RAMSEY
Long ago . . .
Ramsey’s boots were filled with icy water and the howling winds drove sheets of stinging spray across his face as he struggled to keep his grip on the helm. He was fairly certain that the next wave was either going to capsize them or completely splinter their ship to matchwood.
This, he thought with satisfaction, is what being a pirate is all about.
Wrenching at the ship’s wheel with an effort that made his aching arms scream in protest, Ramsey leaned forward to bellow an order to his crew below. He might as well have been whispering, for the storm snatched at his commands and carried them away. No matter. Each of the crew was an experienced sailor, and the last few days sailing through what felt like literal hell had taught them to anticipate each other’s actions. For now, they would work without words.
Ramsey squinted through the darkness and the rain to make out Rathbone and Mercia moving in tandem. They had lashed ropes to the railings and tied them securely around their waists as they wrestled with the sails, desperately seeking the ever-shifting balance that would keep the ship darting between the waves without the sails being torn to shreds. Behind them, a flash of lightning illuminated Shan as he staggered up to the prow. He held a battered bucket in his hands and began emptying its contents overboard, bailing away rainwater that had trickled down into the lower decks.
Those three pirates, along with Ramsey, represented the entire complement of the Magpie’s Wing, the tiny ship he’d commissioned especially for this voyage. His friends and rivals had scoffed at the idea of setting sail with such a tiny crew, least of all into the Devil’s Shroud, but that was precisely why they’d failed where Ramsey had succeeded.
The Devil’s Shroud. Every pirate grew to know its name, even if they preyed upon waters a hundred miles or more from that cursed region. Ramsey had never been a superstitious man, but you didn’t have to believe in undersea gods or arcane rituals to experience the fog’s effects for yourself and learn swiftly that it was a very real threat indeed. The Shroud ebbed and flowed across a vast region of the sea, writhing like a living thing. Unwary ships could easily be drawn into its fringes, even if they’d sailed that route without incident for years.
Any vessel that did slip its course and find itself in those strange, ethereal clouds would soon realize it, for its crew would begin to taste an odd tang upon the air—not quite sour and not quite rotten, but cloying on the tongue and in the back of the throat. It was like trying to take a deep gulp of black treacle, Ramsey mused, but a treacle that soon began to burn cold like a hand held too long in ice. Masks and scarves across the face would do nothing to help, and before long, once-able seamen would be coughing and spluttering, choking on the very air around them. Often, they’d be so overcome that they wouldn’t realize their ship was dying too.
Whatever fell curse the region inflicted upon people foolish enough to enter it would also work its will upon wood and metal. Beams would begin to split and twist, buckling and warping the planks that made up the ship’s hull. The nails that held them in place would start to rust away to a fine red powder. The beleaguered crew would be fighting a losing battle against an onslaught of leaks and breaches as murky water poured in below decks, new ruptures appearing faster than the old ones could be bunged or repaired.
Yes, any seafarer with a promising career and a decent life expectancy soon learned not to sneer at the existence, or the threat, of the Devil’s Shroud, though the challenge just made each ambitious pirate all the more determined to see what was on the other side.
Ramsey had hardly been the first to dream of the uncharted waters encircled by those malevolent mists, imagining an oasis at the center like the eye of a storm that would contain . . . well, anything. Everyone had their own notions of what might lie beyond the veil, and the topic was a favorite talking point during fireside conversation or whenever drink had been shared liberally.
Fabulous riches usually featured heavily in people’s imaginations, although long-lost civilizations (hoarding said fabulous riches) and exotic beasts (who could be captured and sold for fabulous riches) were also common. A few naysayers would dismiss the idea of there being anything behind the Shroud at all, but they would be quickly jeered out of the conversation. It was far more fun to believe.
Still, Ramsey had always been sure that until the day mankind learned to fly like the birds, dreaming would be the only way anyone would peek beyond the Shroud. There had been so much to see and do in the wider world, so many places to plunder and battles to be fought, that he’d been content to leave the mystery unsolved. Unsolved and largely unheeded for many years—until, one day, he crossed paths with Mercia.
