Ghoul Island: Act 1 Voyage to Farzeen is a work of fiction. Names and characters are fictitious, and the incidents described won’t happen until the stars are right and Cthulhu rises from his eternal slumber. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Kent Hamilton

ISBN-13: 978-1-950982-05-9

Copyright © 2019 Petersen Games, LLC

All rights reserved.

www.PetersenGames.com

Ghoul Island
Act 1: Voyage to Farzeen

One: Opportunity

The Bloody Splints creaked as it sidled up to the dock, breaking a viscous layer of slime atop the dark water. A grizzled man leaning against the rail hocked and spat over the side, narrowly missing the cracked wood of the dock. The spittle splashed down into the tide and sank into the depths.

“Ah, Resante,” the youth at the fore of the ship said with a grand smile. “Land of opportunity! Town of industry!” He swept his half-cape aside. “What bravery! What courage, to tame the shifting seas and—”

He inhaled deeply and promptly fell to sputtering and hacking.

“Ugh,” Torrin said. “What’s that smell?”

The stench of fish and rot and rotting fish filled his nose, drenching his lungs. It combined with the oppressive humidity of the place, which made sweat break out on his forehead and the back of his neck, making Resante more like a stagnant pool than a city. As though the tide was out, leaving behind a tidepool in which the place was built; then the waters would return by dawn, drowning the place anew.

The port squatted on the bay of Lido like a sore. It was a festering lesion that looked awful and smelled worse. Not a single building he could see among the ramshackle structures on the hill looked younger than a century, and they showed every bit of their age, from crumbling walls to the cracked and moldering tiles of gambrel roofs. Torrin fancied he could see the stench rising off the buildings like waves of heat, though the dawn brought a chill breeze that made him shiver.

“Oi!” A sailor, hobbling on a wooden peg for a leg, smacked the young man on the shoulder hard enough to push him precariously over the foul waters. Had he been just a few inches taller, he’d have overbalanced and ended up splashing into the murk. “Lovely, aye? Like a wound gone sour.”

“Nay,” Torrin said, though the man had moved on. “At least a wound will clean itself with blood.”

Nay, indeed. Torrin the Bold—Torrin the Magnificent—Torrin the Famous, if he had his way—had expected something quite different at the end of this voyage. Possibly a place he could get a decent bed and not have to worry about his feet rotting inside his boots. But then, he’d had to leave the last port rather quickly, on account of a certain pot-bellied nobleman angry about an amorous wife who’d liked Torrin’s performances a bit too much, and expressed her enthusiasm in a very personable way. He didn’t rightly know how this kept happening to him, but the winds had changed, and he had known to follow them. A small port called Resante seemed as good as anything else, so long as it lay far away.

That’s what he’d thought, anyway, until he came within sight of the wretched place.

Still, surely chance had led him here for a reason, and opportunities waited to be found in even the most unlikely of places, and Torrin the Brave was not one to look away.

“Resante,” he murmured. “The next step on my path to glory.”

••••••••••••••

“Resante,” Rogath tucked his beard in against his chain hauberk and spat into the moss-strewn gutter. “What an utter shitehole.”

The dwarf looked up past the splintered eaves of the rickety building with the chipped and faded sign of an open book hanging from the eaves. Gray clouds filled the gloomy sky and Rogath could feel sweat oozing onto his neck as rain approached. Getting caught out in that downpour would do the opposite of washing the filth from his cloak and he suspected he’d smell like rotten fish for weeks if it caught him.

“Hurry up, elfy,” he said under his breath, taking care that the gray-cloaked figures passing on the street didn’t hear his murmur. “Sooner we get out of this awful place the better.”

There was something about Resante that made the dwarf profoundly uneasy. Something that went deeper than the superficial squalor or even the deeper corruption that caused it. The organization of the streets spoke of a warped mind, if it had ever been planned, and the folk—prone to suspicious glares and stammering to no one in particular—spoke of a deep well of general disturbance. He doubted his experience as an alienist would be welcome, however their brief meeting with the harbormaster, one Mundo Fenn, a thoroughly odious toad of a man, had not given him confidence that they would understand his insights, much less value them.

The pitted door of the Repository creaked open, which produced a sound almost as loud as the tinkling bell set above it. Out stepped a slender figure, sun-kissed face slashed by a faded scar from brow to lip. The elf’s features were not lovely, but they had an agelessness to them that made them strangely compelling. In their hands, the elf clutched a tome wrapped in oiled leathers, which they clung to as though to a great treasure.

“About time, ‘Gora,” said Rogath. “Find what you needed?”

“Mayhap.” Mandragora, always a being of few words, ran one slender-fingered hand over the book. “Is it done?”

“Booked passage?” The dwarf nodded. “Aye. We’ve a moot with the mate of a ship puts out on the morrow. We’ve only our labor to pay, unless you managed to hold back some silvers in yon Repository?”

The elf regarded him blankly.

“Thought not.”

Together, the unlikely pair set off down the moldy cobbles toward the docks.

••••••••••••••

After trading a few final pleasantries with the Splints’ captain and using a bit of magic to make sure their deal went well, Torrin debarked with his traveling pack of dwindling supplies and his lute.

Beyond the comparatively well-maintained dock and through the mildew-stained streets, Torrin made his way to the first place that seemed to offer food. Inside the drooping hovel of a building built around a huge, battered, pocked kettle in its center, a dozen locals squatted around low, tar-sticky tables, eyeing him briefly through faces covered in hair and pitch.

“Charming.” Torrin the Bard did his best to sweep a bench clean enough to sit. His breeches stuck to the weathered wood in a rather unpleasant way. Outside, a drizzly rain began to fall, and it quickly began to leak through the rotting roof.

He looked up at a young man with a wide mouth and almost no lips, who gave him a grin full of sharp, mismatched teeth. “Welcome a’the Cauldron,” the young man said, his voice nasal and wet. He gestured to the rusted cookpot in the middle of the room. “First bowl’s always free.”

Torrin glanced to the cauldron from which the establishment took its name, though he could smell the putrid rotting cabbage and fish from here. “Not particularly hungry, thanks.”

Most of the folk in the Cauldron didn’t encourage inspection or approach, so Torrin glanced past them. He had an eye for these things, and used it to look for something before spotting it at a table in the corner. He saw a human man of about forty or so, his face grizzled with a salt-and-pepper beard, speaking with two folk: a dwarf with a green-black beard and an elf who might have been a man or woman, he couldn’t quite say. No coins changed hands, but he could read the body language and knew it for a deal going down. Perfect.

“Here’s your bowl, sir,” someone said at his side, and he waved dismissively at whoever it was.

Torrin patted the modest bulge in his breeches where he kept his dwindling riches, ready to head over and start his pitch. Only the bulge he found was not one of silver or gold.

Strange, he’d had his coin when he entered the Cauldron. Whoever had made that lift . . .

“Hey!” he said after the small figure in rags, a child, perhaps, moving rapidly away. “Stop that!”

The figure might have escaped, if not for the thick leg that appeared from someone sitting near the cauldron, over which the person stumbled and fell. Sprawled out on the floor Torrin realized she was a halfling, not a child. She sat up, and felt at a growing bump on her forehead.

“Oof, uh,” the halfling said.

The patron who had tripped her was a massively muscular woman of orc heritage. Her shoulders were wide as an axe handle and her mouth studded with tusks. She casually reached over and plucked up the would-be thief with one hand. Then she rose to her considerable height, her head nearly reaching the drooping ceiling, and, with her free hand, raised her bowl to her lips and slurped up the putrid soup. The three sitting in the corner looked over at the exchange, the grizzled human looking somewhat impressed.

“I am Setha,” the half-orc said when she was done. “Anyone missing a small woman?”

Torrin grinned. “That’s mine,” he said. “Or, well, that coin pouch she’s holding.”

“Very well.” Setha held the squirming halfling out toward Torrin. “Also, is anyone in need of a strong arm? Because Setha is in need of coin.”

“Resante,” the bard commented. “Land of opportunity.”

Two: Folly

Hesitating at the ramp, Torrin the Perspicacious had seen finer ships than the Hazel’s Folly in his day, but it offered a welcome relief compared to the disgusting wasteland of Resante. With the golden-red rays of the sun breaking over the horizon, the rot fell away, and even the worn and well-used three-sailed single-master looked like a golden opportunity. It was both an escape and a further path on his road to glory.

“Not much for beauty, our Folly,” said the First Mate, one Aidan Psaila, The weathered man he’d first glimpsed in the Cauldron, had nothing but smiles when he saw silvers and a few pieces of gold. “But she’s got it where it counts. Speed, acceleration, and in’t no better ship of her size in the shallows for a quick getaway.”

“Fifty-foot keel, am I right?” Torrin asked. In truth, he knew nothing about boats, but he could estimate distances, and it wouldn’t do to seem ignorant.

“Eight and forty in the keel, young master. Eight and ten in the beam. Oi!” Psaila directed his sudden shout to the hired hands; the dwarf and the elf, in particular, who staggered as they attempted to load boxes onto the ship. “Get a move on! The sooner we’re out of this gods-forsaken port, the better!”

The dwarf murmured something in Dwarvish—or was it Dwarven, Torrin could never remember—and carried the crate down the creaking dock toward the ship. The less focused elf, whose eyes lay fixed on the horizon, faltered in doing so, but the big half-orc woman from the Cauldron came to the rescue, seizing the crate in one massive hand before it could tumble into the oily waters.

“Pardon, fey lady,” the half-orc said. “Setha will carry this burden.”

The elf, whom Torrin had almost decided was a man, gave neither a word of correction nor thanks. In fact, the elf hardly seemed to notice the relief, but instead continued looking to the rising, blood-red sun.

“Excuse me a moment, young master,” said Setha.

“Not sure about that one,” the halfling said under her breath. “A bit spacey, he is.”

“I could say the same of you, Filch,” replied the half-orc. “Not the spacey bit, but being unsure.”

Torrin the Patient resisted the urge to pat his purse, as that would only reveal to the lass where he had decided to keep it today. She’d attempted to rob him some three times in the night, and he’d finally abandoned sleep altogether in the wee hours. Not that it was difficult, in the lice-ridden, mildew-reeking flophouse Psaila had pointed him to. The halfling had followed him and, even after the pick-pocketing, she’d all but begged him to take her with him across the sea, to his homeland, or anywhere away from Resante. Filch was her name, which he knew for a lie, but her desperation to escape Resante seemed true enough. Never let it never be said that Torrin the Gallant would leave any maid in distress who needed his aid. Yesterday’s theft aside, he had a good feeling about the young halfling, and he tended to trust his feelings. They hadn’t yet led him astray . . .

He felt a notable hollow at the small of his back. Filch had picked his pocket again, and there she went, fleeing up the splintery dock. Persistent, this one.

She paused, though, seeing a gathering of folk in ragged dark woolens, their faces stained and hollow, and half-drawn blades glinting at their belts. Torrin could only see one face clearly, and it resembled that of a kind of leering eel. When its gruesome lips parted, he saw a forest of mismatched, needle-like teeth. Torrin felt a sinking in his gut, but it was as nothing beside the horror their appearance seemed to evoke in Filch. She stood frozen, her body rigid and her shoulders trembling.

“You. Girl.”

