Salamaine's Curse

by V. L. Burgess

  The serpent lunged. Tom, gripping the cutlass, twisted sideways and dove for the bottom of the boat. Having missed Tom, the serpent coiled its enormous tail around Fred, lifted the statue, and slammed it into the dark, frigid depths of the lake.

  Seconds passed.

  The creature coughed up a spray of feathers and whacked its tail against the water, leaving Tom with the distinct impression that it was his head the monster had hoped to devour, not Fred’s toy parrot. And it was definitely not pleased with the substitution.

  The serpent shot out of the water and lunged again. Its fiery eyes blazed, its fangs glistened. Tom ducked and swung his cutlass, aiming for thecreature’s throat.

  He missed.

  Instead of hitting the serpent’s neck, his rusty blade sliced through the creature’s tail, severing the rattle tip from the rest of its body. The serpent gave a shrill, high-pitched whine and arched out of the water, thrashing madly. Then gravity took hold of it. The full weight of its body collapsed on top of the boat, smashing it into a thousand pieces and pitching Tom into the lake.

  Cold. Icy cold. The shock of it stabbed his skin like thousands of sharp, stinging needles driven into his body at once. His muscles locked in a spasm of protest, but fortunately he didn’t need to swim. His life vest returned him to the surface. Gasping, Tom drew in a lungful of air. He brought up the cutlass and peered into the darkness, readying himself for the serpent’s next attack.

  But the water was eerily quiet. The creature was gone— at least for the moment. The only sign that the serpent had been there at all was the rattle tip of its amputated tail, which glowed a deep pinkish-orange as it bobbed in the water in front of him. Tom stared at it, totally transfixed. The rattle was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It looked like some rare jewel that had come to life before his very eyes. Unable to stop himself, he reached for it.

  A splash sounded behind him. Tom whirled around, his heart beating wildly.

  Fred. The statue popped to the surface. Apparently his hollow build gave him enough buoyancy to float. Fred stared at the sky with an expression of mild surprise on his face, as though he hadn’t expected to find himself in a lake at midnight, victim of a sea serpent attack.

  Tom knew exactly how he felt.

  Icy cold seeped into his body. He could feel his limbs tingling, his fingers and toes going numb. He had to get out of the frigid water fast or he wouldn’t be able to move at all. And he definitely didn’t want to be in the lake when the serpent decided to come back. Left with no choice, he grabbed a single oar floating nearby and swam toward Fred.

  He reached the statue and clumsily heaved himself across it. Straddling Fred’s chest, he rode him like a chubby surfboard, paddling frantically toward the beach, terrified he’d spot a pair of burning red eyes trailing him in the water. Fortunately, his luck held and he made it back before the serpent returned.

  Half-frozen, he dragged Fred ashore and parked him at the water’s edge. Then he flopped face-down in the dirt, breathing hard.

  A shadowy figure emerged from the bushes and strode toward him. Tom tensed and reached for the cutlass, but abruptly realized it must have slipped away from him somewhere in the lake. The man moved forward, stopping only inches from his head. Tom angled his neck back and saw a booted foot. A single booted foot and a wooden peg leg. Relief poured through him.

  Umbrey.

  “Interesting vessel you got there, lad.” Umbrey nodded toward Fred. “But if you judge a man by the ship he captains, I’d say you’re in pretty rough shape.”

  “At least I came back alive.”

  “Ah. The first rule of sailing: Don’t drown. Well done.” Umbrey peered down at Tom. “Looks like you got a little wet, however.”

  “It’s a wet lake.”

  “Aye. Most of them are.”

  Tom and his friends had dressed Fred to resemble a pirate, but Umbrey was the real deal. Peg leg, ruffled shirt, knee breeches, and a velvet blazer. His skin was weathered from the sun and his voice was low and deep—the kind of voice that could carry orders across the deck of a ship.

  Tom was about to ask him what had brought him there when something occurred to him. He scanned the beach. “Hey. Where’d everybody go?”

  “Mortimer was here a few minutes ago. Discovered they were missing from their beds and chased ‘em all back to school.”

  Tom groaned and rolled over. Perfect. Just when he thought the night couldn’t get any worse. He’d earned another demerit on Professor Lost’s list.

