He pulled his dark cloak further over his head as he glided over the planks, careful to roll his weight on his heels and avoid the rotten wood that was sure to announce his arrival. The night was starless, and the moon, sleeping. For the lively coastal town of Doyle to be so still proved how the moonlight affected the townsfolk, even at this absurd hour. The only light came from orange candles within distant streetlights, and the eerie red glow from behind the clouds and across the blackened sea.

He crouched, sliding within the shadows, silent and graceful with each step. Upon rounding a corner, he froze. Two guards were trudging along the wooden path, muskets held lazily in their arms as they conversed. The dark figure ran forward to a pile of crates, cloak billowing before he threw his back against the boards.

Drawing a slender dagger from his boot, he waited like silent death against the rough wood.

Although their voices were hushed, the glossy water below resonated the sounds and carried them throughout the shipyard as a muddy fusion of conversation and boots.

The second man was obviously younger; his voice not yet riddled and scratched with age, and he spoke in a dialect common among the local townsfolk. The first was quite the opposite, talking with the vocabulary and accent of an experienced seaman, mangled by both his choice of diction and the salt of the sea.

“Terrible weather we’ve been a havin’, eh?”

“Yeah, it’s been quite some time since the sky has bared so many clouds.”

The old man coughed a bit, apparently his form of reply, before commenting. “Aye, the town be still as the sea before a storm. Almost li’ the folk live on the moon light.” He coughed again. “But I’ll be tellin’ ye what, boy… I don’t like it one bit.”

“Do you think that what the gypsies have been saying—I mean to say—do you think there is any truth to it?”

“What, ye mean to be tellin’ me ye’ve been believin’ what that damned beached pirate filth ‘ave been sayin’?” the second man almost laughed, and probably would have, hadn’t yet another fit of coughing erupted instead. It reminded the cloaked man somewhat of a choking cat. A very real choking cat, indeed.

“Mate, the moon drops below the sea ‘bout once a month, there ain’t no reason to fret.”

“Agreed, man, but when has the light last burned red? It’s been more than a hundred years…”

The guards passed the crates where the man stood crouched, waiting to pounce if necessary. He caught nothing but a flash of red uniforms before the two moved on and rounded the same corner, unaware of how close they had come to kissing Lady Death.

He breathed as his blood boiled within his veins, loosening his grip on his dagger and tucking the blade safely back into its hidden sheath. He banged his head quietly on the wood, creating a muffled thud.

‘That was too close.’

He was used to sneaking about; in fact, he had made a living of it. Generally, he was quite good at it, too. But the normally tranquil harbor was now crawling with guards, as if preparing for some non-existent invasion. He had already run into two pairs of guards, a handful of lone sentries and a trio of drunken soldiers arguing over whether a musket could be reasonably cleaned with a combination of olive oil and saliva.

Quite inconvenient, really.

With a quick look and listen, he was back on the dock, running silently through a bobbing ocean of ships. Their drawn sails hung ominously overhead, dead within the still air. Every so often, candlelight from a cabin or wayward watchman would illuminate the planks ahead, but the shadow would simply slide around the treacherous puddles, staying fast to the loyalty of darkness.

He could tell was nearly to the end of the port; the waves of the open sea began to lick and gently caress the vessels tethered to either side. He bowed his head and darted even faster yet, nearly missing his target in his hurry.

Compared to others, the vessel he had been searching for was a tiny, floating low to the water even with no cannons and a simple deck. The sheer size of its three masts dwarfed the rest of the ship, built to catch as much wind as possible with minimal cargo in tow. The simple design allowed for easy maneuverability, agility and speed, rendering any heavy arms—such as cannons—dead weight.
It was a prison runner.

The faster the ship could transfer the criminals to Camdenton’s Isle, the better, as far as the King was concerned; although the island was more universally referred to as Damned’s Isle. As it turned out, when it came to cleaver surnames, criminals weren’t the most original of folk.

Once there, it was next to impossible to escape.

