The Relentless One  

Rhys the Relentless, high admiral of the pirate armada, paced the polished blackwood planks of his cabin like a caged panther. His first mate watched warily from the doorway, awaiting the storm to break.

It had been a full fortnight since Amara the witch escaped Captain Rhys's clutches, leaving his manhood blighted by dark magic. Each new dawn without word of her recapture darkened Rhys's mood further. None dared speak her name in his presence.

But now Enfin, the navigator had called urgent word that a swift scout ship had just returned with news. Rhys paused in his prowling to fix the nervous mate with a piercing emerald glare.

"Send him up, and be quick about it."

The mate scrambled to obey as Rhys forced himself to stand motionless, gloved hands clenched tight at his sides. Moments later, light steps approached and a lean, pox-scarred man entered, cap in hand. His sea-blue eyes portrayed cunning rather than fear.

"Well?" Rhys demanded. "What have you discovered, Ilya?"

The scout gave a mocking half bow. "My lord, after much arduous searching, we finally spotted the witch's trail. She fled to a remote isle, likely thinking it safely hidden." His lips split in a gap-toothed grin. "But the forgotten places have no secrets from old Ilya."

"You know where she hides?" Rhys moved closer, threat implicit in his predatory grace. "Tell me plainly, man."

Ilya's grin only widened, visibly relishing his lord's dependence on his knowledge. "I glimpsed her myself, my captain, though not clearly. She keeps strange company now. My men dared not approach too closely, since your orders were merely to track and report."

Rhys's gloved hand shot out to grip the insolent scout's throat. "Your caution is wise, this time," he ground out with teeth bared inches from the other man's face. "Now describe for me exactly what you saw."

Ilya's chuckle turned into a choking gurgle. Rhys loosened his chokehold fractionally, allowing the scout breath to rasp out his tale.

"She shelters...on the isle...called Weluma...in the old temple ruins..." Ilya's face reddened as he forced the words out. "Travels with...one or two companions...didn't see them clearly."

Rhys released him abruptly. Ilya sagged back, massaging his bruised neck but still smirking. "So do I bring the witch to you in chains now...my lord?" He mocked the honorific.

Rhys turned away with mind blazing over this new information. He had known the foreign beauty would not simply vanish after their last unfortunate encounter. Clearly she pursued some purpose in his lands, but what? And who were these mysterious companions his scout mentioned? Other agents sent to aid her quest? Rhys must discover the truth himself.

"No," he said at length, turning back to his underling. "Ready a swift sloop with my household guard. I will go to this island personally and root out her secrets." His hand dropped to the dagger at his belt. "And you, Ilya, will guide me to where you saw her. But heed me well..."

He seized the scout's tunic, yanking him close. "If you have lied or play me false, I will lengthen your dying beyond nightmare." He spoke coolly, inlaying each word upon the other's mind. "Betray me, and you will envy the dead before the end."

Ilya's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his smile now gone. "I understand plainly, Lord Rhys," he rasped. "We will leave at once." Rhys released him with a contemptuous shove.

"See that we do."

Within the hour, the two-masted sloop cruelty streaked from the harbour with bellied sails full of brisk wind. It bore southwest, guided by Ilya's navigations. Rhys stood stiffly at the prow, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The lust for vengeance seethed within him. He had badly underestimated this foreign witch, to his cost. He would not make that mistake again.

True to his name, Rhys's ship found the isle called Weluma before dusk fell; an ominous knob of rock clawed at the bruised sky. Seabirds wheeled above the vine-choked ruins atop its central ridge. Somewhere within, the witch sheltered. Rhys's lips peeled back from his teeth. He would teach her that no one defied his desires and lived.

As the sloop dropped anchor in a protected cove, Ilya scrambled into a waiting boat with a dozen of Rhys's personal guards. His lord followed wordlessly with his emerald eyes unreadable beneath his plumed hat. The scout gestured for the oarsmen to row for shore. Rhys remained silent, letting the surf and crying gulls speak for him. His men knew the black moods that gripped him of late. None was foolish enough to voice idle chatter in his presence. The only sound was the dip and creak of oars, counting down to vengeance.

The boats scraped onto rock and shell shards along the deserted strand. Moving with disciplined swiftness, the guards fanned out securing a perimeter. Rhys vanished like a shadow into the dense foliage, following the scout toward the ruins. The men left behind clutched their talismans and weapons in white-knuckled grips, alert to any threat. Their lord's wrath would fall on them equally if they failed in their duty. It was never wise to disappoint the Relentless One.

Night swallowed the jungle as Rhys and Ilya crept upward through snarled vines and grasping ferns. Glimpses of shattered walls showed through the foliage ahead. The scout hesitated at the tree line, glancing back.

Rhys answered the unspoken question with an impatient slash of his hand. They would proceed. Ilya swallowed again but complied, moving ahead using the moonlight to pick a sly course. Rhys glided in his wake like a wraith. If the witch thought herself safe in this forgotten place, he would teach her otherwise. None could escape his reach.

They passed finally beneath a crumbling arch into the central precincts. Rhys glanced around, assessing. The ruins appeared long abandoned, whatever devotees once worshipped here now dust. But he sensed a lingering power beneath the stillness. The witch was near, he could feel it resonate.

Rhys turned to his guide, about to demand directions to her quarters, when something made his battle-honed instincts flare. Ilya's eyes flashed oddly in the gloom beneath the trees; his hand quickly drifted too close to the dagger in his sash.

"Huh!" Rhys's own blade was in hand in a heartbeat, pressed to the scout's jugular before the mutinous dog could flinch.

"Your true face shows plain at last, wretch," Rhys hissed, backing the smaller man against a vine-wound column. "Did you think me so blinded by rage I wouldn't see your betrayal coming?" He pressed the knife's edge to draw a bead of dark blood. "Who bought your treachery? Speak!"

But Ilya only chuckled despite the blade at his throat. "Does it matter now, my lord? You'll soon be dead whichever hired my humble skills." His shoulders twitched in what might have been a shrug. "Though it gladdens me to know the witch will claim your pretty head herself for trophy. Assuming anything remains after the demon lord finishes with you."

Rhys went rigid, thoughts racing. Demon? Did the scout mean...?

Ilya's knee crashed up into his groin before he could demand answers. Rhys doubled over with a choked snarl. Ilya darted into the shadows, already blurring into the foliage.

Cursing him bitterly, Rhys staggered upright. Much as he longed to gut the snake where he hid, the scout's cryptic words took precedence. Rhys still knew too little of what awaited in the ruins. He drew a steadying breath, centring himself. The sting of betrayal could wait. He had not clawed his way up from guttersnipe to admiral by being ruled by emotion. The scout's plot had failed; now Rhys must discover what other snares hid in the darkness.