Where Loyalties Lie (Best Laid Plans Book 1)

by Rob J. Hayes

  All night and most of the morning they’d floated peacefully, too far out to anchor and too badly banged up to sail on until certain issues had been dealt with. Three ships lashed together might make for an odd sight if there were anyone around to see it, but the chances of anyone happening upon them were slim and then some. They’d need to set sail, and soon; the sea might be endlessly blue and calm, but the clouds were looking to take a darker turn, and Drake didn’t feel like being caught out in a storm in their current condition.

  “It’s broke,” the doc said eventually.

  “Didn’t I say the same thing to you just a few minutes ago?” Drake retorted in a tone that could curdle milk.

  “Your expert opinion aside, thought I best look at it myself.” The doc had a note of challenge in his voice and twice as much in his eyes, so Drake decided to shut up and let the man get on with his job. “Ain’t too bad, but we’re gonna need to put it in a sling.”

  “Do it.”

  “It’s gonna hurt.”

  “It already fucking hurts. Do it.”

  Drake spent the next five minutes with teeth gritted against the pain, and silently cursing the name four different gods while the doc tried to remember how to tie a proper sling. It was, perhaps, a problem with hiring a drunkard as a ship’s doctor. Luckily for the crew of the Fortune, the man was a better doctor than he was a drunk. After he was done, Drake levered himself up from his seat at the forecastle and decided it was time to tour the ship.

  “How many dead and injured, Doc?” Drake said, deciding it was always best to start with the worst news.

  The doc shook his head as he packed up his tools. “Rin knows. Too many. Stopped counting. Reckon Princess got a number for you though. Bastard damn near lost an eye, and he was still going around checking on folk.”

  Drake nodded and limped away from the doc. Sometime during the course of the battle, possibly when he’d delivered the showy kick to the hair-lipped soldier’s jaw, he’d picked up a sprained ankle. It was far from the worst of his current wounds, but it was getting on Drake’s very last nerve. He hated showing weakness, and with a pronounced limp and his arm in a sling, he was already showing more than too much.

  The two pirate crews – those not dead or too injured to work – had been steadily clearing the bodies from the decks of the two ships. Well over a hundred corpses had already been tossed overboard to the sharks and other beasties below, and there were still more below decks. Many of the soldiers had surrendered once they realised the fight was lost, though some had continued to put up a fight. Some might say it was a testament to either their training or perhaps their belief in their god, but Drake saw it more as a testament to their stupidity. Not that it truly mattered; most of those who had surrendered would never make it back to Sarth. Drake would select a few to send back, and the rest would feed the denizens of the deep.

  After a struggle down the ladder to the main deck – Drake didn’t feel much like taking the leap with a sprained ankle, and climbing with only one arm proved to be as difficult as it sounded – he found Princess talking to Stillwater. Twenty-one men were bound and on their knees, guarded by armed and pissed-off pirates.

  “Cap’n,” Princess said with a grin as Drake limped near. The man’s right eye was swollen shut, and he had a bunch of stitches on the same side of his head. Despite the obvious injuries, Princess looked in good spirits, though Drake guessed that was as much to do with the good spirits that the doc gave to his patients as anything else. “Got a bit of an issue with the prisoners.”

  “I don’t see it as an issue,” Stillwater said. It pleased Drake no end to know that, though his fellow captain was infamous for being the best swordsman in the isles, he’d still taken a wound in the battle. “These sons of arses slaughtered hundreds and tried to do the same to us. All of them should swim. Let Rin pick the survivors.”

  Drake cleared his throat and pitched his voice so that the prisoners would hear him. “We all know, Stillwater, that if those men are thrown overboard, Rin won’t get a look in. Sharks have been lounging around for hours, feeding on the dead, and all it takes is a glance to see things worse than them have started to arrive. Ever seen a man’s skin digested from his bones while he’s still breathing?”

  Stillwater pulled a disgusted look and shook his head.

