The Choosers and the Chosen: Chapter 2

The Choosers and the Chosen

Part 1: Chapter 2 - A King of Whores

Roydred

Roydred of Sunset woke with a deep sigh. He sat up and shook his head, then looked around the room. He could see that it was dark outside through the open windows and pulled-back red curtains. The room was lit up by candles as well, as he hadn’t intended to fall asleep. He was still clothed, with his sword, dagger and belt on a nearby stool, his boots next to them, and his coat and hat draped over a chair at a desk. The room was bare for someone of Roydred’s birth, although that wasn’t the most ill-fitting thing, considering where he was.

A naked woman was lying by his side. Same one as usual, of course: the best of the ones he had to choose from. Whenever he wanted someone to share his bed, why couldn’t he have the best? And I don’t even have to pay her – I own her.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was her employer, which was the position of over half of the women in her line of work as far as the city was concerned. I am a king of whores in Sunset, whoever’s son I may be. And there isn’t a brothel owner in the entirety of Edainia whose estate is anything compared to mine. I have an empire of pleasing flesh...

The courtesan began to groan wearily, sitting up slowly. Her jet-black hair was long and smooth as silk, her eyes pale blue, her skin supple and body slender. She should probably be at work with the others, Roydred reflected, the only other whores with tits as big as hers are all fat. Like that first wife I was almost forced to have.

He shivered at the memory he’d just provoked in himself, then pulled the whore towards him and reached for one of her breasts in an attempt to forget. She giggled playfully as he caressed a nipple, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth. She had a heart-shaped face. Like Joy did.

A knock on his door took him away from his thoughts. “M’lord,” a woman said, “you’ve got a meetin’ soon.”

Oh, that's just excellent. Roydred sighed as he pushed the whore to one side and rose to his feet. “Get me my belt,” he commanded, “and my boots as well.”

He sat on the edge of the bed as she pulled his black boots over his feet, and then he stood and allowed her to fasten his belt around his waist, sword and dagger hanging perniciously from it.

“There you go, m’lord,” she said softly, smiling sweetly, “now hurry back. I’d love to–”

“You’re paid to say that to others,” Roydred said dismissively as he headed for the room’s exit, “not to bother me with it.” As he got to the door, he turned and watched her climb into his bed, pulling his furs over her sumptuous body. “But I’ll certainly not waste any time.” he added, smiling to himself as he left the room.

The House of Courtly Love had three floors. The top floor was for the accounting, administration and, of course, Roydred’s quarters – and his bastard daughter’s rooms as well. The middle floor, or the ‘Heavens’, as it had become known, was where all the expensive rooms and whores – courtesans – were located. The bottom floor was for the rest of the clients and workers, and had a bar containing a meagre range of drinks. Drinks were very important for this business of his, Roydred had quickly discovered. Alcohol was a useful ally. Therefore, he had bought a tavern located behind the brothel, and now they were combined as one. No man who came here – especially those with vast fortunes – would stay here sober, unless they were very clever. Fortunately naked, pretty women tend to dull the mind just as effectively as alcohol. That was the one upside of his would-be first wife, had he ever had to marry her: she would never have made him so foolish.

Roydred went down the stairs, following another one of his whores into the Heavens. Rich men of all kinds were present: merchants, gentlemen, perhaps even a nobleman here or there. They were surrounded by both experienced courtesans and scantily-clad young women carrying silver trays of wine-filled goblets. The latter were all maidens for now: they would advance their position in their pleasuring careers when they were deemed ready.

When some of the clients saw Roydred passing by they bowed their heads respectfully. They were, after all, in the presence of the establishment’s owner, not to mention the son of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Many of them didn’t even notice him, though, as they were distracted by the decidedly more interesting courtesans around them, dressed and half-dressed in all sorts of fine clothes – clothes that still left little to the imagination as to what lay underneath.

The whore that was guiding Roydred was appealing enough: a short woman with small but firm breasts, hardly covered by a few silk veils of red, green and white, with a round face and big brown eyes. She had locks of honey-coloured hair and, Roydred couldn’t fail to note as he followed behind her, a nice curve to her arse. She’ll be next, Roydred decided, if ever I lose my current one, this one’ll be next. Or perhaps I can have both the honey and the jet...