The halfling perked up and looked back at the sound of the voice. There, just on the other side of the gangplank, stood a woman in leathers dyed deep blue and accented with green plates around her neck and shoulder that must have come from some sort of sea creature. Her skin was fair and her hair blonde with a greenish tinge, as though she spent every morn washing it with sea water, but her most striking feature was her set of doe-like eyes; big, round, and yellow in color. Torrin found her fascinating to look at. On the woman’s shoulder, long tail curled around her muscular neck, lay a large gray cat.

“Is there a problem?” the woman asked Filch. “Nebi is waiting for you in the kitchens. Get.”

The halfling, glad of the excuse to go back onto the ship, steered away from the threatening faces on the dock and scooted quickly onto the ship. She paused only long enough, grudgingly, to return Torrin’s purse. When he looked back, the thugs on the dock had slunk away.

“Quite generous of you,” Torrin said, nodding after the halfling. “That’s no small amount of trouble you’ve welcomed onto your ship. If you are, indeed, Captain Censa as I presume.”

“That I am.” She reached up idly to scratch under her cat’s chin “And this is Nukki.” Her startlingly circular eyes fell upon Torrin. “And who are you, sir? The coin for this voyage, I take it?”

“In a sense, though my name be neither silver nor gold,” said the bard. “Torrin is my name, a rich and historical—”

“Coinage,” Censa said. ”The Torrin is a currency from long ago, minted from electrum, unless I miss my guess.”

The bard grinned and swept into a bow. “I accede to your knowledge, oh learned captain,” he said. “My coin is in good hands. Clever hands. Some might say—”

“I’ll have Aidan show you to your bunk,” Censa said, not giving him time to finish. “Welcome to the Hazel’s Folly. She’s not much, but she’s ours.” She turned away but looked back sideways over her shoulder. “Stow your gear quickly. Everyone, and I mean everyone, pulls their weight on this ship.”

With that, she strode off toward the aftcastle, from which Aidan Psaila gave Torrin a little wave. Torrin the Wealthy’s grin spread wider. Off to a brilliant start.

••••••••••••••

Rogath laid down his crate, then turned to help his companion. The elf seemed glad to put down the burden, only to return to gaze once more across the sea. Mandragora had seemed even more preoccupied than usual since they arrived in Resante, and Rogath looked forward to being on their way. The Hazel’s Folly had seemed like a fine enough course to make that happen, though now he wondered. Not that they’d had much choice.

He’d taken stock of some of the ship’s pre-existing crew, who were making ready to launch the ship. Aside from the captain and the first mate, who had hired them on the previous day, Rogath spotted a pair of half-elves, a man and a woman, bickering back and forth like either siblings or an old couple. They called each other “Kas” and “Ban,” though he suspected those were nicknames. He’d spotted another thin woman with mingled human and elven heritage wearing an apron stained many times over that he took to be the cook. Even now, he watched as the half-elf, Nebi, he’d heard her called, took a halfling lass by the ear and hauled her below decks to what he assumed would be the kitchen. He’d also seen a dwarf, or perhaps two dwarves, who were busy down in the hold. When they made way and he had made sure Mandragora wouldn’t simply stumble over the side, Rogath meant to head down into the hold and introduce himself.

“Hallo, little man,” said a voice, deep-set but unmistakably female. Rogath looked up to the half-orc woman who had made the commotion in the Cauldron the previous day, and had to goggle at the impressive musculature more revealed than concealed by rags a deeper brown than her skin. “I am Setha.”

Rogath suppressed a rising wave of distaste for all things orc, the tireless and ravaging foe of his people. This woman had offered him a perfectly friendly greeting, and he could reply in kind. “I am Rogath.” He gestured to his companion. “And this is Mandragora. We—”

At that moment, something moved in the shadows leading to the hold, and the half-orc bared her fangs and growled in challenge. She reached for the nocked axe strapped to her back, which came free with a subtle twist of her wrist. The dwarf, momentarily startled, reached for the hammer that hung at his belt, only to realize she was looking over him, not at him. Rogath turned and caught his breath as a walking corpse climbed out onto the deck. Taller and bigger than any man Rogath had seen, its bare chest and arms were a withered, scarred mass of desiccated gray flesh, stitched roughly together along livid, perpetual bruises. Its mangled face seemed to hang off its skull, and instead of a left hand, it had a heavy black grapple and chain. It lurched toward them without a sound, powerful legs shuffling along the deck.

Fingers shaking, Rogath fumbled out his sigil, a hollow half-circle of silver flat on the bottom, like a setting sun and presented it to the creature. “Turn back!” He declaimed words of power, making his sigil shine brightly. “The power of the Dead God compels you!”

The power of the Dead God, the father and ancestor of all dwarvenkind, radiated forth, but the shambling corpse simply walked through it as though it did not notice. Setha swung her axe at the creature. It raised its grapple arm to block the blow with unfathomable strength, holding her weapon at bay. Slowly, the sparsely-furred head turned to regard her, the dead eyes like cloudy black pools.

“Hold!” Captain Censa appeared among them, having moved so subtly Rogath hadn’t heard her approach. Then she spoke in a language he did not remotely understand. “Kyeh fhtn ytcha!”

At the words, the hulking brute released the hold on Letha’s weapon and continued shambling on its way. Belatedly, Rogath realized that it held something in its free hand; a ragged mop, its ropy strands stained nearly brown from constant use. As he watched, it set to work swabbing the deck.

“I see you’ve met Moseta,” Censa said. “Came with the ship. Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”

That grapple arm said many things to Rogath, but “harmless” was not one of them. He kept his eye on the walking corpse as it went to work. Mandragora was staring at the thing in fascination.

The handsome human lad had come up with Censa and tried to engage her with something lyrical and no-doubt poetic in Elvish, of which Rogath only caught a word or two, something about the sea and her eyes, or possibly other impressive parts of her body. The captain seemed no more impressed with the line and, after giving the lad a dubious look, headed off with a slight sway in her step. For his part, the richly-dressed youth gazed after her backside and smiled to himself.

“You might be in over your head, lad,” Rogath said.

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said. “Torrin the Charming never fails.”

The dwarf shrugged. “You tell him good luck when you see him.”

Setha grinned at that. She, Rogath noticed, had been staring after Captain Censa in a similar way.

Torrin grinned wide, “Everything’s going according to plan.”

••••••••••••••

As he swabbed the muddy brown mop once more along the deck, Torrin had to admit it was not going according to plan. He couldn’t say exactly how it had gone so wrong, though he knew the when of it.

That first day, he’d wondered why the crew kept casting sidelong glances in his direction, and more than once he turned to see if anyone else was there. Usually it happened as he lounged in the shade of the main mast, working out proper rhymes for “eyes of the sea” and “hair like an emerald.” When one of the dwarf siblings made some sort of scoff in his hearing, he’d taken it to mean he should reverse the metaphors, a decent suggestion, but he’d thought nothing else of it.

Not until that night, when the cook Nebi, a withered crone of a half-elf, had no bowl for him at dinner. “You work, you eat,” she told him, her craggy face cast in ugly shadows of spite and disgust.

He’d thought it a joke, but the rest of the crew seemed to agree, from the half-elf Ogilwa brother and sister to all three of the dwarf siblings—three of them! Torrin had thought there were only two. Even the battered first mate Psaila gave a gruff nod. His fellow passengers provided no help, either. The wan elf seemed not to have noticed, while the orc-blood barbarian laughed uproariously at his confusion, and even the little halfling lass joined in the mirth. Only the dwarf priest, Rogath, tried to spare Torrin’s feelings, but his deep eyes seemed entirely too smug. The only way it might have gone worse involved that abomination Moseta, who fortunately stayed above decks, swabbing the decks day and night. Even so, Torrin thought he heard mockery in the oppressive, dragging footsteps on the creaking boards overhead.

Then Captain Censa sat beside him and proffered a bowl of stew. She did so without judgment, prompting his heart to lighten, and almost wordlessly. “They’re right, you know,” she said too softly for the others to hear. “Everyone on this ship pulls their weight.” Her big eyes fixed on him. “Everyone.”

At first blush, Torrin had taken it for a jest or, better, an invitation to “pull his weight” in a more interesting way.

But alas, his coin funding this voyage bought him neither the privilege of doing nothing nor the captain’s favor, let alone space in her bed. They didn’t even much care for the music he spun on his lute, which could ordinarily charm even the hardest of hearts to seeing things his way.

Indeed, he’d tried his magic, but while he could charm one or two of the crew, he couldn’t charm them all, and even Torrin the Bold wasn’t foolish enough to try it on Censa.

Nay, a few misunderstandings later, and he’d taken the filthy and thankless task of swabbing the decks alongside the Folly’s re-animated deckhand, as well as the half-orc, and he wasn’t sure which he found more off-putting. Setha kept trying to engage him in conversation, after her guttural fashion, but Torrin was too weary and Moseta too tongue-less to reply. Neither smelled particularly good either, but he suspected he himself had grown quite ripe.

After each grueling day, Torrin passed a sleepless night turning and twisting in one of the sackcloth-like hammocks, trying in vain to get comfortable. Dark dreams lurked at the edge of his awareness, and he shook himself awake a dozen times a night, uncertain if he had slept but sure that worms were moving over his skin. Just that morn, he had spent what felt like an hour scouring himself for vermin that were not there.

By the time the sun rose to its zenith, the rhythmic slop of the swab had all but lulled him into a sort of sleep on his feet.

In the distance, over the lapping waves, he thought he could see something; an island that pierced the slate horizon, around which dark clouds roiled. With an effort, he opened his sticky mouth to cry out that he’d spotted land, but no sound emerged from his parched throat. Indeed, but for the swabbing mop, all sounds seemed to have vanished and the island consumed his awareness.

The wet plunk of the swab brought Torrin closer to the island, as though he had suddenly flown miles in that direction. It was a jungle island, he realized, sparkling green against the sky.

Again a plop, and now the island loomed larger, his movement jarring and immediate. It was a volcano, he realized, spewing ash and smoke.

Plop, and he was abruptly within a league of the island. His pulse rose. What was happening?

Plop, and he hovered over the caldera of the volcano. He could feel the intense heat.

Plop, and he was blisteringly closer to the roiling flames.

Plop, and down. Deeper.

Plop, and he was almost inside the fire.

Plop—

••••••••••••••

Plop, the bowl of stewed cabbage and fish shivered on the table before him, its surface viscous and thick. Torrin looked up at Aidan Psaila, who grunted and moved away. Across the galley, the Ogilwa brother laughed at his dour sister, who snapped at him rudely. Beyond them, through a porthole, Torrin saw that night had fallen.

Torrin sat, breathing heavily, trying to get over the nausea brewing in his stomach. Across the way, he saw that the elf Mandragora was staring fixedly at him in a way he couldn’t quite ignore.

“Are you well?” Captain Censa slid onto the bench beside him, her big eyes luminous in the candlelight. She offered him a cup of ship beer, but he barely noticed.

“Well?” Torrin’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Well and right, my dear Captain. Always.”

Censa didn’t look convinced. Indeed, her eyes seemed to glow as she scrutinized him. “You’re sweating.”

“Me? Surely not—” Torrin touched his brow, and sure enough, his fingers came away slick. “Perhaps I am intimidated in your presence, Captain.”

“Is that so.”

Censa reached under the table and placed her hand on the inside of Torrin’s thigh, making his eyes widen. “Lady Captain!” he said under his breath.

