EDITOR’S NOTE
Apologies for the delay, adventurers. My day job has kept me busy, and I’ve also been juggling the release of my new book, HONOR AMONG ROGUES (available here: https://tinyurl.com/uwtzjs7r). This week’s story is a classic, swashbuckling tale of pirates and betrayal. The author, John A. Tures, presents this yarn in a unique series of flashbacks and flashforwards that put a modern twist on a recognizable Pulp mileau.
TWO CROSSES MARK THE SPOT
There is no shortage of pirate tales about Krakens, skeleton armies, sharks, and even legends of corsairs who could not die. All pale in comparison to the duplicitousness that resides within the hearts of men who embrace betrayal as a code for living. There is only one remedy for such cruelty.
PRESENT: 1662
“So, Don Diego, how many men have we betrayed since we began our adventures years ago?” Captain Tomas Trujillo grinned, idly toying with the flintlock pistol.
“Too many to count, Tomas,” the grizzled first mate grumbled, struggling with his oar in the rowboat. He was older than the other three muscular sailors, who had shed their shirts, and were handling the task far better than the ship’s officer.
The five pirates made their way in the rowboat from the sloop to the long island in the distance, looking more like a sandbar than anything else. But thicker soil beneath the top made it ideal for secret burials. Most maps of the Caribbean didn’t even record it, except to warn other sailors not to sail there, unless they wanted to run aground in the middle of nowhere. But that was where Captain Tomas Trujillo, whose chop showed two crosses, would bury his treasure.
“How much do you feel is buried under those sands at Isla Plata?” Captain Tomas Trujillo’s voice was low, so that the other rowers would be unable to hear his voice.
“Too much to count,” Diego grunted, resenting that he was dragged into this task at the island his boss personally named. His only relief was that his captain was wielding a single pistol, though he did have his cutlass and dagger along as well. Usually, anyone who followed Tomas with money found themselves dispatched with ruthless efficiency.
“Remember our early voyages together, my friend?” Trujillo uttered, though the island was still a long distance away.
Despite the event occurring years ago, Diego Pujols did recall that episode with great clarity.
PAST: 1650
Diego and Tomas were once simple peasant boys, who easily tired of tilling the soil for little reward for their boring existence. It was Tomas’ idea to have them run away from their mother country for adventure. They joined the Spanish Navy in Cadiz, only to find another type of dull life full of harsh discipline, and little room for advancement for two boys from such humble origins.
After ten years of service, Tomas seemed to have had enough of it all. Below decks, among the many swinging hammocks, the young man complained to compatriots. “We can’t take much more of this. At this point, I’d prefer an English dungeon to much more abuse on our ship.”
Diego nodded. “The captain seems to take great delight in using the whip on us.”
“But what can we do?” replied Montanez, a fellow seaman.
Tomas Trujillo was direct in his response. “Kill the captain and his officers.”
“But they have weapons,” pointed out one of Montanez’s friends, the contramaestre of the vessel.
“And we have the element of surprise,” Trujillo countered. “They’ll never be ready for our attack. We’ll kill them in their sleep.”
“The rest of the Spanish Navy will hunt us down and kill us all,” worried Montanez, who served as the timonel, a leading seaman in charge of navigation on the ship.
Tomas was not to be deterred. “But not if we sail into the Caribbean and make it to our port, as planned. We can claim the plague took them. It’s up to all of you. We can continue to taste the lash for little pay and less glory or chart our destiny.”
Montanez reluctantly reached his hand out to Trujillo. “Okay, you’ve got my support. When will we strike?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Then Tomas pulled out a piece of parchment from his hammock. “Put your mark next to mine, all of you, to promise that we will act together.”
All of the mutineers affixed their names, initials or symbols, while Tomas added his two crosses, for his name. Diego looked more closely at Trujillo’s two T’s. His friend knew how to spell out his whole name. Why had he only chosen to include only his initials?
Diego would soon find out, a lesson that would be frequently repeated over their lifetimes.
PAST: 1650
An hour later, the navegadora brought Tomas to the captain’s cabin. Oaths followed as the captain stumbled toward the door, unlocked it, and demanded to know who interrupted his slumber.
“The sailor has something worth hearing,” the officer added.
“He had better provide something useful, or I’ll whip him for rousting me at this hour.”
