The hostile ship bearing the banners of the Blackwater Creed had not attacked quite as Alaric had expected. The ship was medium sized much like The Skadskull and bore two large black masts with a red leviathan as their sigil. The commander of the ship bore the typical sign of a man sworn to the Blackwater Creed—the top of his head had been skinned and long stringy hair hung down the sides of his face. He stood upon the bow of their ship with one leg propped upon the ledge.

He yelled from afar, “Do not think to outmaneuver us, our oarsmen’s arms are the size of your thighs!” Dericore stood upon the stern on his own ship looking behind them at the approaching ship.

“Anchor!” shouted Dericore. Likt Vosi’s ship slaves heaved the heavy iron anchor over the side and watched it sink deep below towards the ocean floor. As the enemy ship approached the name of the ship could be made out as Haqor’s Hellbent, although half of the letters were fading from behind washed by the gushing green waters.

Haqor’s Hellbent slowly drifted along to ease up beside The Skadskull. The captain shouted across to Dericore and his crew, “There is a way that no blood will have to be shed, and no one has to part with their treasures and plunder.” His teeth were rotted as he scrunched his nose in the bright of the sun. His skin was full of odd moles and discolored skin from days on end under the sun’s scorching rays. “If everyone on board wishes to live, simply allow my men to board your ship and do as I say.” He was almost smiling as the words left his mouth, seeming more than happy to slaughter if they did not bend to his demands.

“We will not serve the cause of the Blackwater Creed. The black ooze serves no men, and neither do we. I think your men will find that they expose the tops of their heads for no reason other than to look a fool. If you wish to board our ship you are most welcome, although I assure you that what you will find is nothing duller than the ends of our blades and gnashing of our teeth. We make way for Gobblesfled. To make a squabble with us is to anger the goblins.” Kivan Kalmar had gone for a golden arrow from his quiver up top of the crow’s nest and instinctively the enemy’s ship had all unsheathed steel in a song of hissing. “Who are you, anyways?”

“I am Haqor Renkai, captian of this ship and sworn sword to the Blackwater Creed. Who do you carry on board? Give us your prized hostage and we’ll let you keep your plunder and your women.” Haqor gave a wicked grin to a man on his right who returned a wide-eyed stare from a toothless mouth.

“Very well, I am Dericore Badrome formerly of Skadja. We carry no hostage with us. We sail to Gobblesfled to deliver gold and silver to the goblin king. If you are no fool, you will let us pass. To mess with our passage is to anger the goblin king himself.” Dericore remained resolute.

Haqor Renkai gave an ugly laugh that sounded like a donkey whining. Alaric watched from a tiny window inside the cabin with Mott pushing his head against Alaric’s to try and see for himself.

“You…making trips in service to the King of goblins? I’ll tell you what, Dericore Badrome. I will let you keep whatever you have on board there, but it will come with this one stipulation. Allow my men to skin your heads in homage to the great lord of the sea and in return we will let you by freely. The lord of the sea will not let you pass without the mark of the Creed.” Haqor’s voice had grown dark now as growled his wishes across the sea. Their ships were a mere fifty feet apart now, side by side.

Dericore turned to speak with Heliot Sangrey and Virion Elvesbane. Tillet the Terror climbed the ladder to prowl along the stern but Dericore turned a blind eye to his presence. Dericore continued to speak to Heliot and Virion when Haqor spoke again.

“I sense you need some convincing, Dericore. Well, it just so happens I might be able to help you with that. The lord of the sea has rid us of fresh fish, and my men are tired of feasting on rotted fish meat that has been pecked over by crows and buzzards. Your men look fresh, I must say. Your skin is fair, and I do know Skadjans to be meaty creatures. Might be its your flesh that the sea lord means for my men to eat. What do you say?” His grimy teeth grit together in a dark grin below Haqor’s green eyes and long nose. It had not been known how large Haqor’s crew had been, but as he stood along the front of his ship, men began to crowd around him sharpening knives and swords. Some had bones of various kinds in their hair and tied to necklaces. The man beside Haqor with no teeth had an entire cloak made of human sewed together and wrapped around his shoulders. Alaric felt queasy and doubled over inside the cabin, reeling towards a bucket where he filled it with the contents of his stomach all the way to the rim.

