Tales of the Black Scorpion

by Christine Morgan

A City of Heroes fanfiction story

Chapter One

"For gold and for glory!" Jamie Tremayne called, raising the slim deadly length of his sword high overhead. It flashed in the tropical sun, winking with steel's promise.

 The full-throated roar of his crew answered him. As one, the hardy pirates surged over the rail of the Black Scorpion to board the Ella Marie. Some swung on ropes, daggers gripped in their teeth. Others leapt with pistols already spitting gouts of black-powder smoke. The Bosun, a dark-skinned giant whose body was covered with pale tribal tattoos, simply dropped boots-first from the yardarm and struck the deck of the Ella Marie with such force that it was a wonder he did not smash clear through the planking and scuttle her straight to the bottom. No sooner had he landed than did his massive fists descend, flattening three hapless sailors who'd had the ill luck to be within reach.

 Tremayne himself sprang lightly across a six-foot gap as the churning sea heaved the two ships apart. He landed agile as a cat, his blade held before him. His one good eye scanned the scene. The other, sightless beneath its black patch, had been lost to a shrapnel splinter years before.

 Two of his foes charged into the path of his first stroke. Both reeled back, blood spraying. One of them managed to raise his pistol, but before he could fire, Tremayne brought the hilt of his sword down in a solid blow to the man's brow and crumpled him like a rag.

 All around him was the thunder and chaos of battle. Guns belched a pall of choking smoke that turned the combatants into half-seen wraiths. The deck was already slick with blood and littered with groaning bodies. The air rang with the clash of steel, and with screams of pain, pleas for mercy, and victorious shouts.

 On he went, slashing through the Ella Marie's crew. He felt no remorse, and only a small measure of pity. They had been given every chance to surrender, and they had chosen to resist. Thus, the Black Scorpion would punish them harshly, and make an example of them so that all others might learn the folly of fighting back.

 At the mainmast, the Bosun had cornered a group of five merchant marines. They huddled in their red coats, their muskets held across their bodies like imperfect shields. None dared confront the hulking enormous man looming over them, not until with jeers and curses the Bosun inflamed sudden, fatal anger in them.

 "Yahhh!" one cried, and lunged as if he meant to belt the Bosun over the head with the long barrel of his gun.

 His fellows, spurred on by this suicidally brave action, rushed as a mob. They were so intent on their target that they did not see until too late that Tremayne had slipped up behind them.

 Even as the Bosun pummeled them, Tremayne cut them down. Within moments, the captain grinned up into the snarling face of his largest crewman and clapped him on the shoulder.

 "More killing," the Bosun said hungrily, his gaze happening upon a group of sailors who'd rallied to defend themselves against others of the Black Scorpion's crew.

 "Go to it, my friend," Tremayne said. He dashed sweat from his brow and scanned the cluttered, smoky deck.

 There. In the confusion, the enemy captain and some of his officers were seeking to lower a longboat and escape.

 "Why, the cowardly bilge-rats," Tremayne said, and ran for them, weaving through the maze of ropes and rigging with the ease born of long practice.

 A wounded man staggered toward him. Barely breaking stride, Tremayne dove onto his hands, flipped his body, and kicked the heels of his folded black boots squarely into the man's face. The violent crunching impact sent the man flying backward over the rail. Even before he had splashed into the sea, Tremayne was running again, closing on the group at the rear of the ship.

 He saw that they had a small, slender figure in their midst, and understood in a flash. Mere gold and silver were not the only prizes to be had this day.

 A body was sprawled in his path. Tremayne jumped over it. He realized even in mid-air the mistake he had made. The man was shamming, already bringing up a pistol.

 Tremayne spun to this threat a split-second too late. Fire spat from the gun barrel. Searing agony lanced through him. He was knocked against a cannon, already feeling hot blood coursing down his bare chest.

 At this, as if they had been waiting for just such a chance, the enemy captain ordered his officers to attack.

 The man with the pistol cast it aside and unhurriedly plucked another from his belt as he got to his feet. Tremayne gritted his teeth, reached deep into himself for renewed strength, and swung his blade. It sheared the air like a scythe, chopping halfway through the man's torso.

 But the officers had been given time to close with him. Tremayne could hear the Boson's furious bellow. Half the length of a ship separated them and there was no way the giant could reach him in time. Nor would these men be subject to his taunts, not with their captain crying out that whoever slew the notorious rogue Tremayne would have a chest of silver as his reward.

 Tremayne's blade whistled through the smoke, its razor edge splitting two brass-buttoned uniform coats and slicing into the flesh beneath. But he missed the third man, and uttered a stifled shout of pain as he was shot again.

 Then, just as all was surely lost for him, he was bathed in a cool and wondrous glow that washed away his pain and revitalized his weakening limbs. Tremayne sucked in a deep breath and plunged his sword into his attacker.

 The man stiffened on tip-toe, eyes widening as the steel tore through him and emerged, dripping, from his back. He was dead by the time Tremayne could plant one boot against his body and yank out the blade.

 As he did, he spared a quick glance over his shoulder, and his white teeth flashed in a smile.

 "Timely as ever, dear Witch," he said.

 Her dark veil and hood concealed all of her features but for a pair of exotic, wine-dark eyes. By contrast, the shapely curves of her body were well-displayed in a snug corset, her arms and shoulders so milky-pale they seemed never to have been kissed by the sun.

 "Fight on, my captain," she said in a sweetly husky voice, fanning her fingers toward him. Again, he was enveloped in her healing magic, his injuries erased.

