Sea of Thieves

by Chris Allcock

  Fighting a shiver of repulsion, Larinna rolled on top of the skeleton she was grappling with and did as she had seen Adelheid do, grasping what remained of its head and heaving until the bones went still beneath her. She threw the disembodied skull as hard as she could across the room and against the wall where, to her deep satisfaction, it smashed. There was no time to gloat, though, not while the others were still under attack by the rest of the undead sentinels.

  As the one who’d disturbed their slumber, Ned seemed to have drawn the bulk of the skeletons’ ire, and three of them were currently clinging to him as he staggered around the chamber. One of them wrapped its bony arms around his neck from behind and began to choke him, forcing Ned to stagger backward and slam repeatedly into the wall with all of his might. There was a series of deeply unpleasant crunching noises, and the bony body turned limp, toppling to the floor as Ned pulled away. The others were flung aside, buried under yet more collapsing treasure.

  Faizel, high up on the maze of walkways, was also struggling. The skeletons were leaping nimbly from platform to platform with practiced ease to assail him from all sides, and Larinna knew he was the least practiced fighter among them. Faizel was forced to duck a sweeping sword attack, swinging around the heavy chest he was holding in a move that, mostly by pure luck, took his opponent’s head clean off.

  But it was Adelheid who seemed to be in the most danger, for she was facing off against the Gold Hoarder himself, having spotted him looming above her at the last possible second. Her sword was drawn, but the intimidating figure was easily parrying her attacks using a stout shovel that was almost as long as Larinna was tall. Whatever the Gold Hoarder chose to use it for—digging up yet more treasure, she supposed—it was clearly able to double as a weapon, and now its long handle whirled like a staff, its sharp blade slicing closer and closer to Adelheid with each passing second.

  Larinna broke into a sprint, drawing both her cutlass and the pistol she’d claimed from Thieves’ Haven, but more skeletons were bursting forth from the sea of treasure that surrounded her, many with weapons of their own. She found herself forced to fight, lashing out with her cutlass in between potshots at the skellies threatening Faizel overhead.

  The onslaught was relentless, and Larinna found herself forced backward away from her crew, scrambling onto a pile of casks at the rear of the chamber. Holding the high ground kept her safe from the approaching skeletons, hacking and slashing at any who dared get too close, but it meant that she was stranded, left separated from the others.

  It also meant to she got to see every little detail of what happened next.

  One of the skeletons advancing up the walkways toward Faizel swung its sword in a lazy arc that the pirate barely managed to dodge. It was a heavy blow, strong enough to reduce several wooden beams to matchsticks, and as it passed Faizel, it ripped savagely through the precarious scaffolding. The chests on the platform above began to spill and tumble as the remaining supports gave way, and as one in particular struck the floor it began to tremble ominously. A cursed chest, Larinna realized, and a powerful one by the looks of things. The rumbling intensified and a moment later the box exploded like a powder keg.

  The blast was enough to trigger a landslide of silver and gold. More and more of the precariously packed chests were tumbling now, supports giving way one after another like dominoes. At last the whole thing gave way, collapsing with an almighty thud that shook the chamber and sending Faizel and his attackers out of sight.

  Adelheid shrieked out Faizel’s name, and in that instant the Gold Hoarder was upon her, eager to claim the life of the woman who’d come to plunder his hoard. He picked the struggling pirate up with his solid gold claw and slammed her down against the treasure-strewn floor with all of his considerable might. All Larinna could do was watch helplessly as he pinned Adelheid down beneath one booted foot, raised his shovel high in the air and brought it down with a savage strike aimed directly at her heart.

  The last she saw of Adelheid was her motionless form upon the floor of the treasure chamber as the Gold Hoarder stalked away, and then the rest of the chests came crashing down, trapping Larinna behind a mountain of masonry and stealing her captain from her for good.

  RAMSEY

  It was a sunny day, which would once have pleased Rathbone endlessly. He had lamps enough to see by, of course, and a fine coat to drape around his shoulders for warmth, but the sunlight had a way of gleaming on the mahogany of the table where he did his business and tended to create a wonderful first impression upon his guests.

