The bitter smell of burning gunpowder filled the air, leaving a gritty taste in my mouth. I lay with my back against the wooden railing, 1841 Dreyse rifle loaded and ready at hand. Bullets whizzed overhead as the Ratlings laid down a volley, pinning me and the crew. After two interspersed volleys, I stood, rifle taking aim. My eyes darted across the varied targets, before spotting the side of a sniper. With a bloodthirsty grin, I aimed down the leaf sights, taking a quick breath before firing. The magical bullet exploded from the rifle, piercing through the vague blue barrier that tried to block it, before turning my target’s arm into a bloody mess.
A shot smashed into the wood near my elbow, forcing me behind cover. With a flick of the bolt action, the rifle was cleared, and I loaded another round. In less than ten seconds, I was up on my feet, taking a shot at one of the rats firing at our boarding party. Blood exploded outward, wisps of smoke rising from the giant hole put in the small head. I spent too much time gloating, and this time, I didn’t get to cover quickly enough, a small musket ball lodging itself in my side. The pain was dull, the wound nothing but a minor nuisance. With but a thought, thin strands of black wire burst into existence over my hand, before digging into my flesh, ripping the bullet out, then sewing the wound shut. A small waste of magic, one caused by foolishness, but the battle was barely worth putting forth a real effort.
Already, the boarding party were slaughtering the rats to a man, swords and bayonets cutting down the filthy vermin in droves. Some of the slain rats soon rose again, turning on their kin in a show of violent aggression, the stupid Husks using teeth and claw, rather than sword and rifle. The Boarding Commander was wasting no expense in his magic usage, keeping all three original crewmembers in peak condition, every wound closed in a manner similar to my own. All the while, both new and old Husks staggered forward in an endless wave of meat and steel.
Some of the filth leapt into the water, hoping to cling to some broken wreckage of their ship. They would have a few moments of hope as they desperately prayed to their many-legged God that they might be spared. A futile hope. The sea would claim their lives, if we did not. And the sea was not kind, not anymore.
Not bothering to waste magical ammunition, I switched to regular shot, firing at the rats that remained in the rigging, most too poor and low-ranking to merit magical protection. With each kill, I could taste the bitterness of sorrow and despair grow, and like meat before a starving man, I gobbled it all down, letting it fuel my magical reserves. The power in my chest grew fat from the misery of the rats, made all the potent as those in the water started slipping beneath, dragged down to be slowly drowned by my favorite pets. The serpent-human hybrids made an effort to give each rat a fighting chance, letting its hope grow, before extinguishing it yet again. The taste of growing power a delicious, yet terrifying reality of my new existence, one that deepened the question that lurked in my heart. Was I still human? Perhaps, but only in mind and heart. My body flexed, the injury from before slowly healing, flesh knitting together as my body grew saturated with magic.
It didn’t take long for the battle to grow silent, the only sounds of faint clamouring coming from below-deck of the Ratling ship. The Boarding Commander soon emerged from inside the belly of the decrepit ship, waving his rifle in triumph. A ghastly cheer arose from our ranks, one I echoed in turn. Jubilation filled me, and not all of it my own. The ship beneath me seemed to shiver in excitement, old wood creaking and groaning in a pale mimicry of laughter.
Feet pounded the deck, the whole ship a blur of slow, choppy motions. The Undead shambled to their various tasks, preparing our capture for towing. Those few cannons that were fired were cleaned out, and munitions stored back in their proper places. Debris was cleared, and the Quartermaster took notes of used ammunition. I reported my eleven shots, four of Third Tier magical quality, receiving new munitions from the Quartermaster’s assistants. Several minutes were spent performing field service on my weapon, stripping down the rifle bolt into its four parts, cleaning and lubricating the pieces, before reassembling the whole weapon.
Work finished, I headed below-deck, my feet making little noise on the otherwise creaky stairs. I passed the rows of cannons, heading down another flight of stairs and into my side office, aptly nicknamed ‘The Butchery’. There were already several original crew members sitting on various chairs and tables, blood slowly seeping from various wounds, most too deep to be healed by quick battlefield magics. It took a talented hand to heal a gut-wound, especially when the flesh was already half-rotten. Placing my rifle against the wall, I drew my silver knife, and got to work.
