In the Wake of the Kraken

by C. Vandyke

  “The trident,” he growled. Crofter’s eyes widened and he shook his head under Bastian’s hold. Bastian wrestled his belt knife free, holding it to Crofter’s throat. “The trident or your life.” The man trembled under him—No, not a tremble. He was laughing. Bastian leered and moved his hand off the man’s mouth, letting the stunted laughter tumble out.

  “Boy, you know not who you’re plundering,” he chortled. “He might let me live if you take it at knifepoint, but it ain’t going to be a life worth living if he’s in a black mood. But you?” The man barked an unpleasant laugh. “You’re dead fucked, black mood or no. He’ll find you, boy, but if you’ve balls of brass, then go try yourself.”

  Bastian pressed the steel into Crofter’s flesh. “The trident.”

  “In my cabin, you thieving fink! T’ain’t even locked,” he cackled. “Go on then!”

  Bastian made a quick decision. He smashed the knife’s handle against Crofter’s head, the man’s eyes crossing before he slumped into unconsciousness.

  “Let him come,” Bastian said softly. He was on his feet, hurrying away.

  Crofter spoke true. He hadn’t even locked the door. Whatever security he’d alluded to Braddock about was pure fish guts: the crate lay open on a bolted down table in the center of the cramped cabin. Easily as tall as he, the trident was a slender thing made of a bone-white material, woven with shades of soft blue and vibrant orange. He laid a hand on it, surprised to find it was warm and not as smooth as he’d expected, instead dotted with countless tiny divots. It hummed in his hands, impossibly light for its size. Whatever it was, whatever it did, it was clearly valuable. But for Bastian, it was priceless. It was a chance to pull one over on the fearsome Captain King Braddock.

  I dare you to come find me, you bastard, he thought.

  A bell rang above, shouts and bootfalls following it. Bastian swore as he recognized the ruckus. Someone knew he was aboard. The alarm was raised.

  Trident in hand, Bastian dashed out of the cabin and back toward the gunport, treading on Crofter as he passed. He swore as three sailors called out from where their crewmate lay, still unconscious from when Bastian had swung aboard through the port, her jaw swollen and purpling. Their cutlasses flashed and Bastian ran. He was a decent knife fighter, a less-than-decent swordsman, but against three he was useless, trident or no trident.

  Hatches crashed open, and more sailors poured into the hold. He slid around a pile of barrels to find a single sailor. She blanched, then ground her teeth and raised her cutlass. Unable to do much more, Bastian thrust with the trident.

  Heat and light flooded the hold, blinding him in a blue-white flash. Thrown, he crashed through splintering wood, and blinked stars from his eyes. As he tried to adjust his vision, jagged purple lines seared into it. He gaped when he finally saw what had happened.

  Tongues of flame and smoking scorch marks traced a path toward a gaping hole punched through Dusk Trader’s hull, the sailor who’d attacked him no longer there. A wave washed through the opening, and Bastian didn’t need a better opportunity. He found his feet and ran, only for another pair of sailors to block his path. They wide-eyed the destruction caused before settling on him.

  “Fun’s over, boy.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Bastian grinned back, spinning the weapon in his hands. “I’ll be going now, if you’d step aside. And give my regards to Captain King Braddock. Tell him the Prince of The Porthole is waiting for him if he wants this back, only condition being that I run it through his gut.”

  “Enough!” The sailors advanced. Bastian thrust with the trident, squinting and bracing himself, hoping. If he’d have blinked, he would’ve missed it.

  Lightning tore off the tips of the trident, jagged bolts dashing past the sailors who had thrown themselves on their bellies. Giggling gleefully, Bastian leapt over the pair and through the hole in the side of the ship, half-blind from the remnants of the bolt’s flash burned into his eyes.

  The sea greeted him with the same icy embrace, but his innards burned from the excitement of his escape. He’d only made it a few strokes before a soft blue glow began emanating from the weapon, helping to light his way. He gawked at the thing, wondering, and struck out for shore.

  Stout pounding brought Bastian out of a dead sleep, wrenching him from dreams of lightning that faded to nothing but the dusty rays of sunlight streaming through his shutters.

