by A. C. Cobble
Duke eyed her for a moment and then waved to the two men who had been assigned to guard them. “Can you check with Commander Ostrander about how long until the area is cleared?”
“M’lord,” said one of the men. “We’re, ah, we’re to stay by your side no matter—”
“Surely no one who outranks me gave you those orders, soldier? Go on, and don’t worry. The only thing Ostrander will hear from me is that you followed instructions.”
Frowning, the two men shared a look. After a moment, they turned to jog toward their commander.
Sam led Duke toward the jungle where she was certain they’d find a path through the dense vegetation. They made it to the edge of the foliage and walked along it until she found a dip. She pushed her way into a narrow passage.
Whispering, Duke said, “I didn’t see this until you stepped into it. If the governor went this way…”
“He knew where he was going,” agreed Sam.
Reluctantly, Duke gestured for her to lead into the darkness.
Stepping lightly on the sand, Sam crept through the jungle. Under the canopy, it was nearly pitch-black. It was silent, too, the animals either run off previously by the pirates or scared by the airship’s bombardment. As they moved along, the sounds of the marines’ activity behind them faded quickly, blocked by huge fronds, thick leaves, and hanging vines.
In the quiet, she thought she heard something, or someone, in front of them. Hoping Duke was behind her, she sped up, brushing aside creepers that shrouded the path and pushing through huge leaves that were as wide as her waist.
“Look what we have here,” purred a voice in front of her.
She slowed, taking her steps with care, stalking closer.
“I told you I heard someone behind us,” claimed another voice.
“Is that the spirit-forsaken governor?” asked a third.
“Release me,” growled Dalyrimple.
Ahead of her, Sam saw a slight break in the jungle where the path opened up. The pre-dawn sun shed weak light over the trees and plants, but she could see four figures standing in the clear, a space three of the pirates evidently selected to wait for and then ambush their tail. One of the figures jerked, trying to break the hold of two others.
“Release me now or I’ll call out. I’ll have one hundred royal marines here in an instant, and I’ll make sure each one of you suffers before you die.”
“Go ahead and yell, Governor,” sneered one of the figures.
Sam paused, waiting, but the governor did not call out.
The man, the leader of the three corsairs she guessed, laughed. “You don’t want any more attention on what happens here than we do, Governor.”
Muttering a curse, Dalyrimple lunged at the pirate leader, but the other two held their grip, and the large man thrashed ineffectively.
“Bring him,” said the leader, and he started deeper into the jungle. “We just got the leverage we need to get out of here.”
Duke touched Sam’s arm and nodded after the departing men. She understood. Follow them. The other part, the part left unsaid, was that they were not dashing back to get reinforcements. Whatever was happening, Duke wanted to investigate away from the prying eyes of the common soldiers.
Sam started again, following the backs of the four men but staying far enough away they wouldn’t immediately notice her in the dim light of the jungle.
They didn’t have to go far. After three hundred more paces, the foliage opened again. She could see the light of a new day in front of them. Slinking forward, she and Duke stayed close to the verdant plants that lined the path, hoping it would hide the shapes of their bodies. Ten paces away from the break in vegetation that marked the end of the trail, she reached across and put a hand on Duke’s chest. She would see what was in the clearing.
He waited patiently as she edged closer, forcing down a churning boil in her stomach.
“What are you going to do? Kill me?” asked the governor.
“Of course not,” growled the pirate leader. “We’re going to use you as a bargaining chip. We want to make sure we get paid for our efforts, after all. We’ll keep you here until your friends out there get tired of looking for you.”
“Why here?” demanded Dalyrimple.
“Because those soldiers can search this island for weeks and they’ll never find you here. You can scream until you lose your voice, Governor, and they’ll never find you.”
The governor didn’t argue, and Sam saw why.
