A Pair of Pirate Drabbles
These were both written for the Literary Drabble challenge at SBBC on MNFF. I had a lot of fun that month. So the titles in brackets under the titles of the drabbles are the names of the works that inspired them.
Intimidation Tactics
(Treasure Island)
Silas Harfang was the terror of the Arabian Sea trade routes. Swift as lightning, he and his band of cutthroats attacked merchant parties, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, overwhelming the guards, and stealing their cargo - and then disappearing again, as quickly as they had appeared. They never lost, and, like lightning, they hardly ever struck in the same place twice.
Captain Harfang - for so he styled himself - had a long mane of steel-grey hair, a fleshy face crossed by a livid scar that extended diagonally from forehead to jaw, just missing his right eye, and keen black eyes. People said he had spent his youth among Muggles, learning from them brutish savagery and all manner of horrible tricks. He was a vicious wizard, dangerous to enemies and allies alike, but he kept his men tightly controlled, and they both feared and respected him. It was this control, and his cleverness, that had made Harfang so great.
Harfang lounged at his ease in his rooms, drinking port with the most trusted of his lieutenants, a sharp-faced man called Flint. Suppertime had long passed, and his men were likely whiling away their free time with gaming or sleep.
The quiet was interrupted by a banging at Harfang’s door. Flint sprang to his feet and opened it. The man at the door said, “Peterson’s party has been spotted.”
Harfang was on his feet and pushing past Flint and the sentry into the main room in a moment. “All hands!” he roared. “Peterson’s been spotted!”
Men jumped up from dice games and exited rooms, until all of Harfang’s pirates - some fifteen or so skilled wizards - stood outside their base. It was a former sea inn, floating on a foundation of wood, commandeered some years ago and made invisible by powerful enchantments. But, unlike most sea inns, this one moved about, propelled by spells learned from the wizards of India, who had been crossing the Arabian Sea for centuries. This was Harfang’s secret, and his greatest weapon.
No more than sixty feet away was another sea inn, this one lit cheerily from within. The din of talk from inside was easily audible across the water. As they watched, six wizards on brooms alighted and entered the inn.
“Move alongside,” Harfang ordered, his voice pitched low. None would see them, hidden by their spells, but sound carried across water, and only the building itself was spelled to silence. Two of Harfang’s men sprang to obey, their nonverbal spellwork moving the base slowly towards the inn.
When they had drawn close, Harfang made a swift cutting motion with one hand. The base slowed and stopped, held in place now with the usual anchor spells. Harfang gestured again, this time simply pointing. The pirates streamed onto the platform on which the inn rested, Harfang at their head. The door was blasted open, and, with a great shout, many voices joined together to make one loud roar, the pirates attacked.
Spells flew from both sides, but Harfang’s men were quick, and they had the element of surprise on their side. Their target, in the end, made things easier for them. Peterson, a tall, golden-haired man dressed in simple but luxurious robes, stepped forward with the other defenders. Flint and a few others Stunned or killed those who looked like the most trouble, while Harfang dueled Peterson himself.
“At last, pirate,” Peterson growled. “I’ve been chasing you for years. Seems you’ve decided that today’s the day to die.”
“On the contrary,” Harfang said as he deflected a hex. His voice was light but his eyes were deadly. “I came here today to see you dead. Your people are becoming…troublesome. I aim to teach them a lesson.” He grinned, a predator’s grin as it closed on its prey.
Peterson faltered, and Harfang seized the moment of weakness and Stunned him. Levitating his captive before him, he called to his men, “Retreat! We got what we came for.”
The pirates backed out of the inn, a few of them setting some fires to keep those within too busy to follow. As he left, Flint called, “Make sure to tell the Confederation’s pirate chasers that Harfang came to call.”
The next day, Peterson’s head was found at the International Confederation of Wizard’s anti-piracy station in the waters near Mocha. His body was never recovered, nor was Captain Silas Harfang ever captured, though he continued his predations for a decade and a half more.
The End of Joris Janszoon
(Macbeth)
There is a wizard, destined from birth to be a butcher, who chose instead the life of piracy and butchery of humans. No man or creature born on this earth will ever defeat him, and he shall overcome all before him until he rises to prominence. No man born on Earth can ever defeat the butcher pirate.
