Topaz
At the stern of the passenger ship, Shirka Snugálo sheathed his gore-dripping blades. Across the deck of standing, maimed, and dead bodies, two creatures melted out of their werebear forms. Shirka eyed the self-styled “judge” with the wariness of a mother trike watching a raptor in her pen.
From the moment that withered, creepy-looking elf conned Delion into letting him invade Shirka's home and business, the liger cat-folk knew his world was going to fall apart. Again.
As he helped the ship's crew toss the corpses of the sea elf attackers overboard, Shirka tried to devise a plan to extract Delion from her delusional, self-appointed “tutor in the arcane arts.” The skirmish on the deck, highlighted by the elf's use of fake lycanthropy, demonstrated how much of a threat he posed.
For ill or good, Delion spent the entire fight below in the cabins. After wistfully heaving the final blood-drenched, carved-up enemy corpse over the railing, Shirka jogged to the door that led below deck to check on the elfom.
“Go make sure my student's okay,” a haughty, harshly rasping voice commanded.
Shirka stopped on the first step down the narrow stairway. He twisted at the waist to glare daggers behind him.
The elf had introduced himself in Shirka's store, but the candlemaker had since discarded the name. The night the two of them ran away on horses stolen by Delion Arcoan, the mayor's daughter, the elf nearly demanded she take an alias. Any person who demands that travel companions take a fake name should not be trusted to disclose their real one.
“You’re right, mate,” Shirka grunted. “I'll get right on that after I'm done checking up on Delion.”
The gnarly-skinned elf smirked. The reaction shook Shirka's stomach; the upturned mouth wrinkled an already deeply creased and leather-toned face. The wind tossed his unbraided, sandy-white hair around his head like an unholy halo in the starlit seascape. The pits of his eyes twinkled with a devious gleam.
“And it's for the best that you stay down there,” he replied, unperturbed. “I need to have a talk with the captain. I think I have a way to fix our mess of a sleeping arrangement that you so respectfully made.”
Shirka narrowed his eyes at the “judge,” who held his pasted smirk. The elf was at least a head-and-mane shorter than Shirka. Brittle in appearance and stature. If he had a chance, Shirka could sink his claws into the bastard's throat and tear him to ribbons. Shirka almost gripped the hilts of his punching daggers at the thought.
But then she passed the doorway, following her master on his way to the cabin.
The desert tiger was larger than Shirka. She was striped with tan and orange from head to tail. She had ripped into attackers and crewmen alike with reckless abandon.
And she never left the withered elf's side.
Shirka reined in his impulses, helplessly outpowered, as the tigress and her master slunk out of view.
* * *
“No, kiddo, I really don't think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Delion's cloud-gray eyes flashed at Shirka. She slammed her fists on the bed, stood up with a prolonged groan, and stomped the short distance from the bed to the cabin door. She spun around so hard that her corn-yellow braid of hair swung to the front of her narrow frame.
“Stop calling me that, I'm not a child anymore!”
Shirka stayed in his seat at the foot of the bed. He stared at the faint black stripes in the golden brown fur of his hands for a moment.
“Nope,” he agreed facetiously. “As of about noon today, having successfully run away from your home and family, you’re no longer a child.”
Shirka raised his head to look at Delion. He tried to see what the ship's men saw: a petite, nubile, innocently corruptible elfom of shy and understated allure. He could no more approach the idea than he could if he were looking at his own sister.
Although, to be fair, Shirka's sister led a fighters' guild in Chorin. The Snugálo ligers had hardly such slight or unassuming figures. Cultural matters.
“You’ll have to take responsibility for your actions.” Shirka stood up and resisted the urge to crouch under the relatively low ceiling. He crossed his arms over his steel-studded, sneak-ready leather armor.
“He knows what he's doing!”
“But do you? Have you seen the magic he throws around? The wild damage it does?”
Delion shook her head. “I've seen enough to know that I won't be powerless anymore once I get a taste of it.”
“To do what? You know what he wants you to do with that magic once you know it, yeah?”
“Yes!”
“So you’ve got no problem raising an army to burn down the ancestral home, the spiritual anchor, of yer people?”
“If it stands as a symbol that says girls like me aren't worth anything unless we're brides or mothers, then no!”
Shirka grabbed fistfuls of his short mane and let out a string of curses in Feline.
“If you don't like it,” Delion offered with a shrug, “then take off at the next port. I'll be fine.”
“That's not an option!” Shirka snapped, baring his fangs at the child.
Delion jumped back against the door, the youthful rebellion in her eyes washed away by fear.
Shirka backed away. He held up his hands and took several deep breaths. He continued calmly.
“I promised myself I'd keep an eye on you. That's what I mean to do. When have I once tried to force you to do something you don’t wanna do? You have to believe I'm looking out for your best interests.”
Delion scoffed, her fear now disappointment. “Way to sound like my father, Shirka.” She reached back for the doorknob and pulled it open.
Just inside the corridor stood the wizened elf. Hands behind his back. Tigress pacing at his side.
Delion spun around and darted into him bodily. The tigress stopped and watched her.
