Chapter1: Sarentre
It was a typical early summer day in the little town of Sarentre, where year after year passed without bringing much change or big events. The regular brawls in the taverns and whorehouses were generally ignored and bodies removed in silence. But that was the lower part of the town, the part that welcomed whomever came there as long as they brought money. The upper part of town very much ignored the lower part. There, Sarentre was an unimportant but peaceful town.
Spot, tall and lean, barely seventeen summers in age, was on his way to one of the many vantage points in the bay, as usual, taking his time, also as usual. The sun shone hot from a bright blue sky, obscured only by a small wisp of cloud here and there. A steady wind was blowing, playing with a thatch of unruly light brown hair that looked like every single strand had been cut to a different short length. The sun was already high in the sky but still at an angle which made it shine directly into his green eyes. Spot didn't raise his hand to shade them, though, but rather squinted as he gazed out at the port, then slowly around the bay and finally beyond all that out at the ocean, as far as he could see.
There was no hurry, he judged. Given the tide and current wind there would be no ships coming into port for the next few hours. That meant free time for him. With a gleeful smile Spot turned and headed back towards town.
It wasn't the shortest way but out of habit he took the route along the shoreline and through the port before he turned his back to the water and entered town.
The part of town nearest to the port consisted mainly of taverns, some shops, whorehouses, and warehouses--places where sailors could relax, have fun, or replenish their supplies. These parts were most awake during night although already the streets were filled with people. Spot walked right past these quarters and further up the hills towards far more respectable areas. Finally, almost at the farthest end of town, at the edge of a small wood he reached his destination: a small, unremarkable looking baker's shop.
Two minutes later he Spot was out in the dusty back yard behind the shop with Christopher the baker. In reality Christopher wasn't much of a baker and had only taken on the trade after he married Charlene who had insisted on settling down to a simple and quiet life. Other than with baking, he was skilled and deadly with the blade, as Spot had found out on the first evening after his arrival in Sarentre when he had been caugh stealing-or trying to steal-bread from the bakery.
Almost two months after the incident the youth had worked up enough courage to return to the shop and ask Christopher for lessons. It took a lot of persuasion, but the man had finally agreed to it.
Now, after almost a year of trainig both parties had grown accustomed to their regular fencing sessions and were almost equally looking forward to them, although for different reasons. Christopher was only too happy to leave the shop solely in the able hands of his wife, who was effectively the one running the whole place anyway, and spend a few hours with his eager and as it had turned out rather talented student.
*****
Usually, Captain Marcus enjoyed coming into port. Usually. He did not, however, favor pirate towns, despite technically being a pirate himself. Unfortunately, pirate towns were also the only ones where he could land without having to worry about the authorities, so he usually ended up in those. Still, he didn't mix well with the men typical of his profession. *Temporary profession,* he corrected his thinking. He had plans for a better, safer life than the one he currently led.
It was the beginning of the summer of 1685, and Marcus loved this time of year. The seas were less predictable, but beginning to calm down before the wild season of storms to come later on. This was a good time of year to pick up crew who had had to sit out the winter in some port. Many would have already set sail, and those that were left were either the best of the lot, temperament-wise, or the worst. Marcus wanted the the former and definitely not the latter.
That was why he had kept the Black Arrow, his best ship to date, far enough out and hidden behind a land swell that it was not visible from the shore of the bay. Sarentre could be a mean little port, and Marcus wanted to find a couple men to add to his crew. But he did not want typical pirates. So he and two men slipped ashore in darkness between tides and hid their longboat. Then they began a walk through the town, to look out for possible canditates.
Marcus wore his best clothes, which would mean he would not stand out as either rich or poor. Few noticed the middle-class, and he liked to go unnoticed as much as possible. His two crew members, who had accompanied him, were dressed in the typical seaman garb--canvas knee pants, cotton shirt, each with a scarf about his neck. They were each heavily armed, as was Marcus. That was to be expected in a town where pirates made their homes. Braces of pistols, cutlasses--and hidden, or in some cases not hidden, knives.
Marcus' sharp, blue-green gaze scanned everyone and everything, looking always for something that caught his eye. Almost immediately he noticed a young man with an open, kind face, working nets with deft hands and a quick turn of the shuttle. He had dark hair and would look up now and then from his lantern. He had an alertness and ableness about him Marcus liked at once. He nodded to his two crew companions, and they split up and set off in slightly different directions.
Marcus continued on, his shoes feeling tight and strange on his feet. He'd been at sea for awhile, and hadn't worn this pair of shoes much. His feet were used to freedom.
He paid that no mind but casually walked on. He found a comparatively quiet spot in a tavern farther inland, away from pirate haunts, where the lasses wore higher bodices and less cheek tint, and their minds were on delivering food and drink, not on parading themselves before customers. He admired these lasses quietly while he had a meal and an ale--good ale, he thought, enjoying it and the well-cooked beefsteak and potatoes. He could not help but splurge on bread and pie. He bought two pies and carried one with him as he left the tavern.
When he went back to the longboat to wait out the night, he found his two crewmen already had their first capture with them - the young man who had been working nets earlier. He was bound and gagged, and not in a good mood-- as was to be expected. Evenso, he did not look mean. "Row him out to the ship," said Marcus. "Be back before it gets light. I'll sleep on land tonight. Have the men keep a good eye out tomorrow, for if they see us coming, they should have enough sail up that we can get out in a hurry if we need to. There's not much going on right now, but that can always change. If there's trouble, send for me." He looked over the lad, now captive and going-to-be crewmember. "You look like you'll do. Tis a good ship I have, and I'm a good Cap'n. You could do a lot worse. We won't hurt you." Clear, bluegray eyes stared back at him, and the lad seemed to nod. "Take him to the ship. Put him in the hold. You know what to do." He added to the lad, "You'll only be there till morning."
Come morning, Marcus brushed sand and dirt off his clothes and went back into town. His two crewmen, James and Scar, joined him soon enough. A nod between them told Capt. Marcus that the longboat was hidden where they would find it when they needed it. They breakfasted in the same tavern where Marcus had had supper, and James and Scar dove into their meatpies and biscuits with a will! Marcus had the same, but could not resist another beefsteak. Again, he bought two pies for himself. The three of them left the tavern very full and very satisfied. They went back to the bay, to see if any ships had come in while they were occupied with eating. None had.
But right away, someone caught Marcus' eyes: another lad, younger than the other, but sharp of eye and wiry of build-with the worst haircut he had ever seen. *I wonder who won the bet on how many different lengths it would end up?* But there was something else different about this one. He motioned his men to go find something to do, but to keep close enough to him he could signal them when he was ready, and he unobtrusively followed the young man back into town.
Marcus followed the lad to a bakery on the farthest edge of town. Odd...but his quarry vanished within, and so Marcus went inside after a bit and looked around. He liked what he saw of the place, and thanked the woman behind the counter for the breads he bought. She had kind eyes, and a wedding ring on her finger, so Marcus gave her no more thought. He wondered where the lad went, but since he must be her son, he was probably in the kitchens, preparing dough.
