Editing Endless Isles: Tales from the Fringe (section)

==Unnamed Writing, Posted due to Wordfilters==
The candlelight flickered in the swaying gloom, casting shadows over the prisoner’s bindings.

Four years he’d been in this hold. Four years since these blasted heathens had destroyed his ship, killed his crew and sent his wealth to the bottom of the ocean. He’d been the only survivor. At least they knew how to do one thing right; you didn’t kill a captain in cold blood. And what a captain! Sea Baron Rivers, he’d been. Black Rivers, scourge of the inner isles. And now look. Reduced to eating what amounted to table scraps and looking forward to the 20 seconds per day that he got to see natural sunlight. In fact, it should be just about...

The cabin door creaked open, momentarily blinding Rivers with the glare from up on deck. It closed again abruptly, snatching the cool breeze away again. It’d be back though, once the Warden left.

Warden Medreon, he’d said he was called. In all his time, Rivers hadn’t even seen his face. He hadn’t seen any of their faces, for that matter – they went everywhere with a helmet on and a cowl over that! In this weather. They were definitely madmen. But... effective ones. For all their strange ways, and even stranger clothing, they had bested Rivers’ hardened crew four years ago and, judging by the fresh-looking stains on the Warden’s cloak had just finished off another crew. Best to check. “No prisoners, Warden?” he asked, feigning meekness.

“No prisoners, Baron Rivers.” Replied his captor, though not unkindly. Slowly, in a practiced fashion, the faceless man untied enough of Rivers’ bindings so as to allow movement, but not enough for escape.  Just. The ever present damp might be enough to make the ropes a little more slack. The warden set down the plate of food on a table in the corner of the room and pushed the whole piece of furniture to just in front of the Baron. He sat down opposite, and started eating from his own plate.  Ship’s bread, a couple of oranges, a chicken leg.

“Not this bilge again, Medreon. I thought we were past that.” Commented Rivers, taking up the meat first. The warden straightened slightly, apprehensively; that was the way, rattle him by avoiding the correct protocol.

“It’s Warden Medreon, Baron” said the man, reproachfully. A chunk of bread disappeared underneath the helmet. “You eat exactly the same food as we do, you know that. Besides, the ones we liberated were carrying some better fare; we can all expect to eat more healthily for a few days.”
“Liberated?” snorted the captain, “Is that what you call it now?”

If it was possible for a helmet to look hurt, this one did. “Of course it’s liberation. They have been freed from the soul decaying profession of which you are a prominent member.” Another bite of bread. “Or were, at any rate. I’ll trade you my chicken leg for your bread, if you’re interested.”

This game again. Rivers was getting tired of the Warden’s ‘rehabilitation’ efforts. “I’ll take your chicken leg if I want it, and you’ll be happy that I don’t take your oranges too.” He retorted, with the same venom he always did. Another hurt stance from the Warden. On the face of it, the jailer was tired today. Heck so would he be, Rivers idly used as he sucked the marrow of the leg, if he had to fight wearing that armor.

And that was the thing. That was probably why they were so successful in a one on one fight. They weren’t nimble, or good with a sword, these “Clerics of Order.” They had made themselves metal armor to fight in. At sea! It was madness. That’s what Rivers had gloated as he pushed the first one over the edge. Then he found out that the hooded cloaks covered rows of hollow coconuts. And that the bladders fixed to the armor were full of air, not water. His ship had been boarded from below by Clerics forcing their way into the holds with crowbars and lump hammers. That time, it had been a surprise, and he’d lost. Today, it might be an advantage. He’d play possum for a little while longer; it was good chicken.

The Warden sighed heavily, at the wayward comment, and silence reigned for a while. Then he got up and paced away from his captor. Back turned... Rivers gave a subtle tug of his ropes. Up the steps, out to the mast. Up the mast, find something to cut the sails, jump overboard and drown or swim to shore. That was the plan.  Medreon cleared his throat.

“Baron Rivers, do you remember the oath you took? Or, more to the point, the tale behind it?”
He worked at his ropes... there was give! He had to buy for time now. “Of course! Torreau bewitched Death herself, and convinced her to sail with him. We swear the oath to Torreau to stay Her wrath and keep the Endless Isles safe from the Tyranny of Kings. But you're a smart man, Medreon, you know this. Why bother asking?”

Silence again. Rivers just about managed to get back into position as the Warden swung around suddenly to look at him. “Who are the Kings, would you say, Baron Rivers?”

“Well, I don’t know, there was the Gold Baron Van Stromp a few years back, but we ended his tyranny, and there was Wood Baron Leric, and we burned his forests down, and then-“

He was cut off. “Yes. Countless petty trade barons, all of whom were killed, maimed, impoverished or otherwise put out of business. I think we still have Kings, Baron Rivers. I just think that we call them Sea Barons, these days.” The Warden turned around again, looking at some papers on the desk. “But we might be able to do something about that, soon. Our operatives amongst the gazers...”

The cleric droned on. Rivers let the words wash over him and paid them no heed. It was now or never... he slowly lowered the ropes to his feet, and picked up the metal plate that his food had been on. The stiffness in his legs told him that he wouldn’t be able to outrun even the armored warden, but there had to be an opening at the neck of the helmet. Silently, he crept across the room towards the hunched figure of the cleric, using the groans and pitches of the ship to aid his progress. Almost there, raise the plate... Not even a well trained scout would be able to hear this. Inwardly, the Sea Baron thanked Torreau that he’d spent all those years learning to sneak past his old dad to the smokeweed stores.
He was surprised, therefore, when he heard the loud crunch of the Warden’s hammer hitting his legs.

He didn’t register the blow at first, but as he toppled to the floor, the pain bloomed as a white hot streak across his mind and vision. He hit the deck face first, howling with pain.

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, Baron,” Continued Medreon in his same reproachful monotone as he straightened up, “We think we have found a way to destroy a man’s shadow. We all play the Game, Baron, but the Clerics of Order will make sure that it is not a game that any of you pirates can win. I shall send the surgeon to tend your wounds in a few minutes. I had hoped to rehabilitate you, but obviously my optimism was misguided. We will arrive at Fort Cross in three days. We’ll begin the testing then.”

The warden headed for the door, leaving Baron Rivers to his agony.

''The Walrus''