Riven Isles

30 | Red Fish

--Narrative resumed by Walter--

"Give me my sword," he commands. He's more than serious about it, too. He's driven. I can't decide if it's madness or strength, deplorable or admirable, but he refuses to take no for an answer. I stare, baffled, at his leg, then his fiery eyes that are, indeed, not blue. But, I could have sworn they had been, when he had awoken briefly before. Perhaps I had dreamt all of it. How long had I been asleep?

The man is sitting up, when the doctor said he shouldn't be, too stubborn to listen to me and my relayed instructions.

"Come on, boy, don't just sit there," he snaps, waving his hand.

"Captain, you're—"

"Walt! I will hop if I must. Do not take my dignity from me, I've already lost the leg," he barks sternly.

I whimper, quite pitifully, because I know that I shouldn't help him, but I know that I can't stop him. He's got that vengeful look in his eye; the same one that flashed behind the green when he spoke of his lost ship and his crew. But it's fiercer, now, because we both know he can take action. Before he was just talking about it. I want to help, really. All he wants is to stop losing, isn't it? He just wants a win?

"But, can't it wait until morning?" I whine, uncomfortably aware of the squeal in my voice. "What if the stitches split? We'd have to wake the doctor, and he really isn't well. The sirens left him peaky and very upset."

I yelp as he snatches a fistful of my shirt and yanks me witlessly nearer to his face. The alcohol on his breath is so overpowering that I involuntarily recoil, feeling all the moisture bolt from eyes. "What do you think, boy? That I'm weak?"

"No, sir!" I cry, and I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling tears welling from the sharp odor. I scrunch up my face and lean away. "The opposite!"

"Then stow your sniveling and fetch my sword." He shoves me back and I lose my footing, tripping and falling back into his chair. The wind is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I sit, stunned, very still. Then my chest rises and falls double-time, and my heels are driving to the deck before I really know what I'm doing. I find his sword on the floor by his desk and scrabble to wrap my hand around the hilt. I present it to him, but it's broken, isn't it? One of the rogue werewolves snapped it in half, didn't they.

The captain stares, silent and expressionless. His lips draw out in a sneer and he reaches for it. He takes it in one hand and then grips my arm with the other and looks me dead in the eye.

"I need something to use as a crutch."

"A broom?" I offer meekly.

He makes a face. "Plant your feet, boy."

I brace myself, expecting to be hauled over, but he pushes himself off the bed just fine and hangs his arm around my shoulder. He grimaces, sword hanging at his side.

"Right," he says, taking a breath.

"Are you really sure, sir?" I ask, because he's a ghastly shade of white, appearing only paler by the blue light from the windows.

He growls under his breath. "Push on."

I carefully tread forward, and with each hop from him, all his weight heaves on my shoulder. I try to walk straight, but there is no predictability to his motion and every hop is different and I'm either overestimating how hard he's going to push on me or underestimating it, so we really do step in just about every direction on the way to the door and the bastard has the audacity to scorn me for it.

We stop at the door for him to lean against the wall.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, holding me at armlength by my shoulder. He breathes for a few minutes. No words, just breathing. Sweat trickles down his brow. Eventually, he gives me a squeeze and draws me near again. He stands straighter and holds himself better. His eyes are sharp when he looks at me.

"Open the door, Walter."

I nod and help him through.

"Where is the rotter?"

Close. I point to the main mast, where Mike dozes, very much human. He is tied among a handful of other crewmen. We go nearer, and the captain leans his sword hand on a barrel.

"Get rid of the ropes," he orders.

Uneasily, I slip out from under him to do so. I cry out as Increas suddenly materializes from around the mast. He looks darkly to me, then the captain.

"Captain," greets Increas, but his tone is sharp and pointed. He grabs my neck with his powerful, painful grip and holds me away from the ropes. There are men awake, still bound to the mast in case the sirens return, or something worse.

"The moon is sinking, Increas," the captain says. "The sirens should not return. Loose the ropes."

Increas slices through the ropes with his blade, but his stern, watchful gaze remains fixed on his leader. The men stumble. Some cry out, startled awake.

Mike falls to his hands and knees, his ankle twisting in its shackle. He winces. The captain pushes himself off the barrel and drives himself towards the man in a single motion, his claw locking around the traitor's neck. Mike gasps, and his eyes bulge. He is thrown against the mast and held there.

"Where did you tell her we were coming from?" he demands, pinning his sharp, halved blade to the man's chest. I don't understand. Tell who? Increas releases me and barks at the men around the mast to move along, to pick up their feet and get off the deck.

"I—I..." Mike's feet hang uselessly beneath him. "I mean... of course... Of course, you would like to know."

Captain Avery, with one hand, with one leg, lifts the man away from the mast, then slams him hard back against it, snarling like a beast. He is a beast.

"There is only one entrance to the Isles, man!" Mike wails, groping at the captain's wrist. "If you don't come out in the next four days, she'll send troops to you on the fifth! You're sitting ducks. As good as dead."

"Only one entrance," Increas whispers, his shoulders drawing back. He looks to the captain with shining eyes.

The captain grins. Ear to ear. Frighteningly large and malicious and excited and mad. "Well then," he crows, pressing one hand against the man's throat, and raising his blade in the other. "The next time you want to bring a message to that bitch," he continues in the most bittersweet of tones, "bring her this one for me." He drives his blade into the center of the man's chest, drawing out a shriek of pain. "I'll see you in hell."

Before my gaping eyes, he takes the hilt in both his hands and drags the blade downwards, right past the navel. The man is opened like a parcel, and his contents flood to the deck, organs spilling out and landing with motion imitating the sickly flop of dying fish. The emptied man stares in horror, more so than even I, as his life remains with him for moments following. He drops to his knees, tearing free of the captain's broken blade, then lifelessly falls forward.

The captain is expressionless, hand against the mast.

Blood pools, snaking its way to my feet. I gag. I convulse, doubling over. My head pounds, spinning. I run to the rails and throw my arms over, and out comes everything, splashing into the water below. My rib cage quakes, my throat burns, and my mouth is drier than bone. I stay there for a while and stare into the water without seeing. And then, my body goes limp and I pass out before I even hit the deck.