The Red King (8 page)

“I’ll kill you!” he screamed when the man
withdrew to open his breeches.

Acklie just laughed. “I’m sure you will.”

Andrew felt the man’s erection, hot and
heavy, on the curve of his ass and closed his eyes. “Rory!” he
screamed.

There was a loud crash and a burning barrel
rolled into the room. Acklie was fast; he grabbed Andrew by the
hair and pulled him up to cover his chest. He turned the both of
them, keeping Andrew in front of him, as
Ruaidhri
appeared.
He wore only boots and breeches and he was streaked with blood and
soot. He did not speak, did not have to, the lines of his body
evinced threat and danger.

“Your Highness! You happen upon us as I am
about to sample the hospitality of your subjects. Might you decree
that he open his pretty ass for me?” Acklie taunted with his knife
back at Andrew’s throat.

Rory still said nothing, but the clenching of
his jaw was plainly visible.

Acklie laughed. “You hesitate? Because of
this one?” He gave Andrew’s hair a violent yank. “Is he worth the
trouble?”

“You will remove your hands from him.
Now.”

“By your command!” Acklie tossed Andrew away,
pulling a pistol from the back of his belt.

Andrew turned to see the readied flintlock,
Acklie’s finger on the trigger twitch, and struck out with one
foot. He only delivered a glancing blow, but it was enough to knock
the shot wide and away from Rory. Acklie was furious and swung at
Andrew with the spent pistol, catching him in the side. It was not
enough to stop what had already been put in motion.

When he’d been picked up by his hair,
Andrew’s hand had brushed the dagger. As the pistol arched towards
him, he plunged the knife into the man’s throat. They froze,
staring at each other while blood jetted from the wound to cover
them both. He still gripped the hilt even as it protruded from
Acklie’s neck. He screamed into Acklie’s pallid face, a wordless,
defiant cry, and pulled the knife out. Andrew watched him collapse,
and then watched him die.

There was a sound, a presence beside him. He
turned quickly; knife before him, and found Rory kneeling there.
Andrew looked at Acklie, then back to him. He dropped the knife
into the captain’s open hand and slowly got to his feet. Rory rose
with him. “Are you hurt?”

Andrew looked down at himself; pants gone,
shirt drenched in blood. “No, he didn’t get the chance. Are you
hurt?” he asked, peering into Rory’s face, carefully searching for
signs of injury.

“You killed him,” Rory said.

“He laughed at me and threatened you.”

Dropping the dagger, Rory took his face into
his hands. “You killed him to save me.” The look in his eyes caused
Andrew’s heart to surge and rattle against his ribs.

Andrew’s brows rose. “He laughed at me
first.”

Rory laughed. “You are the damnedest thing.”
He kissed Andrew then, gently, careful of his still bruised lips.
When Andrew put one hand behind his head and pulled him closer,
pressing their mouths together more fully, he moaned. “But your
face…”

Andrew’s other hand slipped up his back. “My
face is fine…please….”

They locked in another kiss, hands on each
other’s form with no care for blood or ash or anything but the feel
of skin. Rory bent to take his neck, his fingers digging in beneath
Andrew’s shirt, “What are you doing?”

“I’m accepting your offer.”

Rory kissed him harder, groaning loud and
long into his mouth, but then withdrew.

“You chose a strange time.”

“You could have
died
,” Andrew
insisted, his fingers now tangling into the long strands of red
hair.

“Aye, so could have you,” Rory said, his brow
furrowed and eyes troubled.

It was a moment frozen in time for Andrew.
The surprise he felt was matched in Rory’s eyes, and beneath that
was warmth and need that seemed to blot out the commotion around
them. Men were streaming into the hold, exclaiming at the mess of
burnt crates and barrels. Several were injured, but all moved on
their own power except Fleming. Malik carried him into the kitchen
and laid him on the table.

“It’s not…that bad,” he said, sounding pained
and exasperated at the same time.

Andrew and Rory released their hold on each
other. Andrew quickly retrieved his breeches and dressed himself
while Rory examined his friend. Fleming grabbed his hand. “I’ll be
fine. Cook’ll stitch me up, good as new,” he said, and though his
manner was glib, his face was sickly gray and sheened with
sweat.

