Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Dead Shoals:
Near one of the scattered islands off the coast of the Isle of the Pirates
The massive tavern floated on the water like a bloated tick.
The structure was tethered to the craggy cliffs by iron chains that groaned with every swell.
Lanterns dangled and twisted in the wind from crooked masts, flickering green-blue magical flames that cast eerie shadows across the warped planks.
The sign swinging over the main deck read The Drunken Barnacle—though most knew it by a different name: The Salted Witch.
The tavern, built from the remains of dozens of wrecked ships, towered three stories high above the waves.
The bar was on the second deck in a chamber that reeked of sea brine, gunpowder, and unwashed bodies.
It was here that the most notorious creatures of the land, sea, and sky gathered to drink and gamble.
“I need to speak with-with his Lordship,” Bolder stated to the two creatures standing guard outside the doors.
One guard—a hulking brute with barnacles crusting his face—turned to stare at Bolder with twin, beady black eyes.
Bolder might be broader than the creature, but he knew if there was a fight, he wouldn’t be the one walking away.
Eight octopus arms rose, three of them wrapped around broadswords while the other five patted him down, removing his weapons.
“Proceed with care,” the creature chuckled, opening one of the double doors.
Bolder nodded, wishing he had sent Bones in his place. Unfortunately, Bones was keeping an eye on the two females they had seen a few days before.
He pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, not quite hiding his jumpiness when the door behind him closed with a snap. The bar quieted for a moment as heads turned to stare at him, then resumed their indistinct murmur of conversation.
Bolder scanned the room before his gaze settled on a throne made from coral spikes and barnacled bones. Lounging with ease in the gruesome chair was a man—or what was left of one.
Blackheart.
Blackheart’s coat flared like dark kelp in water.
The sinewy lines of his skin were marked with barnacle-crusted scars and sea serpent ink.
His right eye glowed green while his left was milky white and cracked with veins of obsidian.
His left hand was monstrous—clawed, webbed, dripping with brine—and shimmered like sharkskin beneath the torchlight.
On the table before him, a map of the isles glowed faintly, pulsing as if alive.
“We strike here,” Blackheart rasped, pointing with his claw at the heart of the Isle of the Pirates. “Ashure plays at king, but he forgets the sea bows to no crown.”
“Even he bows to that weak female he has married and calls queen,” a gravelly voice scoffed.
“’Ashure, you’d better not be stealing the Empress’s bourbon and Lightning Ponies again,’” another joked in a mockery of a woman’s voice. “’She’s going to send those nasty little sea monkeys after you if you do.’”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Bolder paused just outside the group. He pulled his tattered hat off and fumbled with it before he cleared his throat. The men and women sitting around the table turned to stare at him. His heart thundered in his chest when Blackheart slowly lifted his gaze and met his.
“Speak,” Blackheart commanded.
“Your Lordship,” Bolder squeaked before clearing his throat again and starting over. “Your Lordship, I have news you might find… useful.”
Snickers rumbled through the group before silencing when Blackheart lifted his hand. He flicked the fingers of his right hand in dismissal. The group rose as one and left the table, glaring at him but not saying a word. Only one remained—and she frightened Bolder as much as Blackheart.
“What would a lowly thief have that I might find useful?” Blackheart inquired.
Bolder watched as Blackheart rolled a piece of eight between his fingers. His gaze flicked to the woman who remained partially in the shadows. Doubts began to cloud his mind.
“Tell us about these strange children,” the woman murmured—her voice silky, hypnotic.
“There-there are two groups of them. We-I escaped them on the Isle of the Giants, but there-there appear to be at least two-two more here,” he stuttered.
“Saldusa,” Blackheart said.
“With pleasure, brother,” Saldusa said.
Bolder released a choked cry as the woman stepped forward and raised her skeletal hands. A dark mist swirled outward, pulling him forward until he was pressed, half-bent, over the table. The woman raised a clear, crystal orb in her hand.
He tried to resist, but the black mist invaded his nose and mouth with every breath. He felt like he was choking. Gagging, trying to draw in air, he coughed and sputtered. He reached up and clawed at his throat.
As he began to convulse, his mouth opened and the blackness that had been suffocating him spewed upward. The witch leaned forward, capturing it in the crystal orb.
Bolder collapsed into the chair, heaving with distress. His eyes watered from the pain coursing through his head. Saldusa held the crystal out to Blackheart who took it and stared into the fog of memories.
Flames licked the interior of the orb as it showed a girl glowing with an ethereal power as she confronted Bolder and his men. Behind her, others stood at the ready, and from the ground, a mammoth tiger with fierce blue eyes emerged like a God.
“Are they Nali’s creatures?” Blackheart asked his sister.
“Nay. These beings come not from our world,” Saldusa murmured, her eyes glowing.
Blackheart turned to look at him. “You say there are more?”
Bolder nodded. “Yes, my Lord. The Pirate King and Queen have two staying with them at the palace. Two young girls. Word is they appeared out of the heavens and fell at the King’s feet.”
Blackheart studied the orb with a thoughtful expression. ”Saldusa, pay the thief.”
