"Creed" by Jonathan Moeller

Jonathan Moeller

The man who called himself Captain Tom Creed stood on the beach and watched his ship sail away.

“Blasted traitors,” he muttered.

Creed turned away from the broad, white beach and towards the tangled, green jungle. His crew had left him marooned on a picturesque isle, at least. It would have been helpful if they’d left him some food, or at least some water. Of course, he still had his basket-hilted rapier and his poniard.

And he still had his wits.

Creed grinned, tilting his battered hat to block out the tropical sun. His crew might have marooned him here, but he’d planned to visit anyway. Granted, he would have preferred to do so in the company of several hundred well-armed men, but things didn’t always go according to plan.

Well, no sense loitering on the beach. Creed checked his blades, squared his shoulders, and marched into the jungle.

It took him less than an hour to get lost.

He had tracked and hunted as a boy, but that was one thing. The jungle was quite another. By Creed’s best guess, his destination was on the far side of the island’s central ridge of hills. Yet finding those blasted hills was proving quite a challenge. Creed had stopped to get his bearings when he felt something sharp digging into his neck.

“Don’t move, you dog,” said a hoarse voice.

“Dog!” shrieked another, higher voice.

“There’s really no need for hostilities,” said Creed. “We ought to have a civilized discussion before we slaughter each other.”

“I slaughter your kind on sight!” Creed heard the other man shift, and the sharp point brushed against his neck. A filthy hand pawed at Creed’s belt. “You’ll not take me back! You’ll…”

Creed jerked to the left, his right elbow hammering backwards. It slammed into his attacker’s gut, and Creed heard an explosion of breath. Creed twisted away, rapier and poniard flying into his hands, and glimpsed a bearded man in filthy rags, clutching an obsidian-tipped spear. Creed parried an awkward thrust, knocked the spear away, and sent the man sprawling.

“Now,” said Creed, settling his rapier’s point at the man’s throat, “shall we talk?”

The bearded man looked crazed, half-starved, his skin caked with grime. Something fluttered past Creed’s ear, and a parrot perched on the bearded man’s shoulder in a blur of color.

“Talk!” it announced. “Talk!”

“What a thoroughly repellent bird,” said Creed.

“That’s Little Walter,” said the man. “He’s my friend.”

“And you, I presume, would be the larger Walter?”

The man nodded.

“Charming,” said Creed. “Now, kindly explain why you sought to skewer me.”

A mad light came into Walter’s eyes. “You won’t take me back! You won’t!”

“Take you where?” said Creed, though he had an idea.

“The Tower,” hissed Walter. “You’re one of Lord Revanche’s guards.”

“This may astonish you,” said Creed, “but as it happens, I only just arrived yesterday on this miserable, little island.”

“Then who are you?” said Walter.

“You may address me as Captain Tom Creed,” said Creed, “though Captain will suffice.”

Walter’s eyes got big. “The pirate? The captain of the Mercy?”

“My fame precedes me.”

“What the devil are you doing here?” said Walter.

“Alas, my crew revealed themselves as blackguards and oathbreakers, and left me stranded here,” said Creed.

Walter cackled. “Here? Here? Do you know where you are?”

“I would imagine,” said Creed, “that this is the Sorrowing Isle, home of the Tower, the King’s favorite prison for those who displease him.” Walter blinked. “You see, my filthy friend, I hoped to sack the Tower, and my crew disagreed. Hence, my current predicament.”

“You’re mad!” shouted Walter. “There’s nothing to steal in the Tower.”

“On the contrary,” said Creed. “Something within is of great worth to me.”

“And you’d fight Lord Revanche?” Walter laughed. “Gods, man, you’re a fool. Revanche is a warlock, or something worse. You can’t fight black sorcery with steel. Not even the cannibals will go near the Tower.”

“Cannibals!” squawked Little Walter. “Cannibals!”

Cannibals? That sounded bad. “You were a prisoner in the Tower, I take it?”

Walter nodded. “I was a household guard for the Baron of Tristimer. The Baron murdered his wife, and needed someone to take the blame. Hence I was shipped to this hellish place. Five years in the Tower, watching Lord Revanche work his black arts…” He shuddered and closed his eyes. “Finally, I ran. No one goes into the jungle, for fear of the cannibals. That was a year ago. The cannibals don’t come to this end of the island, and I’ve survived ever since.” He smiled and patted the parrot’s wing. “That’s when I met Little Walter.”

“How fortuitous for you,” said Creed. “Well, Walter, I’ve a bargain for you.” The filthy man squinted. “Lead me to the Tower, and I’ll take you with me when I leave this pesthole.”

Walter scrambled to his feet. “You are a lunatic! No one goes to the Tower of their own volition.” He spat. “And you’ll take me with you? You don’t even have a ship!”

“I’ll get one,” said Creed. “You must indeed have spent years rotting in the Tower, if you don’t know more of me. I’ve sailed around the world thrice, I’ve robbed kings and princes alike, I’ve eluded entire navies, and no man has ever stood against me and lived!”

Walter scoffed, and Little Walter squawked. “Except your crew, it seems.”

He had a point. “I suggest you look at it this way. You can walk away, and eventually you’ll die of starvation, or disease, or the cannibals will catch you and use your skull as a stewpot.” Walter shuddered, and Creed laughed. “All men die, my friend. You can either die rotting in this jungle,” he swung his rapier, “or you can die as a man, trying to win your freedom.”

Walter said nothing. Then he reached out and pushed aside the sword blade.

“The Tower’s actually this way,” he said, pointing. He stomped into the jungle, muttering, and Creed followed. “Curse me for a fool.”

“Fool! Fool!” said Little Walter.

“Shut up!”

