Post by Witcher Wolf on Jun 7, 2007 12:55:17 GMT -5
A new short story (copyrighted as per usual) but presented here in one of its forms, so I can share it with you all. It is as per my usual style presented in its un-edited form.
More than Nine Lives
Part One: The Heresy of Truth
The cell was dark and dank; it stunk of the misery of human kind and seethed with the septic villainy of the imprisoned souls within. Normally in such a place there is always an innocent or two, someone wrongfully imprisoned or a case of mistaken identity. Not here, this dungeon reeked with the lowest forms of life.
A sharp crack of a whip heralded mewling cries of pain as a captor's cruel eyes regarded their prisoner. The jailor snapped his wrist forwards and the whip snapped again and again, it cut lacerations against the pearl-white of the woman's skin and drew rivers of blood down her back.
His prisoner did not scream, only the barest whisper of the torment she suffered escaped her red lips, the rest of her cries stifled as she bit against the lower lip to draw a slicker of crimson down her chin. She would not give the jailor the satisfaction of another cry.
Her hands were manacled and attached to long chains that held her arms at either side. Her fingers had gone numb hours ago and the pain that shot through her was now so intense it could not be ignored. With each new whip-crack her body shook against the chains, her bare back now a criss-crossed map of human sadism.
"If you'd only give the man what he wants," the jailor sighed and took a break to swig down a cool mug of water. "We could get to the interesting part."
"And I hang like a dangling doll, twitching and yelping until my neck breaks whilst you all watch on a whoop as another of the Sisterhood twists on the gallows?" she spat through a mix of saliva and blood. "I don't think so dog, you'd best cut me to shreds for if I ever get loose there won't be enough of you left to neuter."
"Brave words for a woman in chains," he hissed in reply and renewed his assault with the salt-coated whip. "I should put some fresh pain on the end, but I'm having too much fun breaking you Ara."
"I hardly noticed a tickle," she snorted and licked at her bruised and battered lip. "You must be losing your touch."
She heard him tighten his fingers on the handle of the whip, his knuckles cracked and he delivered a fierce blow that struck her in the lower back and nearly broke her spine. Ara sagged and went limp, her feet slipped against the slick stone beneath her and she jangled a little in the chains.
In his fury he'd forgotten the Duke's express orders that Ara was to hang. A momentary thunderbolt of fear went through his heart; if he'd killed her with that last stroke he could very well consider his head for the chopping block.
He didn't have much time to consider his mistake as a clamour of bells broke through his moment of terror, the room shook and the far wall exploded outwards in a shower of debris.
Through the gaping hole stepped a man, at least it had the physique of a man. A cloaked and hooded stranger paused for a few seconds to survey the devastation and lifted a finger to the depths of a cowl.
"Shh," the voice whispered. "Don't tell anyone we were here."
Well before the jailor could answer or gain his footing his eyes settled on the black metal barrel of a flintlock.
"Gods…"
There was a flash of light and a pall of smoke, the jailor fell back against his brazier and his left arm plunged into the hot coals, tipping the contents onto the floor and covering his body.
"We've found her," said the stranger to another couple of figures in the back. "Get her back to the Heresy and we'll be gone from this place."
"Aye Cap'n…"
These strangers left the despicable cell and ragged humanity behind, they slunk through the sewers by which they'd made entrance and ended up at the water-washed mouth of a grimy tunnel close to the beach with the sound of alarms still ringing in the distance.
"The Heresy should be pounding the living daylights out of Port Malsanay Captain," a voice behind the hooded figure floated out from the tunnel. It belonged to a sturdy man with a face that bore a criss-cross of scars all over the skin. "It be perfect cover for our get-away."
"Indeed," Captain Graves' voice whispered from under his hood. "Now haul your backside and our precious cargo through that damn tunnel Mr. Grady or there'll be a devil to pay."
"Aye Sir," Grady shouldered his burden and shoved past the Captain with a muttered apology, the limp woman in his arms dangled like a broken doll.
The four of them, the Captain and his Boson, plus two able bodied crew made their way across the sandy beach and through a small rocky cleft. The water smashed against the rocks and the waves made a deafening crescendo as they split against the stone.
A flash of cannon drew their attention as the dark mahogany coloured ship; the Heresy of Truth wavered just off Port Malsanay's shore and hammered the shore with a ripple of fire that sent splinters of wood and stone flying.
"An awful lot of gunpowder be used for such a cargo Captain," Grady said and stalked towards a waiting lifeboat. "Are you sure that this woman's going to be worth it?"