“You’re blocking my light,” the pirate said curtly.
Ramsey shifted apologetically as the pirate Mercia glanced up in irritation. The library in which they’d met barely seemed able to accommodate a tall and imposing pirate like Ramsey. He felt distinctly out of place in the serious and musty building, with his unkempt hair tied back using scraps of cloth and a bristly beard that made him seem older than his years. His seafarer’s garb—breeches, a rough linen shirt, and a bulky greatcoat topped with a wide-brimmed hat—only served to make him more incongruous among the crowded shelves.
Now well into his third decade, Ramsey had accumulated quite a bit of heft from the fine dining that success could offer. Thanks to the rigors of a life at sea, it was still mostly muscle, and he aimed to keep it that way for as long as possible. Squeezing himself onto the bench opposite Mercia, though, he found himself wishing he were a smaller man. His elbow brushed against a stack of books, nearly scattering them, and he apologetically clamped a suntanned hand down upon the pile.
“And now you’re spoiling my work,” Mercia sighed. “It’s Captain Ramsey, isn’t it? You’ve got quite the reputation around here.”
“All of it deserved, I assure you.” Ramsey grinned. Mercia did not. “You’re an exceptional pirate yourself, I hear,” he continued, beguilingly. “One with a lot of books and some curious ideas.”
“Curiosity is correct,” Mercia replied, considering Ramsey for a moment as if debating how much time to spend indulging him. “And I don’t just mean poking my nose into other people’s treasure. We’ve all seen things out there that we couldn’t explain. Well, some of us want answers, and we have ways of finding them out.”
Ramsey frowned. “Alchemy?” he ventured.
“Natural philosophy,” Mercia said, patiently. “It’s a way of approaching what you don’t understand. Solving mysteries, like . . .” One gloved hand waved vaguely. “Why does a compass point north? Who built the old temples you find sometimes, and why? What precisely is the Devil’s Shroud? Some people say it’s a form of magic, as if that were any explanation, but I have another idea.”
Mercia began to speak at length of the mysterious fog and the means by which by one might chart its boundaries, and Ramsey sensed his own interest in the barrier rekindling. He felt some measure of shame at this, for the last few years had been very kind to him, bringing him a wife and two young children. The black diamond ring upon his swarthy finger was a symbol of the promise he had made his beloved to one day provide her with all that she deserved.
Mercia had paused, and Ramsey realized he was expected to contribute to the conversation. “Truth be told,” he admitted, “things are getting a bit too familiar around here. The same old taverns, stories I can parrot word for word. Finding a way through the Shroud, now, that’d be an adventure to stick in the mind. Think you’re man enough for the job?” He’d chosen these words deliberately, and Mercia’s eyes flashed in provocation.
“We’ll need charts,” Mercia shot back, with no hesitation. “Calendars, too. There’s a shop in town that has some I�
�ve had my eye on. Smaller craft to use as scouts. Oh, and a ship, of course. She’ll have to be swift and nimble, but tough.”
“I don’t understand half of what you’ve told me tonight,” Ramsey admitted with a toothy smile. “But rest assured, I know what makes a fine ship. You’ll be aboard her when we sail?”
Mercia smiled back for the first time. “Just you try leaving without me.”
They’d had the Magpie’s Wing built in secret, a craft tiny enough to thread its way through those twisting routes where a ship might sail in safety. Together, Ramsey, Mercia, Shan, and Rathbone had stuffed the hold with floats and coracles to send out ahead and stout wooden planks to patch up any damage they might take on their journey.
They packed their provisions and made their final preparations, until eventually there were no more reasons to delay. All that remained was Ramsey’s choice: to stay at home with his family or sail headlong into the unknown and be the first man alive to see beyond the Devil’s Shroud. The call of the sea claimed him as it always did and, perhaps, as it always would.