“Ah, perfect timing, I see. I've returned to inform you that the good captain has offered us his quarters for the duration of our trip.”
Dippy shit, the ethereal voice in Shirka's head spat.
You said it, Luther.
“He has?” Shirka asked.
The older elf latched his evil smile on Shirka. “Of course. All he needed was the right method of persuasion.” He turned to Delion, held out one dry hand, and curled two fingers. “Gather your things, dear. We should settle—”
Delion scowled and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “I'm not your dear.” She walked past Shirka to re-pack.
Shirka watched the mage study the maiden. His gaze on her wasn't quite as predatory as most of the crew's, but it was still intense. Hungry.
Longing.
* * *
The next morning, the trio ate breakfast in the galley. Unlike their previous meals, however, they sat at an actual table instead of hunched over a barrel. They still sat alone, as long as the tables were, but at least they were at a table.
Shirka got little sleep. Not stealing Delion back to the village when he had the chance seemed more of a mistake with each passing moment. Not only did the past night's events back that assumption up, but the captain's quarters...
“Where's the captain?” Shirka asked with measured nonchalance as he picked at his cold slab of meat.
“He's around,” the mage replied between forkfuls of food. “The first mate knows. I'm sure.”
Delion craned her head to look around the galley. “Yeah, I don't see him around, either.”
He huffed. “They're busy souls. Especially after what happened last night.”
“Uh-huh.” Shirka put his fork down and sat up straight. “Alright, did nobody else find the captain's statue of himself just a mite creepy?”
Delion leaned over and put a hand on the ligerfolk's gauntlet-covered forearm. “Yes! Thank Larethian sombody else noticed it!”
The other elf shrugged, fork in hand. “Vain men have no account for taste. A commissioned statue of oneself is no outlandish matter.”
“Tell me about it. The mayoral mansion is lined and stuffed with portraits and sculptures dedicated to my family’s own 'greatness'.” Delion shook her head. “You'd think he would've chosen a more dignified pose, though.” She stuffed salad in her mouth and spoke around it. “I mean, cowering in fear? Who wants to see themselves like that?”
“Yeah.” Shirka fixed his eyes on the older elf. “Who'd want that?”
He met Shirka's gaze with a smirk and a scoff. “Perhaps he used it as a projection of his fear? A vision of cowardliness that cleansed him of his own?”
Shirka flinched. Speaking of the captain in the past tense was not a good sign. He pushed away from his tray and excused himself to the captain’s quarters.
Once there, Shirka strapped on his sheathed punching daggers and slung on his glaive. Just as he finished gearing up, the door behind him opened.
Shirka sniffed twice, derisively, to hide his investigation. Two sun-scoured humans. An orc, similar scent. A tiger coated with sand, blood, and sea salt. An elf that reeked of parched and baking death.
Shirka examined his gauntlets to ensure they were secure around his forearms. “Y'know, if you take me back to the hamlet you found me, I'd be happy to let you have all the soap you need to rub that scent straight off.” He turned to face the quintet.
The elf stood just inside the room in his usual black-and-tan robes, his arms behind his back. The humans in plain sailor garb stood behind his left shoulder. The orc, in much better-tailored sailing regalia, stood full in the front, also to the elf's left. To the elf's right prowled the tigress.
He nodded at Shirka's weapons. “What do you plan to do with those?”
“Nothing. I just like to be able to defend myself.” Shirka let his gaze dart to the crystalline statue to the door's left.
It stood directly on the rug-draped floor, no pedestal. A stout man in fine dress, the form was hunched over almost double and crouching with one foot forward. He held one hand to his chest and the other, its fingers spread and curled, out over his face. The mouth and eyes were open in an eternal, silent scream.
Shirka focused on the orc. “Where’s your boss?”
The elf smirked, but the orc looked flabbergasted for a moment before he, too, glanced at the statue and stammered out an answer.
“He—he's right where he needs to be, don't you—don't you worry about him.”
The elf sneered. “You think you're clever, don't you?”
Shirka sneered. “I don't know how you did it, but turn the man back. A ship won't run without a captain.”
“A ship doesn't need a captain!” the elf cackled. “A ship needs a crew! And now I've got both. Why would I give up such a fabulous bargaining chip, anyway? If they kill me, he stays salt forever. As long as they do as I say, and leave the girl alone, their precious captain will come to no harm.”
Shirka played his hands near his sides to undo the top straps of his dagger sheaths. “That's sweet, making Delion part of your security package. But she stays outta this. As soon's we make landfall, she and I take off, and you never see us again.”
The elf, his arms still hidden, chuckled dryly. “My benefactor was so wrong, yet again. He sent me to find you by name, Shirka. He told me that you would help me pave the way to great and fortunate change. I thought I could build an army with you. But he showed me a false path, led me astray.
“You're just a pawn. A means to an end. Finding you was the only way I could discover Delion Arcoan. She has more power lying dormant in her blood than you could ever hope to achieve. I will cultivate that power. I will nurture it. She will stand by my side as we raise the most powerful force this world has seen in millennia.”