Tomas was undeterred by that threat. “Montanez and several others are planning el motin. I pretended to be supportive of the mutiny, but only to learn more about who the conspirators were, and what they were planning.”
Within a half-hour, Montanez and seven others were covered with bruises on their faces and bodies, and sported nooses around their necks. The timonel’s one remaining eye fixed an evil stare at Tomas, while Diego looked away in shame. But Trujillo did not seem to mind. He replaced Montanez as the new timonel. “This promotion is my gratitude for ferreting out the mutiny,” the captain declared at a ceremony in his cabin. He looked down in surprise at the document. Tomas Trujillo affixed a pair of t’s on the document legalizing his promotion.
“Looks like two crosses,” the first mate observed.
Tomas Trujillo nodded. “My initials. My symbol.”
Then, the new timonel continued. “To show my thanks for this honor tomorrow, I will prepare a dish made special from the region in Spain where I come from. Some think the spices are too much, but….”
The captain cut him off. “My officers and I are strong enough to eat anything you can feed us, I assure you.”
Later the next night, Tomas roused his friend. “Wake up, Diego Pujols. You are now primer oficial.
His friend who had joined him at the port in Cadiz was shocked. “What…how?”
“The late captain and his officers ate something that disagreed with them. Help me see if the sharks can stomach their remains any better than any they could handle their dinner, as we get rid of the bodies.”
Diego couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You just signed our death warrants!”
Tomas shook his head. “Leave everything to me, my friend.”
PAST: 1650
When they arrived in port, in the Caribbean, Don Fransisco de la Vega, the regional commodora of the Spanish Navy, met them on the docks. “Where is your captain? I much desire to speak with him about a great opportunity.”
Tomas gave Diego and the other crew a look. “We put down a rebellion by several marineras, led by one named Montanez. But though we defeated the amotinadas, the captain and his officers perished in the struggle.”
De la Vega frowned, then smiled. “Yes, these unfortunate incidents do seem to happen at sea. Your promotion, and that of your friend here,” he indicated Diego, “will be accepted by the high command, backed by a good word from me. That is, such a recommendation will be provided when I receive your captain’s fortune, as well as his most valuable map.”
Trujillo’s face fell, but he recovered quickly. “Of course, Don Francisco. It is the way of the world these days.”
“Do not be dismayed, Captain Trujillo, for I am planning an expedition north of Panama,” de la Vega announced. He pointed to the map Tomas still held. “I am told that in those lands, the riches flow freely. You will have a chance to acquire some wealth too.”
Trujillo nodded. “Let us sign this agreement to make it official…You will legally make me a captain and I will give you control over my predecessor’s fortune, and the map.”
De La Vega saw his fellow signatory provided two crosses where his name should go. It must be for Tomas Trujillo, he mused, never considering what else it could mean.
PRESENT: 1662
As the small rowboat approached the dangerous breakers, Tomas continued regaling his friend in the boat with their adventures, while Diego struggled to paddle effectively, given the unpredictable waves.
“And you know how I dealt with the corrupt leader of the expedition, right?”
Diego Pujols glumly nodded.
PAST: 1650
As they met in the royal governor’s palace, rough hands of the local guards suddenly seized de la Vega as he sat down to the state dinner.
“Word has it that you are planning to take the rich lands north of Panama…to set up your own kingdom to rival Spain’s power,” the viceroy announced.
“I made no such schemes,” de la Vega insisted.
But the viceroy shook his head. “One of your confidants revealed the truth of your treachery.”
De la Vega protested, but to no avail, as he was dragged away from the feast. Within minutes the headman’s axe fell upon the head of the expedition.
“I can’t believe it,” Diego whispered after their leader was executed. “De la Vega is not guilty of treason.”
“True,” Captain Tomas Trujillo admitted. “But he was planning to be the viceroy of the new territory, and our royal governor was quite jealous, of course. And now I will be leading the expedition, with you by my side. He and I now have…a signed understanding.”
Diego saw the two t’s next to the signature of the royal governor. Be careful, primer oficial thought, as he witnessed the two making their arrangement legal. Signing together or shaking hands could be a fatal mistake, when it came to doing business with Tomas Trujillo.