The course they plotted was contorted, and the ship was forced to travel at a veritable snail’s pace. Finally, after days of inching their way through the stifling fog, starved of both food and sleep, they emerged into chaos. The Shroud had released its grip on Ramsey and his crew, only to spit them into the heart of a massive storm. With no idea of where land might lie and no possibility of reversing course, they had no choice but to press on into the downpour.
Another bolt of lightning, this one much closer, snapped Ramsey out of his reverie. They’d been lucky so far, able to angle through the waves without broaching and taking only minor damage to the hull, but their good fortune would only last so long. The Magpie’s Wing needed shelter soon.
Feeling a tug at his shoulder, Ramsey whipped around to find Shan at his side. Even though the man was clearly bellowing, Ramsey had to bring their heads practically together to hear what he was trying to say. Lamb?
“Land!” Shan shouted again.
Eyes widening, Ramsey gestured impatiently and followed Shan’s outstretched finger. There was something there, all right: a dark and craggy silhouette that he could barely pick out against the backdrop of the raging monsoon.
The ship gave a protesting creak as its captain spun the wheel once more, angling the bow toward the distant rock face. Shan picked his way down to where Rathbone and Mercia, both sodden and exhausted, were still fighting to capture the wild wind within the sails.
Rathbone in particular seemed dead on his feet, despite being the brawniest of the three, and he gratefully relinquished his position to Shan. “Never thought I’d be glad to accept bailing duty!” he barked over the cacophony, but he had barely filled a bucket before he paused to stare, mortified, at the horizon. “Ramsey has seen those cliffs we’re heading toward, hasn’t he? The cliffs that no one in their right mind would take us anywhere near?”
Shan pretended not to hear him and continued to wrestle gamely with the billowing cloth overhead, but Mercia snapped, “I’m sure Captain Ramsey knows exactly what he’s doing!” before giving the sail a particularly vicious tug.
While Mercia’s relationship with Rathbone had been civil, by and large, he was proving a hard man to really get to know. He was clearly a consummate pirate despite possessing a clipped English accent more suited to an officer of the navy; his skin was bronzed by the sun, his shoulders were broad, and his head was shorn to reveal a scar or two. Out of all the crew, he was most fastidious about his appearance and had come aboard laden with fine cotton shirts and gleaming shoes. Rathbone made a point of shaving every day and took every opportunity to trim and tidy himself. Mercia wondered if Ramsey knew more about the man and resolved to ask—assuming any of them of them survived the night.
More rocks were visible now, and the ship seemed to be sailing between two rows of stone columns that that jutted out of the water in rows like huge teeth. Lifeless and sheer, they rose up on either side of the Magpie’s Wing. Rathbone suspected he could almost reach out and touch the stone as the ship bobbed wildly on the waves.
“He’s gone mad!” Rathbone yelled, though Mercia’s only response was to fully furl the sails, leaving nothing but their momentum to carry them forward. The looming darkness was almost upon them now, closer, then closer still, and Rathbone braced himself to hear the prow snap against the cliffs and feel the deck lurch beneath his feet.
Suddenly, there was no more rain pounding down on them, and Rathbone found that he could hear things again as Ramsey’s call for light cut through the air. It took the crew a few moments to obey, groping for the ship’s lanterns in the dark with their frozen and fumbling fingers, but one by one the flickering flames sprang into being and cast pools of orange light across their surroundings. The feeble fire was like a summer sun compared to the darkness they’d sailed through and more than bright enough to reveal the truth of their whereabouts.
The Magpie’s Wing had sailed through a crack in the cliff face and was now drifting through a large cave filled with seawater, moving lazily toward the far wall. They dropped anchor at once, bringing the ship to a full stop, and took in their surroundings as Ramsey moved to stand with them.
The walls of the cavern were slick from the spray of the sea and the dark sandy brown rock was peppered with smaller exits and pathways—save for the view to starboard, which offered an unobstructed view of a windswept shore and the turbulent ocean beyond it. The walls extended upward to form a series of high archways—a ceiling of sorts that provided protection from the storm. There were gaps overhead, through which vegetation hung down and the sluicing rain cascaded in a series of miniature waterfalls. The nearest was just a few feet away, and Shan carefully hooked a bucket onto a long pole and filled it to the brim with fresh water.