Hm. Strange. Usually his instincts didn't play him false like that. Marcus had a knack for finding orphans and this boy had seemed like one, maybe not the perfect candidate, but interesting enough to have alerted his instincts. He shook his head and left the bakery, feeling a strange disappointment.
Instantly he turned to the left and went to the fence behind the bakery. Judging from the sound that could be heard from there, someone was practicing swordplay back there! And they were going through drills! From the sound of the steel, they were using good blades, too! Marcus had time on his hand so he decided to watch.
He peered through a narrow break in the fence and was surprised to see the young man and a bigger man going through drills. A nice Spanish sword was in the lad's hand, and the older man was using a nice weapon, too. He was the teacher.
After about an hour of drills, they went into a match.
So, the lad was just a student. A promising one, too. And he had a nice style, Marcus could not help but notice. Raw, needed more polish, but not bad! He used a main gauche style, knife as well as longblade. Intriguing. But the match didn't last long.
Marcus was fascinated. He had no technique at all with his own cutlass, but could still have taken the lad, although he realized not the older man, who was deadly in his refined technique.
In a second Marcus had made up his mind. If the young man was an orphan, he was going to come with them when they left port. Whether he wanted to or not. There was something about him. Something familiar.
Which was odd, since his sleeves were rolled up and neck widely exposed against the heat of the practice. Marcus had himself covered. He always had himself covered. As he watched the lad, the delicate features and lean body, he wondered how he'd ever managed to keep away from some pirate captain with an eye for young flesh. *No worries from me,* thought Marcus. But the lad was handsome. And just right for stealing by some cutthroat pirates. He'd be doing the lad a favor, really...
Marcus continued to watch the fencing match. Those were really good weapons, but the Spanish sword was a real beauty. He started to wonder why the older man let the boy use such a prized weapon. Maybe it was his.but how did a lad like that come to own such a treasure? Marcus decided he would steal that sword. Somehow. *****
"Watch your feet."
"Where's your balance?"
"Your weight is still too far back."
"Good."
"Sloppy."
"You're getting too bold."
"Better."
"You did it again!"
"Didn't you promise to work on that?"
"Careful now."
"A little more accuracy here, please!"
"Gotcha!"
These little duels tended to be very much alike, with Christopher continuously making comments while Spot concentrated hard to hold off the inevitable moment when he would end up on the ground or trapped in a corner - wherever - with or without his weapon. The only thing that was for sure was that he lost these matches.
Today it ended with Spot on his butt almost in the middle of the backyard, his sword still in one hand, but with the tip of Christopher's weapon resting on his breast in a way that very much suggested that in a real fight he would be quite dead.
"You are learning." Christopher said, giving Spot a quick salute before he held out his hand to help him up. Grinning, Spot took the offered hand and scrambled to his feet. He was covered with dust again, but didn't make and effort to brush it off just yet.
"Thank you. Today I managed to hold my ground for...how long? Fifteen minutes?"
It didn't sound like much, but it was a great improvment to the very first time they'd fought that night in the bakery. Then, Spot had been pinned to the ground within no more than three seconds and it had nothing to do with bad luck.
He was just about to look around for the knife that he'd dropped earlier when Christopher added:
"But you're getting a little sloppy with your footwork again lately. We'll have to work on that some more, kid."
Spot knew it was true and therefore didn't even try to defend himself. 'Sloppy' was a word used quite often when it came to describing his footwork, which was strange since he had learned long ago never to be sloppy and generally wasn't. He found his knife and picked it up before he got a quick glance at the sun and turned to accept his teacher's criticism with a simple nod.
"Make that our plan for tomorrow. I'd better go down to the port now. Thank you for today's lesson."
After a quick but very fond goodbye, and munching on a large slice of bread that Charlene had put into his hand on his way out Spot made his way back throught the streets towards the lower parts of the town.
It was time to get to work.
Once he was down at the port Spot fell into his usual routine, which consisted mainly of being as inconspicious and invisible as possible. Seemingly aimlessly he moved around, drifted into and out of groups of people as he watched the crews of the various ships land and move up into town. He avoided looking directly at anyone for more than a second but memorized faces, caught bits and pieces of conversation and finally picked his target for the day.
His target for the day was a dark-haired man with an unremarkable face but remarkably broad body who by the looks and sound of it carried enough money that he wouldn't miss a few coins if they were taken in a clever way, and who apparently planned to spend the rest of the day getting drunk for the fun of it. And he didn't seem like the brightest guy either. Perfect. The man was talking vividly with his friends who were dicussing the best place to go and have fun, all loud enough for an attentive listener to understand . They decided on the 'Southern Star'.
Since it hadn't taken long to find out where they were headed Spot didn't bother to follow them but hurried down a side street and was already strategically seated in the designated tavern, a drink in his hand, when Toine - that's what 'Target' was called by his friends - arrived.
During the next few hours he followed Toine's lead in getting drunk. That is, Spot played getting drunk while he watched those around him do the real thing. At one point he entered the group's conversation by praising a place and establishment that he knew nothing about, but none was sober enough anymore to realize that he only repeated what others had said earlier. From that point on he was accepted into the group.
Things went as planned, mostly. The only problem was that Toine showed no signs of getting drunk any faster than his companions did, which presented a problem for Spot's plans. But that was only a detail and easily fixed.
At an opportune moment, meaning just when Toine's glass was empty, Spot offered a toast and then, staring at the empty glass with carefully unfocused eyes, said in a neatly blurred voice:
"Oh, chu're ouddof drink..."
He jumped up - not too fast and sure-footed of course - and relieved one of the serving girls of another full glass, dropped a small amount of powder into the liquor and returned to the table.
Two minutes later the glass was empty and knowing that the powder would do its job Spot crowned his performance with a graceful collapse on the floor, followed by a soft snoring. Toine followed ten minutes later.
Now came the part that often demanded quite some patience. Sometimes Spot had to lie there for hours, always in danger of being trodden on by some drunk customer, while pretending to sleep deeply. Today however it didn't take long until strong, helpful hands moved Spot and the second sleeping figure outside and into the fresh air, dumping them unceremoniously on the street behind the tavern.
Once the closing door cut off the light from inside the tavern, he stopped snoring, stopped being drunk, stopped his performance almost altogether. He quickly put Toine's arm around his shoulder, pulled the man up and, like a drunk supporting and equally drunken friend, moved down the street and into a dark alley where he would have some privacy. The man was heavy, but even so Spot decided to move quite some distance. He was careful not to develop any kind of pattern in where he took his targets to relieve them of some of their money. Some. He never took all, that would be too dangerous and draw attention that he didn't want. The way he worked was designed to maximize the chance that in the morning the victim wouldn't remember much, especially not how much he had paid for drinks, so a few missing coins could easily go unnoticed. It was Spot's way to keep himself safe and invisible, so he could go on and use the same tricks again and again. There were only so many tricks that would work without calling attention to himself.
*****
Marcus watched with rapt attention as the lesson continued. He nodded, and winced when the knife went flying, for it looked wickedly sharp and knives tended to make him nervous in any situation. But his eye was caught both by the young man and that lovely sword he was using. Somehow...
He would have both of them. That haircut meant the boy was only a student, and there was something odd about that, too. It was almost as if he were paying off a debt, since no money exchanged hands after the lesson.
