I need supplies, he thought to himself, but I won’t be gone long. Barely had he made it back above ground, however, before Rathbone found himself hesitating. Others knew about this place. What if pirates arrived while he was making his preparations and tried to take his fortune for themselves? He couldn’t leave it unprotected. Finally, grudgingly, he settled for taking all that he could with him upon his tiny sloop so that he could personally keep watch over as many of his newfound riches as possible.
Filling two sacks and hauling them across his shoulders so that he was bent nearly double, he made journey after journey back into the vault to collect his fortune. The hold of the sloop was full before long, but Rathbone kept bringing treasures to the surface, stuffing them first under the table in the map room before discarding ammo chests and supplies to make space. Next, he stored what he could on the upper deck. Finally, there was nowhere left to store more gold—nowhere apart from on his own body.
He forced rings onto his fingers and anklets and bracelets onto his arms and legs. A golden crown that was slightly too large for him rested haphazardly atop his head. He was sweating, for the warmth of the throne had never left him, and it was only when he took a look at his hand in the light of day that he could see the yellowing sheen that now coated his palm.
A curse, he realized in alarm, but even this misfortune could not prevent him from weighing the anchor and setting sail, casting one final look back at the island and thinking of all the treasure he’d had to leave unprotected. I’ll be back soon enough, he vowed.
His sloop was now riding so low in the water that even the smallest waves were within inches of breaking over the deck, but Rathbone barely noticed. He was focused solely on setting a course back through the Devil’s Shroud and returning to his estate. Once I’m home, he thought feverishly, I’ll find someone who can fix my hand. You can do anything if you’re rich enough.
He fumbled clumsily with the sails, annoyed to find that the overburdened ship could barely make it above a crawl, even with the wind behind him. I could lighten the load, he thought, but the prospect of throwing even one coin overboard filled him with such intense revulsion that he forced the idea from his mind and set his gaze firmly on the waves ahead of him, ignoring the stiffness in his fingers.
An hour passed, and the island—his island—was barely over the horizon when ships appeared either side of him. They were both galleons sporting identical colors and trim, their crews staring impassively down at him from either side.
Rathbone swore, grunting as he raised his afflicted arm above his waist to clutch at the ship’s wheel. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have surged the sloop forward, making use of its maneuverability to dodge between rocks or into shallower waters and make his escape. There was no hope of that now, however, for the little ship was simply too encumbered.
Suddenly, Rathbone understood the real peril of the situation. To see two ships cooperating was unusual enough, but that they had both appeared right when he was at his most vulnerable, with one arm useless and a boat on the verge of sinking . . . This, he realized, was no mere run of bad luck. This was an ambush.
His mind whirled as he thought back to the meeting where he’d first heard about the treasure, trying to work out who his nemesis might be. Could this whole affair be the machination of one the Gold Hoarders? Someone who was seeking to remove him from power? Or was he perhaps seeing conspiracies where none existed, and he’d simply been recognized in the tavern and followed?
The two ships had drawn even closer now, near enough that Rathbone could make out the individual faces peering down at him. He suddenly realized how foolish he must seem, standing at the helm with a crown upon his head, covered from head to toe in jewelry with a golden arm hanging uselessly at his side. No one had fired at him yet, fortunately, even though a single strike to the sloop’s hull would be enough to sink it and its precious cargo. It might just be possible to talk his way out of this.
The captain of the leading ship certainly seemed willing to converse, for he had moved to the railing and cupped his hands to his mouth, but it was nothing Rathbone wanted to hear. “Drop anchor immediately and prepare to surrender!” he called. “You have until the count of ten. One . . . two . . .”
Rathbone growled wordlessly, but didn’t see that he had much of a choice. Struggling over to the capstan, he let the anchor fall, discreetly leaving his sails unfurled so that he could try and effect an escape. He soon realized he wouldn’t have the opportunity, however, for the galleons began to circle him like hungry sharks. Slowly and methodically, as if they had all the time in the world, one ship brought its port side across his bow and the other up against his stern, pinning the sloop in between their twin frames. A moment later, several powder kegs were tossed into the water, carried by the waves until they were scraping up and down against Rathbone’s hull.
