Rushing past a storefront, I caught my reflection and stepped aside to tuck my hair underneath a cap. No sense in going down to the docks and drawing attention to myself. My locks tucked away, it was simple business to navigate the warren of dirty docks. It stank to high heaven, which was a dash between the fish pulled in and the men. They were lain about, some broken or cast off, others passed out after a night of long pleasure. A small few probably had died were they lay, but most would be gone by sunset- pressed into service or hauled away by the guards.
I was thankful Master Powell had specified that she was a three master that was carrying our cargo, as most ships moored here were two mast at best. There were a few yard-and-a-halfs, which were just playing at being real ships.
"Oi! Laddie, what'chu here for? Careful someone don't add you to thems crew." A rough sailor belted out, pausing in tying his ship ashore and pulling me out of my admittedly daft head.
"Cargo retrieval, from the Alexandra." I called back as he tied off the line.
"Three docks starboard." He growled, nodding to left. I nodded, momentarily wondering as to what the devil starboard was, before chiding myself and carrying on.
She was moored on the far side of the shipyard, of course, and had a broken winch. The dockmaster was irate about the delays.
"Mr. Powell's packages, you last oaf!" He shouted to a young boy, likely a deckhand or cabin boy. He looked nervous and unsure, but scampered over the pile with steady fleet feet and turned up with a small bag.
"That cannot possibly be all of it!" The official demanded sharply. The boy gave a meek eep and vanished back into the mess, pulling out a long and thin tube heavily sealed at both ends.
"The manifest says three packages you imbicile!" He roars at the boy.
"Yes, but master, I can't read!" He squeaks, diving back into the store to avoid the heavy hand of the dockmaster.
"You think that's funny?" He whirls on me, hand raised.
Rather than shrink back, I step into his space, unimpressed. His face starts morphing colors and tensions are coming to a boil when a box is tossed at my feet.
"All delivered!" The boy chirps.
"Get out of my docks." the Dockmaster says as he wheels around.
I tuck the box under one arm and struggle to heave the bag of what must be rocks or ingots judging by the weight. I nearly drop both again as the tube's weight shifts as whatever is inside sloshes to the side. I growl to myself, arm already aching and start my march back to the forge.
"Boy, that better be you!" Powell bellows from inside the forge. His face is red and blotchy from the heat, eyes squinting in the light.
"And what if it was a customer?" I shoot back, awkwardly shrugging the bag of rocks off my shoulder.
"then I'd have another thing to complain about. Put the others behind the counter." He grumbles, picking up the bag and disappearing further into the back room.
Master Powell was demanding, forgetful, smelled, and had a temper, especially if he got into the drink. He had a swatch of hair singed off from his nose to his crown, which had taken the eyebrow with it. He claims a forge misfire- but more likely he passed out toward the fire. As I set the tube of liquid down, I noted the stamp on it and rethought his lack of hair.
Warning: Explosive
He blew his eyebrow off. It all made sense now. Every little quirk, all of it, boom.
"Boy!" He bellowed.
"Coming!" I shouted back, stepping into the back room. Master Powell was one of a few master smiths around here, so he did some of everything. From swords to barrels to horseshoes to cannon shot, he'd forged it before.
"Onto the bellows. Try to keep your timing steady today. We don't need another fire. The watch'll have my arse if we do that again." He grinned at me, a rare show of amusement or affection. "Course, Old lady Irming might deserve it, but mums the word." I coughed to cover my laugh and grabbed the heavy handle of the giant fan.
Old lady Irming was the hag who lived down the street and up a level. She had been cranky since her beloved husband had died. He died fourteen years ago under 'mysterious circumstances'. Nobody would say it, but we all believe she killed him. She hates everyone else, and always finds the time to throw things or insults at you if she spots you. We used to taunt her, but she killed a street urchin in an 'accident' last summer.
I pulled the top down with a heave, resting a moment before pushing it back up, stretching on my toes. Powell was working on a higher density steel something today, which required more heat than usual. Thus, harder work. Soon, his strikes, the forge's popping, and his curses blended together to form a pattern. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The afternoon slowly passed and faded into evening. All the while I heaved on that bellows, and he banged on that steel. About the time the streetlamps began to be lit, Master Powell stepped back and wiped his face. His face was peeling from the heat, but any more work without proper light and we would risk mistake.
"You're through for the day. We should have this done by mid-week next week. Just in time for the orders collection." That was another of Powell's traits, he was a last minute, find-you-well-before-dawn-because-I-forgot-there-was-a-man-coming-to-get-a-rudder-support-today, kind of person. How he found me those days, I'll never know. "Get out of here. Be back half past lampdark."
