The Prelude to Darkness

by Brenden Christopher Gardner

  The Black Tide

  Dusk

  2 August 15131

  Andrew stood at the prow of the rowboat, looking out at the darkened sea.

  The clouds above were black as pitch, but not a drop of rain fell in the ever deepening gloom. Distantly, he spied an outline of grey, ridged and tall. The Black Tide.

  The pact with the Corsair seemed so long ago. Andrew thought it hopeful and well worth the gambit, but that was before the overlord drew poison-tipped steel and Lord Daniel Baccan left him for dead. He placed his right hand over his left forearm; layers of plate divided his hand from the scarred flesh, but he could still feel the screaming memories of the scar.

  Naught ever quieted the memories.

  Shaking his head, he knew the game that Overlord Damian Dannars was playing: pitting the great kingdoms against each other, whilst the reavers raped and pillaged, too small to attract notice when much larger fish loomed. In the end, Isilia, Dalia, and Trecht would grow to great strength before breaking against each other, and when the overlord picked the bones, none would offer much resistance.

  Andrew knew that the overlord could not reign over the great kingdoms; and that, more than aught else, was why he agreed to the Corsair’s pact, or so he told himself. Yet now, the imperator was implacable, demanding blood and the treasure that was stolen. A new pact must be forged, one writ in the blood of the overlord.

  Three men attended Andrew in the small boat: two on the oars, the other on the rudder. They were deckhands from the Widow’s Wail, their faces much like the rest. Andrew did not care to learn their names or join them in the commons during the weeks at sea. They mean naught, and I will leave them to die with the Corsair if need be.

  The full moon slowly creeped out of the dark clouds, illuminating the dismal and dreary night. No longer hidden in shadows, the Black Tide sprawled across his sight. Sails atop its five great masts were furled, though men in flowing capes stood at the rails behind a shirtless deckhand.

  “Nestle beside the dromond,” Andrew ordered, and the man at the rudder offered an, “Aye, milord,” while the oars continued dipping in and out of the dark water.

  The oars of the Black Tide were pulled in, but the long rows of cannon windows remained opened, weapons at the ready.

  Muffled shouts came from above, and a ropen ladder fell. Grimacing, Andrew turned to the three men from the Widow’s Wail and said, “Wait and be silent. I shall not linger long.” He turned and gripped the ropen ladder.

  Ascending to the deck of the Black Tide, there was not a sound from the ship, only the swaying in the water and the rustling tide of the night. Andrew thought that there should have been some noise: the cracking of mugs, songs of drunks, or the grunts of labourers. Yet it was still and silent. Mayhap it is no longer just the overlord who mans his ship with mutes.

  Three men with swords sheathed on their hips greeted him on deck. They were armoured in darkened chain mail, their faces deep in shadows, and crimson coloured cloaks flapped in the wind. Crimson Swords. I did not expect less, but they are loyal to the overlord, or so it was two years past. “You know why I am here. Take me to the Corsair.” One of the men walked towards the stern of the dromond, while the others fell in beside Andrew.

  Striding across the deck, Andrew counted the deckhands with one hand; each was lost in their own work, checking the lines and rigging. Scars criss-crossed across their backs, and none raised their eyes. The Corsair takes a risk in this meeting, and suffers none but those he has pounded into submission.

  None of the Crimson Swords looked to him or lifted gauntleted hands off the hilts of their swords. He reached behind his back and tightened a grip upon Doom’s hilt, and the Crimson Swords pushed forth, as if oblivious to the act.

  Soft speech, faint and muffled, reached Andrew’s ears as he ascended to the bridge. Facing the sea, the Corsair was hunched over a table, left hand on the pommel of his own blade, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. He shared words with a larger fellow with long flowing brown hair, who wore a greying but tattered doublet of what must have been fine cloth once.

  “Lord Daniel Baccan,” the lead Crimson Sword said solemnly.

  The Corsair straightened, revealing his tall frame, stern face, and cold blue eyes.

  Eyes of treachery and betrayal, Andrew could not help but think.

  “Elodin, we shall talk more in the morning,” the Corsair declared in a stern, hardened tone. The man who could only be the navigator bobbed a nod, then walked briskly down the opposite stairs. The Crimson Swords followed close behind. “I trust you have much to share.”