  “What happened to you?” Umbrey demanded.

  “There’s something in the water. An eel … a sea serpent. I don’t know. It attacked me.” He reached into his pocket for the rattle tip of the creature’s tail, which he’d grabbed before heading for shore. He withdrew it and passed it to Umbrey.

  “So that’s the stink on you.” Umbrey gave the tail a shake. “A folly. Pholidae, technically. Nasty creatures. Fortunately for you, they like to play with their food before they eat it. Gives a man a fighting chance.” He looked at Tom. “How’d you know its weak spot was its rattle?”

  “I didn’t. I was aiming for its throat.”

  “Beginner’s luck, eh?”

  Wincing at the throbbing ache in his back, Tom slowly got to his feet. “Yeah, I feel real lucky.”

  “Watch your tongue, lad. Sarcasm is not becoming of a sailor.”

  Tom wanted to remind him that he wasn’t a sailor at all, just a normal fourteen-year-old kid who’d discovered a world he’d never guessed existed, met a twin brother he’d never known he had, and learned that he had been born with the unique ability to make ancient maps come alive. A dubious skill. It had led to him being chased by an evil army, nearly torn apart by savage dogs, swarmed by dragons, and threatened by tribal warriors. Now he could add attacked by a sea serpent to the list. He would have mentioned that, but Umbrey wasn’t the sympathetic type. He probably would have just accused him of whining.

  So Tom turned his attention instead to removing his life vest and wringing the ice water from his shirt. When he finished he found Umbrey watching him, a curious expression on his face.

  “You don’t know then, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “About follies. There are men who’ve devoted their entire lives to hunting these creatures.” He held the tip of the folly’s tail aloft and gave it a soft shake. “Just to claim this prize.”

  “That thing? Why?”

  “Think, lad. What does the word folly mean?”

  Tom vaguely recalled seeing it once on a vocabulary test. He dredged his memory. “I don’t know … doing something foolish, I guess. Building something ridiculous. Acting without thinking or showing good sense.”

  “Aye. Like making a wish and not understanding the consequences.”

  “Right.” Tom nodded, then froze as Umbrey’s words slowly sank in. “Making a wish? You don’t mean …”

  “I do.” He tossed the tail back to Tom. “Only the one who captures the serpent’s rattle can make the wish, and only once. So think hard before using it, if you choose to use it at all.”

  If he chose to use it? If?

  Wild elation surged through Tom, leaving him almost dizzy with excitement. A wish. His mind whirled as hundreds of greedy thoughts bombarded him at once. A million dollars. A private jet. Lifetime season passes for him and his friends to snowboard. His very own pro basketball team. How could he possibly narrow it down?

  He stared down at the object nestled in his palm. Pine-cone shaped, it looked like an enormous rattlesnake tail. He held it cautiously, half-expecting it to suddenly sprout a claw and change into something else. It didn’t. In Umbrey’s hands, the thing was gray, dead-looking. But the moment Tom had touched it, it pulsed with light, emitting a gentle heat that warmed his icy fingers. “You’re serious, right? You’re not joking. This is real?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “No matter what I wish for, this rattle thing will make it come true?”


  “Aye. Your wish will be granted, but always at a cost.”

  A distant alarm sounded in Tom’s mind. He narrowed his eyes at Umbrey. “What do you mean, ‘at a cost’?”

  “Wishes are dangerous things. They can turn a man’s life in a direction he never meant to go. Many a man who captured the rattle lived to regret it.” Umbrey gestured toward the water’s edge. “Might be best to just throw it back in the lake now, while you still can.”

  Throw it back? Absolutely not.

  Tom wanted it. Even more than he’d wanted it when he’d snatched it out of the frigid water. Something about it had called to him. Now he understood why.

  Forgetting the ugly viciousness of the creature itself, he focused on the glowing warmth and beauty of the rattle. It pulsed to a silent rhythm of its own, shifting from fiery crimson to deep orange to shocking pink. Amazing. He could stare at it for hours.

  Umbrey watched him for a moment, then he let out a low sigh and shook his head. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But if you’re determined to keep the blasted thing, get it out of my sight.”

