The storm that smashed into the side of the Vigilant was pure, immense, power. It bit and tore like a starved prehistoric leviathan taking its first meal in months. Thick skeins of rain lashed against the timbers of the two-masted caravel, gouging at them as harshly as whipcord tore the skin and muscle from men's backs. Walls of water crashed down onto the deck with tumultuous booms to rival the thunder overhead. Lightning flickered among the clouds.
Any man with authority to give orders was screaming those orders at the top of his voice, but there wasn't a chance of anyone hearing a word over the storm's primal roar. The sails snapped and boomed overhead, and Captain Jonas Wylde wasn't sure whether his precious Vigilant could hold herself together. A tall and burly man with not much of a neck, Wylde had seen a lot of storms in his thirty-odd years at sea, but few as ferocious as this one.
He scanned the clouds for a glimmer of hope, and was rewarded with a razor cut of blue to the southeast. From the direction of the winds, it wasn't the edge of the storm, but the eye. If he could get the ship to it, and hold a matching course, he could sail along in the eye until the storm dissipated. Wylde cursed himself for sailing this far from shore. The Stormwall that surrounded the known world was not negotiable by any vessel that Wylde had ever heard of, and the Vigilant had sailed far too close to those lethally turbulent waters. Wylde had thought the faster northern currents would save them time between Sarcre and Allantia, and time was money when there was cargo to pick up and drop off. Money, he now realized, that he and his crew could never spend, if his decision led to the death of them all. It was as if a part of the Stormwall had taken exception to the ship, and separated itself to come after him.
As the ship pitched and rolled until the deck was almost vertical, Wylde sent his bos'un, Farrow, forward to relay his orders. In a minute or so, sailors were scrambling up the ratlines to tie off the sails in the desired arrangement, while it took two men with forearms like iron to hold the wheel in place. The Vigilant slowly heeled over, every plank creaking, and every hawser humming with the strain. The ship's tortured cries were audible even over the barrage of waves and thunder.
As the deck settled back to something resembling horizontal, Wylde kept his eyes fixed on the blue scar in the storm's swollen grey-black belly. Knowing that none of the men would hear him, he prayed quietly for the ship to stay in one piece long enough to reach the more gentle climes of the eye of the storm. The blue scar in the clouds opened wider, filling his heart with hope. When he had built up just enough hope to think he may have saved his crew, there was a sound from above that Captain Wylde could have sworn was a thunderbolt.
A hawser had snapped, and Wylde leapt aside as the lower part of the rope struck the deck where he had been standing, cracking the plank. The upper part of the rope whipped across the fore-topgallant, catching one of the boys on a ratline there beneath the armpits, and ripping him clean through. The lad's torso and legs crashed to the deck, his lungs and heart spattering across the wood nearby. The fore-topgallant flapped madly, and the Vigilant slowed her progress towards the eye. The crew worked as hard as they could to recover the sail. If any of them wept for the dead boy, those tears were blasted away by the rain and wind.
Then came what felt to Wylde like a miracle. The winds dropped, the rain abated, and a shaft of sunlight played over the Vigilant. The last boom of thunder faded and the sails puffed out as if catching their breath. The Vigilant had reached the eye of the storm.
In his dayroom a short time later, Wylde closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the relative quiet. There was still shouting all around as the crew tried to repair the damage sustained in the storm. He plastered his thin hair across his pale scalp, and rubbed his eyes before looked up at Farrow.
"Casualties, bos'un?"
"Three men with broken limbs. Another four knocked senseless, but a spot of grog will bring them round right enough. We were bloody lucky, sir, if you don't mind my sayin' so."
"Lucky?" Wylde echoed. "We were more than lucky. And the lad on the foremast was the only fatality?"
"Cottell, sir, yes."
"Well, there's no denying it could have been worse. Much worse." Before Wylde could say more, there was a knock. "Come."
A fresh-faced youth of barely sixteen bustled in. He was soaked to the skin and wild-eyed. "Sir," he gasped. "There's another ship off larboard, perhaps a thousand yards."
Wylde was on his feet immediately. "How does their crew look, Midshipman Kale?"
