The island, with its pebbled shore and ragged cliffs, was the most bleak and lonely piece of creation that Derx had laid eyes upon. It was as though the entire scene had been painted in meticulous shades of grey. From the rocks on the beach to the surrounding waters to the clouds above, dismal and dull. The fog that had nearly suffocated the Orphan lingered above them like an intangible monster, wrapping the sun and the skies beyond in its silver claws. Derx shivered. Despite the sad monochrome of the place, Beiran Stormchaser was a man rapt. The old captain sat, tweaking his beard with one hand, green eyes unblinking, scanning the horizon until the hull of the boat crunched against stone. They disembarked and strode upon the beach in the same silence they had rowed with, their captain not even waiting for the rest of his crew to land. The beach inclined into a steady hill and the pebbles underfoot were replaced with hard-packed dirt.
As the crew ascended the hill, the mist drew closer, thin wisps kissing the tops of their heads. Derx caught himself holding his breath, remembering the fog that had descended upon the ship. The mists were thinner now than they were then; he could see the faintly sketched silhouette of Beiran trudging ahead of them.
“Captain,” Vlannir said. It was the first anyone had spoken since they’d left the ship. If Beiran heard the first mate, he made no indication. “Captain Stormchaser,” Vlannir said again. “What are we doing here? Talk to us, mate.”
Still no response. The captain soldiered on through the fog.
“We’ve lost nine sailors today and we don’t know this place. Look at us. We’re in no shape to go hiking in some strange land. We need to rest up, and—”
“Vlannir,” the captain said. He’d stopped walking. “What lies on the other side of this hill?”
“What? I don’t know, but I’m pretty damn sure it can wait until later.”
The rest of the crew stared in shock. Vlannir was the Stormchaser’s right hand man. They’d stood together on every word until now. He would have defended the captain and his orders to death and beyond in spite of Beiran’s sandpaper personality and eccentric ways. As far as Derx knew, the two men had been sailing for decades and had seen most of the world together, charted and uncharted. Vlannir must have been truly shaken by things for him to talk back to the Stormchaser now. Beiran gave him a long look, curiously devoid of emotion. “Then you can wait. But I want to know. I need to know.”
The Stormchaser resumed his walk. Vlannir gaped after him. The first mate looked upon the rest of the crew. Tired, puzzled faces peered back at him. With a hopeless shrug Vlannir followed his captain and the crew gradually fell into step behind. Derx could hear the captain singing an old song to himself up ahead.
“… One more sea to sail…”
The mists grew thicker as they hiked, caressing Derx’s cheeks. His heart began beating faster as he remembered the way the mist fell upon him on the ship, the way it had swelled and made the rest of the world disappear.
“… One more hill to scale…”
White tendrils coiled around his shoulders, thighs, chest like the touch of ghosts. Behind him, he heard another sailor slip and fall, boots scuffing the dirt. The sound was faint, so far away. Everything felt small and insignificant and Derx cursed himself for blindly following the crazed Stormchaser.
“… One more star I’ve never seen…”
He couldn’t turn back. The mist thickened in Derx’s nose, enveloping his world in white and grey. His heart thundered against his ribs, his skin writhed. The men around him choked and gasped and sputtered and the world seemed to compress around Derx until his body felt ready to buckle and then in a final, fleeting instant—
—the fog lifted, and the world returned.
The crew and their captain stood at the hill’s crest, panting, eyes bloodshot. The barren landscape fell away in all directions before them. From their vantage they could see across the entire island, tiny and bleak as it was. Derx had trouble believing that a single living creature made its home here, for there was nothing but dirt and stony greyness and wind. The only thing of note on the other side of the hill was a lagoon, a bowl of water seemingly cut into the land, leading back into the sea on the other side. In the lagoon sat a ship, wreathed in mists.
She was a mighty galleon, raven-black, with five milky sails and her masts spearing through the fog. Below the bowsprit was a grand figurehead in ebony. Derx squinted. It was the fine figure of a woman, her lower torso that of a squid. She held a sword, poised as though she were charging into battle and leading the rest of the ship behind her. At the edge of the lagoon sat a landing boat. Three figures stood alongside it. They were waiting.
