A short story by David Mclean

Oh, poor old Stormy’s dead and gone.

Storm along boys, Storm along

Oh, poor old Stormy’s dead and gone.

Ah-ha, come along, get along, 

Stormy along John.

I dug his grave with a slider spade 

I lowered him down with a golden chain

I carried him away to Mobile Bay. 

Oh, Poor old Stormy’s dead and gone.

In the year 1689 

I, Calico Skyrme, recount my harrowing journey to the lands of Kungsguld. From the moment I first set eyes on the towering masts of the Argosy, my heart beat with a mix of trepidation and hope. The scent of saltwater and the cries of gulls filled the bustling harbor as I sold my last possessions, each coin dropped into my hand tingling with the promise of a new life across the vast, uncharted ocean. With my family at my side, we boarded the great ship alongside Governor Arnaud Harryhausen and a motley crew of settlers, each of us brimming with dreams of prosperity and adventure.

My wife, Hlif, stood beside me on the deck of the Argosy, her posture unwavering against the sharp sea breeze. She was a stout woman, with a strength that was palpable in every fiber of her being. Her brow was strong and broad, casting a shadow over her deep-set, keen eyes that always seemed to be calculating and discerning. Hlif’s thick, dark hair was braided down her back, the heavy plait swaying like a pendulum with the movement of the ship. Her hands, toughened by years of toil, gripped the rail of the ship firmly, grounding her as we ventured into the unknown. Hlif had always been the bedrock of our family, her quiet resolve and practical wisdom guiding us through countless trials.

Next to her, our two children stood, their eyes fixed on the distant horizon with a mix of wonder and anxiety. Our son, Skeggi, just six years old, clung tightly to Hlif’s skirt, his small fingers wrapped in the coarse fabric. He was a solid boy, with a compact frame that already hinted at the strength he would possess in the years to come. His hair was a wild mop of curls, a deep brown like his mother’s, and his face was round and full of youthful softness, though his eyes showed a cautious curiosity as he watched the waves roll and crash against the sides of the ship.

Our daughter, Runa, stood on the other side of Hlif, her stance as steady and grounded as her mother’s. At ten years old, Runa was the spitting image of Hlif, with the same thick brow and piercing eyes, though there was a lively spark in her gaze that spoke of a boundless curiosity and a fearless spirit. Her hair, also braided, whipped around her face in the salty breeze, and she wore an expression of fierce determination that matched her adventurous nature.

Governor Arnaud Harryhausen was a man who commanded attention the moment he set foot on the deck. Standing tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles like iron forged in the heart of a blacksmith’s fire, he cut an imposing figure against the backdrop of the open sea. His square jaw was framed by a neatly trimmed beard, and his intense eyes seemed to glint like steel beneath the brim of his broad hat. There was a sternness to his face, carved by years of experience and determination, but also a confidence that radiated from his every move. Dressed in a dark, tailored coat that accentuated his formidable build, Governor Harryhausen moved with the assuredness of a man who had faced down countless dangers and emerged victorious.

As he strode across the deck, issuing commands with a voice that boomed like a cannon, the sailors snapped to attention. The crew of the Argosy was a hardy bunch, a mix of seasoned seafarers and eager young men seeking their fortunes in the new world. Sunburned and weather-beaten, they moved with the fluid grace of those who had spent most of their lives on the sea. Their hands were calloused from years of hauling ropes and manning the rigging, their faces marked by salt and wind. Each sailor wore his own assortment of mismatched clothes, patched trousers, and faded shirts, yet there was a camaraderie among them, a shared bond forged through long days and nights battling the elements.

The colonists, on the other hand, were a more varied lot. Families huddled together on the deck, their clothes modest but sturdy, eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope. Some were farmers, with hands roughened by years in the fields, while others were craftsmen and traders, their expressions marked by a determination to make a fresh start. There were a few scholars among them, too, clutching books and scrolls, their brows furrowed with curiosity about the new world and the secrets it held. Women tended to small children or stood gazing out at the endless ocean, their faces set with a steely resolve.

As chief engineer for the Nioavellir Canal Project, my task was nothing short of monumental: to carve a waterway between two vast and unforgiving seas, through lands that were wild and teeming with unseen dangers. This ambitious venture, commissioned by King Hakkon of the Dwarves, held the promise of untold riches and glory for those who dared to undertake it. But none of us, not even in our wildest dreams, were prepared for the true nature of the challenges that awaited us. The dense forests of Nioavellir, their canopies so thick they blotted out the sun, concealed secrets and lurking dangers that could chill the bravest heart. Mist-shrouded mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden by clouds, whispering of ancient mysteries and perils that few had ever dared to confront.

Yet, despite the unknown that lay before us, the Argosy surged forward, sails billowing with the wind at our backs. Our hearts were a strange mix of fear and excitement, each beat a reminder of the risk we had taken and the dream we chased. As we sailed towards the new colony, the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before us, we knew that whatever fate had in store, we were ready to face it together, undaunted and determined to claim our place in the new world.

As we sailed into the bay of Nioavellir, the waters were deceptively calm, their surface glistening under the late afternoon sun. It seemed a peaceful haven, but we quickly realized this tranquility was but a cruel illusion. On either side of the narrow mouth of the bay, hill fortresses loomed like silent sentinels, their stone walls blending into the rugged landscape. These ancient strongholds were manned by the elves, who had been the first to set foot in this new world. Under the command of the malevolent elf lord Vasquo Devilera, they watched us with cold, calculating eyes. Their long, slender bows were drawn, ready to strike at any moment.

As our ships entered the bay, we were allowed passage, but there was no mistaking the intention behind their gesture. The elves had ensnared us in a trap, letting us sail into their territory only to seal off our escape. The hill fortresses on either side of the straits closed behind us, a grim reminder of our entrapment. Vasquo’s captains, perched high in their fortifications, commanded a perfect view of the bay, their forces poised to strike should we attempt to flee. What lay ahead was a desolate settlement, its streets deserted, the once-promising colony now a shadow of its former self.

Upon our arrival in Nioavellir, we were met with a scene of utter misery and despair. The dwarf colony, which had once brimmed with hope and ambition, was now in ruins. Half the population had succumbed to a deadly plague, a virulent disease that spread swiftly through the damp, humid air of the tropics. The survivors were gaunt and hollow-eyed, ravaged by famine and weakened by months of hardship. The harvest had failed catastrophically, leaving the colonists with little to eat but withered crops and spoiled provisions. The air was thick with the stench of death and decay, and the once vibrant colony had fallen silent save for the occasional cough or wail of pain.

The public buildings that had once stood proudly at the heart of the colony were now crumbling and overgrown with creeping vines. The stone facades, once sturdy and meticulously crafted, were now pockmarked and cracked, with pieces of masonry scattered across the ground. The wooden beams that held up the roofs had rotted through, leaving gaping holes that let in the relentless rain. What had been a bustling market square was now a desolate expanse of broken stalls and toppled carts, their contents looted or long since spoiled. The town hall, which should have been a beacon of order and governance, leaned precariously to one side, its windows shattered and doors hanging from their hinges.

Private dwellings fared no better. The small, humble homes that had been painstakingly built by the settlers were now little more than skeletal remains. Thatched roofs had collapsed inward, their supports eaten away by mold and termites. Walls were blackened with soot from long-dead fires, and doors lay on their sides, ripped from their frames or battered down by desperate hands. Inside, what few possessions remained were covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, a testament to the time that had passed since they were last touched by living hands.

The country had been claimed by Vasquo Devilera in the name of his king, Alveric, and under their cruel rule, a blockade had been imposed, cutting off any hope of supplies or reinforcements. Months of siege had left the colony’s resources depleted, and desperation had taken hold. Law and order had crumbled, replaced by chaos and fear. Factions had formed, each vying for control over the dwindling supplies, and bitter infighting erupted in the streets. In the midst of this turmoil, a rebellion had taken shape, led by the Earl of Darnley, the governor’s own son-in-law. He had gathered a band of the most desperate and determined among the settlers, seeking to overthrow the elf lord’s grip on the colony and reclaim their chance at survival. But as the days dragged on, even this glimmer of hope seemed dim, lost in the shadows of starvation, sickness, and strife.

Despite the dire conditions that surrounded us, I knew I had to reassure my family. As we stepped onto the cracked cobblestones of what remained of the colony’s main street, I turned to Hlif, Skeggi, and Runa, forcing a smile onto my lips despite the sinking feeling in my chest. “We’ve faced hardship before,” I said, my voice steady and firm, “and we’ve always come through stronger on the other side. This place may seem beyond saving now, but with hard work and determination, we can mend what’s broken.” I reached for Hlif’s hand, feeling the warmth of her grip, solid and reassuring. “We have skilled hands among us, strong hearts, and a leader in Governor Harryhausen who is of sound stock and unwavering character. If anyone can guide us through this storm, it’s him. Together, we’ll rebuild and make this colony what it was meant to be—a new start, a place of hope and prosperity.”

I could see the flicker of doubt in their eyes, but also a glimmer of trust and resolve. The road ahead was uncertain and fraught with peril, but we had faced long odds before. As I looked at my family, I felt a surge of determination. We would not let this place break us. With every stone we laid and every crop we planted, we would carve out a new life in this land, not just for ourselves but for everyone who had come seeking a fresh start. The colony might be in ruins now, but we were dwarfs of stout heart and unyielding spirit, and we would not be defeated so easily.

Governor Harryhausen wasted no time in taking control of the dire situation. With a practiced eye, he began to handpick the sturdiest and stoutest men among his company, choosing those who had proven themselves skilled with flintlock pistols and sabres. His gaze was sharp and discerning as he moved through the ranks, pausing before each man and weighing their resolve. These were not just any men; they were seasoned fighters, their faces set with the determination of those who had seen battle and knew its cost. With a nod, Harryhausen beckoned them forward, forming a line of grim-faced soldiers ready to restore order and protect what remained of the colony.

With his chosen men at his back, Governor Harryhausen set out for the town square, the heart of the settlement where a large assembly of colonists had already gathered. The road ahead was eerily quiet, their footsteps echoing off the crumbling facades of abandoned buildings. No opposition met them as they marched through the deserted streets, the remnants of the plague-stricken and starving colony giving them a wide berth. It was as if the very air held its breath, watching in anticipation as the governor led his men with a purposeful stride. As they approached the square, the murmurs of the crowd grew louder.

I saw the Earl of Darnley standing atop a hastily constructed platform, addressing a crowd of angry settlers. He had transformed the once bustling town square into a macabre makeshift royal court, declaring himself the regent of the failing colony. His appearance was a far cry from the noble figure he once cut; now, he looked more like a desperate pretender clinging to his last shreds of authority. His garments were frayed and torn, barely holding together, and his once-polished boots were scuffed and caked with mud. His hair, once neatly combed, hung in disheveled strands about his face, and his eyes were wild, flickering with a manic intensity as he gestured emphatically to the crowd.