Ah, the young man left and headed to the port. He would be easy enough to find, then. Marcus watched closely, and as luck would have it, he saw where the Spanish sword was put. The backdoor was left open, too. Landsmen never learned...First he had to see to it that the big man was distracted. He had already seen that he could not win a fight with him, and he didn't fancy putting a lead ball into the man just to get that sword, no matter how beautiful it was.
Marcus headed off to find James and Scar, who as ordered had stayed nearby but out of sight, and whispered some words to them.
A little while later, Capt. Marcus re-entered the bakery. He approached the proprietress and asked very humbly if he could buy all the bread they had to spare. "My sloop, the La Lune, is anchored offshore, and we are low on bread. Could I inquire whether you have another batch baking? I'd be pleased to purchase as many loaves as you could spare."
They struck a deal, and a special batch would be made. It would be ready by nightfall. "Perfect, Madame," said Marcus, bowing. "Tide shifts not long after, so the timing could not be better. I will send respectable men to gather the loaves. Thankee kindly."
Outside again, Marcus handed his two huge sacks of breads to James and Scar, and told them to wait. He watched through the fence as the big man went to work in another room....
It took but two minutes to swing silently over the fence and sneak in, and moments later, he had the Spanish sword stuffed in one bulging sack that would never be suspected of also holding a beautiful fencing instrument. "Take the bread and this sword back to the ship, and return quickly. Put the sword in my cabin, and don't play with it! I'll know from your faces if you disobey me. Then get back here. We're going after that young fellow, but I think now isn't the right time. I'll follow him, you get back as quick as you can. Bring Langan, Broderick, and Clancy--in their best clothes--to load up the fresh batch of bread. You two, find me quick as you get back, and we'll go after that boy."
Marcus had a hard time finding his quarry, but he knew how to look around, and soon enough spotted him again. The lad was moving through the crowds in a manner that made him almost invisible for someone who didn't particularly look for him. And it was amazing, but just from watching, he figured out what he was doing. *Picking a mark,* thought Marcus, and realized with a little sinking sensation that if he could see it, sooner or later it would be noticed by someone who would use his pistol before he gave it a thought.
*I really am doing the kid a favor. He's going to get himself killed.*
But his curiosity was stirred and since there was no particular hurry he might as well see how he intended to rob his mark. The captain followed liesurely, and stayed out of the way in the tavern, a rather dark and noisy tavern, but certainly not the worst place in town. From his place at nearby table he had a good view.
Marcus shook his head. The kid had style. And he was slick. No doubt about it. He had the right stuff. But he *would* get himself killed if he played this game much longer. No matter how carefully that young man picked his mark, sooner or later he would make a mistake. Marcus wondered if he even noticed the other man, working on another mark across the tavern. If the lad ever chanced to pick the same pirate to rob...
Best not to think of that. Marcus paid for his light meal and ale, and went outside. Scar and later James found him soon. They had brought the necessary equipment to carry out another kidnapping. "Good. Now, let's stay out of sight."
They did, and when the mark and the young thief were tossed out, apparently blind drunk, Marcus shook his head again. *Not bad, not bad. But dangerous.*
He led the way, after seeing where the thief dragged the pirate. Marcus whispered, "We're not giving up on that fat purse, either. Don't forget that. And mind, no pilfering for yourself."
They all blocked the alley. It was a dead-end alley, with no exit. Barrels and old crates were stacked up at the end of it, and the thief was lifting coins from his mark, behind the barrels
Marcus signalled his men. Out came their cutlasses, and one also held a pistol.
"Hey there, lad," he said in a kind, conversational voice. "You'll not be denying us some fun, too, would you?"
Marcus had James and Scar flank him as they silently moved beyond the barrels that were hiding the young man and his drunk companion. As one they raised their weapons, Scar staying back a little, and Marcus said pleasantly, "Those valuables you just so elegantly lifted--toss them to my friend, gently. The one with the wrap on his head. And be slow in your movements. This pistol has a hairtrigger."
Spot had palmed some coins of course and was just about to slip the small sack of coins back into the man's incredibly large pocket when he heard the voice behind him. Darn! Never had anyone ever even got the idea to rob him. Well, sorry guys, there isn't much to rob here.
He froze and slowly turned his head. There wasn't much light in the alley, which was the main reason why he had chosen it, but he could make out three men and the face of the nearest of them.
Pirates. Three men, three cutlasses, and a pistol aimed at him, at a range that would make it hard to miss even given the inaccuracy of these weapons.
They might not be able to see it in the darknes, but Spot smiled. They could have the bag of coins if they wanted to, no problem there. What the problem was that he wouldn't take any orders from any pirate ever again. Period. He just wouldn't.
"It might be interesting to know how I'm supposed to throw a bag of coins in a slow movement," he said, lifting the bag, slowly while palming the coins in the other hand. He turned and waited.
Marcus smiled, and then stopped smiling. Their target wasn't acting quite right for someone about to be kidnapped. He felt they should proceed with caution. He said, "You're not daft, even if you're acting like it. Just drop the bag on the ground, along with those nice coins you're holding, and let us get on with the business at hand. We're three, you're one. We are recruiting you to be a pirate on my ship. Don't give us trouble. James, get the rope ready."
Somehow Spot managed to stay calm, which was a miracle; for the moment he didn't do anything rash. It would change in a second, but first he had to turn just a little further. "I am NOT a pirate!" he said, the anger rising in his voice and the calmness slipping away like water.
What had that man said? Rope. These men didn't plan to rob him. They wanted to take him on a pirate ship! No! Oh no, not with him! But he forced himself to calm down a bit again, just enough to sound agreeable when he added: "Very well, here you are!"
With that he threw the bag of coins at one man - by chance the one that the apparent leader of the group had indicated earlier -, the loose coins at the second while he dove forward and down to get below the line of fire from that pistol. His shoulder hit 'leader's' leg before he landed and rolled sideways, reaching for his knife, which was easily accessible. Three against one, maybe, but that didn't mean he had to surrender. No, he wouldn't do that again, either.
"Ow, hey!" and then "OW!" said Marcus and then let his instincts take over. He got out of the way of his men, and let them do their job. This was not the first recruit who had put up a fight.
Scar was farthest away from the diving man, but he moved in anyway and cocked his pistol at him, just as James landed his bulk on top of the young man and gripped his knife hand in both his. The rope was now lying on the ground, and James looked like he was trying to control a wriggling fish.
"Help him!" ordered Marcus, and Scar took up the rope and got a loop of it around one ankle of their would-be pirate.
Marcus cocked his own pistol and said, calmly, considering his shin was smarting like a horse had kicked it, "Don't make us get rough with you, young sir!" To Scar, he ordered, "Get his ankles tied! He can't run if he can't run!"
If Spot heard the man's words he didn't give any indication that he did. The knife was wrestled out of his hand in a second, but that didn't make him any less fierce in his defense. He pulled up his knee, placed the foot firmly on the ground and used it as the lever to roll himself over, taking with him the man on top of him. He made it only about ninety degrees but that was enough to make it possible for him to swing a punch that landed not full on the man's chin but well enough to give him the second he needed to turn his attention to the man who was now fiddling with the rope.