Beiran stared at them. Derx might have imagined it, but he would have sworn he saw a tear roll down the captain’s cheek. His eyes echoed radiance and joy. It was the look that Derx imagined ancient prophets might have, believing they’d looked upon the gods themselves. The captain descended the hill with nervous steps towards the lagoon. The trio of men below were a striking bunch: tall, thick of hair, weighed down by gold and weapons and fine clothes. Waters lapped at their boots. As Beiran approached them, one stepped forward, beaming. “Beiran my friend,” he said. “It’s good to see you after all these years.” He looked at the rest of the crew. “Ah, Vlannir is here too. How you’ve grown, my boy.”
Vlannir blinked. “Is that…?”
“Triloche,” Beiran said. “I thought you were dead.”
The man called Triloche winked. He motioned to his companions. “This is Oullain Windermere, my own captain, from an age ago.” Oullain bowed his shaggy, silver-streaked head.
The third, a black mountain of a man with thick clumps of hair dangling past his shoulders spoke next, in a voice that could have commanded demigods. “I am D’ianno Cawtooth, captain of Ocean’s Sword.”
Stark silence followed. A strange mixture of both reverence and fear crept over Derx. Every sailor knew of D’ianno Cawtooth and his ship. This man had ventured out into the seas and discovered most of the charted world. He and Ocean’s Sword had become stuff of legends, told across all the civilized countries where there were ships and waters to sail upon. He had also lived three hundred years ago.
“Beiran Stormchaser,” D’ianno said. “Are you a true man of the sea?”
“Yes.”
“What do you sail for?”
Beiran frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What do you seek on the water? Riches and wealth, fame and fortune? Wine and women?”
The Stormchaser was silent for many heartbeats. A breeze moaned and gave life to the sails of the ebony ship. Finally, he answered:
“To find out what’s on the other end of the ocean, the other side of the seas. To seek the things that other men have never seen, or even dreamed of.”
Hairs prickled on the back of Derx’s neck. D’ianno and Oullain shared a look, then nodded to Triloche. “Stormchaser, will you join us upon Ocean’s Sword?”
There was a collective intake of breath from the crew. Vlannir’s mouth dropped open.
“Where are you bound?” Beiran asked. His voice cracked.
“To the edge,” Oullain Windermere said. “Where the sea meets the sky, the place between dreams and reality, where only the best brothers of the sea will reach.”
“We need one more to complete the voyage,” Triloche said.
All eyes were on Beiran. Even the wind held its breath. His face was unreadable, his gaze dancing from the three old captains before him to the black ship resting in the lagoon. He turned to gaze upon his crew. He looked each sailor in the eye. When his eyes met Vlannir, Derx thought that the first mate might collapse.
Beiran stepped towards Triloche and the others.
“No!” Vlannir cried. “Don’t leave us stranded here, Beiran.”
“Don’t be a twit,” Beiran said with a snort. “You can work a ship just as well as I can. The crew loves you, Vlannir. There’s no one better.”
“You can’t go. We were going to see the world together, rem
ember?”
Beiran faced him. “I’m weary of our world. The more of it I see, the smaller and more sickening it becomes. The Orphan is yours. Take care of her. She’s the closest I’ve had to a bride.” He turned back to the lagoon and the shadow ship in the distance. “Besides, I know a good time when I see one.”
Vlannir fell to his knees, broken. Beiran stepped into the lagoon and into the landing boat. “You’ll never be able to return,” D’ianno said, his voice colored with warning.
The Stormchaser grinned. “Thank the gods for that.”
With huge and hearty laughter, the four captains stepped into the boat. As the oars rose and fell, Beiran Stormchaser, navigator, adventurer, freebooter, master of the Orphan, went to Ocean’s Sword and never looked back.
