Sea of Thieves

by Chris Allcock

  The sun was high and the water was clear; even from here she could make out the gaping wounds that had sunk the little ship. She’d have to swim through the largest of these to find the chest, assuming it still lay where they old woman had promised.

  No time like the present, she thought, and plunged herself into the sea, kicking off from the hull of the Magpie’s Wing and diving toward the waiting wreck. She passed Rathbone as she descended, as he was on his third trip to the surface both for air and to drop off the spoils from the captain’s cabin. She waved cheerfully but he ignored her, focusing his gaze on the foamy waves overhead.

  The ruined ship had come to rest almost upside down, its masts having been sheared away by cannon fire in the battle that sunk her. As she eased herself through a gap in the rotting planks, Mercia found herself in an environment that was both strangely familiar and entirely alien, thanks to everything being inverted.

  Barrels and boxes that had been securely tied to the floor now hung ominously overhead, their looming bulk threatening to topple down upon her should any of the ropes and netting choose that moment to give way. Below her, a hatchway to where the stairs had once been led up—down, she reminded herself—to the middle deck.

  Once her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Mercia began to poke around, looking for anything that might resemble the outline of the chest the woman had described. She found it after a moment’s exploration—small and unassuming, gilded with iron. Tugging it free was more of an effort than she expected, and Mercia was forced to tilt her head back and press her face up toward the inverted floor, finding a small pocket of trapped air she could use to replenish her breath.

  Once she’d filled her lungs, she dropped back down, preparing to haul the little chest back to the surface, and that was when she saw the shark.

  It was visible through the battered hull only for an instant, one deadly eye staring right at her as it passed by the hole she’d entered through. She waited, hardly daring to move, hoping that it had failed to sense her as anything more than a shape in the darkness.

  No such luck. The beast had swum in a wide circle, and now she could see it approaching once again, eager to enjoy an unexpected meal. It looked old, with scars crisscrossing its body, and huge too—so huge, Mercia wondered if it would even fit through the gap in the hull or if it would simply become wedged, trapping her within the ship and snapping angrily as she drowned just out of its reach.

  Deciding not to wait around to find out, Mercia grabbed the chest and used its weight to help her drop down through the hatchway, deeper into the ship. Overhead, she could hear the crashing of splintered wood as the beast collided with the wreck, trapping itself only briefly before it was able to force its way inside the battered hull.

  Fighting a rising tide of panic, Mercia looked around for something she could use. Much in this room was familiar, too, though this ship’s map table had toppled, managing to become wedged against the stairwell. It looked like oak—too heavy to move, too sturdy to shatter—and it was blocking the hatch that led to the ship’s upper deck, cutting off her only means of escape. She began a frantic circuit of the room, hunting for a weapon or a way out, fearing that any moment the great gray face would poke through the hatchway and bear down on her.

  Wriggling through the tangle of hammocks and ropes that separated this deck’s front from its aft, Mercia’s attention was caught by a tiny minnow as it zigzagged out between two crates. Startled by her approach, it and two others flitted past her nose and squeezed through another breach at the rear of the ship—one she hadn’t noticed until now. It was barely a foot across, but it was a lifeline nonetheless.

  Bracing her back against a beam, Mercia used the only thing she had at hand and began to repeatedly smash the silver chest against the hole. Her lungs ached more with every passing second as she used up her precious breath and at first it seemed as though her assault was having little effect, but finally one plank broke away. Another strike, and a second followed it.

  Something touched her body as she pulled back to deliver another blow, and with a shudder of revulsion she realized it was the head of the shark. It was thrashing, blinded and flummoxed by a hammock that had become wrapped across its snout as it had approached her. If not for the momentary protection of a flimsy piece of netting, Mercia might have lost an arm.

  Desperate now, she struck again and again, widening the hole as much as she could before finally hauling herself and her prize through the breach. The arm of her shirt snagged on a nail as she made to flee the wreck, pinning her momentarily to the hull, and she tugged and wrenched with all her might until the sleeve tore up to the shoulder and released her.

