Sea of Thieves

by Chris Allcock

  More pirates came forward then, one after another, goaded into action by their crewmates and emboldened by drink. One plied the lock with a red-hot poker; the next took a stout woodcutter’s ax to the lid itself. Another insisted on placing the chest in the tavern’s fireplace until it glowed red-hot, but it came no closer to catching aflame. Even when it was cooled in the rain barrel outside, it remained as pristine as the moment Ramsey had first presented it.

  Finally, the box was returned to the table by a luckless and exasperated Graymarrow, who’d unloaded the contents of his pistol against the hinges and succeeded only in burning his own fingers. Crews muttered among themselves with more and more outlandish ideas, but no one else came forward. The box, it seemed, had defeated the lot of them.

  Gliding through current and tide, letting the

  pull of hunger light a path to the distant prey, their scent

  diminished by time but not forgotten . . .

  Finally, Ramsey got to his feet once more. “All that I have claimed from across the Sea of Thieves is now secured in chests like this one. A chest whose lock cannot be picked,” he announced, his eyes gleaming. “A lock no shipwright can force open, and whose contents cannot be spilled by the blow of an ax or the ravages of time. A chest that can only be opened by someone with a suitable key.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Ramsey,” Slate cut in. “Just because I can’t open this box of yours doesn’t mean I can’t take it from you. Hide it somewhere you’ll never find it, or cast it to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “A pirate never forgets.” Ramsey was smirking now. “I have another chest here, as you can see.” He patted the lid of it, fondly, before pushing it forward so they could all make out the crudely carved etching atop the lid. It looked like two tankards clinking. “There’s a fair bit of gold in this one, too. Who among you would like to try and carry it back to their ship?”

  This time, no one seemed to want to be the first to volunteer, and almost a full minute passed before someone stepped forward. To everyone’s surprise, it was the shipwright. “I may not be much of a pirate,” he said thoughtfully, “but I reckon I can haul that box back to my workshop easily enough. And if I do, Cap’n, will you hold up your end of the bargain and open it with those fancy keys of yours?”

  “Certainly I shall,” Ramsey agreed, and the assembled crews began to flood outside, shivering and stamping their feet in the cool night air. Groups of onlookers lined the path between the tavern and the shipwright’s premises, with excited whispering as to what effects this second box might have upon the unsuspecting craftsman.

  The shipwright himself looked a little uncertain as he approached the chest, grasping its handles firmly. He stood for a moment as if waiting for some nasty surprise or other, then turned and marched smartly toward the exit. He reached the tavern door at a brisk pace but suddenly staggered hard into the wall. Rebounding unsteadily, he bumped against the doorframe before finally making it outside, for his legs seemed determined to move in opposing directions.

  “Hell’s bells!” he uttered, stumbling this way and that, crashing noisily into a pile of barrels as he lurched about. “I’ve not touched a drop in five years, but I feel dizzier than a bellboy in a brewery!” The crowd doubled over with laughter at every stagger and crash the shipwright made as he swayed along the path, but he managed to take step after faltering step, making it as far as the dock before the chest’s effects finally overcame him. The box slipped from his grasp, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he tipped sideways into the water. There was a great round of applause, and a few kinder souls moved to help the stricken man back to dry land.

  Graymarrow faced Ramsey now, but he wasn’t laughing. “So it’s sorcery you’ve turned your hand to, is it?” he demanded. “Going to trade your captain’s hat for an alchemist’s robe, perhaps? How many nights did you spend working on that box of tricks when you could have been out with your crew, drinking and fighting and looting like the rest of us?” Some sixth sense made Mercia glance across at Rathbone just then, but his expression was inscrutable.

  Ramsey raised his voice so he was addressing the crowd rather than Graymarrow. “Magic is alive and well on the Sea of Thieves. There’s no point denying it. I see a couple of you in the crowd with golden fingers from handling forbidden coins, or a cursed bracelet you can’t seem to take off. I say we shouldn’t fear what we can’t understand. Not when we can use it to our advantage, as I have.”