It was a time before Vlannir pulled himself together and started back over the hill, the crew falling into place behind him. The fog bothered them no more. Derx looked back once they reached the top of the hill. The lagoon sat empty, waters shining amongst the lonely grey rocks. No one spoke a word about what had happened until they reached the Orphan, where Vlannir promptly appointed Derx as first mate. They hoisted anchor and slipped away from the nameless island and through the mists. Seasons rolled into years. People changed. Sailors who had seen too much drifted away and broken men left the sea life behind. But some stayed. Money changed hands and—
“—Captain Derx?”
Derx blinked. The tavern sounds returned in a swell of tinkling glass and rough laughter. The Molorzian lad stood before him, puzzled, eyes wary. Derx shook his head, dislodging a memory. “What’s that?”
“The Orphan, sir?”
Ah, yes. Derx looked the lad over again. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen summers. Barely a man, in the land where oil and powders and science were replacing the magic and mystery of the open waters. Barely a man, but still too old for fairy tales and sailor’s myths.
“The old captain retired and I bought the ship from him. Cost me a damn fortune, but I’ve paid my debts.”
The youth looked maybe a little disappointed as he shuffled back to his friends and Derx felt a tiny pang of guilt for robbing him of a story. To be fair, Derx hadn’t lied to the boy. It was just that the whole truth… well, he wasn’t sure of the truth himself. Sometimes, it felt like his time with Beiran Stormchaser had only been a dream, woven by strands of silver cloud and patched with mist. Captain Derx hummed the old song again as he dropped a few coins on the table and quit the tavern.
…One more sea to sail…
…One more hill to scale…
…One more star I’ve never seen…
The Voyages of Caleb Blackthorne
By Byron A. Roberts
Part I
Into the Dawn of Storms
“Like thunder roared the cannon’s ire, booming o’er the waves,
Sundering the corsair’s boards, to bloat unfathomed graves.
A golden prize the seas disgorged, beneath the sunset’s gleam;
Steel and shot to glut the sharks and bless old England’s queen!”
(Old privateer’s shanty, as sung by Captain Caleb Blackthorne’s crew)
ENGLAND: DURING THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH THE FIRST…
The man entered the darkness of the narrow alleyway, his keen eyes rapidly adjusting to the gloom. Pale moonlight gleamed dimly upon the basket-hilted broadsword which hung in its black leather scabbard at his side, and the man curled his fingers around the weapon’s leather grip as he strode further into the shadows. A slender snaphaunce pistol was thrust into his wide belt, alongside a double-edged dagger. The man was clad in a thick wool shirt edged with golden braid and a toughened leather tunic, while a threadbare grey cloak was draped about his broad shoulders. Studded vambraces bound his sinewy forearms, and he wore black breeches and high boots of buckskin. His greying hair was drawn back into a tight ponytail, and a light beard adorned his scarred and weathered features. His pale blue eyes glimmered, reflecting the guttering torchlight which shone from a nearby doorway.
A bloated rat scurried across the alley, disgorged from its hiding place as twin shadows stirred suddenly in the black. The grey man smiled as two figures emerged from the darkness to bar his way.
“A nice evening, is it not?” the grey man said, his voice deep and unwavering.
Offering no reply, one of the figures pushed his hand into the folds of his tattered shirt and produced a notched basilard. The other, a swarthy man with a hook nose, drew a cruelly curved falchion and adopted a fighting stance.
“You lads might want to think twice about this,” the grey man growled.
“How much coin you carrying, old man?” the hook-nosed figure snarled, brandishing his blade.
Instantly, the grey man’s sword hissed from its scabbard and swept forth in a ruinous arc. A shrill cry pierced the night and the falchion fell to the earthen floor of the alley, along with the hand that held it.
The swarthy brigand stumbled back aghast, blood coursing from the cloven stump of his wrist.
The grey man smiled a cold, mirthless smile. “Tell your mates you faced Captain Caleb Blackthorne this night,” he hissed. “And that you were damned lucky to escape with your worthless life.”
Screaming an oath, the brigand pitched headlong into the shadows of the alleyway, leaving a trail of night-dark blood in the dirt to flank his boot prints.
Blackthorne levelled his bloodied steel at the remaining assailant. “Join him and live. Stay, and die. Your choice, sirrah.”
