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A Seafaring SagaChapter 9: Escape From Port Crowne
It took Viktor a long time to find a bar that was not empty, but at last he found one at the far east end of Port Crowne, a decent-looking shack with some fine, if not fiery, brew. After a good sup, Viktor returned to the streets, finally returning to the square where the coronation had been held. The mob had been dispersed, and now gloomy-faced soldiers were picking up the pieces. Two oblong shapes on the ground were shrouded. Viktor’s eyes moved from the victims of the chaos to the stage itself. It, too, was in shreds. Banners that had not been torn down and trampled hanged limply, and the royal red carpet was crumpled and muddied. On the stage, the red-faced king was shouted madly at a pathetic-looking guard.
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?!?”
Viktor eased closer to listen, but suddenly another soldier confronted him.
“‘Ey, you there!”
Viktor stopped. He recognized this chap. Viktor had slashed him across the face in his struggled to escape the mob. The soldier’s one remaining eye narrowed.
“You li’l son of megablok!”
The burly soldier grabbed Viktor roughly and shouted out, “I found on o’ those rabble-causers! I saw him eggin’ the crowd! Come back, ta gloat, ‘e is!”
Viktor punched the man hard in the stomach, swerved away, and all at once his head made contact with a club. A very, very big club. And a heavy club. He went down like a log. Slowly, Viktor's muddled senses returned to him. He was laying down, that much as certain. Also, he was on something wet and rough. Stones? Yes, that’s what they had to be. He was lying on a stone floor. A damp stone floor. Something shuffled. Something snuffled. Viktor opened his eyes.
“GAAAAHHHHH!”
The rat that had been chewing on Viktor’s beard shot off into a corner with a squeak. Viktor thrust himself up from the floor with an oath, then slumped against the dank wall.
“Ohhhh...megabloks.…”
His head hurt like tyco. Oh, when he got his hands on that soldier...
Viktor glanced about. Well, he wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon. He was in a cell, a Crusader cell obviously, and there was no way he was going to get out at this moment, in the condition he was in. His weapons had been taken from him -- he could see them on a far wall between the bars -- and his worn plate armor had also been stripped off.
“S’cuse me!” Viktor called out. A grumpy-looking jail keeper appears and grunted.
“Why am I held here?” Viktor continued.
“Yer held on charged of conspiracy to kidnap teh princess, disruptin’ teh peace, destroyin’ public property, and fer resistin’ arrest.”
“Wonderful. When do I get a lawyer?”
The jail keeper squinted at Viktor.
“Yer getting’ no ‘un. Yer pub’ic ‘ang’s scheduled fer tomarra.”
“Your judicial system leaves much to desired, good sir.” Viktor smiled sweetly.
The jail keeper grunted and turned away.
Something is wrong with this picture... thought Viktor, Now what is it? Ah yes...I'm not supposed to be on this scaffold...
It was the next day. The sun was approaching it’s zenith. Viktor was up on an hastily-erected gallows, and he was surrounded by a jeering crowd. Behind the crowd stood the Crusader king, deadly pale, an angry glare in his eyes.
Woe is me...the poor scapegoat... bemoaned Viktor.
Then something caught his eye. What was it? Viktor twisted his head upward, straining his neck. He could see some type of movement up on one of the two-story Tudor houses, but he couldn’t tell what was happening. Then the executioner stumped up to Viktor, and roughly looped the noose around Viktor’s neck. The crying of the crowd doubled, and rotten vegetables were tossed.
Why doesn’t that son of a megabloks hang those tycos? They were the ones who crashed the party, not me.
Now the crowd had taken up a chant.
“Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! Hang him!”
The executioner glanced at King Robert, and king nodded. The executioner reached for the level and...
