MF - Saviour of Ships - #3 Serpent's Tongue

 (Josie Sayz: This is a story of mine that I started writing several years ago, and I finally got around to editing it. It is based off a MERP_UK game that an old friend and I started working on together. The game got lost very early on and will never be revived. I originally wrote the story for the old friend that I was working on the game with, however, as I know he will never get to read it, as we are no longer friends, I am quite proud of it. I’m finally over the emotional attachment and am ready to edit my story and share it.
Part 1: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2021/11/mf-saviour-of-ships-1-blackout.html

Part 2: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2021/11/mf-saviour-of-ships-2-awakening.html)

 

 

Moonstone Fortress

Saviour of Ships

 

Serpent’s Tongue

Blue skies and salt-sea air engulfed them. Holding a hand to his brow, Brandon let out a whistle of air. Peter’s eyes widened, as his jaw lowered. “What’s yer mouth open for?” chuckled Brandon. “Yer actin’ like yer never seen a harbour before.” Tottering after Brandon, Peter’s head arched across his surroundings. To their left lined a row of small stone structures, each with a different coloured front door. Connected by their own chimney, each house puffed away with smoke. In front of the houses, taller constructions towered, each with a swinging sign.

‘Merchants,’ Peter breathed, taking in the sights. On the far left, a red cross swung in the breeze. A health centre operated with a knowledgeable practitioner and wide renowned herbal remedies. To the right of the health centre sat a shop, with a wide range of colours dressed in the window. A wine-red dress, draped with pearls and sparkling tapestry leaned to the left of the window display, while a navy jacket with golden tassels and a pair of black trousers stood opposite. ‘Amazing,’ he beamed at the tailor’s. Beside that sat another house; there were no displays or hanging signs attracting people to this building. Instead, it lay forgotten, with weathered window frames and cracks creeping up the door. On the corner sat a large, grand building; a stone pillar lined either side of the doorway. ‘Blimey! They even have a bank,’ Peter exclaimed to himself. ‘Being a small island doesn’t limit their availability.’ Hearing a horse’s vibrated neigh from behind him, Peter spun to his left on his heels. A mane of chestnut wafted, as the horse’s hooves clattered against the cobbled street. Sliding his feet backwards, Peter allowed himself to traverse after Brandon, while his head continued to arch over his left shoulder. On the opposite side of the street, more houses lined the road leading from the forest. A horse and carriage sat outside one of the grander sized houses. Circling back around, Peter examined the buildings that stretched out before him. A building housing books, paperwork and religious palms, squatted in the far corner. A warm, comforting, familiar fragrance lingered in the air. Closing his eyes, Peter allowed himself to inhale its aroma. He hummed to himself, as he opened his eyes wide to gaze at the bakery. A man stood, stacking fresh baked loaves on the display in the window. Drifting along to the next building, barrels of apples, pears, carrots and potatoes gathered outside the doorway.

“Over here!” Brandon called, waving Peter over. Shuddering out of his daze, Peter nodded at Brandon in acknowledgement. His shoes clopped against the cobbled street, as he jogged towards the building Brandon stood outside. Squinting against the sun, Peter looked up at the sign, overhead. Weathered by the sea and worn through age, the words ‘Wreck-Age Inn’ had been painted in black against a walnut wood. Adjacent to the bank, this building was larger than the rest in its row too. Windows decorated the two layers. Wooden shutters lay open across the building and many of the windows were lit by candle light.

Swinging open the batwing door, the two men stepped inside. The sunbeams faded. Mulled red walls lined their surroundings. Piano music filtered into their ears. A warm, jolly ditty danced around the room. Many men tapped their boots and beat their hands together, thumping along with the rhythm. A circular chandelier of candles, held up by chain against a ceiling beam, flickered, as the doors swung to. Squinting, both Brandon and Peter waited a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the sudden change in light. The piano played nearby, to their left. Hunched over the keys, a scrawny man in a bowler hat and striped shirt lowered his head from view. Surrounding the pianist, men in baggy clothes sloshed glasses of ale. Clonking their glasses, the men yelled out a cheer. A glass shattered. Peter shuddered. His heart leapt to his throat. Wide-eyed, he flung his head around to the other side of the room. To their right, the room stretched out. Many candle chandeliers hovered over crowds of people. Over a dozen tables lined the room, with hordes of people gathered around each. A fireplace roared on the far side. “Wait here,” muttered Brandon, over his shoulder, as he made his way towards the bar.

A bald-headed man, dressed in a white shirt and moss-green waistcoat, ran a greyed cloth through a glass. An array of bottles, all of different heights, colours and shapes, lined the shelves behind him. Tugging down at the hem of his jacket, Brandon ran his right hand across the back of his neck, as he conversed with the barman. A blonde-haired woman with a low cut, deep red blouse tottered into view and bent over the bar. As her skirt skimped up her backside, Peter averted his eyes. Grabbing a couple of glasses from behind the bar, the blonde placed them on her black, round tray and pushed herself up, off the bar. Another glass smashed. Peter gritted his teeth. The blonde sighed, stretching back over the bar to retrieve another glass, before tottering towards the piano.

Pressing both fists into the bar, Brandon stretched out his arms and leant towards the bartender. Peter scrunched his face and tilted his head to the left to try and catch a glimpse of his companion’s face. Twisting his head over his right shoulder, Brandon’s eyes widened. With a nod, he turned away from the bar and waved Peter over. Swallowing hard, Peter followed.

Clambering through crowds of gatherers, Peter’s eyes lingered upon each table. Men dressed in torn clothes, covered in tattoos and oozing with injuries littered the inn. Cigar stubs and shards of glass gathered amongst chicken bones and nutshells that covered the floor. As Brandon rushed on ahead, Peter stumbled after him, skidding. Bashing into Brandon’s back, the two tumbled towards a table in the far corner, to the right of the fireplace. “Brandon!” beamed a voice.

“Brandon!” boomed a chorus of two other men.

“We thought you were dead!” exclaimed a man, thumping him on the back. “Sit down!” he encouraged. “Sit down!”

“Thanks,” he grinned. “Great ta see you guys.” Dragging out the chair with his foot, Brandon dropped into it. “I found Little Petey too,” he told them, gesturing to Peter, hovering at Brandon’s side.

“Peterson!” gasped a long-nosed man. “Glad to have you aboard. Find him a seat, men.” Whilst Peter waited for a chair to be found, he stared ahead at the man who acknowledged him.

‘His voice,’ Peter thought, ‘it sounds familiar. And that face…’ The man’s high cheekbones and elongated nose rang familiar. However, the short scruff of greying-brown hair that nested on his head brought back no memory of anyone that he recognised.

“See Petey,” Brandon beamed. “I told yer the ol’ cap’in’d pull through. Halaken’s a strong un, he is.” As a chair was placed underneath him, Peter flopped back against it, as his eyes bulged forward. Seeping in a breath, he tried to hide a gasp. As the other two men re-joined the table, Peter forced himself to swallow.

“Y-y-y-y, yes Captain, Sir,” stuttered Peter. “It is a relief to see you again.”

“And I you,” the captain nodded. As Brandon relayed their trek to their crewmen, Peter’s lips parted, as he stared at Captain Halaken with furrowed brow.

‘He looks different without the powdered wig of curls,’ Peter acknowledged, as he tilted his head to one side.