"More than her weight in gold," Graves chuckled a little and swept towards the boat. "She's Sisterhood my friend," he explained, "And that makes her valuable as an ally and if I were anything but a gentleman, a commodity."
"I wondered why," Grady huffed. "You'd go to all that trouble o'tracking her down to rescue."
"All will make sense in good time," Graves motioned the two seamen to take the oars. "Bring us back post haste and there's an extra ration of rum for you both."
"Aye Cap'n," they said in unison.
The small boat slipped across the waves and bore the five of them to relative safety. A couple of large swells threatened to tip the vessel but the oarsmen kept it going strong against the mild fury of the ocean that churned about them.
Graves watched his ship get closer and closer until he was able to catch hold of a rope and hook that dangled just above the water. He attached the first to a small eyelet on the front of the boat whilst Mr. Grady did the same for the rear.
"Haul away lads," yelled the Boson and put his hand onto the unconscious woman's shoulder to steady her as the lifeboat rocked a little as it slowly crept upwards.
The crew swung the boat onto the Galleon's deck and secured it, they threw a tarpaulin over the dark wood and tied it down as the Captain strode away towards his cabin with a stern, "Mr. Grady, bring her."
Once inside the cabin the Boson looked around for a sheet, Ara's bloody frame had stained his clothing in places and her skin was a mass of red welts and cuts.
"What are you waiting for man, put her down there," Graves indicated his fine bed and satin sheets, "Quickly now lest she catch some kind of cold."
The Captain's Cabin was a sumptuous affair, well decorated with the finest furniture and replete with various trophies from his years at sea. The four poster bed (his pride and joy) lay against the one wall and was draped in crimson blankets.
"Order the ship to pull back and give the port one last farewell volley before she stows her guns," Graves ordered and watched Grady put the woman down on his bed, almost reluctantly.
"Aye, Aye Sir," Grady gave a brief nod and returned to the deck where Graves heard him bellow out a rapid succession of orders.
Captain Graves left his hood and cloak in place; he poured himself a fine glass of sherry and then wrapped Ara in some of the blankets. The woman was that far gone he thought she might have begun her journey to the lands of the dead.
As the Heresy left Malsanay with a final broadside from her smoking guns and sailed into deeper waters, fires on the port burned almost uncontrollably and a few powder barrels ignited with a soft whoosh, their contents burning out in a few seconds of explosive glory. A cheer rose from the ship's crew as they returned to their regular duties and made the cannons safe.
Ara swam in darkness and her mind was clouded with a mist of half-remembered pain. Her muscles twitched in spasms as Graves watched her suffer the memories of her incarceration. She was a pretty woman (when not all bloodied) with whispers of soft red hair. At the moment her one eye was swollen and bruised, an angry purple splotch of colour against the pale of her skin.
He pulled a chair to the side of the bed and flopped down into it, sipped from the sherry and placed the glass on a small cabinet at the side. The sheet moved ever so slightly as Ara began to wake, her breast with a soft pink of a nipple peered out just before the silk rolled over it again.
Graves raised his brow and wondered if that was a deliberate attempt by Fate to ensnare him further. His father had warned him about women like these, including his mother who was Sisterhood, a sect of Assassins that were a law unto themselves.
"Be careful lad," his father's ghost whispered in his ear. "She's trouble this one, trouble like your old ma used to be."
"And the problem with this is?" he questioned the spectre that had whispered in by his side.
"Naught," said the ghost. "Just be careful is all, Sisterhood can't fully be trusted."
"I remember," Graves touched the scar on his right cheek. "Your wife, my mother tried to kill us. She succeeded with one of those contracts."
"Don't remind me," the ghost chuckled. "It's got a wonderful irony about it, but I don't quite get the point."
"In the end father," Graves replied with a hint of melancholy that swiftly drifted away. "It was a contract and she was made to honour it."
"I never did ask you boy," the ghost said quietly. "What did happen at that cove?"
"I became an only child," Graves answered and waved a hand to silence the ghost. "Enough now, I don't want to talk about it."
"Fair enough," his father's ghost drifted off into silence and then vanished.
Ara opened her one eye and felt a shock of pain pass through her, even with the Sisterhood's training at her beck and call she was only human and that showed right now. She was able to focus on the hooded man dressed in a mix of red and black finery, but that was about it.
"Am I dead?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Do you wish to be?"
"That doesn't answer the damn question," she summoned the strength to move a little and left a red stain on the bed from her torn back. "Am I dead or not?"
"No," Graves shook his head and rested his chin on his hands. "If you remain alive depends on how you treat me and mine."
"Forthright," she answered with a barely concealed shrug. "I like that, very well. Who are you?"
