Kassandra fingered the gold signet ring that hung on a chain about her neck – the heirloom that had set her upon this quest. The only relic of the notorious Black Jacques Dupont to have returned home from the Ghost Archipelago.
Momentarily caught in her reverie, Kassandra became aware of an unflinching gaze upon her. Across the table, her Warden, Kor’Thiel – her guide in the mystical ways of the Archipelago – stared at her, knowingly. Kassandra shook away the odd sensation that the mystic instilled in her, and instead looked to the table before her, where lay an ancient map. It was faded, drawn roughly on brown-stained parchment, its corners weighted down with purses filled with plundered gold crowns. A pretty haul, and one that the crew of the Nightmaiden loudly appreciated.
‘I still do not understand,’ a man standing behind her said. Konrad, her chief scout, always the dissenting voice in her crew. ‘The map is old. It is barely legible. What good will it do?’
‘It would do you no good,’ Kassandra said, coolly. ‘Not without me. This map is enchanted; it shows the way to Black Jacques’ treasure, but only if you have eyes to see.’
The noise died down as she spoke, to be replaced by a hushed reverence. Everyone – not just Kassandra’s crew– knew of what she spoke.
‘They say that treasure be cursed,’ Konrad said, quietly. ‘They say that all who touch it perish.’
‘Konrad, the naysayer.’ Across the table, Kor’Thiel, the Beast Warden, looked up at Konrad from beneath bushy brows, and all men hushed at his words, for he spoke little. Kor’Thiel stroked his matted, red beard. ‘Do not take the gleam from today’s victory,’ he said. ‘Are we not led by the Owl? Our captain is a Heritor – the blood of Black Jacques flows through her veins. Her gift is singular to her line. She will break the curse – it is foretold.’
‘Her gift is one that we cannot see,’ Konrad mocked. ‘She could tell us anything about that useless scrap, and expect us to believe it.’
Kymba moved to intervene on his captain’s behalf, the dark-skinned giant cutting a formidable figure, and yet Konrad did not back away. Kassandra placed a hand on Kymba’s arm – she knew the ale had flowed freely, there was no call to fall out amongst themselves.
‘When the moon rises, what you see as a useless scrap will become our most precious possession,’ the Beast Warden said. ‘For only then will the Owl see the hidden ways marked upon it, to lead us through these islands, to the treasure that you so desire.’
‘And what treasure is this?’ Konrad asked. ‘Will it be worth the risks?’
‘Aye,’ Kassandra said, ‘and worse besides. But if you ever want to see it, you had best stay close to your captain. Without me, Konrad, you’d be lost.’ She stood as she said this, and took a flagon from the tray of the returning wench.
At this jest, the celebrations resumed. Laughter and song echoed about the Hanged Head. Konrad slunk away, back to his cups. Cut-throats melded back into the shadows, eyeing the tavern patrons, though they’d have slim pickings this night.
* * *
Kassandra rubbed at her eyes, and staggered out into the balmy night, the sounds of snoring seafarers and ripe stench of the Hanged Head fading behind her. She slipped between tall trees, down to the clifftop, where a warm breeze carried with it the creaking of rigging-ropes and the smell of salt. The moon hung low over the bay, a shimmering, pearlescent haze masking the horizon. The Ghost Archipelago stood beyond the reach of most mortals. As a Heritor, she was not like most mortals.
She stood upon the clifftop above the bay, wind sweeping at her tousled brown hair and myriad silk scarves. Kassandra allowed her powers to rise, just for a moment. When night fell – and especially when the moon shone – the world changed for her, when she allowed it. She saw the life-force pulsate through every blade of grass; the magical energy of the islands flowing around her in a twisting, iridescent display; the sea shimmered in colours that few had ever seen. Few outside of her bloodline.
She unfurled the map. In the moonlight, hidden paths were revealed to her preternatural vision. Coastlines were marked, dangers indicated, treasure troves recorded. The map came alive with silver trails and scrawled notes. It was not for nothing she was called the Owl, for her gift was to find what was hidden in the darkness. The map had been made by her ancestor, ‘Black’ Jacques Dupont, one of the first Heritors. And on the map was marked his final destination; his tomb, long forgotten. Finding the map had been perilous in itself, and finding Jacques’ resting place probably more so. But it would be worth it.
