“Coordinates?” Cosimo seemed elated. Aboard the Mint, inside the Captain’s Quarters, Enzo had just explained to him the events that had transpired inside the Musea.

Enzo nodded. “Coordinates to the next clue, or—”

“Or to Ilhen’s Seventh.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Enzo. Frankly, he was not sure.

“No no no,” said Brunelli. “This is just the first act. Enzo finds a clue, makes some erroneous assumption, and later does a grand reveal. He’ll turn the numbers upside down and they’ll spell a message in Ancient Druin or some horseshit.”

“Oh, shut up Brune,” said Cosimo, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

“Ilhen’s Seventh is just a ruse,” Brune continued. “And you’re a foolish old man for believing it.”

“Enough!” said Cosimo. “Ragnar, escort Brune out of the room. If he resists, if he utters so much as a single syllable of protest, remove his tongue.”

Brune’s face contorted in rage, but he did not struggle as Ragnar effortlessly picked him up and hauled him away.

“Insolent bastard,” muttered Cosimo. “I’ll go get my maps…”

When he returned, he flattened a map on the dining table, stretching out the curled corners.

“There,” Cosimo said, stabbing a finger at the coordinates. “Eastern archipelago. An isle named Mercia.”

Leo and Enzo exchanged dark looks. “Umm…” said Leo.

“What? What’s the matter? It’s not far… only a short trip.”

“A short trip dodging rocky shoals, vicious hydras, dragons, and more, depending on which path you take. Even the Diji avoid it.” The Diji, the native people of the Genovese archipelago, generally avoided the eastern isles.

“We’ll take the northern pass,” Cosimo said, tracing his finger along the map.

“We’ll be dragon food,” said Enzo dryly. “Dragons infest the northern territories.”

“Then we’ll go south, charting a wide berth around the southern tip, and then curl back west.”

“We’ll be swallowed whole by the Leviathan,” said Leo incredulously. “Haven’t you heard the tales?”

“Old wives’ tales,” said Cosimo scornfully. “Sailors are a superstitious lot by principle. This Leviathan, I assure you, is a myth. And if we travel by the northern or eastern pass, we face certain annihilation. But from the South—”

“—only highly probably annihilation.”

Cosimo smiled. “I like those odds. Don’t you?”

***

Cosimo wasted no time. Mooring lines were cut, masts were raised, and once again the Mint slipped out to sea. It would take a full day to reach Mercia… if they reached it at all.

Enzo lay awake that night, watching a shaft of silver moonlight pouring through the porthole. He was full of doubts about their predicament. Were the numbers truly coordinates? Was there, as Brune intimated, a second, deeper meaning to them?

Who had kidnapped him in the Musea? What was the Black Cabal’s role in all this?

He wrestled with these questions, and eventually settled into a restless slumber.

***

He dreamt that he was in Ilhen’s Seventh. A colossal, faceless shadow loomed above, bearing down on him. Enzo backed up, turning to flee, and suddenly he was falling… falling…

…Falling off the bed. His knee crashed hard on the floor. The ship was listing to port. Voices of the crew shouted above.

“Hard to larboard! Harder!”

“All hands on deck!”

“Ready the harpoon! Ready the harpoon!”

Leo vaulted out of bed, landing deftly beside Enzo. “What the hell is going on out there?”

“What is it?” asked Gianna, climbing down from the top bunk. “It’s not — it’s not the Leviathan, is it?”

“Can’t be,” said Enzo, rising gingerly as pain lanced up his right knee. “We’re too far from the Eastern Sea.”

They stepped up to the porthole. Outside, a tsunami wave rose hundreds of feet high, looming like a black wall. It was moving swiftly, bearing down on them, thrashing its…

Tentacles?

“Bael above,” muttered Enzo breathlessly. “It’s him. The Leviathan.”

It really was the Leviathan. A colossal specimen, so enormous it blotted out the sky. Its form was incomprehensible, undefinable. Its tentacles, from a distance, looked thicker than tree stumps. As it closed the distance, they could see its eyes — hundreds of eyes, thousands, spread over a gnarled body. It was an asymmetrical monstrosity.

“We have to get off the ship!” said Enzo. “Get above deck, now!”

Leo was already buckling his swords.

“Leave them or you’ll perish!” said Enzo. “We have no time.”

Above, the crew was shouting more frantically. Enzo could vaguely hear Cosimo yelling, instructing the crew to lower rafts.

Gianna opened the door to their room. Enzo followed after her, but before he could make it up the stairs there was a deafening crash as a tentacle slammed down on the Mint.

They were plunging deep underwater. A spiked tentacle was thrashing about. Blood mixed with flotsam and jetsam. With one hammering smash, the luxury galleon had been reduced to worthless splinters.

Enzo kicked his legs, swimming back up to the surface before his lungs burst. The crash had knocked the air out of him.

He broke the surface, taking huge gulping breaths. The Leviathan loomed above, an otherwordly terror, an alien godbeast. It hovered over them, blotting out the sky in all directions. Up close, he could see the creature’s many hungry maws, its razor sharp teeth, its red eyes, and the many crusty pores of its skin oozing a strange green pus.

The mere sight of it extinguished all hope within Enzo.

A wave rolled over him, submerging him again. He came up, coughing and sputtering again. Something kicked him in the back of his head. He turned and found a corpse lying face-down in the water.

“Leo! Gianna!” he called out. But there was no answer. How could they possibly hear him?

The ship’s aft portion was sinking, being swallowed by the hungry sea. Where had the Leviathan gone? It had somehow vanished.

“Leo! Gianna!”

“Over here.” A faint voice called out to him. Gianna’s voice.

He turned and saw Gianna in one of the raft’s, joined by Cosimo and others. Leo was already swimming towards it, swords strapped to his shoulders. Enzo followed. When he reached the raft, Ragnar helped pull him in. Leo was already on board, shaking from the cold.

“Where did it go?” asked Brune, his voice quavering. “Where did it go!?”

“Disappeared,” said Ragnar in a flat monotone.

“It comes and goes,” said Cosimo. “And evidently it doesn’t only haunt the Eastern Sea. Leo, Enzo, Gianna — take oars and help us row.”

“There are still people out there,” said Gianna plaintively. Even over the roar of the sea they could hear people clamoring for help. “We have to save them!”

“There’s no room left on the raft. And I dare not risk provoking the wrath of the Leviathan. It could return any moment. Now fucking row!”

They plowed their oars, beating steadily north as dawn broke. Brune kept looking back, kept scanning below the surface of the sea, his face a sheen of sweat, but the Leviathan did not return.

It was tiring, backbreaking work — and they had meager provisions to sustain them. There was no food, but collectively they had a waterskin (Ragnar’s) and a wineskin (Cosimo’s — which he would not share).

As they rounded a rocky outcrop, their destination came into full view. An ivory castle was perched atop a cliff, standing august and resolute above the spray of the sea.

And in the bay below, another surprise awaited them. A ship — another galleon. The Spirit, her name spelt in silver lettering.

“Fuck!” said Cosimo. “Someone beat us here…”