They reached the stairs that led down into the ground floor, where the poorer clients would be indulging in the cheaper commodities. As the whore guiding Roydred took her first step down, someone's hand snatched her wrist.

“You,” an old man with a pot belly and several jewelled rings on his fingers wheezed between two big red cheeks, “how much for you?”

“I'm not for rent t'day, love,” the whore cooed, using her free hand to caress one of the man's bloated cheeks, “but come back another day an–”

“Not for rent?!” The big man huffed in rage. “Don't you walk around dressed like that if you're not for rent!”

Out of anger, or some sort of lust, the man gave a fat-fingered smack on the whore's arse, causing her to gasp. Roydred chuckled. Not so keen now are you, my lovely little liar?

His humour evaporated very quickly, however, when the big man pulled her towards him, swaying a little as he did. “Just a little…” the red-cheeked old fool gasped as he gave her a wide-eyed stare. Roydred noticed there was a swaggering, wheezing tune in his voice, suggesting that he was reciting the words of a song. “Just a little honey…for just a little money…oh, bee queen, oh…”

Oh, I don't have time for this nonsense. “Please, good sir,” he asked in the friendliest growl he could manage, “come back later tonight and her honey will be all yours to suck.”

While the whore stared at him with wild eyes, the old man gave Roydred a reproachful glare. “I'll have her now, little manlet.” he replied in a deep, shaky voice. “How much for her?”

Roydred's right nostril rose, as did the right corner of his mouth, in an angry snarl. “If you’re that interested,” he said through gritted teeth, “she'll cost her weight in your fat, bloated innards.”

The old man stared at him in shock for a moment, then started shouting. “How dare you, boy?! I am a wealthy client of this establishment, and you will not talk to me–”

All of the wind in the old bag suddenly flew out of his mouth at once when his pot belly was greeted by Roydred's boot.

The old man fell back, hitting the bannister beside the stairs and falling to his knees at Roydred's feet. There were gasps and shocked silences, no doubt a few excited expressions as well, while the old man stared up at Roydred with glassy eyes.

“I am Roydred of Sunset!” Roydred roared down at the now-quivering old fool. “Son of the Viceroy, who is lord of this city! You are nothing next to me, you old bastard – nothing! And if you're going to act like scum to my whores without my consent, then nothing is exactly what you are worth to this establishment! Get out! Out, you rotten old turd!”

“Er, y-yes…” the old man stammered, his face red in some places and white in others, “I-I-I'm, er, sorry, my-my, um, my lord…”

He used the stairs' bannister to slowly pull himself up, and then he made a hasty descent down the steps.

After sighing loudly, Roydred turned and grinned at the wide-eyed onlookers. “Carry on, then,” he told them, “you have my hospitality, unlike that red-faced oaf, so enjoy it!”

He ordered his whore to continue down the steps, and he followed closely behind.

The lower floor wasn't worth paying attention to. Just some non-wealthy men being lured to an area concealed by wooden panels set up around a small pile of cheap furs on the floor, usually with a couple of bare bodies interlocked with each other in it. Roydred and his whore guide made their way through it quickly.

They soon reached a door that led down some stone steps into an underground chamber which Roydred had fashioned from a collapsed escape tunnel. Part of the tunnel went through an old cavern, which itself seemed to have many pathways leading here and there. Half of the cavern was buried under rocks and boulders, but of the three pathways left, all lit up by bright red and yellow Gemsights – expensive magical crystals, these ones having been here before Roydred found the tunnel – the one furthest away, under a naturally-formed stone archway, led him to the chamber.

The room wasn't very big, and it didn't need to be. It had two exits, one being the archway through which Roydred had entered, the other coming from a tunnel that led to somewhere Roydred didn't know of as he'd never ventured that way before. In the centre of the room stood a circular wooden table surrounded by eight chairs. Standing beside a chair, greeting his master with a bow, was Roydred’s steward Pierre Armon.

“Good evening, my lord,” Armon greeted in his rich voice. His face was somewhat bean-shaped, with his forehead and pointed chin sticking out a little too much, while his brown eyes were small and narrow. His appearance was mostly immaculate: the greying hair on his balding scalp was combed to his right, while the steward wore a fine jacket made from black wool and buttoned with bronze. The only thing irregular about him, as was painfully obvious, was that he had only one thin brown eyebrow above his left eye. It was a wonder to Roydred as to why Armon hadn’t plucked it out.