 The deck shook as the Bosun rushed past, head lowered, charging at the last desperate men clustered around the longboat with the snorting frenzy of an angered bull. Tremayne sprang after him, seizing a rope and letting its momentum carry him out and around in an arc that deposited him directly in front of his chosen foe.

 The Ella Marie's captain was an older man, canny and not unskilled, and within the first few passes of their blades Tremayne had to acknowledge that he had met his match. Again and again they thrust and parried and slashed and dodged, scoring only the merest nicks to draw blood from each other's flesh.

 Then, behind his adversary, Tremayne saw the Bosun rise up with fists doubled, and bring them down with more force than a blacksmith's hammer. The captain was thrown forward. His blade ran into Tremayne's thigh, grating against bone. But Tremayne's, angled up, pierced his Adam's apple, transfixed his gullet, and skewered deep into his brain.

 Heaving for breath, Tremayne stepped back. His leg buckled beneath him and he nearly fell, but then the Witch was there, supporting him with her body while her magic flowed into him. She led him to a barrel and bade him sit. He protested, but the rest of his crew, led by the Bosun, had already overpowered the last few enemy sailors and prevented the longboat from being lowered over the side.

 "Sit. Rest. The ship is yours." The Witch placed her hands on his shoulders to prevent him from rising.

 "Once again and as always, my thanks," he said. "Although many's been the occasion some in my crew have cautioned me against you, I'd not trade you for all the treasures of the Barbary Coast."

 "I am pleased to know it," she said. "And pleased that you do not bow to such foolish superstitions."

 Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw, brushing through the wiry hair of his short blue-black beard. Tremayne looked up at her, into those eyes that were deeper and more compellingly mysterious than the sea itself.

 From the direction of the longboat, one of his men gave a sudden cry of terror. Tremayne bolted up, sweeping the Witch behind him and drawing his sword in a single smooth motion.

 The screaming man – Bloody Pete, he was called, and in five years of sailing together Tremayne had never before heard him scream – thrashed and blundered back from the rail.

 At the sight of him, Tremayne could only stare, momentarily stunned. Bloody Pete was wrapped in a cloud of misty light that seethed and swarmed like howling, biting devil's mouths. His arms flailed in panic. The others recoiled from him, terror-struck.

 As they parted, they revealed the slim figure Tremayne had seen before. She stood desperate and defiant, a girl-child in a long and clinging green gown, short auburn hair shining like new-minted copper around her face. It was clear to all that she was the source, the cause of the nightmare madness that had gripped one of their own. But the very pirates who had gone into life-or-death battle without a second thought, facing swords and pistols as brave as any man, looked ready to flee from this small sprite-woman.

 If not for the Bosun, they may well have done it. Though clearly as unnerved as the rest, he was never one to let fear stand in his way. A swing of one huge fist, and the girl collapsed. The Bosun slung her over his arm as if she weighed nothing.

 "Hold him," Tremayne commanded the men nearest to Bloody Pete, who was still waving his arms and screaming.

 It took four of them to wrestle him down, and they were loathe to reach into that horrible misty cloud to touch him. But by the time they'd pinned him to the deck, the strange smoke-light devil's heads had begun to dissolve.

 The Witch hurried to Bloody Pete. Most of the crew were still leery of her, this dark woman whose face they had never seen and whose powers, however beneficial, still struck dread into their superstitious hearts. Under other circumstances they might have shied from her. Now, though, they seemed almost glad to have her pass among them, her clear green aura cleansing them and healing their wounds.

 She bent over Pete, who had gone limp. Tremayne was braced for the worst, but when the Witch turned back to him, she nodded. "He will live, my captain."

 "What did she do to him?" Tremayne studied the girl, draped unconscious over the Bosun's big arm. He lifted her head and turned her face this way and that. Creamy skin, dusted with a spray of freckles. A pert little chin, a pert little nose.

 "Clearly," said the Witch in an unfamiliarly tight tone, "she is no ordinary girl, and you'd be well rid of her, Captain."

 "A talent like that could be useful to us," Tremayne said.

 "She's an enemy," argued the Witch.

 The Bosun chuffed laughter. "Captain's a fair hand at persuading the ladies."

 Several others of the crew chuckled. Tremayne gave them all a sharp look.

 "Step lively now, lads," he said. "We've just taken this ship, but if we're to keep her she must be secured. Take any surrendered survivors aboard the Black Scorpion. Mr. Trask, see to it that our new prize is fit to sail. I'll want a full report of her cargo and valuables within the hour."

 They scrambled to do his bidding. The Witch folded her arms and took a deep, angry breath, the effect of this causing her curves to swell impressively above the taut confines of her corset.

 "And what of her?" she asked, glaring from Tremayne to the girl and back again.

 The Bosun cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, looking suddenly uncomfortable. It was a disconcerting sight on a man so enormous and fierce.

 "Mr. Bosun, bind up our captive and place her in my cabin," Tremayne said. "I'll deal with her myself."

 "Aye, sir," he rumbled. Avoiding the Witch's baleful look, he tromped off through the aftermath with the girl – no bigger than a child in his grasp – over his shoulder.

 "Is there something you're wishing to say to me, Witch?" Tremayne asked once the Bosun had gone.

 "We don't need her," the Witch said.

 "You saw what she did. If she can be convinced to lend her efforts to our cause –"

 "And if she can't?"

 "We'll see."

