The Rise of Shadowmire: Part One

[Adunaphel]

Now that IL has been dissolved and none of this stuff is actually going to happen, I might as well go public with this. Was originally intended as a trilogy, but I sincerely doubt I'll be writing the rest of it.

Anyways, hope you enjoy.

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Ronan Kelmen was not having a good week. He had been squatting in the cramped crows-nest of the Intrepid for nigh-on seven days, leaving only to take his meals and to collapse into an exhausted heap every morning when he was finally relieved of duty. He had gotten over the fact that the rats would gnaw at his fingers as he slept, and he could finally stomach the nauseating stench emanating from the bilges. The thing that really twisted his gut was looking at the same damned view every night -- pinpricks of far-off light above the horizon, blank ocean below. His entire existence had been reduced to maggoty bread, a cramped platform dozens of feet off the deck of the ship, and miles of dark blue stillness. It was enough to drive a man mad.

"This close to the Den, pirates will be a constant threat," D'Val had said, puffing out his chest in a completely transparent attempt to sound like he had the slightest clue as to what he was talking about. "I'll want a man in the nest 'round the clock to keep watch. An' if any refuse the watch, I'll see fit to refuse yer rations!"

The entire ordeal might not have been quite so infuriating if it weren't for that self-important windbag. Parson D'Val was a god damned lumberjack. He hadn't set foot on board so much as a river ferry in his life, and here he had appointed himself Captain. The dumb bastard wouldn't know a pirate from the Avatar himself. Half the time Ronan doubted that he even had them sailing in the right direction.

Their entire team had been hired the month before to harvest lumber for a man named Eric Kain, a noble out of Trinsic with aspirations of building his own town. Granted, he wanted to build it out in the middle of the biggest swamp in the realm, but the gold was his to waste, as far as Kelman was concerned. The rest of the men felt the same, apart from the handful of youngsters Parson had hired on at the last minute. To them, Kain was the bloody patron-saint of manifest destiny. Ronan was tempted to sharpen his saw on their thick skulls, but he was afraid he'd strip the teeth in the process. They had felled half the trees in Yew before anyone had realized that it would take months to haul a thousand stone of lumber through the Fens of the Dead. That was when D'Val had come up with his brilliant plan of purchasing a ship and sailing the entire shipment to the construction site. It would have been a fine idea, had the route not taken them within spitting distance of the pirate stronghold of Buccaneer's Den. Ronan couldn't decide if the plan was borne out of laziness or sheer stupidity. Kain had certainly picked a doozy of a location for his little vanity project -- swamp in one direction, pirates in the other.

Kelman spit over the side of the nest and cursed. He was taking a nap. D'Val didn't pay him enough for this shit.

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The longboats eased their way alongside the Intrepid silently, mirroring the movements of the vessel preceding it. A half dozen sets of eyes glittered in the moonlight with pensive anticipation. As each boat settled against the heavily laden ship, each set of eyes focused on a single figure aboard the second longboat. With a raised fist, the figure paused, signaling the other men to rise in preparation. His second hand gestured once to the bow of the ship, then once to the aft, nodding to confirm the approach. His fist uncurled to count down.

Three. Swords were secured in their scabbards for the impending ascent.

Two. A figure on each boat rose to his feet, spinning a weighted rope in a tight circle.

One. The grapnels sailed through the night air to quietly cinch onto the railing.

The iron claws had been wrapped in cloth to muffle the impact of their landings; had anyone on board been awake at this hour, they would have automatically assumed that the noise was simply the creaking of the bulkheads and gone about their normal business. After a moments pause, two successive hooks followed suit. Half a dozen shadowy figures scurried hand-over-hand up the ropes. For all the Den’s infamy, people still knew remarkably little about how the average pirate preferred to operate. They all expected a fleet of ships flying the skull-and-crossbones on the horizon, not the handful of innocuous fishing vessels than would slip in right under their noses.

The leader was a relatively short man with a carefully trimmed beard and hair pulled back into a ponytail. With a few silent gestures he directed half of his boarding party to keep watch on the crew quarters while the others swept the cargo hold. A select few peeled off from the group to furl the sails and took point on the stern. There was an old saying back in Buccaneer’s Den -- ships with the best swag rode low and they sailed slow. From the looks of her waterline, their particular mark was loaded to capacity and then some. The anticipation made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

The men sent to scout the cargo hold crept back into view.

“Well, boys? What’ll they be donatin’ tonight?”

He could tell from their dour expressions that they weren’t impressed with the haul, but that was the pirates lot in life. Not everyone could be running Magincian silk and chests of gold coins, after all. A man had to take what he could get in this economy.

The pirate closest to the leader spat on the deck. Clearly he thought they were wasting their time here.

“Wood.” Was all he said.

“Wood?” The lead pirate frowned. Lumber wasn’t exactly in high demand on the black market. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. More wood.” He nodded towards the group of pirates keeping watch on the crew. “Wasted our time on this one, Matt. I say we bleed ‘em and be done with it.” He shrugged his shoulders, but after a short moment his mood brightened visibly. “ Mebbe’ they haven’t gone a’ shore yet. Still have their pay on ‘em?”

