by Attard, Ryan
“Perhaps it would be a good idea to wait for the rest of the crew.” Father Rodriguez was only a few feet behind them, huffing profusely and waving mosquitoes away. He’d been led by Tier most of the way, and his portly physique made him less spry than the blonde duchess.
Finnegan slowed down and craned his neck, looking for his crew. He could hear curses being murmured undertone from his men and smiled. Cursing meant they were still all right.
But beneath it all he heard—no, felt—something else. As if there were more people hiding in the woods, men that were not part of his crew. He tried searching for signs of foul play, but saw nothing. Was he imagining things?
Then, Tier tapped his shoulder urgently.
“We’re being watched,” she whispered.
No sooner had she finished her warning than an arrow shot past Finnegan and buried itself inside a sailor’s leg.
Finnegan drew his sword and suddenly came face to face with a man dressed in rags, who was thrusting a pike at him. War broke out as savages assaulted the crew. Spears and arrows met cutlasses and pistols, and while they had the advantage in weaponry, the savages could hide well amongst the trees, hindering the effectiveness of pistols.
Finnegan’s main concern was Tier’s protection, and he leapt in front of her.
Standing well away from the skirmish was a man coated in paint, feathers, and beads of all sorts. From the way the painted man issued orders, Finnegan could guessed he was the tribe’s leader.
“Wait,” Father Rodriguez yelled.
He grabbed Tier’s hat and pulled it off, letting her golden hair cascade past her shoulders. He yelled something in an unknown language and shoved Tier past him in plain sight. Finnegan leapt after him, trying to protect her from any attacks. At the same time, the chief yelled in a frenzy and all the tribesmen backed away in utter fear.
“What’s going on?” Finnegan asked as he glared at the retreating savages.
“They worship gold,” Rodriguez explained. “They revere everyone who is fair. Play along.”
The chief approached them cautiously and began exchanging words with the priest.
“What language is it?” Finnegan whispered in Tier’s direction.
She frowned in concentration. “Portuguese, I think,” she replied.
“Do you understand what they are saying?”
“Yes. And so can you,” she said with a look of significance.
He allowed himself to listen, truly listen, at their conversation. He took in every minuscule detail of every sound. It wasn’t that he could understand the language, but he could surmise what they were talking about.
“Welcome, outsiders,” the chief was saying. “As thanks for bringing our deity to us, we shall welcome you. Come fill your bellies and warm your hearts. Tonight, we shall celebrate and release our deity from her mortal bonds.” He gazed reverently at Duchess Elizabeth Tier. “Tonight, she dies so that a god may be reborn.”
Tier’s eyes widened in fear and Finnegan flicked his blade at the chief’s direction.
“Over my dead body,” he challenged.
Despite the language barrier, the chief seemed to have no problem comprehending Finnegan’s message.
“Do not stand in the way of our tribe and our gods,” he said. “You are not one of us. You are nothing.”
Finnegan’s mind ran with possibilities. He could strike the man down, but that would incur further bloodshed and possibly injure Tier. That was simply not acceptable.
No, the solution had to be of a more diplomatic nature.
His mind made quick calculations, and he swung his saber. Tier remained motionless as the blade nearly lopped her head off.
“Have your wits left you?” she yelled.
Finnegan ignored her and bent over, picking up a lock of golden hair. He threw it at the chief’s feet.
“I have defiled your god,” he said. “May I issue a challenge now?”
He waited for the priest to properly translate.
The chief’s face contorted in wrath. “And why shall I not have you killed now in retribution?”
“If you win, you may kill me and my crew. And you are free to do whatever it is you wish with your so-called deity,” Finnegan replied. “If, however, I am the victor, you must provide us with what we require to make our journey.”
There was a long, tense moment before anyone spoke.
Finally, the chief nodded. “Very well. You will follow me. We must still thank you for bringing our deity to us. I suggest you enjoy the feast tonight, outsider, for it will be your last.”
They walked through thick vegetation for another hour, before emerging at an organized camp of tents, and buildings constructed from felled logs. The Chief’s savage men surrounded Finnegan’s crew the entire time, but they kept a respectful distance, unsure whether the foreigners were gods or conquerors. For now that uncertainty worked to Finnegan’s advantage.
At the centre of the village was a wide, open area, surrounded by primitive wooden fences and posts, where men with bows and arrows stood guard. Scattered on the outskirts of the compound were even more tents, these ones much larger, with stalls not too far from where they were set up. Children played at the entrance of the jungle, while women worked skins and threads in to cloths, jewelry or primitive leather armor for the men. They displayed their work inside the stalls, and occasionally an elder woman would walk by to inspect the goods.
Most of the men were busy fabricating weapons or practicing with them. Some were setting up a large bonfire at the centre of the compound, while a number of women set up cauldrons and pots on large heavy tables. Others still, impaled wild boars with sharp sticks before setting them on the fire.
It was no exaggeration when the chief promised Finnegan and his crew a feast: half a dozen wild pigs were being roasted on a spit. Fruit of all shapes and colors were passed around, and every man, woman, and child danced and sang. Barrels of wine and spirits, clearly marked with His Majesty’s seal, were brought out and depleted of their contents.
