The wet god's bastard

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions (the brutish Seymuhr, the quiet and slow speaking Broo Fang Tane and the intellectual Merrick) have stumbled upon a decaying shipwreck in the heart of a forest far from any major source of water. After investigating the shattered hull, they believe they have discovered the identity of its captain: Harfigorn the Merciless, a pirate who terrorized the seas in a near-forgotten age….

 

“The name means something to you?” Merrick asked.

“Aye, it does.” I was surprised it did not strike any chords with him. Harfigorn was no simple fisherman or petty plunderer. He was a savage who, at the height of his reign over the low seas, commanded a bounty that would have bought a kingdom. “You are unfamiliar with his tale?”

Merrick’s silence answered that question for me. Seymuhr was still poking around in the debris so I spoke loud enough for both to hear. My heart was tingling with excitement. Harfigorn’s misfortune might well lead to my own good fortune: Queen Phedera would pay any falcuhn his or her weight in gold to learn the final chapter in that vicious bastard’s tale. There was the possibility of other treasure involved, too, for the pirate had been a successful and wealthy one.

“It is not surprising,” I said to ease his discomfort. “He lived at a time before even your own grandfather was born and his exploits—though vast and legendary—were hardly the type that would come to the attention of your…agency.” Merrick was a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation, charged with stamping out threats and evils brought about by the otherworldly forces that continually sought to reclaim control of the world.

“His real name was Harvey and little is known of his origins. Some said he was a northman who tired of the plow and soil and sought adventure and riches. Others said he hailed from a land beyond even the Middle Seas. A few thought he was a demon, loosed—or birthed—by the Wet God Sluth to wreak vengeance on the little men who dared tickle his waters.

“He and his crew terrorized the Low Seas for decades, killing all who crossed their path and stealing everything they could. Navies sought him and kings and duke alike hired mercenary after mercenary to track him down and bring them his head. None were successful; I always thought those who were recruited to find him found more in common with Harfigorn than their benefactors and merely stayed on with his ship. There was also rumors, of course, that he was protected by black magic. There might have been truth to that. Accounts from those who encountered him are few, but those that exist agree that he held among his companions a witch of sorts, a vile thing named Athelane whose beauty and knowledge of the dark arts were enough to make even the most powerful of the Maedrum tremble.”

“Harvey?” Seymuhr interrupted. He was sucking on the old coins he had discovered, apparently trying to determine what they were made of.

“Indeed.”

“Is there no guess as to what became of him?” Merrick wanted to know.

“Not until now,” I said. “It was always thought that he had grown tired of the waves and simply gone off somewhere to enjoy his wealth—or he returned to the lands on the far side of the Middle Sea. It was not uncommon then, nor is it now, for a pirate to simply turn over his vessel, or sink it on his own.”

Merrick looked at the gathered parchment in my hands and nodded, a hand stroking his beard. “Athelane,” he mused. “A witch? Not a member of the Maedrum?”

I shrugged. “A ship witch, at the least.”

“Do you think this log was written by this Harfigorn, himself?”

I shook my head. “It is possible, I guess, but unlikely. I would think he employed a mate, or a bard of some type to record his thoughts. Perhaps even this Athelane performed that task. She must have been educated.”

“This deserves more study,” Merrick said. “Come, let us leave this dank chamber and look through this document in the full light of day. I would feel the sun on my shoulders if I have to read about these dark deeds. But, if this contains even a hint of his final destination…”

I nodded in agreement. “…we should take up the trail and follow it to its end, or as near to it as we can.”

Next: In the footsteps of the marauder

The last port of the forgotten pirate

Previously: Freelance Historian Esmeralda and her companions have stumbled upon a shipwreck in the middle of a forest--far from any large body of water. While investigating it, Seymurh--called Skullsquasher by some--acted as a human battering ram to access the captain's long-sealed chambers...

"Like I said: crude but effective," said Merrick when he joined me in the chamber.

"Indeed." My voice was muffled by my sleeve. The chamber was rank with the smell of decay and our entrance had stirred up the dust of untold years. It felt like I had sand in my nose and throat. It was black as pitch--no light penetrated anywhere--and my eyes could not adjust to the inky darkness. Merrick's soft voice was to my right and immediately behind me and I heard Seymurh's rasp somewhere across what I assumed to be a relatively small chamber. "I think it would be safe to light a torch. Do you have one?"

"I can see well enough," Seymurh answered.

"Not exactly," Merrick said. "Although I can be of some assistance." He mumbled a few words that sent a queer shiver across my back, like someone had tickled it with a feather. I heard a soft pop and a low hiss and gradually, the room came into focus, lit by a dim, steady globe that rolled around on the top of his staff.

I nearly gaped at him. Was he a member of the Maedrum? He hadn't mentioned it yet--not that we had had a whole lot of time to share our stories. Evidently, he thought sharing the fact that he served on the Ministry of Human Preservation to be a safer secret to share than his knowledge of the Wild Arts. Interesting.

"Well, that helps." I let the other questions go unasked, for now. I was familiar with the existence of the Maedrum but had never met any that counted themselves among that group (although several claimed falsely to be). Magic was not as prevalent now as it had once been, but there were still some who practiced it and uncounted powerful trinkets left behind by their sect. I was in possession of one, a Traveling Stone, but was loathe to use it because I did not know how long its energy would last. I didn't want to find an inert piece of red rock around my neck when I needed it most. Merrick's staff could have been something of the like; the energy could have been contained in it and not his mind. Still, it was worth investigating later.