The captain nodded away, at Brandon’s recollection, dripping his quill into a pot of ink and jotting things down on a page in front of him. Throwing a hand to his back, Peter’s fingers pressed into Halaken’s journal. His heart hammered. His cheeks grew red. Shifting his sight to the other two privateers, Peter placed his hands on the table. A lump leapt into his throat. The booming of the men beating their hands and feet along to the piano rattled inside of him. Tapping his fingers against the table’s wooden surface, he bit into his bottom lip. His eyes shifted around the table. The man seated nearest him, he recognised. Sat with his shoulders back and spine straight, the man with the stubbled chin was Lawson, the captain’s second in command. Sinking his shoulders, Peter shrunk in his chair, as he examined the man that he had assisted with the Long Tom hours earlier. Even when not aboard the ship, Lawson’s posture and intrigued expression, screamed leader to Peter. Between Lawson and Captain Halaken, sat a man in a torn, yellowed shirt. Dirt streaked across his neck and a blooded bandage bound his left arm, Peter was certain that he recognised this man too. Although his name escaped him, Peter began to nod to himself, as he recalled seeing the injured man aboard the Charleston.

“On the house, boys,” announced the bald bartender, plonking a glass of ale down in front of Peter and Brandon. Brow furrowed, Peter turned to Brandon.

“It’s Garrin,” Brandon told him, slapping an arm to the boy’s back. Peter staggered forwards, forcing a grin on his face. “This ‘ere’s the guy I wus tellin’ yer about. He’s a legend ‘round these parts,” Brandon went on. “Halaken already told ‘im what ‘ad ‘appened, when he ‘n’ the guys got ‘ere. Drink up. You earnt it.”

As Peter and Brandon chugged through their pint, Captain Halaken informed them of everything that he had pieced together, since his arrival. “It was Valder’s ship, The Seawolf,” the captain told them, with a gleam in his eye. “The King of the Pirates, himself, was trying to run us down. We were so close. If it wasn’t for the storm,” he lowered his eyes to the table with a sigh. “We could have had him and with a good reward too,” he told them in a hushed tone. “Peterson, I guess you know the score by now?” his voice grew high towards the end of his sentence. Swallowing, Peter nodded.

“We were sent by the king to stop the pirates,” Peter muttered, staring at the empty plate beside the captain’s elbow. Breadcrumbs loitered on the edges. Butter greased the dip of the dish. Licking his lips, Peter swallowed again. “Whatever the cost,” he added, shifting his sight to the captain. His voice was deep, gruff through torment of the truth. His heart thumped against his ribcage. Nose snarled, the creases on Peter’s forehead hardened, as his eyebrows drew closer together.

“Yes boy,” Halaken replied with a nod. “Only keep your voice down,” he whispered, arching himself over the table. “Who knows who might be lurking around.”

Sips of beer were tasted, as Peter’s knowledge of their quest sunk in. Slurps silenced their discussion. Lawson’s wide-eyes lay fixed upon Peter, as the cabin-boy hunched over his pint. Tightening his grip around his glass, Peter’s head remained low, as he glanced over at the captain. “So, where are we, exactly?” he asked.

“Right Peterson,” began the captain with a nod. Pressing an elbow into the arm of his chair, the captain leant back, arching his head around the room. “We currently reside in an old, favourite inn of mine, ‘The Wreck-Age’. The owner, Owen Garrin, is a dear friend of mine. He has agreed to put us all up, until we are able to return home.” As Peter’s brow creased, Halaken went on, “I promised his payment from King Carleston upon our return. He will not go out of pocket for our misfortune.” Captain Halaken leant forwards and cupped his hand towards himself, signalling for his crew to lean in. Prodding both elbows on his chair’s arms, the captain laced his fingers together at his chest, waiting for his men to near him. “Now this is top secret,” he hissed. “None of which we speak is to leave his table, do you understand?” Pausing, the captain waited for an acknowledgement from his men. Brandon and the injured man, whom to Peter remained unnamed, grunted, while Lawson gave a nodded salute.

“I understand,” Peter replied with a stern nod.

“This inn has been used as a refuge for our countries spy-based privateers for over two hundred years,” the captain began. “Any privateer who faces trouble out at sea, knows to head to Shipwreck Cove – it’s a secret only those working under the king’s protection are of understanding. It is located between some of the strongest trading countries, almost central between Barkton Versulin, Langti, the isle east of Motorus Relicta and our home land, Castellus. It is also within close reach to the Fructi Forté, the greatest fruit source in all of the kingdom. Every trade ship passes through here, during voyages. This island maybe small, but it is the most frequent visited harbour in all the land. So many men make trade here, gather supplies and gain rest between reckless outings at sea. However, these frequent passings and regular restings also makes it the largest target for pirates.” Stiffening his back, Peter’s eyes widened. Turning to the tables at his left, his eyes shifted from the men’s tattooed arms to their torn clothing and scarred faces. Racing, his heart rammed against his ribcage. As Peter snapped eyes back to their table, he clasped his pint glass between both of his trembling hands. Forcing the tips of his fingers into the glass, his grip tightened. The ale sloshed up the rim. Dragging it towards him, he lent over his pint, taking a slurping swig. Scrunching his eyes shut, he shook his head.

“Knowing that tradesmen from all over the land, carry a variety of goods and pass through this harbour daily, pirates cling to this island like a spider to its web,” Halaken warned, snarling his nose. Tossing a head to the hooligans at the nearby table, Captain Halaken chugged down the remainder of his pint, slamming the glass against the table as he finished. As Halaken returned his sight to the table, his stare hardened, as his eyes met Peter’s. “As soon as something they fancy passes through,” the captain went on, “it becomes the fly, trapped in a wreckage with no return,” he growled, crashing his fist into the table. Peter leapt. His heart jolted to his stomach. Shuddering, Peter gripped his arms to his biceps. “Too many trade boats have failed to reach harbour in Castellus,” the captain’s speech continued. “King Charleston requested that we investigate the matter. Lawson, Brandon, Sanders and myself travelled out here many months ago to investigate. Upon arriving, it was worse than we had feared. Not only had the pirates began circulating this island and were hijacking ships, but they had claimed Moonstone Fortress as their own.”

The music stopped. Stammering, the pianist wedged a finger between two broken keys. As two clashing notes blared throughout the bar, a chair was thrown. Hushed curses mumbled through the air. A glass shattered. Gasps hissed. With a yell, a dark-haired man, with a beer belly bulging out of his black and blue horizontal striped t-shirt, grabbed the pianist by the collar. Squirming, the musician cried out, as another two men neared him. Striding towards the outbreak, the blonde-haired waitress, clanked a round of drinks. She perched herself on the edge of a nearby table, sliding the drinks to its centre. She held a fist to her mouth and cleared her throat. Head shot towards her. Lifting her skirt higher up her thigh, she beamed, “Drinks on me, boys,” gesturing towards the pints she had just poured. The grip around the pianist’s clothes loosened. The musician crashed into his instrument, thudding back onto his stool, as the buccaneers’ attention turned towards the blonde. After, forcing his fallen hat back on his head, the pianist’s fingers returned to the keys and his playing continued.

With the room’s conversations booming once more, Captain Halaken returned to his story. “Moonstone Fortress is a keep visible from the island. Situated north-east, it had remained vacant for many centuries, as no one could discover a way inside,” he told them. Elbows on the table, Halaken leant forwards. Eyes widened. Ears strained, desperate to hear more. “The castle is positioned inside a ring of rock. There is no way around it. No way under it. No way over it – or so it had seemed.” Shuffling in his seat, the captain scratched at his scalp. “Flying the red flag of the bleeding skull, Valder had discovered Moonstone’s entrance and set up base for his pirate attacks. Since then, raids have taken place on a weekly basis. Goods keep disappearing. Ships are sinking, and crews are being slaughtered. We’re losing vital men – and by the hundreds.” The captain’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Peter shuddered. “Without knowing the secrets to the entrance of Moonstone Fortress, we are helpless. The king sent us on a mission… to break into Moonstone – no matter what it took. We were to pillage, blunder and fight, no matter the consequences. With Valder dead, the king hoped to use Moonstone Fortress, as a lookout and a way of preventing these pirate attacks.” Peter’s eyes dropped to the table. His shoulders drooped.

