Vignette: The Devil's Brood
“She ain’t comin’,” stated the bald headed man in a flat tone and knocked back another swig from the rum bottle held in his big paw.
Hunkered in front of the fire, Ranulf turned a dark look up to his companion and nodded grimly, “Figured as much when she didn’t come back after the first seven or two had passed by.” He stabbed viciously at the coals, trying to coax them to a higher flame but the jungle floor was damp and they responded with little more than a dull glow.
Adding insult to injury, Bastian continued with a sneer to his tone, “Looks to be workin’ a load of cargo on some spice ship from down South, if dock chatter has it right.” Glancing down at the pathetic excuse for a fire, “Just give it up, that thing ain’t never gonna light properly.” Such an optimist. The bottle of rum was held out to the blonde man and then quickly yanked out of harm’s way when he knocked a savage gesture of his mood toward it.
Standing Ranulf kicked at one of the rocks forming the circle around the spluttering campfire sending it bouncing and rolling into the darkened jungles. “Fucking little whore! Shoulda known she’d set herself up nicely and forget to come back for me!”
Bastian, holding the bottle against his chest watched the display with cold, dispassionate eyes for a moment, then asked, “What you plan on doin’ about it, eh?” A note of dark menace colouring his tone. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to see the snotty little wench get her dues. Especially after the way she’d shut him down cold when he’d made a crude play for her before they’d docked at Ista. The memory burned down deep in his gut; that cold pale eyed smirk, the blade that had suddenly appeared in her hand and pressed against his groin, the sneer that had gone with the words threatening to emasculate him if ever tried to lay a hand on her again. Like she was above the rest of them! Fucking bitch! He’d make sure she paid!
Having spent the next few minutes cursing his younger cousin all the way to Southern and back, Ranulf inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling the uppermost fires of his anger, turned a cold and calculating look over to his man. “I’m going to make it so she thinks I’m dead, that’s what I’m going to do. And then, I’m getting off this godforsaken piece of rock and going after my cargo and anything else those bastards that salvaged it might have with them.” Lifting a finger in the air he finished off his master plan with, “and then, then you’re going to ensure the Weyrleaders have evidence enough to suggest she not only left me marooned here, but that she had a hand in my death too.”
The bald-headed bear of a man looked a little disappointed that there was to be no hands on retribution that is until the last part of the blonde man’s plan was laid out. Black eyes filled with sinister pleasure, “Knew there was a reason I stuck with you,” rather than his dark-haired cousin.
Ranulf’s mouth twisted into an ugly line, “She’ll regret the day she left me here to rot.” The bottle that had been offered earlier was plucked out of Bastian’s grasp and he downed a healthy portion of it.
Freed of the rum, the burly man’s hand unsheathed his knife and he started to pick at the dirt under his nails with it. “Where to from here, boss?”
Sliding down against the trunk of a tree and using it as a backrest, Ranulf cocked a cunning look up to his hired hand, “Now you go back and get me something personal of hers, something we can use as evidence,” gesturing with the bottle toward himself, “and I’ll get busy planning my death.” Deep laughter spilled from him but there was nothing attractive about it for it rang out hollow and harsh.
The two men were joined later by a third hauling the carcass of a wherry with him to the camp site where they spent the rest of the night planning Ranulf’s departure from the tiny island, drinking until they were well into their cups and Rukbat had started to rise.
Hunkered in front of the fire, Ranulf turned a dark look up to his companion and nodded grimly, “Figured as much when she didn’t come back after the first seven or two had passed by.” He stabbed viciously at the coals, trying to coax them to a higher flame but the jungle floor was damp and they responded with little more than a dull glow.
Adding insult to injury, Bastian continued with a sneer to his tone, “Looks to be workin’ a load of cargo on some spice ship from down South, if dock chatter has it right.” Glancing down at the pathetic excuse for a fire, “Just give it up, that thing ain’t never gonna light properly.” Such an optimist. The bottle of rum was held out to the blonde man and then quickly yanked out of harm’s way when he knocked a savage gesture of his mood toward it.
Standing Ranulf kicked at one of the rocks forming the circle around the spluttering campfire sending it bouncing and rolling into the darkened jungles. “Fucking little whore! Shoulda known she’d set herself up nicely and forget to come back for me!”
Bastian, holding the bottle against his chest watched the display with cold, dispassionate eyes for a moment, then asked, “What you plan on doin’ about it, eh?” A note of dark menace colouring his tone. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to see the snotty little wench get her dues. Especially after the way she’d shut him down cold when he’d made a crude play for her before they’d docked at Ista. The memory burned down deep in his gut; that cold pale eyed smirk, the blade that had suddenly appeared in her hand and pressed against his groin, the sneer that had gone with the words threatening to emasculate him if ever tried to lay a hand on her again. Like she was above the rest of them! Fucking bitch! He’d make sure she paid!
Having spent the next few minutes cursing his younger cousin all the way to Southern and back, Ranulf inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling the uppermost fires of his anger, turned a cold and calculating look over to his man. “I’m going to make it so she thinks I’m dead, that’s what I’m going to do. And then, I’m getting off this godforsaken piece of rock and going after my cargo and anything else those bastards that salvaged it might have with them.” Lifting a finger in the air he finished off his master plan with, “and then, then you’re going to ensure the Weyrleaders have evidence enough to suggest she not only left me marooned here, but that she had a hand in my death too.”
The bald-headed bear of a man looked a little disappointed that there was to be no hands on retribution that is until the last part of the blonde man’s plan was laid out. Black eyes filled with sinister pleasure, “Knew there was a reason I stuck with you,” rather than his dark-haired cousin.
Ranulf’s mouth twisted into an ugly line, “She’ll regret the day she left me here to rot.” The bottle that had been offered earlier was plucked out of Bastian’s grasp and he downed a healthy portion of it.
Freed of the rum, the burly man’s hand unsheathed his knife and he started to pick at the dirt under his nails with it. “Where to from here, boss?”
Sliding down against the trunk of a tree and using it as a backrest, Ranulf cocked a cunning look up to his hired hand, “Now you go back and get me something personal of hers, something we can use as evidence,” gesturing with the bottle toward himself, “and I’ll get busy planning my death.” Deep laughter spilled from him but there was nothing attractive about it for it rang out hollow and harsh.
The two men were joined later by a third hauling the carcass of a wherry with him to the camp site where they spent the rest of the night planning Ranulf’s departure from the tiny island, drinking until they were well into their cups and Rukbat had started to rise.