Rathbone’s head was starting to swim as the first lances of pain shot up his arm, but he struck a defiant pose long enough to bellow up at the crews. “Sink me if you think you can, you wretches, but this is my treasure and I’ll not give so much as a copper coin to the likes of you!”
“That treasure, Rathbone of the Gold Hoarders, is precisely what has gotten you into this mess,” the captain replied, leaning forward over the railings to fix him with a steely glare. The more Rathbone thought about it, the more he was sure that something about the voice sounded familiar. He didn’t know this man now, but what about twenty years ago?
His eyes widened with a jolt of recognition. “Slate!” he breathed. And sure enough, the figure looming over him was the same pirate who had lost his ship defending Golden Sands nearly twenty years before. A life on the sea had aged the man, tanning his skin the color of walnuts even as his hair had faded to silver.
Slate tilted his head very slightly at Rathbone’s acknowledgment but continued speaking as if nothing had been said. “We suspected that news of an unclaimed treasure pile might be just what was needed to draw you out of hiding, but we never expected you’d be so foolhardy as to come back to the Sea of Thieves by yourself. Has your avarice really dragged your soul so deep that you can no longer see reason, man?”
Rathbone didn’t respond to this. In truth, he was having trouble standing, such was the weight of his arm. Slate stared down at him with something akin to pity in his eyes, and continued. “Our demands are very simple. There are many of us who do not wish to see the Trading Companies encroaching upon the Sea of Thieves, siphoning away its riches and natural wonders to sell, piece by piece, for their own ends. If you surrender here and now, Rathbone, and agree to begin the withdrawal of your representatives from our waters, then we will agree to spare your life.”
“I . . .” Rathbone growled. “What about my treasure?”
Slate scowled. “That treasure is consuming you! Look at what it’s done to your arm, for pity’s sake. Give it up and come aboard as my prisoner or I’ll have my crewmen sink the whole bloody lot.”
Rathbone stared up at Slate in amazement, utterly baffled at the idea that anyone could be so insane as to deliberately consign such glorious, beautiful wealth to the bottom of the sea. Sensing that the man was serious, he desperately began to stuff his pockets, cradling the wealth against him even as coin after coin slipped from his grip and began to tumble into the sea.
Slate had clearly had enough of watching his quarry scrabble helplessly at an impossible task, and impatiently gestured one of his crew forward. She held a large rifle in her hands, one of the more modern varieties, with a scope atop its barrel, and she steadied against the ship’s railing as she sighted carefully. “Time’s up, Rathbone.”
Pausing in his futile efforts to gather up the treasure all around him, Rathbone stared up in shock at his would-be executioner. Time had put a white streak in her hair and a scar had taken one of her eyes, but there was no doubt who it was who was aiming the weapon at his helpless ship.
“The Pirate Lord sends his regards,” Mercia informed him, then emptied he
r rifle into the bobbing powder kegs in three precise bursts. A trio of explosions tipped Rathbone’s sloop viciously from side to side, sending water gushing into its lower deck, and the stricken ship’s cargo began to tumble out through the newly ruptured hull down toward the seabed. With an anguished howl, Rathbone flung himself over the railing of the sloop with his golden arm outstretched, eyes fixed on the vanishing coins as they tumbled beneath the waves.
Water filled his lungs and burned his chest, but there was another burning there too: a yearning to claim every last one of the golden pieces followed by everything beyond. To have every gemstone and every treasure that there ever could be clutched safely in his fingers, to make it a part of him, so that he and he alone could possess it. To squeeze the life out of anyone who might come between him and his ambitions. The thought of drowning no longer seemed to matter, not when there was still so much to do, so much to take.