“Evening, Armon,” greeted Roydred with casual courtesy, “have our guests been and gone already?”

Armon shook his head. “They should arrive any minute now, my lord. While we wait, do you wish to sit down?”

“Of course.” Roydred started running his fingers along his whore guide’s hair. “And I hope you’ll join me, too,” he whispered in her ear, “for it must be very cold down here, for one wearing so little.”

The whore gave him a warm smile that didn't reach her big eyes. “O’ course, m’lord,” she said, tapping his cheek with a finger, “if you can tell me what me name is.”

Roydred shrugged. “Well, it’s whatever I say your name is, so I think I’ll just call you A Useful Pastime.” His fingers began to creep up one of her thighs. “How does that sound, my little honey-haired whore...”

He heard the sound of footsteps echoing from the tunnel on the other side of the table. There in the underground room, the steps sounded like the slow, rhythmic ticking of a clock. Soon three men emerged from the tunnel. The first to come through was dressed in a leather tunic over a dirty white gambeson, with an axe hanging from his belt and a bulbous wart sat atop a large, flat nose that grossly stuck out amidst a round, soft-featured face. The second, dressed in dark blue wool, was hooded with a brown cloak and wore a bronze mask on his face, etched with strange shapes and symbols. The third, wearing a chainmail hauberk, had a sword fastened to a leather belt on his waist and a grey, square-jawed face that may as well have been made of stone for all the emotion it showed.

The three men all took their seats at the table, and the hooded man spoke from behind his bronze mask.

“Don’t let us stop you,” a soft, thin voice said, so that Roydred had to strain to hear it, “long as we can watch.”

“That would depend on how much you’re willing to pay.” Roydred remarked.

The wart-nosed man laughed. “Let ‘er come over ‘ere,” he suggested, “that’d make these fings less borin’.”

Roydred rubbed a hand around the small of the whore’s back. “Off you go,” he whispered, “represent us well, and I’ll pay you a little more than the others.”

The whore started wandering over towards Old Warty with a smile on her face that displayed a poetic harmony of innocence and mischief to the three sitting at the table, but simply appeared to Roydred to be that lie that it was.

“If you would sit down,” the masked man gently tapped on the table as he spoke, “we can get straight down to business.”

“Of course.” Roydred dropped himself down onto a chair and put his hands together while he rested his elbows on the table. “I can certainly appreciate the desire for the busy to get on with their business.”

The whore sat on the wart-faced man’s lap, and he wrapped a fat arm around her waist. I fucking hate fat people.

“The Boss has told us to ask you where the Justiciar’s willin’ to let go of a few thin’s this time,” the masked man continued, “an’ ‘e also wants some new meat.”

Roydred noticed that there was the slightest hint of a smile on the stone-faced man’s mouth. “Very well,” he answered, “I’ll have a few of the manlets taken to you.”

“The big’ns?” the stone-faced man asked in a deep voice.

“Yes,” for some strange reason, “he’ll have all the fat boys...the fat girls too, should he change his taste.”

“Maybe add a few. He might, f’r all we know.”

“Indeed.”

There was a long pause, before the thin voice of the bronze-masked man spoke up again.

“So where’re we hittin’? I’ve got a few thin’s to do ‘fore tomorrow, so if ya don’t mind–”

The whore on Old Warty’s lap squealed suddenly. The man’s fat hand was between her thighs.

“I think I’d prefer to hurry things up as well,” Roydred mused, “so tell this ‘Boss’ of yours that Justiciar Cavre has ruled out the inner city, as his daughter is stationed there for the next month, and aim for the Stardust Quarter, as he’s made sure the garrison won’t give you too much trouble, and Captain Cole’s biggest rival is apparently in charge there.”

“You don’t need to waste time explainin’ the whys an’ shit,” the masked man spoke in a louder voice, waving a dismissive hand, “we don’t care. We’ll be takin’ a few thin’s from there, then. We’ll bring you your share in a couple o’ weeks.”

“Good, good.” Roydred stood up and inclined his head towards the whore, who was currently bare-chested and suffering the unfortunate experience of having a wart-nosed face rubbing itself between her breasts. “Now you can give her back.” I think I’ll be giving her a bath tonight...if I can be bothered by then.

