Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

That slow, rhythmic melody which kept time with the beating heart of the universe. That intoning of water and stone which had been Lennwicks sole company for these countless years. That soft splash which echoed through the labyrinthian caverns he had come to call home. Drip.

The soft blue glow of magical light which had once flooded these chambers now flickered beneath his olfactory tentacle. He clung dearly to the light and cherished its gentle luminance. Drip.

Lennwick, who had drunk greedily of the once vast pool, now savored every drop which beaded and fell from the manifold, crystalline stalactites from above. The magically charged crystals had fed the aquifer for millennia until now. Drip.

With each drop Lennwick prayed to the heavens above for one more divine act of grace. With every prayer, a new drop, right in time with the last one. Every intercession heralded the rains of providence and his fervor renewed.

Every Prayer.

Without Fail.

Always on time?

Okay, what the hell? Had he not prayed loud enough? Hard enough?

God has forsaken Lennwick to join the damned.

Lennwick wallowed in self pity for what felt like centuries. It had to at least be three days. Lennwick cried himself to sleep, or he would have if he had tear ducts. His skin felt brittle and dry, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and die, lost to the darkness that surrounded him. This was the end.

He wished he had been given another life, a friend, anyone to come alongside him in this dark and dismal world. Lennwick despaired.

Lennwick closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into a deep sleep, one which he never intended to wake from. Ten minutes later, he heard a sound he hadn’t expected to ever hear again: footsteps.

A faint flicker of yellow light lit the deep hollows of the cavern, causing shadows to shift and dance along its walls. Lennwick watched as the flicker drew closer and manifested itself as a glowing orb of light affixed to the end of a stick. Whispers and voices echoed through the stone walls and the figure of a man slowly materialized from behind the stalagmites, firmly attached to the other end of the fire stick. A second man came into view, this one slightly taller and far skinnier than the first.

“When we find it, you and I will be the wealthiest men this side of the Porgish ocean, nay, the world! I’ll be like the god emperors of old, powerful and immortal. The world will bow at our feet if only to gaze upon our countenance,” a gruff voice spoke into the dark.

“If the journal is right, we’ll have more of the stuff than we’ll know what to do with, but how do we keep it secret?” a younger voice asked.

“Not to worry, my boy, the journal alone holds description of this place,” the first man said, “ceilings adorned with the most beautiful gems and a pool alight with the queerest of magics, ‘tis only we who can find our way down,” he froze and gazed over the deep cavern, “This is it, Haversham, there the carvings of the ancients and the mark of the spaniards.”

“By God, it’s beautiful, Captain, even more brilliant than the journal described. Even the drawings don’t do it justice,” the other man said, gaping as he gazed upon the myriad crystals above. Flickers of firelight danced in prismatic display among the crystals. He glanced over at the other man who was twisting and turning the book in his hands, glancing frustratedly between it and the cavern before him.

“It doesn’t make sense, not any damned sense!” he exclaimed.

“Captain?”

“It should be right here!” the gruff man growled, “The drawing is identical but the fountain is gone, it can’t be possible. How does an entire lake just dry up?” he said, gnashing his teeth.

“Maybe it’s deeper in,” the younger voice suggested.

“We can’t go down there! The journal’s instructions end here! We’d be swallowed up by the cavern and never make it out,” The other man snapped. He spun and kicked the wall, releasing a shout of anger as he did.

The cave shook, ever so slightly, and in that very moment, Lennwick beheld the faint casting of a familiar light. Three sets of eyes fell upon the bright blue droplet as it beaded at the end of a crystal stalactite. The droplet coalesced, elongated, then released its hold on the crystal and descended through the deep darkness.

The two men scrambled forward, pushing and shoving, as they charged toward the rolling droplet. It slid down the face of a rock, into a small, slanted groove in the floor, and rolled slowly toward the center of the room. The two men reached it just as it came to rest on the cool cave floor.

Slurp.

The men’s eyes widened in shock and horror. The shorter, older man shook with a flurry of emotions, “A snail?” he said in a mad, shaky voice, “A god damned snail?” he shouted, so loud that the cavern shook once again.

He growled and raised a booted foot. He then screamed as he brought the foot down with enough force to crack Lennwick’s shell and splatter him across the stone. Only, when his boot fell, it didn’t land with a crunch or squelch, instead, the foot slid out from beneath the man, sending Lennwick flying into the dark, bouncing off a stalagmite and landing inches from his original position. The man fell back with the force of his stomp and slammed his head into a stalagmite, sending the hat atop his head rolling away. A loud crack echoed through the cave, then all fell silent.

The second man stared for a long moment at the motionless form of the man in front of him, his eyes wide with shock and body frozen with horror. He gingerly prodded the shoulder of the other man, who stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

“C-Captain?” the boy asked in a timid voice. His breath hitched and he fell to his knees next to the other man’s body, “Oh no. No, no, no, this is bad. The others will think I killed him, they’ll have me marooned, hung, or worse!”

He paced back and forth, gripping his hair in tight fists as he did. Lennwick watched the man with curiosity as he strutted and cursed and mangled his hair so it fell into his face in loose, messy locks. The torch the man had propped up began to shift. Lennwick tried to say something but quickly remembered he was a snail. He watched as the torch fell and rolled in the dust, quickly snuffing out the flame.

Silence.

Lennwick heard a foot slide slowly over the dry earth and pat gently at the ground. The man’s breathing grew heavy and nervous, getting closer and closer to where Lennwick lay on the ground. The man blew dust in Lennwick’s face, his breath wreaking of fish and rot. Lennwick tried to cover his nose and remembered for the second time that he was, in fact, a snail, meaning he had no hands to cover the nose he also didn’t have.

Snails share the misfortune of sensing smell through their tentacles, which, in Lennwick’s case, were currently being smothered by smelly human breath.

The man’s hand patted around on the ground and danced around Lennwicks position. Lennwick ducked and tried to dodge but he was doing so based solely on his sense of hearing, which snails also weren’t supposed to have. How did he have that again?

That’s right! The well, the water in it had given Lennwick strength and ability beyond the average snail. He had spent years drinking the water and channeling its power through his body. For the first decade or so, he had tried to emulate the abilities of that man, the one that brought him here so many years ago, Lennwick nearly forgot.

Lennwick had spent years traveling with that man. The many things he witnessed and experienced while adventuring alongside that bipedal being. He had fallen off the man’s shoulder when he had leapt into the water. He wondered if he could remember the man’s name… Lennwick hadn’t seen the man for a long time. How long had it been?

Lennwick pondered, without the sun, it was really impossible to tell… Exhale. Lennwick gagged. He cursed to the heavens, this man had to have a dead carcass stuck in his teeth.

Lennwick dug back in his memories, back to his time traveling with that odd man. Time spent on a ship together, in vast libraries, or stored away safely in his satchel. The man kept a scant few things in that satchel, several bottles of amber colored water, a round, shiny object that had an arrow that always pointed in a different direction. There was a blade, a pouch of dark powder, and several small metal balls. But there was another thing, what was it…

Lennwick perked up, that’s right, a book! A book with powerful words in it. Lennwick was only ever able to read the first page but he had commit it to memory for the first years of his time down here. The book called the words of power spells. There was that one spell on the first page that was perfect for this, what was the word it used… Saasil.

