Three Swords' Revenge

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Jacques had let the gentle sway of the ship lull him into sleep too easily, but as he sat there in a doze, he couldn't find the will to bring himself out of his slumber. He would just rest his eyes a few minutes longer and then get back to work on the maps...

His head ringing, Jacques forced his eyes open slowly. His vision spun as he tried to lift his head off the deck. Trying to wire his thoughts together, he noticed his feet had become caught in the legs of the overturned stool, and he'd landed strangely on his arm. As his vision cleared he saw Matty kneeling beside him with concern in her face. Lifting his free arm to shield his eyes from the weak twilight, he managed a smile.

"I must have dozed off... Hah, I'll wind up waking up someplace still less comfortable one of these days, and to a sight a good deal less pleasant than your face..." Jacques sighed and raised himself upright, untangling his legs from the stool. "You didn't have any luck with those maps, by any chance, did you?"

 

"I think so." Matty pointed out what she thought was their position, and their destination before she noticed something strange. The sun was low on the horizon, and the way its rays hit the map made a strange thing happen. Some lines that she hadn't noticed before appeared, weaving their faint way between the islands. Often obscured by the new markings, they'd pick up again on a different section of the drawing. "M. Vendelin, what is this? I can't read these words."

 

Jacques tilted the map back and forth in the light, trying to see this new writing more clearly. It was exceptionally faint - Jacques squinted in the dim light trying to pick out the weakly traced lines among the clusters of his own spidery scrawling.

"I... I'm not sure, Matty. I didn't write this. I can't think who did." Jacques looked on the back of the map, in the bottom right-hand corner where he made a note on all his maps of when and where he had got hold of them. This was the map he'd picked up just before he left Freeport for the first time, and he had hardly let it out of his sight. He even kept it folded in his coat every time they went ashore - during that ball, for example. When Solomon had somehow slipped that key into his pocket.

However he'd done it, he'd got to his map too before he'd disappeared. The markings seemed to converge on an empty area of sea in the middle of nowhere, about six day's sailing west of Freeport. Peering closer at the map, he saw small, angular writing next to the course markings. Three lines from a song only heard once, but well remembered...

Heed well the Siren’s song
Tarry not ever long
For she calls to thee.

 

Matty sighed. "It'll have to wait until after we've been to Freeport, we're too short-handed to go on any treasure-hunts now," she said reluctantly. Suddenly she peered at the notation on the map, then opened her fiddlecase and pulled out the mysterious note. The writing was the same as that on the map.

"I've never been to Freeport, M. Vendelin, have you? Do you know what's at 37 Coronation Way?"

 

Andrew had been trying to get the image of the brig out of his head for hours, but every time he started to relax his mind would wander back there and stare at the carnage. There was something about the scene that he couldn't stop thinking about. The flesh, smashed bones and blood had covered the entire floor.

Getting out of his bunk, Andrew wandered down through the ship to the powder room. The huge form of the man with the axes was still on the floor, the blood puddle starting to dry. He knelt down beside the corpse, and with a grunt, rolled him over. Sure enough, the pair of axes were in his belt, and the dried ears still hung from his sash. Without saying a word, Andrew took the axes. They were heavier than he imagined, but he managed to get them up on deck. Stepping over to the side of the boat, he threw one into the ocean. He picked up the remaining axe, intending to do the same with it, but decided against it. He wandered back to his bunk, and dropped the axe into the corner of the room. It'd be his prize from this.

 

Daniel woke up in his hammock. It was light outside. Was it the next day? Or even maybe had he slept two days? He couldn't tell. No one was guarding him, and he really needed to pee, so he went to the head. Might of been two days that he'd slept, judging by the amount of urine his bladder had stored up and how hungry he felt. He went to the galley and got a piece of stale bread and some cheese.

Next he stopped by the surgery, but his mother was sleeping, and looked rather worn out, so he let her rest.

There were very few people on the ship, and nobody gave him any orders, so he wandered down, for some unknown reason, to the brig. It was as if a horrible magnet was pulling him there.