PRESENT: 1662
Now the small rowboat with the treasure chest reached the treacherous reefs just before the sandbar. It took all of Diego’s cunning and the strength of the other sailors to clear that dangerous obstacle, hitting the opening between the two underwater coral barriers just right. Captain Trujillo seemed not to notice, continuing his tale of betrayal and booty.
“And who could forget the expedition, one of the first Spanish voyages to reach the area north of Panama?”
Diego wished he could lose that memory.
PAST: 1652
The deal was, of course, that Trujillo would now command the Spanish expedition, and the royal governor would get half of what was plundered. Diego, however, had a pretty good idea of what might happen with whatever treasure they amassed.
Upon arriving at the coast north of Panama, the expedition members seemed pleased to have happy natives rush out to greet them with gifts. The Spaniards would not need their muskets, sabers, and pistols to repel any attackers. But Trujillo and the others did seem dismayed by the types of gifts: flowers, corn, rice, and utensils made of clay. Where were the rumored riches?
When an elderly man who spoke Spanish quite fluently came forward to offer the formal greeting, Tomas secretly winked at Diego, and commanded the natives “We are your gods from afar. Kneel before us, and then pay tribute to us in the form of gems and gold!”
The translator smiled. “We know those of you with white skin are from a country afar, and not deities. Otherwise, you would not need boats or armor or weapons, and would simply descend in from the sky or fly across the ocean.”
Tomas’ men looked shocked, but the translator merely chuckled. “I learned your language from the Aztecs of the North, at least what is left of them. We do appreciate your attempt at humor. Tonight, you will see how we play a similar trick on other tribes inland.”
That night, they watched as hundreds of men and a few women processed over to the coastal village, where inhabitants seated them in what looked like an amphitheater. The other tribes were invited to ingest a pulpy drink served by the women, while the men blew some type of powder in the faces of the Indian guests, which seemed to make them hallucinate, as the Spaniards looked on with great interest. Then the attendees were subjected to a two-hour show where men and women of the village dressed as animals and pranced about, mixed in with shadows illuminated upon a wall, and some kind of light projection of fantastic creatures on one side of their temple, with sounds and calls amplified by speakers using large seashells. Whatever the story was about, it seemed to fire up those from nearby tribes who came in for the show. They heaped precious metals and pretty stones upon the coastal villagers.
“It seems part religion, part theater,” Diego remarked, clearly impressed with the villagers.
“It also produced the treasure we came for,” Tomas added. “It’s time for a little scheme of our own.”
PAST: 1652
That evening, the translator came to where the Spanish rowboats had gathered on a beach. With him were several of the villagers, and a beautiful lady, tall and striking, wearing a dress of purple, and a robe of blue over it. Her black tresses were adorned with a type of hairnet containing small seashells. Bands of gold covered her copper-skinned wrists, arms, ankles and a necklace of pearls hung around her neck. She had a platter of gold objects and several emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds.
“Consider this a gift brought by the eldest daughter of our chief to you, so that we may establish trade with you,” the translator began. “We are particularly interested in formalizing an alliance with you.”
The translator produced a think animal hide, with leather, and something resembling a symbol that had been above the chief’s hut in the village. Tomas Trujillo used a dagger to carve two t’s next to that image, confirming the deal.
Then Tomas grabbed the woman, putting a dagger to her neck, above the pearls. “You tell the chief that we want all of the wealth you brought in from tonight’s show, or this girl will not survive the night.”
Diego looked in shock, as the translator stumbled away with his villagers. “But…they were willing to engage in commerce with us…even become allies of the Spanish crown” he raged against his commander.
Tomas waved off his friend’s comments. “We came to gain wealth, not lose half of it in an exchange. Bind her wrists and ankles, so she cannot escape. Trust me, Diego. I know what I’m doing.”
PAST: 1652
When the translator returned, he came with the chief, as well as more than 50 men straining under the weight of a dozen full coffers of gold and gemstones. Another 50 behind them held primitive weapons, no match for what the Spaniards were armed with.
“Tell your warriors to move away, if your daughter is to live,” Tomas ordered.
“Her name is Tresia,” the translator said aloud, hoping to humanize her.
“Whatever,” Tomas replied. “Just make those warriors retreat from us.”
The men armed with bows, arrows, and spears reluctantly stepped away. Tomas directed them to load the coffers on the rowboats.