 The Witch came to him, eyes burning like embers in the shadow of her hood. Tremayne could just see the hint of the fullness of her lips beneath the silken veil, and wondered again what it was that she hid from the world, and why.

 "Captain," she said, "I fear that you are making a grave error."

 "If so, 'tis mine to make," he said. He caught up her hand and kissed it. "So fear not, my lovely Witch. Do you not trust your captain?"

 "In most things," she replied. "But it has been my experience that the judgment of many a wise man may be clouded when women are involved."

 "That, I must agree, is God's own truth," Tremayne said.

 He was called away then, and saw the Witch going about her own merciful duties of healing those of their enemies who yet clung to life but had given their surrender. By nightfall, Tremayne had accepted a full dozen volunteers from the sailors of the captured ship, and divided them out among his own men to adequately crew both vessels until they could make port in Madagascar. There, he planned to sell the Ella Marie and her cargo.

 It had been a most profitable voyage and the crew was looking forward to being paid out in their shares. Tremayne knew from past experience that the wages of many months would likely be squandered in a few days of drunken whoring, gambling and debauchery. Such was the life of a pirate. Why save up good coin against a future that might stretch no further than the end of a sword … or a hangman's noose? Better to spend and enjoy while they could.

 When he returned to the Black Scorpion, he found the Bosun standing guard at the door to his cabin. The massive figure's brawny arms were crossed, and he looked as formidable as the very Rock of Gibraltar.

 "Trouble brewing, Captain," he said.

 "Oh, is our captive awake?"

 "No, sir, to my knowledge. 'Tis the Witch. Ye know, sir, that a woman aboard ship brings bad luck."

 "And you know, Mr. Bosun, that the Witch has sailed with us these many months and only been an asset to our crew. We've men who fought here today that would have died long ago if not for her healing solace. You yourself, and I, might be among them."

 "Aye, sir."

 "So spare me this nonsense of how a woman aboard ship brings bad luck."

 "But, Captain … sure as the Witch proved it wrong … still, I'm thinking that two women aboard be more than double any bad luck as one. If ye're taking my meaning, sir."

 "I'm sure the ship is big enough for the both of them," Tremayne said. "And it's no certainty that we'll be keeping the one. That hinges on her will. Or on her ransom, as the case may be."

 He let himself past the Bosun and into his cabin. It was not without risk, and as he stepped inside to the light of an oil lantern, he tried to brace his mind for whatever Bloody Pete had experienced.

 No such attack came. He saw that the girl was awake, having abandoned the bed in favor of a perch on the cabinets under the wide windows. She sat watching him with a set resolution in her eyes. She must have realized that escape was impossible, that even if she unleashed her sorcery on him, there was a shipful of men at the ready.

 Tremayne inclined his head. "Hello, lass. Have you a name?"

 She paused before speaking, evidently deciding whether it would be better to answer or stay silent. "Keara," she said.

 "Only that?"

 "Yes." Her chin came up.

 "Keara … an Irish girl, then?"

 "Born in Jamaica to Irish parents," she said. "And you? Dog of a pirate, who are you?"

 "Jamie Tremayne, called by some the Black Scorpion." He touched the large black tattoo that spread over much of his chest. "Though rightly, that be the name of my ship, not myself. And where you are now."

 "Your prisoner."

 "At the moment."

 Keara sighed and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around her lower legs. "And do I want to ask your intentions toward me?"

 "Now, lass," Tremayne said, shaking his head ruefully at her. "What manner of scoundrel do you take me for?"

 "I know your kind," she said.

 "Perhaps then you should be telling me why it's worth my while to keep you alive. Is there some wealthy father who'd pay a goodly ransom for you? Some husband, perhaps, or husband-to-be?"

 "None," Keara said. "I have no one. My parents are dead. So is … so is my uncle, my only other kin."

 "That is a shame." He poured two large flagons of wine and offered one to her. She turned up her nose, so Tremayne shrugged and drank it down. He sat back and crossed his boots on his desk, which was covered with maps and charts held in place by weighted brass ornaments.

 "You'll kill me, then?" she asked.

 "Were you a passenger aboard the Ella Marie?"

 The corners of her mouth twitched down. "I was cargo."

 "Oh?" Tremayne raised the eyebrow not covered by the patch.

 "I know that you saw what I did to that man," she said in a rush, as if she had decided it was best to go ahead and say it all outright. "You must realize what I am, and what I can do. Because of that gift, or curse, there are powerful people who would seek to control me. To use me against their enemies."

 He nodded. "And would these powerful people pay for your return?"

 She closed her eyes and loosed a shaky breath. "Yes."

 "Well, then!" Tremayne slapped his thigh. "You have value after all. Unless …"

 "Unless what?" she asked warily.

 "Unless you'd sooner not become their property."

 "And what?" she spat. "Become yours?"

 "Your venom wounds as much as a sword cut," he remarked. "It had been in my mind to offer you a place in my crew. Not my bed."

 "A place in your crew? As … as a pirate? Although I'm a woman? Although I'm … what I am?"

 "Clearly, you did not make the acquaintance of our Witch," Tremayne said. "She, too, has remarkable gifts."

 "I would be one of the crew?"

 "Perhaps not a full-fledged pirate to begin with," he said. "Unless you already know how to sail and fight as well as drive men mad with fear. But you'd be one of us, Keara. Free and independent, as we are. Answering only to your captain."

 He could see that she wanted to believe him, and rather than try further to plead the case, simply sipped more wine and let her think it out.