"Captain Graves of the Heresy of Truth," he inclined his head with a slow tip. "And I know all about you."
"Saves on introductions," she smiled blankly.
"It does."
"What do you want with me?"
"I have rescued you from the Duke's prison," Graves took his glass and sipped from it again. "Because I have a proposition to make and I need your talents."
"You've a contract?" she sounded marginally interested, the drink drew her attention. Graves could see her eyes lusting after the liquid.
"Of sorts," he stood up, poured a generous amount of sherry into a glass and gave it to her. "Here, you look as though you might need it."
She took it wordlessly and downed the contents in one, the slow fire spread from her throat down to her belly and she closed her eye.
"Another?" he queried.
"No," she shook her head and winced at the pain. "Not yet, need a clear head to negotiate with."
"Of course," he sat back down and waited patiently.
"Outline this proposition," she demanded as her eye opened. "We'll go from there Captain."
"I have a better idea," Graves gave a hidden smile from under his hood. "I want there to be complete trust between us, just so you know there are no hidden agendas or knives."
"Ok?"
He swirled his cloak off in a smooth motion and lowered the attached hood. He was a man of around thirty five summers and clean shaven with just a hint of stubble, a vicious scar marred his handsome face that ran from above his right eye down across the cheek to end at the side of his right nostril.
The most startling feature were his silver eyes, the normal white of a human's eyes had been replaced with a liquid shimmer.
"Captain Graves," Ara nodded approvingly. "You are quite the sight for this one good eye, the scar," she tapped her cheek. "How did you come by it?"
"My mother," he replied with a wave of his hand. "She was Sisterhood."
Ara's mouth opened a little and she shut it again, he was right when he said there would be no secrets. He was either a fool or entirely trusting of his skill to mention that particular. There was a Sisterhood contract out on his life.
"She tried to collect on the contract?"
"Oh yes," Graves nodded solemnly and frowned deeply, "William Graves and Gerald Graves, a contract against her family."
"A contract is a contract."
"Oh I understand," Graves waved it off again. "It was just a shame that I had to become an orphan just like that," he snapped his fingers and they clicked.
"You must be either lucky or very skilled to have defeated her," Ara sounded somewhat impressed and her silken tones charmed him. "I think I might go with skilled."
"You'd be wise," Graves nodded in approval and sat there nonchalantly. "Many have underestimated me and my ship in the past - no one lives to tell of their mistake."
"You are just as ruthless then?"
"When protecting me and mine," he affirmed this with a smile. "Yes."
"It should please you then to know," Ara smiled a little slyly. "I am not the one who has taken up your contract."
"Oh I know who it is," he replied and continued the verbal sparring. "They leave me alone, they live, they cross me and there will be naught left to feed the crows - on that I promise you."
She chuckled a little. "I think we have an understanding then Captain," Ara stretched and tested her body; it was weak from the jailor's torture. "May I ask another question?"
"Of course," he replied. "I rescued you. I am not your captor and you don't have to ask permission to question me, if I don't like your line of enquiry I shall tell you."
"You're very kind," she said with a huff. "Eloquent as well, which is a rare commodity in a pirate I'd wager?"
"A pirate," he looked around and then back at himself. "Oh me, oh no," he grinned. "I'm a Corsair, not a pirate."
"Apples and pears Mr. Graves," she whispered. "But I'll let you off with your delusions."
"You had a question?"
"Yes," she narrowed her eye. "What happened to the bastard that did this?" and held out her lacerated arm.
Graves clicked his tongue and replied. "He got a ball right between his eyes."
"You shot him?"
"Yes."
"Pity," she sounded almost sad. "I'd have liked to square my debt with him."
"My turn," Graves cut her off.
"For what," she replied coyly.
"Questions," he winked. "Just the one for now, how came you to become the prisoner of the Duke in the first case?"
"I was betrayed," she snorted. "By the same bitch that has your contract."
"Oh," he frowned in thought. "So that puts us on a path with similar goals as well?"
"I think it does, we’re certainly sailing in the right direction."
"I think this matter," Graves observed. "Merits more than just a simple discussion, what say you to dinner at my table?"
Ara blinked a little. "What say I?"
"Indeed."
"I think I'd be a fool to turn down such an offer and hospitality, considering before all I ate were watered down potatoes and brick dust."
He chuckled a little and removed both of his gloves, Ara watched him with a sudden sense of alarm. He caught this and quirked a brow. "Nothing to be worried about," he assured her. "I have studied medicine at the feet of the great scholars and healers, if you'd permit me."
"Permit you what?"
