Nobody Likes Fairytale Pirates (41 page)

Inside the tent, Ransom could hear
Dory excitedly telling someone about crocheting, and Ransom suddenly felt sorry
for the poor warrior who had been sentenced to listen to that woman’s chatter.

“Better let me do the talking
here.”  Uriah whispered to her.

“The last time we did that, we
ended up having to kill four people with our bare hands.”

“But it worked out didn’t it?”  He
sounded insulted. 

“Have I even mentioned how much I
hate it when you look at the ‘big picture’?”

He made a playful annoyed sound.  “You’re
always so overly critical of my people skills.”

“Because nobody likes you.”  She
reminded him.

“Well, nobody likes the Lord of
Salt, either.”  He started towards where the warlord was waiting.  “Maybe we’ll
bond over that.”

Despite what he told his partner, Uriah
knew his only real “people skills” generally had to do with
killing
said
people.  But that didn’t mean that he was willing to admit defeat in front of
her.

Their predicament remained the
same: they were lost in the Wasteland.  They had no supplies and would be dead
within the day if left on their own.  So, this wasn’t simply a matter of getting
the Wastelanders to leave them alone.  Uriah and Ransom could have managed that
hours ago, simply by killing everyone in the group they’d run into.

No, this was a matter of not only
being allowed to go on their way, but also being given supplies-- and hopefully
directions—to help them on their journey.

As such, Uriah had demanded to
speak to their leader, who was generally acknowledged to be the Meanest man in
their kingdom and the only one who could help them.

Uriah ducked his head and strolled
into the man’s tent, like he didn’t have a care in the world.  This was the
warrior’s temporary travel tent, rather than being his fulltime residence, but
the interior was still outfitted with a variety of random bits of things which
appeared to be trophies from various battles.  Broken pieces of armor, skulls,
weapons… the kinds of things that any murderous barbarian warlord tended to
accumulate in his work.

Ransom walked up to stand next to
him.  “Uriah?”

“It’s…”  He struggled to describe
the space.  “It’s exactly like you’d imagine this guy’s tent to look.”  He
finally tried.

“Ah.”  She nodded, accepting that. 
“So… like weapons and skulls and shit?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Such a cliché.”  She sounded both
disappointed and disdainful.

“Yep.”

The flap on the other side of the
tent was thrown open and in stalked a
huge
man who could only be The
Lord of Salt.  If you led men in the Grizzwood or the Wasteland, it was because
you were the toughest son of a bitch around, and Tzadok certainly looked the
part.  He was wearing a complicated pair of leggings, a long grey feather
cloak, and some kind of animal skull on his head with sharp antlers which rose
several feet into the air.  The lower half of his face was covered in a mask
made from an animal jaw filled with pointy teeth, producing an inhuman
appearance.  His chest was bare, despite the cold, and was painted with weird
designs in what Uriah hoped wasn’t blood.

The Lord of Salt was the nightmare
of every one of the civilized kingdoms, representing the monstrous savagery and
unrestrained violence which lurked at their doorstep.  He was the story
children of a dozen kingdoms told around campfires to scare each other.  With
the exception of The Kingdom of One, you weren’t likely to find a more
dangerous or feared man around.

To Uriah… he seemed like someone he
probably had a lot in common with. 

Behind Tzadok were several
warriors, one of which was leading a petite woman with the green-hued skin of
the east, wearing an expensive looking little blue and purple snow suit with
the ceremonial accouterments of government.  Whoever the girl was, she was
someone official and someone who
obviously
didn’t belong here.  She was
led into the room on a thick chain which had clearly been designed for people
much larger than she was.  The chain was fastened to an oversized collar which
was fitted around her tiny neck like a prisoner or slave, but it was so wide
that she could have slipped it over her head without any real difficulty.  She
was positioned in front of the warlord’s throne and one of the guards pointed
to the spot on the floor, saying something in a gruff voice.  The girl looked
down at the spot and immediately stepped onto the exact place he’d indicated,
as if obeying a command, then stood there stiffly, looking uneasy and out of
place.

Tzadok sat down in his throne which
was constructed of bones and leaned forward in agitation.  His headgear blocked
most of his facial expressions from view, but Uriah could tell the man was
pissed off at having his plans interrupted like this.  Which was perfectly
understandable.  Generally speaking, no king liked being summoned by intruders.

Ryle leaned forward to whisper to
Uriah and Ransom.  “No offense, but you guys will never be that scary.”  The
boy nodded in certainty, not taking his eyes off the warlord.  “He’s
definitely
the scariest person I’ve been abducted by this month.”

