Adrift

by Travis Smith

  “Up ye go! Daylight’s a wastin’.” He pulled The Stranger up by the neck of his ripped shirt and began marching briskly over toward the cliffs.

  “You have―” The Stranger tried to speak, but Slougher was obviously very eager to get to their destination, for he was dragging the former along behind him, stumbling and sputtering all the way.

  He finally fell to his hands and knees, breaking Slougher’s iron grip on a wad of his shirt. “You have to help me,” he pleaded, not looking up from the ground. “I’m dying.”

  Slougher spat and grumbled, but he still didn’t seem too put-off. “All righ’, ye big babbie.” He gruffly seized The Stranger’s arm and hoisted him back to his feet, throwing the arm around his disgusting, bony shoulders. “Mind ye, step lively. I got a schedule t’ keep!”

  They started off at a marginally slower pace, but The Stranger could lean on the pirate and all but drag his limp feet behind them. Being so close to this marauder, smelling his stench and feeling his unnatural frame against his body, made The Stranger cringe, and if he’d had the energy or sustenance, he may have come close to vomiting.

  As they approached the lowest edge of the cliff, which rose sharply to dizzying heights above the sea, The Stranger nodded in the direction of a slow-sloping incline in the grass just above the beach. “Up there.”

  “He ain’t in the cliffs?” Slougher asked, appearing surprised.

  “No, no.” The Stranger’s lies were thankfully flowing more effortlessly than his actual voice. “He’s on the top, where no one would dare search on their own.” Slougher dropped the man to the ground and stared stolidly at his face, obviously not believing. “He’s in a hidden alcove that can be accessed only from the top. If you want to find him, we’d better hurry before I bleed out right here on the beach.” He laid his head back and closed his eyes dramatically.

  “Oh, spare me!” Slougher growled as he yanked the bleeding man unceremoniously upright from the sandy beach and started off again furiously, obviously aware that The Stranger had him over a barrel but too desperate to find this living honeypot to do anything about it.

  He half-dragged, half-marched The Stranger up the grassy hill on the backside of the rising cliffs. Before they were halfway to the top, Slougher was panting and wheezing more than his prisoner himself.

  From the distance in the jungle came a faint but clear bellow that echoed across what was likely the entire small island.

  The Stranger looked in the direction of the disturbance, but Slougher only kept marching laboriously uphill and said, “Don’t ye worry ’bout them. I’s told ’em not to return wi’out ye. Jus’ get me to yer babbie, ’n’ we’ll sail off outta here, them none the wiser!” He laughed reflectively at the brilliance of his plan to single-handedly steal the reward out from under the noses of his entire crew.

  He seemed to think the call was directed at him or another crewmate, but The Stranger thought it had sounded decidedly like a scream of agony.

  11

  When they finally reached the top of the hill, Slougher marched him over to the edge of the cliff and looked uneasily over the ledge.

  “All righ’, where is ’e?” he asked briskly.

  The Stranger looked along the long edge of the cliff and pointed at a random point not far away. “That way,” he rasped.

  Slougher grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him along on his hands and knees to where he had pointed. “Thar ain’t nothin’ here!” he exclaimed after glancing agitatedly over the ledge again.

  “I told you it was hidden,” The Stranger said. Whatever happened here, it wouldn’t be favorable. He braced himself for anything that may come as Slougher stared at him expectantly. But he’d run out of lies.

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said plainly, but no comprehension dawned on the pirate’s face. The Stranger’s voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “The Baron really did take my son, and he left me for dead.”

  He had made a conscious effort to steel himself for any outburst, but Slougher’s was so sudden and violent that it still caught him completely off guard. The pirate’s heavy boot, garnished with scores of metal trinkets and add-ons likely stolen from blacksmiths all over Fordar, slammed into The Stranger’s face as he sat on his knees explaining and pleading.

  “LIAR!” he screamed as his captive’s body slammed limply into the ground. “YE FILTHY FUCKING COZENING LIAR!”