Rory nodded to Andrew, who was reluctantly
relieved with his agreement. He waited while Cook prepared his
tools; a bottle of rum, needle, thread, and a candle. The candle
was lit, the needle was heated, and Fleming took a long draw of the
rum. Then the rum was splashed liberally over the gash and the two
sides were pinched together. Fleming grunted, teeth clenched, and
reached for the bottle again. “I’d like some more of that, if you
please.”

Eyeing the men crowding the little room, Rory
tersely commanded, “Is there not work to be done? Algiers awaits us
and if we sink along the way then I will drown each of you myself
before Hell takes me!”

Malik’s roar was heard over the clamor of
their exit. “Aye, Captain!”

There were eight wounded, besides Fleming.
Andrew took to their care immediately, doing the best he could with
simple cloth bandages and a second bottle of rum. He returned to
the table where Fleming was still bearing the needle’s pain.

“There’s nothing but rum? There’s no drawing
salve or poultice powder?” he asked.

When Fleming saw him, he eyed the bloody
shirt with alarm. “Holy Hell and fuck! What happened to you?”

Andrew did not answer immediately. He looked
at Rory, who nodded, but didn’t speak. “When I left you there was a
man in the hold, he set the fire.” He felt a little ill. His
stomach was rolling and sweat was starting to glisten on his face.
“I, ah, he attacked me and…”

Fleming nodded in understanding. “I take it
Rory got to you in time or else you’d be stuck and bleeding,
too.”

Rory shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

Fleming looked back to Andrew and when the
truth penetrated his pain addled mind his eyes widened. “Forgive my
assumption, Andrew. Well done.”

“Was it?” Andrew questioned, feeling sicker
by the minute. He wiped his face, pressed his hand to his mouth,
refusing to surrender to his horror with what he’d done or the grim
circumstance before them now.

His own concern ebbed, as did the nausea,
when Fleming jumped and yelled.

“Fucking Christ, Cook! Can’t you finish up?
How much longer?”

“It’s too deep, Fleming. I can’t get the
needle into the wound to get it closed,” Cook apologized, looking
to the captain with helpless, red rimmed eyes.

“Wrap it, then, and stop poking about in my
guts. I think I’ve had enough today,” the injured man said, but his
words lacked much heat. He was growing paler, his lips turning a
foreboding shade of bluish-gray. “Damnation…you might be right this
time,” he quipped with a small smile at his captain, and then he
passed out.

Rory pulled his hand from his friend’s and
replaced it with Andrew’s. “Stay with him. Keep him alive.”

“What are you going to do?” Andrew asked.

“We’re bringing out the oars. The ship’s
repairs can wait, his cannot.” Rory ran from the room.

While Cook packed the gash with as much fresh
linen as they had, Andrew returned to the other wounded men. “When
we make land I will get supplies for a salve that will help the
healing. You will be fine, we just need to watch for infections,”
he told them as he carefully rechecked their dressing. “How many
more are there?”

“More what?” one of them asked.

“Wounded.”

“This is all of us.”

Andrew was shocked. “What of the other ship?
Surely there are more men that need tending.”

The man’s face was hard. “There were none
left.”

“What?”

“There was no quarter given.”

“No quarter given?” Andrew asked in a
horrified whisper.

“They’d killed their cargo, every captive, to
the last of them. The crew was ordered to as a warning to leave
Jans de Worrt’s ships alone and the captain, he responded in kind.
The ship is burning now. A more deserving fate would have been to
let it rot in the sun.”

“How could they do that? How could
Rory
do that?” He felt sick again, sick and lost and
tired.

“Andrew.”

Andrew went immediately back to Fleming.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” he answered, placing his hand on the man’s
shoulder.

“This is an ugly world you find yourself in.”
Regarding him with sad eyes, Fleming covered Andrew’s hand with his
own. “Men are foul things and act accordingly. If I were you, I
would find a little church to return to and live out your days in
peace.”

“I don’t want that life anymore, Fleming,”
Andrew said, softly, taking the man’s fingers.

Fleming smiled. “You want to follow Rory.
Aye, it shows in your face. It’s all right, Andrew. He inspires
loyalty, makes you want to follow him, makes you believe.”

