The eternal struggle, p.11
The Eternal Struggle, page 11
part #2 of Black Phantom Chronicles Series
Clomping sounds indicated his departure. As Maco wearily stepped into his backroom, Arnacin passed him the ship’s plans marked with Captain Phillio’s name.
The shipwright paused, staring at the plans for just a second. “I shouldn’t need it for a tiller, but thanks. It still might be useful once I see the exact problem.” Grabbing his essential tools, he slipped past the islander and out the door.
With only a second’s hesitation, Arnacin followed, pulling his hood over his hair.
He caught up to them as the captain was growling, “Make sure your work is satisfactory. I have my hands full with just Xavior and that high and mighty queen of Nomacir. I can’t safely put into any port, at least until the spring, but if that rotten ship isn’t gone, you can bet on warfare right here. I’ve had enough.”
Casting a glance at the captain, Maco licked his lips. “You’re not connected to the queen, captain. Why are you so certain Xavior will hunt you down?”
“Ha! He only sees that I’m from Nomacir, and he’ll leap at any excuse to steal my gold! I’ll tell you something, if I ever come across any of Zedelious’s family, I’ll burn them alive before Xavior stumbles on them. His son’s death was lucky, I say.”
The islander tugged his hood more closely about his head, yet the shipwright engaged the captain’s attention with his muttered question, “Have you ever considered surrendering to Queen Isholt and apologizing? She might return you to a better position than you’re in now, running for your life.”
Clenching his sword hilt, Captain Phillio warned, “Another suggestion like that, slave, and I’ll run you through. That queen is everything I hate—deceitful, arrogant, covetous, complaining and stupid. I’ll sooner become a privateer for the backstabbing Ursans!”
Arnacin could find nothing to criticize in that. Even Maco only nodded as they stopped before the massive Queen’s Head.
Within three hours, the Queen’s Head had sailed for the open ocean. Wearily, Maco returned to the back of his shop. He had just put his awl away when a quiet voice asked, “Why is there a feud between Nomacir and this family of Zedelious?”
Looking at the pirate who sat, seemingly completely involved in copying every line with precision, Maco inquired, “I would think you knew. You are a Zedelious, are you not?”
When no response came, the shipwright almost doubted hearing the question. Yet, shrugging, he turned back to the railing he had been working on before Captain Phillio’s interruption. “There used to be a ship, The Red Dawn, that sailed into harbor every summer for three years. The captain of that ship was Captain Xavior’s son, an extremely successful pirate despite his young age. Rumor has it he secretly sold his services to almost every single country at once, backstabbing and lying when two tasks conflicted. Whether any of that is true or not, you can imagine that with their dislike of pirates, Nomacir would not be on that list of money brokers and, with an unmarried queen, they would be the target of many.
“Really, no one has any idea how he acquired wealth so rapidly, but it is considered a fact that he plagued Nomacir without ceasing. If that is true, it is only natural that Nomacir finally caught up with him—and, with him, there was no such thing as being ‘found guilty.’ He would’ve announced with pride how many ships he sent down during his short reign. An outrageous quantity, I can assure you.
“On Nomacir, the punishment for piracy is near death through flogging and then the rope, I’m told.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Well, you likely know that Xavior has hunted Nomacirrians down ever since. I suspect he’ll go to his grave still doing so or…” Glancing at his companion, staring motionless out the open door into the night, Maco breathed, “Or commit suicide the day he wins. At that point, he’ll know there’s nothing left—such is the path of vengeance.”
In the stillness that followed, the shipwright heard the low hiss, “Is that meant as a warning?”
“If you wish it so.” Maco shrugged. “I always hope no one needs that warning, that they know better intuitively. As an interesting example of how ridiculous vengeance is, if Captain Phillio expects to enact his threat, he doesn’t know that the richest, wealthiest pirate alive is not Captain Xavior.”
Dark eyes fixed themselves on him, and Maco laughed sardonically. “Do you want to know who shoddily upholds the laws on this island, who receives a ‘safety portion’ from every captain once a year to keep Baulis a pirate haven, who those pirate guards bow to for the easy, safe money granted them, a pittance though it is? Zedelious’s son by his secret second wife, whom he never took to sea. His mansion is the one that sits on the steps leading to the cliffs of Devil’s Cove, and do you want to know why Captain Xavior has not been seen since arriving? He’s up there himself, with his three mistresses who await him there every year.”
Disgust wrote itself across Arnacin Islander’s face before he turned away. Maco returned once again to the railing.
The days stretched on. In the shop’s peace, Arnacin’s thoughts seared all the more torturously. His time as Xavior’s captive had gone on too long. The pirate cooked in the geyser pool particularly plagued the islander as atrocities happened daily, just within his view. He knew, if no one else did, that he had to change something or the insanity that awaited him would finally completely claim him. Even alcohol, if he turned to it, would not protect him from such a breakdown. He knew it was just a matter of time before something happened—and so it was.
Spotting a girl in disarray duck around the wall of the house facing the shipwright’s yard, Arnacin paused. The girl’s wide eyes looked twice their normal size, so much did they shine with hysteria.