"An examination of your injuries," he queried and shrugged his shoulders. "Or I could let Forsythe do it, but he's got a foul temper, roaming hands and he's as old as the ocean's deepest clefts."
Ara weighed the options then frowned more; she lay back and warned him. "Delve into areas where you are uninvited and you and I will have bad blood between us, do you understand me Captain?"
Graves shook his head but answered her. "Of course," he promised. "My hands are those of a surgeon not a lover, unless they are invited to be. Now if you'd lie on your front I am particularly concerned about your lower back."
She did as he told her, without fear of modesty so her naked form caught his eye including the slight patch of red that was not upon her head. Graves was as good as his word and he began to examine her back.
"You took quite a blow to the lower spine," he mused as he carefully probed around. "It wasn't enough to sever it but you're going to have to be careful for a few weeks, if not a month."
"He knew his craft," she mumbled from a pillow. "I can't fault him for that."
"Most of the Duke's men do," Graves replied and began to clean the blood from her back with a soft cloth and some liquid in a bottle, it stung viciously.
"What the hells?"
"Witch hazel," he assured her, "Nothing more or less, just something to cleanse and help with the healing process."
"What does not kill us?"
"Exactly," Graves concluded his examination and stood back. "I am amazed you withstood such punishment, but I would wager that's Sisterhood training for you as well as your own endurance."
The compliment as slight as it might have been pleased her, Ara smiled somewhat warmly into the pillow. "You know your craft as well."
"I try," he replied and walked away. "Now I'm going to take a bath, you can join me if you like. Or you can lie there and rest some more."
Ara chuckled at the boldness of his statement, given with utter command and poise. "I might like to watch you bathe, but in truth," she laughed. "I stink and I would relish the chance to wash the stench of Malsanay's cells from my skin."
He gave a soft laugh of his own and trailed towards a massive wooden tub, he pulled a flat grey stone out of a pouch where it hung by the side and palmed it. Then he walked to the door, made sure it was locked and returned to the tub.
"What did you just take?" Ara leant up in the bed and waved towards his hand. "There, in your left hand?"
He switched hands and opened his left, then his right. "You mean my right?"
"I saw the switch," she huffed. "You've got to be better than that to beat me Captain."
"I see," he made a note of this and slapped the pebble into the tub. "It's a 'Bathing-stone', quite a rare one."
Ara had heard of these stones, the purview of the rich in the big cities who wanted something other than a maid. They were highly expensive and magical creations, the most expensive ones could fill a bath in seconds to the right temperature and keep it like that for hours.
"Where did you get one?"
"That would be telling," the Captain clapped his hands three times and there was a soft gurgle as water spilled from the stone and into the tub, it stopped filling just before it reached the rim. "Now wouldn't it?"
Ara tried to rise and cursed her body; it didn't want to obey her at all. Her feet skidded on the wooden floor and she rested against the bed.
"I think," she said reluctantly. "I might need some help."
Graves tipped something into the bath that caused it to foam, turned around and walked swiftly to the edge of the bed. He offered her his hand in a warrior's handshake and she gripped it tightly.
Out of the sheets she sailed and into his arms for a moment, it was a tiny fraction of time before she let go as he world spun lazily about her. He looked down and took the sheet from the bed, offered it to her.
"I don't need it," she purred softly. "You've probably seen your fair share of naked women in your time."
"Oh well," he laughed. "I have."
Ara leant on him as she made her way to the tub, the hot water looked inviting and as she climbed in with his help it enveloped her in a warm swirl of liquid.
He shed his clothes and entered the tub from the opposite side where he slunk down in the water. "Now that is much better," he concluded.
Ara winced as the hot water stung but she began to feel the effect of it just as quickly, it soothed her muscles and crept into her bones as she sat there with her chin just above the surface, her red hair splayed about like seaweed and it gave her the appearance of a Siren.
"I agree," she said finally after a long moment of just pure laziness in the water. "It is a pity that I'm in such turmoil of pain, or you might find company over there."
Graves queried her with a blink. "A little early for such things do you not think Ara?"
"I wondered when you might call me by my name good Captain," she shrugged and felt a fresh twinge as her muscles complained. "As for early, that depends on the people don't you think?"
"Well," he nodded, "In truth yes."
"You and I are no unspoilt flowers, untouched gardens or a dozen other metaphors I can conjure," she winked a little. "I have always been forwards; it's a trait of the Sisterhood."
"I see," understandably Captain Graves was somewhat put on guard by this. "Well, perhaps when you are hale and hearty again we can discuss this further."
