He had awoken with the sound of his own screams in his ears. In the darkness he put his hand to his nose and it came away wet with blood. He checked his ears, that still whined with a constant high-pitched tone, but they were thankfully dry.
He stood up on shaking legs and walked away from the fire into the darkness. He relieved himself into a shrub away from the rest of the group. By the time he walked back into the light, the memories of his ordeal had begun to fade a little. His hands still shook but his heart was calming down.
“Bad dream?” Vitus asked from out of the darkness, where he kept watch.
“Something like that,” Regulus answered as he sat down on a fallen log next to his friend. They both stared off into the darkness in silence for a while. They were one full day out of Rome, it was the first camp they had struck since leaving the city. In the distance an orange glow dominated the horizon, the city still burned it seemed.
“I know where we have to go,” Regulus said eventually. He saw Vitus nod in the faint firelight.
“I had a feeling you did. Are you ready to tell me where and why?” Vitus asked, giving Regulus a sidelong glance.
In the darkness Regulus told Vitus a story. It had all the elements of a fireside tale. It had blood and death, spirits and gods. There were villains but no heroes, not yet. The tale took time to tell, he wanted to tell it properly. Vitus listened, firstly with amusement and then with slowly dawning belief. Eventually he sat with his back to the dying fire and nodded his acceptance. Two men sat and spoke of the fate of gods and men, above them the heavens slowly turned.
There follows a sample of Seas of Blood by Michael Whitehead
Prologue
The wheel of the gold cart hit the deepest rut yet, throwing the driver violently in his seat. Morgan George fought to maintain control of the reigns as the pair of horses in front of him fled in almost total panic. A single escort rider pushed his horse hard alongside the armoured cart but he was outnumbered by the pursuing riders. There had been six escorts at the start of the journey but the bandits had hit them hard, four miles back, and now confusion was the only thing of which the driver was sure.
Two of his escorts had fled almost as soon as the first pistol shot had been heard. They were brothers who had never seemed the sort to stand and fight, just for a weekly wage. Three of the men had dropped back to engage the bandits. Their orders were to keep the fighting as far away from the cart as possible. Since then, Morgan had heard nothing but sporadic pistol fire and shouting. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the rutted road and tried to keep the cart in one piece.
The cargo of gold carried by the cart was an attractive prize but any thieves must be desperate to try robbing the transport. Only hanging could be expected for anyone caught by the police of such a crime. The bandits would end up wishing for the gallows if the security company caught up to them before the police did.
Morgan didn’t know the value of the gold he carried but he did know there was a good chance of dying if he didn’t handle this situation correctly. Desperate men would do desperate things in order to escape justice. Leaving a cart driver alive seemed like the first step to being caught, in Morgan’s mind.
He drove the horses harder with a flick of his wrists and shouted at them to find some extra speed. Sweat foam sprayed off their flanks as they ran on with wild eyes. The gold cart was reinforced to carry the weight of large gold transports, thankfully this wasn’t one of the heaviest. The cart was shaking and jolting with backbreaking regularity but the sacks of gold dust wouldn’t be enough to threaten its structure.
“I think they’re gaining on us,” the escort shouted above the noise of the iron-bound wheels on the hard packed earth of McIvor Road.
Morgan risked a glance behind him and saw three riders silhouetted against the iron grey sky. He couldn’t push the horses any harder and knew this was the time to slow down and give up the chase.
“There’s nothing you can do now, Billy,” he shouted to the escort. “Get yourself to safety.”
“No, can’t do that. I’m not leaving you,” Billy shouted back to him.
“All I’m going to do is surrender, mate,” Morgan assured the man, but he saw steely determination on the escort’s face. Morgan laughed to see it. Billy was a good man but the idea of dying for nothing more than the company that paid his wages was beyond anything Morgan could fathom.
“Billy, I promise you I’ll be fine. You’ve got a wife and youngster at home, get gone before they catch up.” Morgan knew there was half a chance that if the pursuers saw Billy’s face that he wouldn’t live to see the family he worked so hard to feed.
“Morgan, I....” Billy began but a further glance behind him showed that the three horses had become six, they had gained a lot of ground while the two men had talked.
“Get out of here now!” Morgan growled at his escort. This time Billy took heed and with a pained look on his face, he turned his mount away from the road.
Morgan was alone for a few moments. He drove the horses a little further down McIvor Road, as much to give Billy the chance to get some distance away than anything else.
After another half a mile, Morgan drew up on the reigns and the horses began to slow. The wheels that had been bouncing and skimming across the smaller ruts began to hit the road hard for a moment. Eventually the horses slowed to a walk, then stopped.
Morgan sat, facing forward, waiting for the riders to catch up to him. His breathing sounded heavy in his ears and the dust of the road was hard and bitter in his throat. As was the regret he felt at what he had done.
One of the riders pulled up to the right of the cart, he had a neckerchief pulled up across his mouth and nose but Morgan knew exactly who he was. John Francis, bushranger, thief, and generally a dangerous person to know. He could take your last coin and charm you into thinking it had been your idea to give it to him. He was violent as well, though, and that was the dangerous part.
