood from his cutlass and grinned. “It appears that the rest of your crew is quite occupied, my friend. Now draw your sword. I won’t kill an unarmed man.”

  “What do you hope to gain by doing this, Hook?” El’Vartellan drew his blade and held it in a trembling hand. “What’s the endgame? Are you so arrogant as to believe you can end slavery?”

  “I may be but one voice, but I’ll certainly be the loudest.”

  “This is bigger than you, bigger than me and this galley of animals. There’s no one in the belly of this ship but Ridaeron trash, son. These are the worst our society has to give. They’re our peasants who turned to criminal acts. The lowborn and poorly bred. The sons of thieves and beggars. They’ll never amount to anything, and your kingdom does them a generous favor by granting them homes and honest work.”

  “Homes tempered by bondage,” James spat.

  El’Vartellan chuckled darkly and removed a small vial from his c
oat pocket. He flicked the lid from it with his thumb and tossed its contents into his mouth. He grimaced, but then his shaking hand grew steady.

  Liang’s reputation for creating alchemical concoctions had earned them the Ridaeron Dynasty’s favor when it came to recreational tonics and other brews. Nobles had become their best customers, exhibiting a ravenous hunger for the ivory milk harvested from Liang’s poppy flowers. When infused with other alchemical reagents, a potent elixir was made.

  “Unable to fight without a taste of your poison?” James asked.

  “I don’t need poppy milk to send you to Triton, Hook.”

  They both went for each other at once, clashing swords joining the cacophonous ringing of metal against metal. James ducked beneath another swing then parried and struck, drawing first blood as waves crashed against the ship and sent cool mist washing over their perspiring faces.

  El’Vartellan stumbled back and raised one hand to the bloodied slash across his chest, features contorted into a mask of hate. Once their blades crossed again, the Ridaeron threw James back and sent him stumbling three paces. Drugs infused the slave trader with unnatural vitality unlike anything James had ever encountered before, and before he could regain his footing, el’Vartellan forced him back toward the rail while growling between his clenched teeth. His face flushed red.

  “All of this, and for what? You’ll change nothing. Imported servitude is the way of the future, Hook.”

  The way of the future? Memories of Ridaeron cruelty flashed through James’s mind, of savagely beaten slaves and little children with whip-scarred bodies. Of women who flinched away from the mere sight of a man.

  Fury guided James’s aim, and he lashed out with his hook to score the perfect blow, tearing open skin before he kicked his opponent away from him. “Not for as long as I live,” he gritted out.

  With the finesse and speed el’Vartellan lacked, despite his drug-enhanced stamina, James spun behind the man and slashed his sword in a precise arc, sweeping across the back of both boots. It sliced through tough leather and flesh, ripping the tendons el’Vartellan needed to stand and unceremoniously dumped him on the deck.