Fantasy Tales, a bunch of short stories

Dark Siren

The wind howled over and under the black sails, yet the ship remained aground. The hull was rotten and broken; the sirens' call had done its job. All the crew had presumably drowned or been eaten. Only the prisoners, locked safely away in the ship's brig, remained.

In each cell were starving men and women grasping at the bars, pleading for food that was not there. Only one lay alone on his bed, uncaring. Nobody knew who he was or how he came to his present predicament. His dark hair disheveled, his ebony silks ragged and dirt-stained.

He had not uttered a word since his capture. Not even the crew knew who he was, only that the money they would earn from some no-name lordling would have been profound. "Oh, how wrong they were," he whispered to himself, playing with a dagger he had thieved away for his grand escape. Too bad the sirens had come, he thought. Starving a bit to come up with a new plan proved irritating, but it was all part of the plan.

His fellow prisoners were growing desperate; he heard them banging and clattering at the bars with empty mugs. No longer thinking clearly, he smiled. "No use whining... friends," he hesitated at the word, tasting like rust on his tongue. He never truly had friends before, he never really liked to lie about that. Needless to say, however, it did the job; his fellows turned to him, frustration and irritation etched on their faces.

"The crew will all be dead. You'll only be calling the sirens for when they're no longer full," he grinned horrifically. "We're starving, lordling! We don't have a choice! There's nothing else we can do!" shouted some desperate man in a faraway cell. He tried not to laugh; he had no care for these peasants, these fools. "Ah, but you do. Are any of you thieves by trade? Good at locks?"

"I can!" exclaimed what he thought sounded like a young girl. "Good," he whispered. Leaning down, he skidded the knife across the floor. There were murmurs as the knife passed by their cages. "Pass that to the girl," he hissed. He couldn't see the knife now, only the noises of metal and loud voices, egging the girl on.

He stood there waiting, practically hours to his mind, before he finally heard the creaking gate and the loud clank of footsteps approaching. A monstrous-looking man with a long beard stood before him. The girl between them immediately set about getting to work at the lock. The man only seemed to glare into the lordling, as they named him, eyes. Looking at his own clothes, they were practically brown from all the dirt and mud. He had made sure of it. "Who are you, lordling?"

"Efrain, son of Lord Ector, lord of Mud's Field," he hesitated at the last bit. Efrain was his name true, but he was no lordling nor the son of the lord of a muddy field. "I thought Lord Ector had no sons?" he eyed Efrain with suspicion. "Oh, I'm... adopted. Couldn't have kids, ye see. So in he swooped, poor old orphan me! Saved my life he did." Damn, he hated playing nice to these fools, acting like some idiot lord's son who drank as much as he ate.

The man didn't look convinced, but the lock had clicked, and he was free. He could have killed them all there; it would have been easier, most still being in cells and all. They still had their uses, however, and he was just getting started. Gliding on past out, muttering his thanks, he immediately began mounting the stairs, looking around over his surroundings. Of course, they were missing half the ship; no use, his first plan.

He stood there waiting a moment for the rest of the prisoners to empty from below. As they did, some began to gasp and sob. The man and girl from before stood firm; "Interesting," he thought. "Hey, you, beardie!" he said, his true demeanor edging slightly out.

"My name's Tristan," he growled. Efrain shrugged and skipped over to the side of the boat. "Give me your hand, will you?" Tristan or whatever he was called looked affronted by the request but did as he bid. Grabbing hold of the man's hand, he reached for his knife. "Is this what you're looking for?" the girl squeaked, holding the knife out for him only for him to snatch it away. Tristan glared. Rolling his eyes, he muttered his thanks. "So what are you planning to—"

Efrain cut him with clean, quick efficiency, Tristan's blood dripping into the ocean's depths. "Hey! What the hell?! What was that for?" he cursed, sucking his thumb of the blood. "Oh, quit being a baby. You've got too much bluster for that," Tristan scowled.

Efrain, ignoring him, glared at the ocean's depths; he hoped it was enough. It had been some time since he had been out at sea; he hadn't the need to. Perhaps he should have just killed everyone and thrown them overboard? He shrugged and padded over to the other side of the ship, looking out into the depths of the ocean. He shut his eyes and listened. He could hear the whispers of the people behind him, the blood dripping off Tristan's still bleeding thumb, the ocean waves rolling and tossing. He smirked. "Gotcha."

Jumping up over the side, he held to the netting of the ship and crouched. "What are you doing? You mad lordling! You want to die?" Tristan's eyes bulged. He thought he was going to kill himself on the rocks? "How quaint." Standing up, he positioned himself and aimed for the clear sea, away from their rocky surroundings. Then... he jumped.

Falling quickly and free, he dove further and further, down and down. He had an idea of how the ship had ended up so high on the cliff. The sirens were not actually fish, as many had believed, but bird-women. Similar to harpies but instead of hideous man-eating creatures, enchanting they were.

As he hit the water, he immediately turned to face one. Her feathers white and silken, her eyes golden. She floated there carefree, staring into Efrain's heart. He knew monsters well. "You, you are not human, lord. Who are you? I fear if I sing to you, I shall rot here in these ocean depths." Efrain, though he couldn't speak, floated, waiting. The siren stared as her sisters joined her, each one curious of their scary new visitor. The brown dirt on his clothes had begun to fade, dirt clouds surrounding him.

Though he was running out of breath, the sirens startled as they saw the black, the silver pin fastened to his breast. Some screamed, some bowed. He always had that effect on monsters. The first siren panicked, flinging its feathers wildly, presumably as an apology. Efrain merely glared; sirens could read men's minds for their greatest desires, it knew now what he wanted. Back up above, the former prisoners were screaming, "The sirens are back! Run for your lives! Hide!" Tristan, despite his bleeding thumb, grabbed hold of the girl and was about to hide back in his cell. It was by far safer for the both of them... at least. That was before he noticed something, something was on one of the sirens. He stopped running, his eyes honing in.

The siren landed before him, its talons large and sharp, that was obvious. However, its back sitting there without a doubt, Efrain! "What, how did you?!" Efrain smiled, stepping off. "The sirens have so graciously agreed to help us get off—" Someone screamed. Not at the sirens, however. It was an old woman; she was pointing at Efrain. "It's you, you! You haven't aged a day! How? How! I was only a lass, how are you," she stuttered and spluttered. The crewmates tried to comfort her; they didn't know what was wrong? That all changed, however, when Tristan saw Efrain's outfit.

It was no longer that muddy brown; it was dark, a deep dark ebony silk. A wolf pin fastened to his breast, the sigil he realized not of Lord Ector of Muds Field but..." Efrain sighed, taking out his knife as the sirens shrieked. "I really didn't want to have to resort to this." The sirens began to sing, weaving a song of obedience, sounding almost as ghostly as it did beautifully sickening. Tristan and the rest of the crew bowed. He couldn't disobey, but he was still aware of what was happening.

Efrain looked down at him, giving a smug look; he held out his hand. "The Lord Efrain Of Darkmoor. King of monsters, son of wolves, and slayer of the knights of midnight. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tristan the prisoner." Then just like that, Lord Efrain of Darkmoor became once more a lord, only for now a lord of sirens and convicts. He'd get his revenge on who had betrayed him. For now, however, he had more work to do. A story for another day.