No one had cleaned anything up. "Well, somebody's got to do it." he said to the air. He went and got a bunch of hammocks from the crew quarters, most of which would not be slept in by the original owners, and brought them down to the brig, laying them out in the corridor. Then he started collecting pieces and trying to put them together on separate hammocks. For some of them, it wasn't that hard, if the pirate had a special purple shirt, and the sleeves happened to still be on the arms and torso. The heads were sometimes easy, other times impossible to identify and put with a set of body parts. He did the best he could.

He tried to maintain a separation between his mind and his body. Telling himself that a future doctor needed to be able to distance himself from emotions that might cloud his judgement and ability to successfully treat the injured. But it didn't work too well. By the time he was finished, he was steadily weeping. Then he set to work sewing up the hammocks, hoping that the men would forgive him if he got their heads or arms with someone elses body or legs.

When all were sewed up, he tried to lift a hammock, but found it much too heavy for him. It was not so hard to move a leg, or even a torso could be rolled, but a full grown man, even in pieces, was too much for him to lift even when he was healthy, and impossible now with a lung on the mend.

He made his way to the Captain's cabin and knocked on the door. No one answered. Then Daniel looked all around the ship until he finally found the Captain somewhere on the ship. He stopped in front of the Captain, saluted him and said, "The mates from the brig are ready for burial, sir."

[ December 19, 2005, 02:39: Message edited by: Scot ]

 

You... you killed us! You killed us all your murderous bastard! a hollow voice hollered somewhere from the depths of Saimon's mind.
Why, brother, why? How did we ever wrong you? We did not deserve what you brought upon us... the anger... the rage... the fear

"No... don't say that! I had... I had every right... vengeance" Saimon whispered in his sleep.

YOU HAD NO RIGHT! NONE! Did I not always defend you when the other chased you, my brother? Did mom and dad not convince the council to let you stay, in spite of what you did to Eolan? DID THEY NOT!?!

"They deserved it... the old rules... cannot - cannot see as I see... Eolan dead"

You are a murderer! An insolent pig that deserves nothing but eternal torment! We gave you everything, and still you refused to give us your love. REFUSED TO LET US LOVE YOU! You were never able to see beyond the tip of your own nose; you never saw how much we did for you... how overbearing the town was with you! MURDERER!

"No... no... NOOOO!" With a swift motion Saimon jumped to his feet, awakened by his own screaming. He grabbed for his rapier, only to discover it wasn't there...
"Where am I?", he asked himself. His head was still sore, and his limbs numb from spending Barre knows how many nights on a cold prison floor. Or was it. It sure did not look like the cell he had been put in when the Red Hands assaulted him in the caves...He briefly scanned the room; no, this was indeed not the prison cell. There was another one too. It was the Spaniard, he remembered him from the party. THE PARTY! Images flashed through his head with such a pace he could not keep track of neither the time nor the place that any of these glimpses had happened. a knock in the back head... a large man... the sound of battle... the smell of death... the felling of water... He had to get out of here. Though reluctant to leave the safety that the sheltering darkness provided, Saimon decided he needed fresh air to set his mind straight. With determination he strode toward the deck, but was stopped halfway by the sound of feverish talk. It was the Spaniard. He turned, the mad ramblings of Santiago had poked at his curiosity. Slowly he walked back, bending his body over the Spaniards to get a better look of what he looked like. The pain was painted on his forehead; his face twisted in a suffering grimace.