“Charming bird,” murmured Creed.

They walked for three days.

It had been, Creed realized, a very good idea to recruit Walter. Snakes, poisonous plants, and pits of stinking quicksand filled the jungle, yet Walter knew how to avoid them. By the end of the second day, they were climbing uphill, and by the end of the third day, they had reached the top of the hills.

“Dinner,” grunted Walter, holding out a fistful of dead beetles. The wretched things were the size of Walter’s thumbs, but it was either that or starvation. Creed shrugged, cracked a carapace, and began to eat.

“Halfway there,” said Walter. Little Walter flapped away, no doubt to hunt. Creed wondered what the miserable little bird ate. “Tomorrow we’ll start downhill, assuming the cannibals don’t murder us in their sleep. Then it’s only another two days to the Tower.” He shrugged. “Where Lord Revanche will kill us both. Or worse.”

“A man of little faith,” said Creed, forcing himself to chew the blasted beetle. “I have a plan, fear not.”

Walter grunted.

“Curiosity,” said Creed, “is my single vice. Why did you try to kill me?”

“You look noble,” said Walter. “I thought you were one of Lord Revanche’s guards.” He frowned. “Now I’m curious. Are you noble?”

Creed shrugged, drew his rapier, and began polishing the steel. He thought he had seen something moving in the shadows. “Perhaps I used to be.”

“You fight with a rapier, you must be a noble,” said Walter. He cackled, sounding quite like his parrot. “A noble turned pirate! Quite a story. But why would you come to this forsaken place?”

“I told you,” said Creed, glancing down the edge of his sword. The shadows kept moving, and he loosed his poniard in its scabbard. “Something of great value to me lies within the Tower.”

“Treasure?” said Walter, his eyes kindling. “Gold?” He shuddered. “Or one of Lord Revanche’s enspelled trinkets.” He spat. “Fool. You might not believe in sorcery, but I’ve seen what Lord Revanche’s spells can do to a man…”

Creed exploded to his feet, rapier and poniard ready, and Walter reeled back in alarm.

“What?” babbled Walter. “I meant no offense, I…”

He felt silent as a blade of black obsidian tapped against his throat.

Small, dark men stood in a ring around Creed and Walter. Some held obsidian-tipped spears, while others held blowguns at the ready. The small men wore naught but loincloths, and strange, swirling tattoos covered their limbs and chests. They watched Creed with solemn, unblinking eyes, and their weapons did not waver.

“Oh, merciful gods,” sobbed Walter.

The dark men murmured to each other, and Creed’s ears pricked up. He recognized that tongue. It was Mahkasi, and many tribes of these southern isles spoke some variant of it.

“Good sirs,” said Creed in Mahkasi. “I greet you this fine night, and would like to inquire after your business.” Mahkasi was a formal, courtly language, and under less trying circumstances Creed enjoyed conversing in it.

The men laughed, white teeth flashing, and one of them stepped forward. He wore an odd headdress of polished bone and brilliant feathers. “You should tell your friend that his squawking bird made good eating. That is our business.”

So much for Little Walter. “I assure you, I find that no great loss. However, I am a trifle concerned over your hostile posture.”

The man with the headdress shrugged. “It is simple. You are certainly servants of the demon that dwells on the far side of the isle. Therefore, to ward against your evil, we will kill you, burn your bones, and scatter your ashes into the sea. It is the only sensible way to deal with demons.”

“So you won’t eat us?” said Creed.

The man looked affronted. “Indeed not! Who would wish to eat a servant of darkness?”

“I commend your excellent sense,” said Creed. “Regrettably, I fear that you are in error. I have only recently come to your fair isle, and certainly do not serve any demons. My friend, alas, is a simple madman who speaks to birds, and is no threat to anyone.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Walter. Everyone ignored him.

“Your arguments are sound,” said the man wearing the mortal remains of Little Walter, “and, truly, it is rare for a man of your race to speak our tongue. However, simple prudence dictates that we kill you immediately. Should you prove to be a man and not a demon, we will then offer apologetic prayers to your bones.”

“Would you kill a man to whom you owe a debt?” demanded Creed.

The dark men frowned. “What debt?”

“It is simple.” Creed gestured at the cowering Walter. “This madman is under my protection. You captured, killed, and devoured his bird. Hence, the sacred laws of hospitality dictate that you are in my debt.”

The dark men murmured to each other in consternation. “You raise a difficult point of etiquette,” said the man in the headdress. “We must proceed carefully, lest we offend the spirits.”

“Truly,” agreed Creed. “However, I see a way forward from this conundrum. Perhaps I offered the bird to you as a gift, thereby freeing you from any obligation.”

“Ah!” breathed the dark men in unison.

“Of course,” said Creed, “it would be most impolite to murder a giver of gifts. The spirits would wax wroth at the offense against the laws of etiquette.”

The man in the headdress looked disappointed. “You are correct, I fear.”

“Now, if I could simply proceed on my way…”

“No,” said the man, shaking his head. “Your generosity is unparalleled, and you speak with sublime courtesy. But you are still a foreigner, and might not a devil speak with fine words?” He threw up his hands. “This is beyond my meager wisdom. Therefore, we must take you to the Ohjana.”

Creed looked around, counted the spears and the blowguns, and lowered his weapons. “I would be delighted to accept your hospitality.”

“They’re going to eat us,” sighed Walter, looking at the ring of small dark men.

“Never fear,” said Creed, stepping around a fallen log. His guards kept pace with easy grace. “They won’t eat us.”

“They won’t?” said Walter.

“No,” said Creed. “They’ll kill us, burn our corpses, and scatter the ashes into the sea, because they think we’re demons in service to Revanche. But they won’t eat us.”