‘The journal spoke the truth,’ Peter realised, as the pulse pounded at his temples. ‘This wasn’t a safe trading transaction job, like I was told.’ Running a hand across the back of his neck, he forced a swallow. ‘I was lied to,’ his eyes widened, as his thoughts travelled. ‘But I survived…’ Arching his head around the room, Peter’s eyes shifted from table to table. “Captain,” he interrupted. “How many of us did survive?” he asked, as his eyebrows shot up towards each other.

“The few you see here,” Halaken confessed, lowering his head, as his hand gestured towards Lawson and Sanders. Jittering back, Peter’s eyes widened, as a squeak emerged from his voice box.

“You mean…” Peter’s bottom lip shook.

“Yes,” nodded the captain, with closed eyes. “I was ruthless,” he admitted in a gruff tone. “I was so eager to locate the entrance that I put all of our lives in danger.” Dropping his head into his hands, he went on, “Many lives were lost last night. In an act of desperation, I swayed away from the code. I put my greed before the care of my crew. You put your lives in my hands… and I let you down.” The captain’s hands trembled. Brandon patted a hand to the captain’s back. Brandon’s eyes shifted towards Peter’s. With a wide-eyed stare, Brandon shook his head. Nodding, Peter’s heart leapt up to his throat. Forcing a swallow, he sank into his seat.

“The ship’s gone,” Halaken wailed. “We’re marooned here. It’s all my fault,” he sobbed. Reaching into his breast pocket, he swiped out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.

“Easy captain,” Lawson warned, stretching a hand out towards him, across the table. “You’ve already sent a message out. The king will receive it upon the next trader’s delivery. He will send help.” Retracting his arm, he turned his head to Peter. “We will not be stranded for long,” he assured him. Peter nodded.

“So, what’s the course a action, Cap’in?” Brandon asked, slamming his glass down against the table.

“I’m glad you asked,” replied the captain with a nod. Stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, he shook his head, in attempt to throw away his sorrow. Arching his head over his left shoulder, Halaken waved over one of the barmaids. As she bounced towards them, Peter felt his cheeks tingle. He gazed, as her golden-auburn hair cascaded down her shoulder. She brushed a hand across her face, in attempt to hide the glowing hue to her porcelain cheeks. Pinching at the cuffs of her blouse, she tugged her thumb across the neckline of her lace collar. Her slim frame slipped between Sanders and the captain’s seats, while she waited for his instructions. “Lela, could you fetch us another round of drinks, dear. Let ol’ Owen know I’m buying,” he told her with a chuckle. She nodded. “Don’t want him thinking we’re running you dry. Oh and, pull up a seat on your way back,” he added, as the nearby table kicked their chairs out from under themselves and staggered to the door.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, with another nod, as she scooted through the ruckus towards the bar.

Peter’s stomach spiralled. Lowering his head, the burning in his cheeks intensified. Peter pressed a hand to his temple and pretended to be deep in thought, in attempts of hiding his flushed face, whilst the others chattered away. He flickered his eyes up, towards the bar and gazed at Lela. She was different from the other barmaids. The other three, dotted around the bar, wore very low-cut, revealing blouses, with many unfastened buttons. As their busty frames bounced about, their short skirts flurried up their bottom, to reveal their undergarments. Lela was different. Her blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her skirt draped around her knees. When serving customers, she did not flaunt her figure in front of them, but instead shimmied out of the limelight, hovering in the background. With her head down, her shoulders stiffened at her sides. She avoided eye contact with everyone. Curling her hair behind her ear, she glanced up at their table. Peter noticed her cheeks redden, as their eyes locked. Breaking his gaze, Lela shuddered, as she spun towards Garrin, taking a glass from him. A smile poked into the corners of Peter’s mouth, as his cheeks tingled. The spiralling in his stomach made him shuffle in his seat.

Peter propped a thumb up against his temple and lowered his head, as Lela approached their table. Feeling his ears heat up, he flickered his eyes towards her, then back at the table. “You know, I cannot stay long, Halaken, Sir,” Lela confessed, as she placed the round of drinks in the centre of the table. “I have a lot of cleaning to do,” she told the captain, as she gestured towards the deserted table, to Peter’s left. Dragging a chair over from the next table, she slid herself in between Halaken and Sanders. “I would hate to cause him a temper,” her soft voice added, glancing over at Garrin, at the bar. “Owen has been so good to me.”

“I know dear, I know,” the captain whispered, giving her arm a squeeze. “But you are a part of this conversation too. It is important that you hear it.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, as her cheeks reddened, Peter felt himself flush too. Pinching his lips in, he averted his eye to the table.

“Boys,” beamed the captain. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Lela. She’s one of my spies here at the inn,” he added in a whisper. Sliding her hands under the table, to her lap, a small smile spread upon her face, as she nodded at the captain’s men. As Halaken grabbed out for a drink, the others followed. Cupping both hands around his first glass, Peter lowered his head to his pint. Her reflection danced in his ale. He gazed, as she looked around at each of them in turn.

“Lela, here, knows almost every man that enters this inn,” Halaken beamed, holding his glass up high.

“Please, do not say it like that,” she blushed, lowering her chin to her chest. “You make it sound like I am one of them.” Turning towards the other barmaids, she rolled her eyes. Captain Halaken chuckled.

“Of course not, Lela. You’re the only respectable girl on this island,” he told her with a nudge and a warm smile. “The smartest too,” he added. Cupping a hand to her mouth, a giggle escaped her. Peter’s heart leapt. “You see lads,” the captain went on. “Lela’s been keeping watch over these, here, parts for the last couple of years. She keeps watch over the pirate activity and reports anything suspicious back to me. I dare say, she’s picked up a few tricks along the way too. Ever so clever at getting information, this one,” Halaken chuckled to his crew, gesturing a jerk of the head towards their female friend. Turning to her, he whispered, “Let them know what you told me.”

Nodding, Lela glanced from Sanders to Lawson. As her eyes lingered on Peter, his smile brought another blush to her cheeks. She pinched her lips in, as she acknowledged Brandon with a nod, before revealing her knowledge, “The Pirate King’s second in command is a captain named Adrean Blagden. He and his crew are known amongst the isle as being the most feared band of buccaneers to pass through these parts. He is docked up, across the way, now. You may have seen his ship, the Serpent’s Tongue. He is enrolling new crew members tonight.” Lela folded her arms onto the table and pressed all of her weight into them, as she stretched her neck up, rising from her chair. Turning her head towards the business of the bar, her eyes flickered. “There he is,” she told them, dropping back into her seat. She prodded her head to her right and Peter (being sat across the table from her) turned to his left. “Do you see the man in the long, black, leathered coat, shoulder length, wavy brown hair, with the red scarf around his neck?” she asked the crew. Awaiting their reply, she added, “He’s near Berth – one of the barmaids.”

“Aye,” spoke the captain. Lawson nodded. Sanders and Brandon hummed. Peter’s eyes widened, and a gasp escaped him, as the pirate squeezed the blonde waitress’ bottom.

“That’s him,” Lela told them, rolling her eyes.