“So far.”  Ransom added calmly. 
“Don’t sell yourself short, I think you can top this.”

The young woman with bright green
skin gave them an elegant bow which would have passed muster in any royal court
in the world.  “Welcome.”  She was soft-spoken and obviously well educated,
undoubtedly somewhere far from here.  Her manner was one of etiquette and
protocol, tinged with an odd but entirely understandable nervousness.  “Umm… My
master,” she gestured to the scary looking man seated behind her, “…my master, Tzadok
the Great… uh…” the little captive diplomat turned back to him, looking
confused.  She repeated a word to him in his language, sounding like she was
seeking confirmation of something.  He yelled the word again in Wastelandi, his
deep voice booming in the confines of the tent, annoyance evident in his tone. 
She winced and took a step away from him, then focused on them.  “
Slaughterer
,”
she continued, “would like to know what you are doing on his lands uninvited?” 

“Our boat sank.”  Uriah explained,
trying to keep it simple given the language barrier and sheer amount of gold at
stake.  “We are merely passing through and will be gone before we become an
irritation.”

The girl relayed his words to the
warlord, listened to her master’s reply, then communicated them to Uriah.  “My
master says that you are too late for that.  You have already irritated him.”

Uriah smiled good-naturedly. 
“Well, I
wouldn’t
have been an irritation if his men hadn’t tried to
kill me.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t like it when people try to kill me. 
Especially since they did such a piss poor job of it.  I was
genuinely
insulted.  I’m a fucking
swampman
, not some little Cormoran puke.”

Ryle frowned.  “Hey!”

Again, the little diplomat girl
communicated his words and then gave his reply.  “Stricklyd was a highly
experienced warrior.  One of the best.”

Uriah scoffed.  “If your master
says so.” 

“My master informs you that there
are any number of other men here who he’s sure will be able to kill you with an
expertise which you will find satisfactory.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”  Uriah rolled his
eyes.  “I think what he fails to…”

Tzadok interrupted him in
Wastelandi, his voice filled with irritation and fury.

The green-skinned girl nodded at
him in understanding, like she was telling him that she’d make certain to
communicate what he obviously wanted so much to say.  “My master inquires who
exactly you people are?”  She paused, biting her lower lip nervously.  “And…
and he is asking that question quite… umm…
emphatically
.”

Uriah pointed at his partner. 
“Ransom.”

She pointed at him.  “Uriah.”

“She’s the brains.”

“He’s the pretty face.”

Ryle scoffed.  “They’re pirates
trying to overthrow the Empress of Adithia.”

The diplomat nodded.  “And you?”

“I’m a collaborator.”  The Swab
said dryly.

“Hostage.”  They both chorused,
correcting him.

He made an annoyed sound.  “You’re
making me look bad in front of the warlord, guys.  Thanks.”

The green-skinned woman translated
all of that, but it seemed to confuse Tzadok.  He said something to his
translator.

Uriah cleared his throat.  “All we
want is permission to be on our way through your master’s domain.  Perhaps some
water and supplies.”

The translator relayed Uriah’s
request and then supplied the warlord’s reply.  “My master seems quite amazed
that you would kill his men and then come to him asking for him to supply your
trip to further trespass in his domain.”

“Dove?”  Uriah turned to his
partner.  “Do you think I’m being too gauche here?”

“You?”  Ransom shook her head, her
tone needlessly sarcastic.  “Never.”

Tzadok and the little diplomat
talked for several minutes in his language, as she tried to explain what Uriah
wanted.  Tzadok didn’t seem very happy about it.

“What’s the plan if this doesn’t
work out?”  Ransom whispered to Uriah.

“That’s your department, Dove.” 
Uriah sniffed in indignation.  “I’ve already done mine.”

“Oh yeah.”  She scoffed.  “Once
again, your ‘people skills’ are second to none, you suave motherfucker.”

“I blame the Swab.”  Uriah’s eyes
narrowed at the boy.  “He just
had
to start talking and ruin the rapport
I was creating with this gentlemen.”

“What?”  Ryle shook his head, as if
to clear it.  “What about me?  I’m not listening to you, to be honest.”  His
eyes narrowed, focusing on the little decorations embroidered on the
translator’s snowsuit.  “I’m still looking at the little frogs.”  He sounded
amazed.  “I mean… what the fuck!?!”