Kale seemed flustered. "Can't tell, sir. Didn't see none."
"Lead on then." Wylde grabbed a spyglass from the desk. When he and Farrow emerged onto the quarterdeck, the other vessel was visibly closing, and clearly adrift. It was a Brigantine, out of Freiport, by her colours. Through the spyglass, Wylde thought it looked as if their lanterns were lit, but her sails were gone, leaving only a few strips of charred cloth hanging from the masts. The decking and masts were charred and blackened. Wylde then realised that the little orange lights weren't lamps, but the guttering remnants of fires.
"This doesn't look like the work of the storm," Farrow said.
"No, Mister Farrow." Wylde agreed. "Unless it was a lightning strike…" He shivered at the thought of fire on board ship. Fire at sea was a certain death sentence, and there was no shame in abandoning a blazing ship. He aimed his gaze at the peeling paintwork on the stern. It read: Belle. "Let's get alongside. If there's no answer to a hail, take a party across. She might be salvageable, though I doubt she'll bring too great a prize back in Allantia."
"Every little helps, sir."
Wylde allowed himself a chuckle. "True enough, Mister Farrow."
Farrow studied every inch of the Belle through a spyglass as they approached in the small relief boat. There was still no sign of life aboard, and charred corpses littered the deck. Any living men on the ship would have at least rolled them overboard, Farrow considered. He shivered as they reached the ship and climbed up the side, but made sure to be the second man to board, in spite of his fears. Going first would have looked foolhardy to the sailors.
A ferry to the pits of Kerberos itself couldn't carry anything more gruesome than the sight and smell that assaulted him on deck. Numerous charred and blistered bodies sprawled across the deck. Their melted flesh had half stuck them to the planks, so they didn't roll with the ship, but seemed almost part of it. The damage to the timber was strange, too; the starboard side of the ship was charred almost completely black, and still smouldered, while the larboard was untouched. The mainmast was black on one side, and polished brown on the other, all the way to the top. He stepped aside to run his fingertips along the undamaged side of the mainmast.
"There ain't no fire arrows stuck in the timbers. No sign of broken pitch-pots." Kale said as he studied the ship.
"Then she was struck by lightning in the storm. The sails caught fire, and — " Farrow began
"And no fire on a ship I ever heard of only burnt one side of her, however it started." The sailors who had accompanied him all looked at Farrow, and he could see in their eyes the same desire that was in his heart: to get back in the boat, row back to the Vigilant, and leave this cursed ship to sink and be cleansed by the ocean's depths.
It was an order he couldn't give, even if he had to bite his tongue to keep the words in. Wylde had given him his orders, and not carrying them out to the fullest would be a gross dereliction of duty.
"Take four men and go forward through the ship. See if you can find any survivors. We three will go aft and visit the Captain's day room, and recover the ship's books."
Kale nodded hesitantly, tightening his grip on his dagger, and led his men forward. They moved nervously, as if expecting some devil of the sea to leap out at them at any moment. Farrow couldn't blame them. Swallowing his gorge, he pushed on aft, and rolled a blackened corpse away from the companionway leading down below the quarterdeck. The sound as it peeled away from the wood was the most repulsive thing Farrow had ever heard.
The darkness was almost total — but for blades of light stabbing through between cracked timbers — and the stench was thick enough to swim in.
"Lanterns," Farrow said in a choked voice, and a sailor fumbled to light a small oil lamp. In a few moments, waxy light illuminated the narrow passageway, and Farrow led them on to the day room.
The Captain's inner sanctum was almost as badly damaged as the passageway. The air stank of wood smoke and roasted meat, and the walls and ceiling were black. At least there was more light here, coming in through the stern ports.
Farrow searched quickly; he didn't want to be in this place any longer than was absolutely necessary. A small chest contained a pouch of Pontaine coins — which Farrow shoved into his shirt while his back was to the other men — but nothing else of interest or importance. He examined what was left of a rough desk, and found a locked drawer. Forcing it open with his dagger, he found a sheaf of scrolls, papers and tablets in an oilskin pouch, tied with a leather thong.
"This is what we want."