After all, they were his whores. They danced when he told them to. They fucked when he told them to. They came or went when he told them to. Whatever he was in Sunset or the wider kingdom, in his own domain he was sovereign.

And who, I wonder, could possibly deserve more?

...

Luciara

The Overlord looked as if nothing had ever happened; as if nobody important had ever died there.

The Glistening Sea was as serene as it was on the third day of the Three Feasts. The emerald fields and hills in the distance looked calm and peaceful. Few clouds were floating amidst the blue sky. But there was something unsettling here that made Lucy want to walk away. Yet she stayed there, and leant on the stone parapet, like she’d done just before Sir Alfrick Laydes was murdered.

She missed him. She missed his presence that always made her feel safe. She missed the look in his dark eyes when she said something outrageous to him. She missed, most of all, his loyalty, which seemed unending. Did he love me back? She asked herself. Could he have done so? He was a married man.

“I said to be wary, I observe,” the Observer’s voice annoyingly cut into her thoughts, “not pig-headed. Not to sentence the other man to death before even hearing what he had to say.”

Lucy sighed through gritted teeth, especially at that damned word he constantly uttered, and she turned to face him. “If you were going to be so bothered about it,” she retorted, “why didn’t you just tell me the answer yourself?”

“I want to give you advice,” he replied, “not answers.” He leaned on the parapet himself and looked out to the green hills in the distance. “This is a peaceful place.”

“For you, perhaps.” Lucy was already beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“And for him. He couldn’t have died in a better place, I’m sure he would have observed.”

“Don’t you observe it yourself?”

The Observer chuckled. “How old do you think I am?”

“Erm...” He looked about thirty at best, come to think of it.

“It was rhetorical,” he said, “I’m not telling you my age. But I will say that I’ve lived a great deal longer than most of you. Possibly all of you. I’ve seen many a wondrous sight that tops this.”

“Like what?” Lucy was actually feeling interested in what he had to say.

Still leaning on the parapet, he turned his head and looked at her. “Certain parts of the frozen north of Indosiil yield some of the most breath-taking sights ever. The white snow gently covering the earth, the mountains rising in the distance, the sun shining in from gaps in the clouds – a rare sight that is, up there. It’s all very plain and simple, yet that is where its beauty lies. It’s easy to look at, and vast as well. It’s the sight that makes you just forget about all your problems, until the cold catches up with you and almost freezes you to death. Well, either that or...”

He shivered suddenly, as if reliving a memory he’d rather forget, and his eyes flickered from bright blue to blood red.

Lucy stepped back. “W-what was that?!” she demanded in alarm.

“My eyes?” the Observer asked. He seemed to take her silence for a ‘yes’, and shrugged. “Well, you know I’m Immortal now, surely? And every weak emotion that I have makes me corruptible. That’s how a burden demanding worthiness such as Immortality works, Your Grace: the weak are corrupted and become puppets of dark Gods.”

“But it was like...”

“The assassin, yes.” The Observer looked back at the distant lands and blew out air slowly. “It would take a king’s ransom to hire such a man, I observe. The Gods know there are few of us left in the world.”

“Did you know him?” asked Lucy.

He shook his head. “There’s only a handful of Immortals I don’t kill when I meet them. This appears to have been a relatively young one, who only recently received his short-lived everlasting life. That’s how Sir Alfrick was able to kill him, I observe.”

“Sir Alfrick was a great warrior,” Lucy snapped back, “he could’ve bested any fighter!”

“You’re unnaturally defensive of him, I observe,” the Observer annoyingly observed, “but I’m afraid you’re incorrect. If he’d taken me on, there would still be men here trying to scrape his remains off of this fine stone parapet.”

Lucy felt herself heat up. “How dare you?!”

“Do you just ask everyone that pointless question?”

“My Protector is dead, and you tell me that?!”

“Hmm.” The Observer stood up straight and turned to face Lucy. “Poorly chosen words and timing, I observe. Apologies, Your Grace.” He sounded sincere, but he had a glint in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

“That will be all, then.” Lucy commanded.

“Not yet,” the Observer said, shaking his head, “for I still haven’t said what I actually came here to say.”

“What is it?”

“More advice, of course.”