As the crew’s sight returned to their captain, he ruffled his sleeves. His eyes flickered from the band of buccaneers and back to his crew several times. “In order to get in on the pirates’ side, I’m afraid we may have to join them,” grieved the captain. Peter’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“What?” gasped Lawson. His brow furrowed with anger.

“Absurd!” barked Sanders.

“Are yer mad?!” Brandon exclaimed, slamming his glass down. Silence. The piano stopped. Conversations died. All eyes turned to Brandon. His mouth froze open. His face reddened. Ducking his head, Brandon clawed a hand through the side of his hair. The tinkling of piano keys continued. Muttered rambling returned. A hum of noise buzzed louder. Cheering and handclapping echoed around the inn once more.

“Listen,” hissed Halaken. “We need to be on the inside, if we are to ever find out what they’re planning. What better time than now?” The creases on his forehead lightened. Adjusting his posture, he sighed. “We are stranded, without a ship, possibly for a month or so.” Lawson nodded. “Brandon, I want you, Sanders and Peterson to sign up.”

“What?” spat Brandon, lunging forward. With a whooping cough, he flung a fist to his chest.

“Us?” Sanders frowned.

“What about me, Captain?” asked Lawson, as he gripped the edge of the table and slid his chair back. Standing, he pressed his shoulders back, he pushed his chest out. “I’m ready. Just say the word.”

“Lawson!” grumbled the captain. “Sit!” he barked. As Lawson returned to his chair, Halaken’s nose snarled. The vein to the right of the captain’s temple protruded from his skull. “Don’t draw attention to yourself, like that. Do you hear?” he spat. Shuffling his chair towards the table, Lawson lowered his head from the group. “Lawson, you and I may run the risk of being recognised by Blagden or any of the pirates who have visited Castellus enough times. They won’t recognise these three,” the captain explained. “All you have to do,” Captain Halaken continued, returning his attention to Brandon, Saunders and Peter, “is sign your names up with Blagden, tonight, and sail with his crew for a few days.”

“They take off tomorrow morning,” Lela told them. “They are heading to the Motorus Relicta-”

“And how d’you know?” snarled Lawson.

“I just do,” she muttered, turning her sight to the table. Lowering her head from the others, she hugged her hands to her upper arms.

“Does it matter how she knows?” Peter growled at Lawson. “She’s helping us, isn’t she?” he glared at his fellow crew mates, feeling his stomach lather. Turning to the barmaid, Peter’s expression lightened. “Go on Lela,” he encouraged with a smiling nod. “What else do you know?”

“Not much,” she shrugged, flickering her eyes towards Peter’s. “Just that they plan on returning within three days. It is a quick journey to the abandoned isle of the lost tombs.” As Peter gazed at her, she found herself smiling back. With a soft giggle, she curled a piece of hair behind her ear, as she bit her bottom lip. Clearing her throat, she straightened her back and turned to Sanders. “It does not seem as though you would be putting yourselves through much harm,” she added, arching her head towards Brandon. “Motorus Relicta is deserted and has been for many years. What business they have there is unknown to me. It is just a place of skeletons. People had buried the dead there for hundreds of years… that is until they ran out of room. It has been abandoned since the turn of the century. No one has been there for years, as no one has any need to.” As her sight returned to Peter, she added, “Who knows, maybe Blagden wants to befriend a couple of skeletons – they probably hold a better conversation than half of his crew.” She laughed. Peter chuckled too, beaming at her. As their eyes locked, the smile drained from her face. Dropping her sight to the table, Lela gripped a hand to the back of her chair. “I must leave you,” she muttered, sliding out of her chair. She spun her head over her shoulder, turning towards the bartender. A sharp breath escaped her, as she caught his glare. “I know,” she sighed. “I know,” as she ran towards the bar.

As Lela left, the table drank their pints in silence, each man thinking over the information that they had received. Pressing his palms into the rim of the table, Sanders swung against the back two legs of his chair. Lawson stretched his arms around his pint, glaring at his reflection in the liquid. Peter’s blushing hue grew rosy, as he gulped down his drink. His ears brightened and began to burn, as he caught a glimpse of Lela gathering glasses at a nearby table. Brandon’s knee bounced, as he chugged down his beer. With a gasp, he swiped the back of his hand across his face, dropping his emptied glass beside the captain’s. “Alright,” Brandon growled. “I’ll do it,” he told Captain Halaken with a nod. “But if we find nothin’, I ain’t riskin’ me neck again. Got it?” The captain nodded.

“That is all I am asking of you,” Halaken replied in a calm tone.

“Fine,” Sanders sighed, sliding his glass into the centre of the table. “Three days,” he grunted. “An’ that’s it.” The captain nodded.

“What about you, Petey?” asked Brandon, twisting himself around to face the cabin-boy. All eyes turned towards him. Peter’s lips parted, as his gaze drifted over Brandon’s shoulder. Frowning at Peter’s zoned-out expression, Brandon arched his head over his shoulder, to see what had Peter in a trance. Lela brushed into view. Sliding crumbs and shards of glass onto her bar tray, Lela scrubbed away at the table. “‘Ey, Lil’ Petey’s got his eye on somethin’ else it seems,” Brandon teased, nudging the cabin-boy. Flickering his eyes, Peter came out of his trance with a shudder.

“Sorry?” he muttered with rosy cheeks. “Did you say something?”

“Too busy watching lovely, little Lela, ‘ey?” Brandon laughed. A chuckle escaped Sanders, as he patted a hand to his stomach.

“Er, I-” Peter stuttered, sinking into his seat, as his face erupted into a rosy hue.

“The Serpent’s Tongue, lad?” spoke the captain. “Are you in?” Peter found his heart hammering, as he forced a swallow. A shaky exhale caused a squeak to protrude from his voice box. Flickering his sight towards Lela, then back to Brandon, Peter nodded.

“I’m in.”

 

*

 

Standing in line at the table, Peter’s palms dampened. His heart lodged in his throat. His stomach whirlpooled. Leaning to his left, he looked down the queue. No one had surrounded the table since he and Brandon had entered the inn, however when the three of them strode towards the table to sign-up to become a part of Blagden’s pirate crew, a swarm of men buzzed in front of them. His knees trembled. Scrunching his hands into fists, his spine stiffened. “Hang in there, Petey,” muttered Sanders, from behind him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “It’ll be alright.”

“Yeah,” added Brandon, from in front, peering his head over his shoulder. “You’ll ‘ave me an’ Sanders beside ya all the time, ‘kay?”

“Thanks,” Peter whispered with a nod. His stomach dropped, as they stepped forward a place in line.

“Aye,” he heard Brandon beam. “Me an’ me mates, ‘ere, were lookin’ t’ join up wiv Blagden’s crew. You his second?” Hooking an arm around Peter’s shoulder, Sanders yanked him around Brandon’s side, so the three of them stood together.

“That I am,” nodded a man of tanned skin. Folding his arms, the sleeves of the pirate’s baggy, blue shirt draped over him. “Name’s Moritz.”

“Brandon,” announced Brandon, jabbing his thumb at his chest. “An’ this ‘ere’s Petey ‘n’ Sanders,” he told Moritz, pointing at his two crewmates. “We’ve sailed aboard many a crew, laddy. Took port ‘ere a wee while back. J’st been lookin’ fer the right crew ta join,” he beamed. “‘Eard Blagden’s after a crew. Respect ‘im dear, we do. Always wanted t’ serve under ‘is name.” Nodding, Moritz looked them up and down. Examining Brandon, his sight flicked over to Sanders, before resting upon Peter.