"Aye, you have suffered much in your life, Spaniard" he whispered to the lifeless Santiago, "I can see this, for I have suffered much myself". It felt good talking to someone; especially considering that this "someone" wouldn't judge him... wouldn't call him names... wouldn't chase him... "How did I ever end up here, Spaniard", he spoke into the air. "Yes, it all began with a boy in my home village. His name was Eolan. Yes, it began with Eolan, I see this now. You see I killed him when I was twelve, threw him off of the great cliffs. It almost started a blood feud between our families. The Dialis', the family of Eolan wanted me exiled, but the council was reluctant to do so; my father was an important person in town. Suffice to say, we ended up paying 20 cows to compensate for their loss. Since then nothing were the same. They chased me you see... the other kids in town. They beat me with sticks, threw rocks at me, and spitted on my face whenever they had the opportunity. Eventually I got my revenge, though. They all died! Even the women and the children. You see I cut their throats while they slept. Peacefully unaware of what was about to happen; much like you right now, Spaniard. I killed all of them: babies, children, my own family... Oh how my poor sister squished as I stung my sword through her little belly! But the Dialis' got the worst... I saved them for last. See, I didn't kill those outright. At first, I tied and gagged them all. Then I sat them all on their knees, facing me. I raped the mother in front of her family; not really driven by sexual lust but more that I wanted to humiliate them as much as possible. They had a babe... probably a couple of months old. I cut of its head. Then I began killing the remaining two children and the mother... but I led Galnan, the father, live... I wanted him to live the rest of his life knowing that he failed to protect his family... Live a humiliated and broken man! Oh how it makes me smile whenever I think of him. You see, Spaniard, we who suffer as the two of us do tends to get overwhelmed by those feelings, and in the end it is all that drives us; revenge, death... to make others suffer as we had... You know this well, don't you? Yes you do... I am sure of that.", with a frown Saimon got back up on his feet and started walking towards the door. As he reached it he turned his head, looking at the Spaniard, "Aye, it was nice speaking to you too... You have - eased my suffering some". Saimon sighed and left the room.

 

"It's hard to say who is first in line to kill LeBihan, Valerie." Abbot said as he stepped toward the young woman. "I sincerely hope I'm at the front. However, LeBihan isn't quite the problem at this moment. I came to speak with you about the supplies you offered earlier. Will you join me in my cabin so we can discuss this with a drink in hand?"

 

Valerie nodded. "If I'm not needed here, then absolutely. The offer's still open, certainly, and I'll do everything I can for the ship. As for LeBihan...the problem is he's sort of first in line for me, you see," she grinned, and rose to follow Abbot.

 

OOC - *bump*

Leftenant Cornwallis wasn't any too happy about the situation, but his men were even less so. He found himself facing several of the senior sailors.

"Be ye sure ye know what ye be doin', Sar?" The honorific dripped with sarcasm.

It would never do to let the sailors know of his uncertainty in the course of action he had committed them to. While he had little experience as a Navy officer, he had a wealth of experience as the son of a very rich man, and he saw little difference between himself right now and the last time he'd seen his father berate an unruly footman. He drew himself up.

"Are you questioning the authority of the ranking officer on this ship, Mister Barker? Captain Abbot has petitioned for our assistance and I have agreed to provide it to him. That is all you need to know at this time. If in the future you still believe that you have reason for grievance, there are established protocols for filing such complaints. Until then, however, I expect immediate compliance with the orders you're given. Understood?"

"Yes, Sar." The man mumbled his reply and slunk away with his fellows. They'd bear watching.

 

Abbot nodded and turned heading back to his cabin swiftly. After the sight of the men butchered in the brig, he was more than eager to take hold of a bottle and a hefty helping. He stepped through into his cabin without looking to see if Valerie had followed, his thoughts were drifting over what to do next. The supplies were more than neccesary, despite his want to push on. Medical in particular.

He needed time as well - time for the injured to heal, time for Santiago to get back to his feet and time to think on what to do next. His blood was still hot from the battle and it would do none of them any good if he led them into a hasty battle and got what was left of the killed. "So what can you tell me about these supplies?"

 

Daniel watched the Captain turn around and leave without answering his question, or even acknowledging his presence. He couldn't believe it, and he was bitterly angry. He'd gone to all the trouble to get the poor men who'd been hacked up ready for a burial that people could attend without loosing their lunch, when all the grown men could only spill their guts and leave in horror, and he couldn't even get anybody to help bring the sewn up hammocks up on deck!

Looking down at his feet, he noticed they were drenched with blood, as were the rest of his clothes as he looked up his body. What was that stuff, he thought, brushing some spongy grey stuff off his shirt. Oh, just some brains.

In truth, he looked exceedingly ghastly. Maybe the Captain and the lady next to him thought he was a ghost, and were purposefully ignoring him so as not to get caught in his power. Or, maybe he really was a ghost and they weren't seeing him.

He felt his body, which felt real enough, but maybe ghosts could feel themselves. He went down to his hammock, which though spotted with his blood, did not hold his body, so he assumed that he was not a ghost.