Behind him, two rows of gallows stood ominously, the grim wooden structures swaying slightly in the breeze. The bodies of those who had dared to remain loyal to the king’s peace hung lifelessly from the nooses, a chilling reminder of the Earl’s ruthless desperation to maintain control. The crowd before him was a volatile mix of fear and fury, their faces twisted with anger, hunger, and a growing sense of hopelessness. The Earl’s voice, though hoarse from countless speeches, rang out with a fervor that bordered on madness as he accused the governor of being the architect of their suffering. He called for the governor’s overthrow, promising freedom and glory to anyone who dared to follow him.

He pointed a trembling finger at the elvish ships surrounding the bay, their dark sails stark against the horizon, and declared that they would break through the elvish blockade or die trying. His words stirred a frenzy of emotion among his supporters, who cheered and clapped with a feverish energy, their eyes alight with a dangerous mix of desperation and fervent hope. The Earl, standing amid his makeshift court, appeared both pathetic and tragic—a man driven to the brink, teetering on the edge of insanity as he clung to the last vestiges of power in a colony on the brink of collapse.

As Governor Harryhausen and his volunteer militia entered the square, they were greeted by this chaotic spectacle. The scene was charged with tension, the air thick with the smell of sweat and decay, mingling with the acrid smoke from the burning torches that lined the platform. The governor’s men, armed with flintlock pistols and sabres, moved into position, their eyes scanning the crowd for signs of aggression. There was a moment of stillness, a pause before the storm, as both sides sized each other up, waiting to see who would make the first move.

The moment Governor Harryhausen and his militia entered the town square, it was clear that the Earl of Darnley had drawn his support from the most desperate and unruly elements of the colony. The crowd that surrounded him was a motley assembly of rioters and looters—men with wild, unkempt hair, dirty clothes, and eyes that burned with a feral hunger. Many clutched crude weapons—rusty knives, makeshift clubs, and a few battered flintlock pistols, their barrels as blackened and worn as the hands that held them. These were not soldiers; they were the dregs of society, those who thrived in chaos and anarchy, taking advantage of the breakdown of order to line their pockets with whatever they could steal from the homes of the dead and dying.

As the governor’s men formed a disciplined line across the square, the Earl, standing atop his makeshift platform, bellowed for his followers to attack. Fueled by anger and desperation, the rabble surged forward in a chaotic wave, screaming curses and waving their weapons in the air. It was a blind, furious charge, driven more by emotion than any sense of strategy or coordination. Their feet pounded against the cobblestones, a ragged, disorganized mass rushing toward the disciplined line of soldiers.

But the governor’s men stood firm, their faces set and their eyes steady, muskets raised and aimed with deadly precision. At Harryhausen’s command, the first rank knelt and the second rank stepped forward, forming a double line. The militia moved as one, their training evident in the smoothness of their motions. The Earl’s ragtag army had no chance against such organization. As the rioters closed in, a volley of gunfire erupted from the soldiers’ muskets, the crack of flintlocks deafening in the enclosed space of the square.

The effect was immediate and devastating. The front ranks of the charging mob crumpled to the ground, cut down by the disciplined hail of bullets. Screams filled the air as those behind stumbled over the fallen, their charge faltering in the face of such deadly resistance. A few of the rioters managed to fire their pistols in return, but the shots went wide, flying harmlessly into the air or embedding themselves in the walls of nearby buildings.

Seeing the carnage before them, the Earl’s supporters hesitated, their courage wavering. Some turned and tried to flee, but the narrow confines of the square and the press of bodies made escape impossible. The governor’s men reloaded with swift, practiced movements, ready to fire again if necessary. The Earl himself, realizing that his rebellion was collapsing around him, shouted for his men to regroup, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos. The once-angry mob had become a panicked, disordered rabble, their earlier bravado evaporating in the face of the governor’s resolute forces.

The second volley of shots sent what remained of the Earl’s supporters into full retreat, abandoning their weapons and scattering in every direction. The ground was littered with the wounded and the dead, their blood pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones. The few who remained loyal to the Earl found themselves surrounded, their weapons useless against the disciplined formation of the governor’s men. Seeing no other choice, they dropped their arms and raised their hands in surrender, the fight beaten out of them as quickly as it had begun.

Governor Harryhausen strode forward, his expression hard and uncompromising. He ordered the militia to round up the prisoners, his voice cutting through the dying noise of the skirmish like a blade. The rebellion was over, crushed by the swift and decisive action of the governor and his men. The Earl of Darnley, now a broken figure amid the wreckage of his failed insurrection, could only watch as his supporters were dragged away, his dreams of power and glory shattered in an instant.

Our situation only worsened with the onset of winter. The biting cold brought with it a new wave of suffering, and many were so desperate with hunger that they resorted to eating wild grass like cattle, scraping what little nourishment they could from the barren ground. Others, driven by a darker desperation, turned to unspeakable acts in the shadows. Fear gripped the colony as rumors spread of those who vanished without a trace, never seen again after nightfall. Whispers of the horrors that might befall anyone caught alone in the dark grew louder, and soon, no one dared walk the streets without company, especially the young and vulnerable, and women. The sound of a knock on the door in the dead of night became a source of terror, for no one knew if it heralded a plea for help or something far more sinister. A violent paranoia took hold, twisting the minds of the starving, making them see threats where none existed, suspect their neighbors of unspeakable acts, and fear each other more than the enemy outside the walls.

Determined to end our plight with the elves, the Governor called for a solemn meeting in the town’s main longhouse. The longhouse, once a place of gathering and celebration, now seemed a shadow of its former self. Its high wooden beams loomed overhead like the ribs of a great beast, half-hidden in the flickering candlelight that cast long, wavering shadows across the walls. The air was heavy with smoke and the scent of tallow, the dim light revealing the haggard faces of those few who had been summoned. At the center of the room, a long wooden table was set with a sparse meal: a few pieces of stale bread, a pot of thin gruel, and a small plate of salted fish. It was a stark reminder of the colony’s dwindling supplies and the harsh reality of their situation.

The mood was dark and solemn, a heavy silence hanging over the gathering as each person took their seat. The Governor sat at the head of the table, his face lined with fatigue but his eyes burning with determination. He spoke in a low, measured tone, outlining the dire circumstances they faced and the desperate need for action. As he spoke, the candles guttered in their holders, casting the room into momentary darkness before flaring back to life, as if mirroring the flickering hope of the colonists. The gravity of the situation was clear: this mission was a last-ditch effort to break the siege and save what remained of their people.

It was then that the Governor turned to me, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Calico,” he said, “I trust you above all to carry out this mission. Devilera must be stopped if we are to have any chance of survival.” I nodded, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders. This was not just a mission; it was a final, desperate gamble for the survival of the colony.

I knew I couldn’t undertake such a task alone, and so I chose four of our best soldiers to accompany me. First was Stigandr, a broad-shouldered dwarf with a thick black beard braided into intricate knots. Known for his keen eye and steady hand, Stigandr was a master marksman, his skill with a flintlock unmatched in the colony. He had a calm, steady demeanor, always the first to volunteer for a dangerous task, and his loyalty to the colony and its people was beyond question.

Next was Yrsa, a fierce warrior with a reputation for her deadly proficiency with a sabre. Her auburn hair was cut short, framing a face marked by countless battles, her eyes sharp and vigilant. Yrsa had a fiery spirit, and her courage was a source of inspiration to many. She was not one to back down from a fight, and her presence in our group was a comforting reminder of the strength that still burned within us.

The third was Ketill, a wiry, quick-footed dwarf with a penchant for stealth. His movements were always deliberate and quiet, making him perfect for the task of infiltration. With his light brown hair and soft-spoken manner, Ketill was often underestimated, but those who knew him understood his true value. He was a master at moving unseen and unheard, able to slip through the tightest of spaces like a shadow in the night.

Lastly, there was Bjorn, a giant of a dwarf with arms like tree trunks and a booming laugh that could be heard across the colony—when there was reason to laugh. Despite his size, Bjorn was gentle at heart, known for his strength in battle and his kindness off the field. His brute strength would be invaluable if we needed to force our way into the elves’ fortress, and his steady presence brought a sense of reassurance to the group.

The elvish uniforms we wore had been taken from scouts captured during their ill-fated raiding parties, prisoners of war who had ventured too close to our settlement. They were now stripped of their ornate armor and cloaks, their clothes hastily mended and altered to fit our stockier frames. The fabric, lightweight and woven with intricate patterns, felt strange against our skin—alien and uncomfortable. Each uniform bore the sigil of Alveric, King of the Elves, a silver crescent moon set against a field of deep green. It was an unsettling reminder of the enemy we now impersonated, their insignia a stark contrast to our rugged dwarven appearance.

Under the cover of darkness, we began our journey through the thick jungle that surrounded the colony, the dense foliage closing in around us like a living wall. The air was thick and humid, clinging to our skin and making every breath a labor. Sweat trickled down our backs, soaking into the borrowed uniforms, and the heat was stifling, pressing down on us like a heavy hand. Each step was an effort, our boots sinking into the soft, damp earth, the ground teeming with life unseen.

Insects buzzed incessantly around our faces, their tiny wings creating a constant, maddening drone that filled our ears. The jungle seemed alive with movement, the trees rustling with unseen creatures that scurried through the underbrush or leaped from branch to branch high above. Strange noises echoed in the darkness—calls and cries of animals unknown to us, their sounds foreign and unnerving. The shadows cast by the dense canopy seemed to shift and move, hiding threats we could only imagine. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig made us tense, our hands instinctively gripping our weapons, ready for any danger that might emerge from the dark.

We moved carefully, speaking only in whispers, our senses straining to pick up any sign of movement or sound that might betray the presence of elvish patrols. The path was treacherous, littered with roots and vines that seemed to reach out and snag our feet, trying to trip us up at every step. The jungle floor was a tangle of vegetation, a maze of thick ferns and twisted branches that made our progress slow and exhausting. Each step was a battle against the jungle itself, every sound a potential warning of lurking predators or enemy scouts lying in wait.

The night was endless, the darkness deepening as the canopy thickened above us, blotting out the moon and stars. We were alone in this alien world, surrounded by unknown threats and the oppressive heat that sapped our strength with every passing hour. Yet we pressed on, driven by the knowledge that failure was not an option. We had a mission to complete, and despite the dangers that lurked in the shadows, we were determined to see it through.

We moved through the shadows like phantoms, our footsteps barely a whisper against the stone paths as we avoided the elvish patrols and sentries. The night was our ally, the darkness concealing our movements as we crept along the perimeter of the fortress, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. The elvish guards, though vigilant, were spread thin, their watchful eyes unable to penetrate every shadow. We stayed low and close to the walls, our breaths held tight in our chests, each of us acutely aware of the danger that surrounded us.