That sent a surge of panic through Spot and he kicked out with all his might, catching the man somewhere in the side. The rope! He had to get rid of that one... His attention turned to the first one again, using both fists to fight him off while his eyes searched the man's belt. He had to have a knife somewhere. If Spot could reach it....
Marcus watched what was supposed to be a routine kidnapping turn into a melee. He kicked the boy's knife out of the way and knelt down on one knee, pointing the pistol at the young one's head. "Stop it! You're making a ruckus! If you won't come with us, I'll have to shoot you!" It was all bluster, for that would make too much noise, and Marcus hated pistols anyway. But the boy didn't know that, and the anger in Marcus' voice was real.
He ordered his men to get on with the kidnapping. "Damn it, get those feet tied! James, you [moron], get a grip on his arms! Squash him if you have to, I don't care, just don't let this welp disgrace you!"
James finally managed to get the boys arms pinned behind him, and Scar managed to tie his ankles. Marcus figured they had him in hand now, so he lowered his pistol. "There now, it won't be so bad. We're not bad pirates, and we've a good ship, too!"
The whelp didn't listen but did his best to indeed disgrace the pirates. His only aim was to get free. By now Spot was really panicking, although there was also a great deal of cold anger in him at the same time. He didn't want to know how good their ship was, he wanted to get out of here.
So, the guy had lowered his pistol, Spot didn't really care. He was not going to let himself get caugh by pirates, not at any cost! Now he was starting to rant loudly at the three men with every swearword he knew - and had pick up quite a lot over the years. His position looked worse by the second, however. With his arms pinned behind his back he first had to get some space to maneuver back. Not easy with tied feet.
He grinned. Two tied feet could kick quite well, and as the man was about to tie down another knot he gave him everything. And this time he hit the stomach! Good, that should get that guy out of the picture for a while! The next thing he did was pull up his knees for verve and made a backwards roll over whatever was behind his back, which included his arms (which was okay by him, he knew what was coming and had been through worse) and the second man's hands. The roll made him land halfway on his knees, halfway on his side, but in a much better position to wrestle his hands free....he just had to be quick and strong enough...
"Scar! His feet, now!" roared Captain Marcus, his pistol once again following the whirlwind they were trying to tame. Scar had an iron stomach, so that kick would hurt but not knock the wind out of him. "James, get him on his stomach and flatten him, and control those arms! He's not an eel!" Once this was done, Marcus had already rushed forward to pin one arm beneath his knee, and he grabbed the back of the boy's head, tangling one hand in whatever he could grab of his hair and the other in his shirt, which ripped resoundingly. A nice clean tear, right down the middle, so he tore off a long enough strip and used it to gag the young man. "You talked to your Mother with that mouth! I learned some words, there, lad, and that's enough mouth from you."
Soon enough they had his wrists bound behind him, and Marcus ordered them to be joined to his ankles. "He's too slippery." He hoped he had his prisoner now.
Pain shot through his arm as the third man came forward to kneel on it, but Spot was used to pain and he clearly refused to let it stop him in any way. He was in a hot panic and red fury and didn't care, for the moment, what happened to him, as long as he didn't fall into the hands of these pirates! So his ankles and wrists were bound, depriving him of the use of his hands and most of his legs. But he still had his weight and agility. Since he was gagged he shut up, no way to waste any breath like this!
The important thing was to get off his stomach! With a big effort he pulled his knees up on one side of his body which left him in a very uncomfortable, twisted position, especially with one of the men still holding down his upper body, but that didn't last long. Spot's feet caught the side of a barrel which he used to push with his legs and throw himself sideways with everything he had. Somehow he had to break that hold! And where the hell was his knife?
The barrel toppled over right into Capt. Marcus, who swore as it rolled over his foot. "What does it take?" he almost shouted, only holding back because they were making enough noise as it was. It might be late, and the alley secluded, but someone was bound to hear if they didn't finish this kidnapping and get the hell out of there. "[Incompetent fools]!" he swore at his men. "Just get him!"
Scar managed again to grab his legs, and this time he wasted no time binding the knees, while James picked up the lad and slammed him chest down onto the cobbles. He dug his knee into his back and yanked on the rope Scar handed him to secure his elbows before getting those ankles tied to his wrists.
Marcus knelt by the lad when he was caught, and whispered, "Had enough?"
Crystal clear green eyes glared at the man. Spot was almost out of breath from the hard slam onto the stones, but not out of spirit, not by a long shot. He ignored the pain that was by now creeping all over his back and joints. Nothing new there. That wouldn't hold him back. For a moment he seemed to relax, just enough to convince number one and two that he indeed had had enough and get off him. If number three knew how to read the looks in his eyes, he'd know that it wasn't the case, but by then he made his next move.
He pulled himself up to his knees, which demanded a good amount of agility and control, tied up as he was, but he managed. His mind was racing. There had to be *something* that he could do...
He lowered his head and aimed at number the leader's stomach, putting as much of his strength and weigh behind the movement as he could. If only he could topple the man over he might have a chance to get himself on top of him....
"Now there, you idiots--grab him--OOOOOFF!!" That blow was not expected, and it took Capt. Marcus right over and knocked the wind out of him in one move. He went over backwards and rolled instinctively, partially gaining his knees as his lungs fought to gain air. This lad was a handful and then some. He coudln't give any orders if he wasn't breathing, and his men were fighting to get a grip they could hold on the lad. Marcus would have sworn, but he barely had the breath to even imagine it. He glared back at those green eyes.
When he had the breath back in him, he snapped, "Get a blindfold on him. And get a good grip too! That hurt!" He eyed the captive lad and waited for the blindfold to be produced. "Hurry up before he tries another trick!" He raised his pistol again.
In his head, Spot swore. It hadn't turned out the way he had hoped, but still, it had been quite satisfying. Now he was squirming against the grip of two pairs of hands, in lack of any other plans. He was rapidly running out of options. Then he saw another chance just as number two
produced a blindfold and started to reach for him with it. Number one made the mistake not taking care to stay away from him and Spot strained every muscle in his body to straighten as much as the ties allowed and slammed the side of his head into the mans's face. That movement took away any sense of balance that he still had and he collapsed to the ground, but at least he had gained another second. In the end that didn't help him much, though. Scar had had enough when James howled in pain and grabbed the side of his face, leaving him to somehow hang onto the human eel by himself. He did what he felt he needed to, and raised a ham of a fist and smashed it into the lad's cheekbone, hard enough to knock him out if he didn't had a head as hard as he suspected him now of having....Yup, he did. So he just plain sat on him and got the blindfold over his eyes and tied it tight, then hit him again, this time hearing the lad's head connect with the cobbles.
Marcus groaned, for the lad was now lying as limp as an old rag. "Scar, you better not have killed him, for he put up a worthy fight!" He knelt by the lad and haphazardly felt for a pulse, and found one, and saw him breathing, albeit shallowly. There was a cut on his forehead, which was bleeding, but not severely. "Well, you didn't kill him. James, use your scarf to bandage that cut for now. I swear, Scar, if you've addled his wits, you're marooned next island we come to. Now, let's get him back to the ship. tbc
It was a typical early summer day in the little town of Sarentre, where year after year passed without bringing much change or big events. The regular brawls in the taverns and whorehouses were generally ignored and bodies removed in silence. But that was the lower part of the town, the part that welcomed whomever came there as long as they brought money. The upper part of town very much ignored the lower part. There, Sarentre was an unimportant but peaceful town.