"I think I might like that," she dipped below the surface and came up to Graves' right, she left a tiny wet kiss on his cheek. "Do not think me unkind Captain, I am grateful for the rescue and perhaps more than you will ever know at that."
More than Nine Lives
Part One: The Heresy of Truth
The cell was dark and dank; it stunk of the misery of human kind and seethed with the septic villainy of the imprisoned souls within. Normally in such a place there is always an innocent or two, someone wrongfully imprisoned or a case of mistaken identity. Not here, this dungeon reeked with the lowest forms of life.
A sharp crack of a whip heralded mewling cries of pain as a captor's cruel eyes regarded their prisoner. The jailor snapped his wrist forwards and the whip snapped again and again, it cut lacerations against the pearl-white of the woman's skin and drew rivers of blood down her back.
His prisoner did not scream, only the barest whisper of the torment she suffered escaped her red lips, the rest of her cries stifled as she bit against the lower lip to draw a slicker of crimson down her chin. She would not give the jailor the satisfaction of another cry.
Her hands were manacled and attached to long chains that held her arms at either side. Her fingers had gone numb hours ago and the pain that shot through her was now so intense it could not be ignored. With each new whip-crack her body shook against the chains, her bare back now a criss-crossed map of human sadism.
"If you'd only give the man what he wants," the jailor sighed and took a break to swig down a cool mug of water. "We could get to the interesting part."
"And I hang like a dangling doll, twitching and yelping until my neck breaks whilst you all watch on a whoop as another of the Sisterhood twists on the gallows?" she spat through a mix of saliva and blood. "I don't think so dog, you'd best cut me to shreds for if I ever get loose there won't be enough of you left to neuter."
"Brave words for a woman in chains," he hissed in reply and renewed his assault with the salt-coated whip. "I should put some fresh pain on the end, but I'm having too much fun breaking you Ara."
"I hardly noticed a tickle," she snorted and licked at her bruised and battered lip. "You must be losing your touch."
She heard him tighten his fingers on the handle of the whip, his knuckles cracked and he delivered a fierce blow that struck her in the lower back and nearly broke her spine. Ara sagged and went limp, her feet slipped against the slick stone beneath her and she jangled a little in the chains.
In his fury he'd forgotten the Duke's express orders that Ara was to hang. A momentary thunderbolt of fear went through his heart; if he'd killed her with that last stroke he could very well consider his head for the chopping block.
He didn't have much time to consider his mistake as a clamour of bells broke through his moment of terror, the room shook and the far wall exploded outwards in a shower of debris.
Through the gaping hole stepped a man, at least it had the physique of a man. A cloaked and hooded stranger paused for a few seconds to survey the devastation and lifted a finger to the depths of a cowl.
"Shh," the voice whispered. "Don't tell anyone we were here."
Well before the jailor could answer or gain his footing his eyes settled on the black metal barrel of a flintlock.
"Gods…"
There was a flash of light and a pall of smoke, the jailor fell back against his brazier and his left arm plunged into the hot coals, tipping the contents onto the floor and covering his body.
"We've found her," said the stranger to another couple of figures in the back. "Get her back to the Heresy and we'll be gone from this place."
"Aye Cap'n…"
These strangers left the despicable cell and ragged humanity behind, they slunk through the sewers by which they'd made entrance and ended up at the water-washed mouth of a grimy tunnel close to the beach with the sound of alarms still ringing in the distance.
"The Heresy should be pounding the living daylights out of Port Malsanay Captain," a voice behind the hooded figure floated out from the tunnel. It belonged to a sturdy man with a face that bore a criss-cross of scars all over the skin. "It be perfect cover for our get-away."
"Indeed," Captain Graves' voice whispered from under his hood. "Now haul your backside and our precious cargo through that damn tunnel Mr. Grady or there'll be a devil to pay."
"Aye Sir," Grady shouldered his burden and shoved past the Captain with a muttered apology, the limp woman in his arms dangled like a broken doll.
The four of them, the Captain and his Boson, plus two able bodied crew made their way across the sandy beach and through a small rocky cleft. The water smashed against the rocks and the waves made a deafening crescendo as they split against the stone.
A flash of cannon drew their attention as the dark mahogany coloured ship; the Heresy of Truth wavered just off Port Malsanay's shore and hammered the shore with a ripple of fire that sent splinters of wood and stone flying.
"An awful lot of gunpowder be used for such a cargo Captain," Grady said and stalked towards a waiting lifeboat. "Are you sure that this woman's going to be worth it?"
"More than her weight in gold," Graves chuckled a little and swept towards the boat. "She's Sisterhood my friend," he explained, "And that makes her valuable as an ally and if I were anything but a gentleman, a commodity."