  “The sun's going to rot your eyes out!” Nancy called outside his crooked door. “Boot and rally! Leg’s open in three bells!”

  “Shut your hairy gob, Nance!” one of the girls called from an adjacent room. Bastian agreed with the sentiment. Only a handful boarding at The Porthole needed to be awake right now and he was likely the last of them. Nancy, the housekeeper, was raising a racket enough to wake every soul in the brothel.

  “As though you need the rest, Meera!” Nancy fired back. “Last three gents said you just laid there.”

  “Cocks so small you fell asleep, eh?” called a voice from another room, half a dozen muffled chuckles following.

  “I’m coming, Nancy,” Bastian called.

  “Kitchens, Bast, and step to! This brace of slaggards isn’t gonna feed itself!” With a final rap on the door, the floorboards groaned as she bustled away.

  Bastian dressed as the brothel quieted around him again, only the occasional creak or soft snore coming through the thin walls. The Porthole was one of the more popular whorehouses in Dagspire, the oldest district on Saltskiff, and Bastian had lived there his entire life. He was born in the very room he occupied in the mish-mash three-story structure. He donned a loose shirt and trousers, stamping his feet into his stiff work boots. He peered in his looking glass, tying on his apron, and ran nimble fingers through thick hair. He smoothed an arched brow, thumbing the five-bell shadow on his angled jaw. Yawning, he washed his face. He would shave later. Scrubbed raw and red-eyed, he began his day.

  The path to the kitchens was a simple stair used primarily by Nancy and her cleaners. He exited the dark, winding stairwell into a cellar kitchen large enough for a feast table that would feed the whole house. At present, the long room was full of the scent of bread rising, steeping tea, and Nancy’s toiling sweat from where she manned the large pot of whatever would be served for the sleeping resident’s breakfasts later on. The Porthole’s daytime workers were sprawled about, readying for their shift.

  “Good day, all!"

  "Bastian!" Dozens of calls and tired smiles from the day workers, a motley assortment of the older and the inexperienced, the regular sorts found on the day shift at any brothel. Amongst the faded gowns and fraying shirt sleeves, weaving through and doling out instructions, encouragement, or just catching up, was the one the locals knew as Madam Leticia. Everyone else just called her Tish, but Bastian called her Mother.

  She was built like he was, narrow through shoulder and hip, but that's where their similarities ended. Bastian's features were deep set where his mother's were bright and open; her hair blonde bordering on white, while his was a red so dark it was nearly black. She spotted him, making a final comment to one of the new lads, before gliding toward him with purpose.

  "Kind of you to grace us with your presence, Your Highness," his mother said, her voice breathy and chiding in a good-natured way. He grinned at the honorific. He had been Prince of The Porthole long before he began using the moniker in his illicit activities.

  "Late night. Cards down on the wharf with the lads."

  "Winning, I hope. Fennick has been around twice this span, looking for protection. Steeper and steeper since the Conclave." Her tone was sour, just as his would have been.

  Braddock, called Bottomless Braddock by some, had seized the crown of the Pirate King in a violent coup that decimated his opponents on a night the gossips had called the Red Conclave. Without a thought, Braddock had then declared an all-out war on anyone not flying buccaneer colours, levying the homage owed by all the bosses who recognized the Conclave’s authority. The con
stant reminder of the man rankled Bastian and his mother both. Twenty years back, when his mother first started at The Porthole, Braddock had taken a shine to her. He made promises, said all the sweet things men say to anyone handling their jollies, even wrote her letters—some of which Bastian wished he could forget after he’d come across them years ago. For all that, his mother loved him until the day she found herself with child, alone at the end of the docks, watching the Midnight Scythe sail over the horizon with all Braddock’s empty words. Bastian often wondered how many others shared a similar story. And how many hated the scurvy cur who’d fathered them as much as he did.

  "I won a fair bit," Bastian said casually. “Enough to pay the protections for a while.” More than that, he reckoned. The trident had been the real reason for his late arrival home. He'd taken it to Allbright's last night and left it with her. The sea witch owed him a favour and could appraise it. Not to mention telling him what it was, and possibly how to use it.