Shirka gripped the handles of his punching daggers and glared into the elf's eyes. “You're delusional,” he growled.
“I'm a visionary.” His smile cracked wider. “And I see no more use for you.” He backed away, saying aloud, “Kill him, or I dissolve your captain in the Velvet Ocean.”
The three sailors passed glances between each other and slowly drew the scimitars tucked into their belts. None of them stepped forward.
The duplicitous elf smiled and turned his back to the room. The tigress lowered the front half of her body and growled.
That spurred the unwilling warriors forward.
Shirka shook his head once. Sorry, mates.
Nah, fuck 'em, Luther insisted.
When the first man came in range, Shirka whipped the arch-shaped punching dagger out of his right sheath. In the same motion, Shirka gouged his opponent from his liver to his clavicle. The large, lithe liger ducked under the next man's scimitar swing. He spun and drew his second punching dagger with enough force to slice the man's thigh neatly to the bone.
The intoxicating scent of blood and viscera assailed Shirka. He refocused just soon enough to block the orc's scimitar blade with his daggers. He swept it away, dodged another swing, and used one dagger to slice open the orc's foot. The other dagger pierced his side, sending the orc to the carpet in a screaming, bloody heap. Shirka took one step toward the door, but halted in his tracks.
The tigress roared in the doorway like she did when Shirka caught her master snooping around in his shop.
Shirka scowled. “Round two, then, pussycat?”
She snarled.
Ding-ding, mate, Luther muttered. Let it go. How long's it been since you really expressed yourself?
You're right, Luther.
Shirka willed his muscles to bulge. His bones lengthened and thickened. His armor pressed tightly against his expanding flesh, but then stretched in accommodation. His snout shortened, then widened, as his mane receded to a thick strip of fur down the middle of his head. He raised his daggers, feeling so much lighter in his now black-furred hands.
The werepanther mind kicked in.
Shirka charged the tigress. She rose to her hind legs. She swiped at his face.
He plunged his blades into her body.
The wild cats tumbled into the open. The tangled heap rolled down the deck. Shirka hit the floor first. He rolled away.
The tigress circled, dripping blood.
Shirka climbed to his feet. His neck and arms burned. He let out a massive roar. He charged again.
The tigress reared up.
Shirka stopped short. He crossed his forearms and sliced a ragged “X” into her chest.
She collapsed to the deck. She climbed to her feet. She stumbled.
Shirka stared at her throat. He raised one dagger.
Shirka froze, crying out in pain as a rusty blade emerged from his leather-clad torso. A hand yanked his head back by a hunk of mane. A raspy voice seethed into his ear.
“I should've torched your tent on that beach when I had the chance.”
Shirka snarled. He swung his free weapon over his head, hoping to separate the elf from his hand. He only managed to cut a fistful of mane.
The elf kicked Shirka free from the blade. Shirka spun with two wild swings, cutting the elf's robes before knocking his the sword away. The werepanther bared his fangs and lunged for the elf’s throat.
The sensation was not unlike biting into a leather tome. The elf tasted of fouled sand, and his blood burned like fresh coffee. Nonetheless, Shirka wrapped his arms around his prey so that the daggers cut into the elf's back. Biting through his pain and fatigue, the half-transformed werepanther wrestled the elf toward the ship's railing.
Shirka felt the teeth in the meat of his right shoulder before the full weight of the tigress slammed into his back. She laid a firm claw on Shirka's face and pulled.
Shirka roared as fiery pain surged through his head. He twisted as he fell to the floor, daggers clenched in his fists as much from agony as from training. He shut his eyes tight and heaved in air as he steadied himself on his knees and forearms. When he finally opened his eyes to the blood-soaked boards of the deck, he couldn't get his right eye to focus.
He was pulled by his pack onto his tail. Someone dragged him across the deck. He stopped and was pulled up to his feet. The elf, hair matted to his shoulder with blood, stared with steely determination into Shirka's eyes as he forced the liger to lean back against the railing.
“She is the key to my victory over that bastion of corruption,” he rasped. “Our power will construct a legacy of redemption for that failed excuse of a society calling itself 'elvenkind'.” He leaned even closer. “And I would rather every man on this ship have his way with her than let you take her away from me.”
Shirka summoned his fading strength and swung his good arm at the withered bastard's head. The blade sailed in a harmless arc as the elf pushed him over the railing. Shirka tumbled head over tail through the air and hit the ocean with a splash.
The saltwater burned the open wounds all over his body as the passenger ship sailed on without him.
Oh, balls and Nine Hells, mate, Luther sobbed, an increasingly distant voice in Shirka's head. I'm sor...
Shirka's left eye joined his right in darkness.
* * *
It was the second roar that roused Delion's interest to overcome the first mate's orders. She stood up and hurried to the stairwell that led toward the deck. A burly bald gnome got up from his seat near the exit and blocked her path.
“You can't go up there,” he said, holding out his palm.
Delion scoffed. “That's ludicrous; don't you hear what's going on up there? Aren't you curious?”
He shook his head. “Boss's orders, lady.”
