INTERLOPING III

Corton clutched at his helmet continuing to hiss whimpers out from the slits in his iron. As the knights’ intricately gilded leader nudged the doubled over form by gold boot, it yanked the helm off its shoulders and pauldrons to reveal Corton underneath, red and wicked with sweat. He slammed the headgear to the ground, it bouncing off the floor in quick successions before coming to roll beneath a porthole, shadows worn. His captain frowned.

“Corton, compose yourself. You embarrass your brothers,” he advised.

“Hells with that! Damned guillotine fodder got me with the woman’s helm.”

“Corton...”

Corton’s leader trailed off, gave the two pirates before him another glance, then stepped over the curled up Corton and to the barrels housing Fugger’s findings: two dark and yet uncorked wines. His ornate gauntlets soaked in the moonlight, Bellhound’s eyes disturbed into a squint. In the air they produced two bottles, a white grin flashing across the man whose gray hairs flowed in all directions.

“Gentlemen. You don’t wish to have these end in a puddle, yes? Come...” the senior knight vibrated his wine wielding grips. “You will let the disgraced brother in your hands go, and I will vow to have these stored in your name for safe keeping--to be collected following your sentences, of course.” He smiled and allowed the wrinkles round his eyes chase their prey into cheer.

“Put the bottles down or you die,” Fugger shot.

“Hang these fools!” Corton wailed from the floor.

The disgraced brother, she with bun further in disarray and steel against neck, seized what she considered an opportunity as ample she’d see, slamming her helmless head against Fugger’s face in frank imitation. Fugger stumbled backwards allowing his cutlass to fall, clumsily replacing his grip with the flintlock holstered across his chest. The brother meanwhile dove for the fallen blade and swung herself up and around to slice at the pirate’s ankles, Fugger flinching in sudden, incredible pain, his slammed trigger blasting a bullet out and off the captain’s chestplate ricocheting rapidly then between all parties present, Bellhound diving to clutch his head, Fugger atop his hostage anew, the wine bottles dropped and rolling along plank, the discarded helmet bouncing out from the dark, the knights each frozen in a terror shared between siblings, their father facing the stairs, Corton’s head slumping against the planks pooled in himself. When he realized, his captain knelt beside the brother and held his son.

Fugger landed a strike across the face below him, but a boot in turn kicked out against the gash in her kidnapper’s leg, Fugger falling sideways howling while another blade drew below the chin of the hostage now Bellhound’s from behind. The knights meanwhile maintained their statuesque stance, some gazing upon the fallen brother while others looked onward towards the continuing hostage crisis. Fugger hobbled over to his saber with some effort, gave the room a glance, dove for the first fallen bottle he found, twisted his sword to uncork the spirit and immediately nursed it from the floor. At some point he staggered over once back on his feet to Bellhound offering a sip, ultimately declined by an expression of admonishment--but some fear, Fugger considered. He started then towards the mourning father who remained in kneel.

“Sorry about him. No more negotiating. Take your boys and sail off.”

The knight in turn raised his pained expression up to meet Fugger’s wordlessly for several moments. “I will have my boys place you and your little sunburnt friend in iron so I may march you to your executions,” he settled on. Fugger pointed his bottle towards Bellhound. “Huh uh. Take your boys and go or get two dead,” he countered. Mustache splayed, the captain sucked on his hairs.

“Are you to suggest we leave this brother in your criminal hands--to die, really?”

“We’ll dump her at a beach on our way home,” said Fugger. “Alive,” he added in response to the unchanged gaze worn in wrinkles before him.

“You understand whatever it is your henchman does to our brother, I will cut you down regardless.”

“Ok. He’ll kill her, though.”

“Would you debase yourselves so low?”

“Bell!” roared Fugger.

“I’ll kill her,” affirmed Bellhound.

“Gods...” mused the knight captain.

Shadows slowly shifted as the night continued. The knight’s grays swayed in a sad dance. He addressed the pirates:

“Gentlemen, we boarded this vessel--which is not and will not be recognized yours, for it is one of many unaccounted volunteer expeditions since the circumstances of our world became as all know them to be.”