  Stubbornly refusing to abandon the heavy chest even as dark redness licked around the edges of her vision, Mercia kicked out with the last of her strength. She was grimly aware that she wasn’t going to make it to the surface before she lost consciousness, at which point the weight of the box would drag her back down into the icy depths. She closed her eyes, furious at her own pride, and that was when she felt strong hands grip under her arms, helping speed her the last of the way back to where there was air, and sunlight, and life.

  Once Mercia had been helped safely back aboard, vomiting what felt like a small lake’s worth of seawater over the deck as she sucked in deep, blissful gulps of air, Ramsey turned his attention to the chest she’d salvaged. It was locked, as he’d expected, and so he took the helm and set a course to the nearest outpost.

  As soon as they docked, Ramsey went ashore alone with the silver chest tucked under his arm, leaving the others to take their ease. He’d hoped for a blacksmith but had to make do with a lanky shipwright whose hammer and chisel made short work of the lock on the chest. Tipping gold into the craftsman’s palm and thanking him for the favor, Ramsey returned to the ship and invited the crew into the captain’s cabin.

  Once unsealed, the chest turned out to be filled mostly with a selection of milky-white pearls, along with a handful of gems and gold coins. Rathbone scoffed, remarking that it had hardly been worth Mercia risking life and limb for little more than a necklace, but she ignored him and groped around at the very bottom of the chest until she felt the rough texture of a parchment lurking beneath the jewels. Just as the old woman had promised, it contained detailed instructions for finding both the island and its hidden chamber beneath, and she pored over it eagerly.

  The Magpie’s Wing set sail at once on Ramsey’s orders, and Shan was at the wheel when Rathbone, who should have been taking his turn in the crow’s nest until they sighted land, approached him. “I suppose our illustrious captain and his new favorite are having yet another heart-to-heart below deck,” he sneered, spitting over the side as if he’d a sour taste in his mouth.

  “I suppose,” Shan said evenly. He made no effort to continue the conversation, and Rathbone made as if to walk away in frustration, only to spin on his heel and continue.

  “When I signed up it was to be a full part of this crew, and that includes getting a say on where we sail and why. What are we even looking for? If you ask me, Ramsey’s been cracked ever since we left Thieves’ Haven.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Shan said, then turned to meet Rathbone’s gaze for the first time. “But I will say that we are low on supplies, and traveling here, there, and everywhere isn’t helping matters. When we next make camp, that might be a good time to talk—”

  “I’ve had enough talking to last a lifetime!” Rathbone exploded. “All Ramsey does is talk! There’s gold out there, gold that’s slipping through our fingers and into other people’s purses every day we’re out here sailing in circles.”

  “We’ll talk,” Shan said firmly, tugging at the wheel perhaps slightly harder than necessary so that the ship lurched.

  “And if we don’t like what we hear?” Rathbone persisted. But Shan had turned his gaze back to the sea, for their destination had come into view. Shan gave a piercing whistle that echoed through the whole ship, and a moment later Ramsey and Mercia h
ad joined them above deck.

  The old woman’s description had been accurate indeed, for the island was little more than a series of sandy rings poking out of the water, concentric circles around a single fissure that cut deep into the sea bed. They weighed anchor and disembarked, the seawater barely reaching their knees as they approached the island’s center, and it was here Ramsey explained that he and Mercia would be the ones to explore down below. Upon learning that he and Shan would remain behind once more, Rathbone looked thunderous.

  Privately, Mercia wasn’t looking forward to going diving again so soon, though she drew some comfort knowing that Ramsey would be alongside her. It looked strange to see him shorn of his usual hat, boots, and greatcoat, but he wasted no time in hauling himself into the pit and vanishing into the sparkling waters. Grimacing, Mercia did the same, and together, they dove down into the rocky labyrinth, carefully following the directions they’d memorized.

