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“No suitor has ever claimed her. He promises her, collects the dowry, and still keeps her for himself.”
“That trick can’t work too many times.”
“It has worked several times as far as I am aware, and that means we have a great many chances to potentially ransom her to others. The king is but one entity with an interest.”
The energy at the helm is jubilant. Though I have not made any official announcement, all my officers know already. It is important to share the spoils of our captures and pillaging for morale. There is only one of Astaria and she will certainly not be shared, but there will be a grand banquet to celebrate our triumph as soon as can be arranged. I am sure the chefs are planning a massive menu of at least a dozen courses as we speak.
“Let the drums sing!” I order. “Announce our victory over…. difficulty.”
Drums begin to emanate through the ship’s hull. Their sound harkens back to our deepest history when we used to live in dense forests. Drums were how our ancestors communicated. Now they are how we celebrate. The hull throbs with triumph.
I take my seat in the captain’s chair, a great green and gold construction made with the insignia of my line. I did not come from a powerful family, but I have made my line powerful through my efforts and my deeds. I feel a great sense of satisfaction and achievement as I rest knowing I have a fresh princess in my brig, no doubt nervously awaiting her defloration.
“A small repast to replenish your energy, sir?” Chef Peach is at my elbow before I realize it. He moves with a heavy tray weighted down with a massive repast. Meat and brew, berries and whipped fats. It is a meal fit for a king, and I enjoy every bite of it, ensuring that the other officers also eat their fill.
“Blackmane! Blackmane!”
My meal is interrupted by the arrival of a springing messenger. I do not know his name, and I barely take his appearance in, except to note that he did not follow any of the proper and respectful protocol around knocking and waiting to be told to enter. He speaks without being given permission too. Sometimes the officers grumble that the lower ranks are forgetting their place. I usually ignore it, but as of now I am tempted to agree.
“Sir, it’s the princess. I mean, the prisoner. I mean…”
“Yes. I know who you mean. What is it?”
“She killed a guard.”