In that case, it would be up to him to bring the hammocks with the bodies up on deck, and if no one else attended, at least say a few words before sending them to Davy Jone's locker.

He went back down to the brig. He'd start with the smallest one. Picking up the hammock under what might have been the man's armpits, he heaved upwards, but his boots slipped on the blood, and he fell heavily backwards into the wall.

CRACK!

Went something in his chest.

He wanted to scream out in pain, but found all he could do was gasp. The analytic side of his mind tried to figure if it was a snapped rib poking into his lungs, or maybe cutting a major artery or vein, but soon the suffering side decided it was too much work, effort, and pain to stay conscious any longer, and he slipped into blackness.

 

"On, second thought, we can discuss this later. I can't help but think that making a detour could give the Red Hand too much time to prepare. Afterwards, perhaps... if we're still alive by then." Abbot stood and downed his glass. "Enjoy your drink, you've worked hard enough for the injured to deserve a rest. In the meantime, Daniel told me the dead were prepared for funeral. Excuse me." Abbot slipped out of the door and headed for the brig - he doubted many of the men would like to go down there to collect them. He owed it to them to carry them up himself in any case.

As he stepped into the brig he found Daniel lying on the floor. The damn fool! He was pushing himself beyond the limit his damaged body would allow. Swiftly, he lifted the young man into his arms and carried him, half running, to the surgery. "Alexa!" He shouted as he carried him to an empty bed. Blood was still wet on the sheets, but he threw him down anyway. Alexa was at his side instantly peering down at her son.

"Thank you, captain. Leave now, if you please, I need space to work." Abbot nodded and stepped back, walking swiftly back to the brig. It was difficult to look at the sewed up hammocks, but he took hold of the first hammock and hauled it over his shoulder with a grunt. Blood dripped from the bottom of the hammock but he forced himself to ignore it as he carried it onto the deck.

He worked fast, but it still took him some time to haul each body to the deck and every moment he spent doing this brought them closer to Freetown. LeBihan and a great many Red Hands waited for them there. He had no idea how they would be recieved. He hoped the Captain's Council had not been convinced to fire on them on sight. The last thing he wanted was a siege on their hands.

With each body on the deck now, neatly lined up to be dropped overboard Abbot stepped up onto the Bridge. The few men on deck looked tired, but there was still some fire in their eyes. Enough to get them through for one more day. "I'm sorry." He began, "For all we've been through. But I have to apologise again, for we cannot grieve for our dead now. We need to be sharp for tomorrow, and we cannot do that if we are mourning. Cast our friends to the deep and get as much rest as you can between here and Freetown." Abbot waited silently, watching each body thrown overboard coldly. He detached his whole mind from the scene as he returned to his cabin. The room was empty when he entered. Slowly he undressed and layed down on his bed and fell instantly asleep. When he woke, Freetown stood on the horizon.

 

As Saimon stepped out on the deck, he was met by a cold breeze. Small convulsions went through his body, and it was as if they shoke off some of the darkness that clouded his thoughts. "('Tis good here, yes. Reality. Focus. This is where we are *now*, the past doesn't matter... not anymore)", Saimon sighed to himself. At little lighter Saimon slowly began to walk toward the front of the ship; the sun was rising in the horizon, and as it shone upon the surface, the water glimpsed as if the ocean was made of millions of tiny diamonds which all turned a flat sight toward it, and eventually, as it rose in its cycle, setting the entire world afire. "Aye, 'tis a beautiful sight indeed", he whispered to the wind. Saimon leaned over the reeling and breathe in deeply; with a sudden twist he bend backwards and screamed:

Where art thou now, my Raven lost?
Hast thou but forgotten?
Thine vow! What thee told,
'tis mine legacy, 'tis was thine WILL!
Thou wilst not abandon me,
thou wilst not...abandon...

...but his words was lost to the wind...

"I will follow this Abbot! And when enough men has died, when the earth is soaked with the crimson blood, then... then I might find pease in thee". Saimon lowered his head and mumbled to himself, "Now we play the waiting game... I wonder what the Captain will have to say when I face him next?". Saimon shivered and once more turned his face toward the horizon...