  Much and more, Andrew thought as he walked towards the rail, where the Corsair leaned over lazily, gazing into the darkness. “These Crimson Swords, who do they owe loyalty to?”

  “They are men, as we all are,” the Corsair said nonchalantly. “None of them serves the overlord blindly; some ask questions, while others would cut your throat for some off-handed joke about Damian. Rest assured, my friend, that the Crimson Swords you see are not the brutes that man the Ruination.”

  Andrew did not like it, but there was not much else to do. “Your gambit has faltered, Corsair.”

  “Monikers, Black Wrath?” the Corsair said cuttingly, the hardness in his voice unmistakeable. “Are we not better men than to use the names our foes give us?”

  “I should have drowned that night.” Andrew could not hold it back. “You sent me to the grave.”

  “And yet here you stand, Andrew Dunctap. Lest you seek some ill-advised vengeance, the Deep Below shall not long for you this day.”

  If only Damian did not loom above us all. “It matters little. Our pact must change.”

  “Is that so?” Daniel asked, still looking past the darkened sea towards Isilia. “I have kept to my end. Is mastering an old man too much for you?”

  The imperator was never an old man, but the Black Storm. Long past were the days when Imperator Argath held a sword high, leading the vanguard. Age had weakened him, though his mind was sharp as ever.

  “Imperator Argath Diomedes has made a demand,” Andrew replied. “It is as much as you shall get.”

  Daniel wrenched his eyes from the sea. Andrew saw their pitiless depths, and the anger roiling beneath. “And what is that?” the Corsair asked.

  Andrew crossed his arms and said, “The lure of what you stole from the waste did not do what you thought. My imperator sees it as a font of strength, not a treasure to covet. He believes it to be his by rights, and that either you or Damian must pay for it with blood before it is returned to him.”

  The Corsair cackled. “Mayhap I misjudged the old man. Shed my blood and Damian may be fool enough to bring war to the imperium’s shores. Or, if you think you are fool enough to cut the overlord down, I would not hesitate to end this recklessness. Neither shall suffice.”

  “I will not leave your ship without either,” Andrew said, drawing Doom. “We will agree to a new pact: a duel with you or Damian, I do not care which.”

  Daniel raised an eye brow and muffled a laugh. “Are you so eager to feel Turmoil’s venom in your veins once more? Or have your wits dulled these past two years in that dead land? My life’s blood is forfeit if I grant your request, and I am not so eager to cross swords with him, again. I have learned my lessons.”

  “Then the imperator will not stir when Prince Adreyu calls the banners.”

  A look of concern flashed across the Corsair’s face. “Your imperator will what? Trecht stirs?”

  He does not know. “Lady Melany Ducat has kindly informed us that Prince Adreyu pressures the king to war with the great kingdoms, to search for the treasure that you stole. Imperator Argath will let Dalia burn, and your islands if need be, before warring with whoever is left. Your play has failed, Corsair.”

  Daniel clenched his hands and slammed down against the rail. “As have you, Black Wrath. I gave all that you needed to rise high in the imperator’s councils. All I asked is that you turn his strength against Damian. Has the
old man bested you?”

  Andrew grated his teeth. “He is not an old man. His mind is set, it always has been. He requires blood and the treasure, now whose shall it be?”

  Silence passed, and Andrew tightened his grip on Doom, raising the tip a couple feet from the Corsair’s face.

  “Sheath your steel,” Daniel demanded.

  Andrew did not. “I told you what is needed.”

  The Corsair laughed, deep and throaty, and turned to face Andrew with a wide smile. “The treasure you lack, so you intend to cut me down? A fool’s errand. Even if your Widow’s Wail was not so far from my Black Tide, you shall not make it off this ship, not with all that plate. Nay, you will not cut me down. Whatsoever you may think of me, you know that both of us are worth more alive than dead.”

  Taking a deep breath, Andrew sheathed Doom along his back. If the Corsair fell and the overlord foolishly attacked the wasteland as the imperator surmised, Damian would still have the treasure from the waste. And if my imperator is not wrong … “Where is it?”