The chief and translator quietly conferred. Tears were in the father’s eyes. “What about Tresia?”
Tomas considered this. “I will send her back in one of the rowboats after we make it to our ship, with the treasure,” he promised.
The chief looked uneasy but reluctantly nodded. He did not have many options.
PAST: 1652
Once abroad, his flagship, Trujillo gave his trademark cruel glare. “Begin to sail away, and then throw her overboard in a sack, weighed down by two cannonballs when we clear the horizon.”
“Why?” Diego was shocked by the order.
“We cannot afford to send anyone back with her; they would meet their doom,” Tomas pointed out. “They could reach us with those canoes; unless they think we still have her.”
His first mate folded his arms, a rare show of defiance. “This is about that milkmaid who left you for the son of the Alcalde back in Spain when we were both peasants, isn’t it?”
Tomas fixed his friend with an icy stare, then spun on his heel, making his way to the Captain’s Cabin. “See that the order is carried out,” was all that he said.
Fifteen minutes later, the captain heard a splash. He had barely enough time to rush to the side of the ship. But he could see the large colorful blue robe, bound in knots to a white bag, sinking rapidly beneath the surface.
Tomas touched the tear-streaked face of his first mate. “Diego Pujols, there is no shortage of women in port to make us feel like men again. One well-adorned Indian woman means nothing compared to the riches we’ll return with, except those who we deposit in a secret location, of course.”
But those words seemed to bring little consolation to his long-time friend.
PRESENT: 1662
Diego was exhausted by the rowing ordeal, barely having the strength to pull the boat upon the beach. But the other three sailors eagerly engaged in the task, the promise of triple pay guiding them on. You’ll be lucky to make it off this sandbar with your lives, the primer oficial mused to himself. Then they headed to a spot that the captain was marking with stones in his signature pair of crosses.
After that expedition years ago, the royal governor received them warmly upon their return, accepting the gold and gems, though he seemed mildly dismayed by a smaller-than-expected haul. But a visit to Isla Plata, the first of many, had lightened the load the ship carried back.
“I have a new mission for you, my captain,” the local viceroy claimed. Tomas winced when he heard the word “my.” The captain then asked “What is it you require, my governor?”
“Spain and France are at war with England and Holland. Some see it as a holy war, Catholics versus Protestants. But I see an opportunity for both of us. You will resign your commission…”
Tomas began to protest, but the royal governor held up his hand.
“…And, you will become a privateer, el corsario. I will sign your ‘letter of marque,’ permitting you to plunder our English enemies and their evil Protestant allies, the Dutch. You will give me half of your share, of course. As a member of the Royal Navy, all merchant ship plundering will go directly to the Spanish crown, of course, and not a peseta more for our salaries for taking even a single ship.”
Tomas Trujillo offered his chop, affixed next to the royal governor’s, displaying the double t’s. “Always with the two crosses,” the viceroy mused. “Are you a religious man?”
Tomas simply smiled.
If the naive governor only knew the truth, Diego mused.
PAST: 1652
The next day, Diego looked at their large naval vessel, now unrecognizable. “What did our men do to our once-fine warship? Now it looks like some…pleasure galley.”
Tomas grinned. “That’s the idea, Don Diego. This decoy of a ship will now lure in the merchant ships by appearing rudderless and in distress until they get close enough for us to strike. But if we looked like a warship, we would simply frighten away anything worth plundering.”
Diego had to marvel at the deception. They continued to capture ships, not just the Dutch and English, but also a trusting Spanish or French merchantman as well, leaving no survivors behind. Even after the war ended two years later, they continued their freebooting ways, always stopping by Isla Plata before heading to the royal governor’s seaside estate.
PAST: 1654
“My friend,” the royal governor intimated at a private dinner. “Word of your pirating ways has reached the ears of the Spanish queen. She’s sending a flotilla to hang you and your shipmates from a gibbet.”
Diego’s mouth opened in shock, but Tomas seemed prepared for this piece of news. “I have a plan, my governor. Provide me with a pardon and restore my commission and I will hunt down those ‘pirates’ you seek to purge, winning the queen’s favor.”
The royal governor nodded. “That can be arranged, provided I get half of what you recover from los corsarios, of course.”
