Disclaimer: I have no claim to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and plots are owned by me.


Chapter 2: The Rogue

~o~

After heaping every species of derision and insult upon their prisoner, the mob of angry men threw Samhra into the darkest and dampest dungeon they could find. The door of that cell was not more than four feet high and the light that dimly revealed the dripping walls and earthen floor shone through a horizontal opening toward the ceiling. The bed served the purpose for both a couch and chair, but was also intended as a partial barrier between the inhabitant of the dungeon and the gaze of the jailers stationed just outside.

Samhra recoiled with disgust; they couldn't find a more terrible place in which to confine a woman.

"You are very hard to please, Madame," replied her brutal jailer, mimicking a female voice. "Compared to where you're going, you're in a palace."

Shutting the massive bars behind him, barricaded with plates of iron and secured by three or four rusty bolts, he left her to repeat his joke to his companions and enjoy with them the consternation of the young woman.

Meanwhile, the prisoner fell upon her knees and gazed around her with incredulous emotion. Samhra called upon her gods to free her of her wrongful imprisonment. She was no murderer.

Shuddering, she decided to lie down on the small bed in the cold, dark room.

The result would be the same whether she confessed or not. If she confessed, her Songsmith's guilt would be clear: they would both be executed. All recantation would be in vain. If she did not confess, the torture they would inflict on her would certainly be repeated— twice, three, or four times.

Shifting to her side, tears gathered in her eyes; she drew one shattered breath and then another, trying to hold them back, but the anguish she felt for what was to come would not go away.

There was nothing she could do then, but sleep. However, sleep was the last thing on her mind. In spite of her exhaustion, she felt fully alert. She stared at the guard through the bars of the door for what seemed like an eternity, watching his body slouch as he fell into a deep, irrefutable sleep.

What happened next was completely unexpected. For just a brief moment, she saw a flash out of the corner of her eye, then again, another flash; the color resembled that of sun-kissed skin mixed with sterling silver - a hand, she determined. Perhaps, she was dreaming. She squinted with more intent. Once more - a third time - it came, and it motioned toward the sleeping guard, from around the corner. Some whispers followed a soft scuffle in the dirt, then silence.

Samhra, still lying on her side, grew curious, rising from her prison bed to kneel in front of the iron bars.

"Go on, boy," urged a voice. Moments later a small, mop-haired dog emerged; his big brown eyes locking onto his target.

"This is never going to work," whispered another, accompanied by soft shushing sounds.

The hound's feet hardly made a sound against the dirt floor; Samhra sat perfectly still, as not to divert the determined pup from his purpose. It was a miraculous sight. Placing his front legs on the side of the sleepy guard's chair, he nuzzled the key ring that hung from the guard's side into his mouth and, one paw at a time, returned to the floor.

As quietly as he came, the adorable thief returned to its master. The tall, handsome man that appeared to greet him was adorned in a long crimson frock coat, embroidered with a faded white floral design, and a devilish smile. She could see him clearly then; the skin of his face was far more weathered from the sea than their last meeting, but he still held the same boyish charm.

"Rogue's never failed me," he said, patting the small pup's head as he picked him up with one hand.

The Songsmith waved a hand across his neck, and the signal was picked up loud and clear by the two men that followed.

Knife in hand, one of the men tightly gripped the sleeping guard's mouth and sliced his neck with an uncommon ease. Blood spattering, he held the guard's body in place until he stopped twitching. A gasp escaped Samhra's lips. How could her musician allow such harshness?

"We won't have to worry about him squealin'," said the vicious man through a toothy grin.

"A damn madman is wha' ya are, Bloodbath," croaked the smaller man as he followed the Songsmith to her cell. "Doin' it in front o' the lady, and such. No wonder the King of France put a price on your head."

"I wouldn't fancy your chances o' collectin' it, mate," Bloodbath remarked with a grin.

Rogue, unwilling to let go of his prize, kept a steady grip on the key ring as his master extended one of the three keys into the lock.

"Damn," he whispered, growing impatient. The first key was not the one; he fumbled for another one, knowing that time was of the essence.

A cooling breeze blew past her face, providing some relief to her puffy eyes, stained with tears. Samhra attempted to climb to her feet, hoping the bars would aid her, but she quickly found that any energy she thought she might have left was completely diminished. To her relief, the second key was the winner; her Songsmith swung the door open, placing the pup on the ground in trade for her.

Swallowing hard, he moved to embrace her and she started to weep.

"Are you all right?" he asked her softly, deep brown eyes fixed on hers.

She managed a smile and a nod. "Yes." Her voice was small, like a frightened child. After years of constant belittlement and torture, the stare from any man's eyes caused her to question their motives. The panic was building up within her and she felt herself wanting to retreat to escape it. Not now, she prayed. Please, not now. Her Songsmith was not like the rest.

"Edward Teague," he said, introducing himself as he placed a hand on her cheek, commanding her attention. "I haven't forgotten about you, m'lady."