  Closer still to the little shapes that flit where the world ends.

  There are so many different sizes and smells and tastes.

  Soon it will be time to feast . . .

  Ramsey planted one booted foot on the cursed chest as he continued. “I called you here today to extend an invitation: membership in a union of pirates under my command. An alliance, if you prefer. One that agrees never to steal from one another, to come to each other’s aid when needed, and to keep the pirate ways alive out here. To guard the secrets of this place, and to share what we learn amongst ourselves.

  “In return, you’ll get your own chests, just like mine, to store the vast fortune we’ll be finding. Chests that’ll curse any pirate who tries to steal them, and chests that only you’ll be able to open—because you’ll have one of my special keys.”

  The whole outpost seemed to erupt in a storm at Ramsey’s words; no one seemed to know quite how to react to the enormity of what he was proposing. Staring across at his crew, Ramsey could see similarly conflicted expressions on their faces. The alliance was a part of his plan that he hadn’t dared speak of to them, not even while Shan worked to shape the cursed metal into functioning locks and Mercia carefully applied the devious curses she’d devised.

  Graymarrow began to move, and as he did, a strange silence fell upon the crowd. He strode so close to Ramsey that their noses were practically touching, and his raspy voice shook with fury as he spoke. “Those words,” he snarled, “are an insult to every pirate here. To pirates everywhere. Ye dare suggest that we all should dance to the tune you’re whistling and follow your orders just because you’ve dreamt up a piece of hocus-pocus or two!” He spat at the chest, contemptuously, a wad of tobacco striking Ramsey’s boot. “To have us sail out in your name while you tell us how to think, how to live, like some kind of Pirate Lord!”

  His rage was echoed in a number of angry shouts from around the outpost, and Graymarrow pushed rudely past Ramsey, up to the dock where his ship was moored. “Well hear me well, Ramsey. I’ll be damned before I ever strike a bargain with you!” He strode out of sight, and a few moments later the The Twisted Horn vanished into the gloom.

  Barely anyone saw the ship leave, however, because those final words had ignited sudden quarrels between groups of formerly friendly pirates. Slate in particular was in a heated conversation with his crew, though whether or not he’d been swayed by Ramsey’s offer was impossible to say.

  Ramsey let out a great sigh, turning to find Mercia at his side. She had quietly reclaimed the sealed chest from its spot in the tavern and was now watching the arguments blaze around them, her face blank. “What did you think?” he asked her, finding himself oddly keen to seek her approval.

  “I think you should have been completely honest with your crew,” she said coldly, though her expression softened a little when she saw his shoulders sag. “Some will never agree to an alliance, Ramsey, but a few might. Once they’ve had chance to sober up and think it through without worrying about their pride, perhaps.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Rathbone and Shan are already heading back to the Wing, and I think we should join them.”

  Ramsey looked older than Mercia had ever seen him as he nodded wordlessly, stooping to pick up the chest at his feet. They’d barely made it halfway along the boardwalk, however, when a loud warning bell rang out from one of the docked ships. Another joined it, and another, forming a jangling cacophony that echoed around the outpost and caught everyone’s attention. Shan was bellowing over to them, screaming a word
from the deck of the Magpie’s Wing, but there was no way to hear him over the sudden panic.

  Pirates all around them were breaking into sprints, racing back to their ships to deal with whatever might be happening. Ramsey and Mercia did likewise, uncertain as to what could rattle such a huge number of experienced pirates.

  They were almost home when the sea itself seemed to explode, showering the outpost with mist and spray and violently rocking every ship that was docked there. Suddenly, they understood what Shan had been trying so desperately to tell them.

  Kraken.

  LARINNA

  Nobody was trying to kill them, and that made Larinna very nervous indeed.

  Just as they had feared, the crew of the Unforgiven had arrived at Tribute Peak—a squat and gloomy island located at the heart of what Faizel had referred to as the Wilds—to find that another crew of pirates had gotten there first. There had been no roar of gunfire by way of a welcome, however, and the mercenary ship hardly seemed ready to launch an ambush. Her sails were furled, her cannons silent, and—when Adelheid cautiously had them pull alongside—her decks were empty.