“What about the squirt?” frowned Moritz, nodding his head towards Peter.

“Aye, Petey?” Brandon’s brow rose. “‘E’s me sister’s boy. Promised I’d look after ‘im, like,” he chuckled, scruffing a hand through Peter’s mop of curls. Swallowing under Moritz’s glare, Peter nodded.

“Alright,” Moritz muttered. Swiping his quill from the inkpot, he jabbed it at Brandon.

“Aye, thanks,” Brandon gasped. “We sure do appreciate it, like.” After scribbling his name down on the blotched parchment, Brandon handed the quill to Peter. Gripping the feather tight in his left hand, he scratched the ink into the page. A hand whacked against his back. Lunging forward, his hand slipped. His head flung over his shoulder.

“Welcome t’ the crew,” beamed the face that met Peter’s. Blinking, he forced a swallow.

“Blagden!” Peter gasped.

“Who were ya expectin’?” chuckled the pirate captain. “Davy Jones?” Moritz sniggered. “And that’s Captain Blagden to you now.” Holding his hand out towards Sanders, Peter watched as the two shook hands. “Just wanted to meet me new crew. Ready to sail at dawn?”

“Course,” grinned Sanders.

“We live fer the tide,” Brandon added, clasping a hand to the pirate’s shoulder.

“Glad to hear it, fellas,” beamed Blagden. “If only the whole crew were like you.”

 

*

 

Turning away from Moritz’s sneering mug, Peter shuddered. Feeling Brandon and Sanders behind him, Peter slowed his pace. He exhaled, drooping his shoulders, unaware that he had been holding his breath. “Arh, glad I could catch yer, lads,” Halaken cheered, as he walked towards them. Clapping a hand to Peter’s back, he asked “How did the sign up go?”

“All set,” Sanders replied with a nod and forced grin. “We sail at dawn.” The captain’s eyes widened.

“Dawn, crikey!” the captain exclaimed. “Well men, you had better get some rest.” Sanders nodded, bid the men goodnight and strode towards the doorway to the left of the bar.

“Rest?” Brandon frowned, tilting his head. “Rest where?”

“Not to worry, Brandon, my man. Did you think the old captain wouldn’t help you out? Come on,” winked Halaken with a grin, jerking his head towards the bar.

After taking a few paces, Garrin set aside his cleaning and popped over the bar. He and the captain exchanged smiles, as the bartender strode towards them. He stood at a similar height to the captain, with a round beer belly, like Brandon. Looping his thumbs through the arm-pit holes of his waist jacket, the barman’s grin grew. Turning back to Peter, Halaken announced, “Peterson, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Owen Garrin. The two of us have been friends since… well I can’t remember it’s been that long,” Halaken chuckled.

“Too long,” Garrin laughed, patting his good friend on the shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, Sir,” smiled Peter with a nod.

“You too,” grinned Garrin, as the two shook hands. “Brandon,” he beamed, gripping the man’s hand and patting him on the back. “Feelin’ better after that drink?”

“Loads, cheers,” Brandon breathed with a laugh.

“Garrin’s the landlord, here, at the ‘Wreck-Age Inn’,” Captain Halaken informed Peter.

“That I am,” added Garrin with a nod.

“Going on thirty years now, isn’t it?” said the captain.

“Yup,” the barman agreed. “Since me old man retired. Been passed down generation to generation, this ‘ere inn has,” Garrin told Peter, as he arched his head around the room. Inhaling through his nose, a warm hum escaped him. “I’ve seen plenty-a happenings in my time, let me tell you. Family gatherin’s, pirate brawls, weddin’s, even shoot offs. A man lost a head in here once.” Peter gasped. “Yeah,” Garrin muttered. “Wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“Garrin’s aware of our mission. He’s a trusted face,” the captain assured Peter, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You can trust him.”

“That you can, lad. That you can. I’ve set the pair of you up in a room – third on the left on the first floor. Sorry for making you share,” Garrin shrugged. “It’s a twin room-” he added seeing Brandon’s eyes bulge. “Only one I got spare at the moment. Been pretty busy. Since Moonstone’s been taken over, pirates are always a coming ‘nd going.”

“Pirates!” Peter gasped. “So, you know who they are. Can’t you run them in?”

“‘Fraid not, sonny,” the bartender replied, poking the right corner of his mouth down.

“So, you’re protecting them?” Peter frowned.

“Not exactly protecting them,” Garrin scrunched up his face. “They’re good for business. Also, it’s family motto not t’ turn away a payin’ customer.” Peter dropped his eyes to the ground and shook his head. “Can’t run ‘em in, unless they openly admit that’s their trade and no pirates gonna waltz in admitting to that now, are they? – even with their flag upon Moonstone Fortress. Island rules,” he added with a shrug. “Besides, we don’t want trouble here.”

A long, black, leather coat strode behind Garrin. Brushing a hand through his dark locks, Blagden passed every occupied table. Remaining at the innkeeper’s side, Peter’s eyes wandered after the pirate captain. The clop of the pirate’s boots echoed off the walls as he made his way to the back of the room. Hunched over a deserted table, Lela gathered the scattered glasses. The pirate’s pace slowed. Approaching the table where she worked, he stretched his hand out towards one of the empty glasses. Reaching the same glass, Lela let out a giggle, as their fingers touched. Peter’s blood boiled. ‘How dare he!’ Peter raged. ‘If he touches her again I’ll-’ Placing the glass on her bar tray, Blagden assisted her in collecting the rest. Conversation passed between the two of them, as they gathered the glasses and returned them to the bar. The thumping inside of Peter grew, as they stopped a few paces to the right of him. Peter squinted his eyes over Halaken’s booming voice and he strained his ears to try and catch Blagden and Lela’s conversation. No words of theirs travelled to his ears. His shoulders sank. Rubbing a hand up Lela’s arm, Blagden gave it a squeeze. Nodding, she smiled at him. Peter’s brow puckered. ‘He’s so different around her,’ he acknowledged with a sigh. ‘He’s not being boisterous or trying to get her.’ The pirate stretched his arms out and the two embraced. As his insides lathered, Peter averted his eyes to the ground. His heart pounded. His eyes shot back towards them. Folding one arm to his stomach and the other to his back, the pirate bowed.

“Stay safe my dear,” he heard the pirate captain say.

“You too,” she smiled with a curtsey.

‘He cares?’ Peter’s lips parted, as the pirate passed by.

“You alright, Petey?” asked Brandon, nudging him.

“Yeah,” Peter muttered, glancing up at him. Rubbing a hand to his arm, where Brandon jabbed him, he twisted his head from Blagden to Lela. Feeling his insides whirl, his heart thumped to his stomach.

“I’ve lost all of my research,” Peter heard Captain Halaken sigh. “That was years of work. Countless expeditions,” he sighed. Peter’s heart thudded at his ribcage.

“Surely King Charleston can send ya a copy a stuff,” Brandon added, giving the captain a nudge. With another sigh, Captain Halaken lowered his head.

“I’m afraid not,” mumbled Halaken. “I kept everything. All of my articles, reports, journals… everything was in that book. If the pirates got a hold of it,” he shuddered, as he forced a swallow. “Who knows what would happen to Castellus?” Garrin clasped a hand to the captain’s shoulder.

“Fear not friend,” beamed the innkeeper. “We’ll send a search party out to the cove first thing in the morning. With any luck it’ll have washed to shore overnight – either that or it’ll have sunk its way t’ the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker. No pirate’ll ever get his hands on it.”

“Aye,” muttered Halaken. “Well, goodnight lads.”