“You did well, Morgan. You made it look like a real chase. Did anyone suspect anything?” John asked as he pulled down his mask. Morgan noticed he had a small pistol in his lap, he kept his hand away from it but never far enough that he couldn’t whip it into action, if necessary.
“No, and I didn’t do well. I did what you made me do,” Morgan said in a surly, almost sulking voice.
“Don’t be like that, Morgan. We made a deal and you came through on your end. Came through most handsomely, at least I hope you did.” The last words fell out of John Francis’ mouth and curdled as they hit Morgan’s ear.
“I hope you are going to keep your end of the deal now, John,” Morgan said as the five other men pulled their horses up to the cart. Two of them dismounted and moved around to the rear and began working on the locks. The driver was never given the keys, only officials at Heathcote and Kyneton had those.
“Never let it be said that John Francis reneged on a deal, Morgan. A reputation like that could do a man a lot of harm,” Francis said.
One of the other riders pulled up alongside Morgan and held out a hand to shake. George Francis, John’s brother, was entirely different to his sibling. Quieter and gentler in most ways, George often seemed to be caught up in his brother’s schemes, rather than an eager participant. Morgan held out a hand and shook with George.
“Your men will leave my sister alone?” Morgan asked.
“That was what we discussed,” Francis said and smiled. “There is also your cut of the takings, Morgan, don’t forget that.”
As he spoke, Francis was glancing at the men working at the back of the cart. He was just in time to see one of the heavy, iron-banded doors swing open and the two men began to laugh heartily.
“Are we happy, boys?” Francis asked.
“Happy enough, John. Happy enough,” one of the two answered.
John Francis moved his horse around to see into the back of the cart. Morgan relaxed a little in his seat, he was never sure how much gold he was moving at any one time. It was another security mea
sure put in place by the mining consortiums. His worst fear had been the doors swinging open and there not being enough gold to make this enterprise worthwhile. He would happily forgo his part of the money but his sister was another matter entirely.
Two of Francis’ men had taken a liking to her and both were doing everything they could to gain her affection. She liked neither, but this didn’t seem to be doing much to dampen their ardour Being simple men of brutal tastes they had, so far, fallen short of forcing themselves on Lilith but for how long? Now, it seemed, he wouldn’t have to worry. John Francis had promised an end to the trouble and Morgan believed him.
As Francis reached the back of the cart he asked, “What’s in the strong box, Morgan?”
Confused, Morgan stepped down from the cart and walked around to the back, the dust of the road kicking up around the heels of his boots. The men on horses moved back to give him room.
The back of the cart held a good number of the usual small sacks that contained gold dust and small nuggets, heading to be processed before shipping off to distant shores. Besides these, there was a small but solidly built, box. It looked like it was made of oak, not a usual timber for these parts of the world. Around all sides, thick iron bands gave the chest an impenetrable look. Whoever had built this chest had wanted to make sure nobody got inside.
“Sorry, John, I don’t have a clue,” Morgan answered honestly.
“No, I don’t suppose you would. Looks important though, wouldn’t you say?” Francis asked.
Morgan shrugged, he was eager to see the contents of the chest, if truth be told but he had no desire to step on John Francis’ toes.
“Can you open it?” Francis asked the two men that had opened the back door of the cart.
“No problem,” replied one of the men and he leaned into the cart to set to work on the lock. Morgan glanced around them, out into the countryside. They had picked a secluded spot to commit this act of grand larceny but Morgan still expected a horse to appear over the rise at any moment. He kept having to fight the urge to whip his head around to look at imaginary intruders.
After a couple of minutes there was a metallic twanging from inside the cart as one of the iron bands relaxed the pressure it had been exerting on the chest. John Francis was joined by his brother as they stared into the back of the cart. The lock picker pulled open the lid of the box and Morgan did his best to see inside from behind the group of men. There was a general groan of disappointment, yet Morgan still couldn’t see the contents.
John Francis leaned into the cart and came out holding a silver chain with a pendant on it. It didn’t look metallic, rather a black volcanic glass with flecks of something that caught the sun, as it slowly spun.
“It doesn’t look like much, does it?” George asked. “I mean, to be locked in a box, on its own like that.”
A few of the men nodded in agreement. Morgan assumed they had been expecting jewels or diamonds. He had to admit, the sight of the box had sparked his own imagination.
“What is the picture, John?” asked the man who had opened the chest.
Francis laid the chain across his palm and looked at the medallion more closely. There was a stylised face looking out at them all. It didn’t look like anything Morgan had ever seen before. He had seen artwork from the local aborigines but this wasn’t like that. It had a way of staring at him that made his back ache with tension. He didn’t like looking at it for longer than he had to. The mouth of the face was slightly open and the teeth inside the mouth looked dangerous.
“Ugly looking thing, huh?” one of the mounted men asked.
“In that case, none of you will mind if I keep it then,” John Francis said to the group at large. There was a general murmuring but nobody objected. Francis flipped the medallion over in his hand and Morgan saw there were words engraved on the back.