  “This is a very strange way to behave, yes?” Faizel commented, unnecessarily, as they boarded, moving below decks with their swords drawn and pistols at the ready. “To leave the ship unguarded like this?”

  “Well, they were expecting us yesterday,” Adelheid reminded him. “Perhaps they assumed we’d been sunk and went ashore to get the treasure for themselves.”

  “If Athena’s Fortune really is here, it would be a tempting prize for any crew,” Faizel agreed, then pouted slightly as he saw Adelheid’s glare. “Please do not be angry, Captain. You talk in your sleep, that is all.”

  Adelheid harrumphed, but said, “Very well, so we all know what we’re looking for. First things first, though, we secure this ship and moor the Unforgiven somewhere out of sight. I don’t want anyone stealing away with her while we’re ashore.” Though they searched the abandoned vessel from end to end and back again, the only signs of life turned out to be a couple of scurrying weevils.

  Ned offered to transport a few of the ship’s furnishings back to Adelheid’s cabin and restore some of its former glory, but she shook her head. “If all goes well, we’ll need every last inch of room for the plunder we’ll be bringing home,” she assured him.

  “Yeah, but . . .” Ned protested. “What if all doesn’t go well?”

  “We’ll be dead.”

  “Oh.” Ned seemed satisfied enough with that answer, and together they nestled the Unforgiven beneath a rocky outcropping that hid her from view before heading ashore, crunching across a barren coastline made of glassy, volcanic rock.

  “On strangled shores, my ship you seek,” Larinna recited from memory, “Begin your search at Tribute Peak. . . . Well, here we are. Now what?”

  “It is like a riddle, you see,” Faizel explained as they picked their way across the uneven stones. “Every mind is different, so we must think of it like a puzzle to be solved. The word shores means we are more likely to find what we are seeking along the coast than inland, for example.”

  “Fair enough, but strangled? What is there that strangles?”

  “Snakes?” Ned offered, helpfully.

  “Badly fitted shirts?”

  “A gallows?”

  “Vines!” Adelheid said, confidently, pointing forward with her sword. Ahead of them the craggy shoreline curved sharply outward, and they could see that the rocks and outcroppings up ahead were coated in a thick latticework of brambles, sickly green with blood-red thorns peppering their length. In the very center of the twisting forest, they could just about discern the remains of a small sloop that had been consumed by the crawling creepers, its rotting hull barely visible within the overgrowth.

  “I’d say that more or less describes a ship if we’re being generous,” Larinna said dryly. “Simeon must have been caught up by a storm or a tidal wave of some kind. What do we do next?”

  “We still need to get closer.” Adelheid drew her sword once more, as did the others, and little by little they hacked their way toward the beached wreck. Even with the fresh blades they’d acquired at Thieves’ Haven, it was hard work, and Larinna swore once or twice that a few of the brambles she chopped away regrew themselves shortly after.

  Eventually, they reached the remains of the sad little sloop. As Adelheid held the riddle up for the others to inspect, more words seemed to flow across the page as if penned by the hand of some ghostly author. That’s why we had to steal the original parchment, Larinna realized. The riddle only reveals itself in stages.

  Once the words had settled down, four more lines had appeared on the scroll. Adelheid flipped it over in her fingers so that she could read the new directions out loud.

  I joined the birds atop their roost

  And once inside I soon deduced

  My place below the tumbling sands

  With light and shadow ’neath my hands.

  The four of them mused on this for a moment. “Well, we have to start somewhere,” Adelheid said. “I assume there must be some birds somewhere on this wretched island. Does anyone have any idea how we’d go about finding where they like to sleep?”

  A thunderous blast made them all jump out of their skin, and they turned to glare at Ned, whose smoking pistol was still aiming into the sky. As they watched, he pointed to the distant hilltop where a startled flock of seagulls were circling, having been startled by the sound. After a few moments, they disappeared back into the shadow of a large cave mouth high on the hillside. “Up there, maybe?”