  The Stranger’s head was once again buzzing. His vision was obscured by dirt and blades of grass that were practically poking his open eyes. He numbly turned his head to the other side to avoid another head-on collision with the plunderer’s boot, but Slougher was pacing in distracted fury, still shrieking his curses and ill wishes at the ground.

  “Ye’ll wish ye were fucking dead ’fore I’m done with ye! Ye think a bullet wound is suff’rable, just wait ’til yer bleedin’ from e’ry or’fice where I done fucked ye wit’ my blade!”

  The Stranger took this opportunity to crawl slowly away from the outraged killer and closer to the edge of the cliff. He could simply crawl over the edge and fall to a quick death, sparing himself a miserable, torturous few last moments of life.

  “Then I’ll call me whole bloody crew back t’ join in on the fun! They’ll keep thrustin’ their tools into ye long after yer screamin’ and breathin’ stop!”

  Over Slougher’s enraged outbursts, The Stranger could vaguely make out more yelling in the distant jungle. As he dangled his limp head over the side of the rock wall, he saw something that snapped him back to reality and gave him a moment of hope.

  There was a large crack emanating throughout a jutting outcrop at the top of the cliff. He lifted his head to see Slougher still pacing and shouting and then glanced at the top surface of the large rock. The crack was here too, and the whole ledge looked as though it were being held intact only by the thin threads of a miracle.

  “We’ll drag yer tattered carcass back to the Barony ’n’ show ’em how earnestly we tried to get the infermation outta ye. Then they can come search these bloody cliffs t’ find yer bloomin’ babbie … Ay! Where d’ye think yer goin’?”

  The Stranger forced himself back into a sitting position and raised his hands pleadingly at the encroaching assailant. “Okay, please don’t hurt me anymore. My son is here. He’s right down here. I swear it!” If only he could get the man to pass over this crumbling boulder.

  “Ye’ll be lucky ’f I don’t make ye watch me skewer the little shitbag right then ’n’ there outta sheer joy ’f he truly is where ye say,” Slougher grumbled as he stamped moodily over to where The Stranger now sat.

  He was coming in the right direction, but he didn’t dare get close enough to the edge to step on the failing rock. The Stranger schemed quickly. He slowly closed his eyes and feigned a believable swoon toward the edge of the cliff as though he were close to passing out and falling over the side. Sure enough, Slougher, not too eager to lose his bounty or to lose his chance at torturing the man who’d stolen his bounty from him, lunged forward and closer to the edge of the cliff to grab the only man who could lead him to the child that would be the boon he so greedily sought. The moment his foot stamped down on the cracked rock, an audible crumbling and shifting passed between the two men. Slougher came down on his hands and knees at the same instant he grabbed the swaying man’s shoulder, but the ground beneath his knees and feet disappeared, and he dropped like the rock he was standing on down the side of the cliff.

  At the instant the rocks and boulder splashed into the water far below, Slougher was holding painfully onto The Stranger’s upper arm, his entire body dangling below and bouncing off the jagged rocks of the cliff.

  “Don’t do it!” he begged instantly. “I’s the only one can stop me crew flayin’ ye alive!”

  The Stranger saw the man’s curved sword fall from his other hand as he let go and struggled to reach up to gain a better grip. He looked into the villain’s panicked eyes and noted how dramatically the difference altered his
entire face. The sores and scabs and dried patches no longer looked sinister in this light. Without the greed and complacence and malevolence clouding the man’s features, Slougher only looked terrible and sad and suffering. The Stranger, nonetheless, had not forgotten what was promised to him could he not lead the pirate to his son, and he lay his body flat in the grass and effortlessly writhed his way out of the dangling Slougher’s death grip.

  He felt the bony claws relinquish his arm and heard the man’s final screams of outrage decrease in pitch as he fell farther and farther to his death. The Stranger stared at the sky and did not crawl back over to watch as Slougher’s limp body bounced off a lower rocky outcrop and was sent sprawling and tumbling unbelievably far outward into the turbulent waves, where it was then slammed relentlessly again and again into the lowest rocks of the cliff.