Lennwick spoke the word in his mind as he moved a minute portion of Itza from his body. The book had said that Itza was the foundation of all spells and fundamental for their conjuration and the lake had been overflowing with it. In an instant, the entire cavern erupted into a brilliant spectacle of light.

The man gasped, then screamed as a vibrant, prismatic orb slowly ascended from the slimy creature in front of his face. His eyes watched the orb ascend toward the ceiling then hang in the air. The orb cast light into the deepest reaches of the cave and illuminated them, as bright as daylight.

The man gaped at the spectacle then glanced down at the origin of the strange magic, “What the f-”

Rrrrrm.

Something sounded overhead and the caverns rumbled. Dust fell from the ceiling and the gangly man blanched.

“The Imperial Navy, they found us already,” he said with a trembling voice.

Boom.

The cave shook more violently. Crystals fell from the ceiling and shattered on the ground. The man looked down at Lennwick then at the captain and back the way he came. He darted over to the captain, grabbed the journal from his lifeless hands and then spun and snatched Lennwick from the floor before Lennwick even had a chance to react; not that it would have done anything, you know, the whole snail thing.

The man dodged a falling crystal and hurried to the entrance but halted after running only a few feet away. He glanced back at the captain’s corpse which had now been impaled by a crystal, he looked down at the hat. He ran back and seized it, tying it to his belt. Lennwick was stuffed into his vest pocket, thrust once more into the deep abyssal darkness.

The orb of light Lennwick had conjured, trailed behind them and kept the path illuminated as bits of rock and rubble fell from the roof of the cave. The man scrambled up the face of a slick stone and clutched at a rope that hung down on the rockface. He planted his feet on the wall and began to climb. Lennwick poked his eyes out of the pocket to see. Something cracked and clattered above him as he climbed and a rock, the size of the man’s torso, barreled down toward them. The man kicked off the wall just in time for the rock to graze his leg.

He swung out and then slammed back into the rockwall with a grunt. He ascended the roughly sixty foot climb and hoisted himself over the ledge, rolling over and onto his back, nearly crushing Lennwick in the process. Lennwick was glad he had such a sturdy shell, and that it had been reinforced by the magic in the well. He had added layers to the shell during the many years down there and was proud of its brilliant sheen.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, the man pushed himself wearily to his feet. The sounds of explosions still echoed overhead and they were only getting louder. Lennwick’s eyes peered out and could see a new source of light just ahead. The light grew and began to wash out the light from his own orb.

They burst out into the sunlight and Lennwick’s breath caught. He had forgotten just how beautiful the outside world was. Rays of sunlight flitted through a dense canopy of green, causing verdant shadows to dance among the dirt and leaves on the forest floor. A dragonfly buzzed past as the sounds of bird calls filled the air. Lennwick sucked in a deep, satisfying breath of-

Bang!

Something flew imperceptibly fast over the man’s shoulder and rang off the rocks behind them. Lennwick’s eyes fell forward. Three men in bright purple uniform studded with brass buttons and golden shoulder tassels stood in front of the man. One of them had a pistol pointed at him and smirked with a cocky grin. This one had a strange hat adorning his head which curved forward from the back of his head and hung three golden tassels down from the seam on the underside.

“Well, if it isn’t the Caiman’s blade himself, Sven was it?” the man said.

“Captain Fausley, if I had known it was your stench I had to smell, I would have cut my nose off back in the cave,” the man with Lennwick said.

The captain scowled at the man, “Be wary men, they call him the singing blade, the fastest swordsman in the Palanesian seas. I do wonder…” he said, fingering the trigger on his pistol and pointing it vaguely at the other man, “Are you faster than a bullet?”

The man with Lennwick blanched and straightened a little, resting a hand on his sword.

“Give me the journal, I won’t ask twice, nor will I miss again” he said, pointing the gun directly toward the man’s chest. Wait, directly toward his chest? That was where Lennwick was! For God’s sake, toss him the journal!

The man surrendered the journal reluctantly and stepped back.

The one with the pistol stepped forward and grabbed the journal, the other two pointed their own guns at Lennwick and the man as he did.

The man named Fausley held the book up in the light and considered it closely, “To think, such a priceless artifact in the hands of a filthy pirate,” he said in a quiet tone, “A shame, such a valuable tome to be burned on a pyre before the Holy Primus,” he said, looking back up and pointing his gun at the man’s chest, “A shame, you won’t be burning with it.”

Bang!

The man fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Lennwick felt his weight bear down on him and watched through a slit between the man and the ground as the man walked over.

“Welcome to the age of gunpowder, Mr. Haversham, a bit late perhaps but you can be sure that the age of the sword will be buried along with you and any others who refuse to adapt to the new world,” he said. Then, Lennwick watched his boots turn and walk away, disappearing into the underbrush.

Lennwick slid out from under the man and around his shirt. He slid up to the bare skin on his neck and touched it gently. A shock ran through the man’s body and he gasped and rolled over, causing Lennwick to cling to him as he did.The man ran his hands over his chest, frantically searching for a wound that wasn’t there, just a darkening bruise. He looked at his chest and saw a half-inch hole in his shirt pocket, where Lennwick had been.

From his shoulder, Lennwick gleamed with pride as he showed off his impenetrable shell in the sunlight. The man turned his gaze upon the snail and stared at him with incredulity.

“Just what in the hell are you?” he asked.

Lennwick scooted forward and touched the man’s skin again. The man’s body jolted and straightened and he kicked a leg out reflexively.

“What the hell was that? Are you some unholy spawn of a snail and an electric eel?” he asked, examining his hand briefly, “No, that’s not it, is it? That little jolt felt… good, really good. By the heavens, you’re not an ordinary snail, aren’t you?”

Lennwick just stared at him.

The man slapped a hand to his face, “Bloody hell, Wren, you’ve gone mad down in that cave, talking to a snail now! It’s a bloody snail! Pull yourself together.”

Lennwick gave him another jolt and he screamed, “Ah! Stop that!” he shouted, then clenched his mouth shut, gazing into the forest where the other men had gone, “That was a bit loud, I’m not sure I can stand being shot twice today. Speaking of, how did you survive…” his voice drifted as he looked back over at the snail on his shoulder, “Ack! I’ve lost it! I need to get back to the ship… the Ship!” he exclaimed, running off into the forest.

Lennwick clung to his shirt as branches and leaves smacked him in the face while the man barreled through the underbrush. He was nearly flicked right off his shoulder as he burst out of a bush and collided with another mass of flesh. The other man grunted and crumpled to the ground.

This human was shorter than Wren and at least as smelly. He spun his face around and Lennwick recoiled in shock. He hadn’t seen many humans in his life, but he was sure this one did not look normal. He had a patchy growth of hair on his face with saggy, leathery skin. One eye was pale and milky and the other a dark brown. His eyebrows looked like they had been seared off and a small rope tied back what little wiry hair was left on his head. He looked at Wren and smiled a barely toothy smile with more gaps in it than teeth.