  The entire room had been constructed to Rathbone’s exacting specifications by the finest masons he’d been able to contact. Some of them had traveled for weeks for the honor of coming and plying their trade for him. All had been handsomely compensated and sailed back to their homes significantly wealthier thanks to the handful of uncut gems they now possessed.

  In fact, Rathbone reflected as he padded down the length of the soft green carpet and took his customary place at the head of the table, it had been quite the shock to come home and remember what just one gold coin could buy you. Compared to the Sea of Thieves, where gold and jewels flowed freely from hand to hand, a single treasure chest out here in the wider world could set a man up for life. He had far more than a single treasure chest . . . and yet it had rankled him to give away even one box in exchange for the creation of his estate.

  It was a necessity, he admitted, casting his mind back to the earliest days of his new life—which was, in its way, a warped reflection of his old one. It began shortly after he managed to sail the stricken Magpie’s Wing back to Golden Sands on his own, which had given him time to dream up a suitably tragic tale to explain Ramsey’s disappearance.

  Rathbone had never considered himself a storyteller in the way that the others were, but the crowd hung on his every word as he forged a fable in which Ramsey, sword in his hand, had been plucked from the deck of his own ship by the blinded kraken and dragged down beneath the waves to his doom. He suspected those who remained at the outposts would swallow anything he said, for everyone wanted to shake the hands of those valiant pirates who’d faced the monster and put themselves in jeopardy for the sake of those back on land.

  The only people who didn’t seemed to see Rathbone as a returning champion were his former crew, who were utterly unconvinced by the “facts” of Ramsey’s death. Rathbone had been canny enough to don a pair of thick gloves and hide the black diamond ring, at least, for he suspected that if Mercia spotted it on his hand she’d cut him down then and there.

  The grateful shipwright had offered to repair the stricken Magpie’s Wing for free, but Rathbone had no more need of that vessel other than to stealthily remove the sealed chest from its hold. Once the celebration reached its end, he was approached by Stitcher Jim and the others he’d helped find their footing in the Sea of Thieves, and together they traveled back to their camp at Smuggler’s Bay.

  It was there that he showed them the skeleton keys he’d snatched from Ramsey’s grasp. His men had been lurking in the tavern for the demonstration, so each of them understood what the keys meant for their prospects. Feeling the lock of that first chest click open and running his fingers through the riches inside gave Rathbone a thrill he’d been missing in all those months spent chasing magic and merfolk. Here, at last, was his reward.

  The other chests were more difficult to obtain, not just because Rathbone was forced to rely on memories of his travels to help locate and recover them, but also because news of his gang’s newfound wealth seemed to be spreading faster than he’d ever imagined it would. They were being referred to colloquially as the Gold Hoarders and, like so many titles bestowed by the Sea of Thieves, the name seemed to stick. Unfortunately, that made their ship an attractive target, and barely any voyage went by without opportunistic pirates attempting to waylay and board them.

  Nursing a black eye from one such encounter and reflecting bitterly that no amount of money in the world would help it heal any fa
ster, Rathbone formed a new plan. Passage through the Devil’s Shroud, while still an intimidating prospect for an inexperienced crew, was no longer the deadly gamble it had once been so long as you paid handsomely for the most recent charts. He and his crew began to ferry much of their plunder through the fog away from the Sea of Thieves, allowing banks and brokers to take it willingly into their vaults for safekeeping.

  Back home, that amount of gold easily washed away the stain of Rathbone’s former crimes, and he was able to establish the Gold Hoarders as a lawful business venture. He laid out plans for his estate, which would function both as his home and as their headquarters, and as his empire expanded, he found himself spending less and less time sailing the Sea of Thieves.

  Unfortunately, the newfound legitimacy attracted even more ire from other pirates, many of whom still regarded the Trading Companies as old enemies. Without Rathbone’s zeal and experience at the helm, the Gold Hoarders began losing ships and people almost every time they set out in search of Ramsey’s treasures.