In the clearing was a waist-high, stone altar. It was stained a deep rust-red. Old, dried blood, she knew. There was a ramshackle structure half-hidden in the jungle on the other side, and around the clearing, spaced at even intervals, were skeletons, hanging suspended in a circle. Their skin had been flayed and spread, fixed to their arms so they looked like giant, skeletal bats. The rest of their body tissue had been removed, and as the sun rose and shone brighter, she could see arcane symbols and patterns painted on the dried, wing-like skin of the corpses.
She swallowed.
This was not the scene where they found the countess. This was not what she’d discovered in Madam Winrod’s lair. This was far, far worse. This was true, powerful sorcery. This was from the darkest stories her mentor Thotham told her, the terrible depths of what was possible, and what should never exist.
She heard Duke behind her, his breath coming faster and harder as he took in what she’d already seen. She knew he wouldn’t understand the meaning of the symbols. She didn’t either. They didn’t need to. It was clear this was no benevolent circle calling upon the spirits of life. This was no parlor game purporting to speak to a dead relative. Human souls had been spent here, in that circle, and she shivered thinking about what they may have purchased. What Madam Winrod said was true. The worst was true.
The pirates released the governor, and he stumbled away from them.
“You mean to ransom me?” he asked. “What, you’ll write the Crown, write the Company, and demand gold?”
The leader of the men nodded his head and then hopped up to sit on the blood-stained altar. “You will write a letter, Governor, and when the soldiers have left, we’ll deliver it to your wife.”
The governor swallowed and hugged himself. “She is dead.”
“Is she?” chuckled the corsair. “I find it hard to believe that woman was killed, but if she was, you’ll find someone else. I am not totally ignorant, Governor. There are others who will pay us. Write to them, or I will seek them out myself.”
“There are no others,” snapped the governor.
“Perhaps we should contact your wife if she really is dead,” suggested the leader of the corsairs.
“You wouldn’t,” gasped Dalyrimple.
“Are you sure about this, Artemis?” one of the other men asked the leader. “We could kill this fool and be done with it. Head back into the Vendatt’s. Do a little honest pillaging, you know? Forget all of this… this madness.”
“Can you forget after what we’ve done?” hissed the leader.
“I can try,” muttered the man.
“Tie him up back in the shelter,” instructed the leader. “When he’s secure, let’s spread out and watch for the marines. They’ll search for him, I am sure, but they won’t find us here. Once they depart, we’ll see what debris we can make seaworthy and get off this island. When they find out we have the governor, his wife or someone else will pay up.”
“I told you my wife is dead!” cried the governor.
The pirate cackled. “Dead, alive, we can still reach her. I’ve watched her enough to know.”
“Go ahead and do it then,” sneered the governor. “Contact Hathia, you fool. Do it here in this circle.”
“Don’t think I won’t—”
“No!” interrupted the third pirate. “I don’t care how much gold you think we’ll get from ransoming the man. I’m done with this. I’m done with… with that. As soon as those marines depart, I say we kill him and flee.”
The lea
der of the pirates leapt off the altar, whipping a bolo knife from his side and slashing it across the throat of his companion. The governor and the second pirate stumbled away from the confrontation.
“What are you doing!” cried the second man, drawing his cutlass, his gaze darting between his leader and the governor.
The dead pirate fell to the earth, and the clearing fell into shadow as if a cloud had passed between it and the rising sun, but there were no clouds, and a brief, stabbing pain accompanied the darkness. In a moment, the light returned, and the pain faded.
“What did you do?” snapped the governor, one hand clutching his head.
Duke touched her arm, and when she looked, she saw in his face that he’d seen enough, felt enough. Whatever was happening within that macabre circle, they couldn’t allow it to continue.
“Leave the governor alive,” Duke whispered. “Is there…”
Sam shook her head. Softly, in the nobleman’s ear, she whispered, “I do not believe any of those men are true sorcerers, including the governor. The corsairs may have some knowledge but not enough to activate the power of this place. If they could, they would have already known the countess was dead. They could have… No, they’re no magical threat.”