  “Ah this treasure,” Daniel said, leaning back with the palm of his hand on the pommel of his sword, “in the waste somewhere. That is only if you believe the wives’ tales, which I do not think you do. I believe the only treasure is in the Voice’s possession, though none of us will ever find that.”

  No, that is a lie, Andrew thought to himself, trying to contain his surprise. “I saw Damian covet it, he—”

  “You saw no more than a chunk of ruby,” The Corsair said, smiling. “I followed the myths and legends as Damian commanded. I discovered some stone ruins in the southern waste, mayhap a small town, long ago. There was a path there; it led down into the darkness, to a twisting labyrinth of shadowed halls. At its end stood a tall door, with an inscription that I could not read. It was not common. I gave up on it, thought that whatever it held was naught to concern us, or that it was better left that way. I told the overlord this treasury was already raided, and he believed it.”

  “No,” Andrew stumbled out, slamming a fist against the rail. “There is more to it. Whence you returned, he took to madness, coveting the treasure, he—”

  “When did that whoreson not covet his loot?” Daniel asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Damian was mad since the first day I met him, back in a seedy tavern in Dale. I shared a story from my youth, and he made jests and called me all sorts of names, before these three toughs made a claim on our blood; the bastard was laughing all the while. You just did not see him enough.”

  “You lied to me, you and Shipp.” It was the only thought threading through Andrew’s mind. “You two convinced me, you … “ He let the words trail off. What did it matter? It was schemes upon schemes, plots breeding plots.

  “Not Shipp, no,” the Corsair said solemnly, and his words seem to hold a sliver of truth. A sliver. “Shipp does not take risks. He is not a fool like us. He would not dare challenge the overlord.”

  “And you would use me for your own games, Corsair,” Andrew shouted, drawing Doom once more. He did not care anymore. The manipulation and lies, he would not stomach it. “I am no man’s catspaw.”

  “Yet you dance to the imperator’s strings.”

  Doom raised, Andrew wanted to gut the Corsair for the lies. But he could not. Imperator Argath, the Black Storm, Andrew had to repay his sovereign’s mercy and trust. He could not do that in the Deep Below.

  Yet he would not lower his steel, and the Corsair would not draw his.

  “My lord, why do you not cut him down?”

  Andrew turned to a young woman armoured from shoulder to foot in boiled leather, her right hand on the pommel of a long sword. Her long brown hair hung loose, and she brushed some lose strands out of her face, looking on quizzically.

  “Aerona,” the Corsair began, looking down at the young woman sternly. “This is no concern of yours.”

  “It is, if I no longer have a captain,” she said sharply, without taking her eyes from Andrew. “The men have spied Ruination’s sails.”

  The words from this slip of a girl hung in the air. The messages traded in secret, the puddles of blood from the crew who carried them, the sacrifice—all for naught. The overlord was not meant to know, but he—

  “What did you say?” Andrew asked, rounding on her. He did not care what the Corsair or this young woman thought. It was lies, all of it, and he would cut through it, if needed.

  Aerona drew steel. “Do mind yourself, whoever you are. I am no maid that trembles before you.”

  “Much as I would enjoy seeing my trusted sworn sword lock steel with the Black Wrath, there are more pressing concerns. Sheath your steel, both of you,” the Corsair commanded. Aerona obeyed quickly, and Andrew grunted but did the same. “My friend, whatever Damian wants, he cannot find you on my ship. Aerona, take him to the cargo hold.”

  “I am not yours to command, Corsair,” Andrew insisted. “Not any longer.”

  “If you wish to keep your head, you will follow my command, and hers. Now fly. Damian does not wait.” The Corsair ran off.

  “Daniel, you—”

  “You are stubborn as a mule, but possess less sense,” Aerona said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “You may wish to die today, but I do not.”

  The poop deck pounded with feet, but not deckhands: Crimson Swords came up from beneath, swords drawn, attending to the Corsair. Andrew looked past the crimson and towards the stern, and though it was a faint, a dromond loomed beyond. I cannot fail my imperator. He turned to the young woman. “Lead on.”