And yet, despite the festive atmosphere, the Belladonna’s crew was not in the mood for merrymaking. Each member had been handed a laurel of flowers and beads, which some men immediately discarded, thinking it was an attempt to poison them. A few had chosen to help themselves to some drink, making sure they would have enough courage should the situation require it. For the most part, they sat huddled in groups, nibbling on ribs and legs while their alert eyes surveyed the landscape. Finnegan noticed how one of their hands never strayed too far from their weapons.
Finnegan sat under a tree, alone. He wore the laurel they had given him—a sign of good sportsmanship, he thought—and constantly sipped on a mug full of rum. He refused to eat. The very thought of food made him queasy, but he needed the strong drink to soothe his nerves.
Tier had come earlier to scold him for his recklessness, but decided against it upon seeing his expression. He had put his life and his crew in peril, all for her sake after all. So, she gently placed the laurel on his head and gave him his drink and a kiss. She did not utter a single word: her actions were enough to say she wanted him to live.
Not for the sake of the quest, nor even the salvation of mankind.
At that moment, the only future she was concerned about was one where he was not there by her side. So she kissed his forehead gently and left him alone with his thoughts.
Now Finnegan watched her as she watched him, and his mind suddenly cleared of all doubt. He saw possibilities and probabilities. He remembered the lessons and instruction he’d received from Tier aboard the Belladonna. His mind began filtering away all of the irrelevant thoughts, and focused only on how to win his upcoming fight against whomever the chief pitched against him. He felt hollow, yet solid. Calm, yet fiery.
Captain Finnegan was ready to win this battle.
***
The festivities suddenly ceased and everyone sat or stood in a wide circle around the raging bonfire. Finnegan guessed it was time for the
challenge to be answered. Without waiting for the invitation he walked over to the wide open area, which he now likened to a makeshift fighting pit.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“Yes,” the chief replied. “Your challenge will be answered.”
“Then, what are you waiting for?” Finnegan asked.
Rodriguez was standing beside the chief and began translating for Finnegan.
The chief chuckled and extracted a long pipe. “Me? Oh, no, no. I’m afraid you are mistaken. I am an old man. My activities tonight will be to sit by and share a pipe with the others, while we watch the spectacle.”
“Who am I fighting, then?” Finnegan asked.
A young man walked into view, wielding a short javelin in one hand and a club with a thick knobbed head in the other.
“Someone with as much to lose as you,” the chief replied.
The young man stepped into the light, facing Finnegan. He was a lean warrior, laced with muscle, and his eyes bore the hardened will of one who was willing to go to extraordinary measures in order to achieve victory and honor.
“My son will be your opponent,” the chief continued. “He is the heir to this tribe and will be proving his mantle against you. The victor shall be decided by blood. Begin.”
Chapter 9
Captain Finnegan and the chief’s son circled each other. Finnegan’s eyes gazed over to his enemy’s weapons: a three-foot staff with a large spearhead at the tip and two red feathers tied to it, and a short club ending in a thick knob that could crush skulls with minimal effort. The warrior himself looked like something out of a tale that a drunk sailor would tell in a pub.
Finnegan drew his own cutlass saber and twirled it once, letting its polished, silver blade catch the light of the bonfire.
Suddenly the warrior lunged, wildly swinging the spear. Finnegan ducked and counter-struck. The native spun low and his foot shot upwards at Finnegan’s chest. The unexpected blow winded him, throwing him backwards. The savage kept his assault. Finnegan dodged a crippling blow from the club and blocked the spear, inches from his throat. His fist crashed into the savage’s face. At the same time, his opponent clumsily swung his club. Finnegan jerked at the last second and caught the blow aimed at his ribs with his shoulder instead. It hurt, but at least he wasn’t crippled by it.
Every instinct told him to stay close to the native, hindering the use of his enemy’s spear. Then, all Finnegan had to do was counter the club, and he stood a chance of winning.
But Finnegan underestimated his opponent’s cunning.
The native swung his club again and Finnegan parried it. At the same time, the native drove the spear into the ground and vaulted over the captain, landing behind him. Finnegan felt an elbow dig into his kidneys and roared in pain.
He felt his body move on its own into a drop parry, while swinging his saber around his shoulder and dodging another swing from the club. His footwork brought him face to face with the savage, and Finnegan smashed the heavy pommel of his sword at his opponent’s face. The savage evaded to the right, catching the blow with his shoulder. Finnegan twirled his sword around the spear, pinning it safely to the ground. The savage’s club smacked the back of his knee, and Finnegan fell on the spear’s shaft. He heard the sound of wood snapping beneath him, but managed to keep his swing, and felt his blade bite into the savage’s arm.
The savage lunged over the blow and hovered in the air above Finnegan before gracefully rolling over to Finnegan’s other side. Finnegan’s sword tip traced his movement, but only managed to stab dirt.
They quickly scrambled to their feet, with Finnegan launching a relentless assault. He had the advantage of the longer weapon now.