Spot, tall and lean, barely seventeen summers in age, was on his way to one of the many vantage points in the bay, as usual, taking his time, also as usual. The sun shone hot from a bright blue sky, obscured only by a small wisp of cloud here and there. A steady wind was blowing, playing with a thatch of unruly light brown hair that looked like every single strand had been cut to a different short length. The sun was already high in the sky but still at an angle which made it shine directly into his green eyes. Spot didn't raise his hand to shade them, though, but rather squinted as he gazed out at the port, then slowly around the bay and finally beyond all that out at the ocean, as far as he could see.
There was no hurry, he judged. Given the tide and current wind there would be no ships coming into port for the next few hours. That meant free time for him. With a gleeful smile Spot turned and headed back towards town.
It wasn't the shortest way but out of habit he took the route along the shoreline and through the port before he turned his back to the water and entered town.
The part of town nearest to the port consisted mainly of taverns, some shops, whorehouses, and warehouses--places where sailors could relax, have fun, or replenish their supplies. These parts were most awake during night although already the streets were filled with people. Spot walked right past these quarters and further up the hills towards far more respectable areas. Finally, almost at the farthest end of town, at the edge of a small wood he reached his destination: a small, unremarkable looking baker's shop.
Two minutes later he Spot was out in the dusty back yard behind the shop with Christopher the baker. In reality Christopher wasn't much of a baker and had only taken on the trade after he married Charlene who had insisted on settling down to a simple and quiet life. Other than with baking, he was skilled and deadly with the blade, as Spot had found out on the first evening after his arrival in Sarentre when he had been caugh stealing-or trying to steal-bread from the bakery.
Almost two months after the incident the youth had worked up enough courage to return to the shop and ask Christopher for lessons. It took a lot of persuasion, but the man had finally agreed to it.
Now, after almost a year of trainig both parties had grown accustomed to their regular fencing sessions and were almost equally looking forward to them, although for different reasons. Christopher was only too happy to leave the shop solely in the able hands of his wife, who was effectively the one running the whole place anyway, and spend a few hours with his eager and as it had turned out rather talented student.
*****
Usually, Captain Marcus enjoyed coming into port. Usually. He did not, however, favor pirate towns, despite technically being a pirate himself. Unfortunately, pirate towns were also the only ones where he could land without having to worry about the authorities, so he usually ended up in those. Still, he didn't mix well with the men typical of his profession. *Temporary profession,* he corrected his thinking. He had plans for a better, safer life than the one he currently led.
It was the beginning of the summer of 1685, and Marcus loved this time of year. The seas were less predictable, but beginning to calm down before the wild season of storms to come later on. This was a good time of year to pick up crew who had had to sit out the winter in some port. Many would have already set sail, and those that were left were either the best of the lot, temperament-wise, or the worst. Marcus wanted the the former and definitely not the latter.
That was why he had kept the Black Arrow, his best ship to date, far enough out and hidden behind a land swell that it was not visible from the shore of the bay. Sarentre could be a mean little port, and Marcus wanted to find a couple men to add to his crew. But he did not want typical pirates. So he and two men slipped ashore in darkness between tides and hid their longboat. Then they began a walk through the town, to look out for possible canditates.
Marcus wore his best clothes, which would mean he would not stand out as either rich or poor. Few noticed the middle-class, and he liked to go unnoticed as much as possible. His two crew members, who had accompanied him, were dressed in the typical seaman garb--canvas knee pants, cotton shirt, each with a scarf about his neck. They were each heavily armed, as was Marcus. That was to be expected in a town where pirates made their homes. Braces of pistols, cutlasses--and hidden, or in some cases not hidden, knives.
Marcus' sharp, blue-green gaze scanned everyone and everything, looking always for something that caught his eye. Almost immediately he noticed a young man with an open, kind face, working nets with deft hands and a quick turn of the shuttle. He had dark hair and would look up now and then from his lantern. He had an alertness and ableness about him Marcus liked at once. He nodded to his two crew companions, and they split up and set off in slightly different directions.
Marcus continued on, his shoes feeling tight and strange on his feet. He'd been at sea for awhile, and hadn't worn this pair of shoes much. His feet were used to freedom.
He paid that no mind but casually walked on. He found a comparatively quiet spot in a tavern farther inland, away from pirate haunts, where the lasses wore higher bodices and less cheek tint, and their minds were on delivering food and drink, not on parading themselves before customers. He admired these lasses quietly while he had a meal and an ale--good ale, he thought, enjoying it and the well-cooked beefsteak and potatoes. He could not help but splurge on bread and pie. He bought two pies and carried one with him as he left the tavern.
When he went back to the longboat to wait out the night, he found his two crewmen already had their first capture with them - the young man who had been working nets earlier. He was bound and gagged, and not in a good mood-- as was to be expected. Evenso, he did not look mean. "Row him out to the ship," said Marcus. "Be back before it gets light. I'll sleep on land tonight. Have the men keep a good eye out tomorrow, for if they see us coming, they should have enough sail up that we can get out in a hurry if we need to. There's not much going on right now, but that can always change. If there's trouble, send for me." He looked over the lad, now captive and going-to-be crewmember. "You look like you'll do. Tis a good ship I have, and I'm a good Cap'n. You could do a lot worse. We won't hurt you." Clear, bluegray eyes stared back at him, and the lad seemed to nod. "Take him to the ship. Put him in the hold. You know what to do." He added to the lad, "You'll only be there till morning."
Come morning, Marcus brushed sand and dirt off his clothes and went back into town. His two crewmen, James and Scar, joined him soon enough. A nod between them told Capt. Marcus that the longboat was hidden where they would find it when they needed it. They breakfasted in the same tavern where Marcus had had supper, and James and Scar dove into their meatpies and biscuits with a will! Marcus had the same, but could not resist another beefsteak. Again, he bought two pies for himself. The three of them left the tavern very full and very satisfied. They went back to the bay, to see if any ships had come in while they were occupied with eating. None had.
But right away, someone caught Marcus' eyes: another lad, younger than the other, but sharp of eye and wiry of build-with the worst haircut he had ever seen. *I wonder who won the bet on how many different lengths it would end up?* But there was something else different about this one. He motioned his men to go find something to do, but to keep close enough to him he could signal them when he was ready, and he unobtrusively followed the young man back into town.
Marcus followed the lad to a bakery on the farthest edge of town. Odd...but his quarry vanished within, and so Marcus went inside after a bit and looked around. He liked what he saw of the place, and thanked the woman behind the counter for the breads he bought. She had kind eyes, and a wedding ring on her finger, so Marcus gave her no more thought. He wondered where the lad went, but since he must be her son, he was probably in the kitchens, preparing dough.