“Yes sir,” chimed a knight.

“Yes sir!” from a few others.

“Dunno know what you’re talking about,” admitted Fugger.

The wrinkles revealed a wounded look to Fugger, thought Fugger, though ignorant he felt. The captain continued:

“When my boys and I came aboard to inquire and found the atmosphere... hostile as we did, we took appropriate action as His majesty’s law dictates. Through no error of our own did we trespass upon that which cannot be trespassed by anyone present save the two villains before me. Indeed it seems Corton, rest his soul, was not the first of your bloodthirst, this ship empty elsewise of its crew. Tell me, confide in me, scoundrel, what fate was theirs?”

Fugger glanced and found Bellhound to be as attentive as the knights. The hostage he held struggled vainly, Bell’s chokehold unyielding regardless. Fugger brought his eyes back towards that smothered in gray.

“I don’t know. Ship was empty.”

“That’s a load!” screamed the quickly red senior who rose to his feet to stand and tower above Fugger. “How dare you make such light of it all--by the Gods, isn’t this world in enough chaos than to have you dispense evil you so cravenly shirk from? I should slay you.”

“Yes sir!” agreed an underling.

“Yes sir,” agreed another.

“But I will not cut thee down,” he revealed. “If I’m to have turned away the chance to prevent further death of these boys purely through following my moral convictions, I should answer for my selfishness before the king. Have the girl, devils. I have done what I can do at this time in good conscience. If she is to be found pillaged or dead, I will hunt you and this cursed vessel down to bring your head before His majesty’s subjects. If she is gone missing, your fate will be the same. All’s said not to imply I won’t be seeking an immediate warrant for either your arrests on grounds of the guests you’ve slain, the volunteers tossed to the sea, of course Corton, and the matter of the relic you illegally harbor below deck. Yes, gentlemen, there is no home you can flee to we won’t know of soon enough. Not in this world.”

The devil scratched at his face. “Ok. Yeah.”

The old knight lowered his passion to pensiveness, the pained look returning beneath his brow, Fugger noted. He wordlessly directed his knights to assist in carrying out the fallen brother, blood smeared in their wake. Bellhound remained with the hostaged knight secure while Fugger watched from above an escort sail close, be boarded, and go a great distance out. At some point, Fugger realized the vessel’s movement stalled. Guessing at the strategy, he returned below deck to wait them out and found Bellhound resting his frame against a porthole, arms crossed, knife sheathed, the hostage set up in a camp within the corner connecting to the captain’s quarters facing the planks beneath her knees.

“Why’s she let go?”

“Tired of holding her,” the ship’s navigator replied.

“You cant’ve tied her up?” his captain suggested.

“By myself? Besides, look at her.” Bellhound glanced at the knight. “Docile. She’s not trying anything.”

“We could lock her in a broom closet at least.”

“You getta setta keys off this ship’s crew ‘for you tossed ’em overboard?”

“No,” said Fugger. “Just figure my quarters’ got a set I ain’t caught sight of yet.”

“Di’n’t shake everything there down already for coin?” reminded Bellhound.

Fugger sipped.

Ultimately, the two settled on securing a stool between closet door and weighted crate, a shove winding solely the captain, Bellhound composed in silent symphony. The hostage in reflective iron did not object to the transition nor offer much conversation either. It fell to Fugger to fill the air with sound: drunken, gayly recited clink learned shanties from poor memory. His efforts amused nor seemingly affected either first mate nor knight, Bellhound quick to cot post the sealing of the latter’s tomb. Fugger groped his way up the surface leading ladder and found he could no longer spy the royal vessel out in the distance, an especially clear one, stars washing and crashing into his own ship. It seemed alight, the ship--all but the heavy shadows cast down from the command above. Fugger drained the bottle dry, tossing it out into the waves soon swallowed up by twinkling. He slipped on a puddle of crimson attempting a return to his cabin, crashing under the moon not far from where he’d woken just a sun ago. His leg hurt. He fell asleep.