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...
The huge staircase spiraled underground for what felt like an eternity. The torches, sparsely placed on the walls, barely gave enough light to see the next step once hidden by the massive central pillar.
For the third time, O'Ma's foot slipped on the smooth edge of a step. And for the third time, he prevented a painful—and probably lethal—fall by throwing his shoulder against the curved wall to his right. Holding a pistol in each hands was probably not helpful in securing his balance, but he was a creature of habit. He couldn't bring himself to tuck Fury back into his belt just to hold the wall. A pirate had to look fierce after all, and two shots were better than one in case of an emergency—assuming he didn't die tumbling down the million steps of these treacherous stairs.
A few feet below, Stalker led the march. Careless about the way he should look, he gripped his nasty serrated blade in his left hand. The other followed the hollows carved into the limestone wall by desperate fingers. Nevertheless, his feet betrayed him too. He swore every time they skidded on the polished stone.
Ricardo followed him at a safe distance, pausing defensively at every outburst. Each time, Tiago pushed the poor, lonely guard forward without a word. Then he resumed his light dance from step to step, humming one of his joyful tunes to himself. Combined with Dune's heavy, regular stomp, above them all, the effect in the gloomy stairwell was quite... unnerving.
O'Ma seemed unable to find a better description for it, more proof that he'd had enough of it already. How deep could this prison be?
"Just a few more steps," answered Ricardo when O'Ma asked out loud.
"Are you tired already, old man?"
"Shut up, Tiago!" O'Ma's hands tightened on his pistols grips. "Or I'll put a bullet in your head!"
Tiago squeezed Ricardo's shoulder. "And cover our helpful friend with bits of brains? You wouldn't dare! What do you reckon, Dick?"
Ricardo turned his head to meet Tiago's eyes. His face was drained of all color.
"May I call you Dick, Dick?"
The guard nodded slowly and stuttered, "M-My F-f-friends call me Dick."
Tiago joined Ricardo to stand on the same step and embraced him fraternally. He smiled widely and looked at O'Ma, defiantly. "So, will you shoot my face again, companheiro?"
O'Ma felt anger, his old friend, rise from his chest and lodge in his throat. He raised Mercy and he aimed at the cocky bastard's forehead. The barrel was just a foot away. "Let us see if you can die a second time, then!"
But before he could so much as brush the trigger, a voice came from the depth of the stairs.
"Shut up, you two! What did I tell you about bringing up Tiago's condition when not on board?"
Stalker's impression of Cap was almost perfect. He went on using his own guttural, husky voice. "When ye're done with yer bullshit, maybe ye can join me downstairs. The fuckin' steps are finally over!"
"Excelente!" exclaimed Tiago. He let go of Ricardo's shoulder, and ran down to meet his mate. The young guard collapsed and remained prone and trembling.
O'Ma breathed in deeply, eyes closed. He exhaled slowly, through the mouth, letting anger go with the air of his lungs. He tucked his pistols back under his wide, black silk belt—Mercy resting on his broad belly, Fury in the small of his back—and grabbed the pitiful young man under the arm.
"Get up, Dick, your work is not done yet."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