So had the Seer said of Joris Janszoon, one-time pirate chaser for the International Confederation of Wizards, a deserter, and a man spoken of only in fearful whispers by merchants flying over the waters off the Malabar Coast, lest he be conjured by the mention of his name.
Janszoon was fearless, because he had no need for fear. He was fierce and bloodthirsty in battle, seeming to enjoy the fight nearly as much as the reward. Only a few months after joining the band of pirates with whom he raided, he had met an old Seer in Cochin who had given him his prophecy. He had immediately recognized himself in it, for his father was a butcher and had named him for the patron saint of butchers.
Within weeks, he had slain their leader and taken his place, believing it to be his destiny.
Now he had nearly thirty men under his command: the nine who had been part of his original band, plus those who had chosen to join him rather than die when he had defeated their leader, a rival pirate from Portugal, as well as a few former merchant guards and pirate chasers. They often broke into two groups, the second and smaller group under command of Janszoon’s right-hand man, a Spaniard called Velázquez, and raided separately.
So it was that stifling June night. Velázquez’s party was sticking close to the coast near Cochin, while Janszoon’s was staying at The Rusty Bucket, a notorious pirate den some ways off the coast. It lay directly under the trade route, despite all of the Confederation’s attempts to force the proprietor to move it, and was a perfect place to lie in wait for unwary merchants. One of Janszoon’s men was quietly keeping watch outside, while the rest of them pretended to lounge about inside, though none could deny the tension in the room. Only Janszoon had eaten well, and even he had to feed what was left of his dinner to the jarvey he kept as a pet. They had missed an opportunity earlier - another band had beaten them to it - and none of them wanted to miss a second one.
The man on watch appeared in the doorway, and a ripple of movement went through Janszoon’s men as they noticed him. He nodded, and they streamed out into the heavy summer air, Janszoon tossing a sack of coins onto the table as payment.
In silence, they mounted their brooms and took off, Janszoon in the lead. Shadows, just barely distinguishable from the moonless night sky, showed them where the merchants were. Janszoon put on speed, and his men followed, swooping around to surround the merchant party almost before they noticed the pirates’ presence.
The merchant, at the center of a ring of guards, cowered on his broom, looking as if at any moment he might foolishly attempt to dash off with his cargo. His guards were serious, able-looking men who blocked the first curses aimed at them with quick Shield Charms. Their first responsibility was to see to the merchant’s safety, not their own, so simply dodging was not an option. Another volley of curses came hard on the heels of that one, and another, until one of the guards failed to cast his Shield Charm in time. He clutched his wand arm, bleeding, as his wand fell into the sea.
After that, a rout seemed all but assured. But just as Janszoon subdued the last of the guards, several of his men cried out and fell from their brooms. Flashes of spell-light lit the night as more of Janszoon’s men fell to the surprise attack. The rest of them rounded on their attackers and found another pirate crew, headed by a wizard with a scar across his face.
“Harfang, you dirty coward!” Janszoon roared.
“Now, Janszoon, you know that I am simply being practical.” Harfang smiled. “You’re becoming far too good at what you do. You nearly interfered with my attack earlier this evening. I’m afraid it has to stop.”
Janszoon laughed derisively. “Haven’t you heard? ‘No man born on this earth’ can defeat me. Better give up now before I kill you.”
As they had spoken, their bands had engaged one another in a brutal battle, spells flying around the two pirates. Now Janszoon whipped his own wand up and aimed a curse at Harfang. Their duel was so fierce and so fast, the spells going back and forth, deflected or dodged or turned back upon the caster, that the men of both sides stopped fighting to watch the spectacle.
Finally, ropes sprang forth from Harfang’s wand, securing Janszoon’s hands behind his back. Janszoon, panting, spat into Harfang’s face, his eyes furious.
Harfang wiped the spittle away calmly. “Didn’t you ever hear the story of the boy born to a barmaid at the Whales’ Rest Inn? He was born and raised in that sea inn, and he grew up to be the pirate Harfang.”
“‘No man born on this earth,’” Janszoon said, eyes widening in sudden terror.
“There you have it, laddie,” Harfang said. “Avada Kedavra.”
A bolt of green light transfixed Janszoon, and he fell ungracefully into the sea, there to be submerged and carried away.
