by Rob J. Hayes
Her legs decided they could walk no further, and Beck collapsed onto her knees, just managing to turn her body to watch the oncoming men. They came towards her with shields up and steel bristling. The first soldier stepped over the formation she’d drawn in the sand without disturbing it, either by sheer luck or wise decision. Beck growled out her frustration and fumbled at one of the pistols in her jerkin, determined to take as many with her as she could. She raised the pistol just as one of the soldiers stepped onto the rune she’d drawn in the sand, breaking its lines.
Chapter 14 - The Phoenix
Smithe watched the battle on the beach unfold from the safety of the shadows. If anyone looked closely at the pier they’d see him, but he doubted anyone would. And if they did, he’d just deal with them the same way he’d dealt with the gangly soldier who was floating face down in the big drink. A smile lit Smithe’s face as he watched his target.
That fancy fuck, Stillwater, thought Smithe was simple, thought he was stupid. Smithe knew the truth though – he was smarter than all of them. He’d heard them talking behind their closed doors, and he knew the real reason the captain had yet to lead them to this treasure he’d promised them. A city full of gold and gems and wonders the likes of which would make them all rich and famous, that’s what Keelin Stillwater had promised the crew of The Phoenix. And by all accounts, the man wasn’t lying.
Smithe knew the city was located somewhere in the Forgotten Empire, a land south of the Dragon Empire and well known to be dangerous. Even the waters around the Forgotten Empire were legendary; all manner of ships had wrecked themselves upon the rocks and other hidden dangers. They needed charts of the waters and Stillwater knew just where to get them, but the gutless cur didn’t have the stones to take them. Well, Smithe sure as all the Hells had the stones, and the Five Kingdoms bastards had just provided him with the perfect opportunity.
The last of the soldiers from their ship ran off towards Drake’s little bitch. The woman was some kind of witch, Smithe reckoned, judging by the things she was doing. He’d never seen anyone throw fire before, but there she was. Smithe decided he wanted little and less to do with her or her captain. No matter how big her tits – and Smithe could tell they were on the large side – he hoped she died there on the beach.
Detaching himself from the safety of his shadowy hiding place, Smithe set off at a jog across the docks, staying just clear of the wooden pier to hide his footsteps. This wasn’t his first time sneaking around.
An explosion rocked the beach, the ground shaking with the force of it, and Smithe’s legs went out from under him. The sand hit him hard and forced the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he looked towards the noise and saw flames licking at the sand. Where before the big-titted member of Drake’s crew had fought with a bunch of soldiers, there was now nothing but fire and bodies, and none of them looked to be moving.
Boots thundering on wood warned Smithe of someone coming, and he turned to see a soldier running towards him, shield in one hand and bared steel in the other.
Smithe got his legs beneath him and launched to his feet. The soldier was small and looked terrified. Flames danced in the boy’s eyes, reflected from the fire behind Smithe. Still the lad came on.
Smithe stepped towards the soldier to meet his rush, blocking his sword with the metal knuckles on his knife and grabbing hold of the bottom edge of the round shield. It took no effort at all to turn the shield like a wheel, and the boy’s arm went with it with an audible crack. Smithe grinned wide and feral.
The lad didn’t scream, and Smithe almost respected him for that. With his sword hand still free, the boy tried to stab at Smithe, but he was doomed to failure – outclassed in every way, smaller, slighter, weaker, and far less experienced. Smithe grabbed hold of the boy’s sword arm and punched him in the face with his metal knuckles. The lad went down hard with a spray of blood and lost teeth.
Smithe knelt down next to the soldier and punched him in the face again and again until his fist came away dripping red. The boy’s arms flailed uselessly, his breath coming out of a broken face in gurgles and wheezes. Smithe reversed the grip on his knife and stabbed the blade down into the boy’s skull then pulled it free, wiped it on the lad’s uniform, and continued his walk to the Fortune.