Duke nodded and gripped his broadsword, and they both charged into the circle.
The pirates shrieked in surprise, but both of the men were armed, swords already in their hands. They raised their blades and rushed to meet Sam and Duke.
She drew the attack of the leader, the one with the short bolo knife. The weapon, already streaked with blood from the dead pirate, swept toward her face. Acting on instinct drilled into her for years by her mentor, Sam ducked and lashed out with a dagger.
The sinuous blade clipped the pirate’s leg, and the man screamed, jumping back.
Sam advanced, but the corsair switched into a defensive posture, settling his feet, ready to launch a counter attack if she overextended. She knew she was better trained. She could tell from his sloppy stance and the way he held his off-hand by his side, hovering near his injury, but this man had seen combat. Years of it. Training was one thing. Experience was another.
Sensing hesitation, the corsair lurched forward, perhaps thinking to use his size and strength to overwhelm her. She didn’t give him the chance.
He put his weight on his wounded leg, and she launched at him, meeting him halfway, darting to the side and forcing him to pivot. He grunted as his weight shifted on the injured leg. She closed, one dagger crashing against his bolo knife, the other slamming into his gut. She twisted it and yanked it out before falling back.
The man gaped at her, his jaw working silently. He looked down at his feet where his blood was already pooling on the sand. Then, he looked around the circle, his eyes widening in terror. He tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat. Staggering, he moved toward the path that led to the circle, pure panic evident in his every step. He staggered, trying to run, but after three steps, his strength failed him, and he stumbled onto his knees then fell to his face.
Darkness flooded the clearing, and the sharp spike of pain lanced into her skull again like the worst hangover compressed into the space of a breath. A second stab of agony immediately followed it. She blinked, recovery coming slowly and then quickly. She looked in panic to where Duke had engaged the second pirate.
He was rubbing his forehead, a scowl on his lips.
“What the frozen hell was that?” he gasped. In front of him, the second pirate’s body was crumpled, his head half a dozen paces away. “It’s like every time someone dies…”
Sam and Duke both looked to the governor.
“What?” he cried. “Why are you looking at me? I saw those pirates slip into the jungle and I ran after, thinking I could see where they were going and cry for help, but then they ambushed and threatened me. They dragged me here and… What is this place?”
“They said… they knew you,” accused Duke.
“Of course they know me,” snarled Dalyrimple. “Everyone within one hundred leagues of Archtan Atoll knows me. What happened here? I think they meant to ransom me back to my wife, and if not her, maybe to you.”
Sam frowned.
“I-I don’t think…” Duke glanced at her then back to the governor. “That’s not what they were…”
“They told me there was someone else who’d pay my ransom,” argued the governor. “Who else would that be but you?”
Duke stared at the governor, speechless.
“What is this place?” Dalyrimple continued, looking around and giving a visible shudder. “These bodies, they must be the sailors the corsairs captured when they took a prize, but why have they done this? Are they sacrificing these men? They acted like no one could hear us scream from here. Do you think they put some sort of hex on this place?”
Duke ran a hand over his hair, clearly frustrated.
“Yes, I do,” said Sam quietly. She studied the governor, and he turned to look at her, only curiosity in his face. She glanced at Duke, “Whoever fashioned this circle had a great deal of strength. They’d have the power to contain any energies within this space. Inside of this circle, a true sorcerer could kill us easily if we were unprepared.”
Duke blinked at her uncertainly.
She flicked her eyes toward the governor.
“Easily?” he asked.
She nodded. “If these corsairs had been real practitioners of dark magic, we would not have survived.”
Duke grunted and glared at the governor.
“This is why Oliver brought you along, isn’t it?” guessed the governor. “You are a priestess, as he claimed. A special sort, though, am I right? You know about this… this stuff. Tell us what is this place. What was happening here?”
She looked back at the man and shrugged.