He never noticed the wreck of his ship strike the seabed behind him, nor did he register that Slate and the others were sailing away across the waves high overhead. Rathbone, the Gold Hoarder, was already on his hands and knees in the inky darkness as his life ebbed away, scrabbling and searching for treasure to fill the void where his soul had been.
LARINNA
Scrambling down off her mountain of gold, Larinna pelted toward the huge blockade of fallen boxes and splintered walkways. A straggling skeleton that had somehow avoided the collapse reared up at her, and she peppered it with shots from her pistol until it fell apart.
Try as she might, however, she could find no way through the fallen debris and was left pounding her fists uselessly against the barricade that separated her from her crew. She was only vaguely aware that she was bellowing Adelheid’s name, over and over again.
The wood was becoming hotter and hotter beneath her hands, and she realized that she could no longer see the roof of the chamber, for it was now obscured by a thick, roiling cloud of smoke. The torches, she thought in panic. All it would have taken was for some of the dry and ancient wood to topple onto a brazier during its collapse, and the whole pile would soon be one gigantic bonfire. Her funeral pyre, if she didn’t escape. Gazing upward, she could see the fallen masonry beginning to singe as flames licked across its edges.
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wetting it with water from her flask, and was tying it securely over her mouth and nose when she heard a noise. A loud crash echoed from the other side of the divide, then another, and a spark of hope flared within Larinna’s heart. She imagined Little Ned on the far side, heaving away chests and clearing a passage for her so that they might escape together, and began to scrabble at the debris on her side, seeking where the commotion was loudest. “Ned!” she shouted. “Can you hear me? Is Faizel okay?”
A hand burst through the wreckage, reaching aimlessly for a moment before retracting, but Larinna could tell immediately that it didn’t belong to Ned. Not unless he’d lost an awful lot of weight.
She staggered backward, torn by two conflicting desires, as the Gold Hoarder’s face leered at her through the gap. Part of her wanted very much to avenge herself upon the monster that had killed her captain, but she knew that her pistol needed reloading, and besides, there was the little matter of the chamber being on fire. She doubted very much that smoke and flames would slow the Gold Hoarder, but she could already feel her lungs burning as they took in more of the acrid smoke.
Flight was her only option then, and quickly. She turned as the glittering skeleton began to heave himself through the gap in the burning barricade and sprinted back across the golden landscape. It was tough going, for the collapsed treasure spread across the floor to create a treacherously unstable surface where coins and gems shifted underfoot. Twice she stumbled, all too aware of the clattering from behind her as the Gold Hoarder dragged himself upright, and twice she scrambled to her feet.
She almost ran straight past the secret passage she’d found earlier, spotting it at the last second only to find an escape route denied her. Spilled coins had cascaded across the entrance and into the passageway itself, blocking it in a golden landslide. Even if she’d been left in peace, Larinna doubted she’d be able to dig her way out before the flames and fumes overcame her. As it was, with a crazed skeleton bearing down upon her in large, loping strides, escape through the passageway was not an option.
Wheezing, her eyes stinging, Larinna took a few clumsy swipes at the approaching Gold Hoarder with her sword, scooping up a handful of money and flinging it at his face to distract him while she darted under his arm and back the way she’d come. The hulking figure hissed angrily as she picked up the gold, his head darting backward and forward as he made a futile effort to track the flight of every last coin. By the time he turned to pursue, Larinna was already back at the blockade, diving through the gap the creature had dug for itself and tucking herself into a roll that ended rather painfully when she collided with yet another pile of treasure.
This side of the ruined chamber was both brighter and hotter, the fires burning more intensely. Rivulets of liquid gold were beginning to trickle out from the piles closest to the flames, and for a moment Larinna had a vision of the whole chamber acting as an enormous melting pot, transforming every piece of treasure into part of a flowing, golden mass that would stream along the passageways and drop relentlessly into the abyss beyond. The greatest fortune ever known, lost forever due to a moment’s misfortune. Shining . . .