“Ah, Haversham, here I thought you an’ the cap’ were crushed beneath a whale’s weight in rocks,” he said, “bad news up ‘ere, the Imps tracked us down, captured most of the crew. It’s just me and Gowler left.”

“I made it out before the cave collapsed but the Captain wasn’t so fortunate, he didn’t make it out,” Wren said, “Where is that brute Gowler?”

“Hiding by The Magnus, told him to wait there in case you came back to ‘er,” Cranks said, gesturing back with his head.

“Good man,” Wren said, patting Cranks on the shoulder, “Where’d they take the crew?”

Cranks gestured in the same direction as before, “Also by the Magnus, they got them tied up right there in the sand.”

Wren fixed him with a glare, “You’re saying goliath Gowler is over by the beach, hiding in the brush from a whole battalion of Imperials?”

Cranks looked up as if to think, “More like a platoon, but yeah, something like that.”

Wren ground his teeth, “Damn it, that ogre’s going to get himself killed!” he said, storming off into the forest.

Lennwick heard the distant sound of waves crashing and men shouting at each other. He ran toward the voices and slowed as he got closer to the beachhead, moving stealthily through the jungle. Cranks followed closely behind him, using his lesser height to conceal himself among the brush. They reached the edge of the clearing and paused.

Around twenty men in purple uniforms strutted around a circle of prisoners who were bound in a clump on the beach. One of the people moved at a soldier and received a stiff boot to the chest in return.

“Where’s Gowler?” Wren growled, glancing through the dense forest.

Cranks shrugged, “Said he was gonna lay low, wait for ya, I don’t think he’ll do anythin’ crazy…”

Just as Cranks finished seaking, he and Wren stared in disbelief as a massive form darted out of the forest with a large palm frond held in front of his face and dove behind a large piece of driftwood, sending a plume of sand into the air as his body struck the earth.

Wren gaped at the sight and looked back at the Imperial soldiers. Surely they had to have… nothing. There was nothing. A platoon of soldiers and not a single one of them saw the bear-sized man dart from the forest to the beach.

Wren watched Gowler as he bobbed his massive head up and down, glancing at the group of men.

“You don’t think he’s gonna…” Cranks began.

“Yep, he’s gonna go for it, and get himself killed if we don’t do something,” Wren said, “Maybe we could find a-”

His words cut off as Cranks darted out from the forest, sword in one hand, a rock in the other.

“Why did I have to be left with the sponge-brained bear and the rum sodden ass of an ass?” Wren said and stepped out onto the beach.

The soldiers spotted Cranks a moment before he was upon them. His small, lithe form leapt into the air and latched himself onto the closest soldier. He bashed the soldier’s head with the rock then spun and threw it at the head of another. He jumped off the crumpling soldier and thrust his blade into the gut of yet another. He turned to swipe at another soldier but this one caught his blade with the bayonet of his rifle and drove the sword into the sand.

Cranks wasted no time, leaving his sword in the sand, and leapt onto the soldier. He buried what few teeth he had into the man’s neck, receiving a howl of pain in return. Cranks pushed the man back and bashed him over the head with the butt of his pistol. He spun the gun around in his hand and fired its sole shot into the chest of another soldier.

A soldier aimed his rifle at the crazed monkey who had finally detached itself from his men. A shot rang out across the beach, causing Cranks to flinch. The rifleman clutched at his chest and fell into the sand. Wren tucked his pistol in its holster and unsheathed his sword in a fluid motion as he charged in.

Another rifleman raised his weapon toward Wren but was crushed a moment later by a massive, airborne log of driftwood. The log crushed the bodies of three soldiers in total as the form of a massive man, with two palm fronds tied to his front and back, barreled into the brawl. He caught two more soldiers in his arms and slammed them into the ground.

Cranks retrieved his sword from the sand and threw his back against Wren’s. Gowler grabbed the largest chunk of the shattered log and held it like a club. He cracked it against the skull of one soldier, shattering his cranium instantly, then threw out a kick in the chest of another, collapsing his sternum and sending him sprawling in the sand.

Cranks and Wren fought off three soldiers meeting their blades blow for blow. Lennwick watched in awe as his new companion distinguished himself from these skilless chickens, using his blade and his body in unison, dodging and dipping away from swings, meeting each swing with a counter swing. The swordsmen tried time and again to gain an advantage over the two pirates but their skills were clearly lacking.

Gowler grabbed one of the swordsmen by the face and thrust him backward with the strength of ten horses. A moment later, that soldier lay lifeless in the sand with a broken piece of driftwood standing upright from his chest.

Cranks and Wren finished off the other two swordsmen with practiced ease. Gowler put his back to the two of them as the last swordsman fell. The three of them let their gazes fall beyond the soldiers and Wren’s stomach fell.

Nearly two dozen barrels aimed at the trio from all sides, a wall of purple and gold blocking any hopes of escape. A man stepped forward from between two soldiers and Lennwick resisted the urge to spit in disgust. It was the curvy hat man, the captain, only now the tip of his hat was bent and one of the tassels had been shredded down to a single string. He straightened his purple coat and wiped blood from his lip.

“It would seem our adversaries are more tenacious than expected,” the arrogant voice of Captain Fousley said with a smirk, “You exceed my expectations, Haversham, it would seem one bullet just isn’t enough to put a legend in the dirt. But I’d be fascinated to see how you dodge twenty.”

The captain stepped back behind the firing line as the soldiers filed into a crescent shape around them, careful not to place a comrade in the line of fire. The captain raised a white-gloved hand, stained with drops of crimson.

Lennwick’s heart beat as hard as its two little chambers could manage. He searched his mind for a way out but it had been so long since he had practiced any form of magic… There was that one spell, the one he had formed after countless years spent immersing himself in the magical waters.

Lennwick closed his eyes and focused, swirling Itza throughout his body. The Snailish word formed in his mind in his unutterable language.

The captain dropped his fist and twenty flints fell on twenty flash pans.

Shell!

The word came out of Lennwick a fraction of a second before twenty barrels burst to light and threw fire and lead at the three men and the snail. A massive, translucent spiraled shell materialized around them and the bullets deflected back towards the soldiers. Men in purple uniform crumpled to the ground as bullet pierced chest, femur, arm, and gut.

Lennwick cringed, drawing his eyes back into his head. ‘Shell’? Really? Decades spent in that cave, absorbing magic and formulating the perfect spell in his very own tongue and all he could come up with was ‘Shell’?

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt Wren lurch forward and charge one of the soldiers who was still standing. The man was stunned and held his rifle up reflexively as Wren thrust his blade into his chest. He pushed the man back into another soldier and plunged his sword over the man’s shoulder and into the other soldier’s eye. This one screamed in agony and the brawl resumed once more.

Next to him, Gowler threw a man across the beach as he wrenched his rifle free of his hands. He spun and smacked the butt of the rifle against the neck of another soldier with a thunderous crack. The man crumpled and Gowler charged into another crowd of soldiers, leading with another powerful swing. The soldiers were shocked and disoriented, making it easy to overtake them.

Cranks had disappeared from sight in the midst of the chaos. Wren silently cursed the coward as he fought off two soldiers at once, a third one closing in from behind. The man from behind raised a bayonet at Wren’s chest as Lennwick prepared another ‘Shell’ spell. Before he could utter the Snailish word, a rock connected with the soldier’s temple and had him crumpled in the sand a moment later.