“So ends Joris Janszoon,” Harfang said coldly, sheathing his wand.
Intimidation Tactics
(Treasure Island)
Silas Harfang was the terror of the Arabian Sea trade routes. Swift as lightning, he and his band of cutthroats attacked merchant parties, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, overwhelming the guards, and stealing their cargo - and then disappearing again, as quickly as they had appeared. They never lost, and, like lightning, they hardly ever struck in the same place twice.
Captain Harfang - for so he styled himself - had a long mane of steel-grey hair, a fleshy face crossed by a livid scar that extended diagonally from forehead to jaw, just missing his right eye, and keen black eyes. People said he had spent his youth among Muggles, learning from them brutish savagery and all manner of horrible tricks. He was a vicious wizard, dangerous to enemies and allies alike, but he kept his men tightly controlled, and they both feared and respected him. It was this control, and his cleverness, that had made Harfang so great.
Harfang lounged at his ease in his rooms, drinking port with the most trusted of his lieutenants, a sharp-faced man called Flint. Suppertime had long passed, and his men were likely whiling away their free time with gaming or sleep.
The quiet was interrupted by a banging at Harfang’s door. Flint sprang to his feet and opened it. The man at the door said, “Peterson’s party has been spotted.”
Harfang was on his feet and pushing past Flint and the sentry into the main room in a moment. “All hands!” he roared. “Peterson’s been spotted!”
Men jumped up from dice games and exited rooms, until all of Harfang’s pirates - some fifteen or so skilled wizards - stood outside their base. It was a former sea inn, floating on a foundation of wood, commandeered some years ago and made invisible by powerful enchantments. But, unlike most sea inns, this one moved about, propelled by spells learned from the wizards of India, who had been crossing the Arabian Sea for centuries. This was Harfang’s secret, and his greatest weapon.
No more than sixty feet away was another sea inn, this one lit cheerily from within. The din of talk from inside was easily audible across the water. As they watched, six wizards on brooms alighted and entered the inn.
“Move alongside,” Harfang ordered, his voice pitched low. None would see them, hidden by their spells, but sound carried across water, and only the building itself was spelled to silence. Two of Harfang’s men sprang to obey, their nonverbal spellwork moving the base slowly towards the inn.
When they had drawn close, Harfang made a swift cutting motion with one hand. The base slowed and stopped, held in place now with the usual anchor spells. Harfang gestured again, this time simply pointing. The pirates streamed onto the platform on which the inn rested, Harfang at their head. The door was blasted open, and, with a great shout, many voices joined together to make one loud roar, the pirates attacked.
Spells flew from both sides, but Harfang’s men were quick, and they had the element of surprise on their side. Their target, in the end, made things easier for them. Peterson, a tall, golden-haired man dressed in simple but luxurious robes, stepped forward with the other defenders. Flint and a few others Stunned or killed those who looked like the most trouble, while Harfang dueled Peterson himself.
“At last, pirate,” Peterson growled. “I’ve been chasing you for years. Seems you’ve decided that today’s the day to die.”
“On the contrary,” Harfang said as he deflected a hex. His voice was light but his eyes were deadly. “I came here today to see you dead. Your people are becoming…troublesome. I aim to teach them a lesson.” He grinned, a predator’s grin as it closed on its prey.
Peterson faltered, and Harfang seized the moment of weakness and Stunned him. Levitating his captive before him, he called to his men, “Retreat! We got what we came for.”
The pirates backed out of the inn, a few of them setting some fires to keep those within too busy to follow. As he left, Flint called, “Make sure to tell the Confederation’s pirate chasers that Harfang came to call.”
The next day, Peterson’s head was found at the International Confederation of Wizard’s anti-piracy station in the waters near Mocha. His body was never recovered, nor was Captain Silas Harfang ever captured, though he continued his predations for a decade and a half more.
The End of Joris Janszoon
(Macbeth)
There is a wizard, destined from birth to be a butcher, who chose instead the life of piracy and butchery of humans. No man or creature born on this earth will ever defeat him, and he shall overcome all before him until he rises to prominence. No man born on Earth can ever defeat the butcher pirate.