It was certainly worth a shot. Nobody back in the Den would have any use for lumber, regardless. Still, Matt wasn’t the type to give up so easily; not after they had gone to all this trouble.

“Ye need to expend your horizons, Halgar. These people have families that’d like to see ‘em returned, safe an’ sound, aye?” He smiled a full, mischievous grin. “Lets pay the crew a visit, mates. There’s gold to be made ‘ere yet!”

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Parson D'Val had always held a firm belief that he was destined for great things in life. And true to his faith, that day had come. The odds had been against him, but fortune had finally smiled upon him with Eric Kain's little flight of fancy. The favor of a Trinsic noble was exactly what D'Val had been waiting for -- the favor, and all the gold that would follow.

He sighed in relief as the woman worked a particularly stubborn knot from his back, groaning against the fine cotton fabric of a plush pillow. This was the life he had always envisioned; expensive food, vintage wine, and young, obedient women. All those years of swinging an axe in the blistering sun had finally paid off.

D'Val winced in pain as his courtesan pinched a nerve along his back. "Damn it, girl! You're servicing a paying customer, not wringing out your damned laundry!"

This was ridiculous. For the amount of gold he was paying, he damn well expected a girl who knew what the hell she was doing. He made a mental note to pick one of the older whores the next time. They might not have been much to look at, but at least they had a little experience in pleasuring a man. Still, it was very hard for D'Val to stay in a sour mood with such nubile company.

"Now don't fret, girl, you'll learn. Back where you left off, but a little lower this time..."

The cold sensation of steel against his throat awoke D'Val from his dream. A bearded man hovered over him in his cabin, grinning with amusement. Though the seas churned the ship violently, the man's grip on the dagger he held to D’Val’s neck never faltered. "Lower, aye? I'm of a mind ye best be re-thinkin' that request, mate..."

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D’Val’s first vain hope was that he was still dreaming. The first light of the new day filtered in through the cabin’s dirt encrusted porthole, dimly illuminating the room and its contents. On his right was a table covered in charts and his half-empty bottle of rum. His head throbbed dully from his little celebration the night before. He couldn’t quite gather his thoughts through the liquor induced stupor, but he was fairly certain that the knife-wielding man in the black bandana hadn’t been there when he passed out the night before. He groaned in pain as the morning sunlight exploded against his soused vision.

“Son of a whore…could you close the damned shade?” he mumbled drunkenly.

Matt chuckled softly to himself. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the hung over fool. The man looked like death warmed over. He shifted his free arm and slid the moth-eaten curtain over the porthole. Once the light had dimmed to a more tolerable level, he scooped the bottle from the table he had passed and offered it to the obviously hung-over Captain.

“Little hair o’ the dog, mate?” He grinned. “Bad manners to shank a man while he’s drunk, my mum always said.”

D’Val accepted the bottle and took a long pull. His head cleared slightly. The man in front of him was dressed in a charcoal doublet over a black, long sleeved tunic and matching pants. He wore a neatly trimmed red beard, and had his red hair pulled back into a ponytail underneath a black skullcap. He couldn’t have stood more than a few inches over five feet tall, at the very most. And despite his innocuous appearance, he steadily held a rusted blade with practiced ease against his throat.

“The rest of the crew wont stand for this, you know,” Parson lied. “When the boy shows with my breakfast, you’ll be in for the fight of your life.” He tried his level best to look intimidating and hoped to high heaven that it actually worked.

“Oh, aye.” Matt nodded solemnly and peered intently at the plank floor to stifle his laughter. What was he, an amateur? “The crew seems t’ have a very high opinion o’ their fearless leader. Especially the one we found up in the nest! What was he calling ‘imself? Rowan? Aye…said we should break yer legs and toss ye over the side.”

D’Val let out a heavy, defeated sigh. So much for bluffing his way out of this mess.

“We’ve a hold full of lumber bound for Shadowmire. I’m certain Sir Eric Kain would pay very well for the safe return of his crew and cargo.”

Matt tried not to show his excitement. Well now, a noble…this trip hadn’t been a waste of time after all! Matt had dealt with blue bloods in the past; a little threat of bloodshed and they went to pieces every time. He’d ransom the ship, cargo, and crew back to this Sir Eric character for a mountain of gold. Maybe feed a few of the crew to the sharks to let everyone involved know that he meant business.

Matt took his blade from the captain’s throat, prompting a deep sigh of relief from D’Val. “Well now, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?” He took the bottle of rum from D’Val and had a swig himself, eyeballing the man with a satisfied grin.

“I’ve a deal for ye, Captain. Some of my colleagues’ll escort ye to yon noble to negotiate an agreement.” He sheathed his dagger and plopped himself down comfortably into the dingy, threadbare stuffed chair at the foot of D’Val’s bed. His mood was improving already.

“No bright ideas now. Any funny business an’ yer employer ‘ll only be getting back a hull loaded with heads. Do I make myself clear?”

D’Val glared helplessly at his captor. If looks could kill, the bastard would have dropped dead on the spot. He had no choice but to agree. Their lives were now in the hands of Sir Eric Kain.

“Who the hell are you?” was all he could say.

“Matthius Cole, mate,” the pirate grinned. “At yer fuckin’ service.”

[inition]

Nice writing. Good practice for when you start selling stories to magazine editor or publishers.