The small ship creaked and groaned against its ropes, hugging the dock and rocking with the rhythm of the open sea. On one of the low swells, the man reared and leapt onto the smooth deck, rolling so not as to make a sound. The rough sound of rugged breathing announced the deep and uninterrupted slumber of the night watchmen nearest to him.

With one, simple blow with the butt of his pistol, the guardsman fell from a hunched stance and into his arms, where the invader softly lay the iron-clad man to rest behind several cargo barrels before searching his belt. A muffled chink of metal on metal signaled the discovery of what he was searching for.

He chuckled to himself and snatched the keys.

‘Sweet dreams.’

A deep, vibrating and laugh involuntarily resonated from his throat as he slid over the planks and towards the hatch door. He loved it when things—although rarely—went as planned. But as abruptly as he began celebrating his minute success, and before this shadow of a man could move any further, he halted his steps, cloak hugging his feet.

His breathing grew rapid and staggered, and his blood raged from within his skin. He could feel it pulsing… pooling… circulating as his heartbeat grew faster, adding to its energy with every thump. The all-too-familiar rush flushed from his chest, spreading to every inch of his being, and yielded a sensation of pure power, heightening his senses and ringing from within his ears.

But even with his internal transformation, there was but one visible change. From beneath his black hood and upon his shadowed face, his shining burgundy eyes glowed as red as the setting sun.

He breathed in deeply, drawing in the air to cool his burning mouth, and a small jet of white steam swirled out from his nose. The man regarded his conversion as if nothing happened. He continued on silent feet to the hatch, where a heavily bolted door stood as a silent sentinel, obstructing his path for only a moment before the locks gave way to the captured keys. He winced as the massive thing creaked against its hinges, but descended without alerting any of the conscious royal guard.

The hold was dark and damp, thick with the musty sent of mildew and decay that clung within the blurring air. He shuddered at his mind's premonition; he could only guess that the wretched scent was emitting from the prisoners themselves.

There was no moonlight to uncover the chamber’s secrets. He groped around blindly for a few moments before stumbling over some unforeseen assailant, cursing as he felt his ankle roll under his weight.

He reached into his belt and withdrew a small knife. Sliding it across his glove, he located the tips of his exposed fingers and chose the middlemost, then swiftly pricked his own flesh.

He let out a small gasp and winced, removing the edge quickly and cleanly from his skin as a small, molten orange bubble of glowing blood pooled on his fingertip and illuminated his hand. He felt the heat upon his face but did not flinch away; instead, he stood, fascinated, and smudged the substance between his thumb and the tiny wound.

Then he snapped.

Immediately, as if sparked, the liquid burst into flame, perched atop his pinched fingers. The fire raged and then softened, dancing and swirling in a rainbow of reds and yellows, lighting the passage ahead. He raised his arm, and the light carried onward. The small wooden cavern ended with an unlatched door, and opened with little protest.

He could have never prepared for what hit him next. The once ghastly stench hit him with enough force to push the very air from his lungs, squeezing the life from his throat and wishing him to gag. Forcing back the intuition, he held his burning hand aloft, and peered into the blackened room.

He found himself on the outside—or rather, inside—of a barred enclosure that protected the door. The hold was one enormous brig.

From the corner of his eye, several shapes shifted their position, and escaped back into the shadows, mumbling obscenities as they went.

“Turn that light out, you fool!”

“Some o’ us be tryin’ to sleep!”

“We ain’t done nothin’ wrong t’night!”

“Leave us be…”

But the man ignored their gruff commands, and instead called out to the huddled masses. “Varro!” there was silence. “Varro, where are you?”

“I’m here, mate!”

There was a mad shuffling of feet and a few curses issuing from some obviously trod-upon prisoners before a chiseled face appeared from the other side. This man’s green eyes flickered playfully in the firelight, a sight that the rescuer never grew tired of seeing.

Not exactly like he had the choice.

“Sairon… Sairon, is that you under th… I say, man! Is your hand on fire?”
The detainee took a step back, and pointed madly at the flame. “That… that’s not right…”

“Never mind that! Let’s get you out of here.”