"Yes, sir." I said, slipping out the back door and rubbing my arms. It wasn't quite winter yet, but the air had gotten colder, and coming from the heat of the forge, it's a rough transition. As I ducked through back alleys and dodged the refuse that built up there, the lights that had been dutifully lit by the lamplights grew scarcer and scarcer. I didn't live on the nice side of town, if you catch my drift. No, I had been a street rat until Powell picked me up. It was a hell of a day- I'd been running around, dodging the guard after I lifted some sausages from a cart. Suddenly, a hand snatches my collar and hauls me off my feet. He shoved me inside and told me I worked for him now. Since it was agree or go back to the guard who had caught up by then, I had an apprenticeship.
My thoughts had carried me to my hole in the wall, which for a while (mostly until I borrowed a hammer from my Master) had literally been a hole in the wall. Now, it expanded into the room next to it. The building wasn't occupied, the family in debtors' prison. Free space to an enterprising young soul. Or it had been. My ramshackle door had been thrown open, the inside looted clean. The bastards had left a calling card. Red Ochre.
"Foxes." I muttered, shivering angrily in the darkness. They were a new 'gang'- cocky hotshots who hadn't been cracked down on yet. It was a matter of time until they brushed one of the real groups who owned these streets- but until then they had my stuff. I shimmied up one of the supports and yanked out a bag tucked into the ceiling.
I had a life before Powell picked me up. It might have been in transition, but before then... I tied the belt of knives onto my leg, held the band of blue cloth in my hand before letting it fall to the floor. They were all dead anyway.
The Foxes would be too if they wouldn't surrender. I knew where they were. They holed up in an attic above a bakery and a cloth warehouse. Its only defensible part was the height, but anyone who wanted to eliminate them just had to set either building alight. The guard had dealt with enough small timer's with that method. You'd think a few charred skeletons would be warning enough. They had one advantage that I lacked, which was numbers. Last count I heard they had about 10 to their group. I could handle three on one, but not ten. I scaled the building, careful to not draw attention and took a peek- no guard or watch. Easy prey.
I peeked inside, taking a quick glance at the layout. Voices bubbled out from the skylight.
"Glad you recognized that blacksmith boy down at the docks!"
"Yeah, great memory. It was too easy once we knew he was late at the forge."
"The sucker. Maybe he'll starve, or just replace it all."
"If he replaces it all, we'll just take it again!" They were celebrating. It looked to be about eight, one passed out from the wine they were sharing. Six boys, one girl, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Gathered around a board on two barrels, poor man's table. Most of my stashed food was on said table. The rest I had to assume they ate. Most of my things were piled haphazardly in the corner, cloth tied around stuff to carry it better. I readied myself to drop in but held back for a moment. Could I really kill them? Weren't they just petty thieves? Did they really deserve to die? It had been a long time since I had last wet my blades, and I was in no hurry to start again. Blacksmithing had made me soft. Or just taught me mercy. A clink came from below me, out of my view. I circled around as one of them, one of the older boys, turned and shouted, "Oh shut it you! You're alive ain't you? You're lucky." It was a girl, a young one. She looked to be eight or nine, too young for this. She was tied to a ring in the wall. She looked… She looked used. Abused. Ashamed. Young. She looked defeated, hazed under bruises and malnutrition. She was barely holding on. My resolve hardened. This wasn't about theft anymore. This was worse. Slavers and brutes in the making. They should be punished by the law, hung until death for their crimes. But, I couldn't trust the law in this part of town. If I could, they wouldn't exist here. I had to do the right thing. Innocent blood must have blood. I wasn't' a steady churchgoer, but I heard enough 'eye for an eye, judgement for sinners' as I passed by. May the lord have mercy. I dropped in.
My thrown knife hit the bandit girl in the leg. The second hit the boy to her left, who was laughing at a joke someone said as he reached for the wine bottle. Both of them looked at the weapons in shock, not moving or screaming. Just… looking. Someone shouted, and they saw me. A knife flew at me- missed. I rolled to the side. Five out of eight left. Three likely drunk. The odds were still against me, but it was passable. I dodged the first one's slash, and another thrown knife.
