Lothar eased up onto his elbows and peered over the lip of the cart. The man stood in front of a stone well. He grabbed Liam by his tight, curly hair and without hesitating, drew a long dagger across his throat. Blood gushed from the wound. It still gushed as the man grabbed Liam under his arms and prepared to toss him into the well.
Lothar knew this would be his only chance. He hopped out of the cart. As he did the rock chocking the wheel moved and the cart careened down the pathway. Lothar screamed as he slammed into the man’s lower back.
The force drove the man forward on the balls of his feet, sending him and Liam’s body tumbling into the well.
Lothar sprinted into the lush jungle. Thorny vines and wide leaves slapped against his face as he ran. Fear no longer filled his heart. Anger had taken up residence there; anger for his crew and anger at being deceived; anger that became rage – a rage that blinded him.
So blinded by rage was he that he did not see the arm that snaked out from behind a palm tree and caught him in the chest.
Lothar’s feet flew from under him. The air in his lungs exited his body with a whoosh. He landed flat on his back.
Black Tom stared down at him. “Where you off to in such a hurry, little brother?”
Lothar turned on his side and then hopped to his feet.
“She has the Bandit King!” Lothar said between deep breaths. “Liam and Horus are dead. The rest of the crew is in a cart rolling down the mountain! She said they were killing you fellows as well!”
Black Tom nodded. “Aye…as soon as I saw the water begin to drain from around our ship, we departed and made our way to land. We saw them take the King in one direction and the rest of you gents in another.”
Lothar felt like he was going to vomit. When nothing came forth, he straightened his posture and looked Black Tom in the eye. “So what are we going to do, sir?”
Black Tom patted his flintlocks. “We go get our brothers. And we deliver a bit of Greek fire to this horrible witch and her ill-formed kin.”
Lothar looked past him and saw the rest of the crew. They had bottles with cloth strips in the necks tied to their persons in make shift holsters made from some type of tightly woven yarn. Black Tom snapped his fingers and one of the crew handed him a cutlass.
“You with us, little brother?”
Lothar snatched the cutlass from Black Tom’s hand. “Most assuredly, sir.”
The Bandit King heard a cacophony of footfalls heading toward the cave where he hung like a fat goose in a butcher shop. The rumble of a multitude of voices singing in unison joined the footfalls as the procession neared the cave. He heard them come splashing through the water. By the sound, it had to be dozens of them.
Soft hands began to stroke his back and chest. Sister Abigail appeared in front of him like some strange phantom . She was still naked and every inch of her naked flesh was coated with some type of white powder that gave her a ghostly countenance. She walked through the rising tide until her face was mere inches from his. She smelled like charred wood.
“Now, my wicked king, it begins,” Sister Abigail whispered in his ear.
She turned and walked along the rough steps of the parapet until she reached the stone balcony. She raised her arms. “Sai’kia, sai’kazan! Shi’kian et Kathullu!”
The Bandit King whipped his head from side to side. Naked men and women filled the cave. The wanton women from the brothel and the twisted footmen that attended to them stood side-by-side, covered in the same ash as Sister Abigail. They repeated her strange mantra. The Bandit King felt soft hands reach into his heavy cotton breeches. The hands grasped his manhood. Despite not experiencing the slightest hint of amorousness, his manhood stiffened in the unknown woman’s embrace.
Sister Abigail gibbered away on the balcony.
The crowd howled like lovers locked in an orgasmic embrace.
The Bandit King felt his arms begin to burn as he felt himself nearing the precipice of passion. His birthmarks were burning. They pulsed with a faint red glow. Sister Abigail screamed and the pain in his arms increased until it was unbearable. His body tensed, every muscle as taut as a piano string. He grunted as his seed exploded from his manhood and into the unseen woman’s hand.
She released her grip and took off in an awkward run toward the gigantic door in the back of the cave.
Sister Abigail wailed as the ashen woman smeared his seed on the circular metal plate in the middle of the door.
