by Rob J. Hayes
It was a rare thing to see a man so broken after so little. They’d taken his ship and killed most of his men, but that was something every experienced sailor had to keep in the back of their mind as a possibility. The former admiral had given up his secrets under duress, but again that was rarely enough to truly break a man. To crack a man to this degree, to the point where he was little more than a walking, eating, shitting doll, wasn’t easy. But Drake had seen it before. Long ago, down deep under the earth, Drake had seen it.
The Drurr were masters of torture the likes of which even the Inquisition couldn’t match. Drake had seen men and women mutilated, cut up and put back together wrong, made to live with the monsters they’d become. He’d seen tortures of the mind, folk balanced on the edge of terror for so long they actually craved the pain, because the waiting – the expectation, the anticipation – was just too much.
Once Drake had asked the matriarch why they tortured their slaves, and she’d told him with venom. Those Drurr who had taken him hated humanity. They were bitter beyond madness, and all that bile and contempt was directed towards mankind. The humans had once been their slaves, but the Dread Lords had changed all that by decimating the Drurr population, destroying their greatest kingdom and corrupting their dead. Then came Volmar and his Inquisition, and what was left of the Drurr became hunted, persecuted, and driven from the world above. The Drurr had once ruled the world; thanks to humanity, they now ruled nothing. Even their homes deep underground were ruled by terrors far older and more powerful than they.
“Dead man walking,” a woman’s voice called out. It snapped Drake out of his morbid revery.
Scanning the crowd gathered to watch the admiral’s final walk, Drake recognised a lot of the people, both refugees and pirates. It seemed almost everyone on the island was waiting up ahead, near the tavern, to watch the man die.
“Sorry about this,” Drake said quietly.
The admiral didn’t respond.
Maybe it was the memories of his past, but Drake was feeling more than a little hesitant at the thought of killing the broken man. “What was it that did this to you?”
The admiral lifted his head a little and turned empty eyes on Drake. He said nothing.
“Wasn’t giving up your kingdom’s secrets, was it?”
Still no response.
“Was it Beck? The Arbiter?”
The admiral turned his head away, and Drake thought he saw tears welling up in his eyes.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Drake stopped and turned the admiral to face him. “You believe the Arbiter should save you. One of Volmar’s faithful should put us all to the torch. Instead you find her working for me, using the magic of her faith to pull the truth from you.”
“How could she use her magic,” the admiral said, sounding resigned, “if she wasn’t still faithful to him?”
Drake nodded. “So now you’re wondering which side of this conflict Volmar is truly on?”
The admiral nodded and his shoulders sagged, his body shaking with sobs.
“Well, then I guess I’ll let you in on the truth of it,” Drake said in little more than a whisper. “Your god doesn’t care. We ain’t heretics, just folk trying to survive. Your attack on us, your murder of our people, wasn’t divine judgement, Admiral. It was politics, plain and simple.”
“Everything we do, we do for Volmar,” the admiral protested. “The order came from Emperor Francis, and he is Volmar.”
“No.” Drake shook his head. “The order came from the merchants we steal from. Your God Emperor just mouthed the words. Is the Arbiter by my side not proof enough for you?”
The admiral buried his head in his manacled hands and sobbed.
“You need more proof?” Drake said. “Fine.” Drake nodded to one of the pirates waiting nearby, and the admiral was driven up the beach towards the tavern, where the angry mob of refugees and pirates waited to lynch him.
Drake and the admiral stood in a circle of hundreds of people. The entire town of New Sev’relain crowded around them, and they were shouting for the Sarth officer to die. Drake basked in the attention for a while before waving for silence.
“For most of you this is your first look at Admiral Tattern, the man who commanded the ship that burned Black Sands and Sev’relain. The man responsible for the deaths of so very many of us.”
An angry cheer circulated through the crowd, and a stone flew out of the back ranks and landed in the sand near the admiral.
“Hey,” Drake shouted. “That could have hit me. Next person who throws something gets to drink a pint of the sea.”
The crowd quieted.
“Now, I know you all want him dead. You want to see him strung up and turning purple. Well, I’m suggesting a different punishment. I reckon you should let him live.”
Shouts erupted from the crowd, and they weren’t just from the refugees. Pirates from both crews added their voices to the argument. Drake almost changed his mind when he realised his own crew were against the idea, but again he held up his hand and waved for silence. This time he didn’t get it.
“Death is a shit punishment,” Drake roared, and the crowd slowly quieted. “You want to send this cockstain to the grave. All that does is release him.” Drake gave the admiral a heavy push, and the man stumbled and collapsed to the sand. He remained there on his knees.
“He tried to wipe us all out, but here we are. What better way to punish him than show him how useless his efforts were? Make the bastard watch us rise back out of the ashes. Let him live. If he wants to wander off into the jungle and seek his own death, he can. But if that drive to live we all possess makes him want to eat and drink and keep going, then make him work for it.”
Drake turned a full circle, sweeping the entire crowd with his gaze. “Either way, it’s up to you. I won’t kill him.” He started off down the beach, back towards the Fortune. He grinned as he heard others taking up his advice.