“I know. What’s the advice?”

“That you must remain aware of your own actions past and present, and pay very close attention to those least closest to you. They pose the biggest threat.”

“Right.” As if that’s much different from last time, anyway. “Anything else?”

“Not for now, though I suppose things will be better for you if you stopped asking ‘how dare you’ to everyone you speak to.”

“How do you know whether I’ve said that to anyone else at all?”

“I’ve been staying close by so far, wondering how things will go. I’m observing. I’ll talk to you again later. But if you’re in danger, don’t expect me to help. I’m still debating as to whether I’ll give you a ‘one save’ rule before I let your enemies have at you. A little more manners may help direct my decision, I observe. For now, goodbye.”

He walked away without another word. Lucy let out a sigh. She decided to go back inside. She decided that she’d had enough of ‘beautiful sights’ for one day.

...

Jack

The oppression was everywhere. Good people's hard-earned money was being taken away from them.

Captain Jack Brand saw it as clear as day. Under the grey sky and amidst the midday mist that was usual for the area around the town of Fogpool, men in bright clothing were taking coins of gold from lowly farmers and housewives. In return, they were giving them food. Money for food; livelihood for life. This was tyranny, if ever Jack had seen it.

“Right, men,” he said to his loyal companions, “time to do this town some justice.”

His men all nodded. The Brand Band, they were called, named by and after Jack himself, as their leader. They were a growing force in Edainia, with new recruits regularly seeking them out now. What Jack was saying to his men, and preaching to the people, was obviously working.

So he didn't feel even slightly wrong when he signalled Rust's group to begin with the raid.

Rust and the eight men with him ran up to a stall covered in exotic fruits, manned by a well-dressed salesman currently taking a few coins from the hand of a felon adorned in brightly-coloured clothes – probably his employer – who himself was flanked by two guards. Three big men from Rust's group rammed into the buyer and his paid protectors while Rust himself hit the seller on the head with a club and the others started grabbing food from the stall and running off with it.

Jack signalled towards the town gate, where four guards were standing open-mouthed. There were more of Jack's men near that gate, concealing weapons under hooded robes, and after seeing Jack's signal they threw their cloaks off and ran to the four guards, who were only just beginning to run forward to intervene at the stall. They noticed their righteous attackers too late and were quickly clubbed to the ground.

Chaos erupted. Screaming women and children ran through the misty square while men tried to lead their wives, sons and daughters away from the danger. They would likely return with weapons, Jack knew. And guards, of course. The Brand Band had to be quick.

The men gathered near him ran to stalls themselves, courageously grabbing food, furs, money, clothes – anything they could carry. Jack's men at the gate stoically held their position, to make good the Band’s escape. Jack himself preferred to watch the just carnage, and plan and issue commands from a distance. His father always said that a wise leader and commander would keep watch over all his men, and direct them from a place of safety and observation. That was a good enough philosophy for Jack. Still, he decided he should do something to contribute to the cause. He noticed through the mist a beggar sitting on the edge of the town square, watching the mayhem unfold with wide, open eyes. Jack approached him calmly and casually, with a friendly smile on his fair, handsome face.

“My friend,” he said to the man, “you see the strength in numbers. We are united by a great cause: a cause for justice and equality, so that every man can have freedom and a warm meal.” He offered a hand to this down-trodden fellow. “Will you join us in our quest?” he asked. “You will have all the reward you deserve as a man on this good earth!”

The beggar looked at him quizzically. Then he wheezed, “I can't. My leg…”

Jack noticed the man's right leg was missing below the knee. He had a stick next to him, but that wouldn't make him much good in a scrap or a run. Jack also noticed a cap by the beggar’s one leg, possibly containing a coin or two. Right, Jack thought to himself, he must be an enemy spy, then.

The beggar's stick - well, the spy's stick, obviously - was in Jack’s hands before the treacherous spy could move. It's for the best, Jack convinced himself as he hit the one-legged spy in the head, either knocking him out or killing him outright. Just then, and definitely not before to his memory, he noticed a cap was next to the incapacitated spy, which he may have been using to collect his ill-gotten payment from his masters. Jack picked up the cap, reached inside, and his hand closed around a single coin. I hope the cap's worth a bit, too.

