Chapter 6 Maximus #2
“Time to collect our prize.” I gestured past the fallen bodies around us, to the belly of their ship. “Welcome to the real work of piracy. Lugging all the loot across.”
Ghost matched my stride as we crossed the blood-slicked deck, though his eyes kept darting to my uneven gait. The fluxstone failure made each step a struggle, but I kept my expression neutral.
Viper’s massive form loomed ahead, his oversized tricorn casting long shadows. One look at his thunderous expression had my guard rising.
“Bobby’s dead.” Viper spat the words like poison. “One of ‘em blew his brains out. So if anyone’s going to be fucking sentimental about proper burial rites, get two men to haul his corpse.”
The news hit like a slap in the face. Bobby—smiley, cheerful Bobby, the same age as Ghost. Images flashed through my mind: his eager smile while helping Sage in the galley, the way he’d climbed the rigging with such joy, his dreams of sending money home to his sick grandmother.
“I’ll help carry him.” Ghost’s quiet voice broke through my thoughts.
“No,” I said sharply, the image of Bobby’s brains all over the deck already haunting me. “Butcher and Greybeard can handle it.”
Ghost’s jaw once again set in that stubborn line. “I want to help.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Viper’s hand slashed through the air. “If the lad wants to move the dead body, let him.” He stormed off, his ridiculous hat bobbing with each angry step.
I turned to Ghost, squaring my shoulders. “Go find Patty and ask what loot you can help carry.” When he opened his mouth to argue, I added firmly, “That’s an order.”
Ghost stomped off across the deck, stepping over bodies with barely contained frustration.
I spotted Ariella’s blonde hair near the stern, her hands weaving patterns in the air as she guided the ships closer together.
Then the crew rolled out the gangplank—a massive oak beam reinforced with brass fittings and flux-powered stabilizers.
The mechanical whir of its extending supports mixed with the creak of wood and metal.
Two aeronauts on each ship secured the thick mooring chains, the planks humming to life as they activated the safety mechanisms.
The gangplank’s brass railings gleamed dully in the sunlight, its width enough for two men to cross side by side with cargo. A fine mesh of steel cables hung beneath, ready to catch any unfortunate soul who might slip—though the fall would still be terrifying, even with the safety net.
“Ariella.” I kept my voice low. “Find Greybeard. Have him wrap Bobby’s body in canvas before moving him. Spare the younger crew members the sight.” I couldn’t tell Greybeard myself, of course. I had to maintain appearances.
She nodded, understanding clear in her blue eyes before she turned to find him.
I paced the blood-slicked deck, barking orders as crew members hauled crates and barrels between ships. “Move faster!” I snarled at them. “These supplies won’t walk themselves!”
Another body caught my eye—a female merchant sailor, barely an adult, throat slashed ear to ear. Unnecessary. Wasteful.
“How many times do I have to say it?” I grabbed Puffy’s shoulder—I’d seen him slaughter at least two. “Leave them alive when you can. Dead men tell no tales, but living ones spread fear. The more we kill, the more likely the Imperial Fleet comes hunting.”
Puffy shrugged off my grip. “They fought back.”
“Then knock them out. Break their arms. But this?” I gestured to the carnage. “This brings heat we don’t need. Living survivors recruit better than corpses.”
My words would fall on deaf ears, as always. The crew refused to listen to me on this, especially the ones that worshiped Viper like a god. But I saw the bloodlust in their eyes, the way they reveled in the violence.
I resumed my patrol, watching Ghost and others transfer cargo while Bobby’s shrouded form waited for transport. Another senseless death, another day in the endless cycle of violence.
“Reaper!”
The flash of Ariella’s blonde hair caught my attention as she rushed toward me, her face tight with concern.
“Reaper.” She grabbed my arm, voice low. “Butcher and Jimmy are heading for their engine room. Viper wants one of their engine-grade fluxstones.”
