by Kai Meyer
Tyrone waited until the talk had died down, then he continued his address. “She gives you kobalins,” he said once more, relishing every syllable, “but I give you gold! If all the pirates of the Caribbean join together in this attack, dozens of ships will take the harbor of Caracas under fire—a whole armada! At the same time I will attack with my men from the land side. Well take the city by surprise.”
“How many men are you talking about?” Galliano asked.
“Yes,” the dark-skinned captain also questioned, “how many men do you command?”
Tyrone’s triumphant voice rang out into the stillness. “Five thousand!”
Soledad’s heart hammered in her chest. One thing was clear: She could evoke the coming destruction of the world for the captains—but against their lust for gold she wouldn’t get very far with it.
“Five thousand,” echoed from the crowd.
“Eighteen of the largest native tribes,” Tyrone confirmed, “and a few other scattered groups obey my command. And every day more join them.” He paused to let his words take effect.
Soledad jumped in. “He says ‘native tribes.’ But in fact, he means cannibals!” She fixed her eyes on Rouquette and Galliano. “Is that what you want? An alliance with five thousand human-flesh eaters?”
The two captains exchanged a look but then turned their attention to Tyrone again.
“The best is yet to come,” announced the cannibal king.
“Go on!” the captain with the forked beard cried avidly.
“I’m giving you five thousand men—and none of them will cost you a single doubloon!”
Again silence. Open mouths, wide eyes. Then someone broke into laughter, others clapped their hands. The captains’ enthusiasm gushed up among them like a tidal wave.
Soledad stood there as if she were turned to stone. Suddenly Walker was beside her, bending toward her ear. “Come on, let’s get out of here! Quick!”
“But—”
“No. It’s over. They won’t listen to you anymore.”
She knew he was right. She was powerless against such arguments. The Maelstrom? A war against kobalins? Unimportant in the face of five thousand fighters who would make these captains a great many times richer. Fighters they need not pay for.
Soledad said good-bye to the idea of returning to Aelenium with a large fleet. Even her victory over Kendrick suddenly meant nothing to her anymore. They’d be lucky to get off this island alive. The Antilles captains were going to eat out of Tyrone’s hand and fulfill his every wish. Soledad’s head on a golden tray? It would only be a question of the sharpest blade.
While the captains leaped from their places, excitedly shouting all at once, Soledad moved over to the steps with Walker. The men who’d been watching them and the Ghost Trader showed no more interest in them now.
“Let’s go!” said the Trader when they reached him.
And then they were hurrying down the stairs. Soledad looked back only once and saw that Tyrone had turned around to her.
He opened his mouth and laughed at her. Torchlight fell on his lips.
His gums were as black as a dog’s.
Walker and the Ghost Trader were arguing with each other. That is, Walker was arguing—the Ghost Trader remained remarkably under control. The captain was demanding to know why the Trader hadn’t simply called up all the ghosts on the island and brought the farce up there to an end. The Trader replied—not for the first time—that everything that had happened during the meeting had to happen that way and no other. Which was of course not an argument likely to persuade a man like Walker. But the Trader remained obdurate, as if he possessed some knowledge about the fate of all of them.
“It was important,” he said, “that we meet Tyrone in this way. And it was just as important that Soledad have the chance to humiliate Kendrick in front of everyone. Sooner or later you’ll understand that, Walker.”
Soledad paid attention only when her name was mentioned. But then she sank into her own dark thoughts again and left the men to themselves.
They had gone almost halfway back when two pirates stepped out of the trees and barred their way.
“What’s going on up there?” one of them asked. He carried a long-barreled rifle. The second wore a saber at his waist. Nevertheless, the two didn’t seem very intent on involving Soledad and her companions in a fight. Their attention was primarily on the illuminated platform in the rock wall, which from down here glowed like a second half moon in the darkness.
“We’re celebrating with Captain Tyrone,” said Walker quickly, before Soledad’s hesitation could make the sentries mistrustful. “He’s brought good news.”
