“How much longer?” asked Alaric. He was shoving his face into a salmon that Mott Soulton had tossed him. His fingers were near as dark as pitch from dirt and filth, but he didn’t dare run his hands through the water. The black ooze still sat in certain areas of the water in clumps, and the half of the crew who had jumped into the waters to escape the archers a few days prior had fallen ill.

“Near a day or so. We are darn close,” said Mott. He studied Alaric’s face as he ate.

“What are you looking at?” Alaric muttered in between breaths of stinky fish.

“You eat like a Skadjan,” stated Mott.

“A Skadjan?”

“It is the what you call a man from the badlands. We do not call it badlands where we are from, you know? Well…where they’re from.” Mott nodded his head towards the rest of the men on board. Joren and Prysm were laying along the prow with hands blocking the sun from their eyes.

“You’re not from the badlands?” enquired Alaric.

“No, far from it. I was a fisherman along the coast of Brindvale. I brought fish to the king for his royal dinners. It was fine money, that was.” Mott was reflecting, Alaric noticed.

“Why aren’t you doing that anymore? Sounds a better job than this.”

“I left a couple years ago. When you’re a fisherman you hear things. Lots of things. I heard from some smugglers along the coast of Brindvale that the Skadjan were planning an attack on the capital. At the time those men believed they would attack soon. War ships had been monitoring Brindvale’s coast for months which is a strong sign they mean to attack. I decided to move into smuggling, for I knew that if I continued to serve the king, I would possibly be caught in the crossfire should they choose to attack along the coast.”

“Well wouldn’t you still get caught amidst an attack if you are a smuggler along the coast?”

“No. For one, I moved farther down along the coast to be closer to Rivertrade where the smuggling trade and the slave trade run deep. But you must also keep in mind, smugglers hear everything first. We are the first ears that those whispers arrive at, and then that is when word begins to seep from the coast and edged its way along the land and then eventually makes its way further inland.” Mott pulled in the nets that he had cast. Their galley was anchored a far way from shore to find fodder for their last meal before they made for Rivertrade.

Alaric became dismayed, “So you knew that Thorck had plans to overtake Brindvale?”

“So did every other smuggler, pirate, and fisherman along the coast. But you hear those sorts of things all the time. You don’t know when it is true and when it is all a game.”

“A game?” questioned Alaric.

“Of course. Smuggling is more than passing of coin from hand to hand. We are the first ears to hear, but the last ones to speak. I’m sure you’ve paid coin for a man to do your work, you were a lord weren’t you?” Mott’s tone had turned accusing.

“I was a lord,” he paused, lowering the salmon from his face. It was just bones now. “I had a man who did things for me. Every lord does. Do you think Lord Ryn Malarin is seen along the coast sharing japes with pirates and smugglers?”

Mott gave a face that signified his point was fair enough.

Alaric continued after some pause, “So where did Thorck draw his support from? I do not know much of the badlands because we do not speak of them in the nine kingdoms, for they are seen as accursed and blasphemous.”

Dericore had been listening quietly and he cut off Mott to speak, “Thorck is a warlord above anything else. I knew him from my days in Drotia-Quth, which is the biggest territory in Skadjia—”

“Skadjia are the badlands, I take it?” Alaric asked.

“Do not interrupt your lord, fool. I’m growing tired of that tongue of yours,” Tillet hissed.

Dericore shot him a look but Tillet the Terror simply ran a tongue along his teeth and ran the edge of his knives together, nonplussed. Heliot Sangrey ordered the rest of the men to the oars and so Mott left, leaving Dericore and Alaric to speak privately.

“Yes, Skadjia is my home. I would not call it badlands unless I am speaking to a simpleton,” said Dericore.

“What is Drotia-Quth like? I want to know,” claimed Alaric. His face had grown thick stubble upon his chin and cheeks. He rubbed his wrist with his fingers where the bonds had left thick imprints.

“If you are lucky then you will find out soon enough. Your slaver will either take you across the Draining Sea to Gobblesfled or he will take you to Drotia-Quth to work as a slave for a warlord. But since you are a man of high ranking and wealth, it is most likely you will be sold to be sent across seas. The goblins pay a fine price for men like you.”

Alaric shivered. He did not like the thought of that. The goblin trade was a dark business. No one in the nine kingdoms dared imagine the horror of being sold to those lands, and it, too, had proved to be a matter not up for discussion.

“So why do you not seek this coin for yourself?” Alaric questioned.

“What do you mean?” Dericore was polishing his blade with a cloth until it was shiny and glimmering in the light of the sun.

“Why don’t you take me to Gobblesfled yourself and make that coin yourself? You said yourself that you could become wealthier than man dare imagine.”

“Smugglers do not travel the seas. The Draining Sea is treacherous and dangerous. It is one thing to be a smuggler, but another to be a pirate. A smuggler sticks along the coastline, and we make a fine coin this way.” Dericore had narrowed his eyes. Alaric sensed his frustration. There was an insecurity there, a feeling that perhaps he could be a pirate—and maybe he should. He eyed the crowded floorboards where bags of coin, silver, and trophies hindered the ability to walk without evading the plunder.

