by The Awethors
* * *
BUCKLES FLASHED AS soles of boots sank into the sand. A weathered pair, studded with skulls and fish bones, stopped before a boat.
“Avast ye, Samuel, Simon! Collect me property and hitch it to th’ ship.”
“Aye, captain!”
“Aye!”
Two pirates hastily claimed the dory and dragged it toward the Water Lily.
A third pirate stood by, waiting for his orders. The captain turned to him. Mismatched eyes—one brown, one blue—regarded the young man with a coldness reserved for battle. His face, trained from years of gambling, betrayed no emotion.
“Fetch yer girl, Daniel, and anythin’ else of worth ye find along th’ way,” he said, his voice cold.
“Aye.”
The captain squinted at Sprite Island with no intention of straying deeper than where he stood upon the shore. “Magic plagues this land, both th’ good kind and th’ bad. I want leave of it before its curses be ours.”
Daniel looked at the captain, his eyes focusing on one eye and then the other. “Aye, thank ye.”
A massive hand grabbed Daniel by the shirt, raising him so that their noses met. The jewels strapped to the captain’s fingers dug into fabric and flesh. “If ye en’t returned before the sun falls, we leave without ye.” His words shook the shells and plumes that adorned his hat, including a carroty-orange feather, the sight of which would have made Swig faint.
“Aye,” wheezed Daniel, forcing out the air left in his lungs.