“Him? Good news?” The man with the rifle frowned. “He looks like a lunatic to me.” Then quickly he added, “But don’t tell anyone.”
Walker shook his head. “The captains wanted to organize a celebration in his honor. They’ve just opened a barrel of rum up there.”
“Rum?” The pirate with the saber wanted to make sure.
“For everyone.”
“For us, too?”
“Not as long as you’re standing watch down here.”
“You mean … ?”
Soledad nodded. “Were on our way to tell the men on our ship. If they’re here first, there won’t be much left over for you.”
The pirates exchanged a look and they hurried off. “Thanks!” called one of them, grinning over his shoulder. “You’re true friends!”
Soledad and her two companions crouched and darted into the thicket. Yet they heard one pirate say to the other, “I think I recognized the one fellow. Looked like Walker.”
“The Walker?” asked the other, but whatever answer he got was lost in the rustling of the leaves as the three comrades hurriedly put distance between them.
They encountered two further groups of sentries, but they were able to avoid them in time. Soon afterward they reached the belt of palms that surrounded the island. Here the trees were at wider intervals, without any protective undergrowth. Their silhouettes showed up like paper cutouts on the snow-white sand. The little group slowed its steps. Walker dropped behind a little when he stepped, cursing, into a hermit crabs’ nest, and he busied himself on the way to the water pulling the uncooperative little creatures from his trouser leg.
A sharp wind was blowing across the sea. The waves foamed at their feet, and even in the moonlight they could see that high mountains of waves were boiling up out on the open sea. It seemed almost as if Tyrone had brought the harbingers of a storm with him to Saint Celestine—in several respects.
The Ghost Trader raised the mussel pipe to his lips. Then they waited in silence for the arrival of the sea horses.
The thought that the Antilles captains intended in all seriousness to ally themselves with the cannibal king left Soledad no peace. It was one thing to storm a Spanish fortress, even if there’d be a dozen or even a hundred dead; but it was something else to let five thousand flesh eaters loose on the inhabitants of Caracas.
In her mind she saw Tyrone’s pointed teeth before her and the black-stained ends of his tongue. She knew what the people of Caracas might expect when that beast made his entry there. And although Soledad herself had taken part in attacks and had seen with her own eyes how pirates fell on the women and girls of Spanish settlements, the idea of a hungry horde of cannibals called up sheer horror in her.
Suddenly everything looked hopeless. Their entire mission was a failure: On land the cannibals raged, on the sea the kobalins. And somewhere in the distance the Maelstrom was turning.
She wondered if he didn’t also pull the strings here, in the shape of men like Tyrone and Kendrick. Was there an alliance between them and the Mare Tenebrosum? Was the whole attack on Caracas nothing but a feint to keep the Spanish and the pirates busy while the Maelstrom extended his sphere of influence farther with each day?
She was going to share her thoughts with the others when Walker suddenly pointed to one of the illuminated ships.
/> “That’s Tyrone’s ship—the Quadriga!”
Against the starry sky and the churning horizon lay a four-master, a former Spanish frigate with a high bow construction. Only isolated lanterns were lighted on the railing and on the bridge. It almost seemed as though someone wanted to keep curious eyes from being able to observe what was taking place on deck.
A shiver ran over Soledad when she thought of the men who were in Tyrone’s service. His companions up on the rock plateau hadn’t been natives, and she guessed that the remainder of his crew also consisted of men from the Old World. But who would voluntarily follow a monster like Tyrone? What did he use to lure his people? Riches? Battle? Or was it fear that made them obedient?
A good hundred yards away from the Quadriga lay the Mask, Kendrick’s brigantine. While the Quadriga was primarily good for sea battles, the small and racy Mask was best suited for a fast journey.
“The ship’s boat!” Walker pointed to a small silhouette on the dark water. “They’re taking Kendrick back on board. He’ll never forget this defeat, whether or not the other Caribbean pirates keep on following him or you.” He was about to put his arm around Soledad’s shoulders when she took a step to one side, as if by chance.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said.