Sairon struggled to find the key to the gate, as he had only one hand that could serve its purpose without melting the very lock he was trying to release. The other prisoners, once they realized that the man on the other side was not a guard but a liberator, bounded to their feet, chatting excitedly in a flurry of different dialects and accents.

“We’re getting out of here?”

“Ye mean he ain’t ol’ ironsides?”

“I ain’t goin’ to Damned’s Isle…”

“Is his hand burning?”

The satisfying click of the lock made Sairon’s heart swell, and his blood began to boil once more. The fire in his hand glowed even brighter with its new fuel, and lapped at the air excitedly.

“Let’s go.”

Varro ducked through the opening before the rush of men could flood the tiny door. Slowly, what seemed like more than two score of men trickled into the passage way behind them, crowding around the single ladder leading to the deck. A few of the older ruffians grunted biddings of silence to the rest, and there was only a soft murmur of conversation as Sairon slowly opened the hatch.

There was no movement on the main deck from what he could see. All of the watchmen were up on the quarterdeck, huddled around a crate; he could only assume they were involved in a game of cards. The poor bloke Sairon knocked out must have drawn the shortest straw.

Sairon slid halfway down the ladder, flame still dancing in his hand. He held it high, as to light the faces before him, and spoke in a deep, commanding voice: “Alright, we’re clear on the main deck. The guards are distracted on the quarterdeck; they shouldn’t pose a problem as long as we make this quick and silent.”

“The port is swarming with watchmen tonight. You’ll have the best chance at freedom if you all go separate ways… every man for himself.” His voice hardened. “Get as far away from this ship as you can.”

A gruff laugh issued from the middle of the crowd. It chortled as loud as the soul dared, voice dripping in a sinister incredulity. “And who are ye to be tellin’ us what to do? Ye won’t even show us yer face!” he looked at the fire, and his eyes grew wide. “And what the bloody blazes is happenin’ with yer hand?”


There were a few nods from the crowd, and some of the men became uneasy on their feet at the mutinous cry. Sairon’s stomach cramped with agitation, and he felt his face grow as hot as the flame in his hand.

But before he could open his mouth to speak, an old man with a graying beard and scarred face roared in confrontation, “What? Ye crazy? Who gives a rat’s ass who he is! He be gettin’ us out o’ this cursed cell. The next time ye be needin’ savin’, ye won’t be askin’ pointless questions!” the man turned to Sairon. “I be speakin’ for the lot of us, thank ye kindly. We be owin’ ye our necks.”

Sairon grunted. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until we’re off this wretched ship.”

“Aye,” he winked, “that be the idea, eh?”

With one quick flick of his fingers, Sairon made a fist with his hand, starving the fire until it was but a wisp of smoke. When the men found themselves within the clutches of darkness once more, he whispered: “Let’s go.”

A stream of liberated prisoners shifted onto silent feet as if trained, moving without a sound. Even the older men crept with the grace of a youth, feet trained to tread without waking a soul. Sairon and Varro stood close to the hatch, ferrying the men across the deck and to the ropes where they slid out of sight. Varro’s black hair hung in matted curls around his head, catching what little light hung in the night air, playing with his face and caressing his smiling lips. The cloaked Sairon rolled his fire-lit eyes from under his hood.

“You’re always here for the fun, aren’t you?”

Varro moved to shrug, but the long and groaning whine of a shredding rope broke through the harbor’s silence like shattering glass.
The remaining men on deck broke into a run as the gruff yells of the rising alarm burst from the quarterdeck. Varro and Sairon froze, watching the enemy descend the stairs with an angry cry, drawing their weapons for attack.
Sairon grumbled silent curses as he unsheathed is sword, “Oh, you have to be joking… Varro!”

He tossed the two daggers that hung at waist to his friend, who caught their hilts without a second glance, feeding of the power they held. “Oh, have I ever been waiting for this!”

“Just shut up and fight!”