So the fateful pair of t’s were signed next to the viceroy’s name on the document to seal it, which Diego knew to mean no one should trust his friend, Tomas Trujillo. That night, the captain made sure the rum flowed freely among his loyal crew. The next morning, all were hung over, too weak to fend off the governor’s guards, finding themselves in dungeons awaiting their date with the gallows.
PAST: 1656
Indeed, Tomas did do his part in nearly ridding the Caribbean of piracy, purging the high seas of corsarios. Many a former mate ended up hanging from the docks in a cage, eyes pecked out, a warning to others. The royal governor got his share, at least half of what came back after Tomas, Diego, and the others came back from Isla Plata. He never knew Tomas’ secret, and even that there was more money he should have received, underneath the sands of the that Caribbean island.
Trujillo did let one pirate live, in exchange for a promise to assassinate the royal governor in his sleep. When the deed was done, Tomas had the killer executed, just the same. The former pirate with the initials “t.t.” was now named the new viceroy by the queen, ironically on the strength of his success in purging the place of pirates.
PAST: 1660
The royal governor’s wife seemed eager for the new arrangement, happy to have a more dashing husband by her side instead of his aged predecessor. Their wedding was the social event of the Western Hemisphere. The husband decked himself out in the finery of his predecessor, from robes to the wig, while the wife wore a tiara above her hair, pulled back severely in a bun. Her bridal gown made her husband and nearly every man in attendance drool. It’s how she got men to do her bidding, and she calculated Tomas Trujillo would be no different.
But his single-minded quest for more money, penchant for deception, as well as that self-centered personality, made him more of a boor in her mind in the weeks after their ceremony, where her name was signed next to the two crosses on their certificate. He became more able to resist her charms, maintaining an aloof identity. She could no longer twist this new governor around her finger as she could his predecessor. She soon realized too late that the only person Governor Trujillo really loved was himself.
Besides, the handsome commodora of the queen’s flotilla made a more pleasing person to spend time with, his romantic behavior being more preferred to the coldly vicious demeanor of Tomas Trujillo. She did her best to hide her illicit affair with her paramour so effectively that she was confident that her self-absorbed husband would never notice her indiscretions. But un
“To what do we owe the pleasure of this private feast?” his wife asked with that haughty demeanor that always sounded like she deserved more.
“Why…to celebrate amor…true love,” came Trujillo’s reply as he poured wine into her glass, as well as the leader of the flotilla. Neither they nor the other guests, seemed to notice that the secret lovers were the only ones served from that particular wine bottle, filled with tiny, crushed diamond fragments—a terrible revenge that began hours later, which would eventually snuff out the two lives.
PRESENT: 1662
“And you tolerated piracy, as the new viceroy” Diego claimed as the hole on Isla Plata was now almost deep enough.
“Tolerated?” Tomas Trujillo exclaimed. “More like profited from it.” The men continued to dig eagerly, as if there was a prize at the bottom to find, blissfully ignoring the stories the captain and his primer oficial had been sharing.
But Diego Pujols knew better. They’d all be lucky to survive if Tomas Trujillo was true to form.
“So why bring me along, captain, on this mission?” The first mate had to know.
His boss’ reply was quick and short. “Someone needs to know my story, so they can see how I outsmarted them all.”
Diego looked at the others, who did not slow down their shoveling, more focused on their task than the conversation. “So how long does this ‘secret piracy’ go on?”
The captain smiled at his longtime friend. “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought, Senor Pujols. As viceroy, I have my pick of the landowners’ daughters. I’ll select one to bear me a son. When he’s of age, I’ll secretly dispose of my wife, and then raise the boy to know where my treasure is buried, the source of his fortune. I’ll teach him the ways of earning one’s trust, and how to use it to great advantage. Who knows? He might marry into royalty, with my looks, economic power, and my lessons on how to use any means, especially people, to achieve great goals.”
With a flash, Trujillo slashed the first digger across the back of his neck, a fatal blow, causing him to fall into the pit he’d just dug. Before the second digger could react, he had been stabbed through the chest with the captain’s cutlass. The third sailor scrambled out of the pit they had just dug, only to find a dagger slam into his back, a perfect throw from Captain Trujillo.