‘I’m coming for you, Jacques,’ she said to the night. ‘I’m coming for the stone.’
‘The stone?’
A voice interrupted Kassandra’s private moment. An all-too familiar voice. She wheeled about, reaching for a dagger.
‘Vance!’ she hissed.
Before her stood a tall man, square of jaw, golden of hair. Behind him, a group of swarthy brigands and seasoned soldiers stood, weapons readied. At Vance’s feet crouched a Warden, swathed in simple robes, touching the earth, eyes rolled back into his head, white. The Warden trembled, ending the enchantment he had been working, and stood, unsteady from the exertion.
By virtue of her gifts, Kassandra was nigh impossible to creep up on in the dark. The Warden had been masking the life-force of Vance and his men from her, and now she was trapped. She blinked away her moon-sight, lest the toll upon her began to tell, and the blood price be paid.
‘You have led me a merry dance, my love,’ Vance smirked. ‘To think, I almost passed by this rat’s nest, and yet my little birds sent word. Word of a pirate princess, addled with drink, crowing of her latest plunder. A map that leads the way to Black Jacques’ treasure. I see you have it with you.’ Vance held out a hand and beckoned Kassandra hand the map over.
Kassandra’s eyes narrowed. She had sailed across the world to escape this man, and yet here he was. Instinctively, she rolled the map and held it close. She took a step back. Her feet dislodged some stones, which skittered down the cliff. She peered over her shoulder. The drop was too sheer, the rocks below too jagged.
‘There’s nowhere to run, Kassandra. Give me the map – you know I can take it if I want it.’
‘What if I tear it up and throw it into the sea?’ Kassandra said, defiantly.
‘You won’t – I know what the legacy means to you. But… if you did, I would just have to content myself with taking you. We are still betrothed, are we not?’
‘We are not!’ she snapped. The thought of marrying this man made her nauseous.
‘Your father thinks otherwise. He’s paid a pretty penny to the man who brings you home. I hope to win his favour by saving him that ransom and taking you back myself – once I’ve found the Crystal Pool, of course.’
‘My father favours you quite enough already, I think.’ Kassandra was stalling – she had to think of some means of escape. Or perhaps her crew would realise she was gone. The ale-induced fug still gripped her – and she was a Heritor. The grog did not affect her so much. Her men would be sleeping like babes, wenches in their arms, until dawn came.
All but one.
She saw him now, moving with surprising stealth for a big man, Kymba, his dark skin and black silks made him a shadow. His old life, hunting sabercats in the jungles of far Zhembia, made him quiet as he was strong. Kymba melded in to the treeline, vanishing from sight. He could get around Vance’s group easy enough. There were ten men arranged before her – Kymba had faced worse odds. But Vance was a Heritor, too, and unlike Kassandra, his gifts were very much suited to battle.
‘Look here, men,’ Vance was saying, ‘I have a reluctant bride! An extra ration of grog to the man who delivers her to my cabin.’
As one, the men stepped forward. Kassandra’s heel slipped on the cliff’s edge. She held her breath, waiting for her moment, as hands were almost upon her.
With a roar, Kymba launched his attack. Two of Vance’s men were flung bodily through the air. Another fell as a great ham-sized fist struck hi
m. The men fell over themselves so quickly to turn upon their enemy that Kassandra almost teetered backwards, regaining her balance with a theatrical flourish of her arms. She drew her dagger and sprang forward through the crowd, ducking a sword-stroke as she went.
‘Don’t hurt her, you idiot!’ Vance cried. He waded through the press of men, barging them aside. Kassandra lunged at him with her dagger, hatred in her heart. He parried the blow effortlessly with a forearm, his skin hard as iron. Vance grinned devilishly as he registered Kassandra’s surprise. He shoved her hard, into the embrace of two of his knaves, where she struggled in vain.
Kymba lunged into the fray, barging one man so hard he toppled over the ledge, screaming as he fell. At the sight of his man’s death, Vance stopped his smiling. His chiselled jaw clenched. A strange, amber glow surrounded him, an aura of power. Kymba either saw it not, or did not care. The Zhembian swung his mighty arm, fist connecting with Vance’s face. Kymba grunted in pain, his fingers crunching with the impact. Vance barely moved.
