A PENNY FOR LITTLE TUG
Little Tug manned the longboat's tiller as his men rowed toward shore. After four trips hauling barrels of water and other supplies to the outer edge of Evermere’s bay where The Black Falcon lay anchored, they were beat, and despite the chill air, their shirts were soaked through, their faces red.
Tug looked forward to meeting up with Captain Slaayde and the others at The Dancing Turtle inn for some good food and drink. Just as much, he looked forward to a night in a soft, warm bed that didn't move with the waves. If he was really lucky, he might even get to take a hot bath, not that they’d have a tub big enough for him to fit comfortably, but he was used to that. He worried that the festival he’d heard about might get noisy and keep him awake. After all they’d been through on that voyage, he deserved at least one quiet night ashore, didn't he? He doubted that he'd get it. If the beer was cold and the bed was soft and warm and didn’’t have any bugs, he supposed that that would be good enough. Such was a seaman's lot.
They eased the longboat up to its berth just as they'd done before. Four sailors climbed up the ladder to the pier deck to tie off the boat; the other two remained in the longboat with Tug to secure it from that end. Six men were all he was allowed to bring, much to the unhappiness of the rest of the crew. They could have no more men ashore than could fit safe and secure in a single longboat, per the captain’s orders.
Three fancy dressed Evermerians awaited the seamen on the pier deck, which was odd, since the pier, in fact, much of the dock ward, had been deserted all evening. Two of the Evermerians were young men, not yet twenty; black haired, fair skinned, and obviously brothers. One stood on each side of a tiny wisp of a girl, perhaps eight years old, but likely even younger. Her hair was blonde and long, reaching past her waist. She sat atop a barrel, her legs crossed. She waved and smiled at the seamen as they made the deck.
“Hello there,” said the girl, loud enough to get the men’s attention. “My name is Penny. These are my beloveds, Moby and Toby. We've come to play with you. We've been waiting.”
“Sorry, darling,” said seaman Gurt, “but we've got a date with a barrel of beer and a side of beef.””
“We're hungry too,” said the girl, “and thirsty, and we're not waiting for you to eat dinner. That won't do at all. That's why we came down here instead of waiting for the Bulls' Run.”
“We got no food for yous,” said one of the sailors, “so be off home with you. Skedaddle.”
“What do you mean?” said the girl. “You've got plenty of meat.”
“We've got no meat, girl,” said the seaman. “And no other food neither. So scram.”
“You can't fool me,” said Penny with a mischievous smile on her face, and a singsong quality to her voice. “There's plenty of meat on you, and I'm going to eat it all up. It's too bad that you're so dirty and smelly — I'll probably have to hold my nose, but that's okay. When I'm hungry I'll eat almost anyone.”
The two young men moved to block the sailors' path.
“We're hungry,” said Moby.
“What is this?” said one of the seamen. “We've no time for your games. It's late already.”
“We're thirsty,” said Toby.
“What are you about?” said another seaman. “Are you kids drunk or nuts?”
“We're not letting you leave,” said Penny in a cold, severe voice.
“Move aside, or we'll move you,” said seaman Gurt, his hand on his sword's hilt.
The whites of both brothers' eyes turned black. Without further warning, they vaulted toward the seamen. Their teeth instantly grew to fangs; their nails to claws.
“I can't wait to drink your blood, hee hee,” said the girl. “Every drop for me!”
The brothers moved like lightning. The closest two seamen never had a chance. Razor-sharp claws raked their throats; the cuts expertly placed to sever the jugular. Blood spurted everywhere. Their bodies had barely fallen to the deck in their death throes when the brothers lunged at the other seamen. They expected their prey to scream in terror, to freeze, or to flee in a panic. That's what prey always did. And they encouraged such behavior, growling and slavering, and slowing their movements, intentionally giving the prey time to react, because their reactions were often entertaining and sometimes led to a wild chase that relieved the endless boredom of Evermere, at least for a short time. A mini little Bulls’ Run, just for them.