A man Lennwick hadn’t seen yet charged in, scooping a rifle off the ground as he did. He wore the same tattered, dull clothes that Cranks and Wren wore and had the same leathery skin as Cranks. He thrust the bayonet of the rifle into a soldier’s back then tore it out to face another one. Wren knew the man as Ringworm, their cook. Coincidentally, no one other than the captain knew his real name, they had called him Ringworm for as long anyone else could remember.

In little time, two more men joined the brawl. These two looked to be twins, that is if one twin had grown up in a small chicken coop and the other had been put through a stretcher. The taller one used his reach to overpower a soldier and wrap his arms behind his back. The other man, the shorter one with a hunched back, brought a massive rock down on his head with a crack. These Wren knew as the Jombow brothers, the crew’s best gunners.

Wren pushed back the two soldiers he fought and ran one through the gut. He grabbed the rifle from his hands and used it to parry the thrust of the other man. He slammed the barrel into the bridge of the soldier’s nose which sent him reeling back. A moment later, the man had a rifle sticking from his chest and the bloodied tip of a bayonet out the back of him. Wren grabbed his sword from the other man’s chest and kicked him back into the sand, freeing his blade.

Wren took a moment to glance over at Cranks who was cutting his crew members free. A woman screamed at Cranks and thrashed in the sand as he cut her ties. Faben was her name, she was the quartermaster, the only woman in all the Palanesian seas to be brave enough, or mad enough, to sail with the Caiman’s crew. She was, no doubt, upset that Cranks hadn’t freed her first.

She sprung up from the ground, grabbing the length of rope from the sand, and charged into the fray. She jumped on a soldier, wrapping her legs around his torso and tying the rope around his neck. He choked and stumbled, grasping desperately at the makeshift noose around his neck. Another soldier charged her from behind and she wrenched her body with the soldier’s and spun him to meet his comrade’s blade. She whipped the rope in the other soldier’s face and dismounted the first one as he fell to the sand. She pulled the blade free from his chest and slashed it across the throat of the other soldier.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

The last man to join the brawl, and all too late to be of any use, was Benson, the shipwright. A sturdy and rough man with a soft, baby face. He jogged up with a wide grin on his face as the last soldier crumpled to the ground.

“Where's Captain Fausley?” Wren asked, surveying the bodies strewn about them.

“Coward ran into the woods with his tail between his legs, his trousers stained with piss,” Faben said with a scowl, “Better question is, where’s our captain?”

“Didn’t make it out of the caves,” Wren said tersely.

“The Imps get him?” She asked.

“Something like that,” Wren said dismissively, “the point is, he’s gone.”

“I suppose the fountain had nothin’ to do with it either, eh?” Cranks said skeptically.

“The fountain ran dry, nothing but dust when we got there,” Wren replied.

“And we’re just supposed to believe you?” Ringworm asked, crossing his arms.

“You can go back and see for yourself, good luck making your way through the rubble,” Wren said, with a scowl.

“Guess that makes you Cap’n now, doesn’t it, First Mate,” Faben said, spitting out the last words. Wren looked down at the hat tied to his waist with concerned eyes, “So, what’re our orders then, Captain?” Faben asked in a mocking tone.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” Wren asked.

“Fausley killed most of them, ‘least those that didn’t have a bounty,” Ringworm said darkly, “Took Fizz and the Doc to his flagship already.”

“A flagship!” Wren exclaimed angrily, “Fully manned?”

Ringworm shook his head, “Skeleton crew by the looks of it, don’t think this was a ‘holy sanctioned operation’.”

Wren took on a pensive expression and bit his finger, “How many men do you think a ‘skeleton crew’ is?” he asked, looking around at the more-than-twenty bodies laying on the beach.

Ringworm looked around with him, “Not too many more than thirty-five, could be as many as fifty though.”

Wren paced the beach for a moment, swinging his blade back and forth as he thought. Then, a smile teased the edge of Wren’s lips, “Well gentlemen, lady” he said to Faben, earning a scowl from the woman, “How would you all like to raise your bounties a few hundred coin?”

Lennwick glanced around at the group who all seemed to consider the proposal. It seemed everyone but him knew what Wren had meant, even the brute, who wore a big grin on his face. And by the heavens, what a beautiful smile! Lennwick stared at the man for a long moment while the others conversed, his glimmering white, straight teeth had a perfect sheen to them, almost as perfect as his shell. Lennwick had fully expected a half set of rotted teeth from the man but he supposed oral hygiene was important to a scant few sailors.

His attention snapped back as Captain Wren started to move again. Apparently he had missed the entire plan while under the spell of Gowler’s impeccable oral care. He watched the rest of the crew run to the woods and pull out two row boats from under the brush. Cranks and Wren went the other direction, the way the disheveled Captain Fausley had gone.

“Oi, hold on a minute,” Cranks said, whipping around, “You got some explainin’ to do Cap’n,” he said, pointing a crooked finger under Wren’s chin, “Just what was that trick back there with the soldiers, you some kind of warlock or somethin’, I don’t be messin’ around with any of that sorcery foolishness, it’s bad luck, you know.”

Wren looked at his shoulder, “No, and I’m not exactly sure what that was, actually. I don’t have the time to explain but there’s something different about this snail I picked up in the cave. It sounds crazy, but I think he did that back there.”

Cranks looked closely at Lennwick with one eyebrow raised, “Here I thought you were just savin’ him for a snack,” Cranks said with surprise, “I had half a mind to eat him myself before we stormed the beach, good thing I stayed my appetite.”

“You could try to eat him, but the little bug already took a bullet for me, I think you’d lose the rest of your teeth before you could sink a single one into him,” Wren said.

Cranks’ eyebrows shot up, “A bullet? Right at the snail? I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me or not, you’re still here because of it too. I still felt the bullet hit,” Wren said, tugging his collar down to reveal his chest, “Still a good bruise there from…” Wren paused, “Well that’s not right, the bruise is gone.”

Cranks wore an indecipherable expression, “I knew it, come out straight with it then, you did drink from the fountain, didn’t you!” He accused, “Then you did in the Cap’n so’s you could have it all to yourself!”

“No, I-I swear, the well was dry when we got down there, not but a single drop left, old slimy here had the last lick of it,” Wren said, gesturing to the gastropod on his shoulder.

“Then what happened to The Cap’n?”

Wren thought for a moment and pointed at Lennwick again, Cranks wore an incredulous expression now, “Cranks, I swear on… my mother’s grave,” Wren said pleadingly.

“Your mother was a crazy whore, you hated her,” Cranks said angrily.

“Fine, then on your mother’s grave.”

“My mum was a saint, and you’d best keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” Cranks said, pointing a crooked finger again.

Wren ducked under a branch and nearly knocked Lennwick off in the process. Lennwick ducked into his shell and jostled as the branch hit him.

“Look, you get what I’m saying, the Captain and I watched the snail drink the last drop and he lost his temper. He tried to smash the snail but... as I said earlier, special snail, indestructible shell… the snail slid out from under his foot and the captain fell and cracked his head on a rock, that was it for him. I didn’t want to tell the others because, to them, he was a legend. They’d be… let down, to say the least.”