Cap in one hand, coin in the other, he ran for the gate. Many of his men were already absent from the scene, save Rust, three of his toughest men and those of the band that were holding the exit for them. There were, however, an alarmingly high number of guards beginning to appear from every path along and down every street. It must’ve been a trap, Jack mused as he sped up towards the gate, organised by a cunning foe. Could that spy have been so effective? Or are there other, more unsavoury characters in our own noble ranks?

“Justice!” Jack yelled. “Equality! Opportunity for all! Remember the name of Captain Jack Brand!”

Then he bolted for the gate, as the rest of his men were doing now. He left the town of Fogpool without looking back, and he ran through the swirling haze, down the road ahead, before breaking off the path and dashing into the nearby woodland, hoping that no guards were after him. His heart was racing, his legs beginning to ache from the effort of getting as far away as possible from danger.

He burst out of the woodland after only a short run, out of the mist as well, and he saw clear blue ahead of him. A clear blue sky, a clear blue sea…wait.

In his effort to stop, he skidded and tumbled on soft earth, and almost rolled over the edge of the cliff he'd run up to. He ended up on his back instead, and sighed, looking up at the sky. There was very little in the way of clouds up there, surprisingly. Fogpool was a very strange place, indeed. And the sky was very blue, he supposed...Anyway...

Jack got up, having lost interest in the sky. It’s not going to make me any money now, is it? He stretched his arms out, and groaned. His legs were aching, and he was a little out of breath, but otherwise he was perfectly intact. He assumed that no guards had chased him, as they weren’t capturing or killing him. So he smiled, gazed out towards the Glistening Sea, then quickly lost interest and looked at the coin he’d taken from the enemy spy.

It was gold, like any other coin in Edainia. The lamb on one side, the lion on the other. Except, neither side seemed to have the lion. Or the lamb. Instead, one side depicted someone with a crown of thorns around their head, and the other a dragon taking flight. Jack blinked. He looked at it again, closer. It was shining brightly. Perfectly preserved, perfectly polished. I didn’t steal from a beg–from a spy; I stole from a very wealthy man. He’d clearly been a master spy, then; being paid well for his work. Yes, Jack thought to himself, a wealthy, brilliant spy. Hidden behind the guise of a one-legged beggar. The cunning bastard.

Suddenly, someone’s hand snatched the coin from Jack’s fingers. “What’s this then?” asked Sails, one of his oldest companions, looking at it with his one working eye opened wide. His other eye was missing, the socket covered with an eyepatch. Scars still emerged from the edges of the leather patch, though. It had been a very viscous part of a splintered mast that had done such damage to the man, and he’d never gone to sea again, but had remained a good friend of Jack Brand ever since the outlaw pulled him to shore on his own, unaided. Sails had at first thought Jack had simply found him washed-up on the beach and made up a false story for his own selfish gain, but after a while he’d learnt the real truth. Everyone does, eventually. It just takes some time for people to appreciate my brand of honesty sometimes.

“Just a coin,” Jack lied for the sake of their friendship, “nothing to fight over.”

He tried to snatch it back, but Sails moved his hand away too fast. “You looked at it as if you’d just seen a diamond.” he said. His jaw was also covered in scars, and little remained of his nose, which was once cut off by an axe. Sails was a short man, but stocky and muscled like a bull. Well, Jack did exaggerate to himself often, as he always intended to be positive and generous to his friends: the muscle was somewhere between a little and mostly fat nowadays, but that didn’t make him any less of a stalwart companion. Jack even recalled having bought the brown eyepatch over Sails’ eye himself. Even if memories can be deceiving.

Jack couldn’t let the greed that the coin may have invoked get in the way of that companionship.

“I was just surprised that the beg-the enemy spy, I found, had any money on him.”

“Spy?” Sails snorted, “I just saw you club a one-legged man with ‘is own stick.”

“Yes,” Jack snapped, “he gave me no choice. For ask yourself: who would suspect a one-legged beggar? How else did all those guards show up so fast?”

“There were only ‘alf a dozen of ‘em.”

“Of what you saw, my friend, but I was at a place of safety and observation, from which I could assess the situation with a watchful eye–”

“The only watchful eye you’ve been assassin’ with is your eye on this coin,” Sails said, “which I’ll ‘ave if it’s nothin’ special.”