Suddenly the sun was momentarily blocked out as a behemoth chunk of rock fell from the sky and smashed downward into the executioner. The gallows collapsed, and Viktor was thrown to the cobblestones. The noose was still around his neck and his hands were still bound, but a shard of timber had severed the noose from the beam that had been above Viktor. From down on the ground, Viktor saw with surprise that the rock piece that had crushed his would-be killer was hollow. Viktor immediately jumped upward despite bruised ribs and charged the nearest person, head-butting them and sending them flying. Then he was off down the same alleyway he had been assaulted by that woman, his feet pounding, his hand tied uselessly to his back. As he continued onward, he heard the unmistakable voice of Tim E. shout: “Fear the power of the BURP! Run, Viktor run, and ye owe me a drink when we meet next!”
Viktor followed Tim E.'s advice fervently. He ran. And ran. And ran. At least, he ran as best he could, with a noose around his neck and his hands tided behind his back. At least his feet weren’t tied. That would have certainly been awkward and complicated things.
Viktor prided himself in being a good runner, and he put his skill and stamina to good use by putting distance between himself and the Crusaders soldiers clanking along behind him. Besides his quick feet, he had another advantage: he was wearing nothing but a tunic and pantaloons. His pursuers had on heaver maille, and in some cases full plate armor. Of course, that left him more exposed, but it was impossible for someone to shoot him while he weaved in and out of narrow streets.
But now Viktor was out upon the docks of Port Crowne. Now he was exposed. Veering left, he ran parallel to the buildings that lined the dock. Then suddenly he was sent sprawling into the water. He had tripped over a cowering mangy cur.
Blasted little son of a--
Viktor sank into the grimy water with his eyes open and was about to kick his way to the surface when suddenly a volley of arrow sliced through the water like piranhas.
Megablocks!
Viktor rolled over sideways and kicked hard with his legs, propelling him through the water and amongst the pilings of the dock. As he surged upward to snatch a breath of air, something caught his eye. Something that glittered at the bottom of the harbor. After catching a quick breath, Viktor dove downward again.
Excellent!
It was a knife. With his hands still bound, he maneuvered himself toward the knife and scraped the binding ropes against the blade. Like magic, the ropes parted, and Viktor’s handshipoteca simulador credito hipotecario banorte came free.
Tyco, that's once sharp knife! thought Viktor, and then snatched it up. Then Viktor realized he was running out of air, and that from the shadows above the soldiers were approaching.
Time to go...
Viktor’s lungs were now burning with lack of oxygen, but continued swimming underwater, his arms and legs pumping, moving farther and farther away from the dock and out into the harbor. He knew he couldn’t keep it up long. Even if he was able to rise to the surface and get some more air, he couldn’t keep swimming away out of the harbor and eventually into the Fell Sea. No one, no human at least, could do that.
So. What to do?
Viktor’s head was now pounding. He needed air now. He’d half to risk getting shot. With a final kick, he shot upward and broke the surface with a splash. He sucked in air, treading water, then shook his hair out of his eyes.
Where the tyco?
Viktor glanced about. Where was he? It took him a few seconds to realize that he was almost completely surrounded by the hulks of ships. To his left and right were waterlogged timbers, and behind him, too, was the aft of a ship. In front of him was the open water. The Fell Sea. He was hidden from the dock. At least for now.
I think it’s time to find myself a ship.
Viktor, pirate-like, slipped the knife he had found between his teeth and gripped the anchor chain as firmly as possible. The chain was cover with slippery seaweed and other grime, but by jamming his hands and feet into the loops he was able to slowly and painfully haul himself upward to the railing. On the way up, he noted the name of the ship, painted in bright colors: the Bombardier. At last he had made it to the rail. If anyone was on deck, he could not tell. If he was going to do it, he had to do it now.
“Oof!”
Viktor pushed himself upward and tumbled over the railing. He hit the deck, spat out the knife, and was up on his feet in a defensive position. A score of sailors dropped what they were doing and stared at the intruder. The sailors were all armed with cutlasses and dirks, although they were all sheathed, Viktor noted. One of them, who appeared to be the mate or the bosun, called out to his superior.
“Yo, Cap’n Broadside!” he called, “We’ve got ourselves a guest!”