Hm. Strange. Usually his instincts didn't play him false like that. Marcus had a knack for finding orphans and this boy had seemed like one, maybe not the perfect candidate, but interesting enough to have alerted his instincts. He shook his head and left the bakery, feeling a strange disappointment.
Instantly he turned to the left and went to the fence behind the bakery. Judging from the sound that could be heard from there, someone was practicing swordplay back there! And they were going through drills! From the sound of the steel, they were using good blades, too! Marcus had time on his hand so he decided to watch.
He peered through a narrow break in the fence and was surprised to see the young man and a bigger man going through drills. A nice Spanish sword was in the lad's hand, and the older man was using a nice weapon, too. He was the teacher.
After about an hour of drills, they went into a match.
So, the lad was just a student. A promising one, too. And he had a nice style, Marcus could not help but notice. Raw, needed more polish, but not bad! He used a main gauche style, knife as well as longblade. Intriguing. But the match didn't last long.
Marcus was fascinated. He had no technique at all with his own cutlass, but could still have taken the lad, although he realized not the older man, who was deadly in his refined technique.
In a second Marcus had made up his mind. If the young man was an orphan, he was going to come with them when they left port. Whether he wanted to or not. There was something about him. Something familiar.
Which was odd, since his sleeves were rolled up and neck widely exposed against the heat of the practice. Marcus had himself covered. He always had himself covered. As he watched the lad, the delicate features and lean body, he wondered how he'd ever managed to keep away from some pirate captain with an eye for young flesh. *No worries from me,* thought Marcus. But the lad was handsome. And just right for stealing by some cutthroat pirates. He'd be doing the lad a favor, really...
Marcus continued to watch the fencing match. Those were really good weapons, but the Spanish sword was a real beauty. He started to wonder why the older man let the boy use such a prized weapon. Maybe it was his.but how did a lad like that come to own such a treasure? Marcus decided he would steal that sword. Somehow. *****
"Watch your feet."
"Where's your balance?"
"Your weight is still too far back."
"Good."
"Sloppy."
"You're getting too bold."
"Better."
"You did it again!"
"Didn't you promise to work on that?"
"Careful now."
"A little more accuracy here, please!"
"Gotcha!"
These little duels tended to be very much alike, with Christopher continuously making comments while Spot concentrated hard to hold off the inevitable moment when he would end up on the ground or trapped in a corner - wherever - with or without his weapon. The only thing that was for sure was that he lost these matches.
Today it ended with Spot on his butt almost in the middle of the backyard, his sword still in one hand, but with the tip of Christopher's weapon resting on his breast in a way that very much suggested that in a real fight he would be quite dead.
"You are learning." Christopher said, giving Spot a quick salute before he held out his hand to help him up. Grinning, Spot took the offered hand and scrambled to his feet. He was covered with dust again, but didn't make and effort to brush it off just yet.
"Thank you. Today I managed to hold my ground for...how long? Fifteen minutes?"
It didn't sound like much, but it was a great improvment to the very first time they'd fought that night in the bakery. Then, Spot had been pinned to the ground within no more than three seconds and it had nothing to do with bad luck.
He was just about to look around for the knife that he'd dropped earlier when Christopher added:
"But you're getting a little sloppy with your footwork again lately. We'll have to work on that some more, kid."
Spot knew it was true and therefore didn't even try to defend himself. 'Sloppy' was a word used quite often when it came to describing his footwork, which was strange since he had learned long ago never to be sloppy and generally wasn't. He found his knife and picked it up before he got a quick glance at the sun and turned to accept his teacher's criticism with a simple nod.
"Make that our plan for tomorrow. I'd better go down to the port now. Thank you for today's lesson."
After a quick but very fond goodbye, and munching on a large slice of bread that Charlene had put into his hand on his way out Spot made his way back throught the streets towards the lower parts of the town.
It was time to get to work.
Once he was down at the port Spot fell into his usual routine, which consisted mainly of being as inconspicious and invisible as possible. Seemingly aimlessly he moved around, drifted into and out of groups of people as he watched the crews of the various ships land and move up into town. He avoided looking directly at anyone for more than a second but memorized faces, caught bits and pieces of conversation and finally picked his target for the day.
His target for the day was a dark-haired man with an unremarkable face but remarkably broad body who by the looks and sound of it carried enough money that he wouldn't miss a few coins if they were taken in a clever way, and who apparently planned to spend the rest of the day getting drunk for the fun of it. And he didn't seem like the brightest guy either. Perfect. The man was talking vividly with his friends who were dicussing the best place to go and have fun, all loud enough for an attentive listener to understand . They decided on the 'Southern Star'.
Since it hadn't taken long to find out where they were headed Spot didn't bother to follow them but hurried down a side street and was already strategically seated in the designated tavern, a drink in his hand, when Toine - that's what 'Target' was called by his friends - arrived.
During the next few hours he followed Toine's lead in getting drunk. That is, Spot played getting drunk while he watched those around him do the real thing. At one point he entered the group's conversation by praising a place and establishment that he knew nothing about, but none was sober enough anymore to realize that he only repeated what others had said earlier. From that point on he was accepted into the group.
Things went as planned, mostly. The only problem was that Toine showed no signs of getting drunk any faster than his companions did, which presented a problem for Spot's plans. But that was only a detail and easily fixed.
At an opportune moment, meaning just when Toine's glass was empty, Spot offered a toast and then, staring at the empty glass with carefully unfocused eyes, said in a neatly blurred voice:
"Oh, chu're ouddof drink..."
He jumped up - not too fast and sure-footed of course - and relieved one of the serving girls of another full glass, dropped a small amount of powder into the liquor and returned to the table.
Two minutes later the glass was empty and knowing that the powder would do its job Spot crowned his performance with a graceful collapse on the floor, followed by a soft snoring. Toine followed ten minutes later.
Now came the part that often demanded quite some patience. Sometimes Spot had to lie there for hours, always in danger of being trodden on by some drunk customer, while pretending to sleep deeply. Today however it didn't take long until strong, helpful hands moved Spot and the second sleeping figure outside and into the fresh air, dumping them unceremoniously on the street behind the tavern.
Once the closing door cut off the light from inside the tavern, he stopped snoring, stopped being drunk, stopped his performance almost altogether. He quickly put Toine's arm around his shoulder, pulled the man up and, like a drunk supporting and equally drunken friend, moved down the street and into a dark alley where he would have some privacy. The man was heavy, but even so Spot decided to move quite some distance. He was careful not to develop any kind of pattern in where he took his targets to relieve them of some of their money. Some. He never took all, that would be too dangerous and draw attention that he didn't want. The way he worked was designed to maximize the chance that in the morning the victim wouldn't remember much, especially not how much he had paid for drinks, so a few missing coins could easily go unnoticed. It was Spot's way to keep himself safe and invisible, so he could go on and use the same tricks again and again. There were only so many tricks that would work without calling attention to himself.
*****
Marcus watched with rapt attention as the lesson continued. He nodded, and winced when the knife went flying, for it looked wickedly sharp and knives tended to make him nervous in any situation. But his eye was caught both by the young man and that lovely sword he was using. Somehow...
He would have both of them. That haircut meant the boy was only a student, and there was something odd about that, too. It was almost as if he were paying off a debt, since no money exchanged hands after the lesson.