The savage ducked low and swung the club, but Finnegan was expecting that. He kicked at the savage’s arm and sent the club flying, then slashed at the now unarmed savage. His opponent was fast, dodging and weaving. He landed a blow to Finnegan’s jaw and grabbed his sword arm. Finnegan’s arm twisted, and he felt the sword escape his fingers. With a nudge, he sent it flying, far from the savage’s grasp.
Now, both unarmed, the battle degenerated into a fistfight.
Finnegan was bigger and stronger. He managed to wrap his fingers around the savage’s throat and drove him into the ground. The savage swung a leg over his arm, and a warning flashed in Finnegan’s mind. Before the savage could execute whatever counter-maneuver he planned, Finnegan threw himself backwards.
Both of them caught sight of the discarded club at the same time and simultaneously threw themselves onto it. The quicker savage caught it, but he couldn’t budge under Finnegan’s weight. The latter grasped the savage’s hand holding the club and smashed it against a nearby rock. The weapon shattered as the savage howled in pain. He then tried to roll them over, but his grip faltered with just one hand, barely managing to throw Finnegan off.
As they regained their footing, the savage launched himself at Finnegan. In another flash of clarity, Finnegan slipped his arm under his opponent’s and flipped him over. He felt the native kick at him, scything at his legs. He rolled and something hard pressed against his back.
The spear.
He reached for it, just as the savage threw himself at Finnegan again. Finnegan flipped him over and straddled the opponent’s chest, pressing the spear tip against his neck. The savage suddenly ceased moving.
From his position, Finnegan glared at the chief, who had been watching the entire battle with an unnatural stillness, except to smoke his pipe.
Finnegan knew that in order for the fight to stop, the chief had to declare a winner. Finnegan also knew that had to prove himself, to show these savages that he was not like the other outsiders who had come to conquer them.
He had to fully display just how special he was.
He forced his mind to do the calculations and pressed the spearhead against the savage’s shoulder, drawing one thick droplet of blood. Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, he snapped the spearhead in the chief’s direction, and a single drop of red sailed until it splashed against the chief’s face.
“Tell him,” Finnegan ordered Father Rodriguez, as he got off his opponent. He was still clutching the spearhead and felt blood trickle from his wounds.
“Tell him that blood has already been drawn,” he said with great effort. “No one needs to die tonight.”
Rodriguez conveyed the message and the chief squinted at Finnegan. Finally, he slowly nodded and the crowd began cheering. Finnegan made his way towards his opponent and offered a hand.
“No more blood,” he said. “No more fighting.”
The savage glared at his hand for a moment, before grasping it and accepting Finnegan’s offer of peace.
***
The festivities resumed almost immediately, while Tier and the rest of the Belladonna’s crew helped their captain sit down under a tree.
“My nose,” he said, pinching it with two fingers. He could feel blood trickling down his wrist. “My head feels like it’s splitting in half.”
“It’s all right,” Tier reassured him, while the rest of the lads went to fetch some food. “It happens when we overexert ourselves. You should be fine in the morning.” Then she bent over and lightly kissed him.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Before he could reply, the chief, his son, and a female aide bearing a jug and three cups, approached Finnegan. The woman poured clear liquid into the cups, and passed one to the chief, his son, and Finnegan, before backing away. The chief raised his cup and said something in his native tongue. Finnegan’s head was hurting too much for a translation but he got the gist of what the chief had said.
“Drink,” Rodriguez translated. “It dulls the pain.”
All three drank together and Finnegan nearly choked on his. It was bitter in taste and made him gag, but he swallowed nonetheless. Almost immediately, the tightness around his head loosened.
The chief spoke again.
“You have won,” Rodriguez translated, “and thus w
e will not be reclaiming our deity on this night. You may claim whatever price you wish.”
“I only want directions,” Finnegan replied. “But let us leave the negotiations until morning. I am too exhausted to even look at a map right now, let alone read one.”
The chief smiled broadly before muttering something to his son and leaving. Then, after a few steps he paused, and looked back.
“As the victor tonight, what do you think of my son and heir?” he asked.
Rodriguez translated, earning a quizzical look from Finnegan. He and the chief’s son locked eyes, and Finnegan saw shame.
“He is a skilled warrior,” Finnegan said, “but he is also humble enough to accept defeat with dignity. I think he will make a fine leader.”
As Rodriguez translated, the young man’s eyes lit up and his father clapped him on the back, clearly agreeing with that was being said. Once again they turned to leave and the son gave Finnegan a quick bow, which Finnegan acknowledged with a nod.
Funny how even without a single word in common, I could broker a peace between two worlds, Finnegan mused. Perhaps if there is a God, He is indeed smiling upon us.
Chapter 10
They left the native settlement at first light the following day. The natives insisted on preparing food and clothing for the crew while Finnegan and Rodriguez conferred with the chief and a few other elders. They answered whatever questions the captain had and gave him explicit directions.
“There is a wild place where none dare venture,” they said. “Wildlife does not approach, and birds do not fly over it. At the heart of such a place there is a cave with an entrance covered in vines and vegetation. Men may not venture inside—their minds cloud, and visions drive them mad.”
But Finnegan took no heed of their warning; he had risked too much to turn back now.