As she quickly glanced around the corner, Arnacin shoved aside his work. “The cellar, quick!” he ordered, pointing to the open door in the house she was hiding behind.
The girl turned her wide eyes toward him and tried to dash past. The sound of pounding feet, however, told the islander of their lack of time. Quickly, he grabbed her. She struggled in his grasp and, as he heard those feet halt suddenly, he knew they had been seen.
Dropping all attempts at gentleness, Arnacin shoved the girl into the cellar and spun to meet the attack.
“Fetch the girl,” someone said. As the islander found himself facing two attackers, there was nothing he could do about the pirate who slipped around him into the cellar.
Chapter 6
Brother Channing
Maco returned to his shop after affixing a new helm to the Dawn Beer. Hearing some commotion outside the back door, he quickly strode through his shop, noticing the absence of his temporary assistant as he passed.
Outside, a ring of pirates jeered and shouted at some fight in their midst. Expecting a simple brawl, Maco’s breath froze when one of the pirates forming the circle stepped into the middle. Through the brief hole, the shipwright saw the body-strewn ground, blood-tinged sand and the target of the many attackers—Arnacin Islander. Judging by the way he staggered before parrying the new opponent’s blade, it would not be long before the pirates obtained their goal.
“What is this?” Maco barked.
“Stay out of this, shipwright,” one pirate growled, standing farther back with two other pirates who held a whimpering girl between them. “This is a matter of justice.”
“All the same, I demand an explanation! Are you so bloodthirsty you choose death before conversation can settle it?”
Surprisingly, stillness fell over the ring. The same pirate spat, “Islander dares to steal my wife! You do not need anything more.”
Looking again at the bawling girl, Maco asked, “Arnacin?” In answer to the charge, Arnacin simply flicked his damp hair out of his face, his chest heaving with every breath.
Despite his silence, however, the girl hysterically screamed, “I fled! I won’t go back! I won’t! I’ll kill myself!”
With a disgusted glance at her, Arnacin finally growled, “You ought to thank me for stopping her from throwing herself off some cliff.”
“Thief! I won’t thank you for nothing until I see your body in the cove,” the supposed husband spat.
“Yours first.”
“All right,” the shipwright interjected, “Take your property and leave him alone. Only gentlemen like you would charge someone with thievery for helping an abused girl.”
“Are you questioning what I can do to my own property? You’ll be a lot easier to kill than that brat!”
Arnacin’s blade lifted a little higher. “Who’d die, I wonder.”
“Enough!” the shipwright snapped. “I notice, sir, that although he was ‘stealing’ from you, you stand outside the fight.”
Without another word, the pirate grabbed the girl’s wrist and dragged her away. Slowly, the rest took their leave, casting withering glances at Arnacin’s bloody sword. Once the last had disappeared down the street, Islander gasped in pain. Turning to him, Maco watched him shakily clean his blade on his thigh. “Are you alright?”
Islander only limped back into the shop.
Without asking, Maco fetched some water. Yet as he handed it to Arnacin and turned away, he heard a soft splash. At the islander’s feet, a quickly dissolving puddle soaked into the dry dirt floor.
The shipwright suppressed his frustrated growl. “You’re not the easiest man to live with, Islander.”
“You don’t have to. I’m leaving soon.”
“Why sail with them? We could find some way for you to remain here, out of Captain Xavior’s reach.”
“And within yours. I refuse to be anyone’s slave, war machine or anything else, and I am returning to sea. When his ship sinks in the next storm or is burned beneath the waves, I will be on it, owned by none.”
Softly, the shipwright said, “Only you have the power to make yourself a slave. To the pirates that shelter here, I am one, but would you deem me so?”
“You don’t wish to hear what I deem you.”
“Perhaps I do.”
Turning away, Arnacin took a minute before replying. “Anyone with any sort of decency would leave this place. They would never stand for what you just allowed, nor dare call a person, however revolting, ‘property.’ Interpret that as you will.”
“And why don’t you leave? You have a superb vessel, which is now fixed.” When no answer came, Maco insisted, “I am not here to protect everybody. I keep peace when it is possible for words to stop the bloodshed. Unless all their captives revolt, there is nowhere to hide her, and rebelling would likely mean all our deaths, not escape. Most of us who aren’t pirates are females, and none of us know half as much about weapons as do our captors. I called her property only in disgust at how they view women.”
“Tell that to someone who’s dumb enough to believe it.” With that, Arnacin shoved himself to his feet, swayed for a second, and then left.
Maco waited only until he knew Arnacin Islander would not hear him, then hurried to the shack of his sole friend, Brother Channing. Here, injuries were often roughly cleaned and stitched before the victims were kicked out. The shipwright found his friend in the back, bottle-feeding a goat where pens kept the injured or sick animals.
“Channing,” Maco panted, receiving little more of a response than if he had still been with Arnacin.
“These goats are just like their owners, injured day in and out from brawling with each other. Then, of course, they’re still so violent I need to drug them, forcing me to feed them all like babes.”
“Channing,” Maco insisted. “Speaking of violent pirates—”
“They were all fighting a few moments ago, I know. What’s your interest?”