“That’s not…”Andrew began, but was cut short
by Fleming’s very soft laughter.

“It may not be exactly what you feel at this
moment, but I see it. When you know where he came from, what he’s
been through, you’ll see him for his true self.” His voice wavered
and Andrew saw tears in the man’s eyes.

“Fleming?” The hold on Andrew’s hand was
weakening. He clenched his fingers a little tighter.

“He’s broken, Andrew, but not destroyed.
You’ll have to take care of him and you’ll need to be strong to do
it. You have to keep his pieces together, or Maarten will scatter
them to the four corners. He’s already tried, you see. He’s the one
who broke him.”

The words rang in Andrew’s head. “I don’t
know what you mean.”

“Of course not, not yet. It took me time,
too, and I never really managed to hold him.”

Andrew understood, then. “You…you and
he…”

“It was only for a short while, but I
couldn’t give him what he needed. I didn’t know what he needed. I
stayed with him because he was always more than my lover, he was my
friend. He was my brother and my savior. I love him with my whole
being.”

“Oh, Fleming, I’m so sorry,” he whispered,
starting to weep.

“I let that go a long time hence. It’s all
right, boy. It was quite to my liking to see him fretting over
you.” He smiled again, even managed a small chuckle, though his
strength was ever waning.

“We’re going to Algiers, Fleming. The doctor,
the one who saved Malik, he will save you, too,” Andrew told him,
clutching Fleming’s hand close to him now.

“I’m not going to last that long, I’ve bled
too much. I suppose you should have stayed with me after all.”

“I’m….sorry…” Andrew was crying.

“I’m not,” and Fleming winked. Then he was
silent.

Andrew stayed next to him until his hand no
longer held its own warmth.

Slow steps took Andrew from the kitchen. The
damage to the hold was only glancing, turning the interior black
but leaving it structurally sound. There was a bit missing from the
stairs at the mouth of the hold, but it held his weight with no
complaints and the plank would be replaced quickly, he knew. On
deck the immediate damage had been corrected; rigging was laced and
retied, wood shards and rope strands, shattered crates and barrels
were all cleared away. He could see black smoke in the distance, a
funeral pyre to the weather gods.

There were men at the jibs, men at the oars,
pushing harder than even during the storm. The strokes were
powerful, unified in goal to save one of their own. As they rowed,
they called together, keeping pace with almost unnatural skill.
Andrew saw Rory at their front. He could see the captain’s back and
shoulders straining with his efforts. Cook had said he should be
the one to tell him, implied that it would be best. The other men
had agreed with him but Andrew was doubtful. He could see no good
in this, none at all.

He moved up the center of the deck, careful
not to disturb the cadence of the men’s work. It was Malik who saw
him first, catching Andrew’s pale form out of the corner of his
eye. He looked up but then quickly away, losing his rhythm for one
beat. His bench partner, Jack, was surprised by this lapse and cast
a glance of irritation. He met Andrew’s eyes and closed his. Andrew
recognized the prayer that passed his lips.

Andrew didn’t want to do this. Even with what
he had been through and what he still faced, he dreaded this
moment. He felt sick. He felt like crying. He felt sharp pains in
his heart as he stepped in front of Rory’s bench. Rory did not look
at him. Andrew tried to speak, to say his name, but his throat was
too tight. He swallowed and tried again but still nothing. He would
have to release his hold on his tears to allow his voice the
necessary freedom. It took another moment of struggling before
Andrew gave up. He hiccoughed a little, letting them loose, and
then he could speak. “Rory,” he choked.

By now the other men were aware of him, and
his mission. They were all still pulling the sweeps, still
wrenching through the water in unison to match their captain. A few
were praying, others cried openly and yet they continued to row.
Rory finally met Andrew’s wretched stare but his own stayed
impassive. “Why are you not with him? If you have something to say,
say it and go back below,” he ordered, fiercely.

Andrew closed his eyes and took a deep, but
shaky breath. He met Rory’s gaze once more and said as steadily as
he could, “Fleming is dead.”

Rory slid out from behind the oar so fast he
startled Andrew into stepping back. He looked angry, furious,
standing over Andrew with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Are you
certain?”