  They made a left turn, and then a right, then a sharp left, passing through a narrow gap that Ramsey could barely squeeze his broad shoulders through. As they swam ever onward, Ramsey took the lead with a series of powerful breaststrokes. His excitement was mounting for the tunnel was growing lighter, not darker, and the way ahead was outlined by an unearthly blue light.

  Where Ramsey felt anticipation, however, Mercia felt a growing sense of unease, for she could hear a strange keening sound that seemed to echo from the passages they hadn’t explored. Every time she thought she knew which of the many tunnels must be the source of the eerie noise, it seemed to shift and twist away somehow. Still they swam, and now the floor of the tunnel was curving upward. Their heads broke water, and then they were paddling and eventually wading as they took the final soggy steps up the sloping passage. At last, they had reached their destination.

  The hall in which they had arrived was both imposing and beautiful, making its location deep underneath the shoreline of some unknown island all the more intriguing. The floor beneath their bare feet was a lattice of mosaics—blues and greens and all the colors of the ocean represented by tiny stone trails that whirled and danced in complicated patterns. Fluted pillars carried the eye up to a high, vaulted ceiling, where carved frescos were fighting a losing battle against limestone stalactites that had formed in the years since the chamber was completed.

  The center of the room was dominated by a large basin that appeared to connect back to the maze of flooded passages. The intricate patterns on the floor seemed to cluster and unite around the pool’s perimeter, as if to signify its importance, but Ramsey paid it little heed. His attention had been captured by the ghostly blue flames that burned in braziers spread throughout the mammoth chamber.

  Just as the elderly pirate had described, these flames persisted with no apparent source of fuel, seemingly able to endure the ravages of time regardless. They were magical, Ramsey knew, and he reached out as if making to cup one in his palm, only to discover that the burning lights were no mere illusion. He yanked his hand back and sucked at his fingers, swearing and grumbling.

  Mercia ignored him, for she was once again searching for the source of that keening, echoing wail. Ramsey’s cursing seemed to have triggered it once more, louder than before, and she began to patrol the hall’s perimeter, twisting her head this way and that as she attempted to track down the source of the sound. She wasn’t entirely certain Ramsey could hear it at all.

  It was then that she spotted the earrings. Two simple pearl studs, far plainer than the golden hoops she usually preferred, placed without much care or heed in a small recess. Had she not been searching so determinedly for the wailing sound, she might never have noticed them. It seemed an odd thing to leave behind, and she plucked them curiously between damp fingertips and held them up, examining them by the light of the impossible flames.

  She never knew what compelled her to delicately unhook her own earrings and slide the pearls into place. She could barely remember choosing to. But the moment she did, Mercia dropped to her knees, gasping as the keening wail began to shift and separate into a joyful chorus.

  Ten thousand moons of silence and unanswered call

  A grief consuming kinship’s sacred fire

  A sadness at the parting and the statue’s fall

  To tender understanding all desire

  In loving heart shall be remembered fulsome feasts

  When two were one, above and so below

  Returned with slash and snap of jaw as wounded beasts

  A pain forgotten, freshly come to know

  Song turns in darkest memory to times of play

  The flames reborn to banish longest night

  Through passages of harmony we make our way

  So ancient wrong may be at last put right.

  “They’re singing!” Mercia gasped in delight, bringing her hands to her head. Ramsey strode over in concern, crouching before her transfixed form. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the pearl earrings, which seemed to be sparkling with an inner light all their own. When he made to pull them free, however, she swatted his hands away irritably. “Not now,” she snapped. “They’re almost here. They need us!”

  “Who does? Who is singing to you?” Ramsey persisted, resisting the urge to tug Mercia to her feet and drag her outside, away from whatever seemed to be intoxicating her.

  A moment later, the central pool erupted in a shower of spray, and Ramsey got his answer.

  It had taken Shan five hours, and an immense amount of self-control, to calm Rathbone down as he ranted and raved, stalking around the ship and cursing Ramsey’s name. Finally, Shan resorted to opening the final cask of grog and plying him into a stupor. Now Rathbone lay by their campfire on a golden sandbar in the shadow of the Magpie’s Wing, snoring loudly as he slept in a fetal position.