Hold it together, she commanded herself, aware how light-headed she was feeling as she forced herself to focus. Adelheid’s body, she noticed with a jolt, was gone. There was no sign of Faizel either, though to her relief Larinna spotted a scrap of his coat snagged on the very edge of the wreckage. She hoped that Ned had been able to pull him free and that the two of them were already well on their way to the surface.
A sudden movement caught her eye, and she realized that the last of the Gold Hoarder’s minions still lingered, shambling around in a pack and making vain attempts to snuff out the flames with their feet. She took down the first while it was still intent on its task, knocking aside the arm of a second skeleton as it lunged toward her, still dripping flecks of the molten gold it had been carrying in its fleshless fingers.
The third took her by surprise, for it had been lurking out of sight behind the golden throne, and Larinna bellowed in alarm as it leapt upon her. She pitched forward, her face only inches away from a stream of boiling metal. Arcing backward to keep her face away from the floor, she wedged the barrel of her pistol underneath her own arm with the barrel facing backward, hoping there was one last shot left within its chamber. To her relief, she felt the heat of the shot against her and heard the splintering of old bones.
Rolling out from under the skeleton that had pinned her—which, she was pleased to see, was now missing its left arm—Larinna scrambled upright and lashed out with her foot. The kick carried her assailant backward into yet more of the fallen crates, which toppled down upon it with a satisfying crunch.
Larinna fumbled to reload her pistol, but that seemed to be the last of the undead underlings, and she backed cautiously toward the passageway they’d used to reach the chamber. She was almost to the exit when she spotted Adelheid’s fallen knife, its dark handle a stark contrast to the gold coins on which it lay. She wasn’t sure why she did it, but Larinna knelt down to retrieve the little blade, now perhaps the only memento of her fallen crewmate, and slipped it carefully into a loop on her belt.
As she stood, there was an almighty crash from behind her, and great chunks of the burning wreckage gave way, sending embers and splashes of gold across the room. Larinna felt the burning flecks land upon her skin and hair and quickly dropped to the ground, rolling uncomfortably back and forth across the flagstones until the last of the white-hot sparks were extinguished.
She looked up, and there was the Gold Hoarder, standing with its shovel raised atop the collapsed portion of the barricade. It gave one mighty leap and landed with a great crash in fr
ont of the chamber’s exit while Larinna was still struggling upright. The green jewels in its eyes shone vindictively as it tilted its head this way and that, as if studying her.
Its jaw dropped open, but rather than the animalistic roar she’d been expecting, there were words. Slow and ponderous words, sibilant and dry as a crypt. “Treassssurreeee . . . ,” it hissed. “Thiiieeeveeessss . . .”
It can talk, Larinna thought, astonished. If it can talk, maybe that means I can bargain with it. “We didn’t come here to steal from you!” she called, coughing from the smoke-filled air. “We thought this was Athena’s Fortune! The treasure of the Pirate Lord!” She wasn’t sure what she’d said wrong, but these words seemed to enrage the Gold Hoarder even further. The blade of its shovel lashed out, carving through one of the endless treasure piles, and she barely leapt backward in time.
Larinna responded by diving sideways and circling, trying to keep her distance as her pistol sang out. She needn’t have bothered reloading, it seemed, for her first shot struck the creature’s glittering lower jaw, but the Gold Hoarder took no notice. The second struck a glancing, harmless blow along its cheekbone. The third did nothing but leave a dent in the shovel’s blade as the Gold Hoarder began to wield the tool like a shield.
Firearms, Larinna realized, weren’t going to be enough. Whatever dreadful ambition had compelled the Gold Hoarder to amass its unimaginable fortune over the years seemed to give it far greater fortitude than the others of its kind. Even the rusty blunderbusses adorning the walls of Wilbur’s weapon shop would struggle to slow it down, she thought grimly. Remembering the distant outpost and its denizens struck a fresh wellspring of rage within her, and all she could see reflected in the shovel was Adelheid’s shocked expression in her final moments.
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