"I wondered why," Grady huffed. "You'd go to all that trouble o'tracking her down to rescue."
"All will make sense in good time," Graves motioned the two seamen to take the oars. "Bring us back post haste and there's an extra ration of rum for you both."
"Aye Cap'n," they said in unison.
The small boat slipped across the waves and bore the five of them to relative safety. A couple of large swells threatened to tip the vessel but the oarsmen kept it going strong against the mild fury of the ocean that churned about them.
Graves watched his ship get closer and closer until he was able to catch hold of a rope and hook that dangled just above the water. He attached the first to a small eyelet on the front of the boat whilst Mr. Grady did the same for the rear.
"Haul away lads," yelled the Boson and put his hand onto the unconscious woman's shoulder to steady her as the lifeboat rocked a little as it slowly crept upwards.
The crew swung the boat onto the Galleon's deck and secured it, they threw a tarpaulin over the dark wood and tied it down as the Captain strode away towards his cabin with a stern, "Mr. Grady, bring her."
Once inside the cabin the Boson looked around for a sheet, Ara's bloody frame had stained his clothing in places and her skin was a mass of red welts and cuts.
"What are you waiting for man, put her down there," Graves indicated his fine bed and satin sheets, "Quickly now lest she catch some kind of cold."
The Captain's Cabin was a sumptuous affair, well decorated with the finest furniture and replete with various trophies from his years at sea. The four poster bed (his pride and joy) lay against the one wall and was draped in crimson blankets.
"Order the ship to pull back and give the port one last farewell volley before she stows her guns," Graves ordered and watched Grady put the woman down on his bed, almost reluctantly.
"Aye, Aye Sir," Grady gave a brief nod and returned to the deck where Graves heard him bellow out a rapid succession of orders.
Captain Graves left his hood and cloak in place; he poured himself a fine glass of sherry and then wrapped Ara in some of the blankets. The woman was that far gone he thought she might have begun her journey to the lands of the dead.
As the Heresy left Malsanay with a final broadside from her smoking guns and sailed into deeper waters, fires on the port burned almost uncontrollably and a few powder barrels ignited with a soft whoosh, their contents burning out in a few seconds of explosive glory. A cheer rose from the ship's crew as they returned to their regular duties and made the cannons safe.
Ara swam in darkness and her mind was clouded with a mist of half-remembered pain. Her muscles twitched in spasms as Graves watched her suffer the memories of her incarceration. She was a pretty woman (when not all bloodied) with whispers of soft red hair. At the moment her one eye was swollen and bruised, an angry purple splotch of colour against the pale of her skin.
He pulled a chair to the side of the bed and flopped down into it, sipped from the sherry and placed the glass on a small cabinet at the side. The sheet moved ever so slightly as Ara began to wake, her breast with a soft pink of a nipple peered out just before the silk rolled over it again.
Graves raised his brow and wondered if that was a deliberate attempt by Fate to ensnare him further. His father had warned him about women like these, including his mother who was Sisterhood, a sect of Assassins that were a law unto themselves.
"Be careful lad," his father's ghost whispered in his ear. "She's trouble this one, trouble like your old ma used to be."
"And the problem with this is?" he questioned the spectre that had whispered in by his side.
"Naught," said the ghost. "Just be careful is all, Sisterhood can't fully be trusted."
"I remember," Graves touched the scar on his right cheek. "Your wife, my mother tried to kill us. She succeeded with one of those contracts."
"Don't remind me," the ghost chuckled. "It's got a wonderful irony about it, but I don't quite get the point."
"In the end father," Graves replied with a hint of melancholy that swiftly drifted away. "It was a contract and she was made to honour it."
"I never did ask you boy," the ghost said quietly. "What did happen at that cove?"
"I became an only child," Graves answered and waved a hand to silence the ghost. "Enough now, I don't want to talk about it."
"Fair enough," his father's ghost drifted off into silence and then vanished.
Ara opened her one eye and felt a shock of pain pass through her, even with the Sisterhood's training at her beck and call she was only human and that showed right now. She was able to focus on the hooded man dressed in a mix of red and black finery, but that was about it.
"Am I dead?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Do you wish to be?"
"That doesn't answer the damn question," she summoned the strength to move a little and left a red stain on the bed from her torn back. "Am I dead or not?"
"No," Graves shook his head and rested his chin on his hands. "If you remain alive depends on how you treat me and mine."
"Forthright," she answered with a barely concealed shrug. "I like that, very well. Who are you?"
"Captain Graves of the Heresy of Truth," he inclined his head with a slow tip. "And I know all about you."