  “I have,” Drake continued. “And, judging by the beasties thrashing around down there, that’s what these poor boys will see up real close if we make them swim.” He lowered his voice and leaned in towards Stillwater. “Besides, Captain, satisfying your bloodlust comes second to what we may still gain from these men.”

  “We have the admiral,” Stillwater protested, his face turning a darker shade of red. “Anything he knows is worth ten times what these men might.”

  “Sometimes, Stillwater, it’s not about what they might know, and more about what they’re willing to tell others that they think they know.”

  “What?”

  Drake had already selected his target: a young soldier, short and gaunt, huddled with a few of his fellows on the deck nearby. The soldier was desperately attempting not to make eye contact with anyone, and especially not Drake. Little did the man know he was likely the only one who would actually survive this ordeal. The older soldier to his left certainly wouldn’t be so lucky.

  “That one.” Drake pointed at the older soldier. “Overboard.”

  As three of Drake’s crew moved to obey their captain’s order, the man, a handsome fellow with piercing blue eyes, started shaking his head and babbling for help. Rather than helping him, his fellow soldiers shuffled away from the doomed man as quickly as they could with bound hands and feet.

  “Please don’t do this,” the man cried as the pirates hauled him to his feet and started dragging him to the railing. “I’m sorry. I was only doing my job. I have a family…”

  “Stop!” Drake approached the soldier, who was now just a few feet from the railing. “You hear that, Stillwater? Man has a family. Wife and kids, I reckon.” He looked at the soldier, who nodded obligingly. “Son? Daughter?”

  “Two daughters.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Mari, she’s five, and Londre is two. I love them and I just…”

  Drake held up his hand to silence the man, wincing as his other arm gave a twinge of pain. “What do you say, Stillwater? You wanted these bastards dead. Still set on it now you know you’ll be orphaning poor Mari and Londre?”

  Keelin Stillwater, the pirate captain infamous for taking ships without any blood spilled, stared at the soldier whose life was on the line. Drake noticed that not only pirates from both crews, but also surviving refugees from Sev’relain, had gathered around to watch and wait on the decision. He had to suppress the smile that threatened to erupt onto his tightly schooled features.

  “Black Sands and Sev’relain are gone.” Stillwater’s grey eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone. “You beg for a mercy you did not show any of your victims.”

  Drake waited a moment longer for Stillwater to make the decision before prompting him. “Up to you, Captain Stillwater. Over the side or back with the others?”

  “Feed him to the sharks.”

  “No!” the soldier shouted, but it was too late. The pirates dragged him the last couple of steps and tossed him over the railing.

  The soldier’s scream rang out for a moment, before it was drowned out by a splash; another moment later, Drake heard the sound of pleading again as the man resurfaced and begged for mercy he was never going to receive.

  “Shouldn’t be long now.” Drake smiled at the twenty soldiers still bound and huddled together on the deck.

  When the screaming started it was guttural, raw, and it left none that could hear under any doubt about how painful a death it was. Drake kept his face fixed in that dangerous smile, ignoring how ill the affair was making him feel. Death was necessary and, often even more so, the spectacle was needed as well. Now was one of those times. Thankfully, the scream
ing didn’t last long; the creatures of the sea had a habit of dragging their food down below the waves to devour it. There wasn’t much like the ocean and the beasties that lived in it for making a man seem small and fragile.

  Drake looked at Stillwater to find the man had gone pale. He stepped between his fellow captain and the captive soldiers. “That sated your need for blood yet?” he said quietly.

  Stillwater looked up at Drake and opened his mouth to reply, before promptly shutting it again and nodding.

  “Good.” Drake turned back to the soldiers. “So who’s next?”

  There was a silence so complete that Drake could hear the timbers groaning and the waves smacking against the hull. Many of the soldiers attempted to keep their eyes locked on the decking, but some of them started looking around for an escape.

  “You’ve made your point, Drake,” Stillwater said slowly.

  Drake ignored the man. “I recognise you.” He pointed to a young soldier and cracked a grin.

  The soldier shook his head frantically.

