by Ethan Proud
“And he blames Gertrude?”
“So it would seem. She and I are not without guilt, but we did our best. We knew the consequences and we condemned him nonetheless.” Artemisia sounded wretched.
“James was a man of the law. He knew that the safety of the citizens of Northgate was above his own. Laying down his life, whether willingly or not, should have been an honor,” Ruckstead said and Artemisia was reminded why they had clashed before the Ramek family had terrorized the town. Ruckstead’s sense of duty was bulletproof and his entire mantra was bound to that. He couldn’t perceive of another person not understanding nor subscribing to his philosophy on that matter. It should have been Kerfield’s choice if he wanted to allow himself to be possessed by Volker.
“Not everything is so black and white,” Artemisia countered and the ghost laughed.
“Once again, our differences plague us but we will have to set them aside for now. How will my return help my family and Kerfield?” Ruckstead asked.
“He needs a guide to the Underworld. Without your help, he will remain lost on this plane for eternity,” Artemisia said.
“Peaceably or otherwise?” Ruckstead asked.
“Whatever it takes. With any luck he won’t be violent.”
“If I remember right, together we never had much of that.” The ghost laughed, a mirthless noise.
“Hopefully we will have more than we had in the past,” the witch said glumly. “I will need to get your family out of their house before you make contact with James. If things take a turn for the worse they could be harmed.”
“Then you should probably get moving,” Ruckstead said. His usually dire carriage was lessened somewhat by the joy at the prospect of seeing his wife again. Then his countenance darkened. “I have never seen a spirit when I was alive. Will Gertrude be able to see me?”
“Outside of this cottage? No. I have placed enchantments here so that I can see any transplanar beings or spells. I can give Gertrude an amulet or ring so she can see you, but the reunion would be best saved ‘til after James Kerfield has crossed over,” Artemisia answered.
“I am anxious to see my wife. The sooner I help Kerfield, the better,” Ruckstead said and Artemisia nodded. She rose from her seat and pulled on a thick jacket and gloves. A moment later, the door closed and Ruckstead broke into a grin from ear to ear. He was back home. It wouldn’t be for long, but he was home.
***
The knock at the door surprised Gertrude. She was cleaning the shards of a broken plate off the floor but rose and left the pile of ceramic as it lay. Benjamin had sworn that Kerfield threw the plate at him; under normal circumstances the child would have been punished for lying.
With a sigh, Gertrude opened the door and found a disheveled Artemisia staring back at her. The witch’s hair was a mess, her eyes dark and her skin drawn.
“Artemisia,” Gertrude said. “Always a pleasure. Come in.”
“I am afraid I can’t. I have business to attend to. But you and Benjamin should find a different place to stay for the next few days. I think I have found a solution to your woes,” Artemisia said.
“Of course, will our house stay on this plane?” Gertrude said with a weak smile.
“It will stay put on its foundation. I assure you.” Artemisia turned to leave but changed her mind. “You should take any valuables or heirlooms with you.”
“What have you brought across the planes this time?” Gertrude asked wanly. The question sounded more tired than accusatory, but it still stung like a slap.
“Just an old friend.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thunder rumbled in the distance as a white light cracked the horizon. The sky turned the same violent green as the ocean and frothy waves washed over the deck of the Obesus Porcer. The sails were furled tight against the yard to prevent them from whipping in the wind which seemed to be coming from all directions.
Beatrice shrieked as Captain Yaro dragged her across the deck by a fistful of her hair. Beatrice kicked and scrambled, trying to keep up with the man while holding him by the wrist with one hand, the other attempting to pry his fingers from her locks.
As he approached the taffrail he roughly pulled her to her feet and held her above the roiling water. The entire crew stood and watched the spectacle, despite the fact that the wellbeing of their ship was at stake.
“Mycorr!” Yaro yelled. “Call off your curse. I won’t take you or this witch any further!”