“Just Captain.” He recognized her expression now. It was hungry. She rose. “Come. Make something of all those honeyed words, lad.”

Torrin did. And he slept without dreams that night.

Three: Storm

Torrin awoke when he struck the floor of Censa’s quarters. The ship was tilting drunkenly to the side. He couldn’t, for all the gold in the world, say how he’d ended up there.

At first, Torrin the Wild thought it merely all the rum he and Censa had shared. The empty bottle bounced and rolled across the creaking floorboards, narrowly missing his face. Then he heard the howl of lashing wind and the cries of folk out on deck. Water seeped through under the door, and something smashed hard into the wall, startling him.

Perched on the captain’s desk, her cat Nukki idly licked her paws. She regarded Torrin with clear, untroubled eyes, which seemed odd, given the circumstances.

“Right!” he said to no one in particular, or perhaps the cat. “Time to be a hero!”

Nukki seemed unimpressed.

Heart thudding, Torrin scrambled into his breeches, he grabbed his tunic, and shoved out the door. There, he emerged into nightmare.

The sky had gone the color of a bruise, dumping scalding rain shot through with lances of jagged lightning. Beyond the drenched crew fighting valiantly to restrain the rigging, Torrin saw the sea undulating like a massive beast stirring beneath them. The Folly even now sailed up a monstrous swell of water, and Torrin fell back against the aftcastle wall. He tried to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Lad!” Someone was shouting, and Torrin saw Rogath standing nearby, holding fast to the rail. He beckoned with one big hand, then tensed to hold tight to the rail as a wave splashed over the side.

Torrin stumbled across the rain-slick deck, which bobbed and tumbled madly underfoot. His bare foot snagged on a rope and he fell headlong, slamming painfully against the rail with an impact that jarred his shoulder. He almost toppled over it, and would have if he’d hit it standing upright. Torrin usually enjoyed folk looking up to him, but his height didn’t feel like an advantage just now.

The dwarf, with his much lower and wider center of balance, stood firm. One hand grasped a length of hemp rope lashed to the rail, while he wrapped his other arm around a shivering bundle of drenched cloth. Torrin realized, belatedly, it was the elf Mandragora. She was mumbling something Torrin hoped was a magical incantation. They could certainly use the aid right at that moment.

“The mast!” Rogath was shouting, though Torrin could barely make out even those two words.

Torrin saw Captain Censa shouting orders to the scrambling crew. He tried in vain to catch her eye. The two dwarf brothers were bailing calf-deep water while the sister turned her nimble fingers to snared rigging. The Ogilwa sister, Kasa, must have been in the crow’s nest and was now caught up there. He saw no sign of the other Ogilwa or anyone else. His mind felt sluggish and harried.

“Why’s the sail up?” Torrin leaned in. “Not that I know much about boats, but that seems wrong—”

“What?” The dwarf was shouting at full volume not a pace away from his face.

“Not that—” Torrin shook his head and pointed up at the unfurled sails. “Why up?”

“Squall came out of nowhere!” Rogath said. “We need—”

Lightning lashed down and struck the main mast, making the sail burst into flame. All hands working on deck fell back, dazzled, but for the muscular form of Setha, who stood unfazed and held tight to one of the ropes. Through his numb ears, Torrin heard another sound—screaming—and was pleasantly surprised it wasn’t him. Unfortunately, it was the Ogilwa lass, who thrashed and slapped at flames coursing along her breeches. Some of the fire spattered Setha, but she hardly seemed to notice.

“Get that fire out!” Censa turned to Moseta and spoke words that sounded like discordant gibberish to Torrin. Somehow, they sounded unsettling clear despite the howling storm, as though she had spoken them in his ear, though he still had no idea what they meant. His skin crawled.

Whatever she had said, the re-animated laborer sprang into action, moving with a speed and agility Torrin wouldn’t have thought possible. It rushed across the deck and sprang onto the mast, climbing it as naturally as crawling on the ground. It grabbed hold of Kasa, whose horrified screams redoubled, put out an arm, and fired its grapple like a shot from a crossbow. Torrin’s eyes widened, and he flinched as the grapple smashed into the wall of the aftcastle where he’d been standing just a moment before. As they watched, the monstrous thing pulled itself toward the deck, retracting the grapple chain into its scarred arm. In the span of three breaths, the laborer had drawn itself and the smoldering Kasa back onto the deck, and the half-elf all but landed in Torrin’s arms.

“Well, my good lady,” Torrin the Heroic said, “You’re safe n—oof!”

Still screaming, Kasa scrabbled at Torrin, elbowing him in the gut. They both tumbled down onto the deck in a wet jumble. At least the fire went out at some point during their sprawl. Fortunately, Rogath was there, and he declaimed words in an archaic Dwarven dialect, calling forth healing power that soothed Kasa’s pain. She coughed and sputtered, but at least she was still breathing.

“Well, my . . . lady,” Torrin the Practical said. “Now, surely, you’re sa—”

The wind whipped into a frenzy, and the main mast made a splintering sound and leaned. Pieces of wood spat free from its base. Mandragora rose, despite Rogath’s cries of protest, and spread her hands, rippling with magic. Green energy surrounded the mast, bathing the deck in eerie emerald light. The rain was blasted away in all directions. For a moment, it felt like daylight upon the deck of the Folly again. The elf, with loosed golden hair flying all around her sallow face, strained at the storm, magical syllables spilling from her mouth. Torrin could hardly blink. Perhaps her magic would save them.

The Folly shook under a massive blow, and a wave washed over the side. It struck Moseta, water shooting up around its hulking frame, but the laborer was still attached to the boat so it went nowhere. Alas, its form did not stop the wave, which swept Torrin, Kasa, and Mandragora over the rail and into the churning sea. The last thing he saw before he hit the water was the main mast torn away to vanish into the roiling clouds.

••••••••••••••

Torrin jerked back to consciousness with a deep breath that was half water, half air. He must have been knocked senseless only a heartbeat or two. The storm still raged and he saw he was still near the rail of the Hazel’s Folly. The fury seemed to have lessened, somewhat, and he could hear the screams of those aboard and Censa’s furious shouted orders. The water was bitter cold and his clothes felt like sodden weights around his body.

Beneath him, the unfathomable darkness loomed.

Fortunately, growing up along the coast in his homeland, he knew the basics of swimming. He had already taken two strokes before he heard the faint cry from behind him. He hadn’t been thrown overboard alone, after all; there he half-saw, half-heard Kasa floundering and cursing.

As the storm howled, his heart pulled at him to swim for the ship, to leave her to her fate, but he realized he couldn’t. He spat out water with a curse, and then swam for the sounds.

He found her soon enough—nearly collided with her, in fact. She screamed when his hand touched her arm. “It’s well,” he said, pushing a bit of driftwood aside. “It’s well. Come! We need to get back.”

In the moonlight, her eyes were wild and full of darkness. “It’s you,” she said. “Stuffed Peacock!”

“What?” Torrin asked. “Is . . . is that what they call me?”

“Heh, you’re not so bad.” Kasa flashed a smile of yellowing teeth, then winced. “Ugh, my leg.”

Torrin remembered her leg had suffered the worst of the fire. “Arm around my shoulder,” he said. “I’ll swim for both of us.”

They swam that way, in the surging sea, toward the faint firelights on the Hazel’s Folly. As quickly as it had swept up on them, the storm seemed to abate, though lightning still crackled in the clouds. Kasa was heavy, but it was a reassuring weight Torrin the Mighty could easily bear. His heart felt lighter and his muscles full of new energy. Perhaps being useful agreed with him, not that he would ever admit it, of course.

As they went, he kept his eyes open for Mandragora, but he found no sign of her. He and Kasa both shouted her name, but there were no answering cries. Neither did they see any glint of golden hair amongst the scattered bits of driftwood in the sea. He feared the worst, but put it aside and pressed on.

Finally, when they were almost at the ship, Torrin could see anxious faces of the crew searching the waters. He heard someone calling his name, and realized it was Censa herself. His heart leaped.

“Wait, wait,” Kasa said. “Stop.”

She released him and floated in the water by his side, her shadowed face pained. He saw that some of her flesh was livid red from burns.

“Something’s caught on my leg,” she said. “I need to—”

Then, abruptly, she went under without so much as a breath.

Torrin flinched, startled, then groped about in the water for her. Nothing.

He dove down and looked into the murky depths. With only the faint lights aboard the nearby ship to illumine his view, he saw her. Her lily-white face turned upward, her expression confused. She was reaching for him. He reached down to grasp at her hand. Her eyes blinked.

Then something squamous and serpentine moved in the darkness beneath her. Abruptly she shot downward, out of his view. Gone.

Torrin floated there, trying to grasp what had happened. He gazed into the murky darkness, and thought he saw movement. Felt it, somewhere deep within.

He burst the surface, sputtering and thrashing. “Kasa!” he shouted. “Kasa! Mandragora!”

Nothing. No reply. He was alone.

The water abruptly splashed behind him, and he gasped in surprise when something wet, long, and thin brushed against his neck. It was a rope, he realized, and he looked up into the wide face of Setha up on the ship. Listlessly, he coiled the rope around himself, and the half-orc pulled him back onto the Folly.

With Setha’s help, Torrin climbed back aboard with sputtering gasps. He was suddenly incredibly weary, as though the swim had taken all his energy. Around him, numerous members of the crew crowded, full of eager questions.

“We need . . .we need to get the elf,” Torrin said. “She’s . . . somewhere . . .”

“Elf’s here,” Rogath said.

Torrin was about to reply that no he’d seen her go into the water, but sure enough, Mandragora huddled near Rogath, looking weary but otherwise all right. Her hair didn’t even seem that wet. Perhaps she’d never gone overboard at all, though he could have sworn he saw her do so.

Her emerald eyes were intense upon him.

“What about Kasa?” Torrin asked.

“My sister?” The other Ogilwa, Banda, pushed through. He looked haggard and soaked, his face contorted with worry. “What of her? Did you see her?”

Torrin blinked up at him.

He saw again Kasa’s pale, terrified face as she was pulled into darkness, forever beyond his grasp.

“No,” Torrin said. “I-I’m sorry.”

Banda hung his head.

Censa nodded. “Assess the damage,” she said. “We’re in for a long night.”

Four: Unrest

When the sun finally rose the following morn, the damage was, indeed, extensive.

As quickly as it had blown up and disappeared thereafter, the storm had devastated the Hazel’s Folly in that short time. The deck and sides were scorched and cracked as though the ship had been to war, and even a land-lubber like Torrin could tell the ship was crippled. Certainly, they’d managed to patch the holes to keep the damn thing afloat through the night, but without the main mast, they were becalmed on the open sea.

And, of course, one of their number—Kasa Ogilwa—was gone. There’d been a few burns and scrapes, but only the one casualty. Torrin felt her brother Banda’s eye on him as he again claimed not to have seen her, and knew the man didn’t believe him. What could he do? Tell the truth? And make it all the worse?

Not a one of them had slept more than an hour that night, Torrin suspected. He himself had only managed to shut his eyes for brief periods, after which he woke panting and sweating beset by nightmares he couldn’t remember, let alone describe. Once, he’d spotted Censa pacing the deck, inspecting the damage with a scowl on her face, then looking up at the stars as if for reassurance, over and over, but he hadn’t the strength to go to her.

