by Rob J. Hayes
“You!” someone shouted, and T’ruck looked sideways to see Admiral Peter Verit climbing the stairs to the aft deck, guards swarming around him. “You did this!”
T’ruck plastered a weary grin to his face and turned towards Verit, noticing for the first time how close they were to Storm Herald’s dinghies. The admiral was attempting to abandon his ship, giving it up for lost. T’ruck’s own depleted crew moved to his side, each of them as weary as he was, but each one just as determined to survive and to pay back the admiral for destroying their ship and murdering their friends.
One of the witch’s creatures slithered its way up onto the aft deck and angled towards T’ruck, disappearing into the large shadows cast by his crew. A moment later T’ruck felt a chill as a small monkey-like shape brushed past him. The monster seemed to have no head and no eyes, just a body and legs that looked like black smoke. He shuffled out of its way, but it didn’t seem interested in either him or his crew. It broke their ranks and charged at the admiral and his guards.
T’ruck bellowed out a laugh that set all his wounds to aching, and rushed in after the shadow monster. The admiral’s guards moved to meet him even as his own crew followed him in, and a moment later the battle was joined and the world became wood and steel and sweat and blood.
Blocking the first strike with his shield, T’ruck struck back with his own sword only to have it deflected. As the remainder of his crew joined him, forming a loose shield wall, the first of the admiral’s soldiers went down. The little shadow monster was attached to his chest, tearing into it with bloody talons.
Two of the downed soldier’s comrades turned on the shadow and hacked at it. The little beast ceased its attack and started to fade, soon leaving no evidence that it had ever existed except for the ruined mess of a man dying on the deck. T’ruck and another of his crew, Owan, locked shields and started to push as one, driving a wedge into the loose enemy line, protecting each other and forcing the soldiers to turn so that the rest of his men could attack their flanks.
T’ruck felt a cut open up on his left side and roared in pain. Rage filled every part of him, and new strength flowed into his limbs as he broke free of the two-man wall, swinging his stolen sword about him in wild, powerful strokes that shattered defences and sent men crashing to the deck with horrific injuries. His crew surged in his wake, taking advantage of the distraction to murder their enemies. They were all veterans of T’ruck’s crew, and every one was used to his berserker strength. They knew just how much it terrified their foes and how to make the most of it.
Admiral Verit came out of nowhere, leaping at T’ruck with well-timed, perfectly aimed blows that T’ruck struggled to turn aside despite his greater strength. The man was obviously well trained, but if he could just hold the bastard up for long enough the odds would turn in the pirate’s favour.
Strike after strike after strike and the admiral kept his composure, not a hair out of place on either his head or his chin. His eyes were cold steel. T’ruck decided he didn’t want his crew’s help to defeat the man – he wanted the royal bastard’s death all to himself.
T’ruck waited for his moment, blocking blow after blow, then catching the admiral’s sword on his shield and pushing forwards to catch him off balance. The admiral sidestepped at the last moment, dancing to the side.
New pain blossomed in T’ruck’s right leg and he stumbled to the ground, flailing with his sword and catching the admiral with a glancing blow of the flat of his blade.
T’ruck tried to stand, but his injured leg collapsed underneath him and a glance down told him the admiral had cut a deep gash in his ankle, probably severing a tendon. The pain was intense, but not as bad as the bolt still in his chest. He struggled to his knees and looked up just in time to see the admiral dance in and impale him.
T’ruck had experienced more wounds than he cared to count, and he had the scars to prove each one, but this was the first time he’d ever been run through. In truth he would have expected it to hurt more. He felt cold and detached, watching the battle being fought around him. His own crew were slaughtering the admiral’s guards, and soon they would turn and deal with the bastard himself. By then it would be too late. It was already too late.
The sun was rising over the admiral’s shoulder, and it was a brilliant orange-gold that lit the ocean and the sky like fire.
“Barbarian filth,” Verit hissed, leaning into his sword to drive it deeper into T’ruck’s chest. The pain rushed in and shattered the calm cold that had settled over him. He gasped, tasting blood.