  Tom reluctantly stashed the rattle in his pocket. Turning away, he lifted Fred upright and stuck him in the packed dirt like a tilting Statue of Liberty. As he did, he noted that Fred had earned a souvenir from the battle as well: a jagged white scar stood out across his cheek. It gave him a dashing, rugged, and distinctly pirate-like air—a vast improvement to his former geeky prep school self.

  Umbrey looked at the statue and seemed to concur. He nodded approvingly. “Gives him a little character, doesn’t it?”

  “Lost won’t like it.”

  “No, I expect not. But we’ve got bigger problems to worry about.”

  Thunder rumbled and jagged forks of lightening split the sky. The long, drifting shadows in the woods were thrown into stark silhouette. They shifted through the tree limbs, reaching toward Tom and Umbrey like long, skeletal fingers. Icy apprehension curled up Tom’s spine.

  His gaze shot back to Umbrey. “The Watch?” he asked.

  Umbrey’s expression sobered. His mouth tightened into a grim line. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Worse, I’m afraid.”

  Tom’s stomach clenched. “Porter?” he asked. “Is he all right? What about Mudge and Willa?”

  “They’re fine—for the moment, at least.” Umbrey reached into his velvet coat and withdrew a loosely bound parchment scroll. One dog-earred corner flapped in the breeze. By the glimmer of moonlight, Tom was able to make out the crude sketch of a compass, its four points stretching north, south, east, and west. A map.

  Umbrey held the scroll aloft.

  “We need you, Tom. Now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DARK MAPS

  An anticipatory thrill ran through Tom. His fingers itched to spread the map open and run his hands over the thick parchment. But before he could, a thrashing sound echoed from the path behind them and Professor Mortimer Lost emerged, carrying with him a candlelit lantern, an umbrella, and his ever-present book of demerits.

  Headmaster Lost, the founder of the Lost Academy, was long limbed and painfully thin, as though his maker had originally intended to fashion a crane, but changed his mind at the last minute. Lost had sunken eyes, a long chin, and a beaked nose that was perfect for sniffing out trouble. His thin lips were turned down in a scowl of perpetual disapproval, as though he constantly expected to find grave failings with those around him.

  Tom had an unfortunate habit of obliging him.

  “Thomas Hawkins,” Lost’s voice was shrill and stern. “Your co-horts in this shameful misadventure have already been dealt with. They are spending the rest of this evening scrubbing the latrines. Perhaps that will remind them that the rules of this institution are to be obeyed. And as for you—” He gave a horrified gasp as he glanced over Tom’s shoulder and spied Fred.

  His expression made it abundantly clear that he didn’t find Fred’s scar quite as dashing as Tom and Umbrey had.

  He stormed down to the shoreline to better inspect the statue, then wheeled around and thrust a bony finger at Tom. “Apparently you are determined to pander to the delinquent streak in your character. Defacing the school mascot. Leaving the dormitory after lights out. Entering the lake although it is expressly forbidden.” He paused, his frown deepening as he noted the wooden debris that littered the beach. “Do not tell me—”

  “It wasn’t entirely the boy’s fault,” Umbrey interrupted. “You’ve got a folly in your lake. It might have been a little bit rough on your boats.”

  “A pholidae? In my lake?” Lost’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed in disgust. “Impossible. I just had the water fumigated.”

  “Er … about that …” Umbrey scratched the coarse stubble on his chin. “The beastie might have slipped in with me. One of my men thought he smelled something foul on the starboard side, but we were in a bit of a hurry, you know. Don’t have time to worry about every little thing.”

  “Every little …” Lost echoed, fuming. “That is precisely the sort of carelessness I’d expect from you, Umbrey.”

  “Now, now, Morty—”

  “Do not call me Morty. You needlessly infected my lake, and to what end? We’ve already discussed this. There will be no more unnecessary travel between the Five Kingdoms and this academy. Clearly the boy’s not ready.”

  “Not ready?” Tom interrupted. “I’ve been there. I’ve been to the Five Kingdoms. If they need me, I’m ready to go there again.”

  “Ready?” The headmaster gave a dry cackle. “Preposterous. You are a brash and impetuous child. Driven by reckless impulse rather than intellect. Without further discipline you will only be a danger to yourself and those around you.”