My blood ran cold. I glanced at the huddled merchant crew, bound and sitting in defeated clusters on their own deck. Without all three fluxstones powering their engine, they’d barely maintain altitude, let alone reach the nearest port safely.
“He’s going to kill them all.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth.
Ariella’s fingers dug into my sleeve. “What are you going to—”
I was already moving, my uneven stride carrying me across the blood-stained planks toward where Viper lounged against the helm. His ridiculous hat cast a deep shadow over his tattooed face as he examined a stolen pocket watch.
“Captain!”
He barely looked up. “What now, Reaper?”
“We can’t take their fluxstone.” I planted myself in front of him, forcing him to acknowledge me. “You know if we do that, we’re signing their death warrant. They’ll never make it to port.”
Viper’s beard twitched as he sneered. “Since when do you care about merchant scum? Getting soft on me?”
“Dead merchants bring Imperial investigations. Living ones spread tales of the fearsome Black Wraith.” I held his gaze. “Which serves us better?”
His fingers drummed against the helm. “That fluxstone’s worth more than this entire haul.”
“And Sunada’s entire fleet breathing down our necks? How much is that worth?”
Currently, The Black Wraith was a nuisance to Sunada, Asteris, and all the other bordering kingdoms. They’d made a few attempts to catch us, sure. We now had a sizable bounty on our heads. But I had no doubt that if we became a serious problem, we’d feel the full force of their armies.
The Black Wraith wasn’t invincible, despite what Viper told the crew when he was rallying them up.
Viper’s jaw clenched. I could see the greed warring with logic behind his eyes. I wanted to scream at him for being so stupid. We’d been through all of this before, countless times.
Eventually he spat, “Puffy! Go and tell Butcher to leave the fluxstone.”
Relief coursed through me, then I flinched as three sharp blasts from Viper’s foghorn pierced the air.
The signal to retreat. Pirates scrambled across the gangplank, some hauling crates while others helped wounded comrades.
I tracked Ghost’s distinctive red hair through the crowd, my breath catching until he crossed safely to our deck.
The sight of Bobby’s wrapped body being carried made me pause. Without thinking, I crossed myself—an old habit from my fleet days.
By the time I made it across, Ghost had vanished. I checked the deck twice. Would he come back up once he’d helped store the cargo? Why does that matter? We were even now, as he’d said. No reason for further interaction between us.
I beelined to my private cabin, shoving the door shut behind me.
I was the only crew member who had the privilege of a room, and the small space felt like a sanctuary from the chaos outside.
No monster heads adorned these walls like Viper’s quarters.
Just a small window, my narrow bed, my chest, a dresser with wonky drawers, and a small nightstand with a fluxstone lamp.
Nothing personal remained from my previous life—no photographs, no trinkets.
I’d fled with the clothes on my back. My favorite possession was the painting of three dragons zooming through a cloudy sky, hanging on my wall.
I’d purchased it from a young artist in Embergate who was living on the street.
Whenever I looked at it, the gratitude in the girl’s eyes came flooding back to me, warming my tired bones.
I grabbed a bandage from my drawer before collapsing onto my bed, groaning in relief as weight left my prosthetic.
The mechanism had been grinding worse with each step.
I wrapped the bandage around the shallow wound on my arm.
I wouldn’t bother Stitches with it yet—she would have greater wounds to tend to.
With a heavy sigh, I started the process of removing my prosthetic. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked the familiar straps—funny how even after years, this moment always felt like surrender. I unfastened them and pulled it free, revealing angry scar tissue where my left leg ended mid-thigh.
The phantom pain hit like a wave of fire. My non-existent toes cramped, my missing ankle screamed—the surgeon had called it ghost pain. How could something that wasn’t there hurt so badly? It wasn’t fair.
Memory crashed over me—thrashing against restraints as the surgeon approached, my scream of, “Don’t you fucking dare!
” tearing from my throat. The bite of leather between my teeth, the metallic smell of blood mixing with antiseptic.