“The man who bandaged him was right,” said the Ghost Trader. “Kendrick will lose the leg. The wound was too severe, and they’ll only be able to give it emergency treatment on board. He’s finished as a leader.”
She shrugged, even if she was shivering inwardly. She’d already killed any number of men—but she’d never yet maimed one and left him alive.
“Whatever happens, I’m with you,” said Walker.
She was about to make a caustic reply when she suddenly realized how serious it was with him. She’d never seen him the way he was now. He was a cutthroat and a rogue, someone who couldn’t easily accept another as an equal—until that moment up there on the platform, when he’d put his arms around her. A change was taking place in him that touched her but also alarmed her. She feared for her own courage.
“There they are!” said the Ghost Trader, pointing at the three sea horses, who were gliding through the water to the shore.
Soledad was the first into the surf and waded to the horses. The sea horses stopped a stone’s throw from land. Here the sea was just deep enough to offer enough room for their long fish tails under the surface. The animals kept ducking themselves into the water, as if they instinctively felt that danger threatened them from aboard the ships.
A little later Soledad, Walker, and the Ghost Trader were sitting in their saddles. They turned the sea horses and headed toward the open ocean.
The Trader guided his animal closer to the others. “I think it would be a mistake to return to Aelenium now.”
Soledad looked at him in surprise. Secretly she’d thought the same thing, but she hadn’t dared say it aloud. She’d defended the throne of her father and was the rightful ruler of the pirates, whether Kendrick accepted it or not. Her place was at the side of the Caribbean freebooters. The attack on Caracas was a bad plan at the wrong time, and it was her duty to prevent it. But at the same time she felt a confusing obligation to Jolly and the others. She was now a part of that group, whether she wanted to be or not.
Walker looked from one to the other in the half light of the moon. “I know what you have in mind. But I wonder why.”
“Let’s follow Tyrone secretly, when he returns to his base,” said the Ghost Trader. “We serve the affairs of Aelenium better if we thwart his plans.”
“You felt it too, didn’t you?” asked Soledad, alert. “There’s more behind Tyrone than can be seen with the naked eye.”
The Ghost Trader nodded. “I felt it when he was standing up there and speaking to the captains. Those were his words, but the plan behind them … I’m not sure.”
“You think Tyrone serves the Maelstrom?” asked Walker.
“That we shall find out.”
“Good,” said Soledad. “Agreed.”
Walker nodded. Maybe he’d have followed her straight into the Mare Tenebrosum. That gave her a guilty feeling, but also an entirely new, unexpected excitement. It was for more than just gratitude that he was sticking by her.
“When the Quadriga hoists anchor,” the Trader said, “we follow her.”
Walker looked grimly from him to Soledad. “You know where that’s going to lead us.”
She stroked the back of the nervous sea horse’s head, as if she could give herself courage that way too. “Yes,” she said. “Right into the heart of the cannibal kingdom.”
16
Old Friends
“I don’t understand it,” said Jolly as she looked out over the Caribbean Sea, which gleamed like tarnished silver in the dawn light. Their follower under the waves had vanished without a trace the day before. “Something happened on Agostini’s bridge that I just don’t understand either.”
The Hexhermetic Shipworm was in his knapsack, which he hardly left at all these days, like a snail. Perhaps even he felt the deep uneasiness that had taken possession of them.
“No one in Aelenium could tell me anything about it. Not Munk, not the Ghost Trader, not even Forefather.” She knitted her brows. “Or maybe no one wanted to tell me anything.”
Jolly was standing in the bow of the Carfax with one hand on the railing, as if the cool wood under her fingers could help her to perceive the world around her as reality and not as another of the Mare Tenebrosum’s illusions. She now dreamed of the black ocean every night, just as if she were coming nearer and nearer to the Mare Tenebrosum, and yet she must actually be moving farther away from it with every sea mile.