  “Aye, I think I do. Seem to remember you had a shield and were dead set on getting me killed.”

  “I… uh… sorry.”

  “You and that big bugger with the lip. Tell me something, soldier – what did you see?”

  The soldier looked Drake in the eyes, his expression something between awe and terror. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I saw the ship come alive.”

  Drake heard Beck scoff, and he shot her a dangerous glance before turning back to the soldier. “Go on.”

  “Aiben was about to put his sword through you, and the ship came alive, protected you. Then you pointed at Aiben and told him to die, and he did. Chest just burst open.”

  Drake nodded sagely before turning around and approaching Princess. “Make sure that one gets back to Sarth. Drop him off on a trade route, I reckon.”

  Princess smiled and nodded. “The rest of ’em, Cap’n?”

  “Couldn’t give a shit. Feed them to the waves or stick them with their mate somewhere. Just want them out of my sight.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  As Drake started walking towards the plank that had been set up between the Man of War and the Fortune, both Beck and Stillwater rushed to his side. Drake couldn’t help but notice that Stillwater was watching the Arbiter through narrowed, suspicious eyes. There was a good chance the man had worked out what she was, and that was an issue that would need dealing with sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, he currently had the more pressing issue of a hundred homeless refugees to house.

  “What was that about?” Stillwater said as Drake mounted the walkway between the ships. A quick glance downwards and Drake was assured that whatever had killed the unfortunate soldier they had thrown overboard was still very much about.

  “Sometimes a healthy dose of reputation can do a man wonders. That bastard goes back to Sarth and reports to his superiors that the ship was taken by Drake Morrass and Keelin Stillwater, bloodthirsty pirates more than willing to orphan unfortunate children, all the while protected by the very ships they sail. Not to mention possessing of some quite inexplicable magics.”

  Drake stepped carefully back onto the Fortune and waited for the others to make the crossing. “Those superiors, folk in charge, dismiss most of that as fancy, possibly caused by weeks, or months, of exposure to the rough sea and indomitable sun. Problem is, that soldier doesn’t stop at just telling those in charge. Problem for them, anyway.

  “Back into the ranks and a couple of ales down him and he’s telling everyone he knows, soldiers for the most part, maybe some sailors, but they’ve no doubt already heard their fair share.”

  Beck was the last over the plank, and she was giving Drake that unimpressed look she favoured so highly; problem was, she was beautiful no matter what look she was giving him, and Drake liked having beautiful things.

  “Before anyone can stop him, there’s stories floating about saying we rode ships made of fire, shot lightning from our eyes, and sucked the souls from men’s bodies. Dread pirates. Morale won’t be too high among men who find themselves ordered to hunt down foes like that, eh.”

  A couple of Drake’s crew were waiting to talk to their captain with all the patience a pirate could muster.

  “They say similar things about Tanner. Dread pirate, eats souls to stay alive,” Keelin said

  “Aye, I’ve heard them all. Ghost of the old Captain Black, made a deal with Rin herself to float him up from his watery grave. Same stories say that Elaina is actually the sea goddess in mortal form, but I reckon you’d know the truth of that one better than most. Ever find seaweed down where there should have been hair?”

  Stillwater looked ready to take a swing, and, with Drake’s current condition, he would likely land the blow. Drake held up his hand. “Point is, Stillwater, rumours and reputation are mostly shit. I know – I’ve made up more than a few in my life. You know the truth about Tanner and you know the truth about you. Don’t really matter what other folk think, does it?”

  Stillwater looked like he was about to protest, but said nothing.

  “Good. Now we got some concerns to deal with. What is it?” Drake said to the first of his crew hovering nearby as he started for his cabin. Stillwater’s first mate was loitering around the doorway, and Drake decided to give him the staring of a lifetime. The man looked away, cowed.

  “Folk from Sev’relain, Captain. Even… uh… with… even with all da boys we lost – ain’t enough space for ’em all. ’Less we gone start packin’ ’em in like, uh, crates.” The pirate laughed; he quickly stopped when no one else joined in.