Part 3 – The Storm
You will need the Rest said the Oracle
That’s my fallback, my insurance said Drake
Either you commit it all, or you fail said the Oracle
Chapter 33 - The Phoenix
Inactivity didn’t suit Keelin. It grated on him, frayed his nerves, and wore down his patience. Day after day, night after night, they floated in the newly built port of New Sev’relain and waited for Drake’s return. After three months, Keelin was beginning to wonder whether it was coming. Every day the temptation to haul anchor and set sail for some good honest pirating grew stronger, and not least because of his crew’s temperament. Deprive a pirate of a few days ashore, somewhere with a tavern and a brothel, for a couple of months, and they will happily incite a mutiny. Give a pirate a couple of months ashore, somewhere with a tavern and a brothel, and they will drink and fuck themselves broke and then demand their captain take them away from the temptation.
Keelin had yet to pick a governor for the town and, as such, was taking on the responsibility himself. He’d also taken on the responsibility of purchasing loot from passing pirate ships, depleting his own ship’s stores and gifting a fair few credit notes signed by Drake. He was managing both the brothel and the tavern, and seeing that the townsfolk were looked after with all their most pressing needs met. If one of the crew didn’t mutiny soon, Keelin was fairly sure he’d stage the damned thing himself. Within the first two months, Keelin had found himself dealing with everything from food shortages to food contamination, disease to dissidents, sand monster attacks to magical seduction, lumber shortages to riots over housing. The townsfolk had formed themselves a council, and the members of that council brought their problems to Keelin every day. Every day he imagined running them all through, setting fire to the town, and sailing away into the molten-gold sunset.
Keelin had to admit, as he supped on a mug of what was currently passing for ale in the tavern, it could have been worse. The arrival of Daimen Poole and Mary’s Virture had been a godsend. If Keelin had worshipped any of them,
he’d have given them the praying of a lifetime. Captain Poole was very much in Drake’s corner, and had thankfully undertaken many of the day-to-day tasks that would otherwise have fallen to Keelin. Unfortunately, after six weeks ashore, Poole’s crew were also becoming anxious to get back on the water.
Scratching at his chin, Keelin caught a finger in a knot of hair and ripped it free with a grimace. He needed to shave. He’d needed to shave for months now, but his razor was back on The Phoenix, and he hadn’t been back on his ship for… Keelin couldn’t actually remember how long it had been. Most nights he found himself getting so drunk he passed out right there in the tavern, and then, when he woke in the morning, he could just pull another mug of piss poor beer and listen to the new list of problems.
There was a stain on his once bright blue jacket. The jacket had cost a small fortune, and Keelin had thought of it as his best, favourite, and smartest garment. Now it looked drab, worn through, and sweaty. Even Keelin had to admit that he smelled. In a town full of folk who stank like weeks-old eggs, that was an accomplishment.
Not even during his time on The Black Death had Keelin taken so little effort to smarten his appearance. Back then he’d been young and brash, but he’d also taken pride in being the cleanest member of the crew. Despite some early beatings, Keelin had quickly established himself as more than competent with a sword. There were definitely some benefits to having spent many of his childhood years training with his older brother. More important than his reputation for being clean or dangerous with a pointy object had been his relationship with Tanner Black’s daughter. They’d fucked and fought in equal measure, but despite their disagreements, back then Keelin would have drained the sea for her.
A small part of Keelin argued that he would still do anything for Elaina. He chalked it down to the booze and ignored the little voice. He seemed to be finding it very hard to organise his thoughts these days.
“I need some fresh air,” Keelin said to no one. A couple of the other tavern patrons, those too drunk to stumble back to their homes or their ship, glanced at him and then away. Keelin struggled with his chair, using the table to pull himself out of it. He promptly staggered, sending both the table and himself careening to the floor. It took some effort to get back up, and even the town drunkard was laughing by the time he managed it.
“Fucking table’s a death…” Keelin stopped, realising that no one was listening and even fewer folk cared. He lurched over to the door.
The world that greeted him outside the tavern was too bright and too blurry. The sun was up high, beating down mercilessly, and, as always, there was barely a lick of wind to be had, unless you counted the hot air the merchants wasted on passing pirates. New Sev’relain may have been well on its way to being called a settlement, but it was far from becoming a prosperous one for those who wished to sell any wares.
They had moved the town further up the beach since first establishing the settlement. Trees had been cleared away and more permanent buildings erected on more stable ground; sand was no place to be counting on structural support. The tavern had been taken apart and moved up the beach in what could only be described as a pointless but monumental effort, and now sat in the dead centre of the growing town. There were homes, warehouses, shops, a brothel, two inns for those pirates wishing to sleep in a real bed for a night or two, and even a gallows. Luckily the gallows had yet to be tested, but with Drake outlawing both rape and slavery, it was only a matter of time before someone found themselves swinging.
When Drake had decreed slavery would be outlawed and any passing slavers caught and confiscated, their wares freed, Keelin had asked why. The only reply he received was a dark stare and oppressive silence.