The young godling remained calm, and spoke slowly despite the rain that pelted his face. “An experienced seaman like yourself should be well versed in the ways of the sea. It would be an utter embarrassment for a captain of such a vessel to call a seasonal storm more than what it was due to superstition.”
“I’d be a fool to call unwelcome cargo like yourselves, a storm, and pirates a mere coincidence!” the captain seethed and the crew clamored in agreement.
“Throw Beatrice overboard and I won’t need the help of any goddess to sink this vessel and claim the souls of everyone aboard,” Mycorr warned.
Yaro vaulted forward as if to toss Beatrice over, but held her fast. He turned a steely gaze over to Mycorr. “If that is true, then you are the demon I accuse you to be.”
“Let Beatrice go and turn your attention to this ship before it is rendered flotsam and jetsam in these waves. If you deliver us to the Kirean Archipelago unharmed, I will only kill you… your crew will be spared.” Mycorr’s face revealed no emotion other than confidence, despite being outnumbered thirty to one.
Yaro pushed Beatrice towards Mycorr and let go of her. As he stormed off he yelled at his crew, “Back to work!”
Beatrice wiped the hair from her face and the deluge hid the tears that streaked her cheeks. Her lower lip trembled enough to give away her fear.
“You should have stabbed him,” Mycorr said plainly.
“With what?” she exclaimed and anger immediately washed away her fear.
“Check your pockets,” Mycorr said as he turned to go below decks.
Beatrice obeyed and pulled out a bone handled dagger with a small blade perfect for slipping between ribs.
“How was I supposed to know?” she exclaimed.
Mycorr turned and held a trapdoor open that led to the galley and crew rooms. “My father abandoned me, I won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I know how it feels.”
***
There wasn’t a soul in the galley as the cook was on deck working with the rest of the crew to keep the ship above the waves. The chef was more of a quartermaster than anything else, and divvied up rations to the sailors. All of the food was preserved to keep it from spoiling and the fruits were pickled, while the meat was packed in barrels with salt. Stale bread and potatoes were stored on the floor, and the ship’s cat snoozed peacefully as it waited for rats to attempt to swipe a meal. Sometimes there was fresh fish and the crew would eat in earnest, but most of the time they ate their rations in small circles when their shift ended. Tankards full of ale supplied all the liquid for the men, and Beatrice had long since grown tired of it. Back in Northgate she had rather liked beer and ales, but after having nothing else to drink she craved plain water.
“This food really is awful,” Mycorr said with an upturned nose as he continued through the galley and into the crew room.
“It’s little more than sustenance. If you come to Northgate, I will show you real food,” Beatrice said. Now that she was out of the rain her eyes were puffy and red and snot threatened to drip from her nose.
The door to the galley swung shut behind them.
“Mundane food holds little promise to a god,” Mycorr said lazily as he crawled into his hammock.
“Then what do the gods eat?” Beatrice asked as she made her way to her own makeshift bed.
“The hopes and dreams of mortals.” Mycorr laughed heartily at his own joke. “Sleep well. When the pirates find us we will have to survive their onslaught, jump ship, and convince them to bring us to the isles.”
“S
o you did summon them?” Beatrice asked.
“Not hardly. I just know a good opportunity when I see it.”
***
Beatrice opened her eyes to the sound of lapping waves. Judging by the peaceful sound the storm had abated. Beatrice stretched and twisted in the hammock, her back popping twice. She heard the clamor of feet on the wooden boards above her when she felt the ship shudder as an impact rocked its length. Her teeth clattered in her jaw and she was nearly thrown to the floor.
Mycorr appeared next to her, offered a hand, and pulled her to her feet. His eyes were wild and his face was split by a grin.
“Rise and shine.”
Chapter Eighteen
The two ships thrashed against each other as the pirates used grappling hooks to bring their vessel abreast the Obesus. When they were within reach they swung from ropes attached to the main mast to swing over or haphazardly tossed gangplanks across the chasm and deftly ran across despite the bucking motion of the ocean. When Beatrice and Mycorr made it above deck they found it hard to differentiate between the pirates and the sailors. Their clothes were brine crusted and sweat stained and many of them were barefoot. Their blackened, calloused feet gripped the deck as they engaged in swordplay and gunfights.