**

Chapter Two

He woke to almost absolute silence, a rare thing aboard a ship, and knew before he so much as opened his eyes that the air was calm and the sea a sheet of glass.

Tremayne emerged from his cabin, stretching the lingering ache of yesterday's battle from his limbs. He groomed by dunking his head into a barrel of water, then raking the lush blue-black hair back from his brow. Cool rivulets coursed down his body, sluicing the last of sleep from his wits.

Not so much as a breath of wind stirred the morning fog. The sun was lost in that silvery mist. It was so thick that all he could see of the Ella Marie, anchored nearby, was a bulking and indistinct shadow. The only sounds were the low creak and groan of the ships, the muffled voices from the men at the end of their night's watch, and the occasional leaping splash of a fish disturbing the placid sea.

Fortified by a cup of coffee strong enough to make even the Bosun grimace, Tremayne went to the helm. After finding that all was well in hand, and giving orders to have the crew gathered, he leaned on the stern rail looking out at the rippling blue-grey water.

He soaked a hard biscuit in the dregs of the coffee, so that he could chew it without cracking the very teeth from his head.

"My captain."

"Ah, the Witch greets the new day," Tremayne said as she came up beside him.

"How fares your prisoner?" she asked with a touch of acid.

"She sleeps."

"Does she." This was said flatly, and he saw how her graceful hands clenched on the rail.

"I offered her a place in the crew and she accepted."

"Oh, splendid."

"Her name is Keara. I hope you two will become friends."

The Witch turned toward him, an exasperated exhalation puffing out her veil. "Friends?"

"You are the only two women aboard my ship."

"That means nothing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Where is your spirit of sorority? Of sisterhood? I had four sisters of my own and it ever seemed to me that they would band together against the men. They made the lives of my father, brothers and myself a living Hell."

"I assure you, my captain, women do possess that power," the Witch said. "Some of us need no help with it, either."

"You don't like her, then?"

"What ever is not to like?" the Witch retorted. "A pretty young girl, carried off by a handsome and dashing pirate rogue to spend the night in his cabin? I ask you … what is not to like?"

"So you find me dashing, do you?" he asked with a grin.

She gave him a look that would have frozen water. "So you'll not be holding her for ransom?"

"There's none to be had. Her parents are dead, and she's no wealthy husband to claim her. Besides, with her gifts, she could profit us more as one of the crew."

"Is she to be your woman?"

"Because she slept in my cabin? What was I to do with her? Send her to sleep in the hold? Ask you to share your quarters with her?"

"I'd rather that than …" The Witch looked away, her eyes narrowed and angry above her veil.

"I know how you value your privacy," Tremayne said, reaching to touch a lock of dark hair that had tumbled into view beneath her hood. He curled it around his fingers.

"Sometimes I wonder what you do know, and what you don't, my captain," she said.

"You're not … jealous of Keara, are you?" he asked, smiling a little at the foolishness of such an idea.

"Do I have reason to be?"

"You tell me."

"It is your ship," the Witch said. "You are the captain, and you do as you see fit. It's hardly for me to criticize your decisions. If you want to take that Irish tart aboard and keep her in your cabin, it's no concern of mine."

"Yet you don't agree." He stroked her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the silky fabric of the veil.

The Witch closed her eyes and tipped her head, the better to lean into his caress. "I want the captain to be happy," she said, in a softer tone.

"There's a sentiment with which I won't argue," he said.

Her dusky lashes fluttered as she looked up at him. "Would you grant me a favor, Captain?"

"Anything."

"May I call you by name, just this once as we're alone?"

"I should like that," he said.

Her gaze held his, so dark and hypnotic. It made his heart race strangely, in a way that not even the potent coffee could have done. He knew so little about her, his Witch. Only that she had fled her family when an unwanted marriage was pressed upon her. How she had learned her arcane arts, or why she had chosen to lend them to him and his crew, remained a mystery.

Slowly, her hand stole up and covered his, cupping it against the softness of her cheek. He found himself very conscious of her nearness, of her corseted curves so close to his bare chest. She was a witch indeed, bewitching him without recourse to a single spell. Bewitching him solely with those eyes … well, perhaps not solely with her eyes …

"Jamie," she breathed.

A pleasant shiver ran through him. "You've still not told me your name," he said.

"Ahem, ah, Captain?"

At the voice, the Witch quickly drew herself up and stepped back from Tremayne, letting go of his hand and tucking her errant lock up into the folds of her hood. 

The deck trembled as the Bosun approached through the pearly mist. "The crew's gathered for yer inspection, sir."

"Very good, Mr. Bosun," Tremayne said, in a voice that did not seem quite his own. He cleared his throat and strode to the helm, draining the last of his coffee as he went.

Behind him, he heard the Witch's irritated whisper, "You oaf! You couldn't have waited another half-minute?"

"Sorry," rumbled the Bosun.

Tremayne turned his attention to the men gathered on the deck. They were a properly motley bunch, his crew, dressed as they pleased in what clothes they had been able to buy, steal, or sew from whatever scraps of material came into their possession. Some were booted while others preferred bare feet for climbing the rigging. Most favored bright colors, ribbons and flash, the better to cut an impressive – if not always fearful – figure in battle.

A few bore the legacy of a sailor's dangerous life, sporting hooks and peg-legs, or eyepatches like Tremayne's own. They were so scarred and tattooed, so sun-leathered and wind-weathered, that it was sometimes hard to guess what hue their skin might naturally have had.