"You're going to pay!" The second shouted, lunging at me. I seized his wrist, stabbing the tender veins under it. He dropped the knife, I caught it. A slash and he wasn't a concern anymore. Four left. Two thieves swung up in front of me, both unarmed. One went to tackle, the other swung for my face. I went down, tackled by one trying to dodge the other. He pinned me with his knees, sitting on my chest. His eyes were dulled by the wine, but he was still able to hit. My head ached under the rain of blows. A kick came from the other. I scrabbled for a knife, for anything. My head throbbed. I found a foot, drawing back for another kick. I yanked, sending him tumbling. Finally, I picked up something. I stabbed it into my captor's leg. He reeled back as I shot up. The bellows do keep one in good shape. One of my forks was embedded in his thigh. The other was scrambling on the ground, wine and panic making him clumsy. I stepped on his fingers, felt them all break. I kicked the other elbow, hyperextended it. Shards of bone poked out of it. I reevaluated.
Two down from the start, knife wounds fatal if not treated properly. One unconscious from hitting the table. One gutted, possible still alive. One reeling from fork stabbing. One not a concern, passed out from broken bones. Two still standing. The leader, and he-who-had-been-asleep. Sleepyhead was next to attack, slicing at my shoulder with a long knife. I rolled under the blow, trying to avoid his swipes. I dove to grab my own dirk and knife, but he kicked them away. I stood, he shook the sleep from his head. Wonderful. He wised up, cautiously stepped forwards. I stepped back. He had good footwork. He probed with a slice; I leapt to the side, swinging a plate of food at him. He dodged the plate, and swept forwards. We were at an impasse. Well, almost. He could attack all day and night, I couldn't. If he got lucky once, I was down. Plus, I had to be at the forge by morning. I had to do something.
I circled around the table, eyes watching him for a move. He gave a few feints, probing for weakness. I was fluid. I lunged forwards to grab part of a bottle, something to fight with. He swept across my body. It was a calculated risk. The point skimmed my abdomen, but I got the bottle shard. His next slash came at my shoulder. I stepped into it, stabbing him with the bottle. The edged sank into his chest, but his dagger cut across my back. He was down, for good. One left. I turned, just to hear a dreaded click-click.
Of course he had a pistol. And a sword. The eldest, the one who shouted at the girl, still stood. It was only him and I. He had the advantage. His gun was level with my head.
"I'm impressed." He said. "You're quite something. I figured you'd be trouble, but I never thought you would do all this. You're not just a blacksmith apprentice, are you? You're more than that. Or, you were. Am I right? I'm assuming that you were once more. I moved here from the country, a small hamlet you've never heard of. My father sought work in the city. He then died. It was rather sudden. I was alone, free. There was nothing holding me back anymore. I looked around for something… fun. Then, I heard of a legend. A tale whispered by small children as they scrounged for scraps. A story of sorts, of a gang that operated out of a glass shop. One that was decimated by a fire. But, they told me it wasn't just any gang. Nor was it any fire. No, this group was special. They had among them many skilled members. People who could do anything. They ruled over almost half the city at their peak. They told me, that the watch locked them in that glass store and burned it down. They said that one survived, that one lived through the fire. Out of respect, they left this slice of town alone. They said that they'd killed any who moved in. So I thought to myself, that's free territory! I looked in on it. There was no group set up here, no protector watching out for these people. I built this little gang. Now you show up. Tell me; are you the one of legend? Did you survive that fire? Did you really give it all up?" He asked, gesturing with the pistol eagerly.
I motioned toward the intact wine bottle, curling afoot around a blade. "May I?"
He waves me with his pistol. "Go ahead. It's yours anyway." I drank.
"Well, I guess legends would spring up. We were after all, successful. They exagerrated. We were good, yes, but not amazing. Nothing supernatural. Yes, we all died in that fire. I don't know how it started, or if the doors or windows were locked. Hell, we'd have gone through the walls if they had been. Conspiracy? Karma? I don't know. All I do know is that I wasn't there. I was scouting out a job across town. Rival gang, rival group. You wouldn't know how it is. I returned, and it was gone. Ash, smoke in the wind. Nothing survived that blaze. Be it a sign or not that I was spared the blaze; I figured it was time to get out of the business. Our enemies would be moving in, and there was no way I could get enough people to hold our territory. And once we start losing it, they descend like sharks. Best to give it up before I lost my life. The pickings, the power, there are nights I still yearn for it. I still want that rush. But, I moved on. I found a teacher, set about learning a trade. I hadn't had to pick up my blades in years. But, we weren't like you. We had standards." I drank down the last swallow of the wine. "We never forced anyone to serve us." His face riles up in anger.
"You're so proud! Think you're better than us. I can rebuild everything, Or maybe I won't. Your master will have an opening tomorrow. Maybe I'll apply." He pulls the trigger on the pistol.
Click!