If the prey had the chance, they'd beg for mercy. They'd plead for their lives. Then they would do the dance: threats of torture, pleadings and promises, insults and humiliation, vows of servitude or retribution. The words and the order of things always differed, but the game usually played out much the same. It was always fun. And it always ended in the lovely screaming and the beautiful torture that lasted however long they wanted. Or rather, however long Penny wanted. And then the sweet reward: the blood, the meat, the souls. Penny usually left them a generous share. Not always. But usually. That's how things went, for more years than they could remember.
That night was different. The men of The Black Falcon were no ordinary sailors, no common prey. They didn't panic or pee themselves. And they didn’t run.
Their cutlasses and dirks were out in a flash. And desperate battle was joined — hack and slash, fangs and fists. The deadly skill and experience of the seamen pitted against the uncanny strength, speed, and preternatural resilience of the Evermerians. The brothers didn’t expect such resistance, but they liked it. They reveled in it. Except when taking a ship outright, they hadn't had such fun in decades.
The last two seamen made the pier deck. When they saw two of their comrades already down, they pulled their weapons and rushed forward to aid their fellows. Tug climbed up the ladder behind them, Old Fogey (his huge battle hammer) in one hand.
“Odin's ass,” Tug said eyeing the carnage. “More stinking monsters. They’re everywhere on this trip.”
“Oh, a big one!” squeaked Penny in delight as she spotted Tug. She clapped her hands in joy; her smile ear to ear.
“Take the one on the right,” shouted Tug to his men as he moved to the left to aid seaman Gurt.
Gurt was a knife master — one of the best in the crew. He'd dueled a dozen men in his time and lived to tell the tales. Despite the Evermerian’s speed, he held his own and slashed Moby multiple times about his hands and arms.
As Tug barreled forward, Moby decided he'd toyed with his food long enough. He didn't mind taking a few slashes, but he'd little interest in getting pounded by Tug's big hammer. And so, he let Gurt stab him in the chest. That brought him in close. That brought him to a spot from which he couldn't get away. Moby grabbed Gurt about the neck. He leaned in. Gurt squirmed almost out of his grasp, but not far enough. His fangs clamped down on the seaman’’s shoulder. It wasn't the neck bite that Moby wanted, but it would do. Now all he had to do was knock Gurt down, leaving him free to deal with Tug. But as Moby pulled back, Gurt held him fast and with unexpected strength. Moby strained and pushed. After a few moments, he was able to break Gurt's grip and fling him down. As Moby started to turn, Old Fogey slammed down onto the top of his head. A battle hammer blow to the head would kill any normal person, but Evermerians had hard heads. Very hard heads. A single such blow, even a powerful one, even one thrown by a great warrior, a hero, would do them little harm, perhaps none at all. Yet that single strike from Old Fogey crushed Moby’s head to pulp. His body flopped lifeless to the deck.
Penny screamed — a high-pitched wail that nearly popped the seamen's eardrums. No human throat could make such a sound.
Then she saw Toby getting slashed to pieces by the other three sailors. A powerful cutlass stroke cut one of his arms off at the elbow. His beautiful arm. She stood up, atop the barrel. Tears ran down her face. Her shock quickly turned to anger. She hadn't expected this. Her beloveds, dead and dying. She couldn’t believe it.
She expected to make a merry feast of the interlopers. One that she didn't have to share with anyone save for her beloveds. She wasn't used to food fighting back. At least not like Tug and company did. They had deadly skill. But so did she. And she’d had many more years to practice than they had. She would show them. She would make them pay for what they'd done.
Her face changed. Like the brothers, her eyes went black and her teeth became fangs — but hers grew longer and thicker. They glistened and dripped with saliva. Her ears lengthened. They grew pointy. Her beautiful face took on a grayish cast. All this in a mere moment.
A tiny thing was she, not even close to five feet tall. Nowhere near a hundred pounds. Had she not that evil look about her, Tug may not have had the heart to battle her at all. She looked so much like the baker's daughter — the one from Shield Street. That one always smiled at him and gave him extra rolls when he bought bread in the morning. She even had her eyes (before they went all black). And the same golden hair.