Cranks bobbed his head back and forth, “Ah, doesn’t matter much anyway, the man was a bastard, too drunk and too full of crazy ideas to be any good. You ask me, we’re better off without him.”

“I can’t say he was the best of them but he was like a father to many of us, myself included. Granted, a terrible father, but a father all the same and sometimes that was enough,” Wren said, brushing his hand along the brim of the hat tied to his belt. Cranks watched him for a moment and a stretch of silence fell over them as they walked.

They reached the other beachhead and peered out over the waters of a bay. The flag ship had been anchored close to the shore and several row boats had been left on the beach.

“There she is, the Sea Fawn, one of the Imp fleet’s oldest ships,” Cranks said, “She’s beautiful! Shame we have to sink her, though.”

“I doubt we’ll be able to actually sink her, Cranks, but we can put her out of commission for a while.” Wren said.

“So, what’s the plan, just take a skiff out and hope they don’t shoot us dead in the water?”

“Something like that,” Wren replied.

***

Faben led the rest of the crew up onto the Magnus, pride of the Caiman pirates. They worked fast on the rigging and unfurled the mast. Gowler and Benson pulled up the anchor. Without their navigator, Fizz, Faben took the helm and steered the ship around the island.

“Wind’s in our favor boys!” Faben yelled, “A good day to piss in the goblets of those holy Imps, wouldn’t you say?”

A resounding “Aye!” echoed over the ship, far quieter with the partial crew that ran it now.

***

Captain Fausley climbed aboard his flagship, disgruntled and out of breath. His first mate saluted him.

“Sir, the prisoners are below deck and a second, small platoon was just sent out to collect the others,” he said factually.

Fausley grasped the man by the collar and pulled him in close, “Call back whoever you can, we set sail for Sanctus Madre now!” he growled at his first mate.

“And go back empty handed? Captain, they’ll have you court martialed for this,” the first mate argued.

“He’s coming for me!” Fausley yelled with a crazed look in his eye, “The singing blade, the Caiman’s dog, the man that can’t be shot!” he said with bloodshot eyes, a lock of his graying hair dangling over his eye.

“Are you okay, captain?” the first mate asked cautiously. Fausley’s face twisted with rage.

“Captain! A boat makes its way!” a voice called from the other side of the ship.

Fausley’s hair prickled on the back of his neck, “It’s him, coming in the Magnus to gun us down!” He ran toward the soldier and peered over the side of the ship.

A small row boat drifted toward the ship, the oars hanging over the edge and the inside devoid of any forms of life. The captain cuffed the soldier over the head.

“It’s just a skiff that drifted out from shore, you prattling little sea prawn,” he growled, “next time, open your bloody eyes! And don’t call again unless you see the full masts of a ship on the horizon.”

Wren and Cranks beat the water with their feet, bobbing their heads below the surface and popping back up for the occasional breath of air. Their hands pushed the skiff in front of them slowly toward the flagship. They ducked their heads down again and kept pedaling until they heard a telltale bump that signaled their destination.

They lingered underwater for a few moments before popping up and climbing aboard the skiff. Wren hoisted Cranks up to where he could just barely reach a rope on the side of the Fawn. Cranks pulled Wren up and they let the skiff drift back into the sea. They climbed up to a gunport and squeezed themselves in.

“Brig should be this way,” Cranks said, ushering Wren over.

“They’re running late,” Wren said, peering through a gunport.

“They’ll be here when it matters,” Cranks said.

“How many people fit in a skiff?” Wren asked,

“8 to 10, why do you ask?” Cranks replied.

“Because, there’s three skiffs headed this way filled to the brim with purple suits,” Wren said.

Cranks blanched and ran over to the port, “Barnacled beard! That’s a damn platoon, a small one, but still, we’ll be hung and skewered if they make it to the flagship.”

Wren stroked his chin with a pensive expression, “If they get here…” he said, caressing the cannon next to him.

“Bad idea,, Wren, that’s a very bad idea,” Cranks said with wide eyes, “We’re not the Jimbows, we can’t make a shot on those skiffs. We should just run down to the brig and get out.”

“We might not hit from this distance but don’t forget, I used to be a gunner before I was first mate,” Wren said, pouring gunpowder into the cannon barrel.

“I don’t recall anyone putting your name into a song, and that’s captain now,” Cranks said, glancing down at the hat.

Lennwick stared out the port as the two argued and watched as a new piece was added to the board. Drifting out from the coastline, a set of three large sails slowly floated into view. A ship with dark red wood and taupe sails carved a wake in the water as it came into view.

Shouts were heard up above and Wren and cranks looked to each other with worried expressions as boots hammered the deck overhead, all heading toward the stairway to the galley.

Soldiers flooded down the stairs and ran to the guns. Four cannons, manned by two men each, were quickly rolled forward and filled with gunpowder. Wren and Cranks looked at each other from behind two barrels of supplies and gave a silent nod.

The soldiers moved with practiced speed as they poured their focus into their task. This provided the perfect distraction for two pirates to slip in behind them and run a sword through their chests, stealing the air from their lungs. They collapsed silently and Wren and Cranks were able to move swiftly to the next pair before they were noticed.

This time, one of the soldiers turned to see them, a moment before a blade ran through his neck. The man let out half a shriek before he fell but it was just enough to alert the other four. The soldiers sprung into action, brandishing rammers and linstocks, tools of the cannons, as weapons. One of the men unsheathed a sword just in time to catch Wren’s blade halfway through a downward strike. Cranks and Wren fought like mad men as they slashed, thrust, and tore at the soldiers, making quick work of them.

More boots hammered on the deck above, “Ready the cannons, the skiffs are probably in range now. I’ll hold the stairs!” Wren shouted at Cranks, “Aim for the water just in front of them, use grapeshot if you must.”

Wren grabbed the soldier's blade from the ground, wielding it alongside his own blade, and threw himself down next to the stairwell. Feet pounded on the steps above, heralding the arrival of backup. Three men charged into the galley, spotting Cranks and the corpses as they did. One of them raised a pistol at Cranks which quickly fell to the floor, the hand still grasping the trigger.

Wren ran the man through with one blade and slashed another soldier with the other. The third soldier spun on him and slashed downward at his chest. Wren released his grip on his sword, still protruding from the first soldier’s chest, and turned his body. The blade grazed his arm and drew a thin trail of blood.

Wren grasped the other blade with both hands now and drove the last soldier back with a series of heavy strikes. The soldier had little practice with proper footwork and tripped back on a loose plank. His arms flew up reflexively and Wren stabbed him through his sternum.

Bang.

The shot rang out, quieter than Wren had expected, until he saw the chips of wood falling around his head. He turned to see two soldiers by the stairs, one reloading his pistol and the other brandishing one at Wren.

BOOM! Bang.

The first blast nearly drowned out the second but the shot still rang out across the galley. Wren had ducked just in time to avoid the second bullet and now charged the soldiers as they threw their guns aside and scrambled to unsheath their swords. Wren pierced the first one through the heart and slashed the arm of the second, causing him to drop his sword. He kicked the man back, away from his weapon, then charged and skewered him on his blade.