“I may die here,” the admiral continued, “but I will see you dead first.”
T’ruck lifted an arm to stop him. But he had no strength left, and the man easily batted it away and changed his grip on his sword to pull it free of T’ruck’s chest.
Something large and angry crashed into the admiral from the side, sending him to the deck. T’ruck toppled sideways, too weak to stop himself falling. He saw the admiral struggling with Pocket, only for the young pirate to smash his head again and again with the edge of a wooden shield.
As the world started to go dark, the last thing T’ruck saw was Admiral Peter Verit’s head battered to a pulp, his perfectly groomed facial hair finally ruined.
Chapter 7 - North Gale
Nerine climbed up onto a deck awash with blood. The sun was rising low in the east, giving everything a warm feel and casting deep shadows across the pools of red spreading over the planks. As she stood still, taking in the carnage, one of the puddles spread to her feet and seeped in around her bare soles.
Yu’truda had come up on deck first, and she stood still as stone, her mouth hanging open at the sight before her. All of Nerine’s shadows were gone, but the massacre they’d left was nothing short of sickening even to the witch, and she’d witnessed more than one massacre in her years. Some of the soldiers were still alive, clinging to what little strength they had left and calling for help, but most were as dead as they could be. Some were little more than parts sitting in their own congealing blood.
Nerine heard retching and glanced sideways to see Yu’truda emptying her stomach. It was the smell that offended Nerine more than the blood. She’d seen rivers of red before, but death had a peculiar smell about it that couldn’t be denied, almost as though human flesh rotted the moment it ceased to live. It was acrid and foul, and Nerine felt her lip curl.
Her skin felt raw and exposed, and her legs shook from the effort of keeping her upright. It was a side effect of extensive contact with the Void. So much power and magic had been channelled through her, it had left her feeling stripped away. Her own reserves of strength were almost depleted, and only her iron will was keeping her going. She would need to rest soon, and rest long. Any more attempts to channel magic could leave her with permanent damage.
Not bothering to step around the pools of gore, Nerine headed aft towards where she believed the captain’s cabin might be. Captain Khan may have claimed it for himself, but Nerine needed to rest before her strength gave out completely, and she doubted she would find a more comfortable sanctuary than the cabin the admiral had been sleeping in. She went to step over a body and recognised the face. It was the officer she’d enslaved.
Kneeling down in the man’s blood, Nerine turned his head towards her. To her surprise, she found him clinging to life, stubbornly refusing to admit that he was dead. She’d expected him to die when she sent him up the ladder with her shadows, and it now appeared that his own crewmates had cut him down and left him for dead.
“Do you recognise me?” Nerine said softly.
The officer didn’t say anything, but Nerine thought she saw recognition in his eyes.
“All this is your fault,” she continued, holding the man’s chin in her hand so his head couldn’t flop away. “I would have let you all return to your backwards kingdom and hang the pirates if not for your fervour. You thought me a slave, and thought to use me for your desire. I am a terror beyond your understanding, and I would never
consent to be touched by your filthy hands.”
There was no comprehension in the man’s eyes. Nerine wagered he was long past anything but the barest slip of consciousness. He would die soon, of that there was no mistake, and she would let him.
“Yu,” someone shouted from the deck above. “Yu, Cap’n’s in a bad way.”
Yu’truda broke into a run, ignoring the treacherous footing and rushing past Nerine, taking the steps up to the next deck two at a time. Nerine stood slowly, marvelling at how much blood had soaked into her tattered dress, and followed at a more leisurely pace.
At the top of the steps she saw more bodies – mostly soldiers, but a couple of Captain Khan’s crew also lay there. Those pirates who remained – Nerine counted only eight of them – were gathered around a giant body that could only belong to Captain Khan himself.
