Burke's Privateers

Captain Burke strode the splintered deck of his most recent foe. The ancient timbers fractured and twisted as he walked, talons and leathery wings beat down on the galleon. The canvas hung in ribbons, and the wind whipped the fragments into a thousand forlorn banners.

He stood for a moment. Contemplating the destruction his privateers had wrought. The sun and flames glinted off something golden on the floor.

He bent down to pick up a bronze nameplate ripped free from its wooden post, the shorn screws still in their holes. He held it up and read the name, Wellerman. He tapped the plate against his palm.

Why's that name sound familiar?

"Soon may the Wellerman come…"

The old sea shanty drummed through his mind, bringing a half smile to his scarred face. He flicked his wrist and tossed the nameplate into the ocean. The deck ruptured, and he hopped gingerly over the yawning gap toward the aft of the doomed ship.

Screams pierced the moment of calm, ragged shouts coming from above and below as the boat split in two, and whatever remaining resistance crumbled.

Humming the shanty tune, Burke climbed the steps of the quarterdeck and reached the captain's post. He paused to give a mock salute to the man's body and climbed onto the high point of the rail.

Hand holding what rigging remained, Burke turned to face the ship as flames licked its timbers and great jets of water sprayed up as air was forced out from its innards. His work was done, he nodded once and leapt off the edge.

This moment of doubt was the only feeling that left him feeling alive these days. That soul-deep yellow-bellied fear that she would abandon him.

That she would forsake their pact.

Not today.

Burke was caught firmly before he hit the churning corpse-ridden surf. Spray wet his grinning face as they swept upwards on leathery wings beating long powerful rhythms.

Strong arms and their equally sharp talons placed him gently on a long curved back. Burke shimmied into his saddle and strapped himself in. He felt more at home in the wind than on the solid ground. Nevermind a boat.

His gaze swept across the battle, "Enough." He raised his pistol and fired a blue shot.

Burke's Winged Privateers broke off their punitive action and soared into the wide-open blue. The True Sea. As the wind rushed against him, a question nagged him. A feeling entered his mind unbidden from his thoughts, but not dissimilar to his current mood.

"Go on. You know I don't like it when you hint."

< Why? >

"Why what?"

< Why did we attack merchants bringing aid to famine-stricken isles? >

Burke surveyed the disaster below. At this height, it looked like children's toys smashed to bits by a spoiled brat, one too used to getting his way to consider the consequences.

"Because he willed it."

< How long? >

"Until our contract is up."

< Too long. >

"I know."

Burke's band drew into a tighter formation and made for their home eyrie. The same questions haunted his mind the whole way back. How long could they serve a tyrant? What purpose did this attack and all those deaths serve?

Why?

The sun set on his disquiet. Rum in his belly and a warm berth eased his tension for now. But he heard talons scratch across the cold hard stone that spoke of a disquiet far more difficult to soothe.

Of minds that did not forget. 

Of pacts under strain.

Something had to be done.

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Zane Dickens' stories go bump in the night, ka-boom in space, and roar with adventure in fabled lands. And if he can help it, there's a streak of humour too.