“Men like you are seen as wicked where I am from,” said Alaric. “Men like you have robbed the banks that line the Splitter’s River and disrupted many harmless envoys carrying valuables.” Alaric added, “My valuables.”

“Unfortunately for you, Lord Aymon, Khudril sits right along a rich vein of trade. Rivertrade is to the east of your land, and Splitter’s River runs right along the banks of your northern border. Trade along those waters is always going to be contaminated with bad men. That is the way it has always been.” Dericore finished cleaning his sword and held it up high to admire it. He swung it wildly, nearly catching Mott on the back of the head as he rowed and he turned nervously, hearing its swooping sound.

“You’ll make a fine prize, Lord Aymon. You once lived in wealth inside your lands but now you are giving back. Consider me the first beneficiary of that arrangement.” Dericore smiled a toothy grin for the first time Alaric had seen. A golden tooth shined back at him. Dericore’s hair hung limply along his cheek in twisted bundle of braid and dread.

“I gave generously to my poor. I’ve played my part already. Return me to Khudril when we arrive at Rivertrade and I will reward you with more riches than you could ever hope to obtain as a smuggler. Between you and me, I would even make you a palace, just for you. Imagine that.” Alaric had been staring dreamily along the waters before them as they spoke, but his smooth-talk was disrupted by Dericore’s deep bellied laughter.

“Your lands are likely burned to the ground by now, Lord Aymon. Your gold and your silver are in the hands of Thorck’s mercenaries, and I’d swear by it on your own God.” Dericore laughed again, recounting Alaric’s naïve words in his head.

Rain began to fall from the gray clouds that loomed above like a blanket. The rain quickly picked up, sweeping like a swinging curtain across the sea. The coast of Lightenbrag was still visible, and so Heliot received permission from Dericore to move inland. Tillet argued that they were already so close to Rivertrade that they should push through, but Dericore had feared that the winds would pick up and there was always the chance that they would be swept out to sea. It was not uncommon for small galleys to be drawn deep into the endless waters of the Draining Sea and never return.

“I don’t mean to find out where the world ends,” Dericore had said. Tillet muttered something under his breath as rowed the oars but the rest of the men complied in silence. Prysm’s cough was slowing fading away and so he joined in with the oarsmen, forcing Dericore to join his own men to even out the sides. Joren was still hunched over by the prow, clutching his sides as he coughed vehemently. The sound was crude, and Alaric coughed at its sound. Thick mucus would free itself every couple of coughs, and Joren hacked at his throat—desperate to ease his lungs of that burden. His hair was so blonde it was almost white, Alaric noticed. He was quite a handsome man, not the sort he would have expected the end up in the company of men such as these.

As they approached shore, talk was little, and groans of effort were all that filled the air. Alaric began to scheme in his head. This was a rare chance. They were to dock their ship until the storm passed, and so they would be on land. He prayed to his God that the coast they approached would be lined with royal guardsmen, but he could not count on it. They were closer to Rivertrade now, and the closer to Rivertrade they were, the less regulation there was on trade and dealings.

The galley eased its way in now, the men taking off from the oars and letting their ship coast them towards shore. Alaric could make out the sight of a typical small port. Brothels lined one side of the street ahead, the other was full of ships selling fish and seafood. Various men were dotted like hundreds of ants, some huddled in small groups and others just speaking one and one.

The ship was properly stowed and Dericore handed a small sack of coins to the tradesman who manned the small port. He was a stout man with thick whiskers and a face like an eel. His eyes scanned each of the smugglers as they departed their ship with a look of suspicion. There are no honest men here, thought Alaric. And there were none.

The culture of trading along the Draining Sea had always been rough along the edges ever since Osknia had been inhabited by man. It was no wonder that the nine kingdoms turned a blind eye to its dealings. It was profitable even for wealthy lords and nobles who meant to have slaves or valuables shipped for a good price. To have thieves and bad men arrested for their dark dealings in those parts would be to rid the entire sea route of its existence, for no man entered the trade without the skill of thievery.

Alaric had always been told by his father to steer clear of the coasts as a child, for his father had ruled Khudril before himself and had seen firsthand what sort of horrors went on along Khudril’s northern bank which ran along the Splitter’s River. The thorn in his father’s side had always been Splitter’s River. There were always men who snuck along the river’s banks and robbed wealthy merchants along the banks and then retreated to their skiffs in Splitter’s River, and the Draining Sea was not far off as long as they were efficient with their escape.

Alaric had always turned a blind eye to Spitter’s River since taking his father’s lordship. It was not a stress that Alaric had found necessary. Thieves were going to thieve, and he did not mean to keep up the tradition of massacres along the river. But he had taken much stick, of course, from his advisors. His captain of the guard, Ser Crenjor, had always prodded him about it, but he would brush his urgings aside. “Our fishermen know how to hold their own against bandits, they are fine without my men.” Alaric would reply curtly to Ser Crenjor, who would scoff—the only man Alaric would allow a scoffing from.

Alaric would rely on his neighbors from across the Splitter’s River to deal with any major threats to come down the natural border of water. Ilkard had heavily invested in patrolling their southern bank since their northern