The man cursed, hefting his blade and lunging clumsily forward. Blackthorne’s steel sang once more in the night, and the brigand dropped his basilard and crumpled to the earth, scrabbling in vain to stop his entrails spilling forth from his rent and riven belly.
“A poor decision,” rumbled Blackthorne, wiping his sword on the filthy shirt of the dying man before returning the blade to its scabbard. He stepped over the quivering body and continued down the alleyway in silence.
At length, Blackthorne arrived at an arched oaken doorway, into which had been carved an elaborate arcane sigil. In the gloom of the shadowed aperture, the pictogram seemed to glow with a faint blue luminescence. Caleb touched the sigil and the grating sound of an ancient lock echoed in the alleyway. The great door yawned ponderously open and Caleb shuddered as he stepped into the cold, stygian blackness beyond.
“Welcome, Captain Blackthorne,” a sibilant voice said, as if from a great distance. “I’m pleased you were able to keep your appointment.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Blackthorne said. “I just hope you have the answers I seek.”
A shimmering replica of the blue sigil suddenly appeared before Blackthorne, illuminating the nighted gulf and revealing a narrow stone tunnel. The coruscating symbol hovered briefly before the captain’s eyes, then sped away into the darkness, searing a path through the void.
“Pray, follow,” the voice intoned.
Blackthorne tracked the lambent glyph for what seemed an interminably lengthy span of time, the dark stone walls of the tunnel never varying in their appearance, and no other alcove or doorway being discerned. The temperature in the benighted passage decreased steadily until he began to feel an almost preternatural chill permeate his muscular frame. Finally, the tunnel terminated at a huge wooden door with brass hinges and an elaborate handle fashioned after the form of a serpent poised to strike. The cerulean sigil settled into the centre of the door, pulsed once with a fell radiance, and was gone. Blackthorne considered trying the serpent to gain entrance to the room beyond, but a great creaking and grinding noise stayed his hand. The door groaned slowly and inexorably open, clouds of dust and debris billowing from its frame, until at last Blackthorne found himself gazing at the chamber concealed beyond its hoary threshold. The room was large, and ornately furnished. A myriad candles provided illumination, but still the chamber’s corners and many alcoves were shrouded in shadow. Countless books and scrolls adorned the many shelves lining the walls, and an array
of strange trinkets and artefacts, the origin of which Blackthorne could scarcely guess at, gleamed and glowered in the half-light. A collection of paintings, maps and charts hung from the sanctum’s panelled walls. In the centre of the room was a wooden desk, upon which were scattered gems and crystals of varying shapes and sizes. The desk seemed to groan beneath the weight of a vast assortment of tomes, grimoires and scrolls. One book in particular drew Blackthorne’s gaze. It was bound in oily green leather with tarnished metal hinges, and its mold-mottled cover sported a curious motif resembling a single, closed eye. The sight of the eldritch tome caused a chill to run through Blackthorne’s body, though he knew not why.
Seated behind the desk, partially wreathed in shadow, was a man. He was clad all in black, his robes rich and voluminous, and a black skullcap covered his head. He sported a white, pointed beard and his face was creased with lines of age and wisdom.
Blackthorne stepped warily into the room and offered a perfunctory bow. The man’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight as he regarded his visitor.
“Welcome, Captain Blackthorne,” the man said, “Pray sit, for you have travelled farther than you know.”
“Thank you, Doctor Dee,” Blackthorne said, easing into a wooden chair before the desk. “I appreciate this audience.”
Doctor John Dee smiled and interlaced his slender fingers. “Not at all, captain. I found your missive most interesting, and have much to divulge to you on the subject.”
Blackthorne leaned forward in his chair attentively.
“But first, I trust your journey here was uneventful?”
Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed. “I was waylaid by some cutpurses, but they were swiftly dealt with. In truth, I found your sorcery far more unnerving.”
“Please forgive my penchant for the theatrical,” said Dee. “I find the Cerulean Key is a most effective security measure, and one can never be too careful these days. This great city is darkly astir with perfidious plots and villainy.”
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