One by one, they filled their flasks and drank deeply in mute appreciation until Shan, ever cheerful, broke the silence. “Funny how you only ever realize you’re hungry when you’ve stopped being thirsty,” he mused. “Are we sure there’s no food left?”
“Never mind your stomach,” Mercia admonished. “Getting warm and dry is more important.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s not your stomach.”
Ramsey drained the last of his flask and stretched. “We can burn the floats, if they’ll take,” he declared. “Let’s start a fire; it won’t do if we all get sick. Then we’ll see what we have to celebrate with, eh? We’re wet, but we’ll dry out. We’re hungry, but we’ll find food. Today, we four have made it through the Devil’s Shroud! If that doesn’t call for a belly full of grog, then nothing ever will again!”
This last remark earned a cheer, albeit an exhausted one, which rang around the cavern for a moment as all four roused themselves and went to work. The Magpie’s Wing was eased carefully nearer to land until she was close enough to a rocky outcropping that the gangplank could be extended.
A circle of rocks was fashioned far from the reach of the storm, although finding wood dry enough to do more than give off a thick, protesting smoke proved a challenge. Rathbone’s persistent use of flint and stone eventually yielded a cautious flame and, finally, a hearty conflagration around which they were all very pleased to warm their hands.
Shan disappeared off the ship wordlessly, though Ramsey knew the man well enough by now not to bother questioning his absence or his motives. Sure enough, his balding head poked back through a crevice in the rocks later, shining anew with fresh rainwater. “I’ve found a pathway that leads up to the higher reaches,” he said, approaching his crewmates. Against his body he hugged both the motionless form of a scrawny rooster as well as a few plump bananas. Shan offered the bananas to Mercia, whom he knew avoided meat with a disdain most pirates reserved for an honest day’s work, then set about cleaning and preparing the bird for its final resting place—a stained cooking pot that hung above their sputtering fire.
Ramsey, who had busied himself filling several casks with yet more of the fresh rainwater, took the
opportunity to study the man from afar and recall their first encounter.
Every ship needs a quartermaster with a brain that can juggle a thousand calculations every hour, tallying every spilled pint of greasy grog and each shot fired in anger, not to mention working out where the crew’s next meal is coming from. Ramsey had had no clue who might fulfill such a role on his voyage into the Devil’s Shroud, but Shan had come recommended by Rowenna, one of Ramsey’s few close friends despite the fact that she always kept her feet firmly on dry land.
As the owner and proprietor of one of the largest and most dependably disreputable taverns on the coast, Rowenna was the de facto matriarch of the town where she and Ramsey had grown up. They had played together as children, she’d introduced Ramsey to his wife, and he in return had used his earnings to help purchase the pub back when she was its only barmaid. When he told her of his plan to breach the Devil’s Shroud, Rowenna had promised to reserve his barstool for him—so long as he promised to come back in one piece.
Rowenna had also pointed Shan out across the crowded bar: a lithe and balding figure with a pronounced tan, a series of silver rings in one ear, and an intricate tattoo that ran down his arm. He was older than Ramsey, perhaps fifty or so, which was both unusual and impressive. Very few pirates lived long enough to think about retiring. What little hair he had left was already a snowy white.
Dressed in a plain white tunic and simple knee-length breeches, carelessly barefooted, Shan might almost have been mistaken for a novice deckhand were it not for the aura of calm that seemed to surround him. He presented a lone oasis of tranquility amid the hustle and bustle of raucous enjoyment while his fingers worked deftly and ceaselessly on something.
Intrigued, Ramsey moved closer and wordlessly took a seat opposite, keen not to disturb the man in the middle of whatever creative whimsy had overtaken him. He watched with interest as toothpicks, carved wood, and scraps of cloth napkin were gradually whittled and tied to complete a tiny model pirate ship.
Sea of Thieves Page 1