There was a flurry of movement, and the sound of clashing metal as Sairon parried a guard’s attack, swirled, and blocked a second assault; fighting his way against two men.

Varro swirled his weapons and crossed them, providing a block for his own opponent’s sword, drawing the old man closer to his face.

“’Ello, old chap! Sorry I can’t stay any longer…” he withdrew one blade, and sent it sinking into the man’s exposed stomach, “… but it seems that I have a prior engagement.” In surveying the body, he added, “Never much cared for that bloke; always took his rum right at the door…”

“Varro!” Sairon yelled, cornered between a barrels and the end of the main deck, fighting off three men at once. He ducked beneath one attack, and kicked the knees out from beneath another soldier. “When you’re finished courting the dead, your assistance would be greatly appreciated!”

“Alright, alright, no need to be so bossy...” the tall man walked up casually behind the trio and stabbed the middlemost, who went rigid as he yelped out in pain. The last man left on his feet—distracted by his fallen comrade—soon found himself in a similar situation, meeting the planks with reddened lips. Sairon withdrew his sword from the man’s side, whirling it around to great the throat of the third man.

Varro smirked. “You’ve been practicing.”

“And a lot of good it did me, now we’ve got to fight two against an entire harbor!”

“Oh, don’t be such a dead weight!”

“I’m not being a dead weight; I’m being a realist… behind you!”


A gangplank had been raised onto the bobbing ship, and several red-clad guards came rushing aboard, muskets at the ready. Sairon had barely enough time to pull Varro behind the same wooden crates before the ranks had kneeled and musket balls began whizzing above their heads. He landed with a muffled ‘oof’ upon something surprisingly soft, and upon looking down, found himself nose to nose with the guard he had victimized only a short time ago. His hood fell from his head to reveal gluing red eyes and his messy, lengthy blonde hair, which now hung loosely from a slipping tie.

“The bloody ‘ell…” was all he could utter before a swift blow from the sword’s hilt drove him back into unconsciousness.

Varro sighed in the most casual of ways—ways that shouldn’t be used with hell only a barrel’s length away—and put it simply, “So… what’s your plan?”

“Plan?!” Sairon peeked around the corner, only to be chased back by another shot. “I haven’t a plan! That was ruined as soon as the watchmen spotted us, not like you’ve cared to notice!”

“Oh, so it’s my fault, is it now?”

“Well, you’re carelessness in Doyle certainly didn’t help! Seriously, Varro… a brothel?”

“I didn’t know Mariah was running a whorehouse until I was already inside!”

“The fact that you could even inadvertently saunter into one says a lot about your character!” he shook his head. “Besides, this is hardly the time to be discussing your habits of procreation! I’d like to get out of here…” a ricocheting musket ball leapt towards them with a screeching purr, narrowly missing the edge of Varro’s ear, causing both of them to flinch to the deck after cutting him off mid-sentence. “…alive.”

“Well, you best’ve be thinking quick, or they’ll be nothing left of us but red powder!”

Sairon’s heart stopped. Something clicked within his mind, and time crept to slow-motion as his epiphany swept through his senses, wrestling from him all that was left of his self-control with one final rush.  

“Powder…”

His silent plea for the power over his own body died out, and the creature he kept chained released itself from its internal prison; he became almost inhuman.

“Varro, I have an idea.”

“’Bout bloody time. How are we getting out of this one, now?”

“We’re going for a swim.”

“Are you daft? They’ll pick us off the second we hit the water!”

“Not after I’m done with them,” he said, then threw his hand out to grab the blade of Varro’s weapon, forcing his hand to buckle and melt around the edge; the rush within his ears blocking out any hint of pain. Sairon scrambled to his feet—or rather, his knees—making his way behind a large wooden barrel that was propped against the rail. He threw his back against the container, and smeared his hand—now saturated with glowing blood—along the grain of the wood. Immediately, the sizzle of fire flooded the air.

Varro’s eyes grew wide. “Is that…”

“Gunpowder.” Sairon smirked, and shrugged towards the rail.

“You smug, brilliant bastard.”