As Kymba staggered, Vance stepped forth, his own fist clenched, preparing to strike.
‘Vance, no!’ Kassandra yelled.
Vance looked to her. ‘No? What is it worth?’
‘My compliance; I swear it,’ she said. ‘Do not kill him… Please.’
Vance’s infuriating, mocking smile returned. Kymba had stood, oblivious to what was transpiring before him. He looked as though he would strike again, and Vance turned to face the giant. The Heritor opened his fist, and struck Kymba hard in the chest with the flat of his hand.
With a look half of pain, half of sheer surprise etched upon his scarified features, Kymba flew through the air, crashing into the trunk of a great bronzebark tree. Vance’s power was his physical strength and resilience, and he made a show of that power for all to see. A bully.
Kymba again tried to stand, and it was Vance’s turn to be surprised.
‘You have heart, giant,’ Vance said. ‘But the odds are against you.’
Undergrowth rustled. More figures emerged onto the clifftop clearing. All-too familiar figures. Kymba looked around in confusion as he was assailed from all sides. Kassandra struggled against her captors, tears stinging her eyes as she saw what was happening.
Konrad stood over Kymba, a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘It is over, big man. You have lost.’
‘Konrad! What are you doing?’ Kassandra snarled.
‘Collecting my reward,’ he said.
With a smirk, Vance searched Kassandra, taking her coin purse, her jewels, and snatching the ring from her neck. ‘You won’t be needing these, love,’ he said. ‘After all, what’s mine is yours. Or, rather, his.’
Vance tossed Kassandra’s purse to Konrad, and her jewels and precious ring. Konrad picked them up from the dirt and nodded thanks.
‘Konrad here has left us a trail since you landed on the east isle three days ago,’ Vance said. ‘When he signalled us tonight, we knew you had struck gold. The wretches down at the cove told us all about your boasts. Kassandra, my love – you were too rash, too careless.’ He marched over, and snatched the map from her hand. ‘You are going to lead us to Black Jacques’ treasure, my betrothed. And remember, you promised compliance. Not that I should trust you these days – you are a pirate now, after all.’
At this, the men laughed. Kassandra seethed.
Vance shouted to Konrad. ‘Where is her Warden?’
‘Escaped, like a thief in the night,’ Konrad said. ‘Must have seen it coming.’
‘Ah, the gift of foresight. Pity it did not save his captain.’
‘What shall I do with this one?’ Konrad asked, jerking his head at Kymba.
‘Kill him, let him go… it’s all the same to me. You have done well. Take the ship – Miss Dupont will no longer be needing it. Split the treasure however you see fit. Our business is concluded.’
And with that, Kassandra was dragged away, her night of victory sundered as her past caught up with her.
* * *
If the first two days had been hard, the third was harder still.
Kassandra had struck out for the Ghost Archipelago as a rebellious young woman, escaping a life of privilege and plenty. She had known what lay in store, or at least thought she had.
Now, ascending a barely-trod track up the side of a great mountain, with the baking sun beating down, she was not so sure. Every step was taken in bitterness, for she had brought Vance and his men this far, her own desire to claim her birthright weighed against her reticence to share that birthright with Vance. He was a soldier born to soldiers. She was a noble born to merchants, who had grown fat off the legacy of their Heritor blood. Their match, the augurs said, was written in the stars. So why then did Kassandra loath Vance so? Perhaps it was his lack of compassion, his cruelty to man and beast, his avarice. Perhaps it was his perfect teeth and sculptured profile, or the way he managed to stay clean even here, in the sweat and toil of a climb across mountainous terrain, with humid jungle all around.
There was no denying it: she hated him. Or maybe she hated what he represented. Right now, they were the same thing.
He walked ahead of her, his Warden, Bharquist, and most trusted soldiers around him. Behind, the rest of the crew hauled equipment and weapons, and pulled the tethers of recalcitrant pack-mules. Sometimes they looked at Kassandra with a gleam in their eye, flashing toothless grins her way. She shook her head at the ignominy – first a lady, then ‘the Owl’, captain of her own modest ship, and finally a prisoner on a forced march.