“Good luck my dear,” the Bandit King shouted. “I am a man among men but I doubt I have magic in my manhood!”
A flaming bottle sailed through the air and broke against the supple flesh of one of the ashen ladies. Flames coated her body like a second skin, running over her like quicksilver across a metal smith’s bench.
The report of a flintlock roared twice in quick succession. The chains holding the Bandit King’s arms fell to his sides.
He looked up on the stone parapet. Black Tom tipped an imaginary cap in his direction.
My brothers, he thought.
“Bandit King, I think you may need this!” Lothar shouted.
The Bandit King looked to his right. Lothar stood on the parapet. The young man hurled the Bandit King’s broadsword through the air. As the bottles of Greek fire rained down, the Bandit King caught his broadsword with one hand.
“Oh yes, my dear cunny,” the Bandit King whispered. “Time to pay all debts and the only currency I accept is blood!”
Whistling, he twirled his right arm and then his left until the lengths of chain were wrapped around his burning forearms. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and began slicing his way through naked bodies on his way to the stone balcony. The scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils as he whirled and jumped and slashed his way through the crowd. All around him bodies fell. Screams became dying gasps.
A misshapen footman jumped in his path. The Bandit King shoved his blade through the man’s prodigious gut and then pulled hard to the side, freeing his sword and the man’s entrails.
The man pitched forward.
The Bandit King hopped on his broad back then jumped onto the parapet.
Sister Abigail stood firm on the balcony. She did not run; she did not kneel. She faced the Bandit King with a haughtiness that seemed in contrast with the scene unfolding around her.
“Well, you truly are dangerous corsair,” she said. “Come, kill me brigand. Run me through! It makes no difference now. The God that Sleeps Beneath the Sea has awoken. My life’s mission is complete.”
The Bandit King raised his sword.
“You put me in chains,” he said. “For that alone I would kill you.”
A thunderous crack filled the cave and stayed his hand. Another great crack split the air and all movement in the cave ceased.
Lothar froze in his tracks. He turned and peered at the large door. The circular metal plate was spinning – first, to the left, then to the right. The markings on the door glowed with a green, eldritch light. One more crack rent the air and then the disk fell from the door.
For a moment, all was silent.
Then, the door flew open, sending a wave splashing on the combatants.
A horrible roar assaulted Lothar’s ears. A roar that emanated from somewhere he feared to envision.
“Oh my God,” Black Tom gasped.
A figure walked out of the inky blackness beyond the door. It was twice as tall as the Bandit King. The shambling creature had greenish-black skin as slick as a seal. The thing walked on two legs but did not resemble a man. Its head was an undulating mass of muscular tentacles surrounding a raw, red gullet. Each tentacle ended with a twisted mouth filled with crooked yellow fangs. Its chest was covered with what appeared to be teats like one would observe on a nursing hound. It walked on legs that were as thick as tree stumps and its terrible hands each ended in wicked, green claws . Each talon was as long as a dagger.
“Run,” Black Tom said, speaking in a low murmur at first. No one moved. “Run!” he screamed
.
“Yes! He has awoken and now your time is at an end, sons of Adam!” Sister Abigail said. “He will destroy your cities and kill your babies and I will be his High Priestess. Now, he will…aaaaaagggrh!”
Sister Abigail ended her diatribe with a wail so full of agony, it made the Bandit King wince. As she spoke of her god one of his serpentine tentacles spilled over the balcony and enveloped her in a fatal embrace. The appendage flexed and squeezed her rib cage, cutting off her scream in mid-wail.
“I’ll take my leave of your island now, Sister Abigail!” the Bandit King said.
He ran down the parapet and then leaped over several bodies writhing in the final throes of death. He followed his men and the acolytes of the God that Sleeps beneath the Sea out of the cave. His lungs burned as he ran full speed through the jungle and away from the howling thing that devoured its followers.