Sairon laughed, as he quickly threw off his cloak and sheathed his sword. “I suggest you jump.”

The two men leapt off the side of the ship and hit the salty sea with a splash, disappearing into the murky depths before breaching a few lengths away before beginning their frantic swim towards docked ships. Only seconds later, shouts breached the deck where they had stood, and Sairon turned in time to see the ranks take aim at their backs. But no sooner had their commander raised his hand, the burning barrel burst, igniting the surround powder and reducing the side of the ship to smoldering splinters. The prison runner shifted and groaned from behind, the sea lapping hungrily at its sides.

Sairon turned back and treaded faster through the murky waters, chasing his friend who bobbed ahead. The echo of explosions and burning wood chased his ears, mixing with the excruciating hum of his boiling blood. His hand had initially protested the sudden onset of moisture and now stung with the salt of the sea, steam rising from his skin.

Sairon caught up to Varro and stretched his hand on his shoulder, cocking his heat to the left. Wordlessly, Varro followed, trading water behind his friend. They grew nearer to the wooden dock, the sound of stomping feet endless and the shouts of soldiers echoing off the sea as they ran towards the sinking prison runner. Sairon dipped his face beneath the water—submerging up to the bridge of his nose—and pressed himself deep within the shadow of the belly of a bobbing ship, inconspicuously sliding himself under the wooden planks without notice.

As Sairon opened his mouth to speak, his tongue silenced his words. From above, a sharp bark that could only be spewed by a man of the commanding ranks rang to his sensitive ears.

“What do you mean they’ve escaped!?”

He motioned to Varro to be silent before pulling himself up closer upon the supports to the dock’s floor, directly underneath the officer and the unfortunate subsidiary forced to join in his company. A cloaked figure stood unmoving behind the older man, watching the proceedings with hidden eyes.

“My apologies, Admiral,” said the younger, “but the two we had at gunpoint fled off the side of the ship. When we went to take aim over the rail, the powder kegs exploded.” He lowered his voice. “We lost a good many men to two pirates. I’m afraid we’ve lost track of them.”

The Admiral advanced, his wigged head red against the blue of his three-point hat. “By which, you mean that you’ve lost them, Doran! As the Captain of your ship, I expect you to be in complete control of your vessel at all times, from morning tea through supper’s meal!” Sairon could hear the rage boiling from within his throat. “Give me one reason why I should waver from demoting you where you stand!”
Through the wood’s crack, Sairon watched the young Captain falter back a step, barely standing his ground. “I…”

“Captain!” a cry interrupted his reply. “Captain, Sir!”

The two men turned to face the incoming soldier wordlessly, the Admiral’s face still as red as the setting sun.

“At ease, Mister Dawson.”  The captain waved his hand, as did the Admiral. The man relaxed his salute. “What news?”

Grubby and lanky, the boy struggled through words with a soft accent. “Sir, we’ve not ‘ad a spot ‘o luck with the fugitives.” The Captain tensed, beads of sweat rolling down his face.

Seeing the distress in his master’s eyes, he quickly backtracked his words. “But that isn’t to be said with the other prisoners.” He waved frantically behind him, and two soldiers came forward from the shadows, the pair restraining a single man. As he neared, Sairon recognized him as the man who questioned his authority back in the hull of the ship.

“Found ‘im hidin’ behind a flour barrel, we did.” He beamed.

The captain studied the man. “Really now? Did you find anything on him?”

“Aye sir. Just a small bag o’ powder he lifted off one o’ the guards, and a few coins.” The soldier threw them to the ground at the Captain’s feet, directly above Sairon’s peering eye. “I thought you might want a word with ‘im.”

“Indeed.” It was the Admiral who spoke next, walking briskly to the captured man, towering over him like the shadow of hell. “Now, pirate, I will ask you my questions, and you will answer them truthfully and without hesitation. If you falter,

I will assume that you are lying though your teeth—and the only remedy for that is to remove them altogether, or have you hung by the neck until the seagulls feast on your skin and hair. Am I clear?”