“The Maelstrom is the gate to the Mare Tenebrosum, so therefore we must shut him in—I understand that. But what about the bridge that Agostini—I mean, the shape-shifter—built? Griffin and I, we were up on it. The bridge was just like a gate too. If it’s so simple to open one, why is the Maelstrom so very important?”
“Well,” said the worm in his grating voice, “I don’t know much about the Mare Tenebrosum.”
“But that isn’t true! You told me more about it than the Ghost Trader—before we arrived in Aelenium, anyway. You even knew the Crustal Breach!” She threw a glance over her shoulder up to the wheel where Buenaventure was standing. She’d gradually come to doubt that the pit bull man ever needed sleep. He passed the few rests he allowed himself dozing, always on the alert, vigilantly listening to every wind gust, every unusual creaking of the timbers. For days it had seemed as if he and the ship had melted together, body and soul of one creature. Buenaventure was here to protect Jolly—but his concern was also for the Carfax, like a dear old friend.
“Come on,” said Jolly, challenging the Hexhermetic Shipworm. “Talk to me!”
“So, the bridge,” he murmured with a sigh, wagging his head back and forth as if a fakir were luring him out of his knapsack with a flute. “You said the kobalins attacked the bridge. But they withdrew when the soldiers of Aelenium appeared and set Agostini’s construction on fire. Right?”
Jolly nodded.
“Doesn’t that seem strange to you? The kobalins are under the orders of the Maelstrom. And he in turn is a servant of the Mare Tenebrosum. Why should the Masters of the Mare assault their own construction or let it be destroyed at all?”
Jolly frowned. “No idea.”
“We-ell,” the worm drawled, “because we may have been mistaken the whole time. Perhaps the Maelstrom has been pursuing other goals entirely. His own goals.”
“But the Maelstrom is the gate for the Masters.”
“Why doesn’t he simply open by himself, then? Until now we’ve assumed he was probably too weak. But then why does he command thousands of kobalins and also stir up other mischief wherever he can? I have another conjecture: For some reason, the bridge was dangerous for the Maelstrom. And therefore he had it attacked.”
“Do you really believe the Maelstrom is stabbing the Mast
ers in the back?”
“Indeed. The Maelstrom must have freed himself from enslavement by the Masters. That’s the only explanation for the way the kobalins acted at the bridge. Perhaps he’s realizing his own power. Why should he share with the Masters if he’s now the most powerful creature in this world? He can set himself up as the ruler over all.”
The worm’s speculation turned upside down a lot of what Jolly had hitherto assumed. But it was the only way the whole business made any sense. The bridge must have been built because the Maelstrom had closed himself to the Masters and they needed another, new entry into this world. Then the only question remaining was, why didn’t they simply walk over it when Agostini had finished?
“You are expected,” she muttered softly.
The worm stretched his head out of the knapsack a little farther.
“Beg your pardon?” he asked in irritation.
Jolly brushed a strand of hair out of her face. The wind had freshened, and the Carfax was clearly picking up speed.
“The shape-shifter said that to me when he was standing with us on the bridge: You are expected.”
Jolly stepped away from the railing and began to pace nervously up and down the deck. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? It was about the polliwogs. In the final analysis, it was always about the polliwogs.
“The bridge wasn’t intended for the Masters of the Mare,” she said aloud. “Agostini built it for me. It was supposed to lead me to them in the Mare Tenebrosum.”
The worm nodded thoughtfully. “I was thinking something like that myself,” he said slowly.
Jolly stopped in front of him. “What kind of interest could the Masters have in me?” she asked. “Why didn’t they just direct the shape-shifter to bring me to them? After all, I’m their worst enemy.”
The worm pushed the edge of the knapsack down a bit farther with his front pair of legs. “Are you? Their deadly enemy?”
Jolly was about to answer when Buenaventure’s voice thundered over the deck.