  “We have all the space we need, Heller. Start moving the refugees over onto the Man of War. You should do the same with those on your ship, Stillwater.” Drake opened the door to his cabin and walked in, letting his procession follow him. He crossed the cramped space to his desk and lowered himself into the chair behind it, resisting the urge to let out a grateful sigh as his body decided it never wanted to stand ever again. At the same time he truly wished he’d retrieved a bottle of rum from the cabinet before sitting down. Little could make how he currently felt right, but rum would definitely make him feel better.

  “Food…” said Stillwater’s first mate, a southerner from the Wilds, if Drake wasn’t mistaken.

  “Same solution, I reckon.” Drake leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the desk, an action he quickly regretted when he realised they were covered in blood. “Anybody bothered to check the Man of War’s hold? Reckon it might be stocked with supplies to get us to where we’re going. More than enough, if you don’t mind soldier’s rations.”

  “And where are we going?” Stillwater was pacing bloody bootprints into the rug. Seemed everybody was tracking in the same mess.

  “You two done, or ya got more to say?” Drake said to the two members of his crew who had followed him in.

  “Uh, done, Cap’n.”

  “Then roll up that bloody rug and give it to the sea, then find Princess and tell him to get his arse in here.”

  “Aye, Captain,” said Heller as they moved to obey.

  Drake needed one of his charts of the isles; unfortunately, his body needed to not move. In an act of sheer willpower, he pushed himself up out of the chair. Drake was unwilling to show any sort of weakness in front of another captain or, even worse, an Arbiter. He limped over to a locked cabinet and pulled out a key from his pocket. The key was a show and nothing more; the real release on the cabinet door was a small button hidden on the bottom side of the lock. Drake inserted the key and turned it, pressing the button as he did so, and the cabinet door opened. It wasn’t that he was paranoid, but more that he occasionally spent extended periods of time away from the Fortune and didn’t trust any of his crew. Or anyone from any crew, for that matter. There were, in fact, only two people Drake trusted in the world, and one of them was himself.

  He picked a specific chart from the cabinet, and then locked it again before tak
ing the old chart to his desk and laying it flat, using two stones to weigh down the edges. He walked around to the other side of the desk, stopping by the cupboard to take out a bottle of run, and lowered himself back into his chair. The others moved closer. Even the Arbiter seemed curious.

  Drake uncorked the bottle and took a deep swig before pushing it towards the others. Stillwater eyed the rum warily, but Beck happily plucked it from the table and took a swig, and Stillwater’s first mate quickly followed suit.

  “So where are we going?” Stillwater was frowning down at the chart. “Can’t ferry these refugees around forever, Drake.”

  The door to the cabin opened. Princess shuffled in, closed the door behind him, and joined the others at Drake’s desk. Now that his full audience was here, it was time to upset them all. Drake pointed at a large irregular shape on the chart.

  Princess was the first to respond – with laughter. Stillwater looked stony-faced, Arbiter Beck looked disappointed, and Stillwater’s first mate cursed in a language Drake had never heard before.

  “You’re fucking mad! Captan, he’s fucking mad.”

  “Careful, Morley,” warned Princess, still grinning as if Drake had told the funniest joke the man had ever heard. “Opinions aside, you just insulted Drake Morrass aboard his own ship. Crew don’t take too kindly to such.”

  “Blind devotion to your captan aside, Princess, but we just followed you into a foolish attack on a Sarth Man of War, and now your captan wants to feed us to the devils of Cinto Cena.”

  “A fairly dramatic name, don’t you think?” Drake said merrily, reaching across the chart for the bottle of rum.

  “Oh!” Morley exclaimed. “I should call it by its common name? The Isle of Many Deaths.”

  Drake shrugged, spreading his hands. “Also fairly dramatic.”

  Morley turned to Stillwater. “Captan, the men have already lost so much. Yanic’s gone and Smithe’s already got a fair number of the crew behind him.”

  “Not now, Morley.” Stillwater was staring daggers at his first mate.