At last, we reached the fortress wall, its ancient stone towering above us, imposing and cold in the moonlight. With a silent nod to my companions, we pulled out our grappling hooks, their iron claws gleaming dully in the faint light. We swung them upwards, the hooks catching securely on the crenellations above. One by one, we ascended, the rough stone scraping against our hands as we climbed, every muscle straining with the effort. Despite the danger of discovery, we moved quickly and with practiced ease, landing softly on the other side.

As we crouched in the shadows of the courtyard, I couldn’t help but marvel at the stark contrast between the grandeur of the elvish fortress and the dilapidated state of our own colony. The courtyard was paved with imported marble, its smooth, polished surface gleaming in the moonlight. Intricate patterns were etched into the stone, forming swirling designs that seemed to dance in the faint light, reflecting the elves’ mastery of craftsmanship. Around the courtyard, tall buildings rose with an elegance that spoke of wealth and power. Their walls were constructed from fine, pale stones that shimmered like pearls, seamlessly fitted together without a trace of mortar, each block carved with delicate vines and runes that glowed faintly with a magical light.

The buildings were crowned with arched windows and high, sweeping roofs of dark slate, imported from distant lands, their eaves adorned with gold leaf that caught the light of the stars. Elegant towers spiraled upwards, their spires piercing the night sky, topped with banners that fluttered gently in the breeze. Even the simplest structures exuded an air of refinement and sophistication, standing in stark contrast to the crude, hastily constructed huts and crumbling walls of our own settlement.

It was clear that the elves had spared no expense in building this city, importing the finest materials from across the old world to create a bastion of culture and civilization in these wild lands. The grandeur of their architecture spoke of a confidence and ambition to rival any city of the old world, a declaration of their intent to dominate this new frontier. As I looked upon the beauty and strength of their fortress, I felt a pang of envy and a grim reminder of how far we had fallen. Our colony, once full of promise, was now a shadow of its former self, its structures battered and broken by the relentless struggle for survival. The elves, in their arrogance, had built a city of splendor amidst our suffering

We quickly identified the most magnificent building in the courtyard as the residence of the elf-lord himself. It stood taller and grander than the rest, its walls of gleaming marble adorned with elaborate carvings of mythical beasts and vines that seemed almost alive in the moonlight. Atop the domed roof, a flag fluttered in the night breeze, proudly displaying the coat of arms and house sigil of Vasquo Devilera, betraying his location to all who dared to look. This was our target, and there, half-hidden in the shadows at its base, we spotted a door that we knew would lead to his inner chambers. Keeping to the darkness, we made our way towards it, every step measured and deliberate.

We reached the door and paused, listening for any signs of movement on the other side. Hearing none, we quietly pushed it open, the heavy wood creaking slightly on its hinges. We slipped into the dark corridor beyond, the air thick with the scent of incense and wine, a sharp contrast to the fresh, cool night outside. The narrow hallway was dimly lit by a few flickering torches, their light casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. We moved cautiously, each of us alert and ready.

As we continued down the corridor, we came to another door, this one guarded by a lone elf. He stood slouched against the wall, his silver helmet with horns glinting in the low light, a red cloak draped lazily over his shoulders. He held a spear loosely in one hand, his posture relaxed, his eyes half-closed with boredom and sleepiness. His lax demeanor belied the danger he posed; one shout could bring a dozen more guards down upon us. We exchanged a glance, the silent communication indicating there was no room for error.

I signaled to Ketill, who nodded and slipped forward like a shadow, his steps soundless on the stone floor. He moved behind the guard with the practiced stealth of a predator, drawing a dagger from his belt. In one swift, fluid motion, Ketill clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth and plunged the blade into his side, finding the gap between the armor plates. The guard stiffened, a muffled gasp escaping his lips, and then he was still. Ketill eased him to the ground, ensuring the body made no noise as it settled.

We held our breath, listening for any signs that the guard’s demise had been noticed. The corridor remained silent, the only sound the faint crackle of the torches on the walls. With the guard dispatched, we moved to the door, our hearts pounding with the knowledge that we were now on the threshold of our objective.

With stealthy precision, we crept into the elf-lord’s chamber, the faint glow of candlelight flickering across the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I took in the surroundings and felt a momentary surge of awe. The chamber was filled with instruments of science—astrolabes, compasses, and telescopes cluttered the tables, while shelves lined with books and scrolls stretched to the ceiling. Papers covered the walls, pinned haphazardly in a chaotic display of brilliant ideas and meticulous plans. There were sketches of city layouts, architectural designs for grand buildings and lush gardens, alongside detailed drawings of engines of war, prototypes for mechanical devices, and steam-powered machines. It was a treasure trove of knowledge and invention, a testament to a mind that sought to understand and master the world.

In the center of this intellectual chaos sat the elf-lord, Vasquo Devilera, slumped over his desk, surrounded by his work. His silver hair fell across his face, and his long, elegant fingers still clutched a quill, the ink drying on the parchment beneath it. He looked almost peaceful, as though lost in a dream of his own making. For a moment, I was struck by the profound contradiction of this man—so learned, so full of curiosity and creativity, yet the architect of such suffering and cruelty towards my people. I felt a pang of guilt and compassion, a hesitation that I had not expected. This was no mere tyrant; he was a man of science, of art, of ideas that could shape the future.

But then I remembered why I was here. The images of the starving, the sick, the dying dwarfs back in our colony flooded my mind. The screams of those executed on the gallows, the look of despair in the eyes of children who had lost their parents. This elf-lord, for all his intelligence and apparent enlightenment, had been the cause of their suffering, the hand that had orchestrated our misery. I had to remind myself that it was his merciless blockade and his ruthless actions that had brought me to this room, dagger in hand.

As I stepped closer, my foot brushed against a loose sheet of paper, the soft sound breaking the silence of the room. The elf-lord stirred, lifting his head groggily from the desk. His eyes, a deep green that seemed to hold a world of wisdom and sadness, blinked in confusion as they focused on us. He did not speak but simply stared, his gaze shifting from one dwarf to another. His face, unexpectedly gentle, bore a kind and compassionate expression that made my heart falter. Slowly, he raised his hands, palms open, and gestured for us to lower our weapons, as if appealing to our better nature.

For a brief, tense moment, we stood frozen, caught in the silent plea of a man who seemed, in that instant, less like an enemy and more like a fellow being. The other members of my group, their eyes fixed on me, waited for my command, their weapons poised for the final blow. I could feel their expectation, their trust in my leadership, and I knew there could be no turning back. This was what we had come for, what we had risked everything to achieve.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself against the doubt that gnawed at my resolve. I had to focus on the mission, on the greater good of my people, and the necessity of this act. Clenching my jaw, I tightened my grip on the dagger, feeling its cold steel bite into my palm. I forced myself to remember the suffering, the injustice, and the countless lives ruined by this man’s ambition. With a final, resolute nod to my companions, I stepped forward and struck the fatal blow, driving the dagger deep into the elf-lord’s chest. His eyes widened in shock, then softened with a strange acceptance as his body slumped back over the desk, lifeless.

The deed was done. The room fell silent once more, save for the faint crackle of the candles and the distant sounds of the night beyond the walls. I looked down at the elf-lord’s still form, my heart heavy with the weight of what I had just done. There was no triumph in this moment, only a grim realization that, in war, even the most just causes can be stained with blood. After the elf-lord’s body slumped lifelessly over the desk, I signaled to the others. With a nod, Stigandr and Yrsa crept silently into the adjoining rooms, their eyes cold and determined. Each of them knew what had to be done. In swift, practiced motions, they moved through the chambers where the elf-lord’s senior officers slept, their steps soundless on the stone floors. Stigandr’s blade flashed in the dim candlelight as he delivered a quick, decisive strike to the throat of one officer, silencing him before he could utter a sound. Yrsa followed suit, her dagger finding its mark with lethal precision.

The deaths were swift and silent, each one a ruthless act of retribution for the suffering our people had endured. Ketill and Bjorn stood guard at the entrance, their eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of movement, ready to strike if necessary. Within moments, it was done. The chambers, once filled with the heavy breaths of sleeping men, were now deathly quiet.With our mission far from over, we quickly made our way down to the cellar beneath the fortress, moving with urgency yet maintaining our silence. The dim, musty space was filled with crates and barrels, and as we searched through the gloom, we found what we were looking for: a supply of gunpowder and ammunition. Without a word, we began to gather as much ammunition as we could carry, stuffing our pockets and belts with bullets and cartridges.

Once we were loaded with all we could manage, Ketill spotted a large sack of gunpowder in the corner of the room. He carefully poked a small hole in the sack, and we began to pour a thin, steady trail of powder along the floor. We moved quickly but cautiously, extending the trail through the cellar and out the door, weaving our way back across the far side of the courtyard. The line of powder stretched all the way to the base of the fortress walls, a dark, deadly path leading back to the elf-lord’s residence.

Once we reached a safe distance beyond the walls, Stigandr crouched down and struck a piece of flint against steel, his hands steady despite the tension in the air. A small spark flickered to life, and with a deft motion, he guided it to the edge of the powder trail. In an instant, the spark caught, and the trail of gunpowder ignited, blazing a bright path across the courtyard, back towards the residence.

My heart pounded as the flame raced along the ground, lighting up the night with a fierce, crackling energy. Moments later, a massive explosion shook the fortress, the blast tearing through the residence and shattering the stillness of the night. The force of the explosion sent debris flying and engulfed the structure in a roaring inferno. In the chaos and confusion that followed, we took advantage of the disarray to slip away undetected, melting into the shadows and disappearing into the jungle beyond the walls.

CHAPTER TWO

The sun was just beginning to rise as we arrived back at the colony, the sky awash with hues of red and gold, streaks of light cutting through the morning mist. The tranquil beauty of the dawn felt almost out of place, a stark contrast to the turmoil and danger that still clung to us. I hurried to wake my wife, Hlif, and our children, urging them to pack only what they could carry. The time had come to head to the port and board the Argosy before it was too late.

As she gathered her things, Hlif spoke of a strange dream that had unsettled her in the night. She described sitting in a small boat, fishing, when her net caught something deep beneath the water. As she pulled it to the surface, instead of fish, the net was tangled with strange, eldritch creatures—twisting things with star-shaped heads and writhing tentacles. The more they struggled, the more they shifted, their forms melting and changing until they took on the shapes of our children, then the governor, and finally, my own likeness. Yet the figure that mirrored me had eyes as black as night, hollow and endless. In a voice unlike my own, deep and solemn, it had warned her: if she left this land, she and our children would perish.

