Art:AADM/Second round/Darigor's Treasure

The Short
= The Entry = “Murderous,” she whispered as she wept, her voice lost by the howling wind carrying her words into the wailing storm, and it was so; the metal of her trembling hook was a rain-polished argent, a shimmering silver contrast against the clean whiteness of her richly heaving alabaster bosom and the welling crimson blood (drawn from the wicked uncaring tip of her hook drawing thin angles as jagged as her soul) which intermingled with her tears and the wind and rain and fell, spiraling, towards the deep dark ocean far below.

Lightning flared across the sky, casting the cliff and her figure alike into sharp relief while the scent of ozone filled the air. As the thunder reached its crescendo, she lifted her face to the skies, agony writ on every inch of it, mouth stretched wide in rictus grin, parody of a death smile as she screamed to the lowering heavens, “Murderous! Damn you, and damn your heartless caprices.” Voice trailed to a weak whisper as her head slumped back down, face momentarily washed clean of saline tracks by the rain that fell uncaring, unheeding. Behind her, she could feel her crew stirring, restless and uncertain, filled now with fear as their captain faced down the storm, shrieking like a madwoman.

One last time, she looked out to sea, her tears ended now, and drew her hand across the rivers of red that decorated her chest. Fingers coated in blood, she held them out, watching as the rain washed her hands clean, and she murmured, “Never again. These hands will be stained crimson with the blood of my enemies. They will pay.” With that, she turned her back on the cliff, and slogged through the morass of mud and loose rock, footing almost mockingly steady as she worked her way back to her crew.

There they stood, ranged before her, her own private workers of death, unknowing yet of their mission. Nothing in her doubted they would comply – they were bound to her as surely as the land was bound to the sea, knowing nothing of their lives that did not touch upon her, and the Dragonlor, flagship of their fleet, pride of their heart and her sole reason for existence, now that … now that he was gone.

Ornith held the rum jug, and this she took in her hand, wet fingers slipping for a moment on the smooth exterior, before she poured a measure to the ground. “Kennit’s drink.” She whispered the words, and then lifted the jug, swallowing a gulp of sweet and burning liquid, before handing it back to Ornith. He repeated her actions and words, then handed the rum down the line. Soon, all had had their drink, and they turned, moving down the path strewn with crushed rocks. No eyes lifted to the solitary tree they passed, a length of fraying rope still whipping in the wind, free and unsteady without the weight of the pirate’s body to hold it in place.

Ornith caught up to the captain, walking beside her as they retreated from the promontory. He little liked the duty he had now, but he could not ignore the crew’s wishes, not for all the grief their captain might have. A Quartermaster’s duties were clear on that. A nervous clearing of his throat, and one tanned hand, palms thick with calluses from the years he handled the ropes and rigging, lifted, pushing sopping wet brown hair from his face. “Cap’n, beggin’ yer leave. What’re yer orders?”

“We sail, Ornith.” Her voice was low, reasonable, with steel as plain in it as the steel she wore at her side. Jonquilla’s head lifted, eyes finding the harbor below them, the Dragonlor waiting for them, more faithful than any proper lord’s dog ever could be. “We sail on the tide, and we hunt them down. We make them pay, and we do not rest until they are defeated. Their riches, their honor, their lives, their families. We take it all.”

With these words in his ears, Ornith fell back a few steps, letting the Captain go ahead. The rest of the crew, too, slowed, and all eyes were locked on Jonquilla as she moved, solitary, to her vessel. A handsome woman, her face was too proud and too scarred to ever be called beautiful, but she inspired loyalty and love nonetheless among her crew. Now, as she plodded down the path, rain-soaked locks of crimson flattened against the black of her bodice, mud obscuring her boots and splashed up the once-pristine white trousers she wore, she looked like vengeance personified – steady and intractable, set only to one purpose – destruction of all those who had caused this day to come.

They had found the island after weeks of hard sailing, running just a day ahead of the storm that had finally caught them here. A chain of islands really, though most of them were nothing but sandy havens, interrupting the ocean with their pale beaches. The central island appeared to be no more than a jagged knot of rocky promontories, but a small inlet was found, in the side of the cliffs, and the Dragonlor had wormed her way within. There was treasure hidden in this keyhole of an island, the settlement of pirates gone soft and weak, more oft sailing as privateers than true freebooters, and grown as complacent as the fat lordlings they served.

Ormand vom Jaeger was their captain, leader of that band of privileged privateers who called themselves the Gulls. It was here they had hidden the families they had formed, and their treasures. And it was here, after one too many an ale alone in Tortuga, that Kennit found himself, pleading for release from the torture that Ormand inflicted daily on him, to find the truth of Darigor’s Treasure.

Inwardly, Jonquilla cursed herself as she sat in the rowboat manned by others, heaving through the waters to the Dragonlor. A rumor was all that it had been at first, a rumor of wealth and riches. She had been a fool to share it with Kennit, knowing how his mind took every fancy and flew with it. And more of a fool to leave him alone at the Crusted Dog, for he was too talkative by half when in his cups. For his torture, though, for the desecration to his body and the clean death that, even at the end, was denied him, she blamed Ormand.