  Shan could feel himself starting to drift away out of boredom, his head growing heavier by the moment, and was therefore extremely gratified when a stream of bubbles announced Ramsey’s return. He and Mercia staggered out of the pool, leaving a trail of muddy footprints across the sand, but neither made any attempt to come and dry out by the fire. Instead, they made straight for the Magpie’s Wing.

  “No treasure, then?” Shan inquired. “Seems a shame.” He stifled a yawn and nudged Rathbone in the ribs, slightly harder than was necessary. There was a choking snort as the slumbering pirate snapped back to consciousness and glanced blearily around.

  “Forget treasure,” said Ramsey, firmly. “This isn’t about treasure. This is about helping friends.” And with that, leaving Shan and Rathbone to exchange bewildered glances, Ramsey hauled himself up the ship’s ladder and out of sight.

  LARINNA

  The undead creature dragged itself closer and closer to Larinna as she stared at it, mesmerized by a kind of grotesque fascination. Only when it raised its ancient blade to perform a high sweep did her survival instincts kick in. She brought her own sword up reflexively to block the blow with a juddering clang that reverberated through her entire body, shaking away the last of the shock.

  The creature raised its weapon again, and Larinna ducked underneath the attack, taking the opportunity to thrust forward with a sharp stabbing motion where the creature’s heart should have been. Had it been alive, she’d have dealt a mortal blow—instead, the skeleton’s ribs shattered under the impact but it kept advancing, seemingly impervious to any form of pain or fatigue caused by its advanced state of decay.

  Got to focus, she thought desperately. This is just like fighting any other opponent. You just have to find their weaknesses and exploit them. She began to move around it in a slow circle, watching its movements carefully. The thing had no eyes, after all; perhaps it was tracking her based on noise or the vibrations she was making. To her dismay, the grinning skull turned smoothly to track her this way and that, and cadaverous feet shuffled around to face her, leaving dark scuffs in the dirt.

  Worth a try, she thought, aggressively plunging forward to see if she could make the thing back off. It didn’t, but each
one of her blows made the creature slide backward, and that was enough for Larinna to adopt a new strategy. It’s just bones, she thought. It’s strong, but not that heavy. She feinted once, then twice, noticing that the skeleton’s movements were clumsy and reactive; it wasn’t adapting, but merely blocking any attack as best it could.

  She began to land her blows higher and higher until their swords were sparking right in front of those empty eye sockets, and then Larinna leapt, landing a double-footed flying kick on the reaver’s chest that left her sprawling on the rough ground. The full force of her impact was enough to knock the creature backward, its bony arms pinwheeling as it toppled over the edge of the path that wound around the fort and clattered onto the rocks below. Larinna resisted the urge to peer over the cliff, turning instead to sprint up the path and help the others. She needn’t have worried, for they seemed far less troubled by the existence of the walking undead than she.

  Now that she was able to watch more closely, the lurching creatures seemed to have personalities of their own. One was fumbling with a banana, apparently intent on having a midbattle snack until a stray shot splattered the fruit all over its rotten tunic. Two of its friends were embroiled in a tug-of-war over the same sword, snapping and snarling at one another as they heaved the weapon back and forth. Were they once pirates themselves? Larinna quashed the thought for now.

  As she watched, Adelheid unloaded the contents of her blunderbuss into another of the skeletons at what amounted to point blank range, exploding it in a shower of bone fragments and smoke. What little was left crumbled to the ground, back to being lifeless bone once more.

  Faizel, as Larinna could have predicted, seemed to be holding a one-sided conversation with his skeletal adversary, teasing and taunting it as he danced nimbly out of its reach. It was a distraction, but an effective one, for it gave Little Ned enough time to physically grab the creature from behind. His fingers curled around the exposed ribcage—Larinna suppressed a shudder at the thought of what that must feel like—and before the skeleton could work out what was happening, Ned had raised it bodily over his head and thrown it with all his might far out toward the ocean. “Get in the sea,” he rumbled, dusting his hands.