The Bandit King reached the harbor and caught up with his crew. They stood on the shore, staring at their ship. The Black Angel sat in three feet of mud. The Bandit King could see that what he had taken for a natural formation was actually a man made trap. At the mouth of the harbor was a large wooden door. It was very similar to the door in the cave. The Bandit King deduced its purpose fairly quickly. A ship entered the harbor and the door was raised. Then through some form of machinery the water was bailed out of the harbor leaving the ship mired in muck.
“What do we do, sir?” Lothar asked. The crew stared at their captain with fearful, pleading eyes.
“We get on our goddamned ship,” the Bandit King answered. “We use the cannons to blow the door. The sea will do the rest.
A mournful shriek escaped the jungle.
“Quick now gents!” The Bandit King said. “I fear we haven’t much time before that thing makes meals of us!”
He and his men slogged through the muck and the mud and boarded their ship.
“Fire the cannons!” the Bandit King commanded. The crew whirled the cannons on their rotating platforms toward the aft section of the ship. The charges were lit and the cannon balls hit their target with ferocious accuracy. Sea water poured into the harbor. Lothar held fast to the railing as the Black Angel was buoyed up and to the left before righting itself.
“Hard starboard, Black Tom! “ the Bandit King yelled.
The sails unfurled and the strong southern winds began to the turn the ship until its bow pointed out of the harbor.
“Full speed ahead, Tom!” The Bandit King roared.
The sails of the Black Angel swelled with the winds rolling across the island as the ship left the harbor.
The Bandit King sat back in his chair on the bridge and laid his sword on the deck. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
He did not see the greenish black tentacle that wrapped itself around the railing.
“God save us!” Octon screamed.
The Bandit King leaped to his feet. He spotted a tentacle latching onto the rear of his ship. He looked back toward the island. The God that Sleeps Beneath the Sea was on the shore. His tentacles had reached out across the ocean and were coiling around the railings and rope cleats of the Black Angel.
“No more of this madness!” The Bandit King roared.
He picked up his sword and lunged toward the tentacles.
Lothar’s words stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Shia’kazoan, shi’kali Kathula, si’donal!” Lothar said. He had climbed up to the crow’s nest.
The wind carried his voice to the island.
The Bandit King watched in amazement as the tentacles uncoiled and slipped from the rails.
The creature on the shore fell to its mammoth knees. The Bandit King lowered his sword.
Lothar climbed down from the crow’s nest to the cheers of his crew mates.
“What did you say to him?” The Bandit King asked.
“I told him to go back to sleep,” Lothar said with a shrug.
The Bandit King laughed and laughed and laughed.
SEVEN THIEVES
Emmalia Harrington
Sweat escaped the turban Widow Edith Derosiers stuffed under her straw hat, dripping into her eyes. Any attempt to shake off the salty liquid sent droplets flying onto leaves and soil alike. Though a few dashes probably wouldn’t harm her garden, she grabbed a corner of her neckerchief to swab her russet skin. Eyeing the pump bottle beside her kneeling legs, she considered applying some mist to her face.
The bottle was filled with the best insect repellent in the Virginia colony, a mixture of witch hazel, lavender and mint suspended extracts. She was only a third of the way through with this current batch; a quick spray on herself shouldn’t be too wasteful.
Shaking her hands loose of cramps, Edith pressed her palm against her face. The action flattened her homemade mask, crushing the dried roses and lavender stuffed inside. Edith breathed deep, pulling the rose and lavender scent into her lungs, cleansing her innards. Even in her backyard kingdom, to travel unprotected was to court a painful death.
Rising to her feet, she beat dust off of her apron before picking up her tools and heading to her storage shed. Her knees and back complained only a little. Once everything was stowed away, she lingered at the doorway, taking in her treasures.
Herbs and flowers took up most of her land, planted as close together as she dared. Even with the air as still as it was right now, fragrance rose from every leaf and stem. Not one plant bore traces of browning, wilting or insects.