Returning to the quarterdeck, the two groups met at the mainmast.
"We've got what we come for," Farrow said. "Any survivors?"
"None. Whatever happened here it was devilry," Kale replied looked about nervously.
Farrow emitted a nervous laugh. "That's as may be, but it didn't finish the ship. We'll take her in tow, at least until the Captain decides what to do with — "
"Mister Farrow!" It was a sailor on the larboard side. "I think there's a man alive here!"
Farrow and the others ran over to where the sailor was peering into a water-barrel.
A very bedraggled-looking man was looking blearily back up at them. His skin was puffy and cracked, his hair seared off down to the scalp.
"If you call this alive," Farrow whispered, unable to keep the horror and revulsion out of his voice.
The survivor smelled blood in the darkness; old blood long since hardened into the wood that he could feel against his cheek and chest. Then the redness of his vision parted, letting in the sight of the dark wooden planking, and he realised he was scenting the salt air of the sea with every deep shuddering breath he took.
He opened his eyes to see two tall masts stretching dizzily away from him, and a number of weather-beaten unshaven faces looking down. None of them were faces he recognised, and he thanked the Lord of All for that. He snatched at a proffered ladle, and took a sip of water.
"Welcome aboard," a large man in a Captain's garb said. The man loomed over him, and he felt that his eyes were squeezing every memory out of his mind, examining them.
"Thank — " The word scraped in his throat, and he coughed and swallowed. "Thank you. Where am I? What ship?"
"You are aboard the trader Vigilant, out of Sarcre, on our way for Allantia. I'm Captain Wylde. We found your ship adrift. You appear to be the only survivor."
He tried to look as if he cared that the others were dead. Maybe he would care, if he could forget what had happened to him. If he could forget both the pain, and the stench of his own flesh burning.
He thought as carefully as he could about what to tell them. It would mostly have to be truth, as he found that he could barely think at all. "I was a soldier, a guard, on the Belle. Our ship was hit and then there was lightning… I was on fire… I ran… I thought the water would put out the fire!" He collapsed into sobs.
"You've certainly had a lucky escape," Wylde agreed. "Well, we lost a man in the storm, so we've a berth for you. You'll have to work, though."
"Anything."
"All right, I'll have the clerk add you to the muster-book."
"Thank you, again."
"That's all right, Mister — " Wylde frowned. "Your name, sir?"
"Kord," Travis Crowe said hesitantly.
Wylde looked at him for a moment, as if sensing the lie. "All right, Mister Kord. Farrow will show you to a hammock. Get some rest and some food. We'll speak again shortly, after I've had time to read your Captain's book."
By dusk, the storm that had surrounded the eye had eased off and they were now far enough away from the Stormwall to resume their course to Allantia. When Wylde finally retired to his quarters he felt satisfied that all would be well. The further he got his ship away from the Stormwall, the happier he became.
The Vigilant heeled slowly eastwards and the Belle followed meekly, under tow. Wylde wondered idly what his newest recruit — this man who called himself Kord — would think of the rescue of his ship.
Exhausted beyond words, Crowe slept well. He finally awoke to the clinking of tin mugs and plates as the day watch broke their fast. Crowe swung himself out of the hammock and slipped upstairs to begin his first watch.
He emerged onto the deck, and immediately felt the wind knocked from him. The ship riding under tow was an impossibility. The Belle could never have survived the fire, let alone the storm. Yet there she was, riding low in the waves, taunting him. Then he remembered something else his rescuers had said, about reading the Captain's book. Still weak, his legs and arms aching, Crowe leaned on the rail and let his head drop in resignation.
"Crowe?" someone said. For a moment he thought it was a memory, and he was just remembering a voice, but then a hand tapped him on the shoulder and turned him around. "Travis Crowe?" The sailor asking the question didn't look familiar, but Crowe had spent enough time in Freiport and Allantia that it was always possible that this was someone he had propped up a bar with, or fought alongside.