Ah, the young man left and headed to the port. He would be easy enough to find, then. Marcus watched closely, and as luck would have it, he saw where the Spanish sword was put. The backdoor was left open, too. Landsmen never learned...First he had to see to it that the big man was distracted. He had already seen that he could not win a fight with him, and he didn't fancy putting a lead ball into the man just to get that sword, no matter how beautiful it was.
Marcus headed off to find James and Scar, who as ordered had stayed nearby but out of sight, and whispered some words to them.
A little while later, Capt. Marcus re-entered the bakery. He approached the proprietress and asked very humbly if he could buy all the bread they had to spare. "My sloop, the La Lune, is anchored offshore, and we are low on bread. Could I inquire whether you have another batch baking? I'd be pleased to purchase as many loaves as you could spare."
They struck a deal, and a special batch would be made. It would be ready by nightfall. "Perfect, Madame," said Marcus, bowing. "Tide shifts not long after, so the timing could not be better. I will send respectable men to gather the loaves. Thankee kindly."
Outside again, Marcus handed his two huge sacks of breads to James and Scar, and told them to wait. He watched through the fence as the big man went to work in another room....
It took but two minutes to swing silently over the fence and sneak in, and moments later, he had the Spanish sword stuffed in one bulging sack that would never be suspected of also holding a beautiful fencing instrument. "Take the bread and this sword back to the ship, and return quickly. Put the sword in my cabin, and don't play with it! I'll know from your faces if you disobey me. Then get back here. We're going after that young fellow, but I think now isn't the right time. I'll follow him, you get back as quick as you can. Bring Langan, Broderick, and Clancy--in their best clothes--to load up the fresh batch of bread. You two, find me quick as you get back, and we'll go after that boy."
Marcus had a hard time finding his quarry, but he knew how to look around, and soon enough spotted him again. The lad was moving through the crowds in a manner that made him almost invisible for someone who didn't particularly look for him. And it was amazing, but just from watching, he figured out what he was doing. *Picking a mark,* thought Marcus, and realized with a little sinking sensation that if he could see it, sooner or later it would be noticed by someone who would use his pistol before he gave it a thought.
*I really am doing the kid a favor. He's going to get himself killed.*
But his curiosity was stirred and since there was no particular hurry he might as well see how he intended to rob his mark. The captain followed liesurely, and stayed out of the way in the tavern, a rather dark and noisy tavern, but certainly not the worst place in town. From his place at nearby table he had a good view.
Marcus shook his head. The kid had style. And he was slick. No doubt about it. He had the right stuff. But he *would* get himself killed if he played this game much longer. No matter how carefully that young man picked his mark, sooner or later he would make a mistake. Marcus wondered if he even noticed the other man, working on another mark across the tavern. If the lad ever chanced to pick the same pirate to rob...
Best not to think of that. Marcus paid for his light meal and ale, and went outside. Scar and later James found him soon. They had brought the necessary equipment to carry out another kidnapping. "Good. Now, let's stay out of sight."
They did, and when the mark and the young thief were tossed out, apparently blind drunk, Marcus shook his head again. *Not bad, not bad. But dangerous.*
He led the way, after seeing where the thief dragged the pirate. Marcus whispered, "We're not giving up on that fat purse, either. Don't forget that. And mind, no pilfering for yourself."
They all blocked the alley. It was a dead-end alley, with no exit. Barrels and old crates were stacked up at the end of it, and the thief was lifting coins from his mark, behind the barrels
Marcus signalled his men. Out came their cutlasses, and one also held a pistol.
"Hey there, lad," he said in a kind, conversational voice. "You'll not be denying us some fun, too, would you?"
Marcus had James and Scar flank him as they silently moved beyond the barrels that were hiding the young man and his drunk companion. As one they raised their weapons, Scar staying back a little, and Marcus said pleasantly, "Those valuables you just so elegantly lifted--toss them to my friend, gently. The one with the wrap on his head. And be slow in your movements. This pistol has a hairtrigger."
Spot had palmed some coins of course and was just about to slip the small sack of coins back into the man's incredibly large pocket when he heard the voice behind him. Darn! Never had anyone ever even got the idea to rob him. Well, sorry guys, there isn't much to rob here.
He froze and slowly turned his head. There wasn't much light in the alley, which was the main reason why he had chosen it, but he could make out three men and the face of the nearest of them.
Pirates. Three men, three cutlasses, and a pistol aimed at him, at a range that would make it hard to miss even given the inaccuracy of these weapons.
They might not be able to see it in the darknes, but Spot smiled. They could have the bag of coins if they wanted to, no problem there. What the problem was that he wouldn't take any orders from any pirate ever again. Period. He just wouldn't.
"It might be interesting to know how I'm supposed to throw a bag of coins in a slow movement," he said, lifting the bag, slowly while palming the coins in the other hand. He turned and waited.
Marcus smiled, and then stopped smiling. Their target wasn't acting quite right for someone about to be kidnapped. He felt they should proceed with caution. He said, "You're not daft, even if you're acting like it. Just drop the bag on the ground, along with those nice coins you're holding, and let us get on with the business at hand. We're three, you're one. We are recruiting you to be a pirate on my ship. Don't give us trouble. James, get the rope ready."
Somehow Spot managed to stay calm, which was a miracle; for the moment he didn't do anything rash. It would change in a second, but first he had to turn just a little further. "I am NOT a pirate!" he said, the anger rising in his voice and the calmness slipping away like water.
What had that man said? Rope. These men didn't plan to rob him. They wanted to take him on a pirate ship! No! Oh no, not with him! But he forced himself to calm down a bit again, just enough to sound agreeable when he added: "Very well, here you are!"
With that he threw the bag of coins at one man - by chance the one that the apparent leader of the group had indicated earlier -, the loose coins at the second while he dove forward and down to get below the line of fire from that pistol. His shoulder hit 'leader's' leg before he landed and rolled sideways, reaching for his knife, which was easily accessible. Three against one, maybe, but that didn't mean he had to surrender. No, he wouldn't do that again, either.
"Ow, hey!" and then "OW!" said Marcus and then let his instincts take over. He got out of the way of his men, and let them do their job. This was not the first recruit who had put up a fight.
Scar was farthest away from the diving man, but he moved in anyway and cocked his pistol at him, just as James landed his bulk on top of the young man and gripped his knife hand in both his. The rope was now lying on the ground, and James looked like he was trying to control a wriggling fish.
"Help him!" ordered Marcus, and Scar took up the rope and got a loop of it around one ankle of their would-be pirate.
Marcus cocked his own pistol and said, calmly, considering his shin was smarting like a horse had kicked it, "Don't make us get rough with you, young sir!" To Scar, he ordered, "Get his ankles tied! He can't run if he can't run!"
If Spot heard the man's words he didn't give any indication that he did. The knife was wrestled out of his hand in a second, but that didn't make him any less fierce in his defense. He pulled up his knee, placed the foot firmly on the ground and used it as the lever to roll himself over, taking with him the man on top of him. He made it only about ninety degrees but that was enough to make it possible for him to swing a punch that landed not full on the man's chin but well enough to give him the second he needed to turn his attention to the man who was now fiddling with the rope.