 

"I'd say 'how do you feel?'" Abbot said stepping up behind Saimon. "Must have been an effort to escape those Red Hands." Abbot said leaning on the railing. He spat over the side. "Still, I suppose I should be glad Santiago has been returned to us. So few of the crew are alive that one extra - and the quartermaster at that - is alive." He turned to look at Saimon, "You could have sold your lot into the Red Hands back then. By the wounds carried by Santiago, I know he did not. But you? A couple of scratches, a nasty bruise." Abbot glanced at the approaching Freetown. "So what is your story? Why have you chosen to follow me and not the Red Hands?" Abbot waited for Saimon to answer, sensing for a lie in the man's voice.

 

The sunlight stabbed his eyes something fierce, but Ricardo gritted his teeth and made his way to the deck. It was painstakingly slow going, the after-effects of his captivity and the fever still lingering on his body… but the cold water they had sunk him in had brought him out of it, and now…

Well, now he had to make sure that the wounds he’d gained when getting back his weapons had been worth it.

His shoulder had been strained greatly the night before, and Señora Alexa had stitched it again. He remembered the look of revulsion on her face all too clearly, and in the aftermath of the terrors his mind had created – voices whispering, death and destruction, loosing everything dear – it had left a black cloud hanging over the Spaniard.

He wanted her. God, he wanted her so damned much… but the fever had cleared his mind, as strange as it sounded.

Ricardo knew that as much as he yarned to simply take her, it would not do. He would make her come to him, to remember her place and beg to be taken.. make her realise what her true destiny was.

Shaking his head, he unsheathed his rapier. He could not – would not – think of her now;

Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and assumed the position that had been drilled to him so many years ago, holding his blade steady.

It was easy to step into the familiar patterns, the most simplistic of them at first, working his way to the more complicated ones. Sweat beaded on his forehead as pain stabbed his body, as his shoulder screamed every time he tried to lift it too high… but it was no worse, he estimated, than it had been for the past fifteen years.

He spun on his heel tossing his sword high in the air as he pulled a dagger from his left sleeve, tossing it into his right hand before catching his falling rapier; another pattern, another way of fighting. These steps were just as familiar, just as important…. His left arm had none of the strain of his right, and he could not hold back a smirk as his movements finally ceased.

He did not except to hear the clapping.

“Bravo, Moniseur!

There was something vaguely familiar in the voice, in the slightly mocking tone, and Ricardo frowned as he slowly turned to face the speaker. Other than Señora Alexa and young Matilda there should have been no women aboard…

When he saw the brunette, he froze.

”Melisa?”

It could not be. The girl was far too young to be Melisa… she would have to be, what, in her forties now? This girl could be no older than twenty-two, if that…Memories of days long gone threatened to rise, but he quelled them ruthlessly as he regarded the brunette.

There was no notable change on her expression, but Ricardo saw her eyes flash. “No. I’m Valerie… her daughter.”

Of course. “Pleasure to meet you, Señorita Valerie,” he said softly. ”I had the honor of being acquainted with your mother a long time ago.”

”And who are you?” Her eyes were cold.

Ricardo smirked. “I am Don Ricardo de la Santiago, Señorita Valerie, the quartermaster of the Pale Horse. .”

She frowned a little. “Were you .a.. business acquaintance of my mother’s?”

All the while she was thinking furiously, That has nothing to do with this. I'm helping these people out, and if I can acheive my own ends that way, all the better, but right now I've already got my plate full of causes...and history.


Ricardo raised an eyebrow. “You could say that,” he said, memories again threatening to surface. Oh, they were fond memories, the ones he had of Melisa Damien. “I remember her very fondly.”

"I see. And does business bring you on this particular voyage?"

Ricardo’s smirk did not waver. “In a way, yes… It was not my original intent but sometimes, Lady Fortuna acts... unexpectedly.”

Valerie shrugged. "Well, you never really do know how things will turn out, but I suppose there's a reason for it. Everyone does have their own ends, of course, but often find themselves pursuing them in completely unexpected ways. I was rather hoping to join this crew, though; I think it would be mutually beneficial."

“And what does your mother think of your endeavours, Señorita?”

She froze for a few moments, then frowned. "I guess you really had lost touch with my mother, sir. She's been dead seven years now."