Walter groaned.

“What is he talking about?” said the man in the headdress.

Creed answered in Mahkasi. “He fears that you plan to eat him.”

The man in the headdress grinned. “I told you, demons do not make for good eating. And even if we did eat demons, we would not eat this one, for he is too lean and stringy.” The dark men roared with laughter.

“What are they saying?” said Walter.

“You don’t really want to know,” said Creed.

They walked on, climbing down the hills’ slope. The dark men knew the path, and unerringly avoided the tangled vines and leaves. At last the jungle brightened as the sun came up, and the dark men stopped.

“Here,” said the man in the headdress.

Creed frowned. “And just where is here, might I ask?”

The man in the headdress gestured. “Look closely.”

One minute Creed saw nothing but jungle, and the next he saw the village. Huts stood amongst the trees, hidden by leaves and branches. Children and women went to and fro, carrying bundles with stealthy steps. Some of them stopped and stared at Creed and Walter.

“You will speak with the Ohjana,” said the man in the headdress, pointing at a small hut. Bones and feathers and dead birds dangled in strange totems by the door. “I hope you are not a demon. Truly, you speak most courteously, and it would be a shame to kill you.”

“I happen to agree,” said Creed. He took a deep breath, ducked down, and walked into the hut.

The smell hit him at once, a mixture of damp earth and strange incense. A small fire crackled on the mud floor, occasionally flashing with green and blue light. An ancient woman sat on a wooden bench, wrapped in a cloak of feathers, a polished black staff clutched in withered hands.

“Most wise Ohjana,” said Creed, sweeping into as elegant a bow as the cramped hut would allow, “I have come to prove that I am, in fact, not a demon.”

“So you have,” said the old woman, her voice strong despite her age. Wrinkled, dark skin surrounded eyes like obsidian disks, and brittle, white hair circled her head like a halo of twisted lightning. She gestured for Creed to sit. “Do you even know what an Ohjana is?”

Creed settled on the hard-packed earth. “Not particularly. As near as I can make out, the word means ‘wise woman’, which clearly describes you.”

“Such a honeyed tongue,” whispered the Ohjana. “I saw you coming.”

“Through the door?”

“No.” Her fleshless lips pulled into a smile. “I saw it in my dreams.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“You don’t believe in magic? Or gods? Or demons?” said the Ohjana.

Creed began to say something flip, but the glitter in the old woman’s eye stopped him. “No.”

“A young man so confident in his wisdom,” she murmured. “What do you believe in?”

“Steel,” said Creed. “Blood. A man’s wits. Treachery and deceit.” His mouth twisted. “Why must I believe in demons? I have seen men do worse things than any demon.”

“I know why you have come here,” said the Ohjana.

“Of course,” said Creed. “Your tribesmen brought me here at spear point.”

“No,” said the Ohjana. Her eyelids fluttered. “You came here because something precious was taken from you. You were betrayed, and you were cast out, and you should have died. But you did not. You are stronger than your enemy supposed. And so, you have come here seeking that most precious to you…and here you sit.”

Creed stared at the old woman, stunned. “How?” he managed at last.

“I saw it my dreams,” said the Ohjana. “Let me tell you something, young man, and if you are truly wise you will heed me. The spirits tell me that two futures lie before you. The demon dominates both of them.”

“The demon,” said Creed. “You mean Lord Revanche, I presume?”

“You know of him?”

“Only a little,” said Creed, frowning with the memory. “I saw him once, from a distance, twenty years ago. I was just a child at the time. Twelve years past the King sent him to command the Tower, the royal prison on this island. Supposedly Revanche had fallen out of favor at court, but rumor had it the King was afraid of him, and wanted him out of the way.”

“Your King was right to fear him,” said the Ohjana, “for Revanche may have been a mortal man once, but he is a demon now. For twelve years he has polluted our home. Dark spirits swarm around him like flies, and they darken the dreams of my people.”

“Man or demon, he can still die,” said Creed.

“No,” said the Ohjana. “Two futures. The demon stands between you and your heart’s desire. In the first future, you face the demon, and you are destroyed. In the second, you face the demon…but you break his dark powers.”

“How?” said Creed.

The Ohjana shrugged. “The spirits have not shown me. Only a demon may destroy another demon.”

“How helpful,” said Creed.

“The demon has troubled us long enough,” said the Ohjana. “That is why I sent the men to gather you and your pet madman. We cannot overcome the demon, yet you might.”

“I can go on my way?” said Creed. “While I have enjoyed your most gracious hospitality, I do have business at the Tower.”

The Ohjana inclined her head. “You can.” She thrust out the staff, the tip resting on Creed’s chest. “And take this.”

“Pardons, most wise Ohjana,” said Creed, “but I am already well-supplied with weapons.”

“Believe what you will,” said the Ohjana, “but you have no protection against his sorcery. Your blades cannot harm him, but this staff will defend you against his black arts.”

Creed almost refused, but the old woman had known of his coming. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the staff.

“Good,” said the Ohjana. “Go. May the spirits watch over you.”

“A man makes his own fortune,” said Creed, “but I’ll take all the aid I can get.”

He strode back into the village, the staff in hand. Walter huddled miserably, surrounded by four of the dark men, and looked up at Creed.

“Splendid news,” said Creed. “We’re not to be eaten after all.”

The next dawn, Creed hid behind a boulder and laid eyes on the Tower.

The fortress squatted besides a harbor, a grim pile of crumbling towers and crenellated walls. War engines, long fallen into disrepair, lined the ramparts, and the hulks of a half-dozen ships lay ruined further up the beach. Two ships floated in the harbor. One was a royal warship, with three masts and war engines mounted fore and aft.