He wondered now if he should have.

“That settles it,” Aidan Psaila was saying as they convened on the deck. “By the captain’s calculations, we’re not a day’s row from the shores of Farzeen. We load into the skiff and find aid on the island.”

The announcement raised a fair grumble, but no one offered any objections aloud. They all knew their situation and, with dwindling supplies, it was incumbent upon them to go as soon as possible. They all looked bruised and exhausted, except for the half-orc Setha, who looked bruised and pleased. Her smile, juxtaposed with the grim glowers of the rest of the crew, almost made Torrin laugh.

“What of that—thing,” Rogath asked, indicating Moseta. “That creature looks too heavy for the skiff.”

“Moseta stays on the ship,” Censa said, her voice low and dark. “Not sure I could order him off it anyway.” She looked up at them. “Anyone want to stay and guard it with him?”

Empty silence greeted the question.

“Right then,” Psaila said. “Get to it. Secure the ship, grab your things, and we’re off within the hour.”

As the crew dispersed, Censa slipped away belowdecks, and Torrin found himself following her. He wanted to talk to her, and this seemed like the best opportunity.

The cargo hold contained a few crates, now waterlogged and standing in a hand’s width of water, and it stank of mildew heading toward rot. He’d never much liked belowdecks, but it seemed to have become markedly worse overnight. Nukki perched on her shoulder, Censa splashed right through the water, right past the crates, and headed for a small door secured with a heavy padlock. Torrin opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly raised voices from above interrupted him. Nukki looked around, and, unsure why, Torrin found himself wedging himself behind one of the crates.

“Hey?” Censa said. “What is it?”

Torrin almost thought she meant to address him, but he stayed where he was.

Calmed, Censa unlocked the door and stepped into a small, dark room. There, on a table, was a small coffer, which she opened to reveal a leathern pouch. This she snapped up and slid into her coat.

Torrin remained hidden while she sloshed past, holding his breath not to attract her attention. Nukki turned her head toward him, and her bright eyes fixed right on his face. For a heartbeat, he thought for sure the cat would give him away, but she went back to licking her paws.

Why had he stayed hidden he couldn’t say. When he climbed back up to the deck, he saw Censa in conversation with Psaila, her first mate leaning in to whisper to her. The captain nodded and patted the pocket of her coat.

What was that cargo? Torrin wondered.

••••••••••••••

Three hours later, as the crowded skiff slid laboriously through the waves, Filch drank the last of her water. She patted the skin to try and get the last drops out onto her chapped lips. She got a bit, but her lips still hurt, and her stomach kept eating itself. She put her fingers in the water as they passed, distracting herself with the ripples.

Ever since this voyage began, the halfling had nursed a deep and abiding hunger. This morn as every other, Nebi prepared them a solid repast of gruel and the blackened bits of the previous evening’s stew. She’d even given Filch an extra strip of crispy hog, having taken a shine to the little halfling. That had helped, but only a bit.

They barely fit on the skiff, all thirteen of them. The two who seemed the most vital were Captain Censa, sitting near the front of the skiff with Nukki on her shoulder, and Aidan Psaila crouching on his haunches behind her. The dwarf brothers, Setha, and Rogath had taken up the oars. The dwarf sister scowled at her brothers and the cook Nebi sat near them, picking at her fingers. Mandragora sat beside Filch, mumbling something under her breath in a language Filch didn’t recognize. Banda was glaring at Torrin, but he always looked away when the bard glanced back.

Filch’s stomach gurgled, louder than before. Hers was no life where she could eat her fill often, but she shouldn’t be this hungry. She looked down at the passing water, sure she would see her cheeks sinking and her eyes bulging, certain she were starving. And sure enough, her eyes were dark and her features sharp, but she just looked like herself. She splashed her image out of the water and sighed.

“Horse shite.” Oloh Wicot was mumbling to herself, but Filch’s sensitive ears could make it out. “Doomed us . . . doomed us all.”

Filch bit her lip. She wanted to say something, but before she could come up with anything, Nebi reached over and laid one bony hand on her arm. “Pay her no mind, sweetling,” the half-elf said. “We’re all of us a bit rough, what with Kasa and all.”

Filch nodded and closed her mouth. She hadn’t known the sour young woman very well, but she understood how much the crew valued her—especially Banda. Pop and mam never could have no other bairns, so Filch had no siblings, but she could see the pain on the big man’s face. He seemed thinner than usual, even overnight. Maybe he was hungry, too?

She reached down toward the water, meaning to trail her fingers through it again, and saw something move in the water. She blinked, startled. A fish, perhaps? Something scaly and smooth swam alongside the skiff, something that looked so close she could touch it.

Her stomach gurgled again, and she had the distinct sensation of something soft and slippery sliding down her throat. Fresh fish. When was the last time they’d caught a fish? Fried it, crisped it, baked it, it didn’t matter. She could eat it raw. In fact, that’s just what she wanted. She had nimble fingers. Just reach into the water, snatch that fish, and take a bite. Share with the others, yes, but take the first bite herself . . .

Without even thinking about it, she was reaching for the water, reaching for those fish.

Then a hand grasped her wrist and held her back. Filch looked over to find Mandragora’s face mere inches from her own, her purple eyes narrowed. For the first time, Filch felt the elf had seen her.

Mandragora said nothing, only shook her head slightly.

Filch drew her hand back and shivered. She looked up, and found Captain Censa staring at her from across the skiff, huge eyes wide. Did you see it? those eyes seemed to ask. What did you see?

It was like they shared a secret, though Filch had no idea what it might be. With Censa staring at her, she felt a deeper chill than before.

“How much longer, Lady Captain?” Torrin asked, oblivious. “I ask only because—”

Then she saw it—a black mass on the horizon, rising up out of the water.

“Land!” Filch said. Then, when no one reacted but to glance at her in dull curiosity, she pointed. “Land!”

••••••••••••••

And so it was they came within sight of the island of Farzeen. They saw the dense jungle as they approached, fronds waving gently, surrounded by white sandy beaches. The oppressive sun became gentle and warm, and a soft breeze started up as they approached. At the center of the island rose a wide, low mountain from which gray steam rose into the midday air.

“Thank the gods,” Rogath said, his arms screaming at him from the strain. “Afore time! Eh, lad, what’s it look like?”

Torrin blinked, staring. He should have been able to come up with poetic words to describe Farzeen, the beautiful promise of an island paradise, but nothing came from his parched throat. He stared at the rising volcano, up and up toward the smoke at its zenith. He knew this place, like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare.

“It looks fine, Dwarf.” Setha looked over her shoulder as they rowed. “Very fine indeed. So says Setha.”

“Aye, I’ll take yer word, big lady,” Rogath said. “Long as there’s somewhere to rest me head, all’s well.”

Torrin could not look away from the volcano. He could feel his heart beating in his head, and the sweat trickling down his brow. If he blinked, he knew he would find himself abruptly closer to the volcano . . . and closer . . . and closer . . .

He was aware of someone watching him, and opened his mouth to say something to Censa. Only it was the elf, Mandragora, who was watching him intently. He smiled at her, trying to be reassuring, but she just looked away.

“Take us in.” Censa patted at her inner pocket. “I want to be on the beach while there’s yet light.”

The Wicot brothers murmured agreement in Dwarven, but they looked up at their sister, Oloh, who frowned and shook her head at them. Torrin was no mind-reader, but he knew how to recognize a thief sizing up a mark. He resolved to keep an eye on that one.

It took perhaps another hour to reach the shores of Farzeen, and the island felt just as idyllic as it looked from a distance. The skiff hadn’t even brushed up onto the sand before Setha had bounded out, her leap making the boat tilt wildly from side to side, and fallen to her knees in the surf, shouting in the guttural orcish tongue. Rogath joined her. He’d never seemed entirely comfortable on the boat. As much as Torrin wanted to do so as well, the thought of getting in that water again made his stomach churn fit to vomit up his morningfeast. He waited until the skiff landed hard in the sand and stopped moving. The rest of the crew piled off as well, looking no more enthusiastic than Torrin felt.

After a moment of inspection, Censa announced the storm had blown them off course but not too badly, and they’d landed perhaps half a day’s hike from the port of Farzeen. No one seemed enthusiastic to make such a trek, and even the captain’s impressive stamina had flagged, so she announced a rest.

“I think we could all use a good night’s sleep, she said. “Psaila, see to it that camp is set and we’re ready at first light.”

At the first mate’s direction, the rest of the crew started scraping together wood for a fire and branches to build lean-to shelters.

“Torrin,” a hollow-eyed Censa said.

He replied belatedly, uncertain if she had meant to address him, or he had imagined it. “Lady Captain?”

She regarded him a moment then looked away. “Rogath,” she said. “You and Setha seem to have strength left. We’ve rations, but we’re running short on water. What this crew really needs is a hearty, fresh meal.”

“Aye.” The dwarf looked up the brutish half-orc. “Ye know how to use a bow?”

“Nay,” she said. “Setha has no use for a bow, but she is fast.”

“Good enough,” Psaila said. “Don’t wander too far.”

As the two of them went off on their way, Torrin watched Mandragora, her expression distant, gazing off in no direction in particular. Beyond her, Torrin saw Banda staring at him, blood-shot eyes full of suspicion, collecting driftwood in a rather aggressive manner.

“I’ll go with them,” Torrin said to no one in particular. “Perhaps a song to lift their spirits?”

“Singing.” Censa looked at him for the first time that day, her expression dubious. “During a hunt?”

Torrin opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was parched and he had nothing to say.

“I saw a wreck just up the beach,” Filch said. “As we came in. Could be some salvage?”

Censa considered that for a moment, then nodded to Aidan Psaila and walked away. “There’s no telling what’s washed up after that unholy storm,” the first mate said. “You two, go investigate.”

He looked over his shoulder at Mandragora, kneeling in the sand and staring down. The elf’s hand moved, not touching the sand, and yet a pattern appeared there as though drawn by an invisible finger.

“Take the elf,” he added quietly. “She’s starting to strain my calm.”

“Certainly,” Torrin gazed wanly after Censa. She hardly seemed to remember what had passed between them, much less want to talk about it. “Right away.”

“Come along, Mandra.” Filch tugged at the elf’s sleeve.

Mandragora nodded and rose to join them. In their wake, Torrin saw the design the elf had traced with magic; something like a crab or perhaps a spider. Or maybe, he thought as the tide swept it away, it was some sort of face.

••••••••••••••

When Filch had spoken of a “shipwreck,” she’d exaggerated somewhat. It got them away from the morose crew of the Folly, however, and for that, the halfling was glad. She hurried ahead of the disheveled Torrin and the distractible Mandragora, and hopped up on the first of the beached crates, where she ran along the slippery, creaking wood.

“Not too fast, Filch,” Torrin said. “You’re small, but I wouldn’t want to have to carry you back.”

The halfling stuck out her tongue at the bard and hurried on her way. She reveled in her body’s ability to keep its balance even when her mind felt awkward and wandering. At least now, if she fell, solid ground would catch her.

The ebb and flow of the tide, strengthened by the furious storm, had washed all manner of debris onto the shore: mostly broken crates, rotted wood, and scraps of rigging. The beach resembled a battlefield after a deadly clash, though the bodies had been swept away.

