The Crusades of Captain Rye and his Renegades - Book One: Tyranny

Chapter 1: Captain Rye and His Mutinous Crew

Somewhere, on a faded map where may be found dragons, in a time most have forgotten save for stories told to rekindle some lost sense of wonder... there lives a man, and he is trapped. He is asleep, though not by choice, and some may say that fate has dealt him a foul hand indeed. But his eyes are opening, and he is about to begin the first chapter in a new book, and this is his tale.

There is the gentle clink of chains and the flapping of heavy cloth, and the lapping rhythm of low waves. A faint light moves slowly with hanging dust, seeping through a barred window. The narrow slits of his dark eyes roam slowly across the rotting wood floor of his chamber. He breathes deeply, the familiar scent of fish and salt and mildew filling his nostrils. His head swims achingly as he raises himself to his knees, feeling for a sore spot at the base of his skull which has become a painful lump.

Where he is he does not know, though he feels that he should, a place just beyond the grasp of recollection, a memory that slips into darkness as he reaches for it. How he got here eludes him as well. Even his own name dances teasingly through his fingers as he struggles to focus his mind, as though he had a blind spot in the center of his sight.

He plants his feet and stands, dull pains also awakening as sensation returns. His ribs feel bruised as he stretches, his elbow next, his knee after that. One of his cheeks feels swollen and his jaw creaks as he opens his mouth. Is this the morning after a wild night of women and wine? Or the night after a day in the gladiator pits?

He sways nauseously as he glances about, making out in the murk some toppled crates in the corner. He moves to the window and squints through the bars into a larger chamber filled with hammocks and a few dangling hook tipped chains. In the center there is a staircase that leads to what appears to be a boarded square in the ceiling, where the light seeps through in dusty rays. His hand brushes the handle of the door in which the window is set, but it is locked as he grasps and turns it.

He looks back at the crates, and again through the window, stretching his dulled senses for any sign of life. Creaking boards and dangling chains and the stagnant scent of dereliction. He sets his slight frame, his shoulder squared towards the door, and thrusts. To his surprise, the wood splinters about the lock, and the rotting door swings open. If he could have remembered who he was, "Yarr!" he might have thought.

He returns to the crates and in the dim light can find no way to open the two that have been left sealed. He sifts lightly through the emptied packing littering the floor and comes upon the tool used to access the contents of the ones left emptied. A rusted bar, bladed on one tip and curled on the other. Whatever the reason for his brutal and presumably unjust imprisonment, his captors went to no great length to ensure that he would be held for long. He was no fool, mind you, and could only assume there was intent on someone's part behind the ease of his escape.

Prying open the crates, he finds them stocked with fishing supplies, nets and poles and flimsy spears. Whatever was in the other crates, it was more important than the need to eat. He takes a spear in one hand, the crowbar in the other, neither feeling like they belong, and moves through the doorway.

Quietly, and with a nimbleness that defies his injuries, he makes his way about the chains and hammocks. Below a few of these he finds boxes stuffed with personal belongings and rummages through them. He pulls on a shirt and pants that smell of sweat and salt to replace his own bloodied and tattered garbs, and his fingers find something hard and flat. He takes it in both hands in a beam of light, turning it, sliding off the sheath. A blade, a foot in length, simple, dull and rusted. He holds it by the hilt at arm's length and twirls it deftly, comfortably, with a familiarity he cannot place. "Avast!", he might say, again if he could remember his name. Instead he simply grins with a playful gleam in his eye.

A final search reveals a ring, plain save for a few faded markings about the band. He studies it and a clarity brushes the fog from his mind. A magic ring, one common enough to be found in a market, for a people without the necessary time or resource to devote to the practice of the arcane arts. Magic made accessible, affordable and user-friendly. He slips it on his index finger, discarding the spear, and quietly climbs the stairs.

Again he listens, and there is the breeze and the cloth and the waves. He pushes against the hatch and it opens slowly upward, revealing a clear blue sky and blazing sun and sails. He climbs from the lower deck of a sizeable fishing vessel and he squints in the brightness as the fresh sea air fills his lungs. All about to the horizon there is dark calm water, but for a small island off the bow of the ship. Two tall masts hold loose and sagging sails and there is a cabin at the stern.

Again he feels a sense of familiarity as he moves to the door of the cabin and enters. There is a bed and a dresser, and no sign of life beyond the disorder of a thorough ransacking. He scans the room and looks through the dresser. Fine silk shirts and leather bound pants and a long coarse jacket catch his fancy, for whoever called this his bed chamber was a man of daring style and charm, no doubt. And though the fibre of a man's fabric cannot be fathomed by his vestments, there is something to be said about a forethought to fashion... in any predicament. And if he had the luxury of memory he might have thought "Yo ho!"

He hangs his sword from his belt and slips the bar through a hoop on his other hip. On top of the dresser is a book which presently he flips through. Each page is dated, as far back as three months. A quick glance reveals a journey, the promise of gold, and a crew growing slowly in dissatisfaction of the lack thereof as each day passed. And when the day came that they spotted a ship laden with booty, the captain denied them by his good judgement, as the risk was too great. And the crew cried out, and committed mutiny. And the captain was beaten into unconsciousness and locked in the cargo hold. The final entry describes that the crew was overcome in an assault upon the laden ship, and that hope was lost, and that they would have been better had they heeded the man in the hold, the man called Captain Rye...