He turned away again, quickly. "You must be seeing things, mate — "
"It is you! I'd know your voice anywhere!" Crowe cursed under his breath, and turned back. He glanced left and right, checking to see how many other eyes were looking in his direction. He needed to silence this fool as quickly as possible, and grabbed a short knife that was stuck into a barrel near his hand. It was meant for cutting rope and net, but would cut a throat as easily. He lunged for the other sailor, but the man darted backwards, shouting: "Murderer!"
That drew more direct looks from other members of the crew, and a couple of the onboard mercenary guards stepped forward. "What's this?" one asked.
"I don't even know you," Crowe said to the sailor.
"You murdered my brother, Crowe," the man snarled. "You don't remember me, do you? But I remember you." He looked at one of the mercenaries. "Fetch the Captain. He'll want to know we have a murderer on board." Both mercenaries exchanged a nod, then one went below. The other grabbed Crowe by the shoulder, and Crowe let the knife slide back on to the top of the barrel before anyone noticed he had it. They would be jumpy now, and trying to silence his accuser would just guarantee that he would be overpowered and hanged from a yard-arm.
"This man has mistaken me for someone else," Crowe said. He gently touched the scarring on his left cheek, which still stung and tingled. "If my own face was in one piece things would be different."
"Your voice is still in one piece," the other sailor snapped. He jabbed a rabbit-punch into Crowe's gut. The punch was slow enough that Crowe could have dodged it, but instead he simply tensed and took it. It was a weak hit, but it would make the other man look bad, so Crowe doubled over as if it had hurt more than it did. By this time Captain Wylde had appeared on deck.
"What's going on here?" Wylde demanded. "Mister Kord? Mister Dass?" Crowe came alert at the name of Dass. He did remember a Jonen Dass from a year or so back. He had gone into business with Crowe, smuggling goods through Freiport. He had tried to keep Crowe's share of the profits, but Crowe was better with a blade than Jonen Dass had been.
Sailor Dass didn't miss the look of recognition on Crowe's features, and jabbed an accusing finger at him. "He knows my name, Cap'n!"
"So he should, I did just use it Dass. Now, what is this matter between you and Kord?"
"Kord? His name isn't Kord! It's Travis Crowe. He's a smuggler and a murderer, on the run from Freiport for over a year." Wylde looked between them, his lips thinning. The air around him seemed to darken with his mood.
"You know this man?"
"Not well. But I know his face and his voice. He murdered my brother, Jonen, in cold blood."
Wylde scrutinised Crowe closely. "Is that true?"
"Of course not! My name is Grantan Kord, first mate of — "
"It's just that I've been looking through the books of your ship, and there was a Travis Crowe listed among the crew."
"I bet there was, sir, because there was a man by that name aboard. One of the mercenary guards. Blade for hire." Wylde nodded slowly. "And," Crowe went on, "my name is in the crew list as well. At least, it bloody well should be, seeing as I was first mate."
Dass struggled to lunge at Crowe again. "First mate, my arse! When you killed Jonen to steal his half of your partnership's money, I was a-bed in the next room. But I heard his screams, and woke in time to see you take his purse." He sneered. "And it was the right side of your face that was to me, Crowe. For all I know your left could have been burned a ten-year ago."
"You're imagining things, lad," Crowe said softly.
"I bet you said that to Jonen when he challenged you about the profits you were stealing."
Crowe remembered it all now, of course, but concentrated on looking sympathetic and baffled. That was his only chance to avoid a noose here.
Wylde stepped in between them. "Grantan Kord is on the books as first mate of the Belle right enough," he said thoughtfully. He sighed. "Truth to tell, both your stories have the ring of truth about them." He straightened his lapels and closed his eyes for a moment. "Dass has been a member of my crew for almost a year, and I have found him to be an honest and trustworthy man. You, Mister Kord — if that is who you are — I do not know well enough to judge your honesty. But I shall try not to assume that you are untrustworthy simply because Dass is trustworthy. So, do either of you have something more that you can tell me, that would swing the matter one way or the other?"
Crowe wished he had made a better choice of word than 'swing,' under the circumstances. If Dass had seen his brother die, he might have something else on Crowe.
Dass grinned, a crude and hungry look. "Yes, Captain, I do." Crowe couldn't help the flicker of tension that tightened his lips. He saw that Wylde noticed it too. "He had a tattoo on his upper left arm. A wolf's head."
