Chapter IX
The mob surged forward — a ragged tide of pitchforks, kitchen knives, and splintered chair legs. Faces twisted with a volatile mix of terror and grim resolve.
Dot stood alone over the pirate's body, dark blood pooling beneath his head on the cold stone.
The child's mother staggered toward the front, clutching her bitten arm. Blood seeped between her trembling fingers.
"He killed him!" Her voice cracked with raw panic. "His partner took my girl — grab him! If they find out we let outsiders interfere, they'll slaughter more of us!"
A villager near the front hesitated, his spear quivering.
"He's just a kid…"
"A kid who snapped a neck like a dry twig," the man beside him said. "Let's tie him up and hand him over. Maybe they'll leave the rest of us alone."
They edged closer. Dot raised both hands slowly, palms open.
"Stay back." His voice remained low and steady. "I don't want anyone to get hurt."
"Damn brat thinks he's better than us. Get him!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The mother's gaze darted frantically between Dot and the ring of faces around him.
Then a small commotion stirred at the rear.
Yiva pushed through the throng, the little girl clinging desperately to her leg. Tears streaked the child's dirt-smudged face — but she thrust a finger toward Dot.
"Don't hurt him!"
Yiva knelt slightly, wrapping a protective arm around the child's shoulders.
"Listen to her," she said, meeting the crowd's eyes one by one. "We're not here to harm anyone. We're trying to help."
The mother's shoulders sagged. A few villagers exchanged weary, shame-filled glances.
"If they're telling the truth… maybe we don't have to—"
"You want to get us all killed?"
A sharp, jaunty whistle sliced through the tension.
From the edge of the crowd stepped a figure — wide-brimmed hat tilted low over his eyes, a long leather duster swaying with each step. Dark-complexioned, silver hair twisted into thick dreads. A heavy spear gun cradled casually in the crook of one arm. He whistled again. Cheerful. Almost playful.
The mob froze. Recognition crashed over them like ice water. Several people stumbled backward.
"Run," someone whispered.
Dot studied the newcomer. "Who are you?"
No answer.
The cowboy raised the spear gun in one fluid motion. No warning. No taunt.
A metallic thunk.
The spear fired — straight into Dot's left shoulder, punching clean through muscle and pinning him to the alley wall with a wet, sickening crunch.
Dot grunted. Blood bloomed dark across his shirt.
The crowd erupted. People shoved, fell, fled down side streets in every direction.
"Dot!"
Yiva bolted toward him on instinct. The cowboy lunged — seizing a fistful of her hair and yanking her back hard. She cried out, stumbling.
"Easy, princess."
Dot's head snapped up. A brief flicker of crimson glinted in his pupils. He gripped the spear shaft, teeth gritted, and wrenched it free in a spray of blood. The wound was already beginning to knit itself closed.
The cowboy raised the gun again.
"Feisty one." A slow smile. "Alright. Let's see how many holes you can take."
He fired once more. The second spear buried itself in Dot's other shoulder. Fresh blood poured down his chest. A third shot came — this one aimed at his head.
Yiva struggled fiercely, trying to tear herself free. Her hand found the dagger at her side — Dot's own dagger, the one she'd kept since the cliff — and with a savage yank she wrenched herself loose.
"You bastard — you—"
A shadow loomed behind her.
The cowboy stepped from the darkness and cracked the butt of his spear gun against the back of her skull.
She crumpled instantly.
He scooped her limp body over his shoulder without breaking stride. The little girl tried to flee — he snatched her up too. Then he turned to the mother, still frozen in shock.
She began to laugh. Or cry. Both at once, the sounds tangling into something broken and wrong. Hahahahaha, here—
She never finished.
A spear took her through the throat in one smooth motion. Blood bubbled onto the stones. She was gone before she hit the ground.
Without another word, the cowboy melted back into the shadows with both captives.
The Inn — Same Time
Dren stood over two twitching bodies — the brother-and-sister bounty hunters. Blood dripped steadily from his sword.
Sylric coiled his chains back around his forearms, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"You're getting slow, old man."
"Shut up." Dren was already scanning the room. "We need to find the—"
"This whole place has been taken hostage," Sylric said. "Black Maw pirates."
Dren sheathed his sword with a quiet click. "Then you'll get to meet your old friends."
Sylric's expression changed. He looked down at the floor. Something closed off behind his eyes.
"They're dead to me," he said.
"Right." Dren moved toward the door. "Let's find the kid."
They moved before the sentence finished. Dren burst through the door. Sylric vaulted straight through the roof tiles in a shower of shattered clay.
They sprinted toward the square.
Four more pirates melted from rooftops and alleys — blades drawn, nets ready.
"The Drought!" one of them called out. "Take him alive — we can trade him for the bounty!"
Dren didn't break stride. His sword flashed. One pirate lost an arm in a crimson arc. Sylric's chains whipped outward and two more dropped in sprays of red.
But the brief delay cost precious seconds.
Pirate Camp — The Cove, Night
Yiva was hurled to the dirt at the feet of a massive, low table.
The pirate captain lounged on a reinforced chair that groaned beneath his enormous bulk. Fat rolls spilled over his belt. Grease gleamed on his fingers and chin as he tore into a roast leg of mutton. Half a dozen men stood guard around the firelit tent.
"What fresh prize is this, cowboy?"
The cowboy bowed slightly. "Greenwood blood, Captain. Daughter of Sweyn Forkbeard himself."
The captain stopped chewing.
His small eyes widened slowly. Then a greasy smile spread across his face.
"Forkbeard, you say." He set down the mutton. "The price your father would pay to get you back could buy me a fleet. Maybe two."
Yiva, wrists bound behind her, forced herself to her knees. She spat blood at his boots.
"My father will hang you from your own mast."
The captain laughed — a wet, rolling sound that shook his entire frame.
"Your father can try. But first he'll pay."
A scout burst in, breathless, clutching a small glowing glass plate — a verge, a mage-crafted device that captured still images. The surface shimmered, revealing a frozen moment: Dren mid-swing, Sylric's chains blurring, Dot visible in the background.
"Captain." The scout's voice dropped. "The Drought is here. Him and his crew. They've already cut down half a dozen of ours."
The captain snatched the verge and squinted at it. His smile vanished. His gaze moved across the image and locked on Sylric.
His voice dropped to something quieter. Considerably more careful.
"What's he doing here."
The cowboy looked at the image over the captain's shoulder. Something shifted in his expression — not surprise, not quite recognition. Something older than both. He said nothing. Just — hm.
The tent fell silent.
"The rogue," the captain said at last. "Quickest bastard in the realms. If he's riding with the Drought…" He swallowed. "We're going to have a lot of dead men before morning."
"Let me take care of them." The cowboy's voice was easy. Certain.
"Fool — you'll remain here with me." The captain's fist slammed the table. "They'd have your head in seconds."
He straightened. Around him his men snapped to attention.
"Double the watch. Ready the Black Maw — it's time we left this dump." A pause. "And get me the girl's weight in gold, prepared and counted. We move immediately."
Yiva lifted her chin. Blood trickled from her temple. Her eyes were blazing.
"You won't." She laughed — loud and completely without fear. "I'm already someone else's prisoner."
The captain frowned. "What's she talking about?"
She looked at him steadily.
"Dren's going to kill you."
✦
— To Be Continued —