The other one was the Mercy.

“Curse it all,” said Creed.

“What?” said Walter, squinting at the Tower. He did not look happy; in fact, he looked downright terrified.

“That’s my ship!” said Creed, pointing. “My fool of a first mate went and got my ship captured.” He sighed in disgust. “He couldn’t even mutiny properly.”

The Mercy’s crew stood on the beach beneath the fortress, collared and chained. Close to sixty armed men stood guard over them, some wearing the uniforms of the King’s navy, while others wore rust-spotted breastplates and battered helmets. Creed grunted and craned his head for a better view, cursing as his elbow rapped against the Ohjana’s staff. He considered discarding the useless thing a dozen times, but some nagging sense of caution had prevented him.

A tall, gaunt man paced before the prisoners, walking alongside a sailor in the fine blue uniform of a Royal Captain. The gaunt man wore tattered, dirty finery, his hair long and his bony jaw unshaven. He carried an odd scepter, or perhaps a wand, that looked fashioned from somebody’s leg bone.

“Gods,” said Walter, his voice shaking. “That’s him.”

Creed recognized Revanche, the Lord Warden of the Tower, well enough. The man changed little in the twenty years since Creed had glimpsed him. Yet something about him seemed different, perhaps the mocking set of his face, or the harsh glitter of his eyes. Even the Royal Captain seemed afraid of him.

“So!” said Revanche, pacing around the Mercy’s first mate, a sullen man named Corwin. “Pirates so close to my Tower?” His voice was raspy, hoarse. “What could have driven you to such rash foolishness?”

“Your Honor,” babbled Corwin, “we didn’t want to come here. Our captain made us.”

“And yet,” said Revanche, “your captain seems mysteriously absent. Can you explain this discrepancy?”

“We…we marooned him, here,” said Corwin miserably, “on the far side of this island…”

“No,” said Revanche. “I think you are the captain, worm. Lying will not save your miserable hide.”

Corwin threw himself across the sand, blubbering. “Mercy, Your Honor, mercy, please, I beg…”

Revanche laughed, pointed his bone scepter at Corwin, and began to chant in a strange language. Walter closed his eyes and began to pray under his breath.

Creed frowned. “What the devil is he…”

Then Corwin’s blubbering turned to piercing squeals.

The Mercy’s first mate began to change before Creed’s astonished eyes. Corwin’s sunburned skin paled and turned a deep pink. His scraggly hair and beard fell out, while hair sprouted from his ears. His fingers melted together into hooves, and Corwin’s shirt and trousers shredded beneath his expanding girth. His face distorted, his nose expanding, and he toppled to all fours with a squeal of pain.

“Dear gods,” whispered Creed.

Corwin, the Mercy’s first mate, had been transformed into a pig. The new-made pig shuffled back and forth in the sand, squealing in distress, while the crew stared with horror. Two of Revanche’s guards came forward and collared the pig. The Royal Captain watched with wide eyes.

“Take him to the yard and slaughter him,” said Revanche, “for I wish pork for my dinner, and bacon for my breakfast.” Creed’s stomach twisted. Cannibals, indeed! “As for the rest of our guests, take them to their quarters. I trust they will prove no trouble.” His gaze swept over the chained men. “I enjoy bacon very much, and pigs are not native to this island.” The guards herded the Mercy’s crew to the Tower, while other whipped Corwin towards the yard.

The pig’s terrified squeals, almost manlike, faded in the distance.

“Gods,” whispered Creed again.

Walter rubbed his face. “No such thing as magic, eh? And no man of sense would believe that demons walk the earth! Do you believe me now?”

“I have seen men dying, screaming and calling for their mothers,” said Creed, “of plague, of wounds. I saw slave children thrown into the sea to drown, for they were too weak to work any longer. I once saw a wounded man crawling through his own entrails. Yet I have never seen such a horror, not ever.”

He gripped the Ohjana’s staff, and was very glad he had kept it.

“So I have brought you to the Tower,” said Walter. “Now what?”

Creed frowned. “How many guards does Revanche have?”

“Forty,” said Walter. “They are indolent and lazy, but dare not defy Lord Revanche.”

“I see why,” said Creed, rubbing his chin. “The royal ship will have sixty men aboard. The officers are all noblemen; the crew press-ganged peasants and townsmen.” He thought for a moment. “How many prisoners did the Tower hold when you escaped?”

“Perhaps twenty,” said Walter. “Some have probably died since, and perhaps the King has sent new men here to die. Lord Revanche always kept a few prisoners in his private tower, and no one ever dared ask what became of them.”

“I thought as much,” said Creed, fingering the staff.

“What are you thinking?” said Walter. “You can’t lead a revolt. Even if you won, you can’t fight Lord Revanche’s sorcery. If we stow away aboard the ships, we’ll either die of starvation or…or get captured.”

“We will do none of those things,” said Creed, settling down for a long wait. “Instead, we shall go drinking.”

“Drinking?” said Walter. “Drinking?”

But Creed, watching the Tower, would say no more.

By nightfall, Creed had a fairly good reckoning of the guards. They were lax, with rusted weapons and ill-kept armor. No doubt fear of Revanche did a better job of keeping the prisoners in line than force of arms. About an hour before sunset, most of the royal warship’s crew and all of the officers had entered the Tower, and now the faint sounds of revelry and laughter drifted over the battlements. One man remained on watch, staring over the harbor, but Creed saw no one else on the walls.

“It’s time to go,” said Creed, standing.

“Go where?” said Walter.

“Why, into the Tower,” said Creed, stretching stiff.

“Lunatic!” hissed Walter. “And stay down! The guards will see you.”