The pirates bristled with weapons. Swords and cutlasses and knives, pistols stuck through sashes or into boot-tops. As the sun began to shred the wispy fog, it glinted on gold teeth and earrings, on silver belt buckles and shoe buckles, on rings and medallions.

The newest men had not been allowed weapons yet, and most of them still wore their uniforms, though already efforts had been made to remove the insignia. The volunteers had been made to sign the Articles, thereby sealing their fates and making it impossible for them to ever return to a normal seafaring life. Once a pirate, always a pirate.

He congratulated them again on the previous day's victory against the Ella Marie, and reminded them that once they made port in Madagascar, each man would be paid in full what he was owed. This elicited a lusty cheer, and in their eyes he could see the fevered anticipation of taverns and brothels already beckoning.

As he addressed them, Tremayne saw Keara sidle into view. Her look of uncertainty grew into apprehension as she surveyed the pirates. She had made use of the brush he'd left sitting by the washstand, her coppery hair brushed sleek. The long green gown hugged her slender shape, though by now it was wrinkled and dispirited from the moisture in the air.

"And we've one other to welcome to the crew," Tremayne said, gesturing. "This fair lass be Keara."

The men jostled each other, elbowing and leering. A few made speculations as to what Keara's shipboard duties might be. Out of the corner of his eye, Tremayne saw the Witch sweep them all with a scornful glare.

Through this, Keara held her head high and gave little outward sign of the nervousness that had to be consuming her. She was an admirably brave creature, Tremayne had to credit her with that.

"In what capacity does she join us, Cap'n?" asked Mr. Trask.

"As my cabin girl, for now," Tremayne said, ignoring the second round of elbowing and snickering that passed among the crew as he said it. "Until she learns our ways."

"But Captain!" protested Bloody Pete. "She be a devil-woman, that one! Ye saw what she did t'me!"

Keara flushed.

"And she'll not do it again, now she's one of us," Tremayne said. "You have my word on that."

Pete did not look wholly convinced, but neither did he seem to wish to press the matter. A swift fate befell any man who presumed to question the word of Jamie Tremayne, and his crew knew it.

An hour later, with the sun high and already blazing-hot, the morning's fog was a distant memory. Sadly, a good strong wind was an even more distant one, as the sails of the Black Scorpion and the Ella Marie hung lifeless and slack.

The new additions to the crew were finding that life aboard a pirate vessel differed greatly from the strict regiment of life aboard a merchant ship. There was discipline – with such men, there had to be – but punishment was often meted out with harsh words or quick fists rather than the public humility of being taken before the mast and flogged.

By the following day, the majority of the sailors had taken well to their new routine. It still remained to be seen how well they would perform once the ships were underway, for there was not so much as a breath of a breeze.

Tremayne had hung a blanket partitioning off a corner of his cabin, where he'd had a hammock hung for Keara. The crew seemed to find these arrangements an object of high hilarity. As for Keara herself, she adapted to her new situation and by noontime on her third day on the Black Scorpion, had coaxed the Bosun into giving her amidships lessons in hand-to-hand combat.

When there was no wind, boredom became a sailor's worst enemy. Every garment that could be patched or mended had been, every blade had been honed and pistol cleaned, and the crews of both ships turned out in full numbers, glad for the diversion.

Even had they been busy with a hundred tasks, Tremayne thought they'd have taken time to watch this.

The huge brute with his dark, tattoo-covered skin and arms that could snap a mast hulked over the tiny girl with the elfin features and cutely freckled nose. Watching her drive her little fists into the meaty palms of his hand, making a series of somehow ladylike smacks, sent the crews into gales of laughter.

"No, lass, no, this be no good at all," Tremayne remarked after a while. "You'll swelter yourself to death, even if that skirt doesn't trip you up. Hold still. Move not a muscle."

With a series of judicious swipes of his sword, he sliced away the long skirt of her gown. It puddled around her feet, showing trim legs to mid-thigh. The crew hooted and whistled.

Keara sputtered indignantly. But Tremayne wasn't through. As she stood, motionless as much from astonishment as from following his order, he deftly cut the sleeves and upper blouse. His skill with the blade was such that he did not scratch her skin, and moments later Keara stood with both hands pressed to her pert bosom, now only barely covered by her bodice.

"That be better," Tremayne announced. "We'll have some boots for you, high ones I think, and 'tis a proper pirate lass you'll be."

He glanced around, thinking that he might ask the Witch to help in this endeavor – he had seen from his four sisters that nothing formed a friendship between women so fast as shopping, and thought that this might thaw the Witch's still-chilly demeanor toward Keara. The Witch, however, was nowhere to be seen.

The Bosun bared his teeth at Keara. "Come on, then, Cabin-Girl," he said, beckoning. "Come on then and let's see what ye can do unhampered by that dress."

He held up his big mitts again. Keara screwed up her face in furious determination and threw herself at him, striking a quick little punch into his palm.

"That wouldn't swat ye a fly," the Bosun said.

"Ooh!" she cried, and then flung out her arm.

At once, demonic forms of smoke-light whirled into being around the Bosun, cloaking him in their eerie glow. His countenance underwent a drastic transfiguration, stark with a horror that no man present had ever witnessed before. Backpedaling, the Bosun let out a thick and glottal scream. He sat down hard, shaking the deck.

Tremayne jumped between them and put a steadying hand on Keara. "That be enough, lass," he said.

