image [https://i.imgur.com/oL8xInd.png]

Picaro was off his feet, though no arm had pulled him. He took one last breath before being swept back out into the passage by a torrent of water. He hit his shoulder hard on the first bend of the passage. He covered his head in his hands in time to protect himself from the other side of the stone wall. He continued to ricochet off tunnel walls until the torrent washed him back out into the entry hall to the cache.

Yet even that room was now filling with water, already waist deep. Shiny baubles littered the surface. Around him, men thrashed, plucking gold pieces from the bottom or shoving each other in an effort to make way as more of their crew erupted from the entrance to the cache. As a man beside him reached for a golden cup, he was suddenly pulled under by a strong force. "Keep going. The evil is still among us," Grit cried out as he waded passed Picaro. Panicked, Picaro made immediately for where the entrance to the secret pool must be. Picaro held his breath a second time and dove.

In the bending underground tunnel, Picaro could barely see ahead in the dark water. While he could not hear their screams, nor see their fright, he imagined some of the crew being pulled down by scaly claws in that dark passage. Suddenly, he met a stone wall and in his panic thought he would be trapped, that the scaly claws would get him too and he would drown there. Then instinct, or reason, bade him swim instinctually upward for air. When he broke the surface, he could hear the sounds of waves lapping at the shore, and he realized he was out again.

Then, a strong current took him and threatened to washed him out to sea. He barely kept afloat, spluttering, and was barely able to catch the outstretched hand of a man reaching for him from the rocky shore. It was Atrocius. The large man pulled the boy out of the water with ease, nearly throwing him several feet. Picaro lay there for a moment, gagging, yearning for air. He looked to see many other men scrambling to find a footing on the stone.

A bobbing wooden chest floated close to the edge of the water, and Picaro was able to reach down and get a hold of one of its handles. He heaved, but the chest was heavy in his grasp. Then Mord bent down beside him and helped him haul up the chest onto the rocky bank. The pair exchanged quick glances before Mord turned away to help another man up to safety.

It seemed an age before men stopped pouring out of the mouth of the cove. They had lost some in their tally. But greater the loss still was the treasure they watched disappear into the depths. Finally, the current calmed where before it had churned with panicked chaos.

A shimmering form bobbed up to the surface. A glowing pair of amber eyes broke the surface, staring at them beneath tangled hair, the color of coral. The siren giggled as she floated by them, amused with herself.

"My heroes, who freed me from that prison. Might you come down so I can thank you properly?" She tossed back her hair and raised an arm out of the water, pleading with them to join her.

Valgur stood on the edge of the water, his face set in a heavy growl. "Yer tricks won't work on us no more, sea witch. Enjoy yer freedom while ye can, for if I see you again, I'll put a bullet 'tween your eyes for trying to pry me life out from mine.” He drew a pistol, pointing it glaringly at the women's head.

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"Come to me, brave men of the sea," she said, and giggled. Her eyes became entrancing once again, and her voice became a sweet melody. Picaro recognized the danger and covered his ears. The crew watched the shimmering form catch the light in the shallow water, and some men rose to their feet, slowly walking toward the edge of the water. The siren held out her hand in waiting, just out of reach of the closest man. He stretched for her and stumbled into the water.

Picaro rushed to try and pull the man back up. The siren’s eyes flicked menacingly toward the boy, and he flinched. Then she flashed a wicked smile at Valgur, who still stood with his pistol raised, though he was struggling to find his resolve. Slowly, he lowered his gun arm and began to swoon for the siren once more. Picaro looked all around. The men were caught in the same dream as their captain. They would all go willingly to their deaths, and there was nothing Picaro could do about it.

Suddenly, a tremendous quake shook the island, and Picaro nearly lost his footing. A man fell into the water, but the siren did not pounce on him. She was looking around wildly, becoming quite afraid. Her concentration had been broken and the spell was temporarily lifted. The man floundered in the water, but was able to heave himself back onto shore. Another tremor rippled out through the water, causing a commotion in the surf. Water sloshed up onto the rocks as if caught in a storm. The siren bore her teeth at Picaro and her eyes glinted at the rest of the crew before slipping under the surface, letting the current carry her quickly out to sea. Perplexed, Picaro watched her leave, unsure what could have scared her away just as her prey was within her clutches.

Together, the crew watched her disappear into the deep. The only telling of her path was her head poking up out of the water for a moment some way out into the waves.

“What a woman,” said Mord as he watched her go.

”Let her go. She held more treachery in her gaze than any woman to ever live,” said Grit, shaking his head as he came back to himself.

The crew slouched in exhaustion and relief, but Valgur allowed them no rest. “To the ship. We have to get out of this accursed place,” he roared. Men scrounged for whatever treasure they could salvage and moved swiftly across the beach. The oarboats were still there in the sand, though the tide was beginning to tickle their undercarriage. Beyond, Ye ‘Ol Marigold still held anchor just off the shallow shoals. They quickly pushed out to sea, making the ship and gathering aboard.

"How many did we lose?" asked Valgur.

"Seven, I think, not counting Onion. Where is the cook?" said Grit. Picaro’s breath caught in his chest.

They looked back at the beach. There was Onion, barreling out of the jungle, waving his arms.

"Oh, blast it all," said Valgur.

"Should we leave him?" asked Silvertime from the helm.

"Nay, we need to eat. Go and fetch him," said Valgur dejectedly. He was wringing water from his coat when Onion was pulled aboard. "It’s 'bout time, cook. Alright, we're all here. Set us a course for-" yet the words died on his lips when he saw the outline of a ship cresting the cape of the island, on a direct course for them.

"Captain, ship approaching," said Shrimp from the crow's next.

"I can see that," said Valgur audibly.

"They're flying the colors of Alcatran."

Valgur paused, studying the approaching vessel. "The Admiral," he growled under his breath.

"Should we hail them?"

"Up the anchor and catch the southern wind. Let's bid our goodbyes to this place," said Valgur.

But as they made final preparations and began to turn in the surf, Alcatran's ship made a direct course to intercept them.