His eyes grew wide, fear soaking his gaze. “A-aye, Sir!”

“Very well. I will start with an easy inquiry. Who were the two men that set you and your brethren free?” There was a pause. “Answer me!”

“I… well, ye see…,” He struggled to find the words, “only one man actually freed us, the other was in the brig.”

“You mean to say that the entire breakout was successfully executed by one man?”

“Aye, that be correct.”

“A description of the man?”

Another pause, and the Admiral grasped the prisoner’s throat without warning, squeezing the air from his lungs. “My patience runs thin, pirate. A description, now!”

“I… I don’t know what ‘e looked like!” His voice was crushed and strained as he struggled for air. “He kept ‘is hood up! Couldn’t see ‘is face! Please… I can’t…”

“Thank you, Mister Pirate.” The Admiral threw the filthy man to the ground, and turned to his captures with a smirk before turning towards the shore. “See to it that this man is hung by sunrise. He is of no further use to me.”

“Aye, Sir!”

“Wa-wait! There’s more! I can tell you more!” the prisoner screamed frantically, and Sairon’s heart skipped a beat. “His hands—I don’t know how ‘e did it—but they were burning, on fire! Honest…”

It was not the Admiral who turned, but the hooded shadow of a man, who stopped abruptly at the mention of such an anomaly. Sairon’s advanced vision studied him, taking in every contour of his body, penetrating the hood’s shadow to see his face. He was a ghost of a man, with pallid skin and white blonde hair, unforgettable by all accounts. There was something about him… a haunting feeling that Sairon couldn’t shake.

“His hands were on fire?” Much to Sairon’s surprise, a voice like liquid silver slid from his parted lips, enticingly smooth and charismatic.

“Aye, that’s what I said! Like a torch was bunin’ on ‘is fingers!”

“You jest with the wrong…” the Admiral started, only to be cut off by a raised hand.

“Quiet, Admiral!” He said pleasantly, but with and air condescendence, returning to the now shaking prisoner.

“I… I apologize, My Lord.”

His apology went ignored. “Can you not remember his name?” He enticed, “Surely his companion must have mentioned one.”

The pirate’s eyes softened, as if in a trance, enchanted by the silver voice. “I…”
Time slowed in front of Sairon’s eyes, his thoughts winding back to the brig, replaying his memories. Varro had said his name multiple times. If that bloke remembered, he would have to abandon his identity altogether.

Not that he wasn’t used to using aliases.

Frantic, he racked his mind for an idea… a distraction… anything. He surveyed the scene for anything that could possibly stir up trouble.

And he found it. The small bag of powder was within his reach, laying athwart two planks, with plenty of space to fit one, burning finger.

The skin had already begun to heal over the small wound on his middlemost finger, and he scratched off the scab with a small wince, feeling the boiling blood spill over his wet skin with a soft hiss. Snapping his fingers, the familiar flame erupted from his hand and happily sucked upon his finger’s fuel. Sairon reached upwards, and placed the tongue of fire close enough to heat the powder bag until the canvas smoldered.

Sairon leapt from his position, not caring about the sound of him plunging into the sea. From underneath the waters, he swam back into the clutter of ships without so much as a breath, Varro following once again.

Bam.

From the safety of the murky waters, he heard the groaning cry of the splitting timbers of the dock mixed with the sharp yelps from the mouths of men. The water briefly danced with the golden light, then shed the brilliance as quickly as it had come.

He swam as fast and as far as he could, breaching only when his lungs stung and clawed at his throat for air, though his body moved effortlessly and unlabored through the harbor. Only when Varro had fallen an entire ship length’s behind did Sairon slow to a tread.

Varro coughed up salt water and shuddered, obviously agitated and exhausted. “So... you have a plan? Or should I grow a set of gills and swim with the fishes?”

Sairon rolled his eyes at his friend—for only Varro could thank his savior with a gruff remark—and grabbed the rough netting which cascaded into the water, pulling himself onto the deck where the wood kissed the blackened sky.