Nerine approached slowly, her feet leaving bloody prints on the deck behind her. As she moved closer, she saw that the captain had a number of shallow wounds and one that wasn’t so shallow. A sword was buried deep in his gut, almost up to the hilt, and blood leaked slowly from his mouth. He wasn’t showing any signs of life that Nerine could see. She would have to strike a deal with Yu’truda now, and hope the woman was as amiable as her deceased captain. Now was not the time though. Nerine turned away from the funeral.
“Can you help him?” Yu’truda said in a voice that barely carried over the lapping of the waves and the creaking of the hull.
Nerine glanced back at the hulk of a corpse and felt a twinge of sadness. “I cannot bring back the dead. And even if I could, you would not like what came back.”
“He’s not dead,” Yu’truda said urgently. “Not yet.”
Nerine approached the circle of pirates slowly, and they parted to let her through. She knelt down by the giant body of T’ruck Khan and placed two fingers on his neck. It was very faint, but there was the barest beat of a pulse. With the wounds that he’d suffered, she doubted he would last for long.
“Can you heal him? Like you did before?” Yu’truda said.
Nerine sighed. “As I have said, I cannot heal, only speed the natural process. There is no natural process that can heal him now.”
“Isn’t there something you can do, anything to save his life?” Huge tears were rolling down Yu’truda’s cheeks.
Nerine shook her head slowly. “I cannot save his life. But I can give him yours.”
Chapter 8 - The Phoenix
Keelin watched the ship’s boy as she dangled precariously over the side of The Phoenix, attempting to reach the jelly that had attached itself to the hull. Aimi had a rope tied around her waist, and Feather was attached to the other end. Feather wasn’t exactly the largest or strongest of lads, but Aimi wasn’t exactly the largest or heaviest of women, and the boy was just about managing to keep hold of her. Aimi had walked down the side of the hull and was reaching for the jelly with one hand while keeping the other firmly on the rope.
The Phoenix cut through another wave and the force of the spray knocked Aimi to her knees. Feather grunted, but held on tight all the same. Keelin smiled at the scene, enjoying the sight of Aimi soaked through.
“Don’t you have captain things to do, Cap’n?” Smithe said, having sneaked up behind Keelin.
Fighting the urge to turn on his treacherous quartermaster and thanking the sea goddess Rin that the man hadn’t taken the opportunity to throw his captain overboard, Keelin waited just long enough before replying for Smithe to bristle.
“The safety and well-being of the crew are captain things, Smithe.” Keelin pushed away from the railing and turned on his quartermaster, cursing that he had to look up at the man. “But that’s something you’ll never need to know.”
Smithe’s jaw clenched and veins popped out on the man’s neck. He was just over six feet of bronzed muscle with close-cropped hair, muddy eyes, and a burning desire to see The Phoenix in his own hands. He was a dangerous man, and even more dangerous since being voted into the position of quartermaster, but no matter how much Keelin would like to rid himself of the surly bastard, he couldn’t. Smithe had many allies among the crew, and they wouldn’t be pleased should the man disappear. For now the two were stuck in a dangerous dance, but Keelin was under no illusions that, should the opportunity present itself, he would find a knife in his back and Smithe attached to the handle.
“Crew want paying, Cap’n,” Smithe said, the sun lending extra menace to his eyes. Which, Keelin had to admit, were normally more than menacing enough.
“Right now?” Keelin said. “What are they intending to spend it on, Smithe? Rat racing? Or are you bending over and taking payment these days?” It was a petty insult not really worthy of a captain, but Smithe had a way of making Keelin want to hurt him.
Smithe’s eyes boggled, practically popping out of his skull. “We ain’t pirated nothing in a long while, Cap’n. Crew need paying once we get back to Sev’relain, and the ship’s coffers ain’t exactly bursting.”
“With you in charge, I’m surprised they’re not dwindling.”
“You calling me a thief?” Smithe took a step forward, looking down at his captain. Keelin stood his ground.
“We’re all thieves, Smithe. Stealing shit is our trade, and there ain’t been a quartermaster who didn’t take a little extra for themselves.” It was a blatant lie, but if Smithe could be caught stealing from the ship and crew it would be all the excuse Keelin needed.