Mostly, anyway.

She discovered the first body quite by accident, as she leaped from one crate to another, which crumbled under her feet. She tumbled through the rotten wood, bruising her leg and scratching her hands, and tumbled face to face with a staring man. Heart thudding in her throat, she backed away on her hands and her backside, away from the crate, but he didn’t follow.

His face was drawn and haggard, his expression something she didn’t quite understand, not exactly terror, but not exactly pleasure, either. Reverence. The body had neither armor nor weapons, but wore a simple robe. At first, Filch almost thought he was alive, but he neither moved nor even breathed. Slowly, she relaxed.

“Filch?” Torrin called. “Filch, are you alive, lass?”

“Yes!” The halfling noted the corpse had a pouch at its belt, which she took almost as an afterthought. She slid it inside her shirt. “Here!”

Mandragora appeared, wandering past as though by coincidence. The elf looked down at the body, her expression distantly intrigued.

Beyond her, closer to the water, Torrin was inspecting a couple of bloated, drowned sailors lying face-down in tide pools; bodies that seemed more in keeping with a shipwreck. The bard slipped a vial out of one of their pockets and into his own, an action that seemed so natural, Filch had to give him credit. She could tell at a glance neither of the corpses was Kasa, which was a relief.

“Not sure how this one died,” Filch said of the corpse. “Drowned, maybe, but I’m not sure how he got so far from the water . . .”

She trailed off as the elf knelt straddling the body, their knees on either side of his hips, and touched at his face. The strange intimacy of the moment was more than Filch would ever have expected, and she had to look away, cheeks burning.

“Hey,” Torrin said as he approached. “What have you—ah . . .” He as well had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Satisfied with their inspection, Mandragora climbed off the body. The elf said nothing, only shook their head and ambled past, feet barely sinking into the sand.

Filch realized the corpses eyes were still open, so she reached up to close them. She pulled, but they felt hard as stone. All the while, the corpse stared at her and Torrin. Finally, she gave up.

“Here.” With an effort, Torrin slid the lids closed. At least they could do that much. A cool wind blew off the sea, and Filch shivered.

“Let us return,” Torrin said. “See what’s for dinner.

Five: Mutiny

As Torrin lay propped against one of the palm trees, his belly gurgling uncomfortably full of wild boar meat, he looked up at the stars and wished earnestly for sleep.

Rogath and Setha had been successful in their hunt, and he almost wished he’d gone with them instead of along the beach. To hear Setha crow, she’d fought the great boar with her bare hands while Rogath watched, awe-struck. The dwarf largely grunted in confirmation of the story, though checking on Mandragora preoccupied him. Filch heard the tales with bright eyes and obvious relish, but the rest of the crew couldn’t care less. The three dwarves huddled by their fire, murmuring in low voices in their own language, while Nebi mechanically scraped up the rest of the food into a bowl for their morningfeast. Banda looked like a man literally gutted, his prodigious girth shrinking to a flabby, loose weight that sagged around his body. Only Aidan Psaila seemed to enjoy Setha’s stories, chuckling at times over his pipe and slapping his knee when the half-orc struck a blow. For her part, Captain Censa sat removed from the party, visible only in silhouette, gazing out across the ocean. Nukki, her cat, paced restlessly around her.

If Torrin had gone along on the hunt and he was the one telling the stories, surely he could have brought a little more cheer to the somber gathering. He should have at least gone to speak with Censa, but something about the way she’d last regarded him—like a foolish child, or worse, like a dead crab in the sand—put him off that idea. He’d waited out Setha’s mediocre story, then settled down to sleep.

Hours later, as the moon rose high, he still felt wide awake. Setha snored fit to wake the dead on the other side of the tree, and Rogath and Filch had both cuddled up next to her for warmth. Mandragora sat a little removed from their lean-to, legs crossed, turned toward the sea, much as Censa had done.

The crew’s behavior, particularly that of the dwarves, seemed a bit strange to Torrin, but he reasoned that the harrowing voyage had left its mark on them. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable with what had happened, and he could not wait until they got to Farzeen and he could sleep on a nice, soft bed and sample the local delicacies; possibly some of the island lads and lasses, too. He just wanted to put this whole sordid affair behind him.

So why couldn’t he fall asleep?

The fire had long since gone out, leaving not so much as a single ember glowing to remind him of its warmth. At some point, he saw Nukki bound off her master’s sleeping form and wander off into the trees, and it distantly occurred to him to tell someone, probably Censa herself. But rather than lose all the progress he’d made toward sleep, he decided to trust that the cat would return.

Idly, he looked out across the sea, its pitch-black waters drifting in and out across sand that looked white in the moonlight. Ever before, the sea had lulled him to slumber, but now the black morass contained a deep and abiding threat. No longer was it a vast emptiness, but now a mist in which horror lurked.

Near to him, Rogath loosed a deep moan in his sleep, and Filch kicked at something he could not perceive, rustling the sand. Without any light to see them by, the sounds were amplified, near thunderous in his ears. He heard a dry twig snap, but he could see nothing. Then, Torrin saw, in the gibbous moon, the terrified face of Kasa as something dragged her down, down into the black, and sweat broke out on his neck and brow. He blinked, desperate to shed the image, and realized then that the moon had disappeared, hidden behind a cloud. The stars, too, and all was in darkness.

A soft, silky voice flowed from somewhere in the dark, and he realized Mandragora was chanting. Words he did not understand, but caught in his brain like gory fishhooks, one after another sinking in to stay.

Light shone in the sky then, and he looked up with relief, certain the moon would emerge from behind the clouds. But it was not to be.

Instead, the sky seemed to split open, and he saw red-purple lightning crackle among the clouds, illumining nameless, shapeless horrors he could barely comprehend, let alone describe. They were massive, squamous things that put him instantly back in the dark ocean, watching Kasa dragged away. He shrank back against the tree as they tore the sky asunder and came boiling out of the impossible void toward him. They descended, tentacles writhing and bulbous eyes gleaming . . .

Then he heard the sound of rustling leather, and abruptly the vision was gone. He sat, sweating and panting, staring up at the shrouded moon. They’d been there—right there—and yet . . .

Mandragora stood before him, he realized with a shock, the elf’s slim form like a black void against the white sand. One long-fingered hand emerged and pointed, and Torrin followed the gesture with his eyes. There, Oloh Wicot perched over the sleeping Captain Censa, reaching into her coat, while the other dwarves knelt nearby, watching. Banda paced back and forth, fidgeting with the crossbow in his hands, while Nebi stood nearby, picking nervously at her fingers.

“Hey!” he cried.

At the sudden sound, Banda turned, wild-eyed, and let fly. Torrin felt as much as heard the crossbow quarrel thud into the trunk of the palm tree just next to his head.

Just then, Oloh wrenched a small bundle from Censa’s coat—the very one he’d seen her recover from the hold before they left the Folly. The captain’s eyes opened wide, but before she could so much as take in a breath, the dwarf was off like a shot, running up the sand, her brothers rushing behind her. Nebi and Banda followed suit, the half-elf frantically trying to reload his crossbow.

‘The cargo!” Aidan Psaila was shouting. “Mutiny! Mutiny!”

Torrin didn’t think. He just leaped to his feet and ran after the cowards, shouting up a storm.

Where this fresh burst of strength came from, he couldn’t say. The horrible vision played through his mind, but instead of fear, he met it with anger. He’d spent all of this voyage uncomfortable, humiliated, and ignored, and it ended right here, right now. He would recover that pouch, whatever it was, and return it to Captain Censa, at which point she would have to see his value. Welcome him as a hero, even. Perhaps then whatever strangeness hung between them would evaporate, and . . .

And that was Setha, long legs pumping, running right past him, torch in hand, grinning like a madwoman. “Setha!” she shouted. “Setha will claim!”

Even as he started to curse, Torrin lost his footing and blundered straight into a pool of murky water. He tried vainly to catch himself and fell, splashing onto his hands and elbows in the muck. His knee struck stone hard enough to blossom with pain and he yelped. Blood seeped from his hands, elbows, knee, and his right shin. Something moved in the tide pool, but he saw in the moonlight it was only a crab scuttling out of his path.

“Setha!” the half-orc was shouting as she ran, waving her torch madly. “Setha!”

Torrin spat the foulest oath he could think of and staggered to his feet. Ignoring the pain starting to pulse from his bruises, he ran after the receding torchlight—and right into a resting swarm of seagulls, which squawked and flapped to startled life all around him. Their beaks pecked and their claws scratched and their wings beat at him, but he staggered through, heaving and cursing. He staggered over a massive uprooted tree and leaned heavily against it, panting for breath.

Again he saw Banda glaring at him, crossbow raised, but before the half-elf could fire, Setha plowed right into him and knocked him sprawling. He slid several paces onto a sandbar and lay there, staring up at the moon, bewildered, while the half-orc ran on, uproariously shouting her own name. Rogath the dwarf came lumbering up in his chainmail, and he gave Torrin a salute and a shrug before he kept running, not nearly at Setha’s pace. Torrin followed, shaking his head. Either he had gone mad, or all of them had.

Setha cried out, more in consternation than pain, and Torrin realized the dwarf brothers had tackled her onto the beach, where they wrestled in a roiling heap. Sand flurries flew all around them. He ran right past the angry pile, jumping over another bit of driftwood, and came face to face with a wild-eyed Nebi. The haggard elfblood woman lunged at him with a cooking knife she’d taken from the ship.

“Back!” she said, her mouth frothing, her expression terrified. She looked at least twenty years older than she had that morning, withered, frail, and sallow. “Stay back!”

Putting on a smile to soothe her, Torrin casually reached for the hilt of his rapier, only to discover he’d left it behind in his haste. He hadn’t grabbed a weapon, nor had he donned his leather harness. He’d stripped down to just his leggings, in fact, and only now did he feel naked and vulnerable.

“Say,” he said to the cook. “Let’s talk, good lady. Mayhap—”

“Back!” Nebi swung wildly to ward him off, and Torrin fell back on his backside.

The woman nearly stabbed him, and might have done, had not Filch of all people bounded out of the darkness. She smashed a belaying pin into Nebi’s knife hand. The blade went flying and the cook screamed in sudden pain and fear. Down went the bony half-elf, and Filch bounded up, hopping on one foot.

“Twisted my ankle,” she said with a wince. “Can you catch the dwarf?”

Torrin nodded sharply and leaped to the chase. Now it was just Oloh and himself, running by moonlight, toward the forbidding mountain.

The chase led toward the edge of the jungle in the direction of the volcano. Torrin could see it glowing red and angry in the distance. It made sweat break out along his neck and face. As he drew closer, his legs much longer than those of the dwarf, he heard her screaming and carrying on with nonsense oaths and words he didn’t understand. Something like “cat” or “got” or something between the two. For one mad moment, he thought for sure that Oloh would run all the way up the mountain and throw herself into its caldera.

Power borne of fear and rage burned through him like searing light. “Stop!” he cried, his voice echoing deep and resonant.

And sure enough, she did exactly that. She stood straight as though frozen in place, unmoving.

Torrin blinked. His voice had never had quite that effect on anyone before, and usually there was music involved. This had simply been a single word, infused with power he had never felt before.

The dwarf was still standing there, trembling, as though awaiting another word. Torrin gave it. “Turn,” he said and again, there was that power he didn’t understand.