Sounds of fighting reached him from the deck of the ship, and as Smithe got closer he saw a man thrown over the edge to land half on the pier and half in the water. His feet were nice and dry, but his back was bent painfully and his head was dangling in the bay. He was either unconscious or dead; Smithe didn’t care which. Pirate the man may be, but Smithe held no loyalty to anyone but himself, and especially not anyone from a different ship.
He walked quickly up the pier and mounted the gangplank, dipping into a crouch as he reached the deck of Drake Morrass’ ship. It was clear the Fortune was floating with a much reduced crew, most of them no doubt up in the town where they’d expected the fight to come from, or on the beach fighting with the soldiers there. There were a few men left, but they were outnumbered by soldiers. Smithe ignored them all as he made straight for the captain’s cabin.
A stocky soldier stumbled backwards into Smithe’s way, a sweaty grimace on his face as he regained his balance. Smithe kicked him in the back of the knee then slashed at his neck. The soldier clutched at the wound, but there was no way he would stop the flow of blood – the knife had cut far too deep. Smithe didn’t even break his stride. He reached the cabin and tried the handle. Curiously, the door was unlocked. If there was anyone inside he’d have to kill them to ensure their silence. He was more than willing to do it, and he might even find some coin on the corpse. He glanced back towards the deck. Pirates and soldiers were engaged in all manner of combat – one pirate was even fighting upside down from the rigging – but none were paying any attention to a lone figure stealing onto the ship. He pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.
It was mostly dark, lit only by the moonlight bouncing off the water and shining in through the large window at the back of the cabin. Smithe took a moment to let his eyes adjust, then carefully began his search. He’d heard plenty of stories about Drake’s pets, and some said he’d rid himself of the spider and now favoured a huge, armoured snake with lots of little legs. Smithe had never heard of such a thing before, but whether or not it existed, he had no wish to meet it.
One side of the cabin was filled with a lavish bed, a wardrobe, and a chest. Luxurious living quarters for a captain while his crew no doubt lived in bunks barely large enough to lie down in. Smithe hated the captains for the luxury they lived in. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take The Phoenix out of Stillwater’s hands at the first opportunity. He’d never slept in a bed the size of the one he was looking at now, nor worn clothes as fancy as those no doubt kept in Drake’s wardrobe. They all thought they were better than him. Smithe would prove just how wrong they all were.
The other side of Drake’s cabin was even larger, housing a desk and a number of cabinets and chests of drawers. Smithe spied numerous bottles of booze in one of the cabinets, and had to stop himself breaking the glass to take one of the more expensive looking bottles. He wondered how that fancy rum tasted, having never tried anything but the swill most taverns sold, but that could wait. Smithe was playing the long game. His goal was the riches, the ship, the power, and the reputation. He would have them all before he was done.
He went to the first set of drawers and rifled through them quickly. All he found was blank parchments and the ink to write on them, a number of letters each signed by someone called Rei, a child’s game set on a board with a number of squares and some little toy figures to go with it, and a yellow gemstone the size of the palm of his hand. The gemstone looked valuable, and Smithe pocketed it without another thought.
The next cabinet had a desk atop it, bare except for a small pistol. Smithe had never used one of the little weapons, but he’d seen them put to devastating effect. He knew how easy they were to make work, and he decided he
would have one of his own some day. Smithe wrenched at the door to the cabinet, but it was stuck fast. A small gilded lock sat front and centre, mocking him.
He had no experience with picking locks, and he very much doubted the key would have been left lying around. If this cabinet contained Drake Morrass’ charts then it was likely the most valuable key on the entire bloody ship, and Drake would no doubt carry it on his person at all times. Smithe pulled on the door with all the strength he could muster. It didn’t give. With increasing certainty, he knew that this cabinet was his target and the charts were right in front of him.
With a growl of rage, Smithe punched the door. It hurt, but the metal knuckles on his knife did some damage to the wood. He punched it again, and again, and again. Smithe kept punching, heedless of the noise he was making, until the door splintered and split. He wrenched the lock free, throwing it into the middle of the cabin. Inside were rolls of leather-backed parchment, and plenty of them.