A chill crept over me as she spoke, for I, too, had experienced the same strange vision. As it turned out, many of the colonists, even the Governor himself, had been visited by the same dream. The sinister weight of it hung heavy in the air between us. But despite the foreboding omen, I knew we had no choice. I spoke to Hlif at length, trying to calm her fears. Though we had managed to strike a blow against the elves, the danger we faced was far from over. Their retaliation would come swiftly, and we could not remain here.

“Our only chance,” I told her, “is a quick escape. The winds are favorable this morning, and we must seize this opportunity while we can.”

The urgency in my voice was clear, and though I saw the worry etched in her eyes, she nodded in agreement. We gathered the children and made our way to the port, the rising sun casting long shadows behind us. That morning, everything hinged on the wind and our swift departure.

I made my way to the Governor’s residence, the morning air heavy with the scent of salt and smoke from the night’s fires. The Argosy was being prepared at the docks, its sails already catching the favorable winds, but there was no sign of the Governor’s decisive orders to break from the bay. Something was wrong. As I approached, I found him standing in the dim light of his chambers, staring out at the sea with his jaw clenched, his face pale and troubled.

“Governor,” I called softly, stepping closer. He didn’t respond at first, his eyes distant, fixed on the horizon.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost haunted. “I’ve seen things, Calico. In my sleep. Every night since we returned.” He turned to me, his brow furrowed with uncertainty. “The visions… they tell me not to leave. They warn of death, of ruin for us all if we try to escape this place. They come to me as clear as the rising sun. They whisper, Calico. They whisper that if we attempt to flee, we’ll perish before we reach open water.”

I could see the fear that had taken root in him, the same fear that had plagued the colonists. His strong, unshakable resolve was crumbling under the weight of those dark dreams. The same visions that had rattled me were now holding him back, freezing him in indecision.

“They are lies, Governor,” I said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “Dark magic, worked by the elves. This is their trickery, their way of keeping us here, trapped in this bay until they come to finish us. Every moment you hesitate, we lose ground. Our chance for escape dwindles by the second.”

He looked at me then, and for a moment, I saw the struggle in his eyes—caught between the chilling weight of the dreams and the reality of the situation we faced. I continued, my voice urgent.

“They know we’ve struck a blow against them. They’re wounded, but they’ll recover quickly. If we don’t act now, if we don’t take this chance to escape while the winds are in our favor, we’ll be sealing our fate. The Argosy is ready, Governor. We can still break through their blockade.”

For a long moment, the Governor stood silent, his hands tightening around the back of a chair. Then, with a deep breath, he straightened his back, the familiar fire returning to his eyes.

“You’re right, Calico,” he said, his voice steadying. “We can’t stay here, not any longer.” He grabbed his coat from the chair and fastened it with renewed determination. “Order the men. We sail at first light.”

With that, the hesitation that had gripped him was gone, replaced by the will to act. The time for escape had come. With the Governor’s resolve restored, we swiftly set our plan into motion. We planned to take our ships and break through the elvish blockade, but it would take perfect timing and precision. The explosion and the death of their commander had thrown the elves into disarray, and we needed to strike before they could reorganize. As the sun crept higher, casting its golden light on the bay, we began preparing for the desperate maneuver.

The docks buzzed with frantic energy as we loaded our ships, the clink of cannonballs and the heavy thud of barrels filled with gunpowder echoing across the harbor. Our sailors moved with urgency, rigging the sails and readying the cannons, every able hand working in grim determination. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and sulfur from the powder kegs, a mixture that promised violence.

Onboard the Argosy, we positioned the cannons along the port and starboard sides, loading them with care, ensuring each shot would count when the time came. The elf fleet, though scattered and confused, still held a powerful presence in the bay, their sleek, black-sailed ships lurking in the distance like predators waiting to pounce. The chaos in their camp worked to our advantage, but it was only a matter of time before they regrouped. Every second was precious.

As the final preparations were made, I caught a glimpse of Hlif and the children on the deck, their faces set with a mix of fear and hope. I gave them a brief nod, trying to mask my own anxiety, and turned back to the task at hand.

With the winds at our backs and the cannons ready, we signaled to the rest of the fleet. The Argosy’s sails snapped in the breeze as we cast off from the dock. Our hearts pounded in rhythm with the drum of the waves, knowing that the moment of truth was upon us. In the pandemonium following the elf-lord’s death, we seized our chance.

As we neared the mouth of the bay, the elves’ ships loomed ahead, disorganized but still deadly. Their black sails flapped ominously in the morning breeze, casting jagged shadows across the water. The sun was rising behind us, its golden light glinting off the waves as we prepared for battle. Our cannons roared to life, the first volley shaking the very air as iron shot tore through the elvish lines. Plumes of smoke billowed up from the enemy decks, and splinters of wood flew in all directions as our fire struck home. But the elves, though caught off guard, were quick to recover. Their ships began to move, regrouping, readying for the next wave of attack.

As we steered toward the narrow entrance of the bay, our real challenge became clear. Two massive forts flanked the mouth, their stone walls bristling with fifteen heavy guns each. The moment we were within range, they unleashed their fury, filling the sky with smoke, fire, and the thunder of cannon fire. Cannonballs screamed past us, some splashing into the sea while others crashed into the hulls of our ships, sending shards of wood and iron flying. Men shouted orders as we struggled to maintain our course through the storm of firepower.

Ahead, a flotilla of elvish warships waited to intercept us, positioned in a formidable line just behind a massive boom of timber and iron chains that barred the narrow entrance to the bay. It was clear that the elves had no intention of letting us escape. We could see their sailors on board, preparing their muskets and swords, the glint of steel catching the early morning light. At the far ends of the boom, two towering elvish galleons, the Aelwen and the Caryl, stood sentinel, their golden sails gleaming like banners of war.

Onboard the Argosy, Governor Harryhausen gathered his officers in the dimly lit cabin for a hurried council of war. The air inside was thick with the scent of smoke and saltwater, the low murmur of voices mingling with the distant rumble of cannon fire. The Governor stood, his brow furrowed as he traced his finger over the map of the bay. The plan we had devised was risky, but there was no other option. We knew we could not survive a prolonged engagement with the elvish fleet. Their ships were faster, better armed, and more numerous. But with the Elf-lord’s death causing chaos among their ranks, we had one advantage: surprise.

“Two forts guard the entrance, each with fifteen guns,” Harryhausen began, his voice calm but filled with urgency. “The boom stretches across the water, held fast by a chain at the northern end and a dark stone tower at the southern edge. If we can breach it, we have a chance.”

The plan was simple, but it required precision. We would use explosives, carried in rowing boats, to destroy the boom while the shore defenses were still in disarray. Avoiding a full-scale naval engagement was crucial—our goal was escape, not conquest. Every second counted.

Standing at the bow of the Argosy, I felt a surge of excitement and fear as the wind whipped through my hair, the salty spray stinging my face. The roar of the cannons was deafening as we moved into position. The two great elvish galleons anchored at either end of the boom were an intimidating sight, their golden sails catching the sunlight and their heavy broadsides aimed directly at us. Between them sat five men-of-war, their guns trained on the narrow mouth of the bay. It felt like we were sailing into the jaws of a beast.

With our men at the ready, I raised my sword high above my head, the blade catching the light as I shouted, “For the colony!” The oars of the rowing boats, commanded by the Governor, dipped into the water with swift, precise strokes, speeding toward the boom. Explosives were secured to the thick chains and timbers, and the men worked feverishly to set them in place as elvish gunfire rained down from the forts above.

A thunderous explosion ripped through the air as the charges detonated, sending shards of wood and metal flying into the sky. The boom groaned and buckled under the force, splitting apart as the Argosy surged forward. With a crack like thunder, the Argosy crashed through the weakened barrier, its prow smashing aside the remnants of the boom as we tore into open water.

We successfully breached the boom, the Argosy crashing through the shattered timbers, the sound of splintering wood mixing with the roar of cannon fire behind us. The Caryl was close in pursuit, her sleek hull cutting through the water with deadly speed. But just as I thought they would overtake us, the wind suddenly dropped. The sails of the elvish warships went slack, leaving them powerless to chase us further. A brief surge of relief washed over me, but it was short-lived.

Before I could react, a deafening explosion rocked the Argosy. Cannon fire from the Aelwen, an imposing elvish man-of-war, tore through our decks with terrifying precision. My life flashed before my eyes as the ship shuddered violently under the onslaught. The deck beneath me erupted in a hail of splintered wood, and I watched in horror as blood soaked the planks, the cries of wounded men filling the air. The Aelwen’s cannons thundered again, and I could feel the ship lurch beneath my feet. I feared this was the end—that the Argosy would be torn apart and dragged beneath the waves.

But just as all hope seemed lost, a miracle unfolded. From the chaos emerged Governor Harryhausen, leading a daring raid on the Caryl. With fearless determination, he and his men boarded the elvish vessel in a swift and brutal attack. Within moments, the Caryl was ours, her crew overwhelmed and her captain slain. Harryhausen, seizing the moment, ordered the ship’s guns turned on its own fleet. The elvish sailors, still reeling from the loss of their commander, scrambled to respond, but it was too late.

I watched in awe as the Caryl’s cannons roared to life, unleashing a torrent of fire upon the elvish ships. The Caryl, now a blazing fire ship under our control, sailed headlong into the enemy fleet. The flames spread quickly, licking up the rigging and catching the sails as the ship became a floating inferno. The resulting explosion was catastrophic—two of the pursuing man-of-wars were engulfed in flames, their decks consumed by the firestorm. Debris from the shattered vessels rained down into the sea, and the remaining elvish ships, thrown into disarray, scattered in the confusion.

With the Argosy speeding toward the open sea, our escape seemed within reach. But our victory was far from certain. The damage to our ship was severe—the rudder was shattered, making it impossible to steer. The Argosy struggled in the water, drifting dangerously as dark clouds of smoke billowed from the burning elvish ships behind us. For a moment, it seemed our escape might be cut short, not by enemy fire, but by the damage inflicted on our own vessel.

But Harryhausen wasn’t finished yet. After setting the Caryl ablaze, he and his sailors dove into the sea, escaping the explosion by the skin of their teeth. They swam back to our ships, battling the churning waves and burning wreckage, their faces blackened with smoke and exhaustion. Once aboard, they took to the oars with renewed vigor, working together to pull us clear of the bay. With each stroke, they fought against the damage that threatened to leave us stranded.

One dwarf’s courage and determination had turned the tide. Harryhausen’s daring raid had not only destroyed the Caryl but had also saved us from certain doom. As the Argosy sailed away from the bay, the dark clouds of smoke rising behind us, I knew we owed our survival to that single act of bravery.