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Despite the dulling of pain most Undead were fortunate to have, shrieks still filled the cabin as my knife cut open flesh. The specially prepared weapon sliced through unholy flesh with ease, black smoke rising from the new wounds. After carving out the flesh around each wound, I turned to the growing pile of new ‘donations’ from the slain Ratlings, before picking a prime piece. Magic wires summoned once again, I stitched the new flesh where the old had been removed, before letting the wire dissipate its energy into the wound, overloading the flesh with magic. Soon, the flesh knit back together, old merging with the new as if it had never been any other way. Though used to the sight, it still sent shivers down my spine, yet my face broke into a smile after each muttered gratitude uttered my way as the healed crew members clambered out of The Butchery. The dead are a grateful bunch, once you got to know them. Well, except the Ghasts, but we didn’t suffer them around here, no, only happy, shambling corpses were welcomed on the Muddy Duck.
Nastiness taken care of, I returned to the top deck, ready to report to the Boarding Commander. I didn’t need a message to know the man wanted me. The ship took care of that, what with its madness-inducing mutterings at the back of my mind, demanding I report to the Captain’s quarters. Stupid thing was convinced I was a lowly Wight sailor, and not an actual Officer. And to be fair, I WAS, given that the Captain never got around to giving me a title before going into a comma, along with most of the senior Officers.
The only true Officer left awake was the Boarding Commander, and I was extremely grateful it had been him. He was a decent chap, willing to charge into melee, as well as knowing when the retreat. And best of all, he made a MEAN cup of coffee.
I stepped into the bleak, dimly lit Captain’s Cabin, giving a sloppy salute to the near-skeletal form of my superior officer. The old, withered corpse nodded, before turning back to the sea charts. A quick look showed that we were at 47.82, -127.27.
A low, hushed voice issued out from the Commander’s pale lips, interrupted by long pauses as he took in a deep, whispy breath. “A poor haul, but enough to refill our magical reserves… A few more such battles, and we may be able to awaken another Officer… Logan, have you heard any news from your contacts? We are running short of… suitable targets.”
I scratched at my ever-present 5 o’clock shadow, thinking for a moment before shaking my head. “Nothing out here, sir. It was lucky to learn of a Nekani ship so close to us.” The Commander nodded, before giving me a careful, calculating look. I didn’t like that look. It was one that said; ‘I’m going to ask you to do something, and you’re not going to be able to say no, even though you don’t want to do it’ kind of look.
“Logan, have you thought about-” Knowing where he was headed, I cut off the conversation straight off. “I’ve already TRIED getting us into one of the Militia’s. All they say is that they don’t want a Ghost Ship, cause it’s bad luck.”
The withered corpse muttered about superstitious fools, and how the ship wasn't a Ghost ship, and more of a Zombie ship. He bemoaned the demeaning title of Ghost Ship, and how all those damn Ghasts could go get sucked in the Maelstrom for all he cared. Words I whole-heartedly supported. Damn bastards were annoying as all hell, constantly playing pranks, some of which could turn deadly.
“Well, then what about the Navy? I know you have some… friends there, that may be of assistance. If we… cannot find a target on our own, a bounty will… surely suffice.” I frowned at the query. I COULD ask James… but then he’d try and get me to work with Vice Admiral Banks again, and if I had to even hear that damnable name from his lips, I’d probably start breaking things.
“I coooould talk to Colonel James… The man owes me plenty, and though bounties are usually given to the Militia’s, we might be able to snag us a contract.” The Commander smiled, patting me on the back, his bony arms making a disgusting noise as they flapped against my fleshy, nearly perfect human form. “I knew I could count on… you. We shall set sail for Seattle… and sell our prize vessel there… as well as restock on munitions. You will… find us a worthy target. I believe in you… Logan.”
The words were quite touching, if I were honest. It wasn’t every day that a three-hundred year old corpse said it believes in you. Almost enough to bring a tear to my eyes. Or it might have been the fact that I’d be entering Seattle again. The thought of facing what awaited me there was more than enough to bring quite a few frustrated tears, all of which could be summed up by one single, simple word. Angelina.