Smithe pulled the first roll out and opened it up, glancing over the words and pictures and calculations as he tried to find anything that indicated which area the chart depicted. He saw New Sev’relain written boldly on a blob that looked like an island, and tossed the chart behind him. Smithe glanced at the door to the cabin. He could still hear the sounds of battle outside, so he went back to rifling through the cabinet.
He threw away five more charts before he came to the one he was searching for. It depicted a coastline with hazards marked all over it and the words Forgotten but not lost written on the landmass. Smithe grinned. He’d achieved what that ponce Stillwater could not, and the crew would rally behind him for it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” someone said slowly.
Smithe turned his head to see a man standing just inside the doorway. He was tall and broad and thick with muscle, but his head was small, too small for the mass of his body. Smithe was tall and strong himself, but in a straight contest of strength the giant would crush him.
Without a word, Smithe grabbed the pistol from the top of the cabinet, pointed it at the big pirate, and pulled the trigger.
The giant stumbled back against the cabin door, his body slamming it closed as he fell. Thick red blood leaked from a hole in his chest, and he looked at Smithe with confusion in his eyes.
“Why does it hurt?” the pirate said, tears welling up and rolling down his face. “Make it stop.”
Smithe dropped the pistol onto the cabin floor and sauntered over to the simpleton. “Hurts because I just killed you. Still need to make sure though, eh? Can’t have you telling nobody what you saw.”
The big pirate let out a mewling whine as Smithe closed on him.
Kebble walked onto the beach, wincing. Every step was agony lancing through his side where the soldier had cut a slice. The man had died from a point-blank rifle shot to the face, but not before he’d given Kebble what should probably have been a fatal wound.
Having given Drake the weapons he needed to fend off the soldiers in the town, Kebble had followed the man’s orders and come looking for Keelin. The captain of The Phoenix was nowhere to be seen. Even down on the beach, where the fighting was as good as over, there was no sign of him.
Amidst the fires, the blackened sand, and the dark objects that could only be bodies spilling out their life blood, pirates were celebrating. Some looked wounded and others drunk, and there was likely still fighting taking place in the town, but the pirates were congratulating themselves on a hard-won victory – and it did look hard won.
Kebble spotted blond hair amidst burning sand and instantly recognised the crumpled body of Drake’s Arbiter. Not ten feet away he saw the site of an explosion, but not one caused by black powder, the scorch marks were all wrong. Bodies lay on the sand everywhere he looked, and many of them were missing parts, or were scorched beyond recognition. All were certainly dead.
The coconut fell from Kebble’s grasp, and he used his free hand to peel away the shirt stuck to his wound, gritting his teeth against the pain. He looked down; it had stopped bleeding, and was little more than a gooey red line across the left side of his abdomen. Kebble sighed. His immortality was still keeping him alive long past his time. He’d received worse wounds than a sword slash in his long years, but he’d hoped for a moment that this one might be his last.
Still using his rifle as a crutch, Kebble started towards the Arbiter’s body. He could only hope Captain Stillwater wasn’t one of the corpses in the sand. Kebble attempted to avoid attachments to those more short-lived than himself wherever possible, but he’d come to respect Keelin Stillwater and almost considered him a friend. It had been a long time since he’d named anyone a friend.
As Kebble drew nearer the Arbiter, he heard a scream from behind. His legs gave out as he turned, and the pain in his side was enough to blur his vision and cause a cry to escape his lips.
By the time Kebble’s vision cleared it was almost too late. A crazed soldier was almost upon him, eyes wide and filled with the kind of fear that drives a man to irrational action. Kebble managed to raise his rifle to block the sword meant for his head, but the soldier didn’t stop his mad charge and both men went down in a tangle of limbs, Kebble screaming in pain.
Rolling free of the soldier and clutching at his side, Kebble opened his eyes to see the man rise to his knees, his sword raised high above his head and about to remove Kebble’s.