  “Mor’bien Bast, Mada'am,” grunted someone behind them.

  Antonio, the daytime doorman, had snuck up on them. Angular and hard, his features had always reminded Bastian of a fox. He’d known the man for years and still didn’t know what garbled language was his native tongue, but could at least understand the half-words he threw into his common tongue.

  “Ma'fuckos here, Tish,” Antonio continued. “I say we not yet open, they press. You got any whuru ready to work?”

  "Take Claire, Vellum, Dahlia, Cornelius, Zenan, and both sets of twins," she said. "I’ll bring more and be along to discuss rates with them. Are they with a crew?"

  "Pair’ah," Antonio said, glancing over his shoulder and marking off the workers she had listed. "One from uh… Dusky something. Some from Moonlight or the other.” Without another word, he was on his way, hustling the named workers out of the kitchen.

  “I best go and say my piece,” his mother said. “Finish up and take some gold from my safe for the apothecary. Dora and Seb both have crotch lice, and get a salve for Karthik’s rash. Oh, and Naxos has found bedbugs in three rooms already so get some powder.” She kissed him on the cheek, departing.

  Bastian fell into his work rhythm, joining Nancy in the arduous task of feeding their small village; a cycle of laughter, anecdotes, and endless arrivals and departures. Hours passed and Bastian was glad when the kitchen closed, readied for the next day with pots scrubbed and floors swept. He polished a stray spot, doffed his apron, and was on his way.

  Music lilted through the house as he entered the common areas. His mother’s chambers were off the entrance hall, decorated with red lacquer and lattices that held greenery and budding flowers. Johns and Janes waited in the wings, minding their own or chatting jovially, all here for the simple pleasures of the flesh. A few eyed Bastian appreciatively, who flashed them a smile and gave a polite shake of his head. He was no stranger to a paid night between the sheets but hadn’t taken a client for a few years, not since he’d taken up thieving and the occasional footpad gig. Turning off the main hall, Bastian ducked behind the tapestry that hid the alcove leading to his mother’s chambers. He turned the latch and pushed.

  The door didn’t budge.

  “Mother?” Bastian called, checking the latch. Not locked. He shoved again, and it moved a few inches, enough to shift the barricade on the other side.

  Panic gripped his heart, and Bastian shoved with all he was worth. With a lurch, it opened enough for him to squeeze his torso through. His efforts doubled on seeing the state of the room.

  His mother’s polished desk was upturned, the chair smashed to splinters. The portraits of seabirds his mother loved were torn to tatters, and blood stained the shattered mirror hung above the mantle. Streaks of red dragged over the plush off-white rug towards the blown out window. Bastian stepped lightly through the mess and found a single piece of parchment on the ravaged desk. The ink was still glistening, not quite dry.

  ‘The private mooring, sunset. Bring the trident, Porthole Prince.’

  Bastian read the note over and over until the words sunk through his shock. He crumpled it, letting out a guttural cry.

  The hull of the ship that had replaced Dusk Trader in the mooring gleamed, an oily coating giving the dark wood of the five-masted ship a sheen like the sea at night, the furled sails the colour of storm clouds. A vicious spiked ram on the prow completed the ship’s namesake, arching up out of the water like the reaper’s own blade. The Midnight Scythe had come flying the crossbones flag beneath the crowned skull of the Pirate King. Allbright let out a low whistle beside Bastian.

  “You hav’ta admit, eh?” the witch said, shaking her head. “That Captain King knows how to make his presence known.”

  “Mmm,” Bastian managed, every muscle tense as he leaned on the trident, his unblinking stare fixed on the Scythe.

  The trident, Allbright had told him, was the weapon of the Drejj: a crossbred of humans and merfolk living in the shallows of Elysium Cove. It was made of the bone coral, forged and enchanted by the Stormwatch, a Drejj tribe who guarded the mist-shrouded island. It amazed Allbright to even be near the thing, while Bastian wondered how Crofter had gotten ahold of one. But it was a short-lived musing. He held fast to the formidable weapon, hands slick with sweat, then handed it to the witch.