“What does it say, John?” Morgan asked.
“Damned if I know,” Francis replied. “It’s in some foreign language, I think. Don’t even recognise the letters, they look more like pictures.”
Morgan held his hand out and asked with his eyes if he could have a look for himself. A moment passed between him and Francis but the bushranger eventually held the chain out to Morgan.
The words were certainly nothing Morgan had seen before. His father had taught him his letters when he was a child and he had read more than a dozen books in his life. It was a matter of great pride to him that he could read.
The words on the back of this medallion were of no sort he had ever come across. They looked ancient but he couldn’t even sound them out in his head.
He stared at the words for what seemed the longest time, as if the meaning might slip into his head if he waited long enough. Eventually, he was brought to his senses by John Francis reaching forward and taking the chain. He lifted the medallion from Morgan’s hand and slipped the chain around his neck. Morgan watched the medallion disappear under Francis’ shirt with no small amount of relief.
“Right, you men know what you need to be doing,” Francis said to his gang. The men began organising themselves. Two stepped up onto the cart, while others tied the reigns of the loose horses onto the saddles of their own mounts.
Francis turned to Morgan. “You know what comes next, Morgan?”
A sinking feeling made Morgan’s stomach lurch a little, he nodded to Francis. He had asked for what was about to happen, it didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Make it convincing but don’t do any permanent damage, aye John?” Morgan said with a quiver creeping into his voice.
“You’ll get my best work,” Francis said with a smile.
“And the other thing?” Morgan asked, referring to his sister’s troubles.
“Already taken care of,” Francis said as he rolled up the sleeves of his rough cotton shirt. The beating Morgan took was hard but mercifully brief. After the first few blows his face was numb. He thought of Lilith and hoped it was all worth it.
Chapter One
Captain Fortescue William Harris leaned against the rail of the Madagascar and watched the crew load bails of wool into the ship’s hold. The morning was barely begun but the most important part of the cargo was already safely stowed aboard.
Over 65000 ounces of gold dust was acting as a wonderful ballast and would bring Captain Harris a pretty penny in London. His Captain’s share of fares and the payment for carrying the cargo safely to England would be most welcome. The Green and Wigram families that owned the majority shares in the Madagascar would be considerably happier than he, at journey’s end.
Harris looked out into Port Philip, the sky was an almost unbroken iron grey, a slight blue line was showing on the horizon. The wind coming off the water was brisk but not cold, Captain Harris had a good feeling about setting sail the following day.
A pair of seamen struggled past with a heavy-looking chest. Even with gritted teeth, both men took the time to nod to their captain. It was a source of pride to Harris that he ran a happy ship. He had been master of the Madagascar, a Blackwall Frigate, for almost two years and in that time had rarely had to reprimand a man aboard. A number of junior officers and seamen had been seconded to Harris’ ship by their captains. They knew that the training they would receive on board would be thorough and kindly.
Most of the passengers would board the Madagascar tomorrow. Their belongings were already on board, in a lot of cases, but they themselves would only be allowed to come aboard on the day of sailing. A few first class passengers had been extended an invitation to join the captain for a meal on board this evening. It was a custom that Harris enjoyed and it also gave him the last chance to discreetly find a reason to cancel the passage of any particularly unpleasant guests.
It was, in Harris’ experience, not the lower passengers that caused him the most grief. Those people who resided in the standard cabins, or indeed in steerage, had little to do with the captain in the normal course of things. It was the first class passengers that could be a drain on his time an
d energy. Harris had become adept at avoiding such troublesome voyagers over his years as a captain. In most cases handing their care to a junior officer sufficed, however, there was one case of a gentleman in the West Indies who was so obnoxious at the pre-sailing dinner that Harris had informed him of a dangerous mould in his cabin and had bid him seek passage elsewhere.
There was a snapping noise behind Harris as he looked out over the bay. A number of men shouted warnings and he turned in time to see a bundle of timber sway dangerously close to the main mast. A snapped rope dangled from one end of the bundle and men ran to put tension on other lines in order to bring the timber back under control. Harris was heartened to see the potential disaster avoided and soon the timber was safely in the hold.
“Well done, men. Well done, indeed!” Harris called from his place on the rail.
A number of the men turned to tip their caps at him, one or two of the younger men had big smiles on their faces. Harris walked aft, watching the crew going about their business as he did. Men cleaned and mended, the Madagascar would be in fine shape before tomorrow morning.
“Captain, if I may have a moment of your time?” the voice of First Mate Stephen Wright spoke behind him.
“Morning, Stephen,” Harris greeted the first mate as a friend. “How are we doing with the cargo? Everything to schedule?”
“Just about, sir,” Wright replied but Harris could see concern etched into the first mate’s face, he gave the man the chance to broach the subject in his own time. “The men are working as fast as they can, while undermanned.”
The concern made itself evident, Harris nodded and turned to lean against the rail once more.
“How many are we short, Stephen?” Harris asked.
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