Samhra stood in awe. There was so much affection radiating from Edward's face. Despite the anguish, the pain, he was beaming with peace. Deep peace and she wanted that so badly.

Her only provider was dead; her family would soon learn of what had taken place. She would be disowned; even worse – executed – for a crime she didn't commit. Samhra's defenses soon began to crumble. Every positive message she had told herself felt like a lie.

"We'll be needin' your help to get us out of here now," Teague said, slowly lowering her legs to the ground. She was grateful that he held onto her waist until she could walk on her own.

She gently rested her hand on his arm, as if to say she understood all that his words conveyed. The journey was engaged, the obligation had been assumed; there would be no turning back; words were no longer needed. There wasn't any turning back for him, either. No matter what happened, they were committed to each other.

"Reynolds," he commanded. With a swift nod, the smaller man wrapped her in a foul-smelling cloak, for which Teague continuously apologized in low whispers. Despite the pain from the brutal beating she had endured from the mob, Samhra knew she had to summon all the energy she had left to escape before it was too late.

If they were going to flee, they needed to act fast. The longer they spent in the city, the greater the chance that their efforts would be discovered. Samhra knew the streets better than anyone.

The group took to their heels and ran. They ran to the middle of the street, and back the way they came. Teague, still gripping Samhra's hand, kept an eye on his crewmen as they continued to surreptitiously scatter and regroup.

The outskirts of the city were just beyond her reach, and then they would be free.

"Stop!"

The word startled them all; looking back they realized they had been spotted.

The guards called out, "Stop right there!"

Bloodbath broke away from the group, and they chased after him down a small alleyway.

"Let him go!" Teague yelled to Reynolds, who slackened his pace as Bloodbath disappeared into the night.

"Stop!" cried the guards. They didn't.

Adrenaline coursed through her body, she could not grasp exactly what to do next, but she kept moving because her life depended on it. She ran as she had done most of her life in her wildest dreams, but this time she was running away from a surreal reality.

"The prisoner has escaped! Sound the alarm!"

Nothing hardened the soul like contact with danger, especially with the danger that brought all of an individual's energy into play, leaving them in the presence of the Powers who command the earth, wind, and tide. Getting out the way she had - taking nothing with her, running for her life through the night - took tremendous courage.

Teague led the way to the narrow beach. Before the long boat reached the shore, the guards closed in on them with swords drawn. Teague's eyes were alight with anticipation. He turned to Reynolds with a broad grin. "Don't let me down, Rey," he said.

With a blood-curdling yell, Teague charged at the guards as Reynolds and Samhra made a break for the sea.

They dove into the ocean and only when she thought her lungs would burst did she surface to see Reynolds and Edward behind her, just their heads bobbing above the water. To her surprise, just as she was ready to give in, she was pulled into the longboat by several strong hands. Struggling with exhaustion, Samhra pushed herself up glanced around, noting that there were two other unfamiliar men manning the oars and both of them glared suspiciously at her. Frightened, she crawled over to Reynolds.

"Give way! Give way, all!" shouted Teague as he pulled himself up to the stern sheets. "Man the oars! Get this boat squared away!" The banks of oars came down and swept the water, and the longboat moved slowly out to sea. About thirty guards ran down to the water's edge, throwing spears at the boat, but twenty feet of water was already between them and the receding boat. Several glanced off its hull, but they were too far out for spears to be effective.

Before Teague or Reynolds could reach for their weapons, a loud bellow filled the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Samhra saw the man they called "Bloodbath" as he ran through the horde of guards at full-speed, and two flashes of bright orange light came from his outstretched arms. Bullets passed through two of the guards hurling spears. Discarding his pistols, Bloodbath unsheathed his cutlass and parried the remaining guards aside, one after another, and with each clash of shaft against blade, the swords sang like a chorus of deadly voices.

It was quite the spectacle.

Bloodbath charged like a bull through the crowd of armed guards and dove into the ocean. He did not emerge. The remaining guards picked up where their fallen comrades left off by continuing to hurl their spears across the water, hoping to make contact with their target. To their dismay, the longboat was far out of their reach by then.

Just as quickly as he'd been pulled below the surface, Bloodbath emerged again, streaming water a few yards away from their vessel.

Gasping, Bloodbath lifted himself up, wrapping an arm around Reynolds to pull himself free of the foam and into the boat.

"I ought to be paid handsomely for this shit," Bloodbath said between gasps.

"Double me shares for havin' to put up with your wild boar arse!" Reynolds declared. "'Ow many escapes does that make now? Three? Madagascar, Napoli, and now Tanjavur." He counted on his fingers. "Half the bloody world is gettin' tired of chasin' ya."

"Good man," Teague said, clapping his first mate on the shoulder.

Samhra imagined that the life of a true sailor was a struggle. And although it was not the same for all, for those who understood its true grandeur, and drew from it a simple strength in the hour of danger became heroism.

She smiled in thanks at the vicious man, for he was her hero that night.

~o~