“I hope that shot hit, I’m not sure I can hold off a whole platoon,” Wren yelled back.

“Just missed, but most of the cannons are already loaded, just need to aim,” Cranks said back.

“Then aim fast,” Wren yelled.

Wren kicked a barrel on its side and rolled it toward the staircase where another group of soldiers charged in. They awkwardly tried to jump or side step the obstacle and by that time Wren was already among them. None of these men had had the training Wren did and found themselves hopelessly outmatched by his swordsmanship. This time, he was able to fell two of them before the remaining four were upon him. Wren’s skills were impressive but even a skilled swordsman struggles when he’s outnumbered. Still, Wren used the surroundings to his advantage, dodging behind crates and posts, bottlenecking the men so he really only had to fight one or two at a time.

BOOM!

The blast created a momentary distraction and a small opening. Wren stabbed a man in the chest, then kicked another back into a third soldier. He took the last one by surprise and slashed his throat. The other two recovered quickly but now they were no match for Wren’s speed and skill.

“Cranks?” Wren yelled across the galley as he charged the two.

“One skiff down, a few fell off the other,” Cranks replied, “This one’s just got gunpowder, I’m gonna try the grape shot.” he said, pouring a bag of lead shots down the barrel.

Four more soldiers appeared in the stairwell, three of them brandishing guns, a rifle and two pistols. Wren had just dispatched the two but was nearly on the other side of the ship. He glanced around frantically at his options. A large cooking pan lay to his left, it had fallen from atop one of the crates. He dove and grabbed the pan, holding the underside out toward the soldiers. The pan covered most of his torso and his face, if he ducked down. Wren screamed out a battle cry and charged.

Bang. Bang… Bang! Gong!

The impact with the pan jarred Wren’s shoulder and pierced his ears. He grit his teeth and charged forward, steeling himself for the impact. The pan connected with a soldier with another Gong. He threw out his makeshift shield with a grunt, sending the soldier he hit sprawling back into the stairs.

The throw threw off his balance and he danced around the galley as he dodged the swing of swords. Wren fell purposefully into the man on the stairs and ran his blade through his gut just as the man was standing up. He fell with the man and grasped the soldier's sword as he did.

When Wren sprang back up, he wielded two blades again and a crazed smile that set the other soldiers on edge.

BOOM! Bang.

A shimmering, translucent film surrounded Wren and he turned to follow the sound of the second shot. The bastard captain stood at the top of the stairs, pointing a smoking gun down at Wren. Wren glanced over at Lennwick and smiled, “You beautiful little grub! Keep it up.” Then he yelled over his shoulder, “Cranks!”

“Here,” a voice came from behind him as two soldiers crumpled to the deck, “I got one other skiff but the last one is too close. Gonna be a close call.”

Crack!

The galley burst into splinters as a cannonball tore through its frame. The two remaining soldiers were sent flying back and Cranks and Wren gave each other a look.

“That’s our cue, to the brig,” Wren shouted and they ran to the stairway down to the lower level.

Captain Fausley cursed and turned to yell at one of the soldiers on deck.

Cranks and Wren rushed down to the lower level, throwing crates and barrels in their wake. They stumbled into the darkened corridor and paused to take in their surroundings.

“Fizz, Doc, where are you?” Wren called out.

“Down here,” a hoarse, young voice replied.

Wren ran to the cell the voice came from, “Fizz! Are you alright? Is Doc with you?”

“I’m fine, Doc’s here but he’s in bad shape,” Fizz said, gesturing to the heap of a man behind him, “The cell next door, we need to bring him too.”

Wren glanced over at the sturdy young man whose dark hair hung over blue eyes. He looked at Wren with an intelligent expression.

“What’s so special about this pup?” Cranks asked.

“He knows the way to the Denovian crypt, the greatest trove treasure this side of the divide. says he memorized the map,” Fizz said.

Wren considered the handsome young man as Cranks worked the lock on Fizz’s door, “This true?”

“It is, but I won’t help unless you make a promise,” The man said bravely.

“Not really any grounds for bargaining, kid,” Wren said with a stern expression.

“I’ll only help if you help me free my true love. She’s the love of my life, an angel among men, and she’s been held hostage by the Grand Marquis of Howlington. I will not abandon her, for our love transcends the bounds of-” The man cut off as the wall of his cell burst asunder and his remains were sprayed out the other side of the ship along with pieces of the hull.

The three men stared in stunned silence for a moment, “Damn, that’s unfortunate,” Cranks said before returning his attention to the lock, “Ah! Look at that, the blast shook the lock loose, what good fortune!” he said, before glancing back at the hole in the ship, “For us, at least...”

Wren shook his head and ran into the cell, helping Fizz raise Doc off the ground. They stumbled into the hall and glanced around.

“There’s another stairwell on the other side, this way,” Fizz said, pointing down the Brig.

They ran as fast as they could with Doc between them. When they reached the top of the stairs, a line of three soldiers stood across the galley pointing rifles at them.

“Fire!”

The guns rang out in unison as the four pirates dove into crates and barrels. Wren propped Doc against the wall and drew his sword.

“Stay here with Doc,” Wren growled at Fizz, “Cranks, you’re with me.”

“Sure, got any bright ideas on how we’re supposed to get over there?” Cranks asked.

Wren looked around frantically, “We could roll another barrel…” he said uneasily.

“So what, they can stop it once it rolls over to them? We need a real distraction!” Cranks yelled in a whisper.

Crack!

Part of the stairway splintered as a cannon was dislodged by the projectile and sent rolling through the galley. Wren and Cranks shared a silent glance then burst out into the open. A gun fired and chipped wood off a post next to Wren’s head. The ship swayed slightly and the two of them stumbled into crates. Boots slammed the deck above with a chaotic beat.

Wren reached the first soldier and met him blade for blade. A second raised his blade but Cranks caught it mid swing. Wren guided the sword aside and followed with a kick as the soldier stumbled away. The man tripped and stumbled through the gaping hole in the galley wall with a scream.

One of the other soldiers charged Wren while he was turned and caught him on an off foot. Wren tried to spin but a loud grinding noise filled the air and his feet were knocked out from under him. The cannon knocked over Cranks as well before rolling out the same hole the other soldier left. The two soldiers they were fighting bore down on them in unison and caught a twin pair of boots in the groin.

The boat lurched again and the injured soldiers stumbled back into crates and over debris. The two pirates threw themselves with the momentum of the ship and charged the soldiers. A moment later, two soldiers slumped against a barrel, two holes punctured in its side, pouring purple liquid down their hunched forms.

“Fizz, get Doc to a skiff, Cranks and I will clear the way!” Wren yelled down the galley as he and the shorter pirate charged up the stairs.

Both Wren and Cranks slid to a halt at the top as over a dozen rifles and pistols aimed their sights at the two pirates. Both of them sheathed their swords and slowly raised their hands.

“Fizz… stay down there,” Wren called cautiously, then more quietly, “I hope you’re not out of magical shields, little grub.” he said to his shoulder.