At the head of the column, a Drichean guide forged the path. Sure-footed, heavily muscled, skin like tanned leather, the Dricheans were honourable to a fault. Kassandra had little doubt that they would soon learn how treacherous the people from across the sea could be, just as their ancestors had, two hundred years ago.
After several hours, with the sun beginning its descent in a rose-blushed sky, the trail began to flatten and broaden, and a jungle plateau revealed itself before them. Steam rose from vine-twisted trees; creatures not heard by civilised men in centuries called from the dark tangle. The jungles of the Ghost Archipelago were forbidding places, in which even the fauna would conspire to kill the careless.
Vance called for the column to halt, and the men gratefully laid down their packs. Two men came to sit beside Kassandra, like watchdogs. Kassandra stood defiantly. She would show no weakness – these louts would know that a Heritor was worth ten of them.
‘Better take some rest, my little brown owl,’ Vance said to Kassandra. ‘We move in half an hour.’
‘You don’t honestly intend to cut your way through the jungle?’ Kassandra asked.
‘It is the fastest route.’
‘It is the most dangerous route.’
‘We must be at these “Kraken Caves” that Jacques wrote of by moonrise, if your skills are to be of use,’ Vance shrugged. ‘If we take the long way around, we’ll not reach them before dawn, and a day will be wasted. Only you can guide us through the caves, remember?’
‘I never forget my own worth,’ Kassandra snarled. ‘Perhaps you would be wise to remember it.’
Vance tossed back his perfect hair and laughed. ‘Priceless, my love. So proud, even covered in dirt and sweat like the rest of us.’ His expression changed from amusement to cruelty in a heartbeat, and he drew near, squeezing Kassandra’s jaw with a strong hand. ‘You are stuck with us – with me – and don’t you forget it. Your gift is worthless by day, and barely an asset in this hostile world by night. You have no idea what lies in wait out there, ready to devour such a morsel as you. You have been so long at sea, playing at being a pirate, that you believe your own reputation. But let me tell you this, little brown owl, your reputation was bought and paid for. Do you think your crew followed you through loyalty, or because they were dazzled by your beauty and daring? No, they followed you for coin, and because your family name still bears some weight. They did not follow the Owl, they followed Dupont. And then they betrayed you, because they und
erstood that Vance Autrus is not a man to trifle with.’
He let her go, and she stumbled back a step, glaring at Vance vengefully.
‘When we return home,’ Vance said, already walking away, ‘there will be changes. I will be the man who claimed the Crystal Pool, and you will be my dutiful wife. There are worse ways to spend your days, love. Think on that.’
‘Oh, I will…’ Kassandra muttered to herself.
One of the men beside her uttered a pained grunt. Kassandra turned to see him fall, a black-feathered dart protruding from his neck. His fellow rushed to his side, but it was too late. Kassandra could not at first fathom what was happening; only that the man’s veins were turning black as some dark poison from the dart coursed through his body. And then she saw movement all around; heard shouts and cries, and screams. She looked about in confusion. Dark forms raced between the trees. Darts whistled through the air. Javelins were thrown. A mule brayed in fear as it was skewered upon a flint point.
A man leapt over to Kassandra, dragging her to the ground. She thought for a second that some tribal warrior attacked her. She struggled and kicked, and then saw that it was not an enemy, but the Drichean, remonstrating with her, trying to hush her.
‘Listen,’ he hissed. ‘Kor’Thiel sent me. Now is your chance. Run. Run that way!’ He pointed towards the jungle, to a narrow track that snaked away from the clearing.
‘Not yet,’ Kassandra said. And dashed immediately in the other direction, towards the dying mule and its precious cargo.
Kassandra paused as a javelin whizzed past her, inches from her face. She ducked the flint-bladed axe of a tribal warrior, rolling away as the axe embedded itself in one of Vance’s pirates. She grinned as the Drichean appeared alongside her, holding up his hide shield as poison darts thudded into it.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried.
‘Retrieving my property.’ Kassandra skidded across the grass, snatching up a hatchet from a dead pirate, and set about the lock to a chest that had fallen from the mule’s back. The battle raged all around, dozens of fearsome warriors, half-naked forms covered in bright-coloured paint. Monstrous masks, headdresses, pierced flesh.
Frostgrave: Ghost Archipelago: Tales of the Lost Isles Page 11