"Saves on introductions," she smiled blankly.
"It does."
"What do you want with me?"
"I have rescued you from the Duke's prison," Graves took his glass and sipped from it again. "Because I have a proposition to make and I need your talents."
"You've a contract?" she sounded marginally interested, the drink drew her attention. Graves could see her eyes lusting after the liquid.
"Of sorts," he stood up, poured a generous amount of sherry into a glass and gave it to her. "Here, you look as though you might need it."
She took it wordlessly and downed the contents in one, the slow fire spread from her throat down to her belly and she closed her eye.
"Another?" he queried.
"No," she shook her head and winced at the pain. "Not yet, need a clear head to negotiate with."
"Of course," he sat back down and waited patiently.
"Outline this proposition," she demanded as her eye opened. "We'll go from there Captain."
"I have a better idea," Graves gave a hidden smile from under his hood. "I want there to be complete trust between us, just so you know there are no hidden agendas or knives."
"Ok?"
He swirled his cloak off in a smooth motion and lowered the attached hood. He was a man of around thirty five summers and clean shaven with just a hint of stubble, a vicious scar marred his handsome face that ran from above his right eye down across the cheek to end at the side of his right nostril.
The most startling feature were his silver eyes, the normal white of a human's eyes had been replaced with a liquid shimmer.
"Captain Graves," Ara nodded approvingly. "You are quite the sight for this one good eye, the scar," she tapped her cheek. "How did you come by it?"
"My mother," he replied with a wave of his hand. "She was Sisterhood."
Ara's mouth opened a little and she shut it again, he was right when he said there would be no secrets. He was either a fool or entirely trusting of his skill to mention that particular. There was a Sisterhood contract out on his life.
"She tried to collect on the contract?"
"Oh yes," Graves nodded solemnly and frowned deeply, "William Graves and Gerald Graves, a contract against her family."
"A contract is a contract."
"Oh I understand," Graves waved it off again. "It was just a shame that I had to become an orphan just like that," he snapped his fingers and they clicked.
"You must be either lucky or very skilled to have defeated her," Ara sounded somewhat impressed and her silken tones charmed him. "I think I might go with skilled."
"You'd be wise," Graves nodded in approval and sat there nonchalantly. "Many have underestimated me and my ship in the past - no one lives to tell of their mistake."
"You are just as ruthless then?"
"When protecting me and mine," he affirmed this with a smile. "Yes."
"It should please you then to know," Ara smiled a little slyly. "I am not the one who has taken up your contract."
"Oh I know who it is," he replied and continued the verbal sparring. "They leave me alone, they live, they cross me and there will be naught left to feed the crows - on that I promise you."
She chuckled a little. "I think we have an understanding then Captain," Ara stretched and tested her body; it was weak from the jailor's torture. "May I ask another question?"
"Of course," he replied. "I rescued you. I am not your captor and you don't have to ask permission to question me, if I don't like your line of enquiry I shall tell you."
"You're very kind," she said with a huff. "Eloquent as well, which is a rare commodity in a pirate I'd wager?"
"A pirate," he looked around and then back at himself. "Oh me, oh no," he grinned. "I'm a Corsair, not a pirate."
"Apples and pears Mr. Graves," she whispered. "But I'll let you off with your delusions."
"You had a question?"
"Yes," she narrowed her eye. "What happened to the bastard that did this?" and held out her lacerated arm.
Graves clicked his tongue and replied. "He got a ball right between his eyes."
"You shot him?"
"Yes."
"Pity," she sounded almost sad. "I'd have liked to square my debt with him."
"My turn," Graves cut her off.
"For what," she replied coyly.
"Questions," he winked. "Just the one for now, how came you to become the prisoner of the Duke in the first case?"
"I was betrayed," she snorted. "By the same bitch that has your contract."
"Oh," he frowned in thought. "So that puts us on a path with similar goals as well?"
"I think it does, we’re certainly sailing in the right direction."
"I think this matter," Graves observed. "Merits more than just a simple discussion, what say you to dinner at my table?"
Ara blinked a little. "What say I?"
"Indeed."
"I think I'd be a fool to turn down such an offer and hospitality, considering before all I ate were watered down potatoes and brick dust."
He chuckled a little and removed both of his gloves, Ara watched him with a sudden sense of alarm. He caught this and quirked a brow. "Nothing to be worried about," he assured her. "I have studied medicine at the feet of the great scholars and healers, if you'd permit me."
"Permit you what?"
"An examination of your injuries," he queried and shrugged his shoulders. "Or I could let Forsythe do it, but he's got a foul temper, roaming hands and he's as old as the ocean's deepest clefts."