“Goodnight, Cap’in,” Brandon nodded.

“Wait!” Peter called, throwing an arm out towards the captain. “Is this it?” Bringing his left arm out from behind him, Peter revealed a dark leather book with tarnished, metal fastenings.

“That’s it!” cried the captain. “Where did you- How did you- Boy, I… Peterson,” he gasped.

“I found it at the shipwreck,” Peter confessed. “I wasn’t sure what it was… so I held onto it,” he told the captain. “For safe keeping,” he added, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck.

“Goodness gracious, Peterson,” awed the captain. “Maybe there is hope after all. I will be sure to put in a valuable word for you, with the king, in my next letter. Thank you, boy.” As the captain slapped a hand to Peter’s back, his stomach flipped.

‘Maybe things will be okay, after all,’ Peter grinned to himself, following the others to get some rest.

 

*

 

Shards of light glimmered from the horizon. A flock of seagulls cawed, soaring overhead, as the sky brightened. Shouts and cheers roared across the harbour. Looking down from the village tier above, Peter observed the preparations from the balconying ledge, on the path behind the bank. Leaning against a wooden ledge, Peter watched over the bodies bumbling about at the shore below. Crates and barrels bobbed along the dock. At the end of the pier, a large ship perched. Bodies clambered up the sloping ramp towards it, swaying to and fro. Stood at the helm, Captain Blagden, watched over the action from above. His red scarf flapped in the breeze. Hands on his hips, the captain barked orders down to the blundering buccaneers below. Blurs of black, grey and blue travelled back up the dock and into the village. The men divided up, diving into different stalls, tents and shacks. Along the shore lined many stalls and tents, all selling different goods. The fishmongers, a tent that sold lines, hooks and bait for fishing, the butchers and a woodcutter lined the beach to the right of the dock. Stomping down the wooden decking, another band of pirates stormed the stalls to the left. A stall containing odds and ends spread out towards the stone steps, in the centre of the village, opening up another tent to display the many unusual artefacts and interesting trade pieces that passed through the village. Beside that stood a cloth stall and a large blacksmith. Wandering around a cluster of barrels, three women danced around with flowers, encouraging the men to purchase bouquets for their ladies, before their departure.

Moos and bleats cried out from behind him. Peter flung his head over his right shoulder. A herd of cattle appeared behind him. Ropes around their necks, the livestock were being directed through the village by five men. By their torn and stained shirts, Peter could tell that these were pirates. ‘They must be taking the creatures, for food, for the voyage,’ Peter realised, as the men yanked at the ropes. Facing the animals, the pirates skidded their heels into the ground, leaning back, as the animals’ trots began to slow. “Stupid beasts,” growled the group’s leader, as he neared the stone steps, down towards the shore. Reaching the edge of the pathway, the cow that he was tugging halted its hooves at the brink of the steps. “Come on!” he yelled at it, yanking at its rope. “The captain’s waitin’.”

“Erm, cows can’t walk downstairs,” Peter informed him, running a hand across the back of his neck. The pirate shot a scowl towards him. “It’s a known fact,” he added with a nervous laugh. “Their hooves can’t navigate the difference in depths.” The daggered glare on the pirate’s face lifted, as his brown wrinkled.

“Can’t they?” he frowned, turning towards his other men. They muttered between them with shrugs. “Well how the devil am I supposed ta get the thing down?” he raged.

“The slope shallows down there,” Peter informed him, pointing to their right, behind the back of the parchment store and along the side of the woodcutter’s shack on the level below. “Or you can go that way too,” he added pointing towards the slopping path behind the medical centre and down towards the blacksmiths’.

“But that’ll take ages,” the pirate whined.

“It’s quicker than trying to get them down the stairs,” Peter told him, with a laugh. The pirate looked from the slope on the far right of the village, towards the steps, then back to the cattle. “Trust me,” Peter chuckled. “I’m doing you a favour.”

“Thanks,” grumbled the pirate with a gruff growl. “Come on men,” he called over his shoulder to the other four crew members, corralling the rest of the cattle.

Gazing back down over the action, Peter’s stomach began to swirl as the sun rose higher above the horizon. Footsteps neared him, from behind. He swallowed. A hand clasped his collarbone. “Yer ready, Petey?” asked Brandon. Turning to his right, Peter beamed at his dark-haired friend. His smile widened at the privateer’s altered appearance. His long hair was gripped back in a bow. A striped white and dark blue top draped over his stomach. His trousers were new too – free from scratches and holes.

“I think so,” Peter replied with a nod.

“Don’t worry,” Sanders told him, appearing on his left side. Sanders had cleaned up too. His face was clean shaved and washed of dirt. His new, mustard shirt buttoned all the way to his neck. “You’ll be with us the whole time.”

“Thanks,” Peter nodded.

“The three a us are gunna stick together,” Brandon beamed. Stepping between Peter and Sanders, Brandon hooked an arm around his companions’ shoulders. “Yer arm any better, Sanders?”

“It’s alright,” he shrugged, brushing his sanded fringe from his eyes. “I’ll manage.”

The sways of back and forth travelling started to cease. The majority of supplies appeared to have been gathered, as most of the pirates no longer returned to shore after boarding the vessel. Gazing over the waters, Peter asked, “Do you think we’ll get to see Moonstone Fortress?”

“From the outside, yes,” Sanders replied with a nod. “From the inside, no.”

“We sail past it off the harbour,” Brandon told the cabin-boy. “We’re on a north-east route. We’ll skim the edge a the rockface within the hour.”

“Within the hour?” Peter gasped, with wide eyes.

“See fer yerself,” said Brandon, pointing an arm towards the right of the ship. “Yer see that huge rock over there?” he asked. Turning towards the sea, Peter cupped a hand over his brow and squinted. A small clump of brown rocks sat in the distance. With a hum, he nodded. “That’ll be it.”

Calling out for all men to board the vessel, Peter, Brandon and Sanders made their way down the village steps, towards the ship. Peter looked around, twisting his head over his shoulder, back towards the ‘Wreck-Age Inn’. “Captain Halaken wanted to wave us off,” Sanders told him. “But he was worried he’d expose us if he did.” With a sigh, Peter nodded. “But he wished us luck.”

“Let’s just hope this ain’t a waste a time,” Brandon muttered rolling his eyes. “Boardin’ a pirate ship,” he tutted. “Never in all me life did I-” Nearing more of their new crew, Brandon swallowed the rest of his sentence.

Aboard a ship was far different from what Peter had expected. Whilst sailing the Charleston he had been cabin-boy. Confined to his refuge in the cupboard off the quarter deck, Peter had a space of his own. It may have been a squash between the barrels and crates, his bed may have been no more than a plank of wood and some sheets, and he may have bashed his shins every single time he clambered around the table, but it was a space all of his own. On board the Serpent’s Tongue, bodies swayed everywhere. Men were pumping out the bilges, some were sifting through gunpowder storage, others were ordered to man the whipstaff. Brandon was amongst one of the men assigned to rowing duty, beneath deck, whilst Peter and Sanders accompanied a group mopping the poop deck. Dinner time had been a similar experience to what he was used to, apart from dining amongst ill-mannered dogs, gauging their faces into plates, scarfing down their meals and sloshing rum about in the process.