  Privately, Rathbone suspected that Mercia was coordinating at least some part of the assault on his ventures, though the two of them had had no direct contact since he sailed away from Golden Sands. Whoever was responsible, their repeated attacks on Gold Hoarder vessels saw the company’s profits dry up almost overnight.

  It was Stitcher Jim who had the chance encounter that transformed their fortunes. He was sitting in a tavern, licking his wounds after yet another voyage had ended in failure, when a grumbling pirate stormed up to his table carrying one of Ramsey’s sealed chests. “I hears only you’ve got the keys what can open this,” he’d growled, “so it’s no use to me. Let’s split her open and share the contents, eh?”

  It revolutionized the way the Gold Hoarders did business. Rathbone saw to it that a company representative was instilled at every major outpost on the Sea of Thieves, armed with voyage contracts and one of his precious skeleton keys. Now it was pirates that brought the treasure to them, surrendering the chests in exchange for a cut of whatever happened to be inside. Many a new arrival got their start in the Sea of Thieves by cashing in a chest or two, and the rest of it came back to fill the pockets of the Gold Hoarders.

  None of it was enough.

  Rathbone was as rich as Croesus, by rights, but still he resented every golden coin, every traded trinket that left his vaults to pay a wage or help maintain the business. He found himself plagued by dreams in which he sailed on an endless sea of gold—his gold, shining and precious. Waves of gemstones were crashing against the diamond-studded prow of his ship, and he found he could count them all. He’d often wake up twisting the fine silken sheets between his fingers, grasping for the treasure.

  Now, almost twenty years since he’d first taken the keys in his hand, Rathbone found himself surrendering the last of them to a slick-haired young man who was to be his latest representative on the Sea of Thieves. He sank moodily back into his seat, only half listening as his subordinates ground through the meeting’s agenda at a glacial pace. The conversation turned to the prospect of purchasing treasure maps from an up-and-coming gang of soothsayers, but Rathbone was hardly listening, preoccupied with staring at his reflection in the polished surface of the table and fiddling with the black diamond ring upon his finger.

  “Any other business?” he demanded as the meeting reached its end, already making to leave, but one of his advisers raised a plump hand into the air. With a sigh, Rathbone lowered himself back into his seat.

  “Well, it’s not strictly on the agenda, but a couple of our representatives have been hearing rumors about some treasure trove or other out in the Wilds. If tavern talk is to be believed, it would represent almost forty percent of our annual income.” This caused a susurration of interest from the assorted committee members, not to mention rapt attention from their leader. “I had considered putting together some voyage contracts and getting some of the more reliable pirates to—”

  “No!” Rathbone said, slightly too loudly. He looked around at their surprised expressions, and amended. “That is to say, you know what pirates are like. This’ll be nothing more than a drunken embellishment or an outright fabrication, mark my words. No reason to waste our time.”

  The Gold Hoarders always had the best of everything, and the sloop Rathbone commanded was a fine vessel indeed. Nonetheless, it had been many months since he’d last taken to the sea, let alone attempted to navigate the Devil’s Shroud. While making his return to the Sea of Thieves, he had a couple of close calls with tendrils of the ebbing, flowing fog that crept a little too close for comfort.

  He was rusty, he knew, and the most sensible course of action would have been to bring a crew—no, he corrected himself, it would have been never to have come at all. He knew he was being irrational, and yet, imagining the sight of an unclaimed, uncounted hoard that was his, entirely his to tip from palm to palm . . . it was irresistible. He had to have every last glittering gewgaw to himself, to savor the look and the touch and even the taste of the metal. He’d surrender it to no one, not even his own people.

  And so Rathbone had set out alone, sidled into the only tavern he knew for sure still existed from the old days, and learned what he needed to know from its denizens. He was grateful that his long absence aided his anonymity, though he still had to shrink back into the shadows when a couple of Gold Hoarder representatives wandered in for a grog or two of their own.