  “You sure about this, Bast?” She looked up at him. Hair like lengths of seaweed, smooth skin deathly pale like a bloated corpse, and with violet eyes that looked in two different directions, Allbright was shunned by most for her grotesque appearance and odd appetites, but had found a fast friend in Bastian.

  “No,” Bastian admitted. She nodded, muttering something. The trident and witch shimmered, then vanished. “Let’s go.” He started down the boardwalk, rippling air following him.

  A one-eyed sailor with a sewn-up mouth ushered him aboard the Scythe. The gaunt crew moved with little zeal, lifeless eyes leering as they hauled lines or scrubbed the deck. The false light added no warmth to the ship, but the hold they were led into was downright frigid. They stopped at a set of cabin doors carved with ornate likenesses of sailfish, which opened on a single rap from the sailor leading them.

  Bastian’s eyes fell on his mother first, tied hand and foot in front of a sprawling map table. He rushed to her. There was a gash on her forehead, her cheeks bruised, but she was breathing, air whistling through swollen lips and a broken nose.

  “Where’s my trident, boy?”

  Braddock was behind the map table, thick arms crossed over a barrel chest. Bastian straightened, fixated now on the man. He’d inherited nothing of Braddock’s thick-limbed build, nor his scowling face, but his mane of hair and beard could’ve been Bastian’s were it not streaked with white. Braddock’s leather vest creaked as he lowered his hands to his belt, hooking thumbs over the hilts of two sheathed broadswords. A black sun fashioned like a compass rose was tattooed across his broad chest.

  “Bastian,” he said softly. Braddock’s bushy brows pulled down slightly. “My name is Bastian. I’m your—I mean, you’re my…”

  He trailed off as Braddock’s eyes widened, then his thick beard cracked with a small smile. His shoulders shook as cold laughter tumbled out of the man. He slammed two meaty hands on the map table he loomed over.

  “When Crofter told me who had stolen from me, I put The Porthole connection together easily enough,” Braddock chortled, looking down at Bastian’s mother. “Shame to think I didn’t recognize Tish. Though, she spent most of our time together bent over. Congratulations, my boy. You just joined the droves of bitter brats sprung from my loins who would’ve been better off dribbling down a whore’s leg.” Bastian gnashed his teeth as Braddock snorted. “I’ll have that trident now, son.”

  “So be it,” Bastian ground out.

  With a pop, Allbright shimmered back into existence to toss the trident to Bastian before diving onto his mother, stealing her away to safety. Braddock growled and reached for his swords when Bastian thrust the trident at him. Lightning tore from the ends and h
e howled with a lifetime of spite as it shot toward Braddock. The lightning’s flash swallowed the cabin, heat rolling over Bastian in waves. He cut the attack off when he could feel blisters rising on his skin, blinking to clear his vision.

  Bastian blanched.

  Braddock held a blade before him, dark as a moonless night. He grinned, a terrible thing, as he lowered the black sword and drew his second, which shone like the harshest sun.

  “Leave it to my bastard to use my own weapons against me,” Braddock said. “You pathetic cunts always think you can best me. But there’s a reason I was able to claim the crown, boy!”

  He slashed with the bright blade and Bastian caught it on the trident’s haft. So close, he could feel the heat rolling off the sword like a roaring forge fire. Braddock pulled back, sweeping with the black blade and forcing Bastian to leap. On landing, Braddock thrust and searing pain spread over Bastian’s ribs as the bright sword bit into him. Heat bloomed from the site and he staggered, trident held in one hand as he backed away.

  “Swords of light and shadow,” Braddock explained coolly. “Light will wound and burn, but just wait until the shadows taste your flesh.” He moved forward, only to abruptly halt. Perplexed, he looked over his shoulder to find Allbright with her arms raised. Muttering under her breath, Bastian’s mother stowed in the corner behind her.

  “A sea witch,” Braddock said, breathless from whatever arcane trick held him. “Midnight, if you would.”

  Wood splintered and snapped, Allbright screaming as the deck opened and she plunged into the hold below. The deck resealed itself whole again. Braddock rolled his shoulders, focussing on Bastian.

  “Enough of this.” He lurched.