So had the Seer said of Joris Janszoon, one-time pirate chaser for the International Confederation of Wizards, a deserter, and a man spoken of only in fearful whispers by merchants flying over the waters off the Malabar Coast, lest he be conjured by the mention of his name.
Janszoon was fearless, because he had no need for fear. He was fierce and bloodthirsty in battle, seeming to enjoy the fight nearly as much as the reward. Only a few months after joining the band of pirates with whom he raided, he had met an old Seer in Cochin who had given him his prophecy. He had immediately recognized himself in it, for his father was a butcher and had named him for the patron saint of butchers.
Within weeks, he had slain their leader and taken his place, believing it to be his destiny.
Now he had nearly thirty men under his command: the nine who had been part of his original band, plus those who had chosen to join him rather than die when he had defeated their leader, a rival pirate from Portugal, as well as a few former merchant guards and pirate chasers. They often broke into two groups, the second and smaller group under command of Janszoon’s right-hand man, a Spaniard called Velázquez, and raided separately.
So it was that stifling June night. Velázquez’s party was sticking close to the coast near Cochin, while Janszoon’s was staying at The Rusty Bucket, a notorious pirate den some ways off the coast. It lay directly under the trade route, despite all of the Confederation’s attempts to force the proprietor to move it, and was a perfect place to lie in wait for unwary merchants. One of Janszoon’s men was quietly keeping watch outside, while the rest of them pretended to lounge about inside, though none could deny the tension in the room. Only Janszoon had eaten well, and even he had to feed what was left of his dinner to the jarvey he kept as a pet. They had missed an opportunity earlier - another band had beaten them to it - and none of them wanted to miss a second one.
The man on watch appeared in the doorway, and a ripple of movement went through Janszoon’s men as they noticed him. He nodded, and they streamed out into the heavy summer air, Janszoon tossing a sack of coins onto the table as payment.
In silence, they mounted their brooms and took off, Janszoon in the lead. Shadows, just barely distinguishable from the moonless night sky, showed them where the merchants were. Janszoon put on speed, and his men followed, swooping around to surround the merchant party almost before they noticed the pirates’ presence.
The merchant, at the center of a ring of guards, cowered on his broom, looking as if at any moment he might foolishly attempt to dash off with his cargo. His guards were serious, able-looking men who blocked the first curses aimed at them with quick Shield Charms. Their first responsibility was to see to the merchant’s safety, not their own, so simply dodging was not an option. Another volley of curses came hard on the heels of that one, and another, until one of the guards failed to cast his Shield Charm in time. He clutched his wand arm, bleeding, as his wand fell into the sea.
After that, a rout seemed all but assured. But just as Janszoon subdued the last of the guards, several of his men cried out and fell from their brooms. Flashes of spell-light lit the night as more of Janszoon’s men fell to the surprise attack. The rest of them rounded on their attackers and found another pirate crew, headed by a wizard with a scar across his face.
“Harfang, you dirty coward!” Janszoon roared.
“Now, Janszoon, you know that I am simply being practical.” Harfang smiled. “You’re becoming far too good at what you do. You nearly interfered with my attack earlier this evening. I’m afraid it has to stop.”
Janszoon laughed derisively. “Haven’t you heard? ‘No man born on this earth’ can defeat me. Better give up now before I kill you.”
As they had spoken, their bands had engaged one another in a brutal battle, spells flying around the two pirates. Now Janszoon whipped his own wand up and aimed a curse at Harfang. Their duel was so fierce and so fast, the spells going back and forth, deflected or dodged or turned back upon the caster, that the men of both sides stopped fighting to watch the spectacle.
Finally, ropes sprang forth from Harfang’s wand, securing Janszoon’s hands behind his back. Janszoon, panting, spat into Harfang’s face, his eyes furious.
Harfang wiped the spittle away calmly. “Didn’t you ever hear the story of the boy born to a barmaid at the Whales’ Rest Inn? He was born and raised in that sea inn, and he grew up to be the pirate Harfang.”
“‘No man born on this earth,’” Janszoon said, eyes widening in sudden terror.
“There you have it, laddie,” Harfang said. “Avada Kedavra.”
A bolt of green light transfixed Janszoon, and he fell ungracefully into the sea, there to be submerged and carried away.
“So ends Joris Janszoon,” Harfang said coldly, sheathing his wand.