Relieved, but trying not to show it, Crowe rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt. The flesh was scarred and half melted, as his cheek and jaw were. The scarring had obliterated the tattoo. "I'm sorry for your loss, lad, but I'm not your wolf's-head man."
"Yes you bloody well are!" Dass struggled again, trying to reach for him
"All right, that's enough," Wylde decreed. "Dass, get back to work."
"But Cap'n!"
"But nothing Dass! I believe… Well, I believe that you believe this man is who you say he is. But men forget faces over time, and mistake them."
"Would you forget the man who murdered your brother?"
"Back to work, Dass." He stepped closer to the sailor, leaning in to his ear and whispered: "We'll keep a close eye on him, just in case." Wylde turned Dass around, and nodded to the men holding him back to walk him to his duties. He turned back to Crowe. "Come with me."
The hand on his shoulder let go, and Crowe followed Wylde to his day-room below the afterdeck. The two mercenaries followed closely behind him, and remained standing when Wylde bade Crowe to sit. Wylde carefully laid the Belle's logs and daybook on his desk, then gestured to one of the mercenaries. "Bring Mister Farrow, would you?"
As the mercenary left, Crowe knew what would happen next. No sailor could resist the lure of treasure, or the prize of salvage.
Wylde held his gaze for a long moment, with only the creaking of the ship's timbers and the muffled clatter of men at work to break the silence. Shortly, there was a knock at the cabin door, and the mercenary returned with Farrow. Wylde nodded Farrow to a seat.
"I have discovered something interesting," Wylde began. "We have found your ship's logs. It seems she was on a course for the Isle of the Star."
Crowe hesitated. "A fool's errand, sir. No such — "
"Place?" Wylde looked sidelong at the other mercenary who had accompanied Crowe. "You've heard of it, haven't you?"
The mercenary nodded. "An island made of pure diamond, like a star here on Twilight. Not a man-jack of us hasn't heard the story in a dozen wharf side taverns."
"From a hundred wharf-rats with pickled brains." Crowe scoffed.
Wylde nodded slowly, a hungry look now in his eyes. "What did you make of your Captain, mister Kord?"
"Sir?"
"What sort of man was he?"
"Fair," Crowe said, after some thought. "Hard working, sensible."
"A shrewd seaman?"
"I suppose so, sir, yes."
"Not gullible, then."
Now Crowe saw where Wylde was going with this. "No, sir. And, before you ask, he didn't believe in the Isle of the Star either." It was a lie, but Crowe prided himself on being a good liar.
"The Isle of the Star…" Wylde pursed his lips. "According to the last entry in this day-book, the Belle was anchored offshore of the Isle for at least one night. Would you care to tell me how that can be, if your captain was a pragmatic man and the Isle doesn't exist?" Crowe didn't answer. "Can you do that, mister Kord? Or, perhaps I should say mister Crowe?"
Crowe merely smiled. "And why would you say that?"
"That tattoo Dass mentioned might not show on your arm, but another interesting entry in your Captain's books tells us how he paid a sum of ten copper pieces to First Mate Kord for the loss of the last two fingers of his left hand. Your fingers are all present and correct. So you're not Grantan Kord."
"That wouldn't necessarily make me Crowe. There were seventy-odd of us."
"And I'm sure you could pick any name out of the crew list. I saw your expression up on deck, Crowe. You did a good job of hiding it, but I've always had an eye for truth or lies."
Crowe spoke carefully. "All right, you believe I'm Crowe. Fair enough. So why am I in here and not dangling at the end of a rope, or lying under Dass' fists?"
Wylde very deliberately tapped the logbooks. "Because the question about the Isle of the Star still stands. If your Captain didn't believe in it, why does he claim to have been anchored off it?"
"He was being paid good money to go to the area where someone thought it might exist. Even if it didn't exist, the money was still worth the journey."
"Quite a lot of money, I see…"
"Enough that he could afford the likes of me."
"In my experience," Wylde said, "the sort of people who can throw such amounts of money around are not fickle with it. They want to keep their wealth, or increase that wealth, not waste it on chasing smoke. Someone thought the existence of the Isle of the Star likely enough to be worth a heavy investment in it."