Chapter 3

We set sail on a perilous journey, with nothing but the wind to guide us through the open sea. Days blurred into nights as the horizon stretched endlessly before us, but the taste of freedom was tempered by the dangers that followed close behind. A fierce tempest descended upon us without warning, the sky churning with black clouds and howling winds that lashed at our sails. The ship groaned under the strain, and our navigation instruments—our only means of finding safe passage—became useless, twisted by some unknown magnetic force. Cast adrift in the dark of night, we had no choice but to follow the stars, our eyes strained against the heavens in search of any sign of salvation.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, we saw it—a dark shape rising from the horizon. Land. Relief surged through our crew as we adjusted our course, sailing into a lagoon of still, glassy waters that shimmered under the light of the waning moon. The moment our hull scraped the shore, we beached upon the long, white sands, the sweet taste of relief washing away the thirst and hunger that had plagued us. Exhausted but alive, we had made it.

Standing on the deck, I gazed in awe at the unknown shoreline as we approached in search of sustenance. The air was warm and fragrant, heavy with the scent of tropical flowers and salt. The shoreline was unlike anything we had ever seen, lush and wild, a vibrant display of life that stood in stark contrast to the bleakness we had left behind. Leaf blade trees swayed gently in the breeze, their tall, elegant forms standing sentinel over the beach. Giant orchids bloomed in dazzling shades of purple and red, while fuchsia flowers spilled over the undergrowth in a riot of color. It was a paradise, yet there was something eerie in its stillness, something that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle with unease.

As we scouted the coast, our eyes were drawn to the outline of a large settlement six miles inland. Smoke from fires rose lazily into the sky, the distant shapes of buildings barely visible through the thick, tropical vegetation. Hope stirred among the crew—perhaps here we could find food, water, and respite from the hardships we had endured.

But our discovery was met with surprise. As we drew closer to the shore, a strange vessel appeared on the horizon, cutting through the still waters toward us. It was a sailboat made of reeds, its construction primitive yet swift, propelled by the strong arms of thirty rowers. Its blood-red sails billowed in the wind, bearing the symbol of a feathered serpent—a creature both majestic and ominous. The figures aboard the boat came into clearer view as they neared: warriors clad in bone cuirasses, their skin painted with patterns of white and crimson. Each held a spear or a sword fashioned from sharpened bone, their expressions fierce and unyielding.

At the bow of the boat stood their leader, a towering figure wearing a skull as a helmet, its hollow eye sockets staring out over the waves. His bone armor was adorned with feathers and beads, and he held a long spear in one hand, his stance proud and commanding. As their boat came alongside the Argosy, Governor Harryhausen stepped forward, unshaken by the strange appearance of the warriors. With measured grace, he waved them aboard, bowing his head in respect. He raised his arm in a gesture of welcome, his voice steady as he greeted them in a tone of cautious diplomacy.

The warriors exchanged glances, their leader’s eyes narrowing beneath the skull helmet. For a tense moment, silence hung between us, broken only by the gentle lap of water against the hulls. Then, slowly, the leader of the group stepped forward, meeting Harryhausen’s gesture with a nod of acknowledgment.

The warrior slowly lifted the skull helmet from his head, revealing a face marked by a deep red complexion and harsh, primitive features. His amber eyes, cold and unblinking, were set deep against high, prominent cheekbones and a wide, flat nose that gave his face an imposing, almost feral quality. He stared at us with unwavering intensity, and I could sense the weight of suspicion and wariness in his gaze. Though we could not understand each other’s words, the silence between us spoke volumes—there was a mutual recognition that neither side fully trusted the other. I studied their forms more closely and couldn’t help but compare them to dwarves and elves. But these warriors were stouter, their muscles thick and corded beneath their bone armor, resembling the great apes I had once heard tales of from the dark jungles of distant lands. They were built for strength and endurance, their physicality overwhelming in its raw power.

Harryhausen remained calm, though I could see the measured caution in his eyes as the war-party leader strode toward him without fear, his steps slow and deliberate. The leader’s gaze never wavered, and despite the lack of words, there was an unspoken challenge in his approach. Still, Harryhausen stood his ground, his posture relaxed but prepared, offering no sign of hostility.

The rest of the war party followed their chief onto our ship, their long obsidian blades gleaming in the sunlight as they brandished them with a kind of casual menace. They moved with purpose, their dark eyes scanning every inch of the vessel as if appraising its worth—or its threat. For what felt like an eternity, they examined the ship, walking its decks, touching the rigging, inspecting the cannons, and even peering down into the hold. Their stern faces betrayed little emotion, though the leader occasionally shot us glances that were difficult to read. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being sized up for something—perhaps for trade, perhaps for war.

The chief, dressed in finely crafted bone and leather armor adorned with feathers and polished stones, seemed more than just a warrior. His attire suggested someone of rank, of importance, perhaps even a ruler among his people. But it was his cruel smile, a twisted expression that never quite reached his eyes, that filled me with foreboding. There was a grim silence among his companions, and the longer we stood in their presence, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Harryhausen, ever the optimist, seemed to interpret their behavior as benign, though I couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease gnawing at me.

Eventually, the chief motioned for us to follow him, his gestures sharp and commanding, leaving little room for argument. Harryhausen nodded and gestured for us to follow, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword as we descended the gangplank. The chief led us down the long shore toward the distant settlement, his warriors surrounding us in a silent escort. The coastline was crowded with figures from various goblin tribes, their small, wiry forms peeking out from behind rocks and trees as they watched us with a mixture of curiosity and awe. Their wide, black eyes glimmered in the light as they whispered to one another, their pointed ears twitching with each word. They had clearly never seen the likes of us before, and I could feel their eyes crawling over us, trying to make sense of our strange appearance.

As we walked, the chief stopped and turned to Harryhausen, making a series of gestures that seemed to ask us what we were seeking. Harryhausen, quick to understand, mimed drinking from an invisible cup and pointed to his parched lips, trying to convey that we were in desperate need of water. The chief’s amber eyes flickered with recognition, and after a moment, he nodded. He then pointed inland, toward the settlement, where plumes of smoke rose from cooking fires, and waved for us to continue following.

As we resumed our walk, the chief gestured again, this time pointing out to the sea from where we had come. He made another series of gestures, asking, I presumed, if we had come from the east. Harryhausen, ever diplomatic, nodded and pointed back toward the vast ocean. The chief’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted—a flicker of understanding, or perhaps something darker. Whatever it was, it left me uneasy, as if the chief now knew more about us than we would have liked.

We followed the goblins through the dense jungle, the trees thinning as we approached a large temple that loomed ahead. It was a massive structure of exquisite, almost otherworldly masonry, its dark stone walls rising like a silent sentinel against the vibrant landscape. Yet, despite the craftsmanship, there was something deeply unsettling about the place. All around us, sculptures of grotesque and evil gods leered down, their eyes hollow and their faces twisted into expressions of malice. Their stone forms were frozen in eternal scowls, grim and malevolent, as though they took pleasure in the suffering they had witnessed throughout the ages.

I shuddered involuntarily as my gaze fell upon some of the figures with women’s faces. Their features were distorted into ghastly grimaces, their eyes wide with terror or fury, mouths frozen in silent screams. There was something almost too lifelike about them, as if they had been captured in a moment of agony and preserved for eternity. As we passed, I could feel their empty eyes watching us, filled with a silent, unending rage.

Other sculptures were even more obscene, depicting goblins in vile acts of sodomy, their bodies entwined in grotesque and perverse positions, mocking any sense of decency or morality. The carvings were so detailed, so disturbingly vivid, that it was impossible to look away. Every twisted figure seemed to revel in its own depravity, adding to the oppressive atmosphere that hung over the temple like a shroud.

We ascended the thick, worn stone steps, each one slick with moss and dampness, the jungle encroaching on the ancient structure as though trying to reclaim it. My heart pounded in my chest as we climbed higher, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. At last, we reached the entrance—a gaping maw that yawned open before us, its darkened interior beckoning with an almost palpable malevolence.

At the center of the entrance stood an altar, its surface stained black with clotted blood. The air reeked of iron and decay, the smell so thick it clung to the back of my throat. The altar was crude but commanding, a slab of stone soiled with the evidence of countless sacrifices. Dark streaks of dried blood ran down its sides, pooling at the base like a grotesque offering to the gods whose visages loomed above us.

I stood there, astonished and repulsed. Never in my life had I seen a temple as gruesome as this one. The sheer brutality and macabre artistry of the place left me cold, my hands trembling at my sides. Every corner of the temple seemed to be imbued with the weight of death, its walls echoing with the ghosts of those who had been brought here and bled dry upon the stone altar. I glanced at Harryhausen, his face pale but resolute.

They had sacrificed a young goblin woman to their dark idols. Her body lay sprawled across the blood-soaked altar, her chest split wide open by the sharp edge of an obsidian blade, the gleaming black stone still dripping with her blood. Her limbs had been severed with grotesque precision—her arms and thighs now little more than lifeless remnants scattered about the altar. The gory scene was beyond horrific, yet it appeared to be part of some ritual, performed with chilling detachment.

What disturbed me more than the violence itself was the reaction of the other women of their kind who casually strolled around the altar, seemingly unfazed by the gruesome display before them. Their composure was unnerving, their faces calm and serene, as if the brutal sacrifice was nothing more than a common occurrence. I watched in disbelief as many of these wicked women laughed among themselves, exchanging cruel glances, their lips curled into smirks of twisted amusement. The air was thick with the scent of blood and incense, but it was the sound of their laughter—cold and heartless—that sent a shiver down my spine.

My gaze was drawn to the grandiose ornaments that adorned the temple, offerings to their malevolent gods. Golden pendants hung from the walls, their surfaces shimmering in the dim light. Each one was a masterpiece, expertly hand-crafted into delicate shapes of birds, fish, and other creatures. Disks of gold and silver were arranged in intricate patterns, some engraved with arcane symbols that seemed to pulse with dark energy. Diadems, encrusted with gemstones, were laid at the foot of the idols, their dazzling beauty a stark contrast to the ugliness of the scene that played out before them. The craftsmanship was undeniably impressive, but the sinister aura that surrounded the offerings tainted their beauty, making them seem like bribes to appease cruel and vengeful gods.

As I stood there, overwhelmed by the spectacle, more warriors arrived from the town. They were reinforced by new arrivals, led by a figure who immediately captured my attention. He was taller than the others, his posture commanding, his presence heavy with authority. His hair was as white as the snow-capped mountains, matted and clotted with dark, congealed blood that gave him a savage, otherworldly appearance. Draped across his shoulders was a jaguar skin cloak, its spotted fur gleaming in the faint light, and atop his head sat a grand feathered headdress, its vibrant plumes swaying as he moved.

In his hand, he carried a long, twisted staff adorned with skulls and bones, each one bleached white and rattling with every step he took. The skulls, some goblin and others unrecognizable, hung from his staff like grim trophies, a testament to his power over death. His face was lined with age, but his eyes glowed with a cold, malevolent intelligence that sent a chill through my bones. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this man—this elder—was no ordinary leader. His very presence radiated dark magic, and I immediately suspected him to be a sorcerer or necromancer, a master of twisted rituals and ancient, forbidden knowledge.