“Give it!” Jack tried once more to snatch it back from Sails, but he resisted. Jack grabbed his arm and tried to pry it out of his hands, but his fist was clenched tightly. “Sails, you bastard!” he grunted through gritted teeth, “Give it back to me!”

“No, you fucking cunt!” Jack yelped as he felt something crunch into his stomach. He stumbled backwards, his wind abandoning him, managing to swagger to a stop only the smallest of inches from the edge of the cliff.

“Wha...” Jack, still getting his wind back, couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “What did you just say?”

“No!” Sails’ mouth was twisted cruelly, his eye glinting perniciously, his voice vexed and vile. “I ain’t doing this no more! You’ve fucking lied to me, an’ all the others, an’ I won’t ‘ave no more of it!”

Jack sighed. Sails was wrong, obviously. Jack knew it, as did any of his loyal companions. But Sails seemed adamant about his position, and Jack wasn’t the type who tried to manipulate people out of their most fervent views and values for his own gain.

“Very well,” he said, “off you go.”

Sails suddenly looked surprised. “Eh?”

“I won’t stop you. You just had to tell me, is all. None of you ever tell me...”

“None of us? There’ve been others?”

“Of course. Few others, admittedly, but I gave them all a fair hearing and let them go when I couldn’t persuade them to stay. I’m a good judge of character, my old friend, and I know when someone’s set on their course and can’t be turned around. So go on, then. Show that coin to any good salesman and they’ll give you a nice price for it.”

“Well, alright then.” Sails began to turn, but he stopped and looked back at Jack.

“You aren’t playin’ with me?”

“No, why would I be?”

“You aren’t waitin’ for me to turn my back so’s you can stab me when I ain't lookin'?”

“No.”

Sails stared at him for a while, so long that Jack could see the intent in his eye.

“I ain’t takin’ the risk.” Sails said at last, before rushing forward.

“Neither am I.”

Jack’s dagger was out before Sails had even taken the first step. He flung it at his foe, the hilt hitting Sails on his eyepatch and causing him to stumble. Jack leapt forward the second the dagger had left his hand. He dodged around his old friend, who was only just beginning to recover, before he drew his sword – a simple thing in design, but as good for the job as any. Sails turned quickly, his right hand pulling a mace from his belt. Jack swiped at Sails’ left hand, causing him to grunt and curse as the golden coin fell from his bloodied palm, flickering like a small flame in the light of the sun. Sails still managed to get his mace ready, though, and he swung it swiftly with ruthless determination. Jack nimbly stepped back, avoiding the blow, before darting forward, swinging his sword at his opponent several times with the speed of a viper, the precision of a hawk and the elegance of a swan. Sails was barely able to get his mace in the way of the first blow, and the second made a cut in his leg. He grunted and hopped backwards, towards the edge of the cliff. Jack drove him back, giving him no time to recover. Eventually, Sails was right at the edge, then wobbling over it, and then Jack’s boot saw him fall.

And thus Sails was set on his course and couldn’t be turned around.

Jack heard a scream, before silence. He felt a wave of cold pass through him, and his eyes darted to the ground. He could see the gold gleaming up at him, just begging to be taken, and so Jack obliged, feeling better after the initial fear that the coin had somehow fallen off the cliff with Sails. Then Jack looked over the edge of the cliff. Sails had neither directly landed in the sea or at the bottom of the cliff. There was a large smear of dark red halfway down, and then what appeared from Jack’s height to be a few specks of blood on the pointy rocks below, a row of which Sails’ corpse was lying on top of. His body was draining itself of its contents, bent over backwards so much that Sails’ calves were touching the top of his head, with his stomach split open and some of his insides spilling out and sliding down stone into the frothing water of the hungry sea.

Well, Jack thought, that was a mess.

Still, there was a soft breeze in the air, and at least Sails was now at peace, and back in the sea like Jack was sure he always secretly wanted.
It was Sails’ fault this had happened, of course. He’d tried to rob Jack. The confrontation became violent just after Jack mentioned the spy as well, so perhaps Sails was in on it. Of course...

That was why he wanted the coin so much: he'd wanted the spy’s payment for his own. Who could’ve believed it? Jack thought with utter shock. Sails, one of my oldest companions, a traitor?

What would the Brand Band think when he told them that?