“Guards?” said Creed, gesturing with the black staff. “There’s only one guard on the wall. And he appears to have fallen asleep. Now. I’m going into the Tower, and I could use your aid.”

“You promised to take me off this wretched island!” said Walter.

“And to do so, I will need a ship and a crew. Unless you want to swim home?” When Walter failed to embrace that suggestion, Creed continued. “So. Come with me, and by dawn we’ll have a ship and be on our way home.”

Walter cursed and climbed to his feet.

“Or we’ll be dead.” Creed couldn’t resist.

Walter gave him an angry look.

“Or bacon.”

Walter grumbled a long series of curses, but followed Creed towards the Tower. Creed kept the shadows, circling to the fortress’s rear wall. At last he came to small, ironbound door. Garbage lay in heaps against the wall, filling the air with the stench.

Creed took a deep breath, regretted it, and drew his sword, shifting the staff to his left hand. Despite his show of confidence, he was not sure what would happen next. But if he’d learned one thing, captaining the Mercy, it was never to show doubt.

“That door’s four inches thick,” said Walter. “Are you going to hack through it with that rapier?”

“Not at all,” said Creed. “Someone’s going to open it for us.”

“Who?” said Walter. “Do you have a contact in the Tower?”

“No,” said Creed. “Can you smell that?”

“The garbage?”

“No,” said Creed, “the mutton. It seems Revanche is feeding his guests today. To do that, the kitchen would need to slaughter some of the Tower’s sheep, and that makes quite a mess…”

As if on cue, the door swung open, and a prisoner in rags shuffled out, holding a bucket full of bones and sheep guts. The door clicked shut behind him. The prisoner limped out to the garbage pile and dumped out the reeking bucket. He turned towards the door, and Creed stepped forward and placed his rapier’s point under the prisoner’s chin.

“Kindly do not scream,” said Creed. “Bloodshed is so wearisome this late at night.”

The prisoner blinked, then his eyes widened. “Walter?”

“Randolph?” said Walter.

Randolph’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Gods, man! The Warden said the cannibals ate you.”

“Evidently he gave them indigestion,” said Creed. “You can have the joyous reunion later. Now. How were you planning to get back inside?”

“I knock thrice, wait a moment, and then knock twice more,” said Randolph.

“And who’s inside?”

“Just Oswald, the lieutenant,” said Randolph.

“Ah, an officer. Excellent.” Creed gestured at the door. “Proceed, by all means.”

“But who are you?” said Randolph.

“I’m the captain of the ship floating out in the harbor,” said Creed.

“The Warden will kill me if I let you in,” said Randolph, shaking.

Creed tapped the rapier’s point against Randolph’s throat. “You seem like a man of philosophical bent, so consider this conundrum. If you let me inside, Revanche might kill you, or I might kill Revanche. On the other hand, you could die here and now. Your choice.”

“You’d best do as he says,” said Walter. “He’s a madman.”

Randolph swallowed, sighed, and knocked three times on the door, paused, and knocked twice more. Bolts rattled, and the massive door swung open. A fat man in a rusted mail coat stood inside the courtyard, scowling.

“Randolph, blast your bones!” snarled the fat man.

“Sorry, Lieutenant Oswald,” muttered Randolph.

“What took so…”

Creed shoved Randolph to the side, his rapier blade whistling for Oswald’s neck.

The fat man moved with surprising speed. He jerked back and yanked his sword free from its scabbard. He parried Creed’s next two blows, even managed to launch a thrust of his own. Creed let the blow knock his rapier away. Oswald grinned in triumph, drew his blade back for a killing thrust, and Creed hit him in the face with the staff. Oswald stumbled just long enough for Creed to bring the staff down against his temple.

The fat man fell stunned.

“Well,” said Creed, rolling the staff between his palms, “this thing turned out to have some use after all.”

Randolph and Walter gaped at the fallen lieutenant.

“You’ve…you’ve come to kill Lord Revanche?” said Randolph. “You’ve come to set us free?”

“Purely coincidental, I’m afraid,” said Creed, retrieving his rapier and risking a quick look around. No one had noticed Oswald’s indisposition, and the only sound came from the Tower’s great hall. “However, if my plans are successful, then you’ll be freed, yes.” He began stripping off Oswald’s armor and cloak.

“By the gods, then, I’m with you!” said Randolph, quivering with excitement. “I was once a knight of the King’s court, and nine years I’ve languished in this hellhole. I’ve had enough! Better to die fighting than to live another minute like this.”

“Splendid fellow,” said Creed, dressing himself in Oswald’s mail and cloak. “Now make yourself useful and tie this lad up. Be sure to gag him firmly.”

“This disguise of yours won’t work,” said Walter. “The guards all know each other by sight.”

“Randolph,” said Creed, grunting under the mail coat’s unfamiliar weight. “How much rum do you have on hand?”

“There’s…eight barrels, I think,” said Randolph, binding Oswald.

“Excellent! That ought to prove more than adequate.”

“Aren’t you listening?” said Walter. “That disguise won’t fool the guards!”

“No,” said Creed, “but I expect that it will fool the naval officers.”

Creed strode boldly into the Tower’s great hall. Twin fireplaces lit the cavernous chamber, while close to sixty men sat at long tables, eating mutton and drinking watered wine. The officers sat at one end, speaking amongst themselves. Creed grinned. Most of the warship’s crew was here.

“This is not going to work,” whined Walter, behind him.

“Shut up,” whispered Creed. “Ho! The Captain!”

The Captain stood, elegant in his blue uniform, looking at Creed with disdain. “Yes?”