She crossed her arms. “What, another sea elf attack? My buddies handled the last one pretty well. They can't be that dangerous.”
The gnome's forehead wrinkled. He looked over his shoulder and backed up a step. “L-look, you just—don't go up there!”
Delion took a deep breath, and another roar bellowed out above. The weight of so many males trying to tell her what not to do finally snapped something inside of her.
“No!” Delion swatted the little jerk aside and proceeded up the stairway.
Delion emerged onto the deck and shielded her eyes from the early, cloudless sunshine. She looked around to find a few sailors standing around, motionlessly staring toward the boat's bow. She followed their gaze to the wounded tiger and gasped.
Shirka swung one of his Luther's Fangs just as her new teacher shoved him off the boat.
“Shirka!”
Delion ran to the railing and searched the sparkling blue water for her friend. Not finding any soon enough, she turned to Judge Hawthorne and shoved him.
“Murderer!”
“It had to be done,” he wheezed. He put a hand to his back and winced.
“Why? What did you do?!”
“I slew a monster!”
Delion slapped him across the face and ignored the tiger's pained snarl.
“How dare you! He was a catfolk! A kind, honest, hard-working—!”
“He was a monster! A killer! Search the captain's quarters if you don't believe me!”
“Oh, believe me, I will!”
Delion marched up the stairs and approached the open doorway. What the sunlight revealed through the windows on either side of the door churned her stomach.
One man lay near the foot of the four-poster bed, the front of his torso ripped through its center. Another moaned weakly nearby, clutching his leg as it spurted blood over the rug. The first mate tried to support his weight on one foot and a wall as deep, dark red stained his shirt and the hand clasping it.
“He was a lycanthrope, child,” the voice rasped behind her, having regained its composure. “A feral creature took up space in his soul. When that creature came out... he would've killed us all if I hadn't stopped him.”
The hunting trips suddenly made sense. His disappearances, regular, like clockwork, were an effort to protect his secret.
Or was it an effort to protect her?
“There's nothing left to be done for him now, child.”
Delion faced Judge Hawthorne, who stood upright and wounded at the door. Only when she tried to respond did she realize she had been crying.
“What do we do now?”
* * *
Clanking, mumbling, and gentle swaying entered Shirka's consciousness.
Veragov's on your side today, Luther said remorsefully. As much as he could be, anyway.
Shirka opened his eyes. He blinked. He could feel his right eyelid twitch, but something felt wrong. He gingerly raised his hand to his face and felt a ragged strap of canvas covering his right eye.
“Ooh, heavens t'Bessie,” a high-pitched voice cried, “he's awake!”
It was really touch-and-go there for days. I almost gave up on you thrice.
Shirka stayed stretched out on his back and stared up at the peach-colored ceiling. Soon, a rugged, surreal, child-like face filled his view.
“Don't move, buck,” he said in a gravelly alto. He pulled out a small cylindrical stick with a dent in its face and pointed it at Shirka's good eye. The air in front of the dent swirled blue before disappearing with a beep and a flash.
“Yep. You’re good to go.” He put away the device and asked someone to “get the potioning started.” He turned back to Shirka.
“Sorry for the delay. We're a cargo ship, not a war vessel. Gotta rely on mundane healing for all the boo-boos we get around here. The amateur alchemist should have somethin' ready for you in a couple days. Just take it easy 'til then.”
Shirka slowly sat up and looked around. Surely enough, not an infirmary. Just a bare-bones bunk cabin with a work-tailored swiffok.
“Where'm I?” he slurred.
“On board the good ship Tinglebridge, bringing only the best tools and gears all the way from the Free City of Quinlanti to the stunning Topaz Islands! Welcome and rest easy!”
Shirka winced as he tried to remove the blanket from his body. “Thanks.”
The swiffok hopped to the head of the bed and pulled the blanket back up. “No, really. Rest easy. Whatever got ahold of ya, you've got one fewer eyes than you went in with. Chipped some bone along the way, too, not counting all the other gashes and cuts you'll have to remind you of your escapade. Your veins were more water than blood when Sharpie pulled you outta the water.”
Shirka settled back with a groan.
Like I said, mate. Touch-and-go. Did my best to keep the beasties away 'til the horizon brought the ship closer.
My eternal gratitude, Luther.
“Sharpie?”
The swiffok nodded. “Our askraw lookout. That bird’s saved me from a lotta pirates with those peepers of his. By the way,” he extended his hand, “the name's Landon Jacshine.”
Shirka offered his left hand. “Snugálo. Shirka Snugálo.”
Landon shook it firmly, warmly. “Pleasure to meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances. I've gotta go, but if you need anything, just ring the bell.” He pointed at a little brass bell with tiny etchings around it on the nightstand nearby.
“How much longer 'til landfall?”
Landon looked at the ceiling for a moment. “About a week, give or take the breeze.”
“Thanks.”
He watched Landon leave.
Alright, Shirka. Let's go with ten days on the boat, then we hit Topaz and the Gems. Where do we go from there?