They had found the settlement hastily abandoned, plenty of plunder in the basements of the houses. Rich tapestries adorned the daub and wattle walls, fine jewels lying haphazardly atop dressers and golden candlesticks perched precariously on wooden tables scarred and stained with use. But the crew of the Dragonlor was not seeking treasure on this run, nor were they raiders to steal the cattle and grain spread out on the pasturelands before them. No, their quarry had already fled, leaving nothing but a tortured body hanging from a tree.

Kennit was discovered during the quartering of the island, seeking any who might still be there, to question as to the intents of Ormand. A strangled shout, a curse, and the rest of the crew had gathered round the weathered bare oak, staring mutely at the grisly remains of the First Mate of the Dragonlor. For minutes, they could do nothing but look, as the wind played with the ragged tatters of his clothes, body swaying slowly, while the rope gave low and mournful creaks, lost among the storm’s howl.

His once-handsome face had been beaten beyond recognition, the nose broken repeatedly so it resembled nothing so much as a smashed orange, swollen with dried blood crusted round the nostrils. Both eyes had been put out, the sockets left to weep pus-yellow tears onto the dirt-stained cheeks, now gaunt and hollowed, doubtless from weeks of privation. The rain had washed some of the accumulated grime from his features, but the skin visible was no less appealing, mottled purple from the strangling rope around his neck.

Kennit’s chest, browned by shirtless days in the sun and the rigging of the Dragonlor, was now more red than anything, barely healed brands and the marks of a hot poker all over it. As the wind pushed at the body, twisting it with a groan on the straining rope, the left side of his back came into view. Strips of flesh had been sliced away, blood long since crusted over the muscle beneath, but now softened by the rain and weeping red tears to the ground.

The legs, bared beneath the scraps of cloth so discolored with filth and grime that their original color was lost, were marked with the lines of a lash, and the soles of his feet, dangling low and flopping as he danced the hempen jig, looked like poorly formed tallow, skin blackened and leaking fluid, bearing testament to the hours he must have spent, a torch beneath his feet, screaming for release.

Jonquilla had come upon the body last of all, knowing what she would find, and dreading it nonetheless. As she saw him swing, lifeless and inert, she could not reconcile the corpse on the rope to the lover who had taken her in his arms so many nights at sea, who had filled her quarters with laughter and light, the deck with songs, the men with cheer.

“This is not Kennit.” She whispered the words, pushing through the crew, who stood, too numbed to move even for their captain, and staring at him. “This … this will never be him.”

Ornith stepped forward, the macabre spell finally broken, and roughly pulled aside some of the tattered cloth, revealing the tattoo upon Kennit’s arm, the same that each of their crew shared – a blood-red hawk trailing golden flames. “It’s him, Cap’n. Tweren’t no one else it could be.” The quartermaster’s voice was low and rough, revulsion and pity mixed alike as he stared.

A sob shook her form, before she rounded on her crew, her feeble grasp on sanity come almost completely loose. “Cut him down! Don’t just stand there staring! Take him down! Damn you all!” When the others startled, and continued to stare, she gave a wordless shriek and lunged forward, drawing her cutlass and hacking at the sword above his head. It did not give easily, saturated with the rain, but the strands of the rope began to unravel, and then the body collapsed upon the ground with a sickening thud.

They had given him a proper seaman’s burial, wrapped in canvas they’d taken without thought from the settlement, and over the side of the cliff. There were no words to be said over his body; his soul had long since departed this realm, and reached whatever final judgment lay in wait for it. The corpse drifted down to Davy Jones’s locker beneath the rocks and foaming waves, one more existence lost to the vagaries of a pirate’s life. Davy would no doubt find it a dismal treasure, the fiery spirit of the captain’s love long since fled from the cold skin.

Now, as she climbed the Jacob’s ladder to gain the deck of the Dragonlor, carefully helped the last few feet by the skeleton crew that had been left aboard to guard against the slim possibility of attack, they read the answer to their unspoken question on her face. Unable to believe, one of the powder monkeys who had stayed behind asked, “Cap’n? Did … did ye find him?”

Eyes as cold and hard as the rocks behind her bore into the crewman’s, and she answered, “What they left of him.” Behind her, Ornith had managed to make it up the rope ladder as well, and she turned to him. “Weigh anchor when the last crewman comes aboard. Then set sails for Tortuga. We hunt tonight.”

With her orders given, Jonquilla made her way across the main deck, sidestepping coils of rope and moving around fixtures with absent ease, her long time aboard the Dragonlor placing her in good stead. She could have walked the decks in her sleep, if she needed. Beneath the quarterdeck, she opened the door to her cabin and slipped within, left hand coming to her right arm to work loose the leather straps that held her hook in place. She tossed the hook onto her bunk, then leaned against the door, kicking her boots off and sending them skidding across the floor. Numb, she stared at the muddy trail they left behind, and then stumbled to the small chair before her desk.

She sank into it gratefully; green eyes closing and head tipping back, red curls dripping water to the floor, as her mind retreated even further, to Ormand and the first that she had heard of the legend of Darigor’s Treasure.