The Captain, Broadside, it would appear his name was, sauntered over from the helm. He was a man of average height, dressed in a blue seaman’s coat, and with a finely-plumed captain’s tricorn. He had a full red beard, a jolly face, and a patch over his left eye that immediately made one think ‘pirate’.
“Well there, my good man,” he said, coming down to Viktor, leaning casually on the rails, “What brings ye aboard me ship?”
“I'm, uh…” Viktor mentally cursed himself, “I’m chasing that ship! The one that, uh, sailed away. Yesterday!”
“The Mantis!” cried Broadside, not even noticing Viktor’s vocal clumsiness.
“Uh, sure -- I mean! Yes!” said Viktor.
“Then are you a foe or a friend to that scurvy cutlass, Burtrand Storm-Rider?” The way that Broadside asked led Viktor to suspect that it was wiser to say foe. So he did.
“I’m a foe!” said Viktor, “I’m pursuing him. He, he... he owes me a life!”
There, he thought, that sounds vaguely serious enough, and not the sort of thing he’ll pry into.
“Well then,” said Broadside, heartily, “Then ye are in good company! For I am Admiral Jacques Broadside, Retired, a privateer of the Crusader nation, and keen rival of that sneaky cur, Storm-Rider. I had hoped to run into him in Anka Dolour, but that was not to be. Boys!”
Broadside called the crew. “Raise anchor, lower sails! We chase the Mantis.”
“Can this ship catch Storm-Rider?” asked Viktor, remembering what he knew about the famed pirate, “I thought his ship was legendarily fast.”
“So it was, so it was,” said Broadside with a chuckle, “but that ship sank off Kingdom Isle over a year ago! This Mantis he sails in now is a decent ship, but no item o’ legend. The Bombardier’ll catch her, given enough time. She’s a decent fast ship, although no Sea Serpent, like the mad Blunderhaussen woman commands. We made it up from Talistrand in under a month.”
“There’s much trade between Talistrand and Port Crowne?” asked Viktor politely, although anxiously noting out of the corner of his eye that a Crusader patrol boat had rowed into view of the Bombardier.
“Nay!” said Broadside with a laugh, “There’s a wee bit o’ trade, but not much . Nay, I was simply looking for any other place to be, and with the weather having finally turned for the better, I came northwards, and heard that ol’ King Richie dead, and his brother Robert about to be crowned, so I decided to come this way, and view the ceremony. Had a great seat, by the way. There isn’t a man alive what doesn't live his country more than I do.
“Although I really don’t like our new King Robbie. He’s a nice enough man, I s’pose, and it’s real sad about ‘is daughter, and there’s no denyin’ he loves this country, but he’s got his mind set on rebuilding the navy -- which isn’t no bad thing, I turned private after being discharged -- and on cracking down on pirates.
“Now, I’m no pirate, just a loyal privateer. D’you what the difference is?”
Viktor, still watching the boat, shook his head.
“A pirate, like that bugbag, Storm-Rider, serves only himself. A privateer serves his country. Even if they don’t want him, or didn’t commission ‘im. That’s the problem though. Without a Letter o’ Marque, if that rebuilt navy comes after me, I’ve got no defense. Man-O’-War though she be, the Bombardier’s no match for an entire navy.”
“Judging by what you just said,” said Viktor, very calmly turning to Broadside, “I assume that you’ll have no objections then to repelling or outrunning those soldiers.”
He directed Broadside’s one-eyed gaze towards the patrol boat, which, sure enough, was headed directly for the Bombardier, having caught sight of the man on board.
“Ahoy the Bombardier!” called the sergeant, “We’re coming aboard to take that man! He’s a dangerous criminal. Be cooperative, and you’ll come to no harm.”
“It pains me to set meself against my own countrymen,” said Broadside, “but you’re right, I don’ care much for laws and orders. And a chance to give Storm-Rider the boot only comes once in a lifetime.”
“Go back where ye came from, ye pompous soldier-boys!” he yelled at the coming boat. “Or I'll send ye back to yer mommas all weeping!”
“Bill!” he yelled at the mate, “Full sail! Get us out o’ here!”
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