This time there was no puffed up speech from a pompous half wit captain, instead, a man with a tall, cylindrical hat pointed a sword at them and called out, “Fire!”

The very instant he called out, a projectile whistled through the air and burst the main mast asunder. The mast crumpled and pitched toward the soldiers. Toward Wren and, most importantly, Lennwick.

Lennwick uttered his one defensive spell and the shell burst around them. The mast crashed against it and Lennwick strained to hold the spell. His body weakened and his eyes blurred, but the spell held long enough to roll the mast to the side and toward a group of fleeing soldiers.

“If we get out of this, I’m gonna kiss that little snail,” Cranks said, brandishing his sword. Lennwick felt a shudder run through his shell as he thought about those cracked lips puckering up to him. His head began to swim and it was all he could do to stay awake.

Wren and Cranks hadn’t wasted a moment, they charged the remaining soldiers and blade met blade once more. Five soldiers remained and two were quickly dispatched in the wake of the confusion. The other three drew their blades and charged. Wren took two of them on while Cranks faced off the man with the large hat, likely this ship’s first mate or quartermaster.

Wren parried blows and used the soldiers' proximity to each other against them. He slammed a boot down on one’s foot and guided the other’s blade to his leg. The soldier screamed in pain and stumbled back. Wren took the opening and quickly dispatched them both.

“Cranks, make sure Fizz and Doc get to a skiff,” he yelled at the man, still battling the officer.

“Where in the bloody hell could you be going right now?” Cranks yelled across the ship.

“I have some unfinished business with the captain, I won’t be long,” Wren said, running into the cabin.

Cranks shook his head but was too preoccupied to retort. He met the officer blow for blow but was slowly being pushed back. His arms were tired from fighting so much and his opponent held the advantage in height and reach, but most opponents Cranks faced did. He lowered his center of gravity and used this to deftly dodge the skilled swipes and thrusts of the man.

“Finally a skilled fighter!” Cranks said thinly veiling his concern behind a grin.

“I should hope my skills can outlast that of a few cadets, let alone against a second rate pirate,” the man said with a cocky smirk.

The ship bucked and swayed as the mast slowly slid off the opposite side. Both men struggled to maintain their footing but, once again, showed far more experience than the novice sailors.

“I always admired the Imperial sword styles, very formidable and versatile,” Cranks said, smiling, parrying a blow and dancing backward.

“The toothless monkey actually knows some big words, I hope you didn’t strain too much to think of that,” the officer mocked.

Cranks’ grin grew even wider as he parried another blow, “Only had one thing missing the Imperial training,” he said knowingly.

“And what could that be?” the officer humored him with an irritated expression, swiping at Cranks’ gut and missing once again.

“An awareness of your surroundings!” Cranks said as he ducked his head and a rope, still tied to the mast, pulled taught and whipped over him. The rope caught the officer’s blade and snapped him in the face, sending him sprawling backwards and dropping his sword.

Cranks held him at sword tip and smiled, preparing a brilliant quip as he ended the man’s life. Just as he opened his mouth, another projectile whistled through the air and exploded the officer’s body. Blood and viscera sprayed across the deck.

Cranks stared in wide-eyed disbelief then scowled and wiped his face with blood stained hands, “Ack! I had him already! Damned Jombows, I swear those drunken chickens were born straight out of a monkey’s ass” he continued, uttering profanities as the deck slowly fell to pieces. He turned just in time to catch Fizz and Doc lowering a skiff over the edge of the deck.

Inside the cabin, Wren cautiously inched toward the desk that sat in the center of the room. Two half-burned candles sat on either side of a mass of papers. He walked slowly to the desk and rummaged through them, occasionally glancing to the side as he did.

“Where is the damned thing?” he growled under his breath. He circled the desk to check the drawers when he heard the telltale click of a hammer being cocked.

Wren froze and put his hands up, turning slowly toward the sound, “Looking for something?” the cocky captain’s voice cooed across the cabin.

Wren stared at the journal in his hand, then behind him, from where the man had just come, “Behind the curtains, really? What are you, five?”

The captain scowled and grit his teeth, “It doesn’t matter, I have you, dead to rights. You can only dodge so many bullets!” he said furiously.

Wren held his countenance, hoping his new friend would still be up to the task.

In a daze, Lennwick tried to focus from atop Wren’s shoulder but he didn’t have the strength to cast another shield. The mast falling had consumed too much of his energy at once, exhausting the magical pathways in his body. The teachings of Itza were helping him recuperate but he wouldn’t be able to cast in time, the spell was simply too cumbersome.

Wren gulped and the captain smirked as he prepared to fire he backed up into the desk and caught himself as he stumbled. A globe of shimmering light burst into existence and shone in the eyes of the captain. He winced and his gun waivered. Wren’s arm flew out and a letter opener lodged itself in the cheek of the captain. His finger pulled the trigger and the shot fired into the corner of the room. Lennwick expelled the last of his strength and fell limp on Wren’s shoulder.

Wren charged the man but the captain had already drawn his blade. He struck at Wren with a flurry of blows the likes of which Wren had seen in some time. The slashes drove Wren back. His back collided with a wall and he threw himself aside just in time to dodge a thrust.

The captain’s blade buried itself into the wood of the wall but Wren’s own blade was held at a poor angle for striking. He grabbed a curtain from the wall and wrapped the captain’s arm up in it, eliciting an angered growl from the man. He slammed the hilt of his blade into the captain’s nose and moved to position for a strike. Before he could swing, he caught a boot in the gut, causing him to stumble back.

The captain freed his blade from the wall and charged Wren. The barrage of attacks resumed as they inched closer and closer to the cabin doors.

Wren burst out from the double doors, falling to his back and attempting to roll away. A crazed Captain Fausley stalked out from the cabin with the eyes of a madman and a furious expression. His hat was bent and torn in several places and sat crookedly on his head. His hair fell down in messy locks over his eyes. He tugged the cuffs of his coat sleeves up and strode toward Wren, who quickly shuffled away.

“Haversham! Come fight like a man!” He screamed across the deck in a strained voice.

“My dear Captain Fausley,” Wren said with a smirk, “I think we can both agree you are in no state to be fighting right now,” he said, jumping back over a fallen mast, “I have no intentions of fighting a man on the brink of madness,” Wren said with a shake of his head, “I might suggest a warm brandy or buttered rum to calm the mind.”

Fausely growled and hurtled the mast, catching his foot and stumbling off it. This only served to enrage the man further and he roared at Wren. Wren backed up toward the edge of the deck, feeling around with his feet. His right foot found what he was looking for and he grinned, he just hoped it was loaded. Wren kicked the pistol up into the air and caught it in his hand. He jumped up onto the rail of the ship and grinned.

“Well, seeing as I got what I came for,” he said, pulling a leatherbound book from his pocket, “I must be on my way.”

Fuasley’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, crazed and bloodshot. He lunged forward but paused at Wren’s words, “Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn’t,” Wren said, pointing the gun at Captain Fausley’s head, “While I have so enjoyed this little scrimmage, I’m afraid I must concede defeat; however, I must not let your earlier insults go unchecked,” he said, smiling, “I may be one of the finest swordsmen in the Palanesian seas, but I am no stranger to flint and gunpowder. I would suggest you refrain from such misconceptions in the future,” Then he fired the pistol and the hat atop Fausley’s head which exploded in a display of purple fabric and golden tassels.