Beatrice ducked as a hatchet buried itself in the molding of the captain’s quarters behind her. She swore vehemently. She needed to find a gun. Before her father had succumbed to infection after a broken leg he had taught her how to handle all manner of firearms. She wasn’t half bad with a bow either.
Crossing the gangplank from the pirate ship over to the Porcer was a man the likes of whom Beatrice had never seen before. His eyes were bloodshot red and yellow with jaundice, and his skin was so dark it reminded her of oil. He wore his hair in dreadlocks and tied it back in a thick ponytail with the skin of sea snakes. Through his nose, the quill of a porcupine or similar animal ran and jewelry made of silver and gold dangled from his ears. In his lower lip was a large clay plate with a symbol that Beatrice had seen in Mond’s temple. It was a sign of D’rij, a sea turtle made of many smaller patterns. He had a bandana tied at his neck and wore a maroon doublet, a stark white sash, and white trousers. He went barefoot as did his peers. He didn’t carry any weapons, but emanated an aura of danger more so than any of the other pirates. As he stepped foot on the merchant vessel he lifted his hand and tiny crabs, numbering in the millions, began flooding from every knot or whorl in the wood, seethed over the feet of the merchants and worked their way upwards, tearing out tiny bits of flesh.
Beatrice pointed to the man and Mycorr beamed. “A sea priest! We are in luck.”
“I need a pistol,” Beatrice said and tried to ignore the godling’s optimism. Mycorr didn’t see fit to answer her but instead closed the distance between him and one of the sailors loyal to Yaro and his ship and placed his hand on the back of his neck. The man convulsed for a minute as his skin turned green and sloughed from his skeleton and his musculature was rendered to mush. His eyes rolled from their sockets and his teeth clattered across the deck. As the connective tissue between his joints dissolved, he collapsed in a pile of bones and liquefied gore. Mycorr stooped and picked up the gun he had been wielding and handed it to Beatrice.
“My fair lady,” he said sardonically.
Under normal circumstances she would have scrunched her face and refused. But she had bedded the demon Vahrun, served Mond, and travelled the Underworld—a little slime no longer deterred her.
She fired a single shot into one of the merchants nearest to her and began scanning the crowd for Yaro. For the stunt he pulled, Beatrice figured a gut wound would be fitting. She plucked the powder horn from her gun donor’s corpse and poured it down the muzzle, tore a piece of cloth from her sleeve and stuffed it down next with her finger, with a lead ball on top. She began priming the gun when she heard the familiar click of a hammer being pulled back near her head.
“Don’t know why such a pretty lady would know how to handle such a dirty weapon,” the pirate drawled. Beatrice didn’t answer but instead fixed her haze on Mycorr, who was similarly held up.
The secretary lifted her hands in the air and held the gun loosely, her fingers nowhere near the trigger or hammer.
“Thanks, lass,” the man said showing off his grimy teeth as he took the weapon. “Now who’s your captain?”
“Ugly green jacket. You’d be better off to kill him now,” Beatrice said through gritted teeth. The merchants were losing the fight as the rogues hemmed them in around the main mast.
“Don’t be hasty. We only send those who D’rij calls to the sea,” the pirate said with another leer.
Beatrice fought back the urge to shudder.
The sea priest wound his way towards Beatrice and Mycorr. He looked them over briefly before addressing the men who held them captive.
“Bind their hands, and put them with the rest. Jeremy, bring me the shells,” he ordered.
The man who had Beatrice at gunpoint let his barrel drop and scurried across the gangplank. Beatrice was roughly tied and pushed to the center of the ship, where Yaro and Carnegie shot her dirty looks as if this was all her doing. Mycorr avoided the stared onslaught of daggers, undoubtedly because of the fear he had placed in the men. Beatrice watched as Jeremy crossed back over to the Porcer, holding three turtle plastrons. Behind him, a man with a salt and pepper beard and a trifold hat strode purposefully.