"Maybe. I never met whoever was paying Captain Margrave, so I wouldn't know."
Wylde grinned mirthlessly. "I have an ear for truth and falsehood as well as an eye for it. Please don't lie to me, again, or I may be forced to change my conversational style to something less companionable. You can hang if you want, or throw yourself upon young Dass' mercy…"
"I can hear another 'or' coming, Cap'n," Crowe said, dropping the pretence. "You can take it that I'm all ears."
"Or you can prove yourself useful."
Crowe shrugged. "I've always tried to be useful to employers. That's where the profit is."
Wylde turned the papers around so that Crowe could read them. Crowe tried not to show any reaction. "Where is it, Crowe? The charts show you as having come to, well, not far from our current position. Does this mean the Isle is close?"
"Yes and no," Crowe said at last.
"Continue."
Crowe rose and went to the ports that were set into the rear wall. He opened one, and pointed back at the thick black clouds that roiled on the horizon. "You see that, Captain?" he handed Wylde a spyglass from the desk.
Wylde looked through it. "See what? All I see is the Stormwall."
"That's what I mean. The Isle of the Star is beyond that."
Farrow's brows knitted in confusion. "But, Sir, I were always taught that the Stormwall couldn't be passed, not by any ship e'er built."
Wylde nodded slowly. "That's correct, Mister Farrow. It cannot." He smiled at Crowe. "And yet it would appear that the Belle managed it."
Crowe shook his head. "Believe me, the Belle was the exception."
"Why? What was so special about the Belle, Mr Crowe, that she was able to navigate the way to the Isle?"
"Nothing," Crowe said with a sudden cocky grin. "Maybe it was us fantastic crewmen, eh?"
"Then perhaps you can pull off the same trick for us."
"I couldn't, no. Only a magician could, and, to be honest, you don't want to be using magic around the Isle of the Star. Or so I've heard."
Wylde hesitated, then handed Crowe the relevant books. "You can write as well as read?"
"Just about."
"What I need is your Captain's navigational notes decoded into plain speaking, and help for my navigator to plot a course to the Isle. We'll return to Allantia and pick up whoever or whatever we might need, then begin a new voyage."
Crowe realised that Wylde had him against a wall but it took him only a few moments to realise what he had to do.
"I can try and give your navigator the help he'll need. But you won't find anything. However, if you will allow me to return to my cot I can retrieve my notes and begin right away."
"Return here in half an hour," Wylde said, nodding to the mercenaries, so that they would let Crowe past. "And then you can show me the route to the star."
When the mercenaries had escorted Crowe out, Wylde put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He looked across at Farrow. "What think you, Mister Farrow?"
"If the Isle is truly beyond the Stormwall… No ship ever built could sail there."
"The Stormwall… Impassable by the stoutest timbers, by sail, by oars… But what of magic, eh? What of sorcery?
"Sorcery?" Farrow sounded nervous. Like most sailors Wylde had known, he was deeply superstitious.
"Nature magic, or elemental," Wylde suggested. "Maybe one of those — or some mixture — could have done something to let the Belle through. Transported them there, or made a hole in the Stormwall, or… something." Wylde stood, straightening his lapels. "We don't have anyone with those talents aboard, sadly. But there will be magicians for hire in Allantia."
"And Crowe, sir?"
"Keep Dass away from him. Just in case. As far as the other men are concerned, Kord is exactly who he says he is, and Dass is understandably mistaken."
"Aye, sir."
Alone once more — or at least left to his own devices as the crew worked all around — Crowe looked around for a means of escape from what was surely going to be the carriage to his death. The Vigilant mustered double the crew the Belle had, by his judgement. As if the weight of numbers wasn't bad enough, there were warriors on board. Mercenaries, rather than Royal or Faith troops, but they'd still know one end of a sword from the other. The two who had accompanied him kept at a discreet distance, lurking by the companionway, watching him. They stayed close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close that they could see much of what he was doing. Crowe knew that the trick was to not appear furtive. Every man in a ship's crew knew his own job, and only the officers could change that. Only the officers were likely to notice that a man was doing something he wasn't meant to, especially if that man was new.