“Am I wrong?” asked the governor, turning to Duke. “I’ve never seen anything like this. If the girl isn’t the sort of priestess we need, then we need to find some expert, someone who can investigate this and tell us what was going on. Do you think we could send a message to the Church and request their assistance? One thing is certain, whatever was going on here was bad — evil, even. We must get to the bottom of it.”
“Yes,” murmured Duke, looking around the clearing at the dozen flayed bodies hanging around them. He shuddered then turned back to the governor. “It was evil, and we need to get to the bottom of it.”
The Cartographer IX
Oliver sat across from Sam at the table. In between them sat a decanter of gin, two glasses that had been emptied and refilled several times now, and a golden circle formed of two serpents, each eating the other’s tail.
“I’ve never actually seen one,” said Sam, “but there’s no question. It’s an ouroboros. A real one.”
“What does it do?” asked Oliver.
“It’s a sorcerous talisman,” explained Sam. “It represents balance. Life and death, darkness and light, locked in a continual struggle where one consumes the other and the other consumes the one. It’s reputed to give a sorcerer protection when contacting spirits in the underworld. The spirits cannot take the sorcerer because the practitioner has one foot in the underworld and one foot here. It roots the user in both worlds. Understand?”
“No,” he replied, picking up the decanter of gin and refilling their glasses again. “I don’t understand a damn thing about any of this. Can I trust you to keep the… the ouroboros, to turn it over to the proper department at the Church?”
“I am the proper department,” claimed Sam, sitting back and accepting her glass from Oliver. “My mentor has taught me to recognize signs, to distinguish real sorcery from the parlor tricks. What we saw this morning was real, I know that, but as to what it was designed to do… I can only speculate.”
“What is your guess, then?” he pressed.
She shuddered. “I need to speak with my mentor to be sure. He faced real sorcery before when it was practiced last in Enhover. He’ll know better than I what that
circle was meant to accomplish.”
“Tell me what you think,” instructed Oliver. “I understand you’re not certain, but give me some idea of what we’re facing.”
Closing her eyes, Sam said, “I believe the circle in the clearing was formed to trap souls, souls of the recently departed before they could make their way into the underworld. The sorcerer held them there, within the circle, building power until they were ready to use it. It’s a guess only, but I believe that purpose was to commune with an incredibly powerful underworld spirit known as Ca-Mi-He — the lord of the underworld if there is such a thing. The souls’ release could grant the sorcerer vast power and vast penetration into the murky depths of the other side. Perhaps they were also used as bargaining chips, given to Ca-Mi-He somehow in exchange for… something? There is much I simply do not know.”
Oliver grimaced. “Yesterday, you told me of an object, or objects, that had been tainted by this Ca-Mi-He, right? Could the ouroboros be that object?”
“No,” replied Sam, opening her eyes and looking over the golden circlet. “This is old, ancient even, and I do not sense the taint of the underworld upon it. It’s likely the sorcerer used this as protection during the rite, but the ouroboros was a tool, not an end they were trying to accomplish.”
“The sorcerer…” mumbled Oliver.
“Sorceress,” interjected Sam. “I hate to speculate so much on something so important, but I believe Countess Dalyrimple is the sorceress who fashioned that circle. With the power she gained from sacrificing the prisoners on the altar, she was able to contact Ca-Mi-He, and the spirit tainted some object — a dagger I believe. She carried that object in the box we found in the apothecary. She brought that dagger in secrecy to Enhover where she met with Merchant Robertson in an attempt to hide it from someone. It could have been a rival sorcerer or even my mentor, but I think a rival is most likely. Their ritual went awry, or it was interrupted by the rival. Either way, Countess Dalyrimple died. The apothecary could have been killed before the ritual began or after to cover the tracks of whoever was involved. I believe the rival sorcerer somehow co-opted Robertson’s man who assassinated him and then came after us. The assassin was killed in the attempt, tying up that loose end and leaving no clue as to who the rival was and where they went with the dagger.”