Creed bowed. “The Lord Warden’s compliments, Captain.” Behind him Walter and Randolph rolled two barrels of rum into the hall, grunting with the effort. “In repayment for your…ah, magnificent efforts in capturing the pirate, the Lord Warden sent this down as a token of his thanks.”

The Captain frowned, dubious. “Did he?”

“You’re to share it out among your men,” said Creed, “with, of course, double portions for the officers.”

That snared the Captain. “A fine gesture. Thank Revanche on my behalf. Truly, with his haughty demeanor and his…arts…I had thought him a churlish fellow. I was mistaken, it seems.”

“Truly,” agreed Creed. Walter and Randolph wrestled the barrels into the center of the hall, and the eager sailors swarmed over the rum. “As it happens, I have in my possession a small amount of tobacco. Care to share it with me?”

The Captain smiled. “You men of the Tower are more generous than I thought.”

Creed beckoned him outside, and Walter and Randolph scurried after.

“That is an…odd weapon you carry,” said the Captain as they stepped into the darkness. “Some sort of native fetish, I deem?”

“Something like that,” said Creed, hefting the black staff. He stepped back and brought the staff down smartly on the base of the Captain’s skull. “It has the occasional use, though.”

Clad in the Captain’s blue coat and cloak, Creed strode into the common room of the Tower’s barracks. Over thirty men lounged about, playing cards or knucklebones, all with bored, sullen looks. Not counting the sleeping guard on the wall, Lieutenant Oswald, and a few men guarding the cells, Creed guessed most of the Tower’s guards sat before him.

“Aye?” said the meanest-looking one. “What do you want?”

“Merely to convey a token from my Captain,” said Creed. “We celebrate our successful victory over the pirate ship, and the Captain ordered a ration of rum disturbed among the crew.”

“Blasted sailors!” said the guard. “We do all the hard work of chaining those wretches, and the sailors get all the rum? Curse their blasted eyes!”

“My Captain perceived the inequity of this situation,” said Creed, “and wished to send a token of his regard.” He jerked his head, and Randolph rolled a barrel of rum into the barracks. He scampered outside, and returned with the second barrel, since letting the guards see Walter would have been remarkably unwise.

“What’s this?” said the guard, scowling.

“You valiant men of the Tower receive little thanks,” said Creed, “so my Captain saw fit to send a portion of the rum supply for your…ah, good health.”

“A right fine fellow, your Captain!” said the guard, as the men grinned at the barrels. “We’ll raise a glass to his health, we will.”

“The Captain appreciates your kind words,” said Creed. The Captain needed them, too, as he currently sat bound and gagged in a shed. “Drink well, my friends.”

Creed strolled back into the darkened courtyard.

“Now what?” whispered Walter, eyes darting back and forth.

“Now?” said Creed. “Why, now we wait.”

Three hours later, near total silence had fallen over the Tower. A lone voice, raised in raucous, slurred song, came from the barracks, but otherwise the fortress lay silent. The moon bathed the courtyard in dimmed, silvery light. A flickering blue glow came from Revanche’s chambers in the highest tower, a glow Creed did not like.

“They must have fallen asleep,” said Walter.

“More likely they drank themselves into oblivion,” said Creed. He took his sword in his right hand, the black staff in his left. “Which way to the cells?”

A guard sat at a splintery table, rolling dice.

“Good day,” said Creed, stepping into the torchlight.

The guard gaped.

“You’re overcome with shock, I see, at meeting so illustrious a personage,” said Creed. “To expedite matters, I suggest you unlock the cells at once.”

The guard stumbled to his feet, yanked a rusted shortsword from its scabbard. Creed parried the blow with contemptuous ease, and crashed his rapier’s pommel against the man’s temple.

“You should have killed him,” said Walter, scowling at the inert guard, “just as you should have killed Oswald.”

“Killing is so wasteful,” said Creed, pulling the keys from the guard’s belt. “Never know when this fellow will come in handy.” Plus, he hated killing, though he would never admit that. He hated feeling a man’s dying heartbeats, shuddering through the hilt of his sword. “Now come along.”

Beyond the guardroom stretched a long, reeking corridor, lined on either side with cell doors. Men huddled in the dank corners, flinching away from the torchlight. Creed unlocked the first door on the left and yanked it open. Two former members of his crew squinted up at him.

“I told you,” whined one of the men, “I don’t know anything…”

“I know that already,” said Creed. “You were always an empty-headed whoreson.”

The empty-headed whoreson flinched. “Cap’n! But…but we mutinied…”

“So you did,” agreed Creed. “But, out of the generosity of my heart, I’ve decided to rescue you from your plight.” He pulled several keys from the ring. “Make yourself useful. Unlock the rest of the crew, and any other wretches down here. Then gather the crew in the guardroom at the end of this hall.” The man scurried into the hall, and Creed laid his sword blade against his throat. “Oh, and any man goes up those stairs before I give the word, I hand him his head. Understand?”

The empty-headed whoreson went to work on the cell doors. Creed returned to the guardroom, stood before the door, and waited. In twos and threes his crew filled the room, along with a dozen other ragged men, all former nobles who had offended the King. Murmurs of shock and consternation went through the crew, and the nobles simply looked amazed.

“Gentlemen!” announced Creed, holding his sword aloft. “You saw fit to mutiny, to betray me, and leave me marooned on this godforsaken island. Well, the gods must have some sense of justice since you incompetent fools got yourselves captured not a week later.”

“That was Corwin’s fault!” shouted one man.

“Aye,” said Creed, pointing his rapier. “And look what mutiny brought him.”

“We could kill you, swarm up those stairs, and take the ship before the guards even know what happened,” said another crewman.