  Aerona led him down to the poop deck, before taking stairs at the aft of the ship, descending deeper into the guts of the Black Tide. The whole ship was awake, the taskmasters cracked their whips in the adjacent halls, herding the crew to the oars, cannons, and lower decks.

  Boots pounding above echoed louder and louder as Andrew descended more and more steps. Shouts were muffled, but from the look on the faces of the passing crew and sworn swords, none of them expected the Ruination. If someone has betrayed us …

  “I hope you are worth the risk, whoever you are,” Aerona said as she shouldered past a shirtless deckhand who seemed lost for breath.

  Bristling, Andrew said, “Watch your tongue, girl.”

  Aerona laughed raucously. “Girl? No, big man, I could ride your cock if I wanted to. I am no girl.”

  Andrew left it unanswered. It was not the time or place to argue with the whelping. Wherever it is that she was taking him, he had to get there, and fast.

  “How much further?” He grunted out. “It will not take Damian long to board, he—”

  The stairs ended, and the young woman led him through the lower hold. Stacks of crates, barrels, and heaps of pelts and fabrics rose to near the roof. “Wine, and what else?”

  “None of your concern,” Aerona replied dismissively. “Sit down over here.” She pointed to the starboard wall, where two short crates stood, and a long, wooden tube hung from the roof.

  “What is—”

  Aerona silenced him, pointing to the tube. He strained his ear, and though the shouting was muffled, he could piece together the words, and the voice of the Corsair ordering about the Crimson Swords.

  “No, Damian is not on deck, not yet,” Aerona said, leaning back on a crate. “Yet it will not be long. I must say, I am awfully curious as to what mess the Corsair has landed us in.”

  My old friend has doomed us all, Andrew thought as he sat down atop the crate. Staring at the young woman, he tried to piece together who she was, but he could not place her face. Much must have changed in two years.

  “Who are you?” she asked suddenly

  “Andrew Dunctap,” he grunted. The slightest of smirks slithered across the young woman’s face. “What of it?”

  “Well, that does explain why the Corsair did not simply cut your throat and toss you overboard. I half expected to do it for him. Most think you are dead, but some of us know better.”

  If this whelping knew, perhaps she was more than she let on. Her f
ather, who—no, that does not matter now. “The pact has failed. My death was for naught.”

  “If only your friend had trusted my father more,” Aerona said sharply, her smirk fading. “We can still break this tide, if only—”

  She cut her words off and rose, placing her ear near the tube. Andrew strained his ear and listened.

  “Overlord Damian Dannars,” the Corsair’s voice rung out. “It is not like you come south of your islands.”

  “The seas are mine, Corsair,” a voice that Andrew knew to be the overlord’s said cuttingly. In his mind, he could see the stern lines of Damian’s face, the taunting swagger, and the coldness of those blue eyes. “I may go where I wish. Board whichever ship I deign. Ask any question I like.”

  “And what would you like to know?” Daniel’s muffled voice asked, much more subdued.

  “Subservience does not come easy to you,” the overlord replied, cackling. “It is what I always liked about you, but you do test me. Sometimes I think you do it for sport.” None on the poop deck spoke for a time, but then the overlord’s voice broke through, sharp as Andrew had ever heard it. “Yet when I give you a command, I do not expect you to countermand it. So, my old, old friend, you will tell me why the Black Tide is off the southern coast of the wasteland, instead of reaving along the Dalian Northlands. Was I not clear in my command to bleed those bleating, pious shites?

  “The imperium must be roused,” the Corsair replied swiftly and curtly. “Prince Adreyu will move on the Dalians ere long, and unless we provoke the imperator, the imperium shall not join the fray.”

  Aerona stumbled back, her face flushed. She did not know either, Andrew thought as the young woman returned to the wooden tube. But the Corsair is a fool. He will not convince the overlord of the truth of it.

  “How do you know this?” Damian asked weakly.

  “You are not the only one with eyes and ears in our old home,” Daniel replied, more forcefully than before. “King Marcus has not made a secret of his intent, and every noble in Trank rightly fears Prince Adreyu. It is only a matter of time before the prince has his way. If we cannot pin more reavings on Trecht, the imperator will not bestir when Trecht sets out. And what of us, then? We need Dalia and Isilia weakened, not vassal-states to the old kingdom.”