  12

  The Stranger wasted no time in getting up and attempting to hurry back down the hill toward the small boat that still rested on the shore. The tide had started to come in, and he hoped that setting the vessel afloat would be somewhat easier at this point, despite the fact that his condition was steadily worsening.

  At the thought of his condition, his legs gave out and he stumbled to his knees on the downward slope of the hill, but his forward momentum carried him heels over head, and he rolled to a stop just over halfway back to the beach. All the jostling and tumbling did nothing for his pain but worsen it exponentially, and as his ungainly forward momentum ceased, groaning and sobbing, he reached up and dug his fingertips as deeply as he could into the wound.

  The pain was immediate and immense. He cried out and withdrew his fingers, but he no longer heard shrieking in the jungle, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Slougher’s men weren’t currently on their way back to investigate their captain’s outraged bellows from moments before.

  He plunged his fingers in again and gritted his teeth so hard they might have chipped and cracked as the muscles in his jaws threatened to snap. Holding his breath, he dug the first two fingertips deeper and deeper until he could feel the round piece of metal within, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t cock his wrist at an angle that would allow him to pinch it and pull it out. He withdrew his bloody fingers and panted painfully through his sobs of agony.

  Before he could catch his breath and try again, he heard the crashing sounds of approaching footsteps. His heart raced even more painfully in his chest, and he sat bolt upright to look for the source. It was too concentrated to be more than a couple men traveling close together, but if even one of the harriers found him, he was as good as dead.

  Moments drew out agonizingly slow as the footfalls drew closer still, and The Stranger couldn’t bring himself to fight through the pain and run any more. He didn’t have the energy to even stand. His only option was to roll the rest of the way down the hill, but he knew that every revolution would be torture.

  Just as he had resigned himself to rolling anyway, a blood-soaked man leapt out of the tree line and froze on the spot, panting and glaring crazily at The Stranger, who looked back terrified.

  While the man’s beard was tamer than those of the other pirates and his skin looked quite a bit less diseased, he carried a curved scimitar that was already covered in blood, and his eyes danced dementedly. They were the eyes of a man who cared not whether he lived or died.

  Chapter 2:

  Protector Souls

  1

  Maria Vilsen observed the events through her sight-extending scope with a keen watchfulness. Her craft rocked peacefully above the calm waves as they passed beneath her on their path to the small island on the horizon. The glass in her scope allowed her to see much more than her aging eyes alone, but it offered little detail at this distance. She could, however, make out a small, unattractive vessel nearing the shore of the island. It certainly wasn’t one of the large, lavish ships of the rich or of the remaining rulers of Fordar who may be out searching for her, but its implications remained far from comforting. A wave-worn skiff like that could belong to any number of individuals in the area, but her recent paranoia, coupled with the fact that she could clearly discern as many as six heads aboard it, suggested that it more than likely belonged to bounty hunters hired by the remaining rulers.

  “Whattaya see now, love?” asked a drawling voice from behind her.

  Maria started and turned to face her new lover. “A skiff, Robert,” she said with hurried concern as she stepped into his open arms. “What do you make of it?”

  He took the scope from her and looked in the direction of the island. Maria laid her head upon his shoulder and looked behind him, distractedly running her hand along his beard, which had begun to look untamed. She was a woman with a lot of character and a strong personality, but ever since the Monarch in Reprise fell at the hand of The Baron and Fordar collapsed and she and Robert had fled, her mind hadn’t been at ease. Her thoughts had remained scrambled and distracted.

  Yes, there was the small boat, and on it Robert, whose eyesight was not quite as degenerated as Maria’s, could make out more than eight men. That was a lot of men out for a leisurely sail in such a small, personal schooner. And they were packed mighty tight and mighty light for a band of refugees just looking for a new home.

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Skiff, all righ’.”

  Maria looked at him with mounting concern. He’d set her mind at ease if he could. If he suspected trouble, he’d more likely be short and vague. “What is it?” she pressed.

  “The sails’re in. I’d doubt if they c’n see us this far without a scope.” He paused, squinting at the island on the horizon. “But seem t’ me they’re headed right fer us.”

