Free The Buccaneer's Apprentice by V. Briceland

trampled, cleared and buried all traces of their camps and blinds, and made very certain to fix anything that a sharp-eyed ranger might spot.
    However, someone else had taken no such precautions.
    There was another person on the island. Of that Nic was suddenly certain. His eyes could trace an irregular path in the field that wended from the shore inland, tromped down as if not only by heavy steps, but by something heavy dragged all the way from the beach, up the slope, and through the tall grasses. The deep trail ended at the edge of the wooded area. Sword at the ready, Nic dropped his sling on the ground and followed.
    The trail was definitely not his imagination. Whoever had traipsed through here had made no effort to cover his tracks. Low-level twigs lay on the ground, broken from the surrounding trees. Their leaves were still green, indicating that the stranger’s passage had been not long ago. Nic’s hand shot out to touch two of the fresh wounds on the bark. “Dry,” he murmured, sniffing his fingers. The trespasser had not been too recent. Perhaps two or three hours at least.
    Nic’s eyes remained alert as he followed the path into the glade. His ears prickled for the slightest noise, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the sudden rasp of his lungs as they tried to draw in air. He took a moment before every step, edging into the shaded woods sideways, sword ready to strike out. It was obvious where the path was leading him. As he’d suspected, deep within the overhanging trees lay a small pond. Beyond it, a stream flowed in the direction of the island’s far end, splashing along mossy banks with a playful sound. A lone bird dove through the enclosure. Its cry cut through the silence, setting Nic on edge. Of another person, there was no trace.
    A series of upturned stones and trampled grass betrayed the path’s end at the edge of the nearly still pond. After gazing carefully to all sides, Nic knelt down by the pool’s edge and helped himself to a handful of the water. It was sweet and cool to the taste, and fresh in his mouth, free of any stagnation. That was a relief, then. But about the stranger somewhere in the vicinity … could he have been in search of water as well, dived into the pool, and emerged on the other side? Possibly. Nic was no expert in tracking, though, and picking up a cold trail might take him hours.
    “ Vyash tar! ” The sound of a human voice made Nic nearly jump out of his skin. Sword ready, he spun around, only to see no one behind him. “ Allo! ” said the voice again, sounding like iron pincers scraping against blocks of ice. “ Allo! Tuppinze yere! ” Nic’s head spun in every direction except for the one from which finally he realized the noise was coming—up.
    A man hung above him, his fingers grasping in Nic’s direction. One of his legs was tied with rope that suspended him upside down, so that his long black hair spilled toward the ground. The man’s face had been painted blue, though much of the dye had flaked off or had been sweated into his hair since his capture. He was from Charlemance, Nic suddenly realized—or at least had adopted that far-flung country’s habits of bluing one’s skin. His garb was more tattered and begrimed than Nic’s own. Nic judged him to be a pirate, rather than a fine ritter or even a commoner of Charlemance.
    The man seemed to be trying to communicate, begging Nic with gesture and strangled sounds to release him. He made sure the man saw his sword before speaking. “What are you doing up there?” Though the stranger was twice his age, Nic spoke with authority. Then he remembered that the pirate more than likely wouldn’t understand a word he said.
    To his surprise, however, the man did seem to comprehend. His lips worked a moment before replying. “Cassafort?” he asked, and then at Nic’s expression of amazement, “You are from Cassafort City?”
    “I am from Cassaforte,” Nic replied, suspicious. The