Go from there? Shirka bitterly pulled the blanket up to his chin. Nowhere. We find inventory and set up shop. Just like we always do. But this time? We stick to ourselves, no matter what.
From the moment that withered, creepy-looking elf conned Delion into letting him invade Shirka's home and business, the liger cat-folk knew his world was going to fall apart. Again.
As he helped the ship's crew toss the corpses of the sea elf attackers overboard, Shirka tried to devise a plan to extract Delion from her delusional, self-appointed “tutor in the arcane arts.” The skirmish on the deck, highlighted by the elf's use of fake lycanthropy, demonstrated how much of a threat he posed.
For ill or good, Delion spent the entire fight below in the cabins. After wistfully heaving the final blood-drenched, carved-up enemy corpse over the railing, Shirka jogged to the door that led below deck to check on the elfom.
“Go make sure my student's okay,” a haughty, harshly rasping voice commanded.
Shirka stopped on the first step down the narrow stairway. He twisted at the waist to glare daggers behind him.
The elf had introduced himself in Shirka's store, but the candlemaker had since discarded the name. The night the two of them ran away on horses stolen by Delion Arcoan, the mayor's daughter, the elf nearly demanded she take an alias. Any person who demands that travel companions take a fake name should not be trusted to disclose their real one.
“You’re right, mate,” Shirka grunted. “I'll get right on that after I'm done checking up on Delion.”
The gnarly-skinned elf smirked. The reaction shook Shirka's stomach; the upturned mouth wrinkled an already deeply creased and leather-toned face. The wind tossed his unbraided, sandy-white hair around his head like an unholy halo in the starlit seascape. The pits of his eyes twinkled with a devious gleam.
“And it's for the best that you stay down there,” he replied, unperturbed. “I need to have a talk with the captain. I think I have a way to fix our mess of a sleeping arrangement that you so respectfully made.”
Shirka narrowed his eyes at the “judge,” who held his pasted smirk. The elf was at least a head-and-mane shorter than Shirka. Brittle in appearance and stature. If he had a chance, Shirka could sink his claws into the bastard's throat and tear him to ribbons. Shirka almost gripped the hilts of his punching daggers at the thought.
But then she passed the doorway, following her master on his way to the cabin.
The desert tiger was larger than Shirka. She was striped with tan and orange from head to tail. She had ripped into attackers and crewmen alike with reckless abandon.
And she never left the withered elf's side.
Shirka reined in his impulses, helplessly outpowered, as the tigress and her master slunk out of view.
* * *
“No, kiddo, I really don't think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Delion's cloud-gray eyes flashed at Shirka. She slammed her fists on the bed, stood up with a prolonged groan, and stomped the short distance from the bed to the cabin door. She spun around so hard that her corn-yellow braid of hair swung to the front of her narrow frame.
“Stop calling me that, I'm not a child anymore!”
Shirka stayed in his seat at the foot of the bed. He stared at the faint black stripes in the golden brown fur of his hands for a moment.
“Nope,” he agreed facetiously. “As of about noon today, having successfully run away from your home and family, you’re no longer a child.”
Shirka raised his head to look at Delion. He tried to see what the ship's men saw: a petite, nubile, innocently corruptible elfom of shy and understated allure. He could no more approach the idea than he could if he were looking at his own sister.
Although, to be fair, Shirka's sister led a fighters' guild in Chorin. The Snugálo ligers had hardly such slight or unassuming figures. Cultural matters.
“You’ll have to take responsibility for your actions.” Shirka stood up and resisted the urge to crouch under the relatively low ceiling. He crossed his arms over his steel-studded, sneak-ready leather armor.
“He knows what he's doing!”
“But do you? Have you seen the magic he throws around? The wild damage it does?”
Delion shook her head. “I've seen enough to know that I won't be powerless anymore once I get a taste of it.”
“To do what? You know what he wants you to do with that magic once you know it, yeah?”
“Yes!”
“So you’ve got no problem raising an army to burn down the ancestral home, the spiritual anchor, of yer people?”
“If it stands as a symbol that says girls like me aren't worth anything unless we're brides or mothers, then no!”
Shirka grabbed fistfuls of his short mane and let out a string of curses in Feline.
“If you don't like it,” Delion offered with a shrug, “then take off at the next port. I'll be fine.”
“That's not an option!” Shirka snapped, baring his fangs at the child.
Delion jumped back against the door, the youthful rebellion in her eyes washed away by fear.
Shirka backed away. He held up his hands and took several deep breaths. He continued calmly.
“I promised myself I'd keep an eye on you. That's what I mean to do. When have I once tried to force you to do something you don’t wanna do? You have to believe I'm looking out for your best interests.”
Delion scoffed, her fear now disappointment. “Way to sound like my father, Shirka.” She reached back for the doorknob and pulled it open.
Just inside the corridor stood the wizened elf. Hands behind his back. Tigress pacing at his side.
Delion spun around and darted into him bodily. The tigress stopped and watched her.
“Ah, perfect timing, I see. I've returned to inform you that the good captain has offered us his quarters for the duration of our trip.”