In Jeremy’s free hand he held a brazier of coals with a single metal rod placed across it. The entire length of the rod was red hot. He reverently handed the shells to the sea-priest who laid them flat against the deck. He stooped down on his knees and spread the shells out equidistant from each other. He beckoned for the brazier and took the rod with his bare hands. He began chanting in a foreign language and his eyes rolled into the back of his head until only the whites were showing. His entire body was wracked with convulsions for a moment and Beatrice was certain he would begin frothing at the mouth. He regained his composure as quickly as it had left him and placed the tip of the metal rod in the center of the first shell and pressed. As he applied pressure, smoke furled and an acrid stink filled the air. A moment later, a resounded crack echoed across the timber of the silent ship as the shell was torn asunder. He did this two more times before gingerly placing the rod back on the basin. He leaned forward and studied the first shell. He surveyed it for what felt like an eternity before raising his eyes towards the hostages. He pointed at Carnegie.
“D’rij will rejoice in his pain.”
Two pirates stepped forward and hauled the first mate’s writhing and struggling body away from the prisoners.
The seer stared at the second shell for only a moment before pointing to Yaro. “He carries Detrita’s curse. We must keep him alive.”
Likewise, Yaro was hauled away from the rest of his crew. The plastromancer stared at the last shell and sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. He levelled a stare at the Northgate woman that went deeper than the surface.
“Beatrice has a long journey ahead of her. Treat her well,” he said ominously.
The pirates looked behind the seer at the man with the greying beard, presumably the captain, who nodded. They cut Beatrice’s bonds and she stepped away from the merchants.
As he rose the seer said, “Kill the rest of them.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Mycorr said, bringing his tied hands up in front of him as if to stay the blade that was pointed at his chest.
The seer snorted. “Death calls when it chooses. D’rij has asked for your soul. He will have it.”
“I think that you-” Beatrice started but the captain held his hand up in a motion for silence.
“D’rij has spared you, he can just as easily discard you. The waves call us all home,” he said in a voice that embodied the ocean and its turbulent nature.
Mycorr was undeterred. “Kill the rest of them, surely, it won’t hurt anyone. But you should keep me alive.”<
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“Kill him,” Yaro growled and the plastromancer struck him across the face.
“Do not speak. You are cursed. If we could kill you and the curse died we would. But that is not the nature of such things. We would inherit your burden,” the seer said, equally as heated.
“Why should we spare you?” the captain asked suspiciously.
“Because I gifted the ill-will of Detrita upon the good Captain Yaro,” Mycorr said beamingly.
“All right, kill him. This man is a liar,” the captain said in exasperation. “No mortal has Death’s blessing.”
“No!” Beatrice exclaimed. “If you kill him, Detrita’s wrath will rain down upon us.”
“Kill her too then,” the captain spat.
“D’rij does not bid it. Do her no harm,” the sea priest said and stood inches from the captain’s face. “The Lord of the Tides has given her his blessing. Perhaps her companion has such favor with the Goddess of Death.”
“It’s not just Detrita and D’rij,” Beatrice said. “I served in Mond’s court for years under Detrita’s direction. I understand that the Goddess of the Moon still influences D’rij’s moods with each passing day.”
The plastromancer sneered at the captain. “The next time you disregard my interpretations, you may as well damn the entire crew.”
“If any of this is true, then let them prove it,” The captain said as his face turned the color of beets. Mycorr stepped forward and the crew parted as he made his way towards the taffrail. He placed both of his rope-bound hands against the rail and crumbled it as easily as if it had been chalky limestone. As the wood crumbled, white threadlike growth of hyphae dissipated from his palms.
“A poorly maintained ship is not a herald of divine powers,” the captain said derisively.
“I could demonstrate this on the mast of your own ship… or I could press my palms against your own flesh and see what happens?” Mycorr said with a devious expression. “My father may not care about my fate, but my mother is more than invested in my well-being.”