But Penny was no sweet little girl. She was no person at all, as far as Tug could tell. She was some kind of monster; some kind of thing, just like the brothers. Tug knew how to deal with such things.
Penny leaped at him from atop the barrel, covering the fifteen feet between them in a single, impossible bound. Had he froze in a panic or surprise, she would have landed on him, her teeth at his throat.
But Little Tug didn't freeze. Despite the speed at which she came, Tug swung Old Fogey at just the right angle and at just the right moment to catch her mid-leap. Few warriors in all Midgaard could've made that strike, but Tug did, veteran as he was of hundred melees and skirmishes at sea and on land over the previous two decades.
The hammer slammed into Penny's shoulder, upper chest, and the side of her head. The power of that blow knocked her through the air, and sent her tumbling across the pier and over the side into the water.
The battle between Toby and the other seamen still raged. One man was down, unmoving on the pier deck, his throat torn out. Toby fought on, displaying wounds that would've killed any normal man five times over, though his face showed his desperation. He was like a wounded animal that was cornered. He knew he couldn't win the fight, but he was going to do as much damage as he could before death took him.
Tug wanted to aid his comrades, but witnessing the superhuman resiliency of the Evermerians, he knew that the girl was still alive. He knew that at any moment, he'd see her hand reach up and grab onto the rail’s edge. It was impossible. No one could've survived that hammer blow, but he knew that she did. He had to keep telling himself that she wasn't a little girl. She wasn't human. She was something else. He didn't know what, and it didn't matter. She needed killing, and when she showed her face again, he'd finish her. He turned from one side to the other, looking for any sign of her. He couldn't afford to have her sneak up on him. Not with the claws she had.
Tug didn't expect the girl to catapult out of the water, rising ten feet above the pier and landing on her feet. But that's just what she did. Her arm and shoulder were mangled and hung limp. Blood streamed down the side of her face. Her jaw was wrenched into an unnatural angle, either broken or dislocated, or both. Tears streamed down her face. She sobbed, in terrible pain, though her eyes were hard and cold as the sea.
Tug wouldn't let his eyes go soft. She was a monster, he told himself. A monster. And monsters needed killing.
She raced toward Tug, this time too fast for him to bring Old Fogey to bear. She ducked under his blow and grabbed him about the belt. She lifted Tug from his feet — all five hundred pounds of him, and bodyslammed him to the deck, landing atop him. Her hands were at his throat. She struggled to envelop his huge neck with her small hands. She squeezed his throat with a force beyond any that Tug had felt before. Try as he might, he couldn't dislodge her hands, though he held her aloft with ease.
His meaty hand went to her throat and with all his might, he leveraged himself and rolled to the side, ending up atop her, pressing down with all his weight on her torso. For all her strength, her mass was so slight that he was able to manhandle her. They struggled. Not for moments, but for minutes, squeezing and snarling. Adrenaline alone kept Tug going, for he was far past exhaustion. Penny seemed to have no end of energy. Tug finally dislodged one of her hands and punched her in the gut over and over — blows that would have a splintered a man's ribs and ruptured his innards. All to no effect. Punches to the side of her head were equally ineffective.
Finally, Tug reached the dagger sheathed at his side, pulled it out, and rammed it through the girl’s neck. Its tip came out the other side. Her grip loosened and Tug was able to knock her hands away and quickly withdrew the dagger. Down came the blade again. This time through her forehead, pinning her head to the pier. Her body quivered for some moments and then went limp. Tug checked her as best he could. Dead.
The battle nearby was long over as well. Seaman Gurt sat on the pier, shaking. His sword was lodged through Toby's heart and had him pinned to the ground, just as Tug had pinned Penny. Toby's limbs thrashed back and forth. He strained to pull the sword from his chest, but he could not. The other seamen were down.
Tug hauled himself to his feet and walked over to Toby, Old Fogey dragging behind him.
“Don't kill me, please,” said Toby. “Mercy.”
“Mercy is for men, not for monsters,” said Tug. “Say hello to Old Fogey,” he said as he slammed the hammer down on Toby's head, blasting it to mush.