“Very well!” called Dericore. “Your men are welcome aboard our ship. We do not seek bloodshed except for the skinning of our heads, in which case we shall swear fealty towards the cause of the Blackwater and thy will of the sea lord himself.” Heliot stared indifferently at the bloodthirsty men across from him. His face was curled in a snarl but the former Skadjan warrior Virion stood nonplussed.

Haqor’s Hellbent floated gently towards the ledge of The Skadskull. Mott hurried Alaric into a corner of the cabin and draped a heavy cloak over his head. “Don’t move,” he whispered. Alaric still grippe the curved sickle in his hand underneath the blankets and cloaks. Just then, Prysm Grail and Saliske Granyon entered the cabin with sickles in hand.

“Lord Dericore says we must guard lord Aymon with our lives,” said a scattered Prysm. Saliske appeared the calmer of the two, although his pupils were large as a cut and his pudgy hands were clammy with sweat.

“What do you think I’m doing?” replied Mott.

Upon the deck a dozen planks were thrown across from one hull to another as the men of the Blackwater Creed prepared to board The Skadskull. Haqor let a few of his men enter before him. Their skin was wrinkly and spotted making the men appear much older than they were—especially with the site of the skinned heads leaving the tops of their heads a mash of dried flesh and scarred tissue.

In the crow’s nest above, Kivan Kilmar’s bow followed Haqor’s every step as he strode his way across a wooden plank onto The Skadskull. Dericore and Heliot Sangrey had moved to the center of the ship’s hull to greet the pirates as they entered. Dericore noticed none of the men had beards of any kind—an homage of their loyalty to their god.

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Moments later half of the crew of Haqor’s Hellbent had boarded the ship and a truce to sheath all weapons was made. Haqor stood upon a wooden stool to speak. “The Blackwater Creed is honored to welcome a sister ship into this walk of faith. The Creed demands that we follow the will of the lord of the sea by making followers of those who have not yet been saved. By skinning the heads of these men, we shall leave a mark that signals their allegiance to the cause of the dark spirit that may show us mercy when we die, so that we shall rest easy and never walk these lands restless as the Men of Bones like so many before us. Come ye who believe, and they shall have the mark of Blackwater to spare them an eternal agony.”

Men looked around curiously in search of one who might be brave enough to be the first. Not surprisingly, none were forth coming. Haqor gave a low growl that sounded remotely like a laugh. Haqor’s eyes rested menacingly on Dericore. The captain stepped forward.

Mott was peeking through the cabin’s floorboards below and he whispered to those below, “Our lord is doing it! He’s letting them skin his head!” Prysm gasped and Saliske began to mutter prayers to a god that Alaric had never heard of.

Dericore stepped forward and kneeled upon both knees, lowering his head for the scalping. Tillet the Terror crept his way along the side of the ship along the ledge, inching his way amongst the men of the Blackwater. Heliot Sangrey had his hand firmed gripped firmly around the hilt of his longsword—a blade he had kept since his knighthood.

A gaunt man doused in baggy robes and sunken eyes whom they called the “The Scalper” stepped out from the crowd of pirates.

Haqor announced, “It is the name of the water spirit Vanla’hala that I pronounce Dericore Badrome as a militant for the cause of the Blackwater Creed. Might the scalp of his head be parted from him so that all will be reminded of his faith. May the men who follow him endure the same fate so as to be spared from the horrors of the eternal agony promised to those who oppose the god of the sea. The black ooze reminds us!”

The Scalper drew a blade sharp as steel from underneath his robes. It was simple butcher’s knife, but there was no telling how many scalps it had skinned. Dericore’s head of dreads was lowered before the man, and Mott whispered to the men below the floorboards once again, “I think our lord actually means to do it…” The Scalper brough the edge of the butcher’s knife to the edge of Dericore’s head and began to incise a cut. Mott gasped, pushing Alaric aside so he could use the bucket. The knife sliced through dread and skin to leave a steady stream of blood and flesh dripping from the top of Dericore’s head. He grimaced but he did not scream nor squeal.

When it was finished Dericore rose from the ground, raising the flap of skin from the top of his head to the sky in triumph. His eyes were crazed, and blood flowed like a river over his face. Men of the Blackwater Creed echoed his sentiment, and the next member aboard the ship was beckoned forward. It was Virion Elvsbane.

The mighty warrior lowered his head of Skadjan dreads, lending his knees to the deck floor below him. The Scalper sharpened his knife along the edge of Haqor’s sword. Haqor’s other hand extended a gold whine cup off to the side of Dericore’s head, where guards held his limp body forward to allow spurts of the thick red blood to dribble into Haqor’s cup.