  “Maybe that’s because I’m supposed to be there, and not here,” Tom suggested firmly.

  “Nonsense,” Lost huffed.

  “But—”

  “That will do, Mr. Hawkins.” Lost drew himself up to his full height and sent Tom a frosty glare. “Character is not determined by where you are, but by who you are. You would do well to remember that.”

  Exactly the sort of thing Lost would say. Tom ground his teeth in frustration. Umbrey gave the scroll he carried an impatient shake. “Is there somewhere we can look at this?”

  Lost glared at Tom for a moment longer, a look of sharp displeasure on his face. As the seconds ticked past, Tom caught his breath, thinking the headmaster was going to refuse Umbrey’s request. Finally, however, Lost stomped the tip of his umbrella into the packed dirt of the beach and gave a curt nod.

  “As you have gone to considerable lengths to bring that scroll here—infecting my lake in the process—I shall grant you the courtesy of seeing what it depicts. Do not, however,” he continued, turning to send Tom a stern glare, “interpret this as a sign of my willingness to permit you to return to the Five Kingdoms.”

  Lost directed them to the boathouse. The heavy padlock, picked by Tom’s friends, swung uselessly against the doors.

  “Apparently Mr. Hawkins has seen to it that we don’t have to trouble ourselves with the key. How very expedient.”

  They stepped inside. Perched on a dock at the edge of the lake, the boathouse was perpetually damp, drafty, and musty-smelling. Most of the boats hung suspended in mid-air, swaying and creaking as though rowed by ghosts. But one boat had been lowered for repairs. It rested upside down in the center of the room on raised planks, its battered wooden hull facing the ceiling.

  Using it as a makeshift table, Umbrey spread the map across the weathered hull. Lost stepped forward to look at it, then gave a sharp gasp and spun around to glare at Umbrey.

  “A dark map? Here? You’ve brought a dark map to my school? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

  “I had no choice, Mortimer. Now bring that light here so we can see the blasted thing.”

  Lost hesitated for a moment, his face pinched in distaste, before reluctantly drawing the candlelit lantern he carried closer to the map.

  The
movement threw long flickering shadows into the corners of the room. Tom had lost track of the approaching storm, but at that moment the weather chose to reassert itself. Wind howled and torrents of rain pelted the roof. Although his wet clothes hadn’t bothered him earlier, he now had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering from the cold.

  An icy gloom seemed to seep through the cracks in the floor’s planking, enveloping them all. It took him a moment to realize that the dark chill he felt wasn’t coming from the violent storm, but from the map Umbrey had opened.

  He stepped closer to get a better look.

  It was an ugly thing. Dull and dirty, torn in places, with none of the gritty elegance or splashes of color that had marked his father’s work. But then, his father had mapped ancient legends. This was primarily a nautical map.

  The map bore no title, but Tom was familiar enough with the Five Kingdoms to recognize the Cursed Souls Sea. Aquat, a nation comprised of a long chain of islands, dominated the western edge. Beyond that were Bloody Bay, Skeleton Harbor, Hurricane Hell, and Tsunami Shores. The Island of Doom was snuggled between the Island of Death and the Island of Despair.

  “Give it a go, lad.”

  Tom nodded, immediately understanding Umbrey’s instruction. He lifted his hand and cautiously drew it above the map’s surface.

  The map came alive! It shuddered and heaved as the Cursed Souls Sea began to churn, changing the water from a wretched blue to an angry bile green. Riptides, waterspouts, and cross currents shook the map’s surface. Writhing nests of pholidae hissed and rattled their tails, enormous great white sharks circled a sinking ship as the desperate crew cried out for help, a jellyfish whipped its long, slimy tentacles upward as a school of prehistoric-looking flying fish leapt from the water and dove back into the map’s churning sea.

  Then, in a movement so fast Tom had no warning it was coming, a skeletal hand shot from the water and grabbed his wrist.

  Tom yelped and jerked back his hand, but no matter how hard he tugged, he couldn’t break the hold. Mostly bone and claw, the hand was not quite human, not quite animal, but something in between. The thing—whatever it was clung to it, searing his flesh like a burning hot vise.