Pirate Emperor

by Kai Meyer

  Before he reached the fog and everything grew dark around him, he looked back over his shoulder to the city and tried to locate the tower where he’d stood with d’Artois a little while before. But he didn’t find it quickly enough. Already the first patches covered his vision, and then suddenly it became so dark that for a long moment he was overwhelmed with panic.

  The fog surrounded him, not with mist and gray gloom, but with absolute blackness. No light from the city penetrated; even the light of the nearby fire floats glowed behind him like the points of dying candlewicks. The blackness gave him a foretaste of what lay ahead of Jolly if he brought her back to Aelenium. She might be able to see under there with her polliwog eyes, but it didn’t change the fact that she would find herself in the most complete darkness that could be found anywhere in the world.

  Fear entered through his clothing with the blackness and wrapped itself around his body like a shell of ice. It wasn’t even one day ago that the soldiers had come upon the troops of kobalins in the fog. Now, in this darkness, there might be hundreds of them swimming around without anyone discovering them. Surely they could sense the presence of the sea horse, perhaps follow the powerful tail fin from the depths with their small, malicious kobalin eyes.

  “Fast, Matador, faster!” he urged the animal forward. One of Aelenium’s master breeders had given him the name. Griffin guessed that the man had Spanish forebears, and in fact, most inhabitants of the city seemed to have ancestors in the Old World. That too was one of the countless paradoxes of this place: If Aelenium had actually been in existence for centuries, even millennia, then how come its guardians came from Europe and not from the surrounding islands?

  The fog had no end. Blindly Griffin clenched Matador’s reins, and his thighs gripped the saddle firmly as if his life depended on it. If necessary, he would still be held by the belt, which was indispensable for riding on the hippocampi. But it was hard for him to have confidence in anything. He even distrusted his own perceptions. Wasn’t there a soft chattering piercing the fog—whistling, high sounds? Wasn’t the splashing and rushing of the waves around him louder and more frantic? And wasn’t something gigantic, formless, moving through the darkness in front of him?

  The last impression, at least, must have been wrong: He could see nothing, not even a hand before his face, never mind gigantic bodies in the distance. The darkness had certainly been playing tricks on him.

  He only now became aware of what trust d’Artois had placed in him, to send him on such a mission alone and in the face of the ever-nearing enemy. But at the same time Griffin began to doubt. Had the captain really sent him? In any case, he hadn’t verbally given an order, and it could all turn out to be a horrible, lethal misunderstanding. Perhaps he really had only intended to relieve Griffin so that he could think. Maybe he even believed that Griffin had been in bed long since, just as he’d advised him.

  The sea horse uttered a whistle, the alarm signal when it scented something unknown.

  Griffin scratched the creature’s neck with trembling fingers. “What’s the—?”

  He didn’t have a chance to finish his question. Something struck against the horse from underneath, raised him out of the water with tremendous force, and flung him out of its path. The animal’s whistling grew louder and broke off for a moment, as he plunged sideways into the waves. The belt cut into Griffin’s flesh. A fearsome jolt went through his neck and down through his spinal column. Saltwater streamed into his open mouth, and his hoarse shout went unheard in the waves.

  The sea horse was back upright again so quickly that Griffin was hardly aware of the motion. He flew over the waves in a panic, while Griffin tried desperately to figure out what was happening in the darkness. At least his head was no longer underwater, he could breathe freely, and had swallowed hardly any water. The horse had taken control and was carrying him forward as fast as he could go. Griffin had no idea whether he was racing out over the open sea or turning back to Aelenium to the security of his stable. He almost didn’t care. The main thing was to get away from here. Out of the fog, somewhere where there was light and he could see what had attacked them.

  Something had rammed the sea horse from underneath. Something that was massive enough to have flung the twelve-foot-tall animal through the air like a toy.

  Griffin closed his eyes. It made no difference in the dark, but he had the feeling it would help him guide his churning thoughts into orderly pathways. The sea horse was going on his own, anyway.

  When he opened his eyes again, they’d almost left the fog behind them. The last arms of mist still held him in their grip, and stars were invisible, as always. But then he saw the open sea lying ahead of him, a network of sparkling wave crowns and vague reflections. Matador had not chosen the way back but had swum to the other side of the fog wall.

  The sea horse and his rider escaped the last clouds of fog and emerged into the glittering glory of the Caribbean firmament. They rode over waves in which the stars and the crescent moon shimmered, and through a cool breeze that carried Griffin’s fears away with it.

  Not that he assumed for a moment that the danger was over. Whatever had attacked them could have followed them. It might still be lurking somewhere, concealed under the waves. But the familiar sight of the night sky and the breadth of the sea reassured him so much that he could think clearly again. It was almost as if he were aboard a ship, on one of those quiet night watches that he used to enjoy so much.

  His eyes swept over the ocean and along the dark horizon. There was bound to be only one direction for Jolly and the Carfax: southwest, the course that would take her back to the islands or to the mainland.

  Matador knew the direction. The sea horses were trained to discern the scents of the larger land masses, even over hundreds of miles. That was one of the countless wonders of Aelenium, its inhabitants, and even its animals. There, the magic that was concentrated in the polliwogs touched every being, just as if the magic veins Count Aristotle had spoken of ran through the middle of the city.