“Arnacin Islander.”
With a sarcastic humming, the healer huffed to his feet. “He’s half the city’s interest, I must say–the most effective killer on this rock, and that’s saying something. They all say he cheats. Thankfully, that means I don’t have to patch up any of his victims.”
“Channing, I think he could be dead very shortly if we do nothing.”
“Is Captain Xavior going to blame you or something?”
“Channing.”
“He’s just a pirate—”
“Channing!”
“Fine, answer this and I might help: why do you care if he breathes or not?”
“Because he’s Arnacin Islander. I know that means nothing to you. I can’t even put a name to it, but I feel if he’s just given the chance… he’s meant for something, Channing…” Pausing in exasperation at the words he could not express, Maco pleaded, “Trust me. Help, please. I’m guessing he headed to the creek. I’m also guessing someone will trail him.”
Moaning, the healer grabbed his bag. “If you insist…”
The pain in Arnacin’s shoulder caused the world to spin. A small part of him called himself a fool. He desperately needed water, and it was far more dangerous to travel in his current state than to accept Maco’s compassion.
For just a second, he had almost taken that water, but as he looked into its depths, he recalled how he had once readily accepted Carpason’s hospitality. That image was replaced with thoughts of his last hour on Mira. He heard Valoretta’s silence, and Miro’s… everything about Miro.
Should Maco stand aside for Baulis’s officials to converge on Arnacin—if he had not already done so—the islander’s heart would feel no pain, unless he cracked open that door to his trust. Never again could he allow anyone inside his shields who was not from Enchantress Island. The potential for pain and the extent of the agony were too high to risk.
Twice, he stopped on the way to the nearest creek in the woods, unsure if the footsteps he thought he heard, under the influence of fear and pain, were just normal forest sounds. Yet both times, he heard nothing unusual.
Once at the creek, he halted again to listen. Yet the forest’s peace sounded complete. Knowing unconsciousness was near should he not relieve his thirst soon, he crouched by the water. He had not taken so much as a sip before he heard movement behind him and whirled toward the pirate rushing him.
Had his arm listened like it should have, that threat would not have taken another breath, but he moved too slowly. Fire burst in his shoulder as he forced it to swift movement. In that split second, the pirate seized Arnacin’s sword-arm. Dark spots burst like fireworks as the pirate viciously twisted it.
His focus faded in and out as the pirate taunted him, “I knew you leave the city for water. Know better than to steal from the wells—what with the possibility of arsenic and all. Don’t worry, I’ll give you water.”
Arnacin was not aware of the pirate jerking him around until water closed over his head and instantly filled his lungs. Brief panic broke through his state of semi-consciousness, yet even temporary full awareness could not summon air as he gagged on water.
Freezing as Maco seized his arm, Channing looked to where his friend was pointing. Between the trees, he saw a burly pirate strangling the one he recognized as Islander. While shipwright and healer watched, the attacker, one arm around his victim’s throat and the other restraining his weapon arm, shoved his motionless, gasping victim to the ground. There he pushed the black-topped head beneath the water.
“Channing,” Maco hissed. “Pretend you’re out here picking herbs. Everyone knows they curse themselves if they kill another in your presence. Hurry.”
“He’s dead already,” the healer huffed. Nevertheless, he stepped to the water’s edge, looking at the plants growing alongside it as he closed the space between himself and the struggle without appearing to hurry.
Halting abruptly, he gasped, “What’s this?”
The burly pirate froze, looking up at the healer in disgust.
“You better halt,” Channing continued. “I can see the gates of death opening beneath you already.”
Fear conquered the pirate’s gaze, and he sprang to his feet. Kicking his victim into the creek, he growled, before stomping away, “I don’t see why I’d be killed for meting out justice.”
“You can come back to it later.”
Huffing as the pirate disappeared into the thicker forest, Channing yanked up his habit and waded into the creek to grab the floating form by the hair and drag him onto dry land. No gasp of air or choking cough stirred the sopping heap. Shaking his head, the healer dropped down to push his linked hands below the rib cage.
“I frankly still don’t know why you bother,” Channing said, placing his instruments inside his bag. “This pirate certainly has not bothered to make any companions.”
Sitting in the small, dim living space above the shipwright’s shop, Maco looked at the sleeping form from whom they had emptied all the excess water before the healer checked him over to make sure the attack had left no lasting damage.
“I think that’s part of it,” the shipwright whispered, his gaze traveling from Arnacin’s slightly furrowed brow to his blood-stained, still slightly-damp clothes, which they had left on to tend to their patient. “I’ve seen him sit for hours downstairs while I work around him—times when he has made no effort to change the fact that he’s easy prey should I decide to attack. Somewhere, I know he trusts, but only when trusting doesn’t take conscious thought.”
Channing snorted.
Smiling slightly, Maco commented, “That bitterness ill becomes a man of the church.”
“Ha! There were men with worse attitudes in the holy of holies.” With that, Channing stood. “His arm still seems to be in its socket and there’s nothing wrong with his lungs. Leave him alone. He’ll wake when he’s ready.”
