It was an unseasonably cool night in the Bay of Jibab and a dense mist had risen from the sultry waters after sunset. For ships arriving here at night, the lit windows of the taverns and pleasure houses piled upon the sloped streets of Artiga were usually the first sight of land. This night, from where the Bonefish was anchored in the murky harbour, the only evidence of the port was the occasional echo of merrimaking. The two men aboard the ship, her captain and helmsmen, were deep into their rum, muttering over a game of princes.

Artiga had been a quiet fishing village only several generations previous. The locals called it Lorakako, or “the Eels Nest” in the common tongue. It was named for the giant congers that lurked in the depths of the bay. It was a commonly held misconception that it was named for the scoundrels who graced its shore.

The first westerners had come by land, Gethian traders following the trail of jewels and rumours they found scattered amongst the grassland people. The trail led to the jungle. To Saradon. Some of these early traders made fortunes that beggared the old houses of Anthium, and this played no small part in Geth’s independence. Wealth wins wars as well as waging them does, not that there was any shortage of blood spilt.

But if Anthium could not have Geth, it would not let Geth monopolize trade with Saradon. Emperor Tullus III of Anthium directed the celebrated captain Cyril Artigus to establish a port in Tinnabar. Artigus selected Lorakako for its location. It was many leagues from the nearest Gethian fort at Sagoon, and it offered the first and best respite for any ship catching the trade winds across the sea. Thus Artiga was founded as an Anthian colony, and fortune seekers soon outnumbered the locals.

Cyril Artigus had been a good man by all accounts, if one could forgive him for being Anthian. He would detest what the colony had become. In the early days, vessels would arrive in waves though the summer. All of them would carry an imperial writ or the means to purchase one, though as corruption festered in the colony it became increasingly risky to arrive expecting to negotiate a berth in the harbour with the local authorities. Caravans would depart into the jungle every odec laden with Gormish steel and other commodities to trade for rubies, starstone, and other more exotic gems.

Now the caravans were far less frequent. And they traded in people.

Saradon had fallen to ruin. Details were scarce, but survivors told of horrors climbing up from the mines. When the caravans stopped returning from the jungle intact, Anthium lost interest.

Despite the empire’s retreat, or perhaps because of it– and the resultant elimination of harbour tariffs– the colony continued to attract fortune seekers. But most who came to Artiga now were slavers, for the refugees of Saradon were easy prey for the Chain. The Barbed Shackle soon replaced the Silver Eagle atop the ramparts of the fort.

On this night aboard the Bonefish the mist was to the liking of captain Lorin Borgari, for he did not wish to converse with any locals or Chainsmen just then. It was tiring, to carry on as a pirate of repute, and he hoped he might rest for a night at least before having to live up to his name.

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The crew had been permitted ashore, and although the darkness was impermeable, a blind row to the pier amidst the man-eating eels of the bay did not keep one of them from port, not after two months at sea. Most of those two months were spent sailing hard into an eastward gale until they rounded the Hook of Yedda. Not one sailor had been lost, though it had been close.

Lorin was ensorcelled by the stillness of the night, addled by rum, fixated on the princes board sitting between he and Esil. It was Esil’s turn, it had been for some time, and he was rubbing his forehead in a way that suggested pensiveness, imminent slumber, or both. Every so often Esil’s breath would catch in the beginnings of a snore and he would jolt himself upright, and return to massaging his forehead. So it went for a time until Lorin caught himself drifting off once, and then again. He was about to suggest to Esil that they retire and finish the game tomorrow when the Bonefish lurched violently to the bow, knocking over several of the slim tower game pieces Esil had arranged along the border of his miniature kingdom to defend against Lorin’s miniature legions mounting there. They both rose quickly and very ungracefully, fumbled for their swords and burst onto the deck.

Years of living on dagger point had conditioned Lorin Borgari to suppress fear. Even so, he paled at the sight of the grazala screeching and flapping on the bow of the Bonefish. They were worshipped by the locals, their ivory plumage prized above gold. The great bird was roughly the shape of an albatross, but its wingspan was wider than the hull of the Bonefish. Its long, serrated bill could snap through a shield, and the hooks at the tips of its wings could easily rend the thick scales of their favoured prey, the horse-sized yabra lizards that stalked the hills of the Hook of Yedda. They were also known to hunt dolphins, and they could easily carry off a sailor in their talons if they desired it.

Lorin had never seen one up close. Few had. Their nature was to avoid humankind, like most of the great old beasts that remained in the world– this is part of why they remained. The locals did not hunt them. It was considered very bad luck to see a dead one, but at this moment Lorin was very much wishing that the thing was dead instead of staring at him with its avian eyes.

Local superstition aside, he made for the aft ballista, but Esil grabbed him, pointing to a yellow ribbon tied round the gravala’s neck. There was a metal cylinder affixed to it. Lorin squinted at the creature, its gaze still unflinching. He scowled and asked Esil to fetch him another cup of rum. And another. Finally he worked up the courage to approach the huge bird. By this time its eyes were closed and its wings were furled. It was asleep, he hoped. The cylinder was affixed to a loop with a simple clasp. It would have been easy to open if his hands had not been quaking. Instead he hamfistedly fumbled with it and he brushed the grazala’s breast feathers. He held his breath. The great bird did not stir. He unclasped the cylinder, carefully withdrew to a safe distance, and turned to Esil.

Lorin unscrewed the cylinder and tapped out a rolled note, again tied with yellow ribbon. He untied it, turning to glance at the grazala which was now most certainly asleep, its head fallen to its breast and its bill tucked beneath its wing. He unrolled the note. His breath grew rapid. His heart thrummed in his chest. He read the words again and again, written in an embellished script that could belong to only one man, if one knew the man.

L,

The Red Lord has come. Tell your brother.

C

There was little sleep for either man aboard the Bonefish that night. The grazala took off before first light, its great, beating wings again rocking the ship and further ruining the princes board. The crew returned from their escapades shortly thereafter expecting to sober during a day of bunk rest while the captain treated with those he had come here to treat with. Instead they found themselves sobering in the sweltering heat, blinded by the sunlight dancing off the Bay of Jibab as they toiled mending sails and re-provisioning the Bonefish. They all took note that the captain was ill-tempered and he stank of rum.

‘I’ll have my meetings tonight,’ he said to his crew. ‘We set sail for Sagoon at second sun’s dawn.’

Lorin was not unhappy to leave Artiga, but Sagoon was almost as bad. As they left the harbour he heard a chorus of gravala screech in the distant hills. Perhaps they had found a nest of yabra. Perhaps they were lamenting, in the wisdom of great old beasts who had flown the ancient skies the last time theRed Lord had walked the earth.