“With pleasure, my Lord.”
Bolder started to rise, grinning with avarice before he froze as Saldusa lifted the filmy veil over her pale eyes and stared at him.
“No, please, my Lord. I’ll serve you,” Bolder choked out as his tongue thickened.
Fear gripped him as salt crystals crusted over his skin. The thief was gone. In his place stood a statue of salt.
Blackheart turned the orb slowly in his hand, the faint glow from its core casting an eerie green shimmer over his half-rotted features.
Within its swirling fog, the girl shimmered—glowing like starlight, her power radiant, raw.
A lesser man might have flinched. He narrowed his eyes in deep thought.
“Such power in one so young,” he rasped. “A phoenix rising from the ashes. A tool of the Goddesses. A Guardian.”
The knowledge coiled through his mind like seaweed dragged from the deep. He had heard whispers of such creatures. A weaver of portals. A champion. A meddler. But he hadn’t expected this. She was power incarnate. And power… could be harnessed.
He tapped his claw against the orb.
“She glows with the magic of ancients,” he muttered. “Older than Nali’s tricks. Older than you, sister.”
Saldusa’s spine stiffened beside him. Her long, talon-like fingers curled as her lips twisted in disdain. “No child is more powerful than I,” she said, her voice sharp as cut obsidian.
Blackheart turned to her, his fearsome brow arching. “You sound unsure.”
“I am insulted,” Saldusa snapped, her slanted pupils flashing. “My magic is carved from death and the darkest regions of the isles. She is nothing but a girl playing with the universe’s scraps.”
“Yet you tremble when you see her,” Blackheart murmured, his voice soft but dangerous.
Saldusa’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing.
Good.
He didn’t need her pride. He needed her fear. It kept her sharp.
His gaze dropped again to the orb. The vision shifted. The ethereal girl faded, replaced by the image of two laughing figures tumbling from the sky in a funnel of light. Both were young, wild, and utterly carefree.
So, these are the ones staying at the palace. They do not have the power of the other. They are defenseless.
His gaze hardened.
The others were scattered, but if he had two… he would have leverage.
The rest would come. He would pull them in like fish to bait—and the power of the Guardian would be his.
Blackheart stood slowly, his long coat swirling like seaweed. The room quieted at the click of his clawed hand. His captains filtered back in, summoned by the sound, each more monstrous than the next.
He studied them as they emerged from the shadows like nightmares given flesh.
Thyme came from the Isle of the Dragons.
The gunmetal gray scales on her throat, marked with scars, shimmered under a velvet cloak.
The Dragon King cursed her for her betrayal, trapping her in a perpetual state of transformation between her human and dragon selves.
Smoke curled from her nostrils as she glanced at the frozen salt figure.
Chaffy, the Elemental, was a creature formed from fire and ash, his eyes burned like twin embers. Cast from the Isle of the Elemental for murder, his bloodlust for watching his victims burn was helpful in maintaining order among the ranks.
Gratch, the transformed sea worm from the Isle of the Sea Serpent, had once eaten an entire scout battalion on a dare. The act had condemned him to a life above the water after the Sea King banned him from the oceans.
Margrave Moan was a stitched-together necromancer from the Isle of Magic. Banished by the King of Magic, her thirst for revenge was only slightly less than her thirst for blood.
And others—sirens with ink-black teeth, hag witches from the marshes on the Isle of the Monsters, Giants from the Cracked Ridges in the Isle of the Giants, and worse.
Each represented one of the Seven Isles. Each hated Ashure Waves and the rulers of the other kingdoms.
Blackheart let them wait. Let the tension stretch like the tide before a storm.
Then, he rolled the orb across the table.
It stopped in front of Thyme, the girls’ laughing faces frozen within the glass.
“Capture them,” he ordered.
Thyme leaned forward, her sharp nails caressing the orb. “They are young.”
“Then they should be easy prey,” Blackheart growled.
Chaffy exhaled, and a hot wind stirred the lantern flames. “It would be easier to kill them.”
“I said to capture them,” Blackheart snapped. “They are needed for a bigger prize. They are weak and defenseless.”
He turned toward the map that still glowed on the table. His claw tapped his next goal.
“Once you have them, we will use them to take the palace.”
“What of Ashure?” Margrave asked.
Blackheart’s thin lips stretched. “Once I take his head from his shoulders, the Cauldron will be mine, and I will unleash its souls and take over this world—and others.”
A murmur of unease swept through the room.
Everyone knew the legend.
The Cauldron of Lost Souls, said to lie hidden beneath the palace, was tethered to the essence of the Goddesses who had created this world. Its magic was as old as the galaxy, and its power could call forth armies from the shadow world.
Ashure Waves held it.
But not for long.
Blackheart’s gaze turned to the window, where he could see waves crashing against the cliffs below. A storm was coming. He would be that storm.
“Prepare the fleet,” he snarled. “We set sail at dawn.”
He turned back toward Saldusa, who was already watching him with gleaming eyes and a cruel smile.
“Be prepared to play, sister,” he murmured. “The children won’t laugh for long.”