That sent a surge of panic through Spot and he kicked out with all his might, catching the man somewhere in the side. The rope! He had to get rid of that one... His attention turned to the first one again, using both fists to fight him off while his eyes searched the man's belt. He had to have a knife somewhere. If Spot could reach it....
Marcus watched what was supposed to be a routine kidnapping turn into a melee. He kicked the boy's knife out of the way and knelt down on one knee, pointing the pistol at the young one's head. "Stop it! You're making a ruckus! If you won't come with us, I'll have to shoot you!" It was all bluster, for that would make too much noise, and Marcus hated pistols anyway. But the boy didn't know that, and the anger in Marcus' voice was real.
He ordered his men to get on with the kidnapping. "Damn it, get those feet tied! James, you [moron], get a grip on his arms! Squash him if you have to, I don't care, just don't let this welp disgrace you!"
James finally managed to get the boys arms pinned behind him, and Scar managed to tie his ankles. Marcus figured they had him in hand now, so he lowered his pistol. "There now, it won't be so bad. We're not bad pirates, and we've a good ship, too!"
The whelp didn't listen but did his best to indeed disgrace the pirates. His only aim was to get free. By now Spot was really panicking, although there was also a great deal of cold anger in him at the same time. He didn't want to know how good their ship was, he wanted to get out of here.
So, the guy had lowered his pistol, Spot didn't really care. He was not going to let himself get caugh by pirates, not at any cost! Now he was starting to rant loudly at the three men with every swearword he knew - and had pick up quite a lot over the years. His position looked worse by the second, however. With his arms pinned behind his back he first had to get some space to maneuver back. Not easy with tied feet.
He grinned. Two tied feet could kick quite well, and as the man was about to tie down another knot he gave him everything. And this time he hit the stomach! Good, that should get that guy out of the picture for a while! The next thing he did was pull up his knees for verve and made a backwards roll over whatever was behind his back, which included his arms (which was okay by him, he knew what was coming and had been through worse) and the second man's hands. The roll made him land halfway on his knees, halfway on his side, but in a much better position to wrestle his hands free....he just had to be quick and strong enough...
"Scar! His feet, now!" roared Captain Marcus, his pistol once again following the whirlwind they were trying to tame. Scar had an iron stomach, so that kick would hurt but not knock the wind out of him. "James, get him on his stomach and flatten him, and control those arms! He's not an eel!" Once this was done, Marcus had already rushed forward to pin one arm beneath his knee, and he grabbed the back of the boy's head, tangling one hand in whatever he could grab of his hair and the other in his shirt, which ripped resoundingly. A nice clean tear, right down the middle, so he tore off a long enough strip and used it to gag the young man. "You talked to your Mother with that mouth! I learned some words, there, lad, and that's enough mouth from you."
Soon enough they had his wrists bound behind him, and Marcus ordered them to be joined to his ankles. "He's too slippery." He hoped he had his prisoner now.
Pain shot through his arm as the third man came forward to kneel on it, but Spot was used to pain and he clearly refused to let it stop him in any way. He was in a hot panic and red fury and didn't care, for the moment, what happened to him, as long as he didn't fall into the hands of these pirates! So his ankles and wrists were bound, depriving him of the use of his hands and most of his legs. But he still had his weight and agility. Since he was gagged he shut up, no way to waste any breath like this!
The important thing was to get off his stomach! With a big effort he pulled his knees up on one side of his body which left him in a very uncomfortable, twisted position, especially with one of the men still holding down his upper body, but that didn't last long. Spot's feet caught the side of a barrel which he used to push with his legs and throw himself sideways with everything he had. Somehow he had to break that hold! And where the hell was his knife?
The barrel toppled over right into Capt. Marcus, who swore as it rolled over his foot. "What does it take?" he almost shouted, only holding back because they were making enough noise as it was. It might be late, and the alley secluded, but someone was bound to hear if they didn't finish this kidnapping and get the hell out of there. "[Incompetent fools]!" he swore at his men. "Just get him!"
Scar managed again to grab his legs, and this time he wasted no time binding the knees, while James picked up the lad and slammed him chest down onto the cobbles. He dug his knee into his back and yanked on the rope Scar handed him to secure his elbows before getting those ankles tied to his wrists.
Marcus knelt by the lad when he was caught, and whispered, "Had enough?"
Crystal clear green eyes glared at the man. Spot was almost out of breath from the hard slam onto the stones, but not out of spirit, not by a long shot. He ignored the pain that was by now creeping all over his back and joints. Nothing new there. That wouldn't hold him back. For a moment he seemed to relax, just enough to convince number one and two that he indeed had had enough and get off him. If number three knew how to read the looks in his eyes, he'd know that it wasn't the case, but by then he made his next move.
He pulled himself up to his knees, which demanded a good amount of agility and control, tied up as he was, but he managed. His mind was racing. There had to be *something* that he could do...
He lowered his head and aimed at number the leader's stomach, putting as much of his strength and weigh behind the movement as he could. If only he could topple the man over he might have a chance to get himself on top of him....
"Now there, you idiots--grab him--OOOOOFF!!" That blow was not expected, and it took Capt. Marcus right over and knocked the wind out of him in one move. He went over backwards and rolled instinctively, partially gaining his knees as his lungs fought to gain air. This lad was a handful and then some. He coudln't give any orders if he wasn't breathing, and his men were fighting to get a grip they could hold on the lad. Marcus would have sworn, but he barely had the breath to even imagine it. He glared back at those green eyes.
When he had the breath back in him, he snapped, "Get a blindfold on him. And get a good grip too! That hurt!" He eyed the captive lad and waited for the blindfold to be produced. "Hurry up before he tries another trick!" He raised his pistol again.
In his head, Spot swore. It hadn't turned out the way he had hoped, but still, it had been quite satisfying. Now he was squirming against the grip of two pairs of hands, in lack of any other plans. He was rapidly running out of options. Then he saw another chance just as number two
produced a blindfold and started to reach for him with it. Number one made the mistake not taking care to stay away from him and Spot strained every muscle in his body to straighten as much as the ties allowed and slammed the side of his head into the mans's face. That movement took away any sense of balance that he still had and he collapsed to the ground, but at least he had gained another second. In the end that didn't help him much, though. Scar had had enough when James howled in pain and grabbed the side of his face, leaving him to somehow hang onto the human eel by himself. He did what he felt he needed to, and raised a ham of a fist and smashed it into the lad's cheekbone, hard enough to knock him out if he didn't had a head as hard as he suspected him now of having....Yup, he did. So he just plain sat on him and got the blindfold over his eyes and tied it tight, then hit him again, this time hearing the lad's head connect with the cobbles.
Marcus groaned, for the lad was now lying as limp as an old rag. "Scar, you better not have killed him, for he put up a worthy fight!" He knelt by the lad and haphazardly felt for a pulse, and found one, and saw him breathing, albeit shallowly. There was a cut on his forehead, which was bleeding, but not severely. "Well, you didn't kill him. James, use your scarf to bandage that cut for now. I swear, Scar, if you've addled his wits, you're marooned next island we come to. Now, let's get him back to the ship. tbc