Now, I turned my attention to the chamber, such as it was. The violence that had wrested the ship from its native environment and deposited it in this forest left its mark inside it, as well. Nothing stood recognizable as any type of furniture--wood was scatter about splintered and formless. There were a full dull metal cups and rotting debris left indistinguishable by age. Tubes of thick wax lay against one wall where remnants of some type of work station still existed. A desk, perhaps. It was near that that Seymurh stood, probing the bones of man. Nearby was a fractured wooden heap that might have once been a chest of some sort. The dead captain's personal effects? Certainly possible.

"Pretty," Seymurh said, pulling a jewel-encrusted saber from the human wreckage. The blade looked sharp still, although flecked with the passage of time. Seymurh held the jeweled hilt close to his eyes and poked at the red and green stones with a thick finger. "But not very heavy. An artisan's blade, but practical enough if he knew how to fight with it."

Merrick was going through the scrolls that had somehow survived, holding his wavering light up to the mildewed parchment and mouthing what word he recognized. I turned my attention to the trunk, for that's what that heap of wood turned out to be. It's solid construction allowed it to survive the bizarre journey better than anything else we had seen so far, although the brass hinges were torn and bent. I pulled away the soft wood and disturbed a colony of wriggling insects longer than my finger, nearly as thick as a branch and with more legs than I cared to count. A small hill of brownish coins caught the flickering light and I bent to pick up a medallion that was square in shape with an empty round indentation at its center. Touching it made the tips of my fingers pulse with a not entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Here's a name," Merrick said. "I think." He bent in closer, rubbing his eyes. "Hangore? Hanford? No, that's not quite it. Harfigorn. It looks like Harfigorn. Does that mean anything to you?"

The medallion was immediately forgotten. I ignored Seymurh, who was busy sifting through the coins. "Harfigorn? Are you sure?" I crossed the chamber and peered at the parchment. The ink was faded in spots and distorted by moisture in others but I had to agree with Merrick's translation.

"Bones of Barnok," I breathed. Suddenly, the chamber did not seem so stifling. It seemed cold and damp, indeed, and I felt a sense of dread grow in my belly. "Have we found the final resting place of Harfigorn, the Merciless?"

Up next: Yes. Yes they have.

Beyond the deeper shadow

Previously: Mira and her companions have found an ancient shipwreck in the middle of a forest and are looking for clues about its crew, destination and cargo...


Once again, I stepped into the gloom. This time, my heart buzzed not in fear and fatigue, but in anticipation of untold wonders, a mystery to be unraveled and, I hoped, a pouch full of coins. I was already crafting the history of this vessel in my head, trying to call up images of the bizarre events that brought it to this forsaken place.

Now that we knew it was a ship, it was a wonder that we had mistaken it for anything else. What we had taken for a roof was actually the deck, splintered in places but with a single rectangle near its center. What I had assumed was a hanging piece of broken beam was, in fact, the door. A deepening shadow above it was mostly likely the hold, or perhaps a narrow passageway that led to the crew's quarters.

Merrick had made the same observation and probed the ceiling/deck cautiously with the tip of his sword. I cringed at first, for if the wood was indeed rotten and anything remained in the hold, it would not take much pressure to cause it to come crashing down on us. What a sad, sorry end that would be--to escape a pair of rampaging giants only to fall victim to some lost pirate's effects. But the wood sounded solid and, indeed, it held up.

If that was the deck and hold, it stood to reason that the back wall was not a wall at all, but the exterior of the captain's quarters. There should be some other kind of door, there, and perhaps a short ladder that led to an observation platform that had somehow been jammed so savagely against the earth it must have shattered or split the ground. The wall was buckled and a few quick taps proved that it was hollow. How quickly my assumptions melted away!

Merrick was beside me now, sweat gleaming on his skin and a wild look in his eyes. He ran his hands over the uneven surface, cursing and sucking on a finger when it pulled up a splinter. I pushed against the wood and although it was bent and buckled it was solid enough. There was no opening large enough to squeeze through and only a few cracks to press an eye to. It was too dark to see anything inside, so I guess that chamber had not been exposed to sunlight in the long years since it was tossed to this final resting place.

"Move aside." Seymuhr's rough voice was in my ear, his rank breath in my nostrils. I waved both away.

"Mind your manners, you smelly brute," I snapped.

He ignored me. Seymurh wiggled his fingers into one of the crevices, then squeezed in his other hand so that one was on top of the other in that narrow opening. He lowered himself slightly, set his knees and pulled with a single grunt. The wood snapped and came free, revealing a whole the size of a large melon. He put a hand on either side and broke more wood off, as easily as if he were stripping dry bark from a dead tree, got a shoulder through and then pushed his way into the darkness.

"Like a battering ram," Merrick said, an admiring smile on his face.

"But not as smart," I added, then called: "Be careful, you oaf! We don't know how stable that is."

We waited, but heard no alarming sound of rending wood or straining beam. The ship, smashed as it was, seemed stable enough. I looked at Merrick and he at me. We nodded simultaneously and, one after the other, stepped inside the chamber.

NEXT: The last port of Harfigore the Merciless