Obediently, Oloh turned toward him, and he saw at once that she had gone entirely mad. Her eyes, normally calm, bulged like those of the unhinged. Blood ran from her mouth where she’d bit through her tongue. She clutched the tiny pouch to her breast as though cradling a talisman. She wasn’t looking at him, Torrin realized, but her eyes rolled to things he could not see or feel—things that were not there.

“Ghat,” she said, her voice slurred from blood and spit. “Ghat . . .”

“I’ll have that.” When Torrin extended his hand, however, Oloh shrank back. “Right. Ah . . . Give?”

He spoke another command, but unlike before, there was no power in it. Whatever magic his voice had possessed, now it failed him, just at the worst possible moment. Oloh focused upon him as though he’d slapped her, her eyes huge and direct, then reached into her coat and pulled out a sharp hook, which she brandished at Torrin. “Ghat.”

It would have to be magic. Torrin lacked his lute, but perhaps he could charm her without it.

He pushed through the fear and tried to sing, but his voice was a frog’s croak, rather than a songbird’s serenade. The magic of his music stirred around him, and he felt it flow toward Oloh. The dwarf hesitated as she stepped in his direction and lowered the hook.

“Friends?” Torrin asked. “Why don’t you put down that—”

Then, without warning, Oloh scurried toward him and smashed her thick forehead right into his gut. He doubled over, his lungs empty of air, and fell into the sand. Oloh stood over him, hook raised. “Ghat,” she said “Ghat an—”

Of a sudden, a voice bellowed from the jungle’s edge. “Hold your weapons!”

It didn’t stop Oloh, but it distracted her enough that Torrin rolled out of the way. Her hook smashed into the sand where his face had been. He scrambled up and away. She didn’t follow, but faced this new threat.

A tall, lean woman strode toward them, flanked by four dark-skinned warriors on each side. They wore armor and feathers and carried axes and swords, and at least two held up blazing torches. Their leader, her ears and nose pierced with glinting jewels, scanned the chaos on the beach, taking it in with the wary gaze of an experienced sentry.

“Thank the gods,” Torrin said. “You come from Farzeen, right?”

The woman pointed her sword at him, and the other soldiers raised their spears in line with his face. “Do not move,” she said, her fiery eyes emphasizing the point.

“Right, of course,” Torrin said, holding up his hands. “My mistake.”

Oloh, like a puppet whose strings were abruptly cut, fell to her knees and continued babbling. “Have to deliver them,” she said. “Have to deliver them to Ghat—”

The leader of the patrol looked suspiciously at her, then up to Torrin. “Who are you, why are you in Farzeen, and what has happened here?” she asked. “What have you done to this woman?”

Torrin’s words jumbled as a wave of weariness swept over him. He’d just been running, all out, for who knew how far. “It’s complicated,” he said. “I, well, that is to say—we . . .”

“We.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Momao! Look!” One of the other guards was pointing toward the beach, where the other crew were emerging into the light of their torches. The Wicot brothers appeared first, looking a bit haggard after their clash with Setha, and the half-orc followed right behind, covered in rising bruises on her face and exposed skin. When the guards saw her, they pointed their weapons in her direction and grumbled.

“This is all just a misunderstanding,” Torrin said. “We . . .”

But his mind was full of heat and breath seemed hard to come by. His heart thudded fast in his chest, and he could hear it between his ears. The soldiers were arguing with Setha, but he heard the words as though through water—distorted and garbled. Distantly, he felt a rumble in his head, as though the earth under his feet were trembling, but no one else could feel it.

Now Censa was there, arguing with Momao. Torrin could hardly follow it. The rest of the mutinous crew was there as well, balled up on the ground and rocking back and forth. No one was paying attention to him. Couldn’t they speak slower? Or better yet, couldn’t they all just be quiet?

The guards were leading away the mutineers, who had abruptly come back to their senses. As though a fog had lifted or, more accurately, a nightmare had ended, they stared about themselves with wild but sane eyes. Nebi was shouting about how they hadn’t meant to do it. That this was all a mistake. But the guards didn’t care. Torrin watched it as from a distance, as though observing a very strange play on a sandy stage. He felt distinctly outside himself.

Only Mandragora was watching him. Or, more precisely, the tiny pouch Oloh had dropped at Torrin’s feet. He plucked up the thing, it was light, like a sack of stones, and poured the contents into his other hand. They were small green stones, like limestone but of a somewhat darker luster. With all this fuss, he’d been expecting diamonds.

“Hey?” Filch was at his side, poking at his knee. “You a’right, pretty lad?”

“Pretty.” The word stuck in Torrin’s head.

A tune thrummed through him; a lovely, charming tune that Momao would see things his way. And without much thinking, he hummed the tune. “Lady Momao,” he said. “I think you come to escort us to an island paradise, nay? Lead us, oh beauteous—”

Only then did Torrin realize everyone had started staring at him. Principally Momao, whose expression was startled, and Censa, who looked circumspect.

“Did-did you just try to charm me?” the guard captain asked.

“What?” Torrin sucked in a breath. “No, I—”

“I felt it,” Momao said. “We are trained to recognize compulsion magic.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re holding the stolen Wiklamite cargo. Those stones became the rightful property of the priests of Ghat as soon as they arrived on this shore.”

“Ghat?” The name echoed around Torrin’s head. “I can explain.”

”Toas,” said Mamoa, gesturing to the two spear-wielding guards and then to Torrin, “take him, too.” They advanced on Torrin. “You are hereby arrested for the capital crimes of mutiny, theft of cargo, and violence against your captain. The priests and the magistrate will convene to decide your fate.”

“What?” Torrin looked to Censa. “Lady Captain! This is a mistake!”

Censa shook her head. “These are the laws of their island,” she said, before turning her face from him.

“Dint worry, lad.” Aidan Psaila managed a half-hearted smile. “We’ll have this sorted by dawn.”

“But—” Torrin said.

Then one of the guards thrust a moldy burlap sack over his head.

Six: Dilemma

Beyond the walls of the Stockade, no doubt great beauty was to be found in the sun-drenched jungle paradise of Farzeen. The root-rich smell of kava mingled with the rich bouquet of flowers to welcome folk from slumber with the promise of a peaceful, lovely day to follow.

Inside the walls of the Stockade, however, the morning dawned humid and dark for Torrin the Unlucky, with only the faint rays of sunlight falling through the elevated, narrow window. Beyond the bars inside, he saw a working office with armed islanders passing by throughout the early hours. The rest of the crew, they’d split and set up in the cells on either side of him; the dwarves in one, Nebi and Banda in another, from which he’d heard whimpering and pleas all night.

The trek here from the beach seemed like a nightmare. It took hours of trudging over treacherous, root-broken paths through a humid jungle. Not able to see, it became a kind of surreal experience, as though he floated in a great sea, buffeted by waves he could not fathom. Worst of all came when he likened it to a sea. Because then he saw poor dead Kasa’s face staring up at him out of the darkness and he had collapsed screaming to his knees. Some merciful Toa had clouted him across the back of the head. They must have dragged his woozy self the rest of the way.

At least he had his own cell, though that was the only blessing. The room was stark, bare, and smelled more than slightly foul. He had a pallet of moldering straw to sleep on, which he’d mostly stayed away from, and a crack in the far corner in which to discard his waste. Apparently, that hole led down to natural tunnels that ran the length of the island, but he’d just been directed to use it for shit. He sat staring at this hole in the floor, now slick with aged waste, wondering exactly how far he would go to escape.

Just at the moment, Torrin the Self-Respecting had a bit more patience than that.

Shortly after the sun rose, his cell door creaked, and Momao appeared, carrying a steaming wooden bowl in her hands. He fumbled to a crouching position, actually standing was still rather painful, and tried his best to smile at her.

“My lady,” he said, his voice a hollow croak. “I seem to have given you a poor first impression.”

“Clearly.” She handed him the bowl, which he took thankfully. “This is kava. You look like you could use it.”

Torrin had expected soup of some kind, but instead he found a thick, rich, tangy brown liquid that reminded him of mead. It must have been made from a root vegetable, by the taste. He guzzled it as best he could, owing to the heat, and almost immediately burned his tongue.

“Easy,” she said. “There’s a kick to that.”

He blinked up at her. “It’s brewed?”

“If you’re asking if you can get drunk from it, then yes.” With a weary sigh, Momao leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “Let’s try this one more time. Why are you here, and what the hell was going on last night on the beach?”

Torrin considered over another, more cautious sip of the kava. He’d composed any number of fanciful stories during the night. Ways to get out of this dastard of a situation, but they all fell short under her scrutiny. The truth? That never came easily to Torrin the Quick-Tongued, but he would give it a try. With a little flair, of course. After all, he had a reputation to protect.

At the end of the story, Momao sighed. “Perhaps that’s true, without the embellishments,” she said. “It matches your captain’s tale, more or less.”

“Captain?” Torrin lit up. “Captain Censa is here?”

Movement outside the cell drew Torrin’s attention, but it was not the woman he had wanted to see. Instead, Setha’s hulking form bent down to make faces at him through the bars, while Rogath looked at him sympathetically.

“Steady, lad,” Rogath said. “We’ll have you out of there on the morrow, methinks.”

“The morrow!” Torrin’s face fell. “But-but—”

••••••••••••••

When Rogath returned to the front of the Stockade, sighing heavily, he found Mandragora outside gazing at the curious garden erected in the courtyard. On one side of the curving path that led to the double-doors at the front of the jail lay a large sand garden with swirling shapes, strategically placed rocks, and two miniature, perfectly trimmed trees. On the other side, Rogath saw a manicured lawn and assortment of palms, grasses, and brightly colored flowers. It seemed blissfully peaceful, except for Mandragora’s troubled, almost frightened expression.

“There now,” Rogath lay one meaty hand on the elf’s frail arm. “They’s just flowers, Mandra.”

The elf nodded slowly, but that was the only acknowledgement of his words. The shapes seemed to swirl in Rogath’s vision, but he thought it merely a trick of the light.

The doors opened, and Momao emerged, Captain Censa and Aidan Psaila in tow. She was showing them out. “Magistrate Alwigi and a representative of the Priests of Ghat are expected to review the case tomorrow,” she said. “You can return on the morrow to discuss the fate of the others and to get your . . .” She raised an eyebrow at Censa.

The captain, who was silently passing the pouch of gemstones back and forth between her hands, didn’t seem to have heard the question.

“Business partner,” Psaila supplied helpfully.

“Right. If there’s nothing else? Aidan Psaila, when you’re ready.” Momao dismissed them all with a wave and went back inside.

Rogath furrowed his brow. “What’d she mean, Psaila?”

“I’m to stay here as collateral until you deliver the cargo.” The First Mate looked at Censa with a touch of worry, then turned to Rogath. “Escort the captain up the mountain to deliver the gemstones,” he said. “Oh, and you’re to tell the priests they won’t be needed at the Stockade today. Should everything go well, you’ll have us all out when you get back.

“Very well.” Rogath nodded.

Psaila nodded. “All right, Censa?”

The captain, who had seemed leagues away, blinked in recognition. “Aye,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Without waiting, she brushed past them to where Setha and Filch were waiting at the edge of the courtyard. The little halfling had taken to leaping between stones, while the half-orc applauded her feats of balance and grace.