She dropped her arm at once and looked contrite. "I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "He just … he just made me so mad … I couldn't help myself."

The others, Bloody Pete chief among them, were now eyeing her and muttering to their neighbors. The Bosun, freed of the spectral menace, got to his feet like a sleepwalker and dusted off the seat of his rough homespun pants. No one dared laugh, for fear of being bodily hurled overboard.

"No harm done, eh, Mr. Bosun?" Tremayne asked heartily.

"No, sir," growled the Bosun. "Yon lass might not pack much of a punch, but she packs a hell of a punch, sir, if ye take my meaning."

"Aye, that I do," Tremayne said.

He looked up as a freshening breeze blew welcome against his face. Above, the limp pennants began to flap, and the sails belled out in a white curve as comely as the line of a woman's hip. At once the men were reinvigorated, rushing to their posts aboard the Black Scorpion or hastening to return to the Ella Marie.

They were underway in a quarter of an hour, a good strong wind bearing them briskly toward Madagascar. The sea was indigo-green with frothy whitecapped crests, and as if all life was inspired by the turn in the weather, flying fish and dolphins skimmed and cavorted off the bow.

They made good time, the two ships racing in tandem toward the distant hazy bulk of the island nation. Tremayne's colors flew proudly from both topmasts, and the rough but merry voices of the crews were raised in competing shouts and singing.

Then, above them, rose Keara's high, clear voice. "Look! Look there! Something in the water! A barrel, I think."

Tremayne turned the helm over to Mr. Trask and joined her at the rail. She was leaning far out, unconcerned how her posture made what was left of her skirt ride up high on the backs of her thighs. Her hair blew around her head and she shook it out of her face.

"There, Captain, do you see?" She pointed.

A barrel might be nothing to get excited over, as ships sometimes jettisoned their empties. Then again, it might be flotsam from a wreck, containing edibles or valuable trade goods. And this one, Tremayne saw, was floating low with the waves halfway up its rounded sides, rather than bobbing atop them like a cork.

He shouted orders, and grapnels on drag lines were hurled out as the Black Scorpion closed on the barrel. Soon it was snared, and netted, and hauled aboard. It was heavy, water-tight, and a solid weight shifted with a fleshy thump within it as they lowered it onto the deck.

All the crew not occupied with their duties gathered curiously around, exclaiming over the unfamiliar markings. The lid was nailed down, and not a neat job had been made of it.

"What does it say?" Keara asked Tremayne. "What's in it?"

"One way to find out. Mr. Bosun, if you please?"

The Bosun pried at the lid. Nails squealed against wood, making them all wince. Finally, the lid simply split down the middle with a crack like a gunshot. The barrel rocked over and fell onto its side. Tremayne planted a boot against it before it could roll.

Something flopped out onto the deck and lay there, inert. It was a man-sized creature covered with coarse brown fur, sprawled face-down.

"Is it dead?" Keara bent to prod it with her fingertip.

"Send for the Witch," ordered Tremayne. He lifted the barrel away, letting the rest of the creature slide out onto the planking.

It had a tail, but was like no monkey he had ever seen or heard of. It was too big by far, and the shape of it resembled nothing so much as a man … an extremely hairy man with a long tail protruding from the seat of a pair of ragged red pants.

"That there be a Wild Man of Madagascar," Mr. Trask said. "Half man, and half ape. Fearsome quick and strong, they are, bloodthirsty little devils."

The Witch appeared in the wake of the sailor who'd gone to fetch her. "You called, my captain?"

"This … man, if man he be," Tremayne said. "Does he live? Can you aid him?"

By the lines that furrowed between her eyes, he thought she might be wrinkling her nose, but she came closer and spread her hands over the seemingly lifeless creature. A dazzling emerald radiance issued from those hands. It formed a shimmering cocoon around the man-thing. Then, as the crew fell back gasping in amazement, the body was lifted from the deck. It revolved, arms and legs and tail dangling, head drooping.

And then, as if life force surged into it, the creature straightened up and whipped its head this way and that. Its eyes bulged. Its lips skinned back from strong teeth. It had such a maniacal look that the Witch started, and drew against Tremayne for comfort.

He put his left arm around her while holding his sword in his right hand. He leveled the blade at the creature.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Do you speak?"

The green healing-light faded, and the man-monkey landed in a limber crouch on the deck. He did not seem at all concerned by the fact that he was surrounded on all sides by men armed with pistols and cutlasses.

"I am the Sea-Monkey!" he cackled.

With a sudden bound, he cleared the entirety of the wide gap they had left around him, and swept a pirate's legs from under him in a roundhouse kick. He snatched a piece of fruit from another man's hand, then scrambled into the rigging and swung upside-down from his tail.

"Hold your fire!" Tremayne saw that several of his crew were waving their pistols around, trying to follow the creature's wild path.

"I'll be getting him down from there," said the Bosun, cocking one boulder-sized fist as if he meant to bring down the entire mast with one punch.

"Wait," Tremayne said. He craned his neck to look up. "You, there –"

With a wet splat, the peel of the fruit slapped into his face. He cursed and wiped it away, and went up the rigging himself like a shot. The man-monkey saw him coming and immediately led him a lunatic chase. He hurtled himself heedlessly into space, leaping from one yardarm to the next, weaving in and out through the ropes. Tremayne pursued, but as agile as he was, even he was outmatched.

