Chapter 1

This Old Town

In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear--

The record scratched. The sound emanated from the gramophone that sat on the corner of the old wooden bar. Tables were haphazardly scattered around the room with most of them sitting completely empty. Several ceiling fans creaked ever so slowly, as they kept the place at a mostly uncomfortable temperature. The pungent smell of smoke and alcohol lingered in the stale air as the light attempted to penetrate the dust that had settled on the untouched shutters. Randal, the old barkeep, polished the counter top in the same spot, like he always did.

Locke Ligarius sat alone at the bar staring at his drink as it perspired. He had been sitting there for what must have been an hour. Bellamy was supposed to meet him there but it was almost mid-afternoon and he had yet to show.

“I’m gonna need another one, Randal.” He murmured pointing at his drink. Randal had become hard of hearing in his old age and just kept polishing the bar.

“Hey, Randal!” he called out. Randal turned and started towards him. “Could I get another, please?”

“Oh! Sure ya, what are you havin’?”

“Rum as usual, Randal.”

Locke knocked back the rest of his drink while Randal shuffled around behind the bar. He felt the usual twinge at the back of his throat; the burning, the spice, the familiar love-hate relationship. As Randal retrieved the bottle from below the bar Locke watched him. Locke always feared this would be the last drink Randal poured. Locke worried about Randal. He and Bellamy had been coming to Randal’s beat up saloon since before they should have been and Randal and his wife, Petunia, had always been there to look after them.

About a year ago Petunia had passed away, just old age, nevertheless Randal had taken it pretty hard, he hadn’t quite been the same since. Locke felt for the old guy. Just seeing him nowadays made Locke’s gut churn, he knew he'd end up just like Randal, old, alone, still sitting in this dump, unable to escape this old town. Still, he respected Randal, at least he had his bar; a place where the townsfolk could come for a shitty drink and a decent time. The bar even had his name on it, which was more than most people had to show for their life.

“There you go Master Ligarius, one rum. Added a few rocks for you.” Randal said, now short of breath. “Anything else you’ll be needing?”

“No. Thanks Randal,” Locke responded.

Locke took two denarii from his pocket and placed them on the counter. With his other hand, he grasped the freshly poured glass. The cool exterior refreshed his palm. He continued to sit and sipped his drink in wait. As he sat there, wondering what could possibly be taking Bellamy so long, he overheard a group of weary regulars sitting in an even less lit corner of the bar. They had been there since before Locke arrived and were currently on the subject of whose bust was bigger.

A woman piped up, “Sally, everyone knows you’ve been stuffin’ that shirt of yours for the past 50 years.”

There was a quick retort from another old lady, “I hav’ not!” She must have been Sally as she sounded very defensive.

“Ha! I bet that boy Emperor we got, has bigger!” The first woman continued.

The table erupted with laughter. Sally, flushed with red, looked as if she was attempting to ignore the joke while simultaneously trying very hard to think of something mean to spit back.

Locke found himself morbidly amused by the old ladies conversation and began chuckling to himself at the thought of an Emperor sporting a brassiere. It was just then; there was a rustling of hasty footsteps at the door.

Locke turned to look as Bellamy came bursting into the room. The giant steel door slamming shut behind him. His lush blonde hair was swept with sweat as if he’d run all the way there. He was curled over, with his hands atop his knees, attempting to catch his breath.

“Locke…” He exclaimed short of breath.

“There you are,” Locke responded. “Where the hell have you been?” He asked impatiently.

Bellamy panted heavily. “I was … I just… Come see.” He was pointing back the way he had come in. “C'mon man… you're not gonna believe what's in the harbour…” His voice began to steady.

“Come see what?” Locke inquired.

“Just come on!” Bellamy pushed.

Locke looked at his glass, downed what was left and followed Bellamy outside. They stepped out into the street and Locke still wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about.

“Look there.” Bellamy said pointing off the main street and across the bay.

Locke looked and his face froze. There, down in the harbor, a ship so large it engulfed nearly the entirety of the docks in a looming shadow. Ships don’t often come to their small town. There’s some relatively small traders and the occasional Imperial scout vessel, but nothing like this.

The ship must have been two hundred feet long, its berth stretching across the entire harbor. It had the stature of an imperial frigate with a dip in the middle due to the raised forecastle and quarterdeck. The hull was a dark wood adorned with royal gold trim and decorated with elaborate gold markings. Excessive gun ports unapologetically protruded from the port and starboard sides. Three giant wooden masts shot up into the sky and a jungle of ropes and stays were entangled between them. Its billowy white sails resembled a menagerie of low hanging clouds nestled neatly in the bay. Locke could see them flap and flutter as the ship’s crew furled them. What looked like twenty ant-sized sailors hustling across the deck of the ship with another ten or so monkeying about the square shaped rigging. His eyes followed them around the yards, up to the crows nest and back down to the deck.

Bellamy broke the silence, finally catching his breath. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” He asked rhetorically. “Spotted it making port. Thought you might like it.”

A loud crack filled the air before Locke could respond. The topgallant yard snapped clean in two. The upper cross section of the main mast came tumbling down toward the deck; it snagged the rope ladders and dragged the freshly furled sails down with it. With a thud it smashed into the deck of the vessel and bounced overboard splashing into the water. The main sails, now dangling to the deck from what remained of the main rigging, absorbed a pinkish hue. Locke blinked, his eyes relinquished their depth of field and the disastrous details were drawn to the forefront. Holes peppered the bases of the sails and portions of the ship seemed to be torn asunder. The broadsides, which had seen better days, had several of their gunports mutilated and mangled.

Locke was dumbstruck, goosebumps crawled over his entire body. “What the fuck happened to that thing?” he responded.

Bellamy looked at him and smiled. “Come on, let's take a closer look!” And he was off, as quick as he came, back towards the harbor.

Locke gave chase, his mind swirled with questions.