The sand around them erupted, and something shot up and crashed into the soldier, bearing him to the ground in a combination of blood-curdling screams and cracking bones. Kebble crawled away, his heart thundering in his chest.
Three pirates leapt past Kebble and began to stab their weapons down into the sand.
Ignoring the searing pain streaking through his body, Kebble got his feet beneath him and struggled upright. He looked around for his rifle. It was nowhere to be seen. The three pirates had slowed their stabbing and slicing and were busy panting and congratulating each other. As Kebble approached the men, he saw the giant form of a sand monster lying on top of the dead soldier. The creature didn’t appear to be alive; its body and wings were covered in deep red cuts, and the smell that drifted up from it was almost unbearable.
“Damn, Salt,” said one of the pirates, a small woman with fiery red hair and a criss-cross of scars marring her face. “If you ain’t the luckiest bastard I ever seen. Must’ve been the last bloody sand demon on the beach. Only one we missed, just waitin’ for months, an’ it picks right then to have a snack.”
Kebble forced a smile onto his face. “Yes,” he said. “Lucky. Thank you for killing it.”
The pirate grinned at Kebble and clapped him on the arm. With a nod of thanks to the rest of them, Kebble limped off towards the Arbiter.
Immortality came in many forms. He was almost completely certain a fatal wound would end his curse, and yet he’d never received one. Even at times when it seemed certain he would, something always interfered. The pirates might believe the sand monster’s appearance to have been luck, but Kebble knew better.
The Arbiter looked lifeless. Her right arm was twisted beneath her body at an awkward angle and blood leaked from her nose. Her blond hair was a tangled mess, singed in places and covered in sand. Even with his eyesight, Kebble could see no rise and fall of her chest. She wasn’t the first dead Arbiter he’d seen, but with their longer lives it always felt sad to see one pass, especially one so young.
Kneeling down, Kebble let out a painful sigh and placed two fingers on the woman’s neck. It was somewhere beyond faint, but he felt the pulse of her heart still beating. The Arbiter survived, barely.
Kebble scooped his hands underneath her body and summoned the very last of his strength. Standing while carrying the Arbiter was a new sort of pain, and it took Kebble three attempts to get to his feet. He managed it. He wasn’t sure which destination was the best. The woman needed to be tended to immediately by someone with more medical knowledge than his own, but the ship’s doctors were little better than butchers and they no
doubt had more than enough folk to deal with already. Setting his feet towards the town, Kebble started up the beach.
Chapter 15 - The Phoenix
Soldiers were slipping past the pirate lines and making for the town, and Keelin feared they intended to set fire to everything the folk of New Sev’relain had been building for the last year. Taking the big, axe-wielding Ferl with him, Keelin left the front lines in search of them. He was far more useful skirmishing with individual opponents than in a wall.
Keelin spotted a few men dashing through the doorway of the Righteous Indignation and set off after them. The people of New Sev’relain could probably recover from almost any tragedy, but the burning of their favourite tavern might be too much. The drinking hole had been built out of the bones of the Man of War that had destroyed Old Sev’relain, and had even been named after the ship. It was a testament to the hardiness and determination of the folk that had made their lives on the island.
An explosion echoed up from the beach; earlier, there had been a few towards the jungle end of town as well. Keelin had no idea what was happening around him, though he was fairly certain it involved plenty of death. He only hoped most of it was being served to the Five Kingdoms. It was a strange thought, given that if not for the sake of an abusive father, Keelin might have been one of the men attacking rather than the attacked.
With a worried glance at Ferl, which the big man shot right back, Keelin pushed through the doorway to the tavern and readied himself for a fight, his cutlasses already drawn and dripping blood. The tavern was dim, lit only by a single lantern behind the bar, and almost deserted. Every pirate and townsman who called New Sev’relain their home or safe harbour was outside, fighting for their lives. Keelin had never seen the tavern so empty. Even Tatters and the other drunks had left for the battle.