Ara weighed the options then frowned more; she lay back and warned him. "Delve into areas where you are uninvited and you and I will have bad blood between us, do you understand me Captain?"
Graves shook his head but answered her. "Of course," he promised. "My hands are those of a surgeon not a lover, unless they are invited to be. Now if you'd lie on your front I am particularly concerned about your lower back."
She did as he told her, without fear of modesty so her naked form caught his eye including the slight patch of red that was not upon her head. Graves was as good as his word and he began to examine her back.
"You took quite a blow to the lower spine," he mused as he carefully probed around. "It wasn't enough to sever it but you're going to have to be careful for a few weeks, if not a month."
"He knew his craft," she mumbled from a pillow. "I can't fault him for that."
"Most of the Duke's men do," Graves replied and began to clean the blood from her back with a soft cloth and some liquid in a bottle, it stung viciously.
"What the hells?"
"Witch hazel," he assured her, "Nothing more or less, just something to cleanse and help with the healing process."
"What does not kill us?"
"Exactly," Graves concluded his examination and stood back. "I am amazed you withstood such punishment, but I would wager that's Sisterhood training for you as well as your own endurance."
The compliment as slight as it might have been pleased her, Ara smiled somewhat warmly into the pillow. "You know your craft as well."
"I try," he replied and walked away. "Now I'm going to take a bath, you can join me if you like. Or you can lie there and rest some more."
Ara chuckled at the boldness of his statement, given with utter command and poise. "I might like to watch you bathe, but in truth," she laughed. "I stink and I would relish the chance to wash the stench of Malsanay's cells from my skin."
He gave a soft laugh of his own and trailed towards a massive wooden tub, he pulled a flat grey stone out of a pouch where it hung by the side and palmed it. Then he walked to the door, made sure it was locked and returned to the tub.
"What did you just take?" Ara leant up in the bed and waved towards his hand. "There, in your left hand?"
He switched hands and opened his left, then his right. "You mean my right?"
"I saw the switch," she huffed. "You've got to be better than that to beat me Captain."
"I see," he made a note of this and slapped the pebble into the tub. "It's a 'Bathing-stone', quite a rare one."
Ara had heard of these stones, the purview of the rich in the big cities who wanted something other than a maid. They were highly expensive and magical creations, the most expensive ones could fill a bath in seconds to the right temperature and keep it like that for hours.
"Where did you get one?"
"That would be telling," the Captain clapped his hands three times and there was a soft gurgle as water spilled from the stone and into the tub, it stopped filling just before it reached the rim. "Now wouldn't it?"
Ara tried to rise and cursed her body; it didn't want to obey her at all. Her feet skidded on the wooden floor and she rested against the bed.
"I think," she said reluctantly. "I might need some help."
Graves tipped something into the bath that caused it to foam, turned around and walked swiftly to the edge of the bed. He offered her his hand in a warrior's handshake and she gripped it tightly.
Out of the sheets she sailed and into his arms for a moment, it was a tiny fraction of time before she let go as he world spun lazily about her. He looked down and took the sheet from the bed, offered it to her.
"I don't need it," she purred softly. "You've probably seen your fair share of naked women in your time."
"Oh well," he laughed. "I have."
Ara leant on him as she made her way to the tub, the hot water looked inviting and as she climbed in with his help it enveloped her in a warm swirl of liquid.
He shed his clothes and entered the tub from the opposite side where he slunk down in the water. "Now that is much better," he concluded.
Ara winced as the hot water stung but she began to feel the effect of it just as quickly, it soothed her muscles and crept into her bones as she sat there with her chin just above the surface, her red hair splayed about like seaweed and it gave her the appearance of a Siren.
"I agree," she said finally after a long moment of just pure laziness in the water. "It is a pity that I'm in such turmoil of pain, or you might find company over there."
Graves queried her with a blink. "A little early for such things do you not think Ara?"
"I wondered when you might call me by my name good Captain," she shrugged and felt a fresh twinge as her muscles complained. "As for early, that depends on the people don't you think?"
"Well," he nodded, "In truth yes."
"You and I are no unspoilt flowers, untouched gardens or a dozen other metaphors I can conjure," she winked a little. "I have always been forwards; it's a trait of the Sisterhood."
"I see," understandably Captain Graves was somewhat put on guard by this. "Well, perhaps when you are hale and hearty again we can discuss this further."
"I think I might like that," she dipped below the surface and came up to Graves' right, she left a tiny wet kiss on his cheek. "Do not think me unkind Captain, I am grateful for the rescue and perhaps more than you will ever know at that."
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