Dangling a leg of the edge of his hammock, Peter sighed to himself. Wide awake, his mind wandered across the events of the day. Musty rags, sweaty pits and stale-rum breath swept around the room. Wrinkling his nose, Peter draped his arms over his face, burying his eyes in the nook of his elbow. Rocking against the tide, Peter closed his eyes, allowing the bobbing of the sea to wash over him. The racing in his chest eased. His breathing slowed. As Brandon fidgeted above Peter, his hammock wafted across the boy’s face. Rolling his head to his left, Peter groaned. A foul rotten egg stench wafted into his nostrils, as Sanders snored away beneath him. Roaring growls echoed around the room, as Sanders was not the only crew member to snore. Squinting his eyes open, the room lay in darkness. Without a porthole, Peter could not tell if it was morning yet or still night.

Swinging his feet over the edge of the hammock, Peter dropped himself to the ground. Creaking towards the doorway, he grabbed the room’s only candle, creaked the door open ajar and creeped out into the hallway. Gripping an oil lantern, on a hook outside the door, Peter lit it. Seeping a breath through gritted teeth, he extinguished the wax dripping candle. Dropping it to the floor, he blew against his thumb, where a blob of hot wax had dripped. As the boat dipped, the candle rolled along the ground. ‘Hopefully it won’t roll too far,’ he hoped. ‘That way I can figure out which room’s mine on the way back.’ Having spent most of the day scrubbing the deck, Peter had not had time to familiarise himself with the ship. Several doorways lined the corridor, each with two dozen men asleep behind the wall.

Hunched over, Peter held the lamp out in front of him as he crept through the pirates’ privies. Pushing the door open to the quarter deck, Peter lowered his lantern as he neared the starboard rim. Sparkling against the skin of the sea, sunlight crept over the horizon. The breeze swept through his hair. Running towards the wall of the ship, he flung himself into the gunwale. “Wow!” he breathed, as the glimmering beams of the rising red sun danced across the shimmering sea.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” beamed a voice behind him. Peter gasped. His heart hammered. His brow shot up. Spinning on his heels Captain Blagden’s face met his.

“I-i-i, sorry Captain, I-” Peter stuttered. Sweat dripped down his temple.

“Nothing t’ be sorry for,” the captain beamed. Stepping beside Peter, he leant against the gunwale, gazing out over the sea. “I like a good sunrise. Sets you up for the day.”

“Am I in trouble?” Peter swallowed. His heart crashed into his ribcage. Pulse pounded at his temples. His stomach spiralled.

“Trouble? Nonsense boy,” laughed the captain. “In fact, you remind me a myself when I was about your age.” Turning back to the sea, Peter relaxed his shoulders. Looking back out at the glowing sunrise, he let out a breath. As the sparkles of sea drifted towards them, the raging in his heart slowed. “I remember my first voyage,” the captain’s voice was soft and calm. The raging in Peter’s chest slowed. “I was so eager to set sail. The sights. The beauty. Getting to travel all over the world,” Captain Blagden’s voice boomed out over the ocean. “It’s a magical thing, sailing.” Smiling, Peter nodded. “It’s nice to share the sunrise with an eager face,” smiled the captain, turning towards Peter. “Most a the men are just after me rum or their share in the loot.” Shaking his head, he returned his sight to the rising sun. “No, I like a man with a sense of adventure.”

The two stood in silence for some time. Humming against each other’s company, they enjoyed the magical sparkle of the sun’s power. The reddening glow, gleamed into a warm orange, before radiating out into a saturating yellow. The sea’s lashes grew stronger, as the sun peaked higher above the sea line. “So, ever imagined yourself to be captain one day?” mused Blagden.

“Don’t know,” Peter muttered with a shrug. “Maybe.” Filling his ears with the gushing of the sea, Peter seeped in the salty air. “I just wanted to escape city life,” he confessed. “My father’s an alcoholic and me mother’s the local gossip – does nothing but complain about me and compare me t’ everyone else. I like being at sea… the calming breezes, the therapeutic sway… I feel at home.”

“Aye, I see the spirits of a true captain in ya, boy,” chuckled Blagden, giving Peter’s arm a nudge. Peter laughed alongside him. “Reckon you’re gonna make me proud.” Peter’s laugh stuttered into a breath.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?” the captain shrugged. “This trip’ll be good experience for ya.” Peter lowered his sight to his feet. He gazed at his shoes. “Tell you what, go back an’ join the others, but when we get t’ Motorus Relicta, you come with me. We’ll row out t’ the isles and you can ‘ave some first-hand experience,” the captain told him. Arching an arm around Peter’s shoulder, he asked, “What d’ya say to that?”

‘I might get more information about Moonstone,’ he told himself. ‘This is what Halaken wanted.’ Staring at his shoes, his mind wandered back to the old man who had given them to him. ‘He said I’d do great things,’ he recalled. ‘Maybe this is my chance.’ Looking up at the captain, a grin stretched across Peter’s face. “Please,” he nodded.

“Atta boy,” beamed the captain, scruffing up Peter’s hair.

“To learn from one of the biggest pirate captains,” Peter told him, with his fingers crossed behind his back. “It would be an honour.”

As the sun rose and all men were up, Peter returned to his duties underdeck. Breakfast was feasted upon and the day’s duties were dished out. Within the hour, they had set sail again. To Peter’s relief, he had been spared rowing once more. Sanders, however, was not as lucky. While the sandy-haired privateer joined the pirates in rowing, Peter and Brandon sharpened the swords and filled pistols with powder. Scraping and clattering blades across whetstones, Peter revealed his conversation with Captain Blagden to Brandon. “Good goin’, lad,” Brandon beamed, slapping a hand to Peter’s back. “I’m proud a ya, like. Let’s j’st ‘ope yer find sum’ink out.”

“Me too,” Peter agreed. “Me too.”

The sun was yet to peek in the sky, when Blagden roared for all men to appear on deck. Fumbling and crashing their way through the crowds, Peter and Brandon joined the rest of the crew on the gangway. Only seven men were to accompany the captain on his mission – the rest were to maintain their work on the ship, scrubbing the decks, preparing weapons and keeping watch for other vessels. Names were called. “Arad, Beady, Bigby, Chuck, Drunge, Neale and Peterson,” announced the captain. Murmurs and whispers hummed across the crew, as the seven men made their way through the crowd. “You are to accompany me. Moritz is in charge until I get back.” As Peter approached the captain’s side, Blagden clasped a hand to the lad’s shoulder. Mutterings of confusion crowed amongst the chatter. “An’ if anyone disobeys orders while I’m gone,” he growled. Silence. Conversations stopped. The crew froze. A cawing seagull, above head, broke the silence. “It’ll be the cat o’ nine tails fer the lot a ya.”

Clambering down the rope steps, Peter was the last to stumble into the rowboat. Passing the pairs of men, Peter slid into the space beside the captain. “Row with the tide,” Blagden ordered. Sat beside the captain, neither Peter nor Blagden had an oar. It was the same at the other end of the boat. A tall, scrawny man, like himself, but with thin, black hair and bronzed skin, sat at the opposite end of the boat to Peter. Alongside him sat a pale, wide man with a scar etched from the corner of his left eye, around his skull, to the left corner of his mouth. Gazing, Peter shuddered. The other four men, who sat between them rowed.

The sun stung his scalp. Scraping a hand through his hair, Peter squinted his eyes. Rocks approached them. He gasped. Stretched up from his seat, his eyes widened. “Slow men,” warned the captain. “We are here.” Bobbing with the tide, their boat slithered through the rocks. Together, the pirates threw their arms overboard, pushing their weight against boulders, angling the boat to safety. Sliding past three small islands, they stopped before the largest of the cluster. As the men dragged the boat onto the shore, Peter’s head arched from right to left as he examined their new surroundings. Running a hand across the back of his neck, a shudder crept up Peter’s spine. Bones. Scattered throughout the landscape, bones and dead bodies littered the ground. His stomach churned. “Right lads,” barked the captain, as the boat was secured to the shore. “We split up. Arad, Bigby, you two take the west wing. Chuck and Drunge, the east. Beady, you an’ Neale are t’ man the boat. Anything suspicious an’ you shout out immediately. Keep your guard up, men.”