“You could try,” said Creed, “and then Revanche could turn you into bacon.” Stark terror and defiance warred on the men’s faces. “On the other hand, you could hear me out, and we can all leave here alive.”

They paused just long enough, and Creed had them.

“The guards and the royal sailors are dead drunk,” said Creed. “There’s an armory upstairs. Go and arm yourself, and take them captive. Kill any who resist, especially the officers, but only if necessary. Try to spare the warship’s crew; odds are most of them were press-ganged and might consider joining our merry band.”

“What about Lord Revanche?” said an old noble who looked half-dead from starvation. “You can’t fight his sorcery with steel.”

“I have this,” said Creed, shaking the staff. “This is a pagan talisman, given to me by the high priestess of the cannibal tribe that lives in the jungle. This, my friends, this has the power to overcome Revanche’s black magic.” At least, he hoped so. “So, what say you? You can stay here and rot, you can let Revanche transform you into livestock…or you can fight for your freedom, like men.”

No one objected.

Armed men raced through the courtyard, swinging weapons stolen from the Tower’s armory. Some rushed into the Tower’s hall, while others swarmed into the guardroom. A very short time later screams and shouts began to fill the air.

“Blast,” said Creed, listening to the mayhem. “If that didn’t warn Revanche, nothing will.” He gestured for Walter and Randolph. “Keep things from getting out of hand.”

“Where are you going?” said Walter. A guard staggered into the courtyard, took two steps, and collapsed.

“I’m going to deal with Revanche,” said Creed, “and get what I came to this miserable place to find.”

Without another word he walked towards Revanche’s tower. An unlocked door opened into a narrow, twisting stairway. Creed sheathed his rapier, useless in the narrow space, and drew his poniard instead. Staff and blade in hand, he climbed into the darkness. Soon a pale blue glow gleamed off the cracked stone and crumbling mortar, identical to the light he had seen from the courtyard.

Then he heard the song, and it cut him to the heart.

It was a woman’s voice, and it sung of grief, of regret and terrible loss. Creed leaned against the black staff, breathing hard. After a moment, he mastered himself, and resumed his climb.

The stairs ended, and Creed found himself in a round room, illuminated by the blue glow. The light came from a narrow mirror set in the far wall. Its surface flashed not with a reflection, but sorcerous images of horrific beasts and alien vistas. An overstuffed chair sat before the mirror, and in it sprawled Revanche, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The scent of strange incenses hung in the air, and beside the chair hung a metal cage.

A colorful bird perched in the cage, singing the mournful song in a woman’s voice.

Creed held his breath, but Revanche did not move, did not even blink. The Lord Warden appeared lost in some sort of arcane trance. Creed glided forward one step, then another, flipping the poniard back for a stabbing blow. He stopped behind the chair, drew back his blade, and stabbed for the soft spot behind Revanche’s left ear.

Then a shocking force shot up the weapon, into Creed’s arm, and sent him stumbling back. The poniard blazed with azure light, and the blade shattered into rusted shards, leaving Creed holding a ruined hilt. He reeled for balance, his head ringing, the room spinning around him.

Revanche rose from the chair, his bone scepter in hand. The bird’s song ended in terrified squawking.

“Fool,” he rasped. “Do you think mundane weapons can harm me?”

Creed tossed aside the shattered hilt and drew his rapier, though he doubted it would do any good.

“You look familiar,” muttered Revanche, tapping the scepter against his palm. “One of the prisoners? No…ah!” His lips stretched in an ugly smile. “I remember you now! How remarkable! I thought the King killed you a dozen years past.” His eyes glittered. “Wait…you must have been the captain of that pirate ship!” He laughed in cruel delight.

“You know why I’m here,” said Creed, holding staff and sword ready. “Give me what I’ve come for, and you can yet live.”

Revanche’s laughter exploded off the walls. “I think not, young fool. Such a heroic effort, and all for naught.” He pointed the scepter at Creed. “Still, such exertions should not be wasted. I will relish feasting upon your flesh.” He began chanting. Creed gritted his teeth, held the staff out before him, and hoped the Ohjana had not played him for a fool.

Revanche finished his incantation, brandishing his scepter.

The staff shuddered in Creed’s grasp, growing hot, then cold. It flared with a faint blue light, and then went still.

“What is this?” snarled Revanche. “A staff of spell-breaking! That witch in the jungle must have given it to you. I should have killed the wretched old crone ten years ago.” He stepped to a table and seized a clay jar. “But do not think yourself proof against all my powers!”

He flung the jar to the floor, and it exploded a spray of sulfuric black smoke. Something narrow and glistening twisted in the fumes. Creed backed away, sword ready. A king cobra reared out of the fumes, hood spread, fangs dripping venom.

“Kill him!” shouted Revanche.

The cobra lunged at Creed, and his rapier cut the serpent in half. He twisted around, intending to strike at Revanche with the staff, only to find himself facing two cobras. He worked his blade through two quick slashes, and the twin cobras fell dead.

Then their severed corpses twisted, and Creed faced four cobras.

“A pity,” said Revanche, watching Creed dodge the venomous strikes. “Their poison will thoroughly ruin the taste of your flesh. Still, I will enjoy watching you dance to your death!” He laughed and laughed. Creed cursed in desperate fury, fighting back panic. To have come so far, to have defeated so many obstacles, only to die like this! The Ohjana’s staff might have blocked Revanche’s sorcery, but it could not save Creed from the mystical serpents, and nor could it kill Revanche.

But then, the Ohjana had never said the staff could kill Revanche, had she? Only a demon may destroy another demon, that was it. Revanche was a demon, that was plain, but Creed had no other demons handy.

But could a demon destroy itself?