  “Very good, Ned my friend,” Faizel said happily, patting him on the back, or at least as far up it as he could reach. “Although perhaps a little warning next time will help keep my gray hairs at bay for a few years longer, hmm?”

  Larinna was staring at the distant cave. “That’s a long way up,” she said, doubtfully. “D’you think there’s a pathway?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Adelheid took the lead, chopping and slicing once more until they were clear of the vines and could move more freely toward the base of the hill. There did seem to be a path of sorts: a narrow trail that zigzagged its way through more of the jagged rocks. It was narrow, and one side dropped treacherously away into a tangled, thorny jungle down below, but it was the only way they could see to reach the bird-filled cave.

  They picked their way up the hillside single file, taking their time and stopping to fill their flasks at a shallow pool. The water was cloudy here and tasted slightly sour, but they choked it down regardless, for the day was sticky and deceptively warm. Little by little they ascended and were almost to the summit when Larinna felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

  She couldn’t explain which slight sound or shifting of shadows first gave her the clue that something was wrong, or what survival instinct it was that compelled her to scream, “Get down!” before flattening herself against the rocky wall with her arms spread. There was a tremendous series of crashes and booms as huge boulders tumbled down from overhead, carrying dust and smaller stones in their wake. Larinna scrabbled around, blinded for a moment by clouds of grit and dirt, trying to get a sense of the others. She wondered helplessly if they’d had time to avoid the deadly avalanche, or if the rocks had carried them helplessly down the hillside.

  She heard a bellow of pure rage; a voice so deep and loud it just had to be Ned. As the dust settled, Larinna saw that he’d thrown his bulk across both Faizel and Adelheid to protect them and was now bleeding from a dozen places, though this didn’t seem to slow him down. He began to leap from rock to rock, climbing with remarkable speed.

  Overhead, Larinna could make out the crew of the ship they’d discovered, all of whom were scrambling for their weapons. Clearly, they hadn’t expected any survivors of their little ambush, least of all ones who were now lunging toward them with murder in their hearts.

  Larinna got to her feet and took the longer way around, sprinting around another bend in the p
ath and arriving just in time to flatten another one of their assailants with a roundhouse punch that sent her tumbling over the cliff with a scream. Ned, who’d reached the high ledge a moment before, had grabbed two more of the pirates and was robbing them of their will to fight by repeatedly banging their heads together.

  That left one, who was already backing away down the trail until the point of Adelheid’s sword in his kidneys convinced him that it would be a really, really good idea to stop moving.

  “That was a dirty trick,” Adelheid hissed viciously into the pirate’s ear, “and it might almost have been a clever one except for one thing: You missed.” She watched as Ned released his two opponents, tossing their limp forms into the sticker bush below. “Luckily for you I want some answers, so that gives you a few more minutes to enjoy walking and talking.”

  “Do your worst,” the pirate growled, yellowing teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. “I’ve got nothing to say to the likes of you!”

  “Oh.” Adelheid looked a little crestfallen for a moment, and then shot him.

  The pirate’s mouth was an O of surprise as he slumped downward, his prone form tumbling along the steep path before vanishing over the edge, but Adelheid was already striding onward toward the looming cave mouth. The others had no choice but to pursue her, hands moving to their lanterns as they pressed on into the darkness of the cave.

  Far below, in the jungle, the fallen pirate’s body began to fade, outlined in an ethereal fire. After a moment, it was as if he’d never been.

  “That’s creepy.”

  Staring down the long canyon ahead of them, Larinna found herself agreeing with Ned. The cave had eventually given way to a narrow gully, one in which the sky could be glimpsed high overhead. It was tall and imposing, and both walls were lined with hundreds of roosting seagulls.

  They could feel pair after pair of beady black eyes staring down at them as they walked in single file, keeping conversation to a minimum and trying very hard not to think about what they were treading in. No one wanted to risk causing another panic that would result in a whirlwind of beating wings, scrabbling talons, and above all, lots of very nervous birds over their heads.