Below, the crew shouted encouragement and voiced their opinions of what Tremayne should do to the furry imp when at last he caught up with him. No one fired, for which he was grateful, but the Bosun did hurl the empty barrel that had until recently held the Sea-Monkey – who had, Tremayne didn't doubt, been deliberately nailed into that barrel and cast overboard to get rid of him.

The barrel missed the Sea-Monkey by six feet and Tremayne by six inches. He paused, clinging to ropes, to throw a what-did-you-think-you-were-doing look back down, and the Bosun raised his big hands palms-up and shrugged.

The Sea-Monkey laughed and bit his thumb at the Bosun in a rude, taunting gesture of his own. Tremayne executed a tricky maneuver, a handspring that became a kick. As the Sea-Monkey stuck out his tongue and waggled it at the Bosun, Tremayne's boots met its rear end. The wiry brown creature sailed through the air, squawking in surprise.

The Bosun caught him by the neck and held him there at arm's length, throttling him into submission. "Bite yer thumb at me, will ye?" He shook the Sea-Monkey.

"Glaaarrcccch!" gagged the Sea-Monkey.

Tremayne jumped down from the rigging, landing between the Witch and Keara. "Ease up, Mr. Bosun. I'd like to speak with this Sea-Monkey before you choke the life out of him."

The Bosun relaxed his grip to a degree that would merely have cracked coconut shells rather than split cannonballs in half. The Sea-Monkey's eyes, which had been bulging worse than ever, resumed their former dimensions.

"So you can speak," Tremayne said, as if their earlier conversation had not been interrupted by the chase.

"I can," said the Sea-Monkey.

"You're quick and you're strong and you're hardy," Tremayne said. "You'd make a fine addition to my crew, if you can follow orders."

The Witch was not the only one to groan in disbelief, but Tremayne paid no attention. He kept his gaze steady, and his hand braced in a meaningful pose on the hilt of his sword.

The Sea-Monkey, still locked in the Bosun's strangling fist, considered this. "And if I can't?"

"We can always nail you into another barrel and throw you back into the sea. Next time, you might not be so lucky to have a ship come by and save you."

"Hmm," the Sea-Monkey said. "You drive a hard bargain, Captain. But it seems I don't have much choice."

**

Chapter Three

A fair wind blew Tremayne's two ships into the sheltered harbor. Their arrival caused much excitement in the town, and before the Black Scorpion and the Ella Marie had even tied off, the docks were lined with merchants and whores.

Tremayne doled out shares of silver and gold coins into the eager hands of his crew and waved them ashore. They went with a riotous good will, leaving him to tend to the business of selling the Ella Marie and her cargo.

His next few hours were busy indeed. Not only did he get a good price for his prize, but he shared a bottle of port with Edmund Talbot, captain of the King's Falcon, a fat-bottomed English merchant ship. Talbot offered to hire some of his crew away, as the King's Falcon had lost several due to illness, but Tremayne declined. He knew that his men would never care to exchange the independent life of a pirate.

Dusk found him a weary man, but wealthier than he had been, and content.

Throughout the negotiations, his cabin girl had stayed nearby. Although she was at ease among the crew after several days in their company, Keara was perhaps not quite sure enough of her status to venture into town.

"You should see something of it at least," Tremayne said, taking her by the arm and leading her down the gangplank. "And we'll have those boots for you."

The largest and loudest tavern in town was the Three Sheets, where Tremayne saw several of his men drinking, gambling, and singing boorish songs. The Sea-Monkey capered among and above them, sometimes doing acrobatic leaps and flips in the rafters to the cheering amusement of the crowd. He proved able to snake that tail of his around mugs and flagons, lifting them out of the hands of startled sailors while he hung by his hands and feet from ship's wheel chandeliers.

The Three Sheets had an upstairs balcony where round tables and chairs sat overlooking the street. The unmistakable silhouette of the Bosun was up there, and beside him, wrapped in mystery, was the Witch.

Tremayne and Keara pushed their way through the masses of drunken sailors. In her short dress and new high boots, Keara drew ogles from the men and jealous glowers from many of the women as they passed through the smoky room to the long bar.

Carrying two flagons and a sizeable bottle of rum, Tremayne led her up the stairs and out onto the balcony.

The Bosun had a feast spread out on the table: roast fowl, roast pig, green turtle soup, bread and cheese, and a boiled pudding. His jaws worked like some unstoppable machine and he only mumbled through mouthfuls and nodded at whatever it was that the Witch was saying.

"Ahoy," Tremayne said.

The Witch turned swiftly, and the look in her eyes was such that he knew she had been talking about him. Or Keara. And not, perhaps, favorably.

"My captain," she said.

"Might we join you?"

"Oot mrslf," the Bosun said. He chewed, swallowed a wad of masticated pork that would have choked a wolfhound, belched like a cannonshot, and swabbed grease from his face with a tablecloth-sized red kerchief.

"Thank you, Mr. Bosun," Tremayne said, setting his burdens on the table and fetching chairs for himself and Keara.

"Nice boots," the Witch observed in a clipped manner.

Keara turned pink and tugged at the hem of her skirt, which lacked a good six inches from touching the tops of the boots. And what a six inches it was, Tremayne thought. She smoothed the cloth around her hips and bottom as she sat down.

"The captain bought them for me," she said, meeting the Witch's eyes boldly though her cheeks continued to flame.

With grunts and gestures, the Bosun made it clear that they were welcome to share in his meal. Tremayne tore a leg from the fowl and bit into it.

"I'm sure you must be worth it," said the Witch.

