The native men acted without hesitation or fear; the uncertain threat of deadly creatures lurking in the water was preferable to the unequivocal response that would be meted out by the pirates. On by one they leaped from the pier and splashed into the muddy water. Dodge lingered at the water’s edge, determined to make sure that every one of the captives escaped, and was thus in a perfect position to see Claude and another young man abruptly turn back into the compound.
“Claude, no!” His shouted denial fell on deaf ears. The two men knew what they were doing; they had worked this out in advance. Biting back a curse, Dodge charged after them, headlong into the growing pirate menace.
The mayhem provided a strange sort of concealment for Dodge; he was just one more white face wandering amidst the fatigued and confused men of the compound. The pair of dark-skinned Africans stuck out like a sore thumb, but most of the attention was directed toward the larger body of escapees that had plunged into the river. Dodge muscled past the milling pirates and caught a glimpse of his former cellmates ducking into the second hollowed out baobab.
He was never more than a few paces behind them and it was evident that Claude and his companion had only a general idea of where they were going. At one point, as the two frantic young men were backtracking from a dead end, Dodge caught them. He clapped a hand down on Claude’s shoulder and spun him around so that they were face to face.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” he shouted, hoping that the urgency of his tone would serve in lieu of a translator.
“L’femmes!” Claude wrestled free and hastened after his comrade who was already scrambling up a rickety ladder to the next level of the fortress.
“Damn it!” Dodge tucked his club under one arm and commenced a hasty ascent just a few steps behind the native. Before he reached the top however, a bloodcurdling scream split the air. Even more ominous was the sudden silence that terminated the cry.
Claude quickened his pace at the sound and pulled himself onto the catwalk, out of Dodge’s view. The latter raised his head level with the catwalk, wary of whatever had caused the outburst, but he was still unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes.
The first man up the ladder — a native whose name was unknown to Dodge — lay at arm’s length from the uppermost rung, staring sightlessly back at him, wreathed in a corona of bright scarlet. The coppery smell of fresh blood hit Dodge like a slap and he had to force himself to look away from the hideous image.
Claude stood a few paces to the left, facing the unseen enemy that had slain his companion. He moved, as if to sidestep a blow or throw one of his own, and Dodge caught a glimpse of motion beyond — a swift, violent movement that ended with a strangled gurgling sound. Claude sagged forward, his legs no longer supporting his weight, but did not fall. He remained suspended in mid-air, twitching spasmodically as if held in the jaws of a predator, then was suddenly thrown sideways, out over the edge of the catwalk.
Dodge’s horror-numbed gaze followed the now lifeless shape as it crashed down to the first level of the fortress. It seemed impossible that the living, vibrant individual Dodge had met only a few minutes before was now nothing but an empty shell. He tore his eyes from the macabre scene below and found himself once more facing the pirate king, Johannes Krieger.
Krieger’s wooden mask looked even more demonic splattered with the blood of his victims, but it was his hands that grabbed Dodge’s attention. Krieger had no fingers, but instead wore twin fans of curved knife blades, like the talons of a raptor rendered in gleaming steel. Krieger laughed menacingly as he brandished his steel claws at the latest victim to land in his web. Cradled in the razor grip of his deadly prostheses was a still beating human heart.
A primal beast deep within Dodge’s core began urging him to flee — to descend and run for his life. His fellow escapees were beyond his ability to help; there was no longer any reason to linger here and face this savage murderer. But instead of scrambling down the ladder, Dodge pulled himself onto the catwalk and swung his cudgel back and forth to challenge the pirate leader.
Krieger laughed again, but seemed less confident. No one chose to stand against him, not since Captain Falcon and his army had brought the Ninety-nine to their collective knees. Still, what could this weakling hope to accomplish, armed only with a broken piece of wood? He cast his bloody burdens aside and flashed his claws at his opponent, accepting the implicit invitation to fight.
Dodge kept his gaze focused, not on the blades, but on the narrow eye-slits in Krieger’s mask. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, couldn’t detect the subtle cues that would presage an attack, but reasoned that Krieger might not realize how completely the covering shielded him. In fact, as menacing as the carved visage appeared, the wooden facade severely limited the pirate’s field of vision.
Krieger slashed tentatively, trying to drive his enemy back over the edge. Dodge took one careful step back, luring the other man closer. He sidestepped a more decisive attack and slashed at Krieger’s forearm as the blades sliced the air where he had been standing. Krieger spat a curse in his native Afrikaans, then launched a two-handed assault that seemed more like an animal scratching wildly than a deliberate attack, but the net effect was the same. Dodge gave ground, skirting the edge of the catwalk as the finger-blades hacked closer. When he could retreat no further, Dodge parried with his club.
Krieger’s knives cut deep into the wood, but lacked sufficient mass and momentum to chop completely through. Instead, the thin metal blades stuck fast in the cross-grain. Krieger made a futile attempt to wrest his claws free, and inadvertently gave Dodge the opening he’d been waiting for. He jabbed the end of the club, with Krieger’s right hand still bound in place, into the pirate’s masked face.
The jagged length of wood struck right between the narrow eye slits, with sufficient force to split the carved image down the middle. Krieger lurched backward, ripping the club from Dodge’s grip as he fell. He reached up instinctively to protect the wound, but his steel claws instead sliced deep into his now unshielded countenance. For the first time in a decade, Johannes Krieger’s face was revealed. And just as ten years before, he was screaming.
Disarmed, Dodge could only stare at his stricken foe. Krieger’s face was streaming blood from numerous slashes, including a vertical gash where the mask had been driven down to the bone. Yet, beneath the new injuries was a tapestry of scars that bore witness to the violence that had prompted him to hide his features from his fellow man. The pirate king’s face was a tiger-striped pattern of twisted purple and white scars; ten years ago, consumed by madness after being buried alive, with fingers scoured down to bloody nubs of bone, Johannes Krieger had tried to tear his face off.
The unmasked pirate struggled both to sublimate his agony and to wrench his right hand free of the club. He succeeded in the first effort, but the knife claws remained fixed in place. Panting from the exertion, Krieger relented, and turned his gaze back to his opponent.
“Do you think you’ve won?” he hissed, a froth of blood forming around the corners of his mouth.
Dodge balled his fists warily but disdained to answer. His minor victory had severed the pirate’s tenuous connection to sanity; the man, like a wounded wild animal, was capable of anything now. Nevertheless, Krieger’s next action was completely unexpected.