  Currently, he estimated, he was around halfway to his destination: a forbidding island that had only recently been released from the Shroud’s grip. It was such a recent discovery that it didn’t even have a name but could, if the rumors were true, be readily identified by the oversized statues on its coastline. He was sure Mercia would have found their origins fascinating, but as far as he was concerned, the ruins were nothing more than a landmark to help guide him toward whatever fortune lay in wait.

  Sailing by oneself, he decided, was equal parts idyllic and infuriating. Even through his preoccupation with the prospect of treasure, he found that he was enjoying the feel of the ocean as it rocked his sloop this way and that. Perhaps later, he could explore—

  No, he told himself sternly. Only the gold matters. Everything else is . . . sentiment, and that’s poison.

  The pirates back in the tavern had told Rathbone that the path to the treasure was long and winding, doubtless filled with puzzles and traps to overcome. Well, Rathbone had had his fill of ancient riddles and tests of character left behind by centuries-dead pirates. After twenty years getting used to the Sea of Thieves, he was prepared.

  He made it to the unnamed island without incident, for which he was grateful, for his fencing practice had fallen by the wayside in recent years. Once there, he began a slow circuit of the shoreline, noting not just the statues but also every point of interest along the way. A summer squall came and went, but Rathbone continued his search regardless, traipsing through the blustery rain until he finally located a circle of rocks. Their arrangement seemed slightly too perfect, so it was here that Rathbone began to dig.

  Just as he suspected, his shovel struck a hard surface while he was hacking away at the sickly vegetation; by clearing the vegetation away, he unearthed a carved stone slab set into the ground. It was far too heavy to move, but that wasn’t going to be a problem for Rathbone. He returned to his sloop and trotted below decks, rummaging around until he found one of the explosive powder kegs he’d prepared for the journey.

  Staggering back up to the beach, he placed the heavy cask directly atop the stone slab, added a good length of fuse wire, sparked his flint—and ran. There was a shuddering boom, and the ancient slab broke neatly in two, one half landing in the sand nearby and the other disappearing down into the deep hole it was covering. Once again, Rathbone returned to his ship, breaking into a light jog, returning this time with a length of knotted rope that he lowered into the hole until he felt it go slack and knew he’d reached the bottom.

  Little by little, forcing himself to be pati
ent and methodical, Rathbone broke his way into the ruins underneath the deserted isle. He was absolutely certain that his treasure was waiting for him down there, calling out to him as he worked his way deeper and deeper underground. Finally, another explosive barrel cracked the mortar around a decorative frieze, enough that he was able to lever it aside, and Rathbone forced his way into the enormous hall at the heart of the island.

  It was a treasure chamber, though that term hardly seemed to do the room justice, for it was piled high with more riches than even Rathbone had dreamed of. Great mountains of gold, scores of rubies and sapphires, fine jewelry, and even plates and goblets. All of it had lain undisturbed in a room where heavy tapestries hung from unseen stones overhead. Rathbone spotted a brazier in the wall and quickly moved to light the torches so that he could get a proper look at his find.

  The huge golden throne that dominated the scene suggested that this place might once have been a secret palace, or perhaps a treasure vault for some nameless king who liked to linger among his tribute. Rathbone, weak-kneed at the vision that sprawled before him, found himself sinking into that same chair as he gawked at his surroundings, and found that it suited him very well indeed. He placed one hand on the arm of the throne and found that the gold was warm beneath his palm, even though they were deep underground. You belong here, it seemed to say.

  The largest heap of all was piled in front of the throne, and Rathbone leaned forward in his seat and ran his fingers through the pile of coins and precious stones that lay heaped before him. He had no idea how long he lingered in the forgotten vault, plunging his arms into the cold metal and feeling the coins sift between his fingertips. It could have been hours, or perhaps days. Had the need for food and water not overcome him, he might have remained below forever.

  These ruins, he decided, would become his sanctuary. No more would he allow his fortune to be siphoned away by simpering lackeys and underlings who claimed to be faithful to him! Rather, he would continue to bring treasures here as he found them, adding more and more to the hidden hoard and ensuring he knew the whereabouts of every last precious stone in his collection.