“Swaaaaab…”  Uriah groaned in
annoyance.

“I know, I know…”  Ryle rolled his
eyes.  “But even
you
got to admit that that is weird as all hell,
right?  I mean, it’s not just me that thinks that’s weird.  It can’t be.”

“What’s weird?”  Ransom asked,
unable to see what the boy was talking about.

“The translator’s outfit has little
frogs embroidered on it.”  Uriah explained.  “They’re… smiling.”

“Huh?”  Ransom frowned, digesting
that.  “That’s just…”  She trailed off, at a loss for words.

“I know!”  Ryle agreed, excited
that someone agreed with him.  “Right?”

“What the fuck?”  Ransom finally
got out.  “Is she five?”

Uriah shook his head.  “Nope.”

“Why do I keep running into crazy
people?”  Ryle wondered aloud.  “What is it about my life that the gods are
like: ‘Hey, here’s someone who’s a complete fucking lunatic… let’s have them
spend some time with that Ryle guy, huh?  That’ll be a hoot.’”

The captive diplomat and the
warlord continued their heated conversation for several more minutes, then she
turned back to them. “No.”  She said simply in her soft voice. 

“That was a pretty long ‘no’.” 
Ryle observed.

She shrugged helplessly.  “The rest
of my master’s words are…”  Tzadok bellowed something at her and she turned to
rapidly explain the situation to him in his tongue and they argued about it for
another five minutes.  She turned back to them.  “Still ‘no,’ and my master
advises you to stop disturbing his…”  She looked back at him, holding her hands
up to show him she didn’t understand.  He repeated the word slowly for her,
like she was exceptionally stupid.  Her brow compressed in thought as she
struggled to put it into the common tongue.  “His…’speaker of...’  No, that’s
not right.  ‘Voice’ in a possessive sense?  No, then it would be
Nox’jilhiml
. 
‘Someone who… keeps…his…’  No.  Umm…”  She shrugged again.  “I’m sorry, I don’t
know what that word means.  In context, I think it must be ‘translator’ or
‘slave’.”

“I don’t really care what it
means.”  Uriah informed her, his voice even.  “Tell your master that I’ve
already killed four of his men today and I’d like to avoid killing any more of
them.  I find the process tedious and boring.  I’m negotiable on that point
though, if he wants to try me, but I’d prefer to simply be on my way.”

The diplomat nodded and then
carefully translated that into the warlord’s dialect, and listened to his reply
with her complete attention.  She turned back to Uriah.  “My master, Tzadok,
the Great Slaughterer, Lord of Salt, wishes to remind you that his reach is
long and his memory is… uhh…
long
and if you anger him, you will… well,
there’s no equivalent for it in the basic tongue, but it’s a ceremony where he
will cut off his own genitals and eat them in front of you.”  Her little
emerald colored face compressed in a slight frown.  “Wait… that can’t be
right.”  She glanced back at him and repeated her translation, seeking
clarification.

Tzadok made a horrified face at her
interpretation.  Several of his warriors tried to stifle chuckles of amusement,
and the warlord glared at them like death itself.

The laughter stopped instantly.

Tzadok launched into an explanation
of what he’d meant, complete with pantomimes of the act in question.  She
nodded when he was finished and turned back to them.  “’Cut off
your
genitals
and force
you
to consume them.’”  She corrected.  “Which makes more
sense.  Sorry for that confusion.”

“I liked the first one better.” 
Ryle decided.

The translator put her hands on her
hips.  “Well, I
said
I was sorry.”  She sounded vaguely insulted.  “I
really don’t know what else I can say.”

“Well, ‘Don’t worry, this psycho
barbarian wouldn’t
dream
of cutting off your dick and making you eat it,
Ryle’ certainly springs to mind.”  Ryle offered.  “I know that’d make
me
feel better, anyway.”

“Oh, I couldn’t say that.”  The
girl shook her head.  “That would be a terrible translation.  In fact, quite the
opposite of the meaning conveyed.”

“How about this: tell him that my
genitals are too
big
for him to swallow, but if he wants to eat his own
as a light snack, I’ll try not to laugh too much.”  Uriah’s eyes narrowed. 
“Please inform him that I simply want him to stand aside, give me water, and
bid me on my way.  I seek no further quarrel with his men.  I’m beginning to
feel bad about killing the little fellas.  There’s no sport in it.”

“Umm…”  The girl swallowed
nervously.  “I don’t…  I don’t think he’s going to like that…”  She looked
terrified.