Creed dodged a cobra’s bite and vaulted over the chair. He let his leg collapse beneath him, and the jolt of his landing sent both staff and rapier clattering from his grasp. Revanche pointed the scepter at him, and the cobras stopped their advance.

The songbird trilled in terror.

“Piteous little fool,” said Revanche. He began his chant again. Creed tensed his legs, knowing that his very life depended upon quick movement. Revanche shook his scepter and shouted, and Creed threw himself to the side. He felt the fury of Revanche’s sorcery sizzle past him, felt it tugging at his skin and reaching cold fingers into his chest.

But the spell missed him, and slammed into the ensorcelled mirror.

Revanche’s face twisted in fury. “You…”

Then the mirror exploded. Shards of silvered glass rained across Creed, and he threw up his arms to cover his face. The mirror’s frame shuddered and warped as it fought to contain the force of Revanche’s incantation. It buckled, bent…

…and flung the sorcery back at its maker.

Revanche stumbled, fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror. He began to scream, and his voice changed. His body swelled, his hands bulging into hooves. The shape of his back and shoulders changed, even as his skin turned pink and leathery, forcing him to all fours. His face twisted, shaping itself into a snout, while great floppy ears sprouted from the sides of his head.

Creed stood, scooping up his rapier and staff. The cobras twisted into wisps of smoke and vanished. In the place of Lord Revanche squatted an enormous pig clad in the ragged remnants of a man’s clothes.

“Well,” said Creed, gesturing with his rapier. “I myself have never indulged in the long pork, but a man should not become too set in his ways…”

With a squeal of terror, the pig fled down the stairs. Creed ignored it. Instead he knelt beside the cage and reached inside, cradling the bird as if it were worth more than all the gold and the jewels he had ever stolen. For a moment he stared at the bird, at a loss. Then he remembered that Revanche had called the staff a spell-breaker, and he touched its head to the bird.

The staff shuddered, and the bird shuddered with it.

And then the bird vanished, and Creed found himself holding a young woman with black hair and eyes of blue ice. Those blue eyes widened in amazement as they regarded him, and Creed felt his own eyes grow damp.

“Anne,” said Creed.

“Thomas?” whispered the woman, touching his face. “I thought it was a dream…I’ve been trapped in a dream for so long.” She blinked. “You…you look older…”

“It’s been twelve years,” said Creed, touching her hair.

“Twelve years?” she said.

“My Princess,” he murmured in her ear, “did you really think I would forget you?”

Shortly thereafter, the man who called himself Tom Creed strode hand in hand into the courtyard with the Princess Anne, who had clothed herself in castoffs salvaged from the barracks.

“There you are…Cap’n,” said Walter. “Is Lord Revanche dead?”

“No,” said Creed, “but I suspect he’ll rather wish he was, shortly.”

“The officers and the guards are all dead,” said Walter, the crew gathering behind him, “and most of the warship’s crew will join you…ah, if you’ll still have them, the mutinous dogs.” His voice trailed off when he saw Anne.

“Er…Cap’n,” said Creed’s second mate, “I didn’t think we had no women in the prison with us.”

“Gentlemen!” called Creed, raising his sword. “May I introduce you do the Princess Anne, stepdaughter and legal heir to are own gracious King, may the gods rot his black soul.”

A strangled sound went through the assembled men. Walter’s eyes went round. “That…that means…”

“That means, sir,” said Anne in her clear voice, “that your Captain Creed is in fact Lord Thomas, the ninth Duke of Whitecreed, and my betrothed.”

“The King, you see, took exception to our betrothal,” said Creed, “and so sent his stepdaughter to this miserable island, and tried to kill me.”

“But…but what do we do now…Your Grace?” said Walter.

Creed laughed. “Why, what do you think? We’ve two ships floating in the harbor, and by year’s end I mean to have fifty under my command. The King is a hated man, and we’ve a Queen to crown and a kingdom to win. Follow me, men, and I’ll see you all wealthy before I’m done. Ha! Walter, before we’re through, you might even be a Duke yourself.”

The men cheered, loud and long.

Some time later, a pig, half-mad with starvation, stumbled through the jungle.

It stopped as a dozen small, dark-skinned men rose in a ring around it, obsidian-tipped spears in hand. An ancient, withered woman hobbled towards the pig.

“Well, my Lord Revanche,” said the Ohjana, “welcome to our home.”

The pig squealed, looking back and forth for an escape.

“We do not eat demons,” said the Ohjana, “but we are ever so fond of pig.”

The dark men advanced, spears ready.

Jonathan Moeller has written "Demonsouled", which was Amazon.com's #1 Early Adopter Item in Fantasy and Science Fiction for May 2005, "Worlds to Conquer" (coming soon in August 2006), and short fiction for Deep Magic, Apex Digest, Sword's Edge, ShadowSword, Scorched Earth, and AlienSkin.

Visit him on the web at < www.jonathanmoeller.com >.

Cover: "Teledhar Tube"

Will the tube car arrive in time?

On the rugged world of Teledhar, domed cities are connected by the elaborate mag-trains that course the planet in elevated tubes.

Created in Bryce 6 and Paint Shop Pro

A homeschooling mom, and a grandma, L. S. King taught martial arts for years, and also coached gymnastics. She loves Looney Tunes and the color purple, and adores Zorro, which might explain her fascination with swords and capes. When on the planet, she lives with her husband and youngest child in Delaware.

She is one of the "Overlords" of the e-zine Ray Gun Revival found at < www.raygunrevival.com >, which also features her space opera serial Deuces Wild.

Visit her website Loriendil's Dreamland at < www.loriendil.com > to read her published short stories, her blog, or to catch up on back stories of Deuces Wild.

Creed: piracy, sorcery, and a prison revolt

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