“What ‘bout you ‘n’ ‘im, Cap’in?” asked the man with a naked torso and a brown, leathered jacket that clung to his shoulders. He was either Beady or Neale, Peter decided. As the pirate’s left eye shifted towards Peter, he shuddered.

‘I think he’s Beady,’ Peter told himself with wide eyes.

“Petey and I will search the north side,” he informed them, with a slow nod. “Further ground to cover. I do the ‘ard graft meself,” he muttered. The guy draped in an oversized khaki shirt, fastened around his waist with a knot of black rope, snarled his nose at Peter. “Don’t mind, Chuck,” the captain muttered to Peter, out of the corner of his mouth. “‘e’s just jealous.” Shifting his eyes towards the captain, then back towards Chuck, Peter swallowed. “Alright boys. Disband!” Captain Blagden ordered. “Anyone finds it… holla.” Turning on his heels, the tails of the captain’s black jacket billowed out behind him. Throwing his head over his shoulder, to catch sight of the captain, Peter’s feet scrambled after him.

The two walked on in silence for some time. The rocks darkened from a glowing amber to a reddened-brown. Crumbling grey slats prodded out of the ground; lettered markings scratched into their surface. Kicking at a stone, Peter strode on. He arched his head over his shoulder. Traces of the other crew members had vanished. Peter’s heart thudded. ‘What if they desert us?’ Peter worried. ‘What if they take the boat back and leave us here? There’s nothing.’ His heart dropped to his stomach. Hearing the captain’s boot collide with a rock, Peter let out a gasp, as he darted his head towards his leader. ‘I guess even pirates stick to their captain… don’t they?’ he tried to reassure himself.

During their venture across the isle, the sun had travelled overhead and was now arching its way towards Peter’s left. Peter gripped at the collar of his shirt, tugging the fabric away from his throat. Swallowing hard, his tongue scraped across the roof of his mouth. His throat parched, he sighed, drooping his arms to his sides. A twinge shot up his right calf, stabbing him in the knee. He winced. Arching his head over his left shoulder, rock stretched in all directions. Dropping his eyes to the ground, he wrinkled his forehead as a skull came into view. ‘There’s nothing but bones and rocks,’ he fumed. Scrunching his fists, at his sides, Peter took bigger strides. Walking alongside the captain, he asked, “What are we looking for?”

“I’ll tell ya once we find it,” came the captain’s growled reply. Peter rolled his eyes – he had already heard that line several times.

“But how can I help if I don’t know what I’m doing?” Peter whined. “I want to help you, Captain. That’s why I came,” he told him. Delving a hand into his jacket pocket, Peter crossed his fingers.

“Fine,” sighed Blagden, coming to a stop. Running a hand through his dark locks, the captain closed his eyes and inhaled. “No word gets out,” he warned Peter. “The lads here have already sworn an oath to me, ‘nd I need you to do the same.” With a shaky breath, Peter pinched his crossed over fingers tight and nodded. “Alright,” muttered the captain with a nod. “There’s a symbol,” Blagden told him. “A circle with some lines crossed through it. If ya see any marking like that, let me know.”

‘It’s not much to go on,’ Peter grumbled to himself, as he nodded at the captain.

“An’ if you so much as t’ breathe a word a this t’ anyone,” the captain growled. Pressing his face against Peter’s, this captain squished his nose against his. “Yer history.” Peter’s brow shot up. Swallowing, he nodded.

“Y-y-y, yes s-s-s, Sir,” he stuttered.

“Good,” breathed Captain Blagden with a wide smile. “Then maybe I can trust you.”

Darkness started to creep in. Clouds bubbled around them. The sun was beginning its descent. Having traversed to the farthest point of the island, Captain Blagden and Peter were well on their way back. Shoulders slumped, Peter started dragging his feet. His insides pulsed. ‘What a waste of time,’ he growled to himself. ‘I’m no closer to helping Halaken.’ Exhaling, he let out a sigh.

“Keep yer chin up, lad,” Blagden told him, nudging his left arm. “So, we didn’t find it. It’s still out there.” Lifting his head, Peter turned towards the captain and nodded.

“What’ll happen when we find it?” Peter asked, tilting his head to his right, as his forehead puckered.

“Depends on the boss,” Blagden shrugged. Peter’s eyes widened. “Even a Captain takes his orders from somewhere,” Blagden chuckled. “King Valder, it was he who sent us on this quest. He’s got a plan for something big. But if we fail to find what he seeks, none of us are getting close to a reward.” Drumming raced at Peter’s chest.

‘So, there is something going on,’ Peter’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s something big… and I’m going make sure I stick around t’ find out what.’

With the arch of his right foot tugging in every stride, Peter kicked at a stone. Watching it bounce over a pelvic bone, his ears pricked up. Footsteps. Widening his vision, his eyes scanned the rocky land. “Captain!” called a voice in the distance. A blur of scarlet drew nearer. They strode towards it. “Captain!” the voice called again, as the three of them neared each other. “Captain!” gasped the man. Stopping, he clasped his hands to his knees, his chest shaking. “Captain,” the man wheezed.

“Arad!” Blagden exclaimed, as he neared the scrawny lad. Under the setting light of the sun, his bronzed skin darkened.

“It’s Bigby,” Arad panted. “Thinks he’s found it!” Peter shot his head towards the captain. Blagden’s wide eyes stared back at him. A smirk swept across Peter’s face.

“Lead the way!” Blagden ordered.

Scurrying after Arad, the pain in Peter’s foot vanished. His heart pounced in his chest. He threw one foot in front of the other. ‘This could be it,’ Peter told himself. ‘This could get me into Moonstone Fortress.’ Thoughts raced around in his brain, as they ran. Skidding to a halt, Peter, Captain Blagden and Arad stopped on the edge of a rectangular pit. Leaning over the edge, Peter peered inside. He gasped. The man with a scar stretching across his face, gazed back at him. Bigby stood waving up to them, at six feet below. “We been digging fer ‘ours,” Bigby shouted up to the captain, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“We found the markin’ on a grave stone,” Arad told the captain.

“‘N’ look,” Bigby exclaimed passing up a small fist-sized cloth sack. “It was on a body. It has the marking.” Crouching over the hole, Captain Blagden stretched out his hand for the cloth. Straining his fingers out, the captain clasped a hand around the cloth sack and swiped it away. As soon as the cloth was in his hand, Captain Blagden bounced up on his feet and strode away from his men. Squatting at the pit, Arad and Peter threw their arms out towards Bigby and hauled him up. Struggling against Bigby’s weight, Peter squinted his vision in Blagden’s direction. Blagden gave the string, on the pouch, a tug. His eyes widened. With a grunting flop, Bigby tumbled towards them.

“Right men,” boomed the captain’s voice, as he stuffed the cloth bag inside his jacket. “Well done,” he nodded, turning on his heels to face them. “I’ll put in a good word with the king for you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” replied Arad and Bigby in chorus.

“Now,” Blagden bellowed. “All men back on deck.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “All men back on deck!” again. “Petey, go see if you can find the others,” he barked. Peter’s heart flung to his stomach. As his lips parted, the captain snapped, “Now!”

 

- Josie -