Then blinding agony as the saw bit deep.
The wet sound of metal through flesh, the crack of bone.
I think I’d swore to kill the surgeon before I passed out from the pain of it all.
When I woke up, it was to a throbbing wound instead of a leg, and a prison cell.
And the crushing realization that the man I’d trusted most had been the one to put me there.
My last memory before the surgeon was Eric’s face—the man I loved looking down at me with cold detachment as he ordered Imperial officers to ‘make an example of me.’ The betrayal hurt worse than the saw.
My fine wooden cane caught my eye where it rested against the dresser, its polished surface gleaming like a taunt.
I could never use it, no matter how much my hip ached.
The fearsome Reaper couldn’t be seen hobbling around his own ship like an invalid.
Not like I’d ever show weakness again. I’d learned that lesson from a master of exploiting vulnerability.
I leaned over to grab my salve that I kept on my small side table, before massaging it deeply into the tissue, biting into my lip at the burning pain when I pressed too hard.
Once the ritual was complete, I hopped awkwardly to my chest. The brass latches clicked open to reveal my dwindling supply of pebble-grade fluxstones—pathetic little things barely larger than my thumbnail.
My hands remembered the maintenance routine better than my mind did.
Like a prayer, like a curse. My fingers found the access panel on my prosthetic, prying open the delicate copper housing where three stones nestled in their brass cradles.
The mechanisms whirred and clicked, a chorus of tiny deaths as the power drained away.
My failed stone had gone completely dark, while its companions still pulsed with faint blue light.
The dead stone was cold to the touch, lifeless as my own severed leg.
I plucked it out and replaced it with a fresh stone.
Brilliant azure streaks spider-webbed through the new stone as it connected with the mechanism. The prosthetic hummed to life, gears realigning with a series of soft clicks.
“Damn this worthless piece of junk.” I slammed the panel shut harder than necessary.
Years ago, the prosthetic had cost me an arm and…
a leg, despite being one of the cheapest models on the market.
I didn’t know how many owners it had before it found its way to me, but it was definitely past its lifespan.
Only five pebble-grades left in the chest. The thought was another reminder of how far I’d fallen—from XO tipped for captaincy, to a crippled pirate counting coins for spare parts.
How many more raids until I could afford a proper replacement? One that could be permanently attached to my body? One that might offer a semblance of normality? Some sense of feeling?
Currently, every step, every movement carried the threat of collapse. One missed maintenance check, one dead stone, and the great Reaper would crash to the deck like a puppet with cut strings.
The irony of it twisted my gut. Here I was, second in command of the most notorious pirate ship in the skies, and I couldn’t even guarantee my own leg would work from one hour to the next.
I ran a hand down my face, disgusted by my self-pity. Poor Maximus Blackwood, crying over his broken parts while Bobby’s corpse cooled on deck. While Ghost bled from wounds that would scar, all because he snuck onto the wrong ship.
“Pull yourself together,” I growled at the empty cabin. The Reaper didn’t have time for this pathetic wallowing. The crew needed their fearsome first mate, not this bitter shell nursing old wounds.
I reattached the prosthetic and pushed to my feet. The Reaper had bodies to deal with and a crew to terrorize.
Perhaps though, first, I should ensure that Ghost’s organization of loot in the cargo hold was up to scratch.
After all, you couldn’t trust a stowaway to properly catalogue stolen goods.
Plus, I wasn’t sure he knew about the secret compartment behind the engine room where we kept any valuables we needed to hide from Imperial inspections at port.
Yes, supervision was certainly in order, because proper inventory management was vital to a successful pirating operation.
Nothing to do with watching those capable hands at work. Nothing to do with those sparkling green eyes, nor the freckles dancing across on his skin.
No, definitely nothing to do with the way his horizon-wide smile made my stomach swoop like an airship caught in a downdraft—the kind that leaves you breathless, terrified, and desperate for more.