Nestled against her kitchen wall was a black canister large enough for an adult to stand with her arms outstretched. Edith didn’t miss her childhood days of pumping water and hauling buckets to the kitchen until her arms and hands were one large burn. Using the sun to heat water was much more civilized, as was replacing firewood with mirror blocks. Her perimeter fence was constantly edged with glass bricks covered in dark cloth. While bare mirror slabs could absorb heat from sunlight, black coverings sped the process and prevented her and Widow Anker from blinding themselves as they worked outdoors.
Near the back of the property was a brick outbuilding outfitted with a shingled roof and a few tiny windows. Edith kept her still house cleaner than anything, discouraging rogue wisps of perfume.
If crouching for hours in direct sunlight in the height of summer was odious, entering her little laboratory made her want to scream. The only light peeked from around the locked shutters and oozed from mirror slabs. A place so dusky should have condensation on its walls and air that steamed with every breath. What she had was a reek so stale her floral mask was the only thing keeping her from gagging. Opening the shutters and leaving the door ajar risked contaminating her nascent work with outside miasma.
Giving the mirror slab by the doorway a double tap, more captured sunlight filled the room, illuminating slabs which supported large copper pears with drooping stems feeding fragrant liquid into a receiving flask. In one corner stood a device as tall as her, its round glass sides boasting layers of gravel, sand and charcoal. The bottom of the tube held a tap where she could help herself to all the purified water she could carry. Against a far wall were casks of Seven Thieves’ Vinegar in the making.
A better world would have all her vinegar mature six months, allowing her ingredients to penetrate every drop of liquid. The current market demanded so much of the tonic, a single week had to do. Edith’s culmination of breeding, composting, weeding and cultivating was hastened into the hobby of an idle housewife.
Stretching her arms over her head, working gardening induced knots, Edith headed to a corner filled with vats of spoiled wine and her shelves of distilled essences. All of her stocks were running low and camphor, peppermint and the other five thieves were nearly gone. Her customers would die or move on to a whiter, less experienced perfumer before her ingredients grew again.
Near the middle of the room sat a table filled with scales, vials and other instruments, scrubbed yesterday until her fingers bloomed angry red. Pulling down the necessary ingredients, Edith measured what she
needed to make another vat of vinegar. Part of her wondered if she could pour the exact amounts with her eyes closed. The rest of her liked not being arrested or worse for selling faulty goods to whites.
The ground trembled beneath her in spurts. Straightening, a hand on the small of her back, she turned to find a familiar broad tawny body standing in the doorway. The newcomer was leaning against the frame, with heavy shadows under her eyes. Her gown and apron were rumpled, and her cap went askew as Edith barreled into Widow Marja Anker, delivering a rib creaking hug. The new woman returned the hug, the rumbling in her chest indicating a groan.
Edith stepped away, her eyes hardening as she took in the sweet woman’s bare face and dried blood framing her nails.
Widow Anker caught the sweaty woman’s glare. She mimed coughing into her free hand before turning the palm to Edith, revealing a lack of lung-generated pus.
Removing her mask, Edith rammed it into Widow Anker’s open hand before pointing to their house. Widow Anker’s lips moved, giving Edith a series of sounds tumbling into one another. Edith spun on her heel, returning to the table. Closing her eyes, she gave a small prayer that her Marja had enough sense to cover her nose at least until she returned indoors.
####
A small eternity later, with a flask of skin-cooling rosemary water in hand, Edith crossed her garden to the back door of her main house. The sun was finishing its peak in the sky, and the cramping in her stomach reminded Edith that she hadn’t eaten anything since the morning light made its first forays into the day. Before food, she had to deal with more pressing concerns.
Inside her house, by the back door, rested a floppy paddle fan made of conductive wires and treated cloth.
Picking up her fan, Edith followed her nose to the kitchen, leading her to Widow Anker, back facing the room, scouring her medical gear with sand and water. Stomping the ground to alert the woman, Edith said “What were you thinking, being out all night?” Widow Anker wilted at the sound of Edith’s voice, loud enough for the deaf to hear. “Do you want to give the City Watch a reason to lock you away? You of all people should remember the black’s plague curfew.”
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