Rogath leaned in toward Psaila. “Those stones. What are they?”

“Drowned if I know,” the First Mate shivered. “They make you as itchy as they make me?”

Rogath nodded slightly. His head felt fuzzy when he looked at the stones.

“Wiklamite,” Mandragora said abruptly. “For channeling eldritch energy.”

The men looked over, but there was nothing further. The elf simply followed Censa, meandering in looping patterns. Psaila gave Rogath a look that urged him to haste, and the dwarf nodded in understanding. They parted ways.

••••••••••••••

“Now this,” Filch said, inhaling deep the rich aroma of Farzeen. “This is a paradise!”

The city was, indeed, the most beautiful place the young halfling had ever seen, having grown up on the streets of rotting Resante. In many ways, it seemed the utter opposite of her home, most especially due to the newness of it all. Where Resante was falling to pieces, Farzeen stood in fresh repair. The white-washed buildings looked freshly erected, their tile roofs gleaming in the bright sunlight, the windows and doors adorned with flowers and bright banners. The people were perfect, too; their clothes freshly cleaned and smelling of flowers, their sun-kissed skin the radiant flush of health. And the food—gods, the food smelled amazing.

And down in the center of the city, the most wondrous sight of all, stood a massive statue of a robed woman holding aloft what appeared to be a miniature star gleaming in one hand. Filch loved magic almost as much as she loved food, and the first time she laid eyes on the ball of light, she could hardly take her eyes from it.

“The Goddess of Light, they call her,” Rogath said gruffly. “Protector of this ‘ere city.” He ruffled his beard. “Int never heard of such a deity, but these island folk, they have their own superstitions.”

“Your god is a better god, then?” Setha asked.

The dwarf blinked at her. “The Dead God did sacrifice himself for us all,” he said. “To keep the dark things from beyond at bay.”

The half-orc considered. “So a dead god is better than a tall goddess with a fireball in her hand?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened and he sputtered. Filch, who had lost interest in the conversation, bounced ahead to where Censa walked, through the shiny cobbled streets and toward the mountain. Above them, the massive volcano rose, looming over Farzeen like the castle of a king or a dragon.

“Say, Captain?” Filch’s stomach gurgled. “Do we have time to stop and eat?”

“Yes,” said the half-orc, who walked a few paces ahead, taking her guardian assignment seriously. “Setha has a hunger.”

For her part, Censa kept drifting slowly on, eyes fixed on the volcano.

They left the city and made their way up one of the many trails snaking up the mountain. It was a loose, meandering path of lighter stone, only somewhat worn by the feet of infrequent travelers, and it looped around the mountain before folding back into a narrow crevice. Rogath’s footing on the exterior path was concerning. For a dwarf, he certainly didn’t seem to like mountains very much. Setha had trouble navigating the crevasse through which the path led them.

Finally, they came to a shrine set into a small opening in the rock, where the mountain created a natural cathedral of sorts, open on one side to a panoramic view of the sea. Two priests, a man and a woman, flanked what Filch took to be some sort of ceremonial icon of green stone on a stone slab. It was a replica of the very mountain they’d just climbed, and the resemblance was uncanny. Nearby stood a three-sided stone shelter with a thatch roof, ostensibly to keep the rain off the priests’ heads.

The priests themselves wore blissful expressions full of what, in Filch’s experience, indicated one of two things: religious ardor or frothing madness. Often both.

“Ghat rises!” said the man. “I am Censu. You are seekers of the ways of Ghat?”

“Ghat rises,” said the woman. “I am Cikka. You bring the wiklamite, yes? We heard tale of your travails upon the beach.”

When Censa didn’t immediately respond, instead staring out the opening toward the sea, Rogath cleared his throat. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve come with the cargo, and speaking for the captain there, I’d like to discuss coin.”

“When the stones touched Ghat’s flesh,” Censu said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They became Ghat’s property. They are ours. As is our coin. Ghat rises!”

“Ghat rises,” Cikka clicked her tongue. “But know too that Ghat smiles upon justice. You have undergone a harrowing voyage, yes?”

“Yes,” Censa blinked but didn’t look away from the sea. “Harrowing.”

“Ghat rises. Such struggles must be rewarded,” said Cikka, extending her hands over her head as if to form a triangle. Or a mountain. “We shall give unto you the agreed upon coin.”

“Oh. Good.” Rogath frowned, and Filch couldn’t blame him. These cultists were mighty odd, indeed.

“Ghat rises,” Censu looked mildly irritated, but he returned to their shelter for a sack of coins. “One thousand of various mints. This is sufficient . . . reward?”

“But a thousand?” Rogath said. “I don’t suppose, for our trouble . . .”

“Ghat looms,” Censu said, expression stormy. “Ghat watches, in judgment.”

“All right!” Rogath glanced to the captain, who belatedly murmured an affirmative. Filch got the distinct impression her mind was far, far away. “Aye,” said the dwarf. “One thousand.”

“Ghat rises.” Censu extended the coin to Rogath but drew back briefly. “Ghat will fall upon those who cheat,” he said, as one might chide a child.

“I’ll remember,” Rogath said in a murmur, and snatched the purse away. “Ghat rises.”

They were about to leave when Setha spoke up, unexpectedly. “Setha has a curiosity,” said the half-orc. “What is a Ghat?”

Rogath winced, but it was too late. The priests lit up.

“Ghat honors Kaza, from which all life springs,” Cikka said, her expression beatific. “The volcano is the holiest or holies for our order.”

“The mountain,” said Filch. “Not the tall woman with the sun in her hand?”

The priests looked at each other and frowned with distaste. “The Goddess of Light is for those who have forgotten the ways of Ghat and would lose their path. Ghat rises!”

“Ghat rises,” Censu said in agreement. “You see, the Ghats are the winding trails that lead up to the mountain summit. Only our glorious high priestess Lunzjata knows them all.”

“The path of Ghat is a path to enlightenment,” said Cikka, as if on cue. “Should you walk the path of Ghat, you will find that which you seek.”

“Death by burning?” Filch asked. “It is a volcano, right?”

The priests fell silent. Cikka looked somewhat confused, while Censu looked mildly irritated.

The half-orc nodded sagely. “Setha’s curiosity, it is sated.”

“Well then,” Rogath said, clapping his hands. “Glory to Ghat and all that.”

“Say, Captain?” Filch asked as they headed back down. “Where’s your cat? Captain?”

But Censa was looking off over the water, not paying the least bit of attention. Filch understood. She too was distracted. Her stomach rumbled.

“Can we stop for something to eat?” she asked.

••••••••••••••

“Ayep.” The shipwright ran his big hand through his beard, then returned to carving a small ivory figurine. His face, lined with deep crags and old scars, gave away absolutely nothing. Rogath paused, waiting, but that was apparently all the man felt like saying.

Censa, who had been distracted all morning, perked up the moment she entered Obed’s Shipwright. To a woman like her, Rogath reckoned, this place must carry the feel of the familiar. The walls, tables, and nearly every flat surface of the shop were covered in the bric-a-brac and mementos of a man’s life at sea. Harpoons, nets, hooks, flags, anchors, and even small buoys abounded. Obed was a bit like Aidan Psaila, given another twenty or thirty years. He and Censa liked each other immediately.

The captain explained the damage to the Hazel’s Folly, and Obed nodded mutely in acknowledgement at each detail. Even when she mentioned Moseta, whose nature she explained in general terms, he didn’t bat an eye, and the strange words she gave Obed to keep the re-animated laborer from attacking didn’t seem to phase him. All the while, he kept carving, and Rogath guessed he had to keep his hands busy. When it was finished, the shipwright snuffled and cleared his throat.

“She’s a right mess, ain’t she?” he said. “Broken mast, missing sails, and beat to ‘ell by the wind and waves. I can fix ‘er, right enough, but are you sure you’d not rather ‘ave a new ship? Storm like that can leave a mark that no shipwright can remove. A thousand pieces o’gold oughta do it.”

“You can repair a broken mast?” Rogath asked. “At any price?”

“I’ve a bit of magic about me,” Obed said. “That’s me price, and it’s a fair one.”

“It is,” Censa said. “Thrice that for a new ship.”

Rogath scowled and wished Torrin were here. He had no face nor charm for negotiation, as with the priests, but like-as-not the lad could get them a deal. Mayhap he was a wastrel and a rake, but the boy had a silver tongue. “Aye, a thousand,” he said, grumbling.

As though he sensed Rogath’s displeasure, Obed smiled reassuringly. “’Tis a big job, but straight-forward. About a fortnight, give or take. I’ll start repairs as soon as this Moseta thing be off the ship.” Obed put up a hand. “I’ll not be working around that unnatural creature.”

“We’ll see . . . see what we can do.” Rogath paused as Censa walked away brusquely.

“Ayep.” Obed went back to carving.

Back out on the porch, under the plain sign that read Obed’s Shipwright just off the docks, the dwarf rejoined Censa, who had returned to gazing off toward the sea. Water lapped loudly against the pitch-stained docks underfoot. Whatever clarity she’d found in the shop, she’d lost it again.

“So . . . we’re breaking even on this venture, are we?” the dwarf asked. “A thousand for the stones, a thousand for repairs. How will ye pay us, Captain?”

“Hmm?” Censa shook her head. “It’ll work out. Find lodging in the city. I’ll hire some porters to bring the Folly into port. We’ll reconvene at dusk.”

“But—” The dwarf started to argue, but she strode away, swaying slightly as though she were still on a ship. He sighed.

Across the way, Filch and Setha respectively ate greedily and drank merrily. This made Rogath sigh again. At this rate, they’d be out of coin by nightfall. He felt a slight tug on his sleeve. Mandragora regarded him, eyes concerned.

“What is it?” he asked. “Mandra?”

The elf pointed back down the road toward the Stockade and frowned.

“Aye,” Rogath said. “Better go check the lad hasn’t got himself in any worse trouble.”

••••••••••••••

Torrin realized he must have nodded off at some point, because it was dark when he awoke to rustling sounds coming on the other side of the wall.

At first, he was disoriented, until he remembered the Toa had moved the bulk of the crew into a large, communal cell in the middle, at Aidan Psaila’s request. The First Mate had wanted to stay with the crew while the captain resolved this whole mess, taking what would have been Torrin’s place among them. Instead, because that cell was quite full now, Torrin had been relocated to one of the smaller adjacent cells, along with a liquor-stinking man named Zeb. Even now, the drunk was slumbering quite contentedly against the wall under the window, and somehow Torrin found himself spread-eagled, arms and legs stretched out in all directions, in the center of the cell.

The heat was intense, and he realized it may have been that. That, and the smell of human waste that permeated the Stockade. Indeed, it seemed even stronger than it had that morning, and he scrunched up his nose in disgust. What was that?

“I swear,” he said, “if one of you is smearing your mess on the wall . . .”

It was then he heard a faint whimper. He’d heard their mewling all night and day, so that alone didn’t bother him, but it seemed different. Torrin crawled over to the door and looked through the bars, but it was too dark to see well. The other chamber was awash in shadow and gloom, though he could see movement. Someone was perched and straining, as if to relieve themselves.

“Too bad I can’t see,” Torrin said to himself, but as if in response to the words, he felt that strange power he’d used on the beach flow through him. A ball of light sprang into being over his out-stretched hand, filling the chamber with soft, silvery radiance.