It's a dud shot. We both hold for a moment, staring at the smoking pistol. I lunge for my knives; he throws the gun and swings the sword. The blade bites into the table, catching my sleeve and tearing the shirt. I tear away as he draws it back, the shirt coming apart along the tear. I shrug out of it. He advances, swinging wildly. I dodge and block with the knives. He is skilled, but filled with fury, which dulls his movements. The wine cannot be helping him. Compared to my few swallows, he appears to have drunk a bottle and a half. It shows in his footwork. And his swings. The sword punches through the table and barrels, breaks glass and porcelain. He advances mercilessly, his swings tightening, falling into a form. Much more dangerous.
As his sword flashes back and forth, I lose the pattern. He swings, and I block the other way. The blade cuts deep into my arm, blood oozing from the wound. He pulls it back in a spray of blood. He steps, twirls and is suddenly right on me. The blade is pushed against my crossed knives, the edge bearing down on my throat. His superior weight and position are pushing the blade closer and closer, the edge bearing closer and closer to my neck. The board I'm against suddenly snaps, and we both fall to the ground. Fortunately for him, he keeps his position, and gains more of an advantage. I can feel the blade against my neck, my skin dipping under the edge. It's nicked and dulled at parts. Used blade. My skin breaks under the edge, a thin trickle running down the side of my neck.
BOOM!
A sudden bang sounds. The boy keels over, his strength gone. Lucky. The pistol is smoking where he threw it, the opposite wall pocked from the shot. It's a misfire- one that saved my life. The shot pierced his gut and punched out his ribs. Blood and bone fragments are all over me. I shove him off and stand clumsily. Eight for eight.
Theirs or mine, I'm dripping crimson splotches. I've got a few more splinters and cuts from debris. My face is bruised badly. Split lip, black eye by my reflection on a serving platter. I look over at the bound girl. The dagger I had missed earlier had found a mark after all. It was impaled in her chest. A clean, quick death. I prayed for her spirit momentarily. I was damned, no two ways about it, but maybe she wasn't. Maybe it'll clean some red from my ledger. I grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the spilled wine. There wasn't time to boil water. It would have to do. I wrapped it on my arm, hissing as it stung. Hopefully it would hold. I splashed more on my hands, then rubbed the cuts and tried to pull the splinters and fragments out. I dug around, found a change of clothes wrapped around a block of wood. I ate a quick meal of the spilled food, and then stripped the bodies of anything valuable or necessary. I organized everything under one of the windows, hands settling down as the familiar sorting wore the adrenaline out of my system. A distant clock boomed, and light spilled from the window.
Dawn already! I had to run for Master Powell's. He threatened me with losing my position if I was late! Quickly, I stuffed the bodies in the barrels. Some of them were unconscious, some were dead. It didn't matter. They were dumped into a cask, arms and legs broken to make them fit. Finally, I had all nine bodies stuffed in barrels. I washed my arms of the blood and shimmied out the window, down to the street. As I ran past a shop window, I saw my reflection. I didn't look good, hair matted with blood, bruised and swollen, but I could get away with it. Claim a pub brawl. I would be fine. Maybe claim a barfight too.
I arrived at the master's shop, barely on time.
"What the hell happened to you!"
"Pub brawl. Someone knocked the pot over. I'm here now."
Powell gives me a look, but nods to the forge. "Get her warmed up."
Starting a forge sounds simple, but to quickly get it to high temperature requires some forethought. I shoveled in more coal, dug a hole and dumped in some lamp oil. Rather than use sparks, like most, I instead grabbed a line of fuse and lit it off the lamp outside. Careful to not let it go out or burn myself, I dropped it in the pool of oil, then hopped on the bellows. Too much air would blow the tender flame out, but not enough and the coals wouldn't catch. From quarter pumps to half pulls, by the time Powell was ready to start hammering I had the fire stoked hot.
"Customer sent a message- he wants the piece today rather than tomorrow. So, we've got to double time this one. Start pumping."
He stuck the metal onto the coals and drew back his hammer. I grabbed the handle and let the rhythm set in. It didn't' take long before I started to feel my lack of sleep. I fell out of sync once and got yelled at. The second time, I caught myself and pulled a little too hard to compensate. My stomach seized up and I felt myself go cold. My vision tunneled. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up- I could feel my body slipping away. I saw rather than felt my back hit the floor. The top of my breeches and the bottom half of my shirt were stained crimson. My head rolled back and I must have started hallucinating.