Fausley ducked as the remnants of his hat rained down around him. He glared up at Wren who gave him a bow then jumped over the edge of the ship.

Captain Fausley practically vibrated with rage. He gripped his sword with white knuckles and stood silently amidst the wreckage of his ship. A final whistling shot sounded across the bay and cracked into the third and final mast, which toppled and split the hull wide open. Fausley stood on the deck as the ship slowly sank to its final resting place in the Del Mancos island bay.

Wren swam to the skiff that waited for him just outside the wreckage. Two sets of hands hoisted him onto the boat and he swung himself in, throwing his back against one of the benches. Wren slicked back his wet hair and patted down his person. He drew out a leather bound book from his coat pocket and winced as he looked upon the dripping pages. He tucked it carefully back into his vest pocket and slumped back.

“Took you long enough!” Cranks said angrily, “I hope that was worth it.”

“It was the Captain’s journal, his most prized possession. This is what he spent his waking hours pouring over. He never let me see inside but it’s what led us to the fountain. I’d guess it’s the last thing we want in the hands of the empire,” Wren said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Cranks and Fizz considered the journal with a glance, “Did he find the fountain?” Fizz asked quietly.

“The fountain had already run dry, nothing but dust when we made it down there,” Wren said quietly, “The captain didn’t make it back out.”

Silence fell over the boat as they rowed back to the Magnus. As the boat neared the ship Fizz finally spoke up again, “Bet ya it would've been beautiful to see,” he said, staring down at the wood planks. Wren looked at him, his brow furrowed, “The fountain of youth,” Fizz clarified, “I bet it was more brilliant than anything we’ve ever seen.”

Wren nodded and rested back against the boat, “It was,” he said, eliciting a stare from the others, “Even without the water, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. The entire cavern was filled with shimmering crystals, each one more brilliant than the last. I could only imagine what the wellspring of life might have looked like in there.”

The skiff bumped softly into the hull of the Magnus. The other crew members worked to hoist them up to the deck. The Jombow brothers took Doc down below to the galley.

“Quartermaster,” Wren called out, “how does she fare?” he asked of the ship, the same way he had when he was first mate.

Faben looked at him with a stern expression, “‘twas a quick departure but she’ll be in ship shape before long. How fares the helmsman?”

Wren looked back at Fizz, “He’s in better shape than Doc, far as I can tell, but the kid’s shaken up. We’ll be on our way before long, just give him some time. Are we enough to sail?” he asked.

“Hard to say, we lost a lot of good men out there, we’ll be pulling many sleepless nights, to be sure, but she’ll sail,” Faben said.

“Ready the men then, we need to set out before more Imperials show up,” Wren said dismissing her.

“Captain,” she called up, causing Wren to freeze, “Jarn… did he at least go down fighting?” she asked, using the old captain’s first name.

Wren reflected briefly on the old captain’s fate. He considered lying but, of all the crew, Faben could handle the truth, “He broke his skull on a rock, slipped while we were in the cave and went without a word,” he said flatly, he looked down at the deck, “I’m sorry Faben, he deserved better.”

Faben stared at Wren with a scrupulous look, watching for any sign of deception as the new captain turned and strode toward the captain’s quarters. She stood in place long after Wren disappeared inside the cabin. Faben stared up at the sky, drew in a deep breath, and yelled out in a voice far stronger and deeper than a woman of her frame should have, “All hands to the sails! Bring her around port and out to sea!”

Inside the cabin, Wren pulled out the journal and sent up a silent prayer as he delicately opened the cover. To his surprise, none of the ink had run and the pages held firm. He let out a sigh of relief and collapsed into the chair at the desk. He rubbed his face with his hand and let his head roll back. The weight of the day sank into his bones and caused him to slump in the chair.

A thought pulsed through his brain and Wren shot up and glanced over at his shoulder. His heart sank to his stomach. The snail was gone. Wren slapped his forehead and winced. He looked over the back of his shoulder and under his arm, when something pressed against his chest. He looked down at his vest pocket and saw the hole from earlier, nothing. He patted at his shirt pocket and let out a sigh of relief.

Inside the white fold of his shirt, a small shell lay peacefully among the linen. Wren stared at the bright shell for a long moment, the iridescent shimmer casting the dim light back at him. Wren’s mind raced with questions. What exactly was this snail? Why did it drink the water in the cave? Had it drank more of the water? Wren tried to imagine what effects that might have on a small bug. Clearly it had afforded the snail special… abilities. Wren rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh of resignation. If there were answers to any of these questions, he wasn’t going to find them right now.

Wren leaned back and slowly drifted into a deep sleep as he pondered. The Magnus slowly rocked as it turned out to sea.

In his own slumber, Lennwick dreamt, his mind flitting back and forth between memories of a life outside the cave. The ship he hatched on, the man with the black-marked face, and the treacherous places he took Lennwick. He remembered a beautiful collection of books, powerful books, coveted books. Lennwick dreamed of the vast library of tomes, of the open seas, and the viridescent landscapes he traversed with the man. He dreamt of the spray of the sea as it crashed upon the hull. Memories of far darker things flashed across his mind, the spray of warm blood, the smell of decay, the look of terror in those hazel eyes. In the dark of the cabin, Lennwick’s eyes shot open.

The turmoil in his mind settled and Lennwick took in his surroundings. He stilled. Somehow, someway, Lennwick had to find the library again and, if possible, he needed to find that man, the man with the black-marred face.

***

On the island of Del Mancos, a man digs furiously in the sand. His head glistens with sweat, accentuating the growing bald spot that was once covered by a captain’s hat. He clutches a ripped piece of paper in his hand, a page from a journal. He uses a broken plank to shove away pile after pile of sand.

His hands burn and bleed from hours of digging. His mind frays at the edges of sanity as he scoops away clods of wet-packed sand. His body waivers with exhaustion as he begins to despair. Just a few more inches, no more than a foot, he had to be close.

Thunk.

The dull sound gives the man pause, he reaches down and brushes away the clumps of sand to reveal a wooden hatch. His hands tremble as he jostles the lock, moving pieces of it back and forth, clearing away sand from the gears inside. He glances back and forth between the lock and the page. A sudden click causes him to flinch and a grin crosses his crazed face. Spit foams at the edge of crusted lips and drips onto the hatch.

The hatch swings open and the man drops into the small storage room below. Most of the provisions inside have long since rotted. A few bottles of liquor sit on shelves and a couple of rusted swords and worn crossbows gather dust. He twists his body in the small space and f

eels under one of the lowest shelves. His hand slides over a small protrusion in the wood. Another click and a small box slides out. The man undoes the binding around the box and opens the lid.

Inside the small wooden box, is a bottle, its stopper sealed with red wax. He swirls the liquid inside and it glows with an eerie blue light. Blood from his fingers smears the frosted glass. The man grins wildly then bursts out into a manic episode of tears and laughter.

He considers the bottle with a covetous smile, “I don’t care how long it takes, if I have to wait until you’re old and decrepit, I will have your head, Haversham.”