Diego stepped back, marveling at how quickly he had dispatched the three diggers, glad that Trujillo had not moved against him. “Wish we had them to row us back, though.”
His optimism proved to be short lived, as the captain’s cutlass swung, cutting his stomach deeply, a blow that forced him from his feet.
“W-why?” Diego looked up at his murderer.
“I’m sorry my friend, but I just can’t afford to trust anyone, including you,” Tomas replied. “Nothing personal, of course.”
But instead of an angry retort, or a plea for his life, Diego surprised him with labored laughter. “You were right not to trust me, mi amigo. Check the treasure chest.”
A curious look came to Trujillo’s face. He stepped over to where the fortune was to be buried, inserted a key into the lock, and wrenched it open. The captain cried out in anger as he declared “It’s just…”
“Rocks,” Diego smirked. “Everything on this island you buried is the same. Feel free to check, if you do not believe me.”
“What did you do with my fortune?!” Tomas exploded. “Tell me or I’ll…”
“What, kill me?” Diego laughed. “I’m already dying, but your problems have only just begun.”
Tomas had to think. He could offer to bind Diego’s wounds, saving him temporarily, until he learned where the real treasure was, and could exact his revenge upon his first mate. That would have to do it.
“I’ll make you a deal, Diego Pujols.”
“Oh really? You’ll let me live?” Diego had heard it all before. “Care to seal the deal with your two treacherous crosses? I know better than to trust you. But I will tell you something you might want to know.”
“Is that so?” Tomas looked intrigued.
“The chief’s eldest daughter, Tresia, is still alive.”
“The one I told you to drown?” Tomas exploded with rage. “You backstabbing…”
Diego pressed on. “It was just her robe knotted with the white gunny sack, weighted down by cannon balls. In reality, I stowed her away below decks, in a barrel, until I could row her back to shore at night. Later that evening, I gave her freedom, and she…bore me a son.”
He thought back to that night of passion. Whether she was grateful for being freed from captivity, or truly in love with him, he knew not. But he never took a wife, despite being in position to have his pick of so many senoritas in the colonies.
“He and Tresia live with those people north of Panama,” Diego said between gasps. “I made sure they got all of the treasure back that you stole from them, and then some more, while your chests here on ‘Isla Plata’ are empty.”
Tomas menacingly swung his sword near the fallen body of his now former friend. “I’ll sail to the ends of the earth, looking for them. Rest assured that they face an even more painful death than yours…”
Diego coughed up more blood, pointing to a spot past Tomas. “You won’t get the chance.”
At the shore, black smoke rose into the air from the direction of the rowboat.
“How did you….”
“I did it just before you attacked me,” Diego struggled to stay alive just a few minutes longer. He wanted his killer to know exactly how he outsmarted him. “I could see that murderous betrayal in your eyes that I know all too well.”
Further, along the horizon, the sloop began to move away, as if the sight of the burning rowboat fueled the shipmates’ desire to leave.
“That was their signal to depart. They now have some treasure I left them, and no more need of their treacherous captain,” the first mate explained.
Anger forced Tomas’ hand, as he buried the sword to the hilt, into Diego’s chest, wishing it could be more painful. But his bearded friend died with an expression looking more like a smile than a grimace.
Tomas looked around Isla Plata. There was nothing that looked like it could be used for a boat, or even to provide fuel for a fire, even if one could even be started. Fresh water was even less likely than wood to exist on this sandbar he grimly noted, as the intensely hot sun beat down upon him.
Tomas was looking at an incredibly bleak fate, marooned on this miserable island, loaded with treasure chests and coffers filled only with rocks.
There was only one path forward. Reluctantly, he drew his pistol, pointed it at his head, and clicked the trigger…
Nothing.
The second click was less useful than the first one.
He glared down at Diego Pujols’s body, at the man who surely was responsible for the faulty pistol. It was the final betrayal.
END.
Dr. John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines(https://muckrack.com/john-tures).
He has published a number of short story mysteries and thrillers. His book Branded was just published by Huntsville Independent Press (see free chapters here: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/nfdmpqmn91). He thanks family and friends for listening to his stories. His author site is here: https://www.johntures.com/about-the-author/.
Return Friday, February 13th, for an action-packed tale of swordsmen and camaraderie in “SLOBODA” by Jason M. Waltz!
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