“May the god of the sea forever remember this day—that Dericore Badrome—captain of The Skadskull swore the vow of his ship’s cause towards that of the Blackwater Creed. May the leviathan of the Creed reign forever along the masts of this ship, and forevermore honor the greed of the sea lord’s heart.” He raised the glass of blood to the sky. His cheered. “I haven’t had fresh blood in months!” He screamed, tilting it.

Mott watched on in horror, “We will be cursed forever. To drink another man’s blood is to curse all who serve him!” Alaric flung the cloaks and blankets off of himself as he rose with his sickle pointed. All heads turned to entrance of the cabin where a screaming Prysm Grail emerged onto the deck with his face snarled and his sickle raised high above his head.

Just then, the cup of blood shattered into a thousand pieces as a golden arrow pierced it cleanly from up above by the Crow’s Nest. Kivan Kilmar stared fiercely back, his eyes daring to meet Haqor’s for that split moment. Blood sprayed like torrential rain, splattering onto Haqor’s men and their unsuspecting faces.

The Scalper grunted, his own scalpel snatched from his hand and jabbed through his face by Virion Elvesbane. He rose, running a hand over the top of his head to make sure his own scalpel was still there. A crude bar of unmolded iron came down over Virion’s head, wiping the smile from his face and sending his body lifelessly to the ground. Haqor’s men swarmed the ship, raiding there way so wildly across the planks that half the men were knocked into the splashing blackened sea below.

Heliot Sangrey’s swollen fist came swinging around Virion’s falling body and caught the offender in the side of the head. His efforts were met with an inexperienced jab of a sword by a teenager. His eyes stared back at the man in knights’ armor with a youthful fear in his eyes. Heliot took no such mercy upon the look, lurching the sword from the boy’s hands and flinging its tip back through the center of his unprotected chest.

His cries were drowned out and unnoticed amongst the chaos that broke out to either sight of the slash. A deceitful Dericore lashed the scalped chunk of head at his attacker. The scalp stuck to his face and forced him backward into his nearest man. Two golden arrows flew just inches from each other, piercing their necks as they fell and pinning each of them to the deck.

Haqor snarled his lips over his rotted mouth of teeth. Withdrawing a bronze sword, he stepped to Prysm Grail who had finally arrived from the other end of the boat’s hull. Prysm’s strokes were intentional and full of passion. Haqor met those strikes calmly and with minimal exertion. Prysm forced him towards the poop deck and so Haqor turned and leapt up to stand on higher ground but Prysm wouldn’t let up.

Landing at Haqor’s feet and he slashed wildly at his ankles. The pirate nearly tripped on his retreat, catching himself with one of the lines that anchored the mast up. Prysm cut at his arm viciously, cutting two lines. The mast creaked loudly overhead—enough to distract both Prysm and Haqor’s gaze from the other. Prysm defended now, but Haqor’s blows were dealt with great struggle and effort from Prysm, who defended for his life upon the poop deck.

Likt Vosi’s ship slaves were deterred from their efforts at the oars and now they hoisted weapons from the slain who lay bloodied on the deck and joined the efforts to fend off the attackers. At the stern of the ship, Joren Kilten had led a band of ship slaves across the plank and onto Haqor’s Hellbent to slaughter pirates.

The fighting began to slow and ebb away. One by one, men’s heads began to raise from their struggles at the blazing flames of a fire that had begun eating away at the mast of Haqor’s Hellbent. The black cloth with the sigil of a red leviathan was being hungrily eaten away by the flames. Soon after, the bright red flames engulfed the wood of the ship. Amidst the smoke and rubble of the burning ship, men watched the silhouette of a vicious man with a sword land blow after blow upon men desperate for escpae. Cries of mercy would be cut short by the slashing of a crude blade. The blade itself danced in the silhouette like a serpent, doing a dance along the blade’s edges as it sent men reeling away and jumping overboard to seek relief from the heat.

All had stopped. The faces of men gazed like men who saw their own ghost. Through the flames and smoke of the ship’s demise emerged a man with a flaming sword. His face was thin, and his eyes were full of murder.

“Forget this nonsense about scalping…I mean to burn you alive.”

Tillet’s finger pointed straight ahead.

“Haqor Renkai,” came the words, softly.