He stood before us, his gaze sharp and calculating as he surveyed the scene. The warriors who had accompanied us bowed their heads in deference, and the women, previously laughing and amused, fell silent in his presence. It was clear that this man held power—both over life and death—and his control over these people was absolute. My heart pounded in my chest as I realized that whatever dark force had animated this temple, he was its master.

There was no flesh on his face. For reasons known only to the twisted priesthood he belonged to, his skin had been sliced off in what could only have been some ghastly rite of passage. What confronted us now was a living skull, the bare bone gleaming beneath the dim light, held together only by raw, sinewy muscle stretched taut across his head. His empty eye sockets stared at us with an intensity that sent chills down my spine. It was as though we were standing in the presence of death itself, and for a moment, I wondered if he had once been human at all—or if he had crossed some forbidden threshold into something darker, more monstrous.

The air was thick with the stench of rotting carrion, the foul odor of decaying flesh mingling with the acrid incense that burned in nearby braziers. The smell clung to everything, filling our lungs with its rancid weight. The sorcerer, moving with a calm yet eerie grace, struck a reed and lit it, the flame casting jagged shadows across the temple walls. Without a word, he tossed it into a burning earthenware brazier, the flames flaring for a moment before settling into a steady burn. Then, as silently as he had come, he turned and left, his skull-face disappearing into the shadows.

For a brief time, we were alone.

The moment the sorcerer disappeared, Harryhausen’s voice cut through the thick, oppressive air. “Loot the temple,” he ordered, his voice firm and resolute. “Take every treasure you can carry.” The command sent a rush of excitement through us. Greed overtook caution as we sprang into action, stuffing golden pendants, disks, and diadems into our pockets and bags with feverish haste. The intricate birds and fish once revered as sacred offerings were now reduced to mere spoils, clutched in our hands as if they were our salvation.

I tried to ignore the bloodstained altar, slick with the congealed remains of dark rituals, and the sinister sculptures that loomed above us, their cruel stone faces leering as if they knew what we were doing. The walls seemed to close in as we worked, every carved figure watching us in silent judgment. But I focused on the weight of the gold in my hands, the feel of the cold metal slipping into my bag, and the promise of the fortune it would bring.

Thinking only of our escape and the reward that awaited us, I hurried down the steps, my heart pounding in my chest. The temple, once a place of dread, now felt like a trap—a place we needed to flee from before our greed caught up with us. I silently prayed that no one had noticed the theft, that we could slip away unnoticed into the jungle and vanish before the consequences of our actions caught up with us.

But then the sound came—a sharp, piercing whistle, followed by a cacophony of alarms that filled the air, shattering the silence. The noise cut through the evening like a blade, sending a shiver of fear down my spine. The warriors surrounding the temple began to whistle and chant, their voices rising in unison, a haunting, guttural chorus that seemed to come from the very earth itself. Trumpets bellowed across the crimson sky, their mournful notes echoing through the valley. Drums, deep and resonant, began to thump in rhythmic beats, the sound vibrating in my ears and chest like the pounding of war drums.

I turned to see an angry horde marching toward us, their obsidian swords and lances raised high, gleaming in the fading light. They came in waves, a sea of warriors armed with turtle shell shields and slings loaded with stone bullets carved to lethal precision. Their faces were twisted into expressions of fury and hatred, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust as they closed in on us. The captains, adorned with feathered headdresses and jaguar skins, barked orders from the rear, keeping their distance as their warriors moved forward with menacing intent.

The goblin hordes leered at us, their cruel eyes promising death as they advanced. But we were no strangers to danger. We had faced worse in the colony, where survival had become second nature. Our experience had taught us well, and we were prepared. I drew my musket, my hands steady despite the chaos, and the others followed suit, readying their crossbows, swords, and muskets for the inevitable clash. We stood firm, our backs to the temple, bracing ourselves for what was to come. Though they outnumbered us, we had the advantage of firepower, and our weapons were primed and ready.

The air crackled with tension as the goblin horde drew closer, their chanting growing louder, their footsteps pounding in time with the drums. It was a dance of war, a final, inevitable confrontation, and as I leveled my musket at the oncoming enemy, I knew there was no turning back. The battle was upon us.

As the distant sound of trees crashing to the ground reached my ears, a chill ran down my spine. The goblin hordes were creating a blockade, cutting off any hope of retreat. I could almost picture them in the jungle, hacking down trees with obsidian blades, building walls of wood and stone to trap us within the temple grounds. Our only escape route was being sealed before our very eyes. The tension was palpable, each of us exchanging uneasy glances as the realization set in. We were surrounded, and the time to act was quickly running out.

Governor Harryhausen, his voice low and barely above a whisper, tried to maintain control. Speaking in hushed tones, knowing the goblins couldn’t understand our language, he instructed us to retreat cautiously on his signal. His voice faltered slightly, and I could see the fear etched into his pale face. His eyes darted around, scanning the temple’s perimeter as if searching for a way out that simply wasn’t there. He looked like a man walking a tightrope, balancing between leadership and the gnawing terror that threatened to overwhelm him.

But I disagreed. The idea of running filled me with dread—not the fear of dying, but the fear of dying while retreating, with my back turned to the enemy. I argued against his plan, my voice barely restrained. “If we run, they’ll cut us down like animals,” I hissed. “The first blow is half the battle—my father always said that. We strike first, and we stand a chance.” My hands balled into fists, my knuckles white as I gritted my teeth. The thought of retreat was unbearable. I would rather fight and die on my feet than be slaughtered in retreat. My blood pounded in my ears, and my body tensed, ready to fight for my life.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, a distant roar echoed from the town. It was the sound of a great army on the march, their voices blending into a rising, thunderous chant. The ground trembled beneath our feet, and we knew the full force of the goblin horde was coming for us. The rhythmic pounding of their drums filled the air, growing louder with each passing moment. Then they appeared, their dark banners flying high, emblazoned with demonic symbols that seemed to writhe and twist in the wind. The banners flapped ominously as the horde advanced, a menacing shadow creeping towards us, blackening the landscape with their sheer numbers. They moved as one, a mass of bodies armed with crude but deadly weapons, and the odds of survival became painfully clear—two hundred to one. Slim chances indeed.

We steeled ourselves for the onslaught, knowing that our lives hung by a thread. The horde surrounded us on all sides, their ranks stretching as far as the eye could see. A chill of dread washed over me as I realized we were trapped. There was no retreat, no fallback plan. This was it. We would have to fight with everything we had or die here at the feet of this cursed temple.

With a sudden, shrill cry, the goblins unleashed their first strike. A torrent of arrows darkened the sky, their obsidian points gleaming in the early morning light. The arrows came down upon us like a rain of death, shattering on our armor with a sharp, metallic crack. Some broke harmlessly against our shields, but others found their mark, piercing through the gaps in our armor, drawing blood. Shouts of pain echoed through our ranks as the arrows struck home, but it wasn’t the arrows that caused the most damage.

The second wave hit us like a hammer. Rocks from their slings—some the size of fists, others as large as a man’s head—sailed through the air with deadly accuracy. The stones slammed into our greaves and helmets with brutal force, crushing bones and denting armor. I watched in horror as one of the men beside me crumpled to the ground, his skull cracked open by a jagged stone, blood pouring down his face. Another warrior fell, clutching his leg, the bone shattered beneath his armor by the impact of a sling stone. The goblins’ crude weapons were no less effective for their simplicity, and every stone that struck our ranks left chaos in its wake.

Over half of us who remained standing that day suffered serious wounds. The air was thick with the groans of the injured, the scent of blood and sweat hanging heavy. My own armor had taken several blows, and though my bones ached beneath the weight of each impact, I still stood. But the goblin horde was relentless, their numbers overwhelming. For every one of us who remained, it seemed there were ten more of them, closing in with their obsidian swords and turtle shell shields, their eyes alight with bloodlust.

The war party captains stood back, observing from a distance, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction as they watched their forces overwhelm us. It was clear they were waiting, biding their time, ready to unleash their full strength when we were too weak to resist. But despite the grim odds, we held our ground, our crossbows, swords, and muskets still in hand.

TWith a deafening war cry that echoed through the temple grounds, the goblins charged at us in a wild frenzy, their spears and double-bladed obsidian swords gleaming in the early light. Their eyes burned with a primal fury, their snarls audible even above the pounding of their feet on the ground. They surged forward like a tidal wave, intent on crushing us beneath their numbers. But we were ready.

As they closed in, we retaliated with everything we had—our rapiers flashing in the light, muskets cracking with thunderous reports, and crossbows twanging as bolts flew through the air. The goblins’ weapons, while vicious and sharp, were no match for the tempered steel of our rapiers. Though their obsidian blades could cut through flesh with ease, they were brittle, prone to shattering upon impact with our swords. As the goblins raised their swords high for brutal chopping strikes, they exposed their torsos, giving us the opening we needed.

With practiced precision, we thrust our rapiers forward, the blades slipping between ribs, piercing hearts and throats. The goblins staggered back, clutching at their wounds, blood spraying from their bodies as they fell. The clang of steel against stone and bone filled the air as we cut them down, their defenses crumbling under our superior technique. Each thrust was a calculated strike, aiming for vital organs, while they had to lower their guard to bring their cumbersome swords down in sweeping arcs. The advantage was ours, and we pressed it relentlessly.

At close range, our muskets and crossbows were devastating. We fired into the mass of goblins, the musket balls tearing through flesh and bone with sickening ease. Each shot was accompanied by the dull thud of impact, followed by the shriek of a dying goblin. Crossbow bolts flew with deadly accuracy, embedding themselves in necks, chests, and eyes, felling our attackers with grim efficiency. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the acrid stench of blood, filling the air with the smell of death.

We fought with the desperation of men who had nothing left to lose. Every blow we struck, every shot we fired was fueled by the knowledge that survival depended on it. There was no retreat, no safe harbor waiting for us—we had to stand and fight. Our movements were swift and calculated, our training taking over as we parried, struck, and shot with relentless ferocity. We knew that the goblins, though primitive, were relentless in their assault, and they would stop at nothing to overwhelm us with sheer numbers.

For every goblin we killed, it seemed three more took its place. Dozens fell at our feet, their lifeless bodies piling up in front of the temple, but still they came, wave after wave, determined to crush us under the weight of their assault. Their captains, standing back from the chaos, bellowed orders, their voices rising above the din of battle, urging their warriors forward with the promise of blood and victory.

Despite our best efforts, the tide of the battle began to shift. The ground beneath us grew slick with blood, making it harder to keep our footing as we fought. My arm ached from the repeated thrusts of my rapier, but I could not afford to slow down—not now. We made them pay dearly for every inch of ground they gained, cutting down scores of them, but they kept coming, their relentless advance pressing us back, inch by bloody inch.