Dippy shit, the ethereal voice in Shirka's head spat.
You said it, Luther.
“He has?” Shirka asked.
The older elf latched his evil smile on Shirka. “Of course. All he needed was the right method of persuasion.” He turned to Delion, held out one dry hand, and curled two fingers. “Gather your things, dear. We should settle—”
Delion scowled and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “I'm not your dear.” She walked past Shirka to re-pack.
Shirka watched the mage study the maiden. His gaze on her wasn't quite as predatory as most of the crew's, but it was still intense. Hungry.
Longing.
* * *
The next morning, the trio ate breakfast in the galley. Unlike their previous meals, however, they sat at an actual table instead of hunched over a barrel. They still sat alone, as long as the tables were, but at least they were at a table.
Shirka got little sleep. Not stealing Delion back to the village when he had the chance seemed more of a mistake with each passing moment. Not only did the past night's events back that assumption up, but the captain's quarters...
“Where's the captain?” Shirka asked with measured nonchalance as he picked at his cold slab of meat.
“He's around,” the mage replied between forkfuls of food. “The first mate knows. I'm sure.”
Delion craned her head to look around the galley. “Yeah, I don't see him around, either.”
He huffed. “They're busy souls. Especially after what happened last night.”
“Uh-huh.” Shirka put his fork down and sat up straight. “Alright, did nobody else find the captain's statue of himself just a mite creepy?”
Delion leaned over and put a hand on the ligerfolk's gauntlet-covered forearm. “Yes! Thank Larethian sombody else noticed it!”
The other elf shrugged, fork in hand. “Vain men have no account for taste. A commissioned statue of oneself is no outlandish matter.”
“Tell me about it. The mayoral mansion is lined and stuffed with portraits and sculptures dedicated to my family’s own 'greatness'.” Delion shook her head. “You'd think he would've chosen a more dignified pose, though.” She stuffed salad in her mouth and spoke around it. “I mean, cowering in fear? Who wants to see themselves like that?”
“Yeah.” Shirka fixed his eyes on the older elf. “Who'd want that?”
He met Shirka's gaze with a smirk and a scoff. “Perhaps he used it as a projection of his fear? A vision of cowardliness that cleansed him of his own?”
Shirka flinched. Speaking of the captain in the past tense was not a good sign. He pushed away from his tray and excused himself to the captain’s quarters.
Once there, Shirka strapped on his sheathed punching daggers and slung on his glaive. Just as he finished gearing up, the door behind him opened.
Shirka sniffed twice, derisively, to hide his investigation. Two sun-scoured humans. An orc, similar scent. A tiger coated with sand, blood, and sea salt. An elf that reeked of parched and baking death.
Shirka examined his gauntlets to ensure they were secure around his forearms. “Y'know, if you take me back to the hamlet you found me, I'd be happy to let you have all the soap you need to rub that scent straight off.” He turned to face the quintet.
The elf stood just inside the room in his usual black-and-tan robes, his arms behind his back. The humans in plain sailor garb stood behind his left shoulder. The orc, in much better-tailored sailing regalia, stood full in the front, also to the elf's left. To the elf's right prowled the tigress.
He nodded at Shirka's weapons. “What do you plan to do with those?”
“Nothing. I just like to be able to defend myself.” Shirka let his gaze dart to the crystalline statue to the door's left.
It stood directly on the rug-draped floor, no pedestal. A stout man in fine dress, the form was hunched over almost double and crouching with one foot forward. He held one hand to his chest and the other, its fingers spread and curled, out over his face. The mouth and eyes were open in an eternal, silent scream.
Shirka focused on the orc. “Where’s your boss?”
The elf smirked, but the orc looked flabbergasted for a moment before he, too, glanced at the statue and stammered out an answer.
“He—he's right where he needs to be, don't you—don't you worry about him.”
The elf sneered. “You think you're clever, don't you?”
Shirka sneered. “I don't know how you did it, but turn the man back. A ship won't run without a captain.”
“A ship doesn't need a captain!” the elf cackled. “A ship needs a crew! And now I've got both. Why would I give up such a fabulous bargaining chip, anyway? If they kill me, he stays salt forever. As long as they do as I say, and leave the girl alone, their precious captain will come to no harm.”
Shirka played his hands near his sides to undo the top straps of his dagger sheaths. “That's sweet, making Delion part of your security package. But she stays outta this. As soon's we make landfall, she and I take off, and you never see us again.”
The elf, his arms still hidden, chuckled dryly. “My benefactor was so wrong, yet again. He sent me to find you by name, Shirka. He told me that you would help me pave the way to great and fortunate change. I thought I could build an army with you. But he showed me a false path, led me astray.
“You're just a pawn. A means to an end. Finding you was the only way I could discover Delion Arcoan. She has more power lying dormant in her blood than you could ever hope to achieve. I will cultivate that power. I will nurture it. She will stand by my side as we raise the most powerful force this world has seen in millennia.”
Shirka gripped the handles of his punching daggers and glared into the elf's eyes. “You're delusional,” he growled.