  2

  John Tompkins was standing atop a towering cliff staring placidly at the frothing sea waves pounding the stony foundation far below. The waves were crashing violently against the rocky ledge, and their report was buzzing in John’s ears. Similarly creating quite a din was the strong wind coming in off the open ocean. His long, unkempt hair was whipping unnoticed around his face.

  Such things as grooming and eating well had hardly mattered since he’d become stranded on this cursed island. He’d spent the last portion of his life living in an abandoned old shanty at the old man’s request; all that time spent just waiting for a sign, an escape, a redemption. He’d spent a portion of his life barely living, wandering aimlessly from day to day, searching but not seeing, pleading to any protector souls he may have left but not meaning it. Sure, he wanted to get off this island. He wanted a chance to go back to his home and his old life, but he’d traded all of that, as well as his soul, just to keep his breath.

  The old man who lived on the island had known as sure as John himself had that he was damned. No doubt a black aura of evil surrounded the husk of a human that had hurtled up to his cabin on that day so long ago and begged for his help. But the man was no more a protector than he was a punisher. He was a man who would pass into the afterlife silently and unnoticed, his soul slumbering as peacefully as it had his entire life.

  He had known the boy was damned, but all that he could offer was his counsel. “What’s ya name, soh?” he’d asked calmly.

  “John,” the boy had stammered. “It’s John. You have to help me. Please help me!”

  The man had put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Slow yerself,” he rasped gruffly and in a tone with which John could not argue. “M’ name’s Eugene, ’n’ I’ve lived here on me own fer’s long’s I c’n r’call.” Eugene stood from his rocker and leaned upon his cane, nearly as gnarly as the bony arm and hand that held it. “I’d know not where yer from ’r what ye’ve done. I c’n see ’s plain ’s day yer a good man’s lost his way, ’n’ I’m not t’ man t’ help ye find it. But I offer ye any resource ye c’n utilize to he’p ye’self.”

  John, not eager to admit that he’d escaped the captivity of a stopping slave ship on its way from Reprise to Fordar and watched in panicked indecision as it sailed away with his wife and son still aboard, merely bowe
d his head and wept.

  “One t’ing y’ ought not f’rget: Findin’ yer way home won’ do ye no good ’til ye’ve found yer salvation.”

  John had left the decrepit old man’s company willingly enough and traveled slowly and laboriously through the jungle with his head down and his eyes wet until his feet bled and his legs gave out and he collapsed in the dirt only to look up and find an empty shack waiting for him in the dusk’s fading light.

  And there he had lived, quietly gathering provisions and silently punishing himself day in and day out, waiting for a sign that he was saved, a sign that his soul was saved.

  Now he stood, alone and silent, as he had stood for much of his time here, staring out at the expansive sea below him, all hope of redemption and salvation finally gone, merely dwindled slowly but surely into non-existence and twinkled out like a dying star. He closed his eyes and thought fixedly of the faces of his family—his wife and son who were likely long-since dead because he saw an escape and frantically took it before stopping to decide what to do about them—prisoners or worse, and due almost exclusively to his selfishness, his betrayal. This damnation would come full circle as his lifeless body floated to the icy bottom of the sea, the images of his loved ones still flickering in his dying brain.

  He opened his eyes and distractedly noticed a large crack in the gray rock beneath his feet. He bounced on his feet and watched as the fracture elongated and expanded along the surface. Tiny rocks and dust particles tumbled into the strong breeze as they came loose from the cliff face.

  Thus was the essence of John’s selfishness. He’d abandoned his whole family for absolutely nothing, and here he was, too selfish to even take his own life after all, engaging any detail that could distract him from his loathsome, deserved end.

  But the rock upon which he stood would surely slip, and as it neared the point of no return, John glanced back below at his likely path to eternity. The waves continued to crash persistently, and a flock of gulls flew by far below him, another detail to prolong his miserable existence. His neck followed their flight mechanically, far to one side, until he noticed that the water below them was no longer a clear blue, but a murky green with a bright red cloud spreading throughout.