There was a voice in Crowe's head, hissing one phrase over and over: "Protect the Isle." It wasn't like a voice he imagined, but a real one, belonging to someone or something outside of himself. Unlike an imagined voice, he couldn't ignore it or silence it, but had to try to endure it
"Protect the Isle," it repeated firmly. "Protect the Isle." He could endure it, or obey it. Barely realising he was doing it, he insinuated himself into the gaps between busy crewmen. One pair, then another, and suddenly the line of sight between the two mercenaries and himself was broken. He ducked into a passageway down to the hold.
A couple of boys of no more than ten or eleven years were in the hold when he arrived, but he sent them off to get something to eat. Then he set about moving the barrels of oil and alcohol that were stored there. Pitch was used for waterproofing the hull, and there were buckets of it against a bulkhead. Next, he loaded a small crossbow and then led a slow fuse from the barrels. It was about ten minutes' worth of fuse, and he used flint and tinder from his belongings to light it. "Protect the Isle," the voice in his head said soothingly.
That done, he returned to the deck, and walked up behind the mercenaries.
"Looking for me, mates?"
They glared at him. A few minutes later, they returned him to the Captain's day room.
"Fast work," Wylde said, pleased. He held out a hand for the translations.
Crowe remained motionless and silent for a moment. "No work."
"I'm sorry?" Wylde glanced at the mercenary, who's eyes brightened slightly, becoming more alert.
"The code isn't the one I'm used to. I can't translate it."
Wylde sighed. "I told you about being lied to, Mr Crowe." He motioned to the mercenary guard. Both men kept their hands near their short swords. "Tell me why you're lying — is it because you want to keep the island's treasures for yourself?"
Crowe laughed bitterly. "No, Captain, it's not that." Wylde looked puzzled. "It's just that I can't let anyone try."
"Why not?"
"Protect the Isle," someone was saying.
Crowe shook his head. "You'd never believe me if I told you."
The burning fuse reached the oil and alcohol barrels. They exploded and the entire ship lurched. Spray erupted from the waterline on the larboard side, drenching the men on deck.
Everything in the day room juddered, candles falling onto charts and setting them alight. It was all the distraction he needed as Crowe pulled the small crossbow from under his notes and let loose. The bolt charged through Wylde's belly and out through the back of his chair.
Before Wylde's mercenaries were able to draw their swords, Crowe hit one in the face with the grip of the crossbow. He heard teeth and bone splinter as the man staggered back. Crowe drew a dagger from the first man's belt, and rammed the blade into the other man's gut. He wrenched it up under the ribcage, and the man fell onto the desk. Crowe spun, slamming the dagger into the chest of the man with the broken nose and teeth.
Crowe pulled the dagger free and ran, leaving Wylde screaming in agony amid his dead men. Everyone on deck was shouting, and running. Carpenters and sailors were running for the hatches to see what they could do about the damage, while others scrambled up ratlines to try to rig the sails so as to heel the ship over the other way, and keep as much of any hole in the side out of the water. Crowe took advantage of the confusion to lower a launch before cutting the tow cables that held the Belle to the Vigilant.
As the cut ends splashed into the water, he followed them overboard, and hauled himself aboard the launch. He took up the launch's oars, and began rowing as far away from the noose and the Vigilant's yard-arms as he could get. As Crowe pulled further from the Vigilant, no bolts came his way. Instead, a bloom of fire sprouted from a hatch, rising to set the mainsail and mizzen staysail afire. Smoke was pouring from the Vigilant's hatches and ports as she heeled away from him. Crowe only regretted what he had done for a moment. No man deserved to witness the horror that he had. Even if the Vigilant had been extremely lucky and reached the Isle, he didn't want to contemplate the chance that any man could go through what had scarred him so horribly. With his arms straining against the pull of the rough seas, he made for the Belle.
The Vigilant lurched out of his view, and he wondered whether anyone would miss it back in Allantia, because it was surely doomed. By the time he had climbed aboard the Belle, the Vigilant had gone.