Her words struck Ricardo unexpectedly hard; for a moment, he felt like the world was spinning… but it was simply the afteeffects of the fever and the strain from his swordplay. “My… my condolences, Señorita… I was not aware of her passing. Such news do not cross to Europe well.”

She nodded. "Many people admired my mother. I looked up to her. Thank you for your kind words. I try to live up to her legacy."

Ricardo regarded her for a long while, taking in not only the surprising resemblance to Melisa but also her lithe, clearly honed form and the steel in her eyes. “I am sure she would be proud of you, Señorita… you have much of her spirit in you.”

"Melisa was all the mother and father I ever needed. I would be honored to be her equal someday." The girl stared at the waves for a moment. "But then, that moves us from discussing the past, to the future."

The Spaniard smiled. “Indeed.”

 

"I...", Saimon stumbled over his words, he had not expected the confrontation to come this soon. "I don't really remember all that happened while I was with the Red Hands", Saimon looked up and met the eyes of Abbot, "I don't know what happened to Santiago we were caught separately, and he looked as he does now ever since I first saw him on the cell floor". Saimon now turned and sat himself on the reeling, for the first time truly facing the Captain, "Why did I not sell you out, you ask me? I'm not sure if the option was ever there, and I don't know if I would have, had the situation turned otherwise, Red Hands - Abbots men, to me that could maybe be all the same. But why wasn't it? I could easily fill you with some idiotic lie, that you was the only one who had been nice to me, who - somewhat - had a little spark of trust in me, or some other crap", Saimon took a deep breathe and continued, "But I don't believe doing so would help me in any way at all. Besides, I don't think you're a man who really cares about any such, so I won't waste your time. Truth be told I don't know why I chose to follow you... all I know is that when I first saw the Pale Horse in the docks, I knew that my destiny... or whatever... awaited me on your ship, though I didn't know that it was yours until recently." Saimon looked upon Abbot, waiting for some sign of response...

 

Abbot stood staring at the native as he spoke and when he had finished, Abbot punched him, a hard straight to his chin, "That's just to remind you... If you ever decide to change your 'destiny' there will a good many to follow." Abbot held out his hand for Saimon to take and hauled the man to his feet. "Get ready for a fight."

Abbot turned away from Saimon to watch Santiago go through his exercises and a talk with Valerie, "Strong enough to fight again, Master Santiago." Abbot said smiling, "Alexa has a soft touch with the needle and thread, does she not?" He took the spaniard and gave his hand a hard squeeze. "Good to see you up. Make sure the men are armed - when we get into port, I want every Red Hand ship at dock captured and burnt, preferably with few Red Hands aboard. Convey my orders to Cornwallis." As Abbot walked back to his cabin he prayed the cannon of Freetown would not be used against them.

 

"So we're agreed?" a voice said. It was a deep voice, but the man behind it could not be seen for the darkness of the hold, even with the small candle he held. The candle itself would have had them punished had they been caught, but there was little else a group of men hiding and speaking in hushed voices could be talking about that could not have gotten them hanged. Mutineers aboard a Pirate ship was dealed with extremely harshly, but on a Naval ship....

"Aye." a voice said simply, followed by an echo that repeated around the hold.

"Alright then. I'm glad we're agreed, I couldn't stand much more of these bloody Pirates anyway. We'd be caught and hung in any case for what Cornwallis is doing. As soon as the loot in Freetown is taken, we'll strike!" If it had not been so dark, a smile could have been seen on the man's face. "Now get back to your posts. Freetown approaches."

 

"So we're agreed?" a voice said. It was a deep voice, but the man behind it could not be seen for the darkness of the hold, even with the small candle he held. The candle itself would have had them punished had they been caught, but there was little else a group of men hiding and speaking in hushed voices could be talking about that could not have gotten them hanged. Mutineers aboard a Pirate ship was dealed with extremely harshly, but on a Naval ship....

"Aye." a voice said simply, followed by an echo that repeated around the hold.

"Alright then. I'm glad we're agreed, I couldn't stand much more of these bloody Pirates anyway. We'd be caught and hung in any case for what Cornwallis is doing. As soon as the loot in Freetown is taken, we'll strike!" If it had not been so dark, a smile could have been seen on the man's face. "Now get back to your posts. Freetown approaches."