And still, their war cries filled the air, a savage sound that spoke of unyielding fury and bloodlust. The goblins were bent on our destruction, and though we fought with everything we had, I could feel the weight of their numbers closing in on us like a tightening noose.

We were the first to bring gunpowder and muskets to this strange land, and the goblins had never encountered such devastating weapons before. At the thunderous crack of gunfire, many of the younger warriors fled in terror, their eyes wide with fear. The smoke from our muskets billowed around us, mixing with the chaos of battle, and the scent of gunpowder hung heavy in the air. But for all the panic we caused among the younger goblins, the more seasoned warriors were undeterred. With fierce determination, they shouted “Hunni Cala!”—a cry that echoed through the temple grounds. The meaning was unmistakable: they intended to kill our captain.

I watched in horror as Harryhausen found himself surrounded by a vicious pack of warriors, their heads adorned with the skulls of beasts—jaguars, wolves, and birds of prey. They circled him like predators, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust. In a frenzy, they let loose a hail of arrows. Ten of them found their mark, piercing his armor and flesh. I shouted in desperation, trying to reach him, but before I could move, I felt a sharp pain in my side. An arrow had struck me, driving deep into my ribs. The force of it knocked the wind out of me, and I stumbled back, clutching my side as blood seeped through my fingers.

The situation was growing more hopeless by the second. The goblins’ ranks, continuously replenished by fresh warriors streaming from the towns, swelled around us. For every one we cut down, two more seemed to take their place, their painted faces twisted in savage determination. The air was thick with the sound of clashing steel, the screams of the wounded, and the relentless beat of goblin drums driving their warriors forward.

We had no choice but to retreat.

Harryhausen, still fighting valiantly despite his wounds, was struck down. I watched in horror as a lance pierced his throat, the sharp point driving deep into his flesh. Blood poured from his many wounds as he collapsed to the ground, the once-mighty captain now at the mercy of the enemy. I wanted to help him, to drag him to safety, but the goblins swarmed around him like vultures. There was nothing I could do but fight my way through the melee, each step a desperate attempt to survive.

We had little strength left. The ceaseless barrage of arrows, spears, and stones drained our resolve. With every blow, our numbers dwindled. We resorted to hacking and slashing our way through the goblin horde, our rapiers and swords cutting through flesh and bone, leaving a bloody trail in our wake. The ground beneath us was slick with blood, the bodies of the fallen littering the temple grounds as we pushed forward with what little energy remained.

In the chaos, we spotted the nearest ships anchored just offshore. It was our only hope. With the goblins still on our heels, we scrambled toward the boats, desperate to escape the slaughter. Some of us reached the small vessels, leaping into them with wild abandon. But there were too many of us, and the boats—already overloaded—began to fill with water, the weight dragging them dangerously low in the sea.

Despite the panic and confusion, many of us clung to the sides of the boats, refusing to give up. Those who couldn’t find a place onboard swam for their lives, their arms cutting through the water with frantic strokes, desperate to reach the Argosy, our flagship. Behind us, the goblins waded into the water, their spears raised high, their snarls echoing across the beach as they gave chase.

But as we neared the Argosy, salvation came in the form of fire. A barrage of cannon fire roared from the ship’s broadside, the blasts shaking the very air. The explosions tore through the goblin ranks, sending sprays of sand and water high into the air. The beach was momentarily lit by the orange glow of destruction, and the goblins, once so eager to claim our lives, were scattered like leaves in the wind. The sheer force of the cannons’ destruction cleared the beach of enemies, their numbers reduced to smoldering remnants.

For a brief moment, the only sound was the crackle of flames and the gentle lapping of water against the sides of our ships. We had escaped, but the cost had been high. Harryhausen was gone, and many of our comrades had fallen. As I pulled myself onto the deck of the Argosy, bloodied and exhausted, I coulnt believe I had made it back alive. We returned to our ships, battered and bruised, barely able to stand from the pain of our wounds. The cold, biting wind whipped through our soaked clothes, leaving us shivering and weak as the saltwater stung every cut and bruise. Our injuries, already severe, swelled painfully from the sea’s harsh touch. The deck of the Argosy was a scene of exhaustion and suffering, the wounded men slumped against the railings or sprawled on the planks, their faces pale with pain and fatigue. Yet, for all the misery we endured, there was a silent, shared sense of relief—against all odds, we had survived.

As I collapsed onto the deck, clutching my side where the arrow had pierced me, I felt a hand on my shoulder—gentle but firm. I turned my head and there she was, my wife, Hlif, her face filled with concern yet softened by the familiar warmth of her presence. Relief washed over me in a wave so strong that I nearly forgot the pain for a moment. The sight of her, standing there amidst the chaos, was like seeing a ray of light after stumbling through endless darkness. I had come so close to death—closer than I had ever imagined—and now, seeing her face again felt like a gift from the gods themselves.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I murmured, my voice hoarse with exhaustion.

She knelt beside me without a word, her hands steady as she carefully peeled away my bloodied tunic to examine the arrow wound in my ribs. Her touch, though gentle, sent jolts of pain through my body, but I didn’t flinch. There was something calming in her presence, in the way she moved with quiet determination, tending to me and the others as if nothing in the world mattered except keeping us alive. Her fingers, skilled from years of caring for our family, worked quickly, cleaning the wound and binding it with strips of cloth torn from her own garments.

As she worked, I caught her eyes, and for a moment, we shared a look that needed no words. We had both feared this day would come, the day I might not return from battle. Yet, here we were—both of us battered by the storm of war, but still breathing, still together. I silently thanked the gods for sparing me, for allowing me to see her face once more, knowing full well how close I had come to never returning to her side.

Around us, the other women of the ship tended to the injured, bandaging wounds, offering water, and murmuring words of comfort. The air was thick with the groans of men in pain, but there was also a quiet reverence as we offered prayers of gratitude to our gods. We had been spared—though by the narrowest of margins—and now, with what little strength we had left, we turned to the heavens, our voices soft but filled with fervor. We thanked the gods for preserving our lives, for delivering us from the jaws of death.

And the gods answered. As if in response to our prayers, a favorable wind stirred, filling the sails of the Argosy and her sister ships. It was a steady, sure breeze, one that would carry us away from this cursed land and out to the safety of open waters. The creaking of the sails and the gentle pull of the wind brought a new wave of relief, the promise of escape filling the air. Though our bodies were broken and our spirits weary, we knew now that we were leaving this place behind.

I lay back against the deck, my wound freshly bandaged, watching the sails catch the wind. Despite the pain coursing through my body, there was a deep sense of peace in knowing we were moving away from danger, carried by the same wind that had brought us to this land.

As I rested on the deck, my body aching from the wounds and exhaustion, I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked up to see my son, a determined gleam in his young eyes. His face was smudged with soot and grime, but there was a pride in his expression that I hadn’t seen before. “Father,” he began, his voice steady but filled with excitement, “I helped fire the cannons.” My heart swelled with a mixture of surprise and pride as he recounted the moment. “When the goblins rushed the beach, the men needed help loading the cannons. They let me help. I carried powder and shot, and when the command was given, I helped pull the cord.” His eyes widened as he spoke, reliving the intensity of the moment. “The cannon roared so loud, and I watched as the shot tore through the warriors, scattering them like leaves in a storm. It was terrifying, but… I knew I was helping you. I knew I was helping us all.” He looked at me, his youthful pride tempered by the reality of what he had seen, and for a moment, I saw not just my son, but a boy who had been forced to grow up too fast in the heat of battle. I reached out, pulling him close, grateful beyond words for his bravery, though I couldn’t help but wish he hadn’t had to learn such harsh lessons so young.

CHAPTER FOUR

The pilot cursed under his breath as he adjusted our course, his hands steady on the wheel despite the grim situation that had overtaken us. Though we had narrowly escaped the blood-soaked island, a new and insidious threat now loomed over us: the lack of drinking water. In the chaos of our retreat, we had left behind the casks and barrels filled with fresh water, the very lifeline that would sustain us on our journey home. Now, as the realization set in, a deep, gnawing dread crept through the ship.

Desperation took hold as the crew scoured every corner of the Argosy, overturning crates, rummaging through every supply hold in the hopes of finding even a flask of water. But every hidden corner, every small compartment turned up dry, the promise of relief dissolving into disappointment. Our throats burned with thirst, our mouths dry and cracked as if they had turned to dust. We grew weaker with each passing hour, the salty sea air only intensifying the sting of our parched lips. Some of the men bit down on scraps of cloth to try and draw out the moisture, but it was little comfort.

The vast sea surrounded us, stretching endlessly to the horizon, a mocking expanse of water that could not quench our thirst. Its blue waves rolled and swelled, glistening under the sun, taunting us with its abundance. Yet we all knew the bitter truth—that its waters were poison to drink. Our minds became consumed with the thought of water, the crew falling silent as they stared out at the endless ocean, longing for a single drop of rain to break the unrelenting thirst.

We prayed for rain, our voices hoarse as we murmured our pleas to the gods. Every cloudless dawn that broke over us felt like a punishment, a reminder of our folly. And when no rain came, our prayers turned to curses. Men muttered against the fates, blaming whatever cruel powers had guided us to this point. Yet no matter how we railed against our destiny, the sun rose high and bright each day, and our mouths only grew drier.

What had begun as an escape felt like a slow, relentless march toward death. We had escaped the island only to condemn ourselves to a different kind of suffering—a burning thirst that threatened to consume us from the inside out.

With depleted manpower and a gnawing thirst, we clung to the hope that we would find land with fresh water to save us. After three agonizing days of drifting, weak and parched, we finally sighted an inlet—a quiet stretch of coast that promised a stream or creek hidden beyond the mangroves. Relief surged through me, and I didn’t hesitate to lead a small party ashore, my son and a young sailor joining me. We needed every hand we could spare, and my son, though young, was determined to help. As we trudged across the sandy shore, he stayed close to my side, his eyes bright with the sense of adventure, though I reminded him to be cautious.

After a short walk, we found a pool nestled among the rocks and reeds, its surface dark and still. My heart sank the moment I tasted it—the water was briny and bitter. It wasn’t the salvation we needed, but desperation clouded our judgment. We were so parched, so weakened, that we filled our barrels anyway, hoping that a small amount might provide some relief.

Just as we began to lift the barrels, the stillness of the bay was shattered. In an instant, a monstrous creature erupted from the depths, its dark, scaly body slicing through the water with terrifying speed. I barely had time to react as it lunged forward, jaws gaping, and seized my son in its massive, bone-crushing grip. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. His eyes met mine, wide with terror and pleading, before he was dragged screaming into the sea.

