There is nothing worse for a pirate than dying on dry land. Except, maybe, swinging two feet above it.
When their captain is imprisoned, facing the gallows, the men and women of the Lady Lesya's crew will try everything to break him out--even if it...
Flow had looked for the large square, surrounded by the gallery and its pillars, for at least an hour. Lost in the maze of narrow streets, he had hoped once or twice, but this time, he was sure. Yes! He recognized the isolated, unassuming, and oddly welcoming building at the center as the barracks.
He took a confident step into the gallery. A second one and dark dots burst in front of his eyes. His stomach grumbled loudly, protesting against the vise that squeezed it without mercy. Flow moaned in concert, pressing a hand against his flat belly and finding balance against the nearest wall with the other. The sea-biscuit was all he had eaten today and even if hunger was an old friend—spending weeks at sea, months even, had been a good practice—running through the city in every direction all morning had taken its toll.
Flow waited to regain his balance, considered chewing on his thin leather belt, swallowed some air instead, and pressed on. He followed the empty gallery, ears wide open, to find his mates. Despite hunger and fatigue, the idea that men like O'Ma, Tiago and Stalker could be his "mates" brought a blissful smile to his young and hairless face.
The smile flickered and faded when Flow realized he had run around the square twice without finding any of them. Now that he thought about it, even Dune had vanished from his statuesque position in front of the barracks entrance.
Merde!
Wary, looking all around only to find closed doors and lazy seagulls, he crossed the square and approached the barracks door.
The smell hit him first. The smell of wet, rusty blades. A lot of wet, rusty blades...
Then he saw. Two bodies lying in a puddle of blood. A pool rather, already darkening where it clotted, while fresh, glistening red tentacles still extended in all directions. Flow lifted a foot just in time to avoid getting caught by one. Despite his repulsion, he couldn't help but look for the origin of the pool. His eyes stopped on the feeble gush flowing from the deep-sliced neck.
Fascinated, he remained on the threshold, one foot still in the air—until he heard a gasp, right in his left ear.
Flow nodded. "Shocking, I know. I'm not used to it, either, to be 'onest. Zat said, I saw worse already. One time, Stalker 'ad--"
"What..." the voice in his ear interrupted. "Did you... kill them?"
"What? No, I..."
Flow turned around slowly. He felt the squishy, tepid blood find its way between his toes, causing a wave of surprised indignation to run from the small of his back to the muscles in his face. His toothy grin and squinting eyes found themselves facing a pallid face under a black furry hat.
Merde oh merde oh merde...
"Where's Ricardo?" the guard asked with a shaky voice. "You killed him too?"
"Who? No, I just..."
A hubbub cut him short. A glance over the white shoulder pad revealed a dozen guards starting to gather on the square, clearly heading towards his obvious and convenient guilt.
Flow sighed. "I'm so tired of running."
Then he started running again.
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