A moan from the adjoining cell drew his attention, and he looked up in time to see something in the next cell his mind couldn’t quite comprehend. It was Banda, yes, but only half of him: the lower part of his body seemed to have vanished, as though he’d melted into the flagstone floor. Dirt stood in piles around him, shooting up in little spurts. Meanwhile, his face was red with horror and blood trickled from the edge of his mouth. He stared, wide-eyed at Torrin, his eyes watering. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t mean—”

A bony, clawed hand emerged from the stones around Banda, closed over his head, and wrenched him down. He disappeared into the loosened earth with the squelch of rending flesh. Behind where he vanished, Torrin saw Aidan Psaila’s face, covered in blood, attached to a mostly disembodied head. As he watched, it too was pulled downward and disappeared.

The light faltered and dissolved, and Torrin was on his hands and backside, crawling away from the bars and the horror in the adjoining cell. Distantly, he realized someone was screaming, and only when a hand fell on his shoulder and he had to take a startled breath did he realize he was the one screaming.

“What is it?” Zeb yelled at him from the straw pallet. “Shut it!”

Torrin could only point toward the cell door. The drunk waved and turned over.

After a moment, Torrin mustered enough courage to look again. He could see nothing in the darkness, though, and only heard the sounds of Zeb’s snores. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

Seven: Below

The following morning, even as Rogath walked toward the Stockade, he knew instantly something was amiss. Bad enough to be marooned on this island, lacking coin or an at-liberty crew, facing volcano cultists and apparently worshippers of an entirely different faith as well, and now abandoned by a captain who was probably suffering some sort of mental trauma of her own. But something made the back of his hands tingle—something out of place.

They passed the curious garden, which looked entirely unchanged to his eye, and found a new Toa on duty at the front of the Stockade. As soon as they appeared, the young man straightened up, eyes wide. “The captain wants to talk to you,” he said. “Wait here.”

The four of them stood waiting, Setha idly humming until Rogath shushed her. A hulking man with stern features and a big, bushy red moustache came around from the back of the building, his expression stern. He had a series of deep scars across his face that might have come from the claw of some beast. “I am Lothar Wenza,” he said. Then, after introductions were made, he nodded gruffly. “Come to my office.”

Filch looked at Rogath uncertainly, but he simply shrugged. Mayhap Torrin the Braggart had indeed got into trouble, or someone else of the crew. Or mayhap not, and all for the better. As an adventurer, it wasn’t the first time an authority figure had asked him to a private council, and they could certainly use coin, if that was in the offing.

In the corridor, the huge man sized up Setha, who regarded him with the same cool interest, then they both nodded and he used a key to open the room at the end. Inside, the space was small and efficient, populated mostly by a large desk cluttered with papers, trinkets, and other knickknacks. It was the sort of collection Rogath would expect of a guard captain more accustomed to patrolling the streets than sitting in a tiny office.

Mounted behind the desk was something that caught his eye, however; a mighty great axe, nicked and many times honed, the leather of its handle worn dark from heavy use. It had a sinister aspect to it, in no small part due to the symbol that resembled an eye on its face. The beard of the axe curved precipitously, and its edge was barbed in a pattern that resembled teeth.

“Admiring Sidesplitter, eh?” Lothar asked. “Aye, she’s an ugly old bitch, but she’s my constant companion, who’s never let me down. Sit.”

They arranged themselves, Rogath and Filch sitting like normal folk, Setha stepping over the back of one of the chairs to sprawl down into the seat, one leg over the arm of the chair. Mandragora remained standing, inspecting the old papers tacked up on the walls, which included various reports and sketches of strange symbols Rogath did not immediately recognize.

“Care to explain,” Lothar said, “how it is that your mates have escaped from their locked cell?”

Rogath hadn’t expected that question. “We-we’ve no idea what ye mean.”

Eyes narrowed, Lothar nodded and rose. “Come,” he said, and guided them from the office.

They made their way around the curving horseshoe of the Stockade toward the cells. First they passed a smaller cell, in which they saw Momao and two Toa speaking with a haggard looking man who kept shaking his head. “Just started screaming,” the man said. “Burned if I know why . . .”

Rogath noted Torrin as well, who sat hugging his knees into his chest. The bard saw him at the same time and started up, but Rogath shook his head at him. The lad had already done enough.

“We heard a commotion back here and arrived to find your crew vanished.” Lothar gestured toward the second cell.

The next cell was the largest of the three, where they must have put the crew of the Folly. There were only two Toa guards in it now, as well as a small pile of upturned earth roughly three feet in diameter. The flagstones making up the floor had been torn up and lay strewn all around.

“So they . . . tunneled out?” Filch suggested.

“Indeed,” Lothar said. “Three of them are dwarves, after all. Er—” He nodded to Rogath, “no offense meant.”

“None taken.” Rogath sat back on his heels to inspect the pile of earth. It felt soft between his fingers. “Freshly tilled. Couldn’t do this with bare hands—unless you lock ‘em up with shovels ‘n picks?”

Lothar shook his head. “I’ve seen madder men do more.”

There didn’t seem to be a tunnel below or at least, not an intact one. Something had burrowed here, Rogath knew. But it seemed unlikely the crew could have dug their way through those flagstones, much less quickly enough to escape without being spotted.

“Is that blood?” Filch indicated the wall, then the ceiling of the cell, where something gelatinous dripped.

“This is a prison,” Lothar said, but the halfling had already strolled over to the wall.

She touched at the blood and put it to her lips. Rogath saw her shiver.

“Fresh?” the dwarf asked.

Filch looked at him suddenly, as though he’d caught her doing something shameful. She nodded.

“Dig down,” Setha said, “or dig up?”

Rogath nodded and looked to Lothar. “Something on the island could burrow like that?”

“Locally?” Lothar frowned. “Not much.”

It seemed clear, however, that there was something he wasn’t saying.

“Who found the cell like this?” Rogath asked.

“I did,” Lothar said. “I wanted to talk with the prisoners before the magistrate and the priests showed up. I heard shouting, walked back here, and saw what you saw.”

“Shouting?” Rogath asked.

Lothar jerked his thumb at Torrin. “Your fellow crewman,” he said. “He’s been catatonic ever since. Never heard a thing from anyone else. But then, patrols have doubled after the storm, so the guard on duty was called away. Gone for maybe ten minutes.”

Rogath regarded the drunk, who the guards had just left back to his slumber. “And that one?”

“Zeb,” Lothar said. “He’s harmless. Smelly and obnoxious, but harmless. Arrested him last night. He’ll sleep it off and be released.” He frowned. “Listen, if you want to clear your names, best to earn the goodwill of the Watch—”

Then a scream rippled down the hall that made their skin crawl. “Goddess!” one of the Toa in the corridor was saying. “Light bathe us!”

Rogath’s heart raced, not only because of the cry, but because he realized he had lost track of Mandragora. The elf was nowhere to be seen. With an oath of “Dead and buried!” he leapt to his feet and hurried out into the hall, preceded by Filch and Setha.

What awaited them through the barred door of the first cell was a scene out of an abattoir. Behind the sealed door, they saw a pair of grotesque canine creatures, the size of men, soaked in blood and gore from the body of the drunk they’d torn apart. Even now, one of them worked at the man’s thigh as he screamed and gurgled his way into death. Rogath felt his mind trembling.

The attack had unfolded with impossible speed. The Toa at the door had barely reacted. Momao stood there, shouting at the other guard, who fumbled with the keys, suddenly unable to unlock the door that had been open just a second ago. “Open it!” she cried. “Now!”

Rogath saw one of the horrors tear a slab of muscle from the hapless Zeb, raise its head, arch its back, and swallow the morsel whole. He pried away his gaze and saw Mandragora standing beside the Toa, one hand raised toward the cell, staring in fascinated wonder at the horrific scene. That, more than the grisly attack, made him shudder.

The keys fell from the guard’s trembling fingers. They plinked to the flagstone floor, splayed out like the limbs of a corpse.

Torrin was in there, Rogath realized, balled up in the corner. And one of the creatures turned toward him, clawed fingers extended . . .

“Stand aside for Setha!” The half-orc shoved the guard aside before he could move and slammed her shoulder against the barred door. It bent inward but did not break.

“Mandra!” Rogath snapped.

As if his words stirred her to wakefulness, Mandragora spoke words of power and unleashed three bolts of magic that scythed into the creature heading toward Torrin. Blood burst from its back twice, and also from its neck where the third bolt struck. The creature howled and turned upon them, its mad red eyes boring into their souls.

Then Setha slammed into the door once more, knocking it screaming off one hinge, She slammed into the horrid creature, putting them both down in a pile on the floor.

“Wait—” Momao had bent down to reach for the fallen keys, but the guard who’d dropped them in the first place, his face screwed up in righteous anger, threw himself forward, axe raised.

He stopped suddenly, blood misting from the claws thrust through his middle, as the second of the creatures turned to spear him with its talons. Momao sucked in a breath to scream, but the hulking beast ripped the man in two before she could make a sound.

It was all happening so fast. Rogath looked to the side, where Lothar was scrambling back to his office, ostensibly to recover his axe. Filch was watching through the bars as the violence unfolded. Her face, it was . . . he didn’t understand her expression. Horror, yes, but fascination. Even a grotesque sort of lust. His soul shivered.

No more hesitation. Rogath shook himself, hefted his warhammer, and charged into the fray. If the Dead God saw fit to claim him this day, then so be it. “Away!” he shouted at the creature. “Away!”

He brought the hammer down with a ringing impact upon the creature’s canine snout. It bent and sprayed blood as the blow nearly wrenched it off the hideous face. The monstrosity fell back, snorting and squealing in pain. Rogath felt a surge of power run through him. The Dead God stirred. His cause was righteous.

Then the creature grabbed him. Its claws screeched against the scales of his mail hauberk. It opened its ruined mouth wide. A wave of putrid, rotting breath hit him full in the face.

Then Momao was there. She hacked her sword down into the space between its neck and shoulder. A ray of fire lanced out from Mandragora to burn a hole through its chest. The creature went limp and collapsed atop Rogath, pinning him to the flagstones. He stared into its gruesome, mangled face, and one twitching, madness-filled eye. As he watched, fascinated, the softness drained from the eye until it was sightless and dead.

A squelching sound stirred Rogath, and he looked up to see Setha, covered in blood and viscera, straddling the other creature and slamming her fists over and over into its gory face. “Setha!” she said with each strike. “Se-tha! Se-tha! SE-THA!”

Finally, its skull burst under her blow like a ripe melon, spewing blood and brains all over her. The half-orc pulled back, her body taut in an inhuman kind of ecstasy, and she roared in triumph.

Silence descended upon the cell for a moment, until pounding boots announced the return of Lothar, who brandished Sidesplitter with an eye for murder. When he saw the blood-soaked chamber, though, he pulled up short and lowered the weapon.

“What,” Filch said, breathless. “What . . . were those things?”

Lothar’s face was grim. “Ghouls,” he said. “From below.”

••••••••••••••

Below the prison, through the befouled tunnels, deep, deep beneath Kaza, a tone sounded in the dark. A single resounding boom, like the beat of a drum—or that of a heart.

A pair of ebon doors stood closed firmly, upon an ancient, antediluvian temple.

Within, a mighty power stirred.

And knew its time had come.