"Well, we can't have her going about in those silly slippers," Tremayne said.

"Whrr oo ex, cappn?" asked the Bosun, quickly and with his mouth full, as if eager to change the subject.

"Mozambique, I thought." Tremayne ripped a chunk of bread and folding it around a slab of cheese. "Or we might try our luck back 'round the Cape of Good Hope, and bear for the Caribbean."

"I have heard that there is strange weather in Mozambique Channel." The Witch folded her fingers around a glass of wine, though did not lift her veil to drink. "And lights in the sky, like St. Elmo's Fire."

"Be that so?"

"Aye, Captain."

The Bosun frowned. "Look there … d'ye see that great lot of men? The ones be creeping this way in the shadows?"

Tremayne looked, already feeling a prickle of alertness at the nape of his neck. Sure enough … while most on the streets of town reeled about openly, if unsteadily from their rum, the dark band of men advancing toward the Three Sheets moved with a cautious purpose.

"How many do you make of them?" he asked, as the Bosun's chair was nearest the rail and afforded the big man the best view of the street below.

"Twenty if there be a one, Captain."

The Witch fixed her dark gaze upon them. "And armed with clubs and coshes, by the look."

"Bloody buggering hell," Tremayne said, downing the rest of his rum at a gulp and rising.

"What does that mean?" Keara asked.

He did not need to reply, for in the next instant the group of men broke into a run and burst upon the cluster of people outside of the Three Sheets' door. Clubs and coshes swung, the lengths of wood or heavy sacks filled with shot slamming into skulls and dropping men where they stood.

"Press gang!" someone shouted, and the general, panicked cry went up. "Press gang! Press gang!"

A rumble of running feet and overturned furniture sounded below as the men inside made for the back door. Tremayne heard some of them cry out in surprise, and realized that a second group must have been waiting there.

"Protect the ladies," he said to the Bosun, and vaulted over the balcony rail.

He landed behind the rearmost of the pressers, who was a thickset man in a dark blue coat. The hilt of his sword made a hollow thunk as it met the back of the man's skull and measured his length on the dirty cobblestones.

And then, to his shock, he recognized the man. It was Edmund Talbot, the very one with whom he had drunk port earlier that day. The wily Englishman sought to replenish his crew by this means, did he?

All around him was chaos, the drunken sailors scrambling to evade while the press gang tried to belt them into senselessness. Any man who fell ran a good risk of waking, with a head doubly sore from the blow and the hangover, well out to sea aboard the King's Falcon the next day. Impressed into service on a ship-of-the-line, with no way back to shore bar swimming … a skill that few seagoing men bothered to learn … they would have little choice but to serve.

The next man saw Talbot topple, and whirled in time for Tremayne's blade to slice open his cheek. He swung his club, which Tremayne dodged, and fumbled at a pistol stuck through his sash. Two of his fellows joined the fray. A cosh glanced off Tremayne's head and hit his shoulder a numbing, bruising blow. Another club cracked across his ribs. He was driven to one knee and sensed more than saw a strike being readied that would lay him out.

From above, the Witch called, "Captain!" and he felt her healing suffuse him. He dove sideways, the descending club whistling through empty air, and flipped himself upright. His blade flashed. Two of the men staggered back.

But the last, the one who had now drawn his pistol, pointed it into Tremayne's face. Blood ran freely from his split cheek and his eyes were ablaze with hatred. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Then a long brown tail whipped in, coiled around the barrel, and yanked. The gun angled up as it went off, the shot going wild over Tremayne's head and ricocheting off the wrought-iron signpost of the Three Sheets.

Whooping madly, the Sea-Monkey dropped onto the man in a tangle of wiry limbs and began punching and biting everything he could reach. The man shrieked like a schoolgirl. His arms waved in a futile effort to ward off his vicious attacker.

Yet another of the press gang ran up and tried to wrestle the Sea-Monkey off. Writhing around, the Sea-Monkey grabbed him by the ears and head-butted him. Dazed, the man meandered back, directly into the path of Tremayne's sword.

Crouched on his first victim, whom he had now rendered unconscious, the Sea-Monkey looked up at Tremayne. "Good, yes?"

"Well done," Tremayne said.

The attempted press had become a rout. He saw some of the press gang running back down the dock, while others had been surrounded and were being smashed over the head with bottles and chairs, spat on, cursed at, and kicked.

Pistol shots peppered the night. Tremayne heard one right above him, followed by a scream of pain in a woman's voice. Without pausing for thought, he leaped high, caught the railing, and pulled himself back onto the balcony.

The Bosun stood between ten armed men and the women. The floor around him was heaped with bodies. His skin was streaked with blood, his own and his enemies', and the haft of a dagger protruded from his abdomen.

The Witch was behind him, shining like an emerald with pulse after pulse of healing magic, but she was pale and flagging, pushed to her limits.

Keara was on her knees, hands clapped over her face. An eerie blue-green bubble of watery light encircled her. Tremayne, too far away to do anything but watch, yelled in rage as another pistol fired at her. But the shot struck the bubble, which rippled, and the deadly iron ball was deflected or absorbed.

"Sea-Monkey!" he shouted, jumping over a table. "Up here, more of them!"

One of the ten men was running in circles, flapping his own hands in front of his face and yelping, "Blind! I'm blind! Help me!" Another looked to be asleep on his feet. But the rest were fit and able, and some had cast their clubs and coshes aside in favor of hot iron and cold steel.