Chapter One

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Pug poked the dead man with the tip of his cutlass and watched as he continued to bleed into the fertile island earth. With his rapier secure in his other hand, Pug scowled and made another cursory investigation around. Men around him kept vigil, faces stoic and all serious.

His thumping heart beat fast, a result of the previous battle and his increasing suspicion. He mentally ran through the few facts he knew. They’d stumbled onto some upheaval which had turned bloody. A revolt, most likely. It wasn’t his battle, and he didn’t normally get involved in the issues of others. All that had changed when his men were attacked.

“Captain! Over here.”

He exhaled and trotted over to where Dravya crouched. The day had very little breeze, and Pug’s clothing stuck to him, making him long for the open ocean and the refreshing air that flowed abundantly. “What is it?”

“Young ones.”

He tensed, drawing in slow, steady breaths. Glancing over the bent dark head, he scowled at the numerous small footprints. One larger set—not a grown man’s size—perhaps a young man or a woman. The one sure thing to get his blood boiling—hurting children. Sheathing his cutlass, he mopped the sweat from his brow, simultaneously tightening his grip on his rapier in the same hand he used to remove the excess moisture from his head. He made a mental check of his weapons as Dravya regained his feet.

The thick air combined the stagnant island scents with those denoting death. Drav headed out at a trot, Pug on his heels. The other men trailed him. They continued on, him trusting Drav to keep them on track. Pushing through ever-thickening foliage, Pug cursed the sweat soaking in the cotton of his shirt.

Noises reached them, and as if a single unit, they all paused. Pug peered behind to the fanned out men. His crew came from all around the world. Men from the desert plains of Egypt, jungles of Africa, the frozen steppes of Russia, the mountains of Portugal, and places in between. And, of course, Drav.

“These men are hunting, Cap.” Drav spoke in his native language.

“The children?”

Shoulders shrugged. “Most likely. A lot of men to find children.”

He’d thought so, too.

“They may want to harm them. Or whomever is with them.”

Pug frowned. “We should ruin their day.”

“And if they are slavers?”

Again, he tended not to get involved with others’ proclivities, yet slavery was not something he approved of. A feral smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Then, we treat them as we always do. Make sure the children are unharmed.”

He said nothing more to his men. There was no need. They dispersed, vanishing into obscurity, leaving him and Drav alone. Their gazes met, and in Drav’s eyes, he saw the same hunger for battle that flourished within him. They hurried off after the tracks.

He burst from the greenery and engaged the first man who attacked him. With a cry, Pug ignored the fatigue caused by the previous fights, the heat, and the run he’d just completed to get where they were. The fight dragged on, and he had since dispatched many when he spied a thin trail leading into a concealed area. He followed it, not too surprised when it led to a cave.

Ears attuned to grab any and all noises, he tried to discern any possible danger. A soft whimper had him whirling to his left, rapier up in defense. That move saved his life. A flashing blade arched with deadly precision toward his head, the barely there light glinting off the metal.

As fast as it began, the attack finished, only to come again from another angle. Who is this person who moves so fast and silent? Even as the question echoed through his mind, he reacted to the concurrent attack. The thin blade whipped through the air, this time scoring a hit on his chest. He bit back his curse and stumbled out of the way. Tense, he waited for the next attack.

The sound of light, retreating footsteps reached him. Without bothering to staunch the blood flowing from his injury, he set off in that direction, only to pause at another whimper. The noise came from the opposite direction of the footfalls.

They, whomever they are, are trying to lead me from the children.

He blinked away the exhaustion, which pressed harder, and ignored his desire to go kill the one who’d cut him. Shaking his head, he blinked away more sweat and headed off with caution.

The cave path he followed dipped slightly before he saw bright yellow light coming from a side area. Not all that unusual; he understood most caves were full of twists and turns. He’d explored many in his travels.

Stepping into the light, Pug drew up at the sight of five children along the far wall. Three girls and two boys, both of black and white skin color. Although he knew they were scared, they showed no fear. In fact, they seemed almost defiant.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked softly.

The whisper skating up his back his only warning, he spun, weapon at the ready, only to find no one there. Whirling back to face the children, he promptly lost his breath. A young woman stood between him and the five kids. Her large white shirt hid most of her top, the belt around her hips allowed him to see a bit of definition. No skirt, but breeches that halted at the knees and exposed much of her long, brown legs. Her thick hair, a mass of curls, hung past her shoulders, some strands sticking to her face.

Yes, she was beautiful, but currently, it wasn’t what held his attention. No, it was the brown eyes snapping with defensive fury. All it took was one look, and he knew she would die defending the children. That act, right there, earned her his respect. For, years ago, the woman he now viewed as his mother had done the same for him on a cold, snowy night.

“I mean you no harm.”

Her sword never wavered nor did she speak. Pug ran his gaze over her, swallowing, desperately wishing for some water. He didn’t feel right. Against one hip, she also had a wicked looking short sword. Returning his attention to the kids, he tried again.

“Do any of you speak English?” he asked the question in more than one language.

They didn’t respond. His limbs shook, and he took a step forward. Instantly, her entire stance changed. The blade rose, and her feet moved to an attack position. Whoever she was, she’d been taught to wield a blade.

Feeling like shit, he shook his head. “You do not want to challenge me. Do you really believe you could best me in a fight?” His personal discomfort made his tone derisive and condescending.

Regardless, the woman remained unimpressed. Perhaps it was his imagination, but she appeared a bit arrogant. The ground shifted beneath him, and he fought to remain on his feet. Noises were amplified, and his paranoia grew as he heard voices and large bugs zooming around his head.

His sword clattered to the ground, and he sank—ungracefully—to his knees. The mysterious woman grew fuzzy before him. No way. He’d been drugged or poisoned. The witch had done this to him.

He couldn’t get his limbs to move or make his mouth work. Hell, he could barely swallow. Before he succumbed to darkness, he glared once more at the woman. I will get you for this. That was his last jumbled thought.