"Oh, girlie, what've you done this time?" he mused, crouching in front of, me and pulling up the shirt to see the damage. There's no way that Powell…
My memory of the next week was spotty at best. I remember dark and someone spooning something into my mouth. I remember by side burning and biting back screams. What I don't remember is how we got on the ship. When cognizance found me, I was aboard. Powell's tools were tied nearby, and an empty matt was beside mine. He was nowhere in sight, and I started to poke my way topside. As I ascended one deck, the unmistakable sound of battle filled the air. Rifle retorts and clanging of swords. I hid underneath the stairwell as a pair of boots charged down them.
"blow the magazine!" one shouted to the other, splitting off toward the cargo hold. Shock and energy rushed through me as their plan dawned on me. I had to choose to chase down the one making for our treasure, or the one set on scuttling us. I felt for my knives, but they weren't on my leg, which decided the issue for me. I slipped out and raced toward the hold. I was lucky in that he was busy digging around and I was able to slip behind him. I breathed in and
Hand darted forward, between his arm and leg, pulling the knife from the sheathe at his belt. Just as quick it shot forward, under the ribs and up, slicing through the organs and possibly even the heart. Dark blood gushed out, drenching my hand as he hit the deck, crimson soaking out in a pool as I shook my hand off and flicked the blade to throw most of the blood off.
I stepped over his corpse and dug through Master Powell's stored tools. Near the bottom of the crate was my belt of knives, wrapped around a narrow book. I tied the knives on my leg again and slipped the book into my waistband. It had to be important. I ran for the other sailor, who had headed for the magazine, but at the junction of the stairwell I caught the blast.
The tug came from back home, a land I had not visited in many years. Most wars were fought on land nowadays, and sea deaths that required my presence were rare. I was chosen for pirates only. No other groups held the same claim to my services. I did not enjoy serving, but as it was necessary, so we went.
The Pull wasn't quite from England itself, but a little south. Between Europe and Africa, two ships were locked in combat. At the exact moment of my arrival, the ships exploded. It appeared they could not handle the awesome that was the undead captain William Turner, Jr. I sent the men out to collect the sailors. It was a nasty business, ferrying the dead. As I waited, I eyed the wreckage for anything for Elizabeth. One fo these ships had been English, and they did get things well before the colonies did. There was nothing of value to my eye, and I settled in to wait. It wasn't long before the first boats were returning. Many of the men we retrieved swore allegiance to their god, my duty allowing me to understand them no matter their tongue. Respecting their wishes, we returned them to their resting places. Precious few volunteered to serve. A few tried to threaten or bargain, and they were cast over. By the fourth scow, I was almost ready to leave things to my boson. Then, he was pulled aboard. He was not like the others. He was not a sailor. He was someone I knew, or at least had known. He was a blacksmith's apprentice. Or, he was when I left.
"Is that you, Powell?" I asked, nudging my crew aside.
"Little William? Could it be?" He replied, looking closer at me.
"In the flesh. Not quite living, mind you, but I am here." I replied, showing off my body for inspection.
"But, how're you still young?" He puzzled.
"It hasn't been that long, Pow. But, I am outside of time. I've been tasked with ferrying the souls of pirates to the other side. For my service, I can live forever, with a few strings attached." I answered. He was an old friend, and more importantly, a devout catholic. He would not be spreading tales to anyone in a few minutes.
"Say no more, I shan't sully my mind with heathen thoughts. Have you seen Conway yet?" I brought her along." He said.
I frowned. Conway, Conway. The name seemed familiar. Why did I know it? "I can't say I have. But, he'll turn up. He one of yours?" I promised.
"Yea, I made my mastery. An apprentice of my own. Keeps her outta trouble. Mostly." He boasted.
"If you haven't changed then you can probably tell me what happened here. Knowing you, you were in the thick of it." I asked.
Powell laughs. "I decided to move to the new world, to get away from all the politics. We're mid voyage when captain sounds the alarm. Pirates, he calls. I'm fighting and holding my own, but there's too many of them. They snuck a man down to blow the magazine. Something must have gone wrong, because we all blew up!"
"I see. Jack would be impressed." I say thoughtfully.
"Jack?" He asks.
"It's no matter." I say, waving it aside, "Now I guess your heavenly father awaits you?"
"Time to see if me name's in the good book or not." He adds. I motion the crew, and they step aside. "It was good seeing you, Will. Do take care of Conway for me, will you? She's yours after all." He says, shaking my hand and stepping off the deck. He vanishes before hitting the water. My curiosity piqued, I leave orders to wake me if this 'Conway' is found, and retreat to my cabin. All this news has old feelings stirring up. Bad memories. Memories of a time before Elizabeth. Before Pirates.