  Griffin’s eyes had to get used to the light at first. Then he saw the outlines of the sails in the distance, many miles away, gray rectangles that were carrying the Carfax forward on a strong breeze.

  With a loud cry he urged the sea horse on and steered him onto the ship’s course. Matador was a great many times faster than the sloop, and with some luck he’d have caught up with her in less than half an hour.

  Foam sprayed into Griffin’s face as the sea horse dashed through the waves. His heart raced. Again and again he looked back over his shoulder. He could hardly make out the fog. Behind them was only a dark stripe that extinguished the sparkle of the water surface and the starry sky, as if someone had wiped away part of the horizon with a cloth. The black wall was several miles high and concealed the towers of Aelenium and the coral cone in its center.

  Griffin didn’t get far.

  The sea in front of him curved up into a mountain, at first almost imperceptibly, like the gentle incline of a hill, then more and more steeply. At the sides of the mound the waters poured down like a waterfall.

  Griffin was about to turn the sea horse around, but the animal reacted even faster. Matador swerved to avoid the giant that was breaking through the surface in front of him. But it was too late. The waves seized sea horse and rider, and this time the saddle straps did not hold. Masses of water whirled over Griffin, a wall of salty foam. Then invisible hands pressed him under the surface. Suddenly he was alone, without the sea horse that might have carried him to safety.

  Jolly! flashed through his mind in the darkness, and he realized that he was going to die, that if he didn’t drown, he was going to be swallowed by this thing, this living mountain of darkness.

  The same forces that had pressed him beneath the water now seemed to drag him up. His face broke through the surface of the sea and he gasped for air, but he sucked in water again and now threatened to choke, despite the clear night air. His wet uniform pulled him down, but he kicked hi
s legs so hard that he was able to keep himself afloat. Coughing, he snapped his eyes open, saw no horizon anymore, no sky, again only blackness, but this time as massive as an island that had unexpectedly risen up in front of him.

  Yet it was no island. And most certainly the gigantic silhouette in front of the stars betokened no rescue.

  A new current seized him, a powerful vortex that pulled him forward with masses of water as if a hole had opened and was swallowing him and the whole Caribbean.

  The Maelstrom! he thought.

  But no, it was not the Maelstrom.

  It was a throat as large as a church door, a stinking, glistening inferno of flesh and heat and rows of bright teeth. Griffin felt the sharp points tearing his uniform as he was whirled across them on his back. Then he was thrown against a soft, warm wall, in new darkness, slid farther, got no more air, and whizzed down through a tunnel, sideways.

  It swallowed me! he was just able to think before the certainty of his fate extinguished any further thoughts.

  Behind him the gigantic jaws closed, the suction eased. The beast that had swallowed Griffin dove down into the depths of the ocean.

  11

  The Ghost in the Barrel

  Some legends tell invented stories that are nevertheless true. Others are only lies if those who hear them close their ears to the truth. And some stories—however improbable they appear, however crazy and far-fetched—paint a picture that the reality vastly surpasses in poignancy and truth.

  The story of Santiago and his death in the barrel was not freely invented. But within a few months it had grown far beyond a simple rumor, repeated hundreds of times, exaggerated and embellished.

  And yet in this case, the reality exceeded all the stories: It was the craziest, most macabre, and out-and-out wildest picture that Soledad had encountered in all her years as the daughter of a pirate emperor.

  On the face of it, there was only a wide sandy beach with a large barrel and a pair of boots sticking out of it. But seen and felt, it was a sight that burned into Soledad’s mind so deeply that she’d never forget it.

  It wasn’t only the image itself that impressed her so deeply. There was more. In the desolation of the island, among the sand dunes, Santiago’s ghost was as perceptible as an ocean breeze that comes up and dies down again.

  “You feel him too, don’t you?” The Ghost Trader’s voice broke through the silence that had settled over them since their arrival at the island.

  Soledad and Walker nodded at the same time.

  “No other human being has ever died on this island before,” said the Trader, frowning. “The loneliness must be a thousand times harder for a ghost to bear than for a living person.”

  Soledad nodded again as if she knew exactly what the Trader was talking about. She could almost taste on her lips the feelings of loneliness and confusion that surrounded the entire island.

  The sea horses were moving through the shallow waters at almost a walking pace. They were being extremely careful not to touch the ground with their sensitive tail fins. Finally they stopped, and the three riders had to cover the rest of the distance on foot.

  The air over the sand appeared to blur when Soledad reached the beach and turned toward the barrel. Only ten yards separated her from her goal. The Ghost Trader had chosen to remain some distance behind. He sensed that the island was completely under the dead mans control.

  Vague forms peeled out of the shimmering air before Soledad’s eyes, images of ships, of battles, and of drinking bouts. But also distorted impressions of ragged children on the beach, of men in uniform, prison cells, laughing and screaming women, fire and gold and blood seeping into the sand. None of it was real, and by the time the Ghost Trader called over to her that these images must be the life experiences of Captain Santiago, Soledad had already come to that idea on her own.