As Keelin’s vision adjusted to the new lighting situation, he noticed a drunken pirate passed out half against the wall of the tavern and half on the leaf-littered ground. It didn’t look like a comfortable place to rest a face, but the poor bastard was doing it anyway. After a moment Keelin recognised the pirate as Jotin Breen, one of his own men and, until recently, one of the most respected members of his crew. It appeared the long period ashore wasn’t doing anyone any good.
Across the street was the brothel, the Merry Fuck. It certainly wasn’t the most eloquent of names, but then Keelin had made the mistake of allowing the whores to name it themselves. Shrewd the whores may be with their profession, now they had the protection of Drake Morrass, but their command over the common language was far less savvy.
Outside the brothel lay another unconscious pirate, this one not of Keelin’s crew and bleeding from a head wound that didn’t look encouraging. The poor bastard was propped up against the wall of the Merry Fuck, and unless someone did something soon, it was likely he’d die there. Though the whores were under Drake’s protection, the brothel and the other inhabitants were not. As such the whores had hired themselves a couple of hard-headed, heavy-fisted brutes to keep order within the confines of the building. Unfortunately the two men had turned out to be rather vicious in the beatings they handed out; it was one of the many things the council had recently brought to Keelin’s attention.
The streets were busy with folk going about their daily business. Work crews were still felling trees and working their magic to turn them into serviceable wood for construction. A small team of reliable types had been conscripted by the Arbiter before she left with Drake, and they were even now searching the forest and marking off areas protected by magical traps. A fresh water source had been found out in the jungle, and it was currently a full-time job to ferry water down to the town. That was one of the most harrowing jobs the island presented, as the water source was also home to a group of monkeys who would sit in the trees, silently watching any and all who dared trespass on their domain.
There was something slipping Keelin’s mind. He realised it as he stood there in the middle of the street, with folk passing him by on their daily errands. There was something he was supposed to be doing, the reason he’d bothered to leave the tavern in the first place.
“Fresh air,” he said aloud, much to the surprise of a passing woman carrying a basket and an expression of utter distrust. He’d felt the need for fresh air and the sea on his toes, and the only place he was going to get either of those was down on the beach.
He’d elicited quite a few stares by the time he reached the sand, where he squinted down towards the newly constructed pier. There were four boats sitting out in the bay, but that couldn’t be right unless he was seeing double – which, he had to admit, was a distinct possibility. There was also a flamboyantly dressed man wearing a round hat barrelling up the beach towards the town.
“Stillwater,” Captain Daimen Poole said, breathless from his charge in the morning heat. “Fuck me, but it’s hot today.” He doubled over in front of Keelin, sucking in huge breaths of air. “What I wouldn’t give for a little breeze, eh?”
Keelin focused on the man and burped.
“Not exactly what I meant. C’mon, got a’selves a new arrival. Big bastard. I reckon we gonna want him on the team. Here, are you drunk, Stillwater?”
Keelin considered lying, but decided he was definitely drunk and he didn’t care one bit who knew it. “Only a little,” he said, fairly certain he was swaying.
Poole made a face as he took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “Aye, well ya’ll ’ave to fuckin’ do. Best behaviour, aye?”
Keelin moved his head in a way that might be considered a positive affirmation before gesturing down the beach. “Lead the way.”
“Why’s that now? Can’t find the sea? Aye, it’s fairly well hidden behind all the water.” Poole laughed, replaced his hat, and started off down the beach.
With most of the buildings now beyond the sand, it was rare to see the beach as busy as it was, but then a new arrival was bound to cause a fair bit of upheaval. From merchants attempting to offload onto water-weary sailors to dispossessed pirates requesting a place on any ship that would take them, there was no shortage of hustle an
d even more bustle.
A new galleon sat in the bay, and it was quite a large one at that, with three masts and more scars than it was worth paying attention to. Keelin couldn’t say he recognised the ship. At this point he was having trouble recognising his own feet.
A crowd of folk were gathered around the end of the peer, no doubt requesting news and showering impotent praise on whoever had come ashore first. Keelin noticed a head poking up above the crowd and let out a weary sigh. Only one man could be that tall and that bearded, and the black bandana was even more of a giveaway.
“His name’s…” Poole started.
“Khan,” Keelin finished for him, digging around in his memory for the captain’s first name and coming up blank.
“You’ve met then?”
“Aye.” Keelin staggered as a dizzy spell hit him, steadying himself on Poole.
“Ah, shit, Stillwater. Don’t ya be passin’ out on me now.”
“I’m fine.” Keelin pushed away from Poole even as Captain Khan spotted them. “I’d just rather not deal with that big bastard right now.”
“Stillwater,” boomed the giant.
“Little late for that, I reckon, mate,” Poole said with a smile, then turned just as Khan pushed his way through the crowd. “I’m told ya already know…”
Captain Khan ignored Poole’s torrent of words and stepped in front of Keelin, staring down at him; the huge man’s belly was very nearly on a level with Keelin’s chest. The strange scent of black powder washed over Keelin, reminding him of the final moments of old Sev’relain. It already seemed so long ago.
“Hi,” Keelin said, smiling upwards. “Nice to see you again.”
“What do you think of my ship, Captain Stillwater?” the giant said. “Not so little now, eh.”