“We need to take a ship,” Smithe said.
Keelin sighed. “Were you unconscious during our escape from Ash? There are Five Kingdoms navy ships behind us, Smithe. Do you see our escort? There” – Keelin pointed over the port side of the ship – “The Black Death, and there” – he pointed over the starboard side – “the Fortune. Even if we did spot something to take, both those ships are faster and would get there first.”
“Then we should leave,” Smithe protested.
“No.” Keelin stared down his quartermaster. “Right now we should run for home and regroup, and that’s exactly what we are doing. We no longer have the liberty of operating out on our own. We all stick together or we all die alone. Is that clear?”
An ugly grin spread across Smithe’s face. “Aye, Cap’n. No pay it is. Again.” He turned and walked away, and Keelin realised that more than a few members of the crew were close by and had been listening in.
“Shit,” he muttered, turning back to face the sea just as a jelly leapt over the railing and landed with a splat at his feet, thin tendrils flopping about on the deck.
Keelin put his hands on the railing and stared out across the sparkling blue waters of the Pirate Isles. If he concentrated really hard he could even pretend The Black Death wasn’t sailing alongside him, obscuring his view and reminding him that Tanner Black was now working with them rather than trying to kill them.
“You heard all that?” Keelin said.
“Every word, more or less.”
Keelin looked down to see Aimi holding onto the railing with both hands, a sympathetic look on her face. She still had a rope tied to her waist, and Feather was still nearby, holding on to the other end, trying desperately not to garner his captain’s attention.
“Well, you’re not the only one. Everyone on the ship will have heard by tonight, and I’m sure Smithe will make it sound like I don’t want to pay the crew.”
“Actually, you did a pretty good job of that yourself, Cap’n.”
“Please call me Keelin.”
“Not on duty, Cap’n,” Aimi said with a grin. “Those are the rules. Your rules, if ya remember.”
Keelin nodded, and silently wished he’d never imposed rules upon their relationship, but somehow he didn’t think Aimi would be comfortable without them.
Reaching down, Keelin grabbed hold of Aimi’s hand and helped her up and over the railing. He didn’t let go of her hand.
“I could take you off duty,” he said with a smile.
“No doubt we’d have a lot of fun,” Aimi said. “But
that would be along the lines of preferential treatment, which we also covered in your rules.”
Keelin released her hand and stepped aside, motioning to the jelly lying on the deck. “Back to work then, boy.” He finished the order with a slap on her arse and turned away before she could turn her glare on him.
Kebble Salt was standing at the bow, staring out into the blue. It was rare to see the man down from the nest, and even rarer to see him without the rifle that he was known to be so deadly with. Keelin approached quietly, leaning on the railing and waiting for the man to speak. He found himself waiting for some time.
“Do you see the mist on the horizon?” Kebble said eventually.
Keelin squinted, but saw nothing resembling a mist. In fact, it was a gloriously sunny day with plenty of wind and barely a cloud in the sky. Still, Kebble had proven his sight to be greater than that of most men. Of course, the sharpshooter also believed himself to be immortal, so Keelin had cause to question his sanity.
“I see nothing but clear skies and clearer waters,” Keelin said with false cheer.
“Perhaps it is just me,” Kebble said. “The mists herald the coming of Cold Fire, the wraith ship. It would not be the first time they have come for me.”
Keelin glanced sideways at him. “So, this immortality of yours…” It was a subject he’d always tried to stay away from, and Kebble seemed disinclined to share. “How did you come about it?”
Kebble let out a bitter laugh. “I am cursed, Captain Stillwater. A god whose powers deal with life as much as your goddess’ deals with water. A demon’s power is the power to change fate. The Dread Lords hold death in their sway. It seems any of those powers could make a man immortal.”
It was a vague answer at best. “What about Reowyn?” Keelin decided that if they were simply naming creatures of vast, unimaginable power, he might as well throw the bogeyman into the list.
Kebble’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You believe Reowyn to be a myth. A tale of a monster told to scare children. You should be glad you do not know the things I know.”