  These pictures did not appear in any organized sequence; they overlapped and mixed with each other. Grown-ups suddenly had the faces of children, and the other way around. Clothes changed in the wink of an eye. Ships turned into fortresses into forests into swamps into harbors. All had the feeling of wild dreams in which things seen and imagined were bound into a whole that had strayed far from the path of reason.

  And there was death. Over and over again, death.

  Flickering figures collapsed lifeless, dying under saber blows, strung up from the yards, in burning shipwrecks, and in hails of bullets. Soledad had seen many men die in her life, in battle, from age, and under the knives of cowardly murderers. But these images surpassed her experience by a great deal. Whether they were deaths Santiago himself had witnessed or the fate that he’d imagined for the mutineers was uncertain. An unsavory mixture of both, probably.

  Walker came closer to Soledad and took her right hand. She flinched slightly, but she didn’t withdraw her fingers.

  “I recognize a few of them,” he said, while the visions around them became more horrific and bloodthirsty with every moment.

  “They all look like ghosts themselves,” said Soledad, spellbound.

  Now the Ghost Trader also came closer. “That’s deceptive,” he explained, the only one who remained unruffled. “They’re only dreams and wishes and recollections from Santiago’s confused mind. No reason for you to be afraid of them—as long as they’re not following you, at least.”

  Walker’s expression wavered nervously. He grasped Soledad’s hand a little more tightly. “Follow? What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “If you expose yourself to the images for too long, they might settle into you. Then you take them away from here with you and they follow you for the rest of your life.”

  Soledad and Walker exchanged a meaningful look. “And how long is too long?” asked the princess.

  “You only know that when it’s too late.”

  Walker bent toward Soledad’s ear. “I knew he was going to say something like that.”

  She nodded worriedly.

  The Trader reached under his robe and pulled forth the silver ring that gave him power over the ghost world. The simply wrought ornament had the diameter of a plate and looked something like what jugglers ordinarily use to perform cheap tricks.

  The Trader held the ring horizontal and let the fingertips of his right hand circle over it. As he did so, he closed his eyes, murmured something to himself, and was silent again. His eyes remained closed; he did not move.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Walker.

  Soledad shrugged her shoulders. “Something terribly powerful.”

  “Wrong,” replied the Trader. “I’m concentrating on the mosquito bite on my left heel, so it will stop itching.”

  “Oh,” said Walker, nodding seriously.

  “Mosquito bite?” Soledad repeated.

  “I can’t catch any ghosts if my foot is itching. I beg you for a little more understanding.”

  “But of course,” said Walker spitefully.

  Soledad shook her head, speechless.

  “So now,” announced the Trader, taking a deep breath, “I shall begin.”

  “Good idea,” the captain muttered.

  Again the Trader stroked his fingers over the silver ring. The images from Santiago’s crazed mind drew nearer to them and pulled themselves into a cocoon of past and potential future around them. Soledad fought against the impulse to avoid the slashes and blows of the flickering figures, but she was unsuccessful. She closed her eyes and hoped that way to be able to shut out the horrendous images. She focused her mind wholly on the touch of Walker’s hand, although she was troubled by conflicting feelings as she did so. Anger at herself, but also reassurance. Shame, because she was so inconsistent, but also … affection?

  Gracious!

  Very shortly she felt that the visions were nevertheless seeping into her. They streamed into her thoughts like water into a leaking hull.

  Soledad opened her eyes and realized to her horror that it was no longer Walker holding her hand but a fat fellow. A striped shirt stretched
over his potbelly, exposing his navel. He had hair on only one side of his chubby head; the other side was covered by a network of old burn scars like a leather cap. Over his shirt he wore a threadbare coat, with its right arm hanging in tatters. A knife wound in his forehead had stopped bleeding a long time ago, but it was still gaping wide open.

  “Santiago” Soledad whispered dazedly.

  The fat pirate turned his face toward her and opened his mouth. An indescribable stench of rum and dead fish met her, as if he’d bared the teeth of a wild animal. She tried to pull her hand free and at the same time draw one of her throwing knives with her left hand. But her movements were too slow and strangely irresolute, as if she were sharing the power of her body with someone who kept wanting to do exactly the opposite.

  “Soledad … little Soledad,” said Santiago, tilting his head. Only now did it hit her that he was even more grossly bloated than he had been at their last meeting some years ago. At that time he had, of course, been alive and not stuck headfirst in a rum barrel.

  She hoped very much that the yellow-brown fluid dripping over his bulging lips was in fact nothing else but rum.

  “You’ve come to see me,” he said. “That’s nice of you.” At every third or fourth word little bubbles formed at his mouth, then popped a little later. “Do you know what those fellows did to me?”

  “They marooned you.”

  “They mutinied. They deserve to be strung up for that. Drawn and quartered.”

  “People say you tried to cheat them out of their share.”

  “Pah! A little mistake in arithmetic, nothing else.”

  “Sure.”

  “Drawn and …” He stopped, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say.

  “Quartered?” she suggested.

  “Quartered,” he confirmed with a ghastly grin. “What do you want of me?”