Swashbuckling on the Edge

Prologue

Thirst. It overrode all other thoughts, all other feelings. The need for water had passed desperate and entered critical. If he did not find it soon, he would die.

Hot, dry sand burned the soles of his feet through the tough leather of his boots. Hot, tropical sunlight seared his eyes and lashed his skin. Each step was an uncertain battle just to continue onwards.

The uneven terrain of sand caught the toe of his boot and he stumbled, unable to summon the strength to save himself. Sand choked his parched throat and he coughed. With a grunt, he managed to lift himself. Sweat made the sand cling to him, and his clothes sticky against his skin. Resting on his knees, he reached up a hand to shield his sunburned face from the elements.

He blinked, but his eyes still stung from the oppressive heat. Somewhere in his starved mind, he summoned thoughts of revenge which gave him the willpower to stand again on his feet. His parched mouth spat out a curse, rough and hoarse. The wind and sea and simple bad luck could be blamed for his critical situation. He chose instead to lay blame on his enemies.

With the reinvigorated energy of the starving and vengeful, he plodded on across the beach, each step bringing him to unseen victory.

Enthusiasm did not aid his steps, and once again he was unable to stop himself from tripping. He landed on his hands and knees, panting with exhaustion. His eyes scanned over the sand, seeing his hands half-sunk, trying to keep their grip, and the pair of pitch-black boots that had stopped in front of him.

Not believing what his senses were telling his brain, he shoved out a hand to touch the boot. It was real. Solid. The owner lifted the boot sharply and shook him off, sending him sprawling back.

"Get up," a voice commanded.

He strained to do as asked, but his legs would no longer support him. He settled for standing on his knees, looking up at the stranger through burning irises. With the sun behind him, the man was cast completely in shadow.

"Do you know me?" the stranger asked him.

He tried to shake his head. It was too heavy.

The stranger leaned in; the shadows peeled away from his face to reveal something far more terrifying than anonymity.

"And now?"

Fear made the blood pound in his veins. Or maybe it was the headache brought on by the heat. Thirst made him unable to speak, but the expression on his face revealed he knew who the stranger was.

"You know me?" the stranger repeated, more insistent.

He nodded weakly. It was enough.

The black boots shifted and the man settled down on his haunches so they were eye to eye. They stared each other in the face, one utterly still and the other trembling with terror.

"Good," the stranger said, his tone cool. "Then you can tell me what happened."

The shipwrecked man's heat-addled mind called off the search for water. There was no need to fight for life any longer. Death had already found him.