“No!” I cried, my voice hoarse and raw, as I rushed forward, my hands reaching out to grab him, but it was too late. The creature—a monstrous lizard as large as a rowing boat, its scales dark and glistening like wet stone—disappeared beneath the water, taking my son with it. His screams echoed across the bay, piercing and desperate, a sound that would haunt me forever. The young sailor and I hacked at the water with our axes, our fury and grief driving each blow, but it was hopeless. The creature had vanished, leaving nothing but a ripple in the water and a silence that settled heavy upon us.

Numb and broken, I staggered back to the shore, unable to comprehend the horror of what had just happened. The young sailor’s face was pale with shock, and he stared at me, helpless, his own grief reflecting the void that had opened within me. My son—my brave, determined son—had been snatched from my arms in the cruelest way imaginable.

In shock and sorrow, I returned to the Argosy, my face pale and my hands trembling. As we approached the deck, the crew greeted us with cheers, unaware of the tragedy that had befallen us. They gathered around, scooping the barrels of water eagerly, their parched lips already savoring the relief they thought awaited them. For a brief, fleeting moment, I was treated like a hero, my fellow sailors clapping me on the back and thanking the gods for what they believed was our salvation. The men’s eyes shone with gratitude and hope, their voices rising in joyous relief.

But that hope was short-lived. The first sailor who raised the water to his lips spit it out with a grimace, the bitter, salty taste filling his mouth with the same disgust that had turned my own stomach ashore. Others followed, each man recoiling as he tasted the briny liquid. They threw the water away in disgust, muttering curses and glancing at me with resentment. The joyful welcome soured in an instant, as the realization spread that not only was our supposed lifeline undrinkable, but it had come at the cost of my son’s life. I felt the weight of their disappointment, their grief mingling with my own, pressing down on me like an anchor.

When I returned to the cabin, my wife and daughter looked up, their eyes filled with the faint hope that I carried good news. But the moment they saw my face, that hope crumbled. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came, the weight of loss pressing down on me like a stone. My wife’s hand flew to her mouth, her face blanching as understanding dawned. My daughter’s eyes widened in disbelief, her lips parting in silent horror. I took a shuddering breath, and then we were in each other’s arms, collapsing together under the weight of grief. The three of us clung tightly, our tears mingling as they fell, wordless sobs wracking our bodies. My wife’s fingers gripped my shoulders as if trying to hold onto something solid in the midst of this unimaginable pain, while my daughter buried her face against my chest, trembling. In that moment, it felt as though our family had been broken, a part of our hearts lost to the unforgiving sea.

The ship was silent as we raised anchor, our spirits crushed by thirst, exhaustion, and grief. The Argosy moved along the coast, skirting the land that had deceived and betrayed us, while a heavy silence settled over the crew. We sailed in grim resignation, our hope fading with each passing hour, until the coastline revealed a formidable sight—a great cape with roaring waves and powerful currents. The waters churned and swelled, making any attempt to turn back perilous. It was impossible to return home by the route we’d come.

Realizing our situation was dire, I called a meeting with the crew. The men gathered in tense silence, their faces lined with fatigue and loss. Our pilots proposed a bold alternative: to set sail for Providence, the island of the buccaneers. Though it was a treacherous journey, it offered a chance to restock our provisions and avoid the harsh winter rains that were already threatening on the horizon. The Argosy, still taking on water, would need repairs if it was to stay afloat. Providence seemed our best hope.

But Benbow, our acting captain since the governor’s demise, opposed the plan. His face was resolute, his eyes hardened with the weight of responsibility and ambition. “We came here for gold and resources,” he insisted, his voice steady but sharp. “To turn back now would be to abandon everything we set out to accomplish. These lands may be hostile, but they are rich—and we know what treasures they hold.” His words stirred a murmur among the men, a reminder of why we had ventured into these treacherous waters to begin with.

Yet I knew the truth of our position. We were weakened, half-mad with thirst, and haunted by the recent loss. “Benbow,” I argued, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and conviction, “we are not fit to take new lands. The goblins are fierce, and our numbers dwindle with every skirmish. The men are worn thin, and to press forward would be to risk every life on this ship.”

A long, tense silence followed as Benbow looked out over the men. Their hollow faces and weary eyes told him what words could not. Finally, with great reluctance, he agreed to set sail for Providence. It was a bitter concession for him, but even he could not deny the state of his crew. We charted our course, setting our sights on Providence and the hope that awaited us there.

The Elves, once rulers of the isle of Providence, had been undone by plague, leaving their forts abandoned. It wasn’t long before the buccaneers came, claiming the island as a lair for their pillaging. Armed with letters of marque from their king, they prowled the seas in search of bounty, calling their new stronghold ‘Buccaneer’s Haven’. Providence became their base of operations as they plied their trade as pirates under the sanction of the crown. Ineffective governance and a lack of defense allowed these filibusters to quickly overrun the island.

At their helm was the notorious buccaneer Morgan Blue-beard, whose sails billowed with terror and death. With his ruthless band of cutthroats, he stormed the seas, leaving fear and carnage in his wake. The buccaneers soon outnumbered the law-abiding subjects of Providence three to one, their campaigns of cruelty causing dread to spread throughout the westerlies. Merchants and war galleons alike fell prey to this most feared and relentless marauder. None could stand in his way, and the island of Providence soon became a haven for outlaws and pirates alike.

I stood there, eager with anticipation, as our vessel sailed into Buccaneer’s Haven. Blue-beard and his men were waiting to receive us at the port harbor. Blue-beard strode down the docks with the confidence of a man who owned the very sea itself, his towering frame casting a long shadow in the afternoon sun. His beard was a mass of dark, wild curls, streaked with beads and charms stolen from every corner of the known world. The tips of his beard smoldered faintly, tendrils of smoke curling up around his face—a fearsome trick he used to terrify his enemies, leaving the impression of a demon risen from the depths. Beneath his heavy brow, his eyes gleamed with a savage intelligence, sharp and unrelenting, taking in everything around him with a calculating gaze.

Blue-beard’s coat was an elaborate, tattered affair—once regal, now worn and battle-scarred, its gold embroidery dulled from years of salt and blood. He wore it with pride, as if every hole and tear was a testament to the battles he’d survived. Around his waist hung a belt bristling with weapons: flintlock pistols, each one custom-made, and a wickedly curved cutlass with a hilt inlaid with black pearls. A black sash tied at his shoulder bore the mark of his notorious ship, the Night Reaver, a symbol that sent chills down the spine of any sailor who dared to cross his path.

At his side was his closest accomplice, Avery “Bloody Hands,” a pirate as infamous as the captain himself. Avery was shorter but just as imposing, his face marked by a jagged scar that ran from his cheek to his chin. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a single feather that trailed down his back, its edges frayed from the salt winds. Beneath the hat, his pale blue eyes gleamed with a cruel humor, as though every man he met was nothing more than a potential mark. Around his neck hung a silver pendant shaped like a dagger, a reminder of his reputation for double-crossing those who underestimated him.

Avery’s clothing was finer than most, though patched and worn, a sign that he’d once held higher station before turning to piracy. Rings adorned nearly every finger—jewels of sapphire, ruby, and emerald, plundered from ships unlucky enough to fall into his path. In his hand, he toyed with a short, wickedly sharp knife, the blade polished to a mirror sheen. Rumor had it that he had used it to dispatch a rival captain during a midnight raid, leaving the deck awash in blood.

The pair was flanked by a ragtag crew of cutthroats and rogues, each as vicious as the last. Their clothing was a mismatched array of stolen finery and worn seafaring garb, every man armed to the teeth. They moved with a predatory grace, their eyes scanning the crowd, looking for any sign of weakness or opportunity. Together, they cut an imposing figure—a force of terror and brutality, bound together by their hunger for gold and their loyalty to the fearsome Blue-beard.

As they passed, silence fell over the harbor, the usual bustle grinding to a halt as sailors and merchants alike shrank back, unwilling to meet their gaze. Blue-beard acknowledged the crowd with a slight nod, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, fully aware of the fear he inspired.

As we unloaded the treasure, the buccaneer’s eyes widened, sparkling with greed and admiration at the wealth of the Goblin Kingdoms. Our grim account of our misfortunes enthralled Blue-beard, who opened his arms wide in welcome. Being a sworn enemy of the elves, he greeted us as his own, embracing us as fellow countrymen. He praised our courage and cunning, inviting us to join his formidable crew.

Blue-beard’s gaze fell upon a small gold statue nestled among the treasure—a figure no larger than his hand, yet so finely crafted it seemed almost alive. It was the likeness of a six-armed goddess, her delicate face calm and serene, exuding an otherworldly beauty that was both enchanting and unsettling. Each arm extended gracefully, palms open in a gesture of divine power. A small ruby, the color of blood, was embedded in her forehead like a third eye, gleaming with an inner fire that seemed to draw him closer. Blue-beard lifted the statue reverently, his fingers brushing over the intricate details of her limbs and the finely etched patterns of her robes. His eyes widened with an almost feverish intensity, his breath catching as he took in every angle, every glint of gold. He was entranced, the usual ruthless spark in his eyes replaced by an insatiable lust, as if this piece alone embodied all the wealth and power he had ever craved. For a moment, he seemed unaware of anything else around him, consumed by the beauty and mystery of the goddess, and a deep, covetous hunger that left even his hardened crew watching in silence.

The days that followed were devoted to revelry, with no shortage of grog, music, and merriment. Tales of the Goblin Kingdoms had circulated for centuries, yet none had ever found them. News of our treasure spread across the western isles like wildfire. Blue-beard offered us sanctuary on the island in exchange for a cut of the gold in our possession. Our plunder amounted to a staggering twenty thousand pieces of eight. After Blue-beard took his share and the king’s royal fifth, he divided the rest of the fortune among our crew.

ItIt vexed many of our dwarves to see a large part of our hard-won gold taken by those who had no hand in acquiring it. Discontent simmered among the crew, fueled by greed and pride, until it finally broke out in a fistfight between our men and Blue-beard’s. In his haughtiness, Blue-beard made the mistake of trying to use force to resolve the issue. He drew his sword, ordering his men to seize our gold by force—a rash move that only stoked the flames of discord.

Realizing his misstep, Blue-beard paused, his gaze hard and calculating. He understood that we were worth more to him alive than dead. To prevent further bloodshed, he turned on his own men, swiftly cutting down two sailors who had pressed the attack against us. His actions sent a clear message that, despite his greed, he respected our strength and the value of our alliance.

Afterwards, Blue-beard apologized for his rashness and offered us a truce, his tone diplomatic but wary. With tensions still high, we reluctantly accepted, and a fragile peace settled over the harbor. Once the quarrel was behind us, we set our minds on new plans. Talk of another expedition to the lands of the goblins filled the air, and this time, I intended to lead it myself, determined to claim a fortune that would be ours alone.