“I'm a visionary.” His smile cracked wider. “And I see no more use for you.” He backed away, saying aloud, “Kill him, or I dissolve your captain in the Velvet Ocean.”
The three sailors passed glances between each other and slowly drew the scimitars tucked into their belts. None of them stepped forward.
The duplicitous elf smiled and turned his back to the room. The tigress lowered the front half of her body and growled.
That spurred the unwilling warriors forward.
Shirka shook his head once. Sorry, mates.
Nah, fuck 'em, Luther insisted.
When the first man came in range, Shirka whipped the arch-shaped punching dagger out of his right sheath. In the same motion, Shirka gouged his opponent from his liver to his clavicle. The large, lithe liger ducked under the next man's scimitar swing. He spun and drew his second punching dagger with enough force to slice the man's thigh neatly to the bone.
The intoxicating scent of blood and viscera assailed Shirka. He refocused just soon enough to block the orc's scimitar blade with his daggers. He swept it away, dodged another swing, and used one dagger to slice open the orc's foot. The other dagger pierced his side, sending the orc to the carpet in a screaming, bloody heap. Shirka took one step toward the door, but halted in his tracks.
The tigress roared in the doorway like she did when Shirka caught her master snooping around in his shop.
Shirka scowled. “Round two, then, pussycat?”
She snarled.
Ding-ding, mate, Luther muttered. Let it go. How long's it been since you really expressed yourself?
You're right, Luther.
Shirka willed his muscles to bulge. His bones lengthened and thickened. His armor pressed tightly against his expanding flesh, but then stretched in accommodation. His snout shortened, then widened, as his mane receded to a thick strip of fur down the middle of his head. He raised his daggers, feeling so much lighter in his now black-furred hands.
The werepanther mind kicked in.
Shirka charged the tigress. She rose to her hind legs. She swiped at his face.
He plunged his blades into her body.
The wild cats tumbled into the open. The tangled heap rolled down the deck. Shirka hit the floor first. He rolled away.
The tigress circled, dripping blood.
Shirka climbed to his feet. His neck and arms burned. He let out a massive roar. He charged again.
The tigress reared up.
Shirka stopped short. He crossed his forearms and sliced a ragged “X” into her chest.
She collapsed to the deck. She climbed to her feet. She stumbled.
Shirka stared at her throat. He raised one dagger.
Shirka froze, crying out in pain as a rusty blade emerged from his leather-clad torso. A hand yanked his head back by a hunk of mane. A raspy voice seethed into his ear.
“I should've torched your tent on that beach when I had the chance.”
Shirka snarled. He swung his free weapon over his head, hoping to separate the elf from his hand. He only managed to cut a fistful of mane.
The elf kicked Shirka free from the blade. Shirka spun with two wild swings, cutting the elf's robes before knocking his the sword away. The werepanther bared his fangs and lunged for the elf’s throat.
The sensation was not unlike biting into a leather tome. The elf tasted of fouled sand, and his blood burned like fresh coffee. Nonetheless, Shirka wrapped his arms around his prey so that the daggers cut into the elf's back. Biting through his pain and fatigue, the half-transformed werepanther wrestled the elf toward the ship's railing.
Shirka felt the teeth in the meat of his right shoulder before the full weight of the tigress slammed into his back. She laid a firm claw on Shirka's face and pulled.
Shirka roared as fiery pain surged through his head. He twisted as he fell to the floor, daggers clenched in his fists as much from agony as from training. He shut his eyes tight and heaved in air as he steadied himself on his knees and forearms. When he finally opened his eyes to the blood-soaked boards of the deck, he couldn't get his right eye to focus.
He was pulled by his pack onto his tail. Someone dragged him across the deck. He stopped and was pulled up to his feet. The elf, hair matted to his shoulder with blood, stared with steely determination into Shirka's eyes as he forced the liger to lean back against the railing.
“She is the key to my victory over that bastion of corruption,” he rasped. “Our power will construct a legacy of redemption for that failed excuse of a society calling itself 'elvenkind'.” He leaned even closer. “And I would rather every man on this ship have his way with her than let you take her away from me.”
Shirka summoned his fading strength and swung his good arm at the withered bastard's head. The blade sailed in a harmless arc as the elf pushed him over the railing. Shirka tumbled head over tail through the air and hit the ocean with a splash.
The saltwater burned the open wounds all over his body as the passenger ship sailed on without him.
Oh, balls and Nine Hells, mate, Luther sobbed, an increasingly distant voice in Shirka's head. I'm sor...
Shirka's left eye joined his right in darkness.
* * *
It was the second roar that roused Delion's interest to overcome the first mate's orders. She stood up and hurried to the stairwell that led toward the deck. A burly bald gnome got up from his seat near the exit and blocked her path.
“You can't go up there,” he said, holding out his palm.
Delion scoffed. “That's ludicrous; don't you hear what's going on up there? Aren't you curious?”
He shook his head. “Boss's orders, lady.”
She crossed her arms. “What, another sea elf attack? My buddies handled the last one pretty well. They can't be that dangerous.”
The gnome's forehead wrinkled. He looked over his shoulder and backed up a step. “L-look, you just—don't go up there!”
Delion took a deep breath, and another roar bellowed out above. The weight of so many males trying to tell her what not to do finally snapped something inside of her.
“No!” Delion swatted the little jerk aside and proceeded up the stairway.
Delion emerged onto the deck and shielded her eyes from the early, cloudless sunshine. She looked around to find a few sailors standing around, motionlessly staring toward the boat's bow. She followed their gaze to the wounded tiger and gasped.
Shirka swung one of his Luther's Fangs just as her new teacher shoved him off the boat.
“Shirka!”
Delion ran to the railing and searched the sparkling blue water for her friend. Not finding any soon enough, she turned to Judge Hawthorne and shoved him.
“Murderer!”
“It had to be done,” he wheezed. He put a hand to his back and winced.
“Why? What did you do?!”
“I slew a monster!”
Delion slapped him across the face and ignored the tiger's pained snarl.
“How dare you! He was a catfolk! A kind, honest, hard-working—!”
“He was a monster! A killer! Search the captain's quarters if you don't believe me!”
“Oh, believe me, I will!”
Delion marched up the stairs and approached the open doorway. What the sunlight revealed through the windows on either side of the door churned her stomach.
One man lay near the foot of the four-poster bed, the front of his torso ripped through its center. Another moaned weakly nearby, clutching his leg as it spurted blood over the rug. The first mate tried to support his weight on one foot and a wall as deep, dark red stained his shirt and the hand clasping it.
“He was a lycanthrope, child,” the voice rasped behind her, having regained its composure. “A feral creature took up space in his soul. When that creature came out... he would've killed us all if I hadn't stopped him.”
The hunting trips suddenly made sense. His disappearances, regular, like clockwork, were an effort to protect his secret.
Or was it an effort to protect her?
“There's nothing left to be done for him now, child.”
Delion faced Judge Hawthorne, who stood upright and wounded at the door. Only when she tried to respond did she realize she had been crying.
“What do we do now?”
* * *
Clanking, mumbling, and gentle swaying entered Shirka's consciousness.
Veragov's on your side today, Luther said remorsefully. As much as he could be, anyway.
Shirka opened his eyes. He blinked. He could feel his right eyelid twitch, but something felt wrong. He gingerly raised his hand to his face and felt a ragged strap of canvas covering his right eye.
“Ooh, heavens t'Bessie,” a high-pitched voice cried, “he's awake!”
It was really touch-and-go there for days. I almost gave up on you thrice.
Shirka stayed stretched out on his back and stared up at the peach-colored ceiling. Soon, a rugged, surreal, child-like face filled his view.
“Don't move, buck,” he said in a gravelly alto. He pulled out a small cylindrical stick with a dent in its face and pointed it at Shirka's good eye. The air in front of the dent swirled blue before disappearing with a beep and a flash.
“Yep. You’re good to go.” He put away the device and asked someone to “get the potioning started.” He turned back to Shirka.
“Sorry for the delay. We're a cargo ship, not a war vessel. Gotta rely on mundane healing for all the boo-boos we get around here. The amateur alchemist should have somethin' ready for you in a couple days. Just take it easy 'til then.”
Shirka slowly sat up and looked around. Surely enough, not an infirmary. Just a bare-bones bunk cabin with a work-tailored swiffok.
“Where'm I?” he slurred.
“On board the good ship Tinglebridge, bringing only the best tools and gears all the way from the Free City of Quinlanti to the stunning Topaz Islands! Welcome and rest easy!”
Shirka winced as he tried to remove the blanket from his body. “Thanks.”
The swiffok hopped to the head of the bed and pulled the blanket back up. “No, really. Rest easy. Whatever got ahold of ya, you've got one fewer eyes than you went in with. Chipped some bone along the way, too, not counting all the other gashes and cuts you'll have to remind you of your escapade. Your veins were more water than blood when Sharpie pulled you outta the water.”
Shirka settled back with a groan.
Like I said, mate. Touch-and-go. Did my best to keep the beasties away 'til the horizon brought the ship closer.
My eternal gratitude, Luther.
“Sharpie?”
The swiffok nodded. “Our askraw lookout. That bird’s saved me from a lotta pirates with those peepers of his. By the way,” he extended his hand, “the name's Landon Jacshine.”
Shirka offered his left hand. “Snugálo. Shirka Snugálo.”
Landon shook it firmly, warmly. “Pleasure to meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances. I've gotta go, but if you need anything, just ring the bell.” He pointed at a little brass bell with tiny etchings around it on the nightstand nearby.
“How much longer 'til landfall?”
Landon looked at the ceiling for a moment. “About a week, give or take the breeze.”
“Thanks.”
He watched Landon leave.
Alright, Shirka. Let's go with ten days on the boat, then we hit Topaz and the Gems. Where do we go from there?
Go from there? Shirka bitterly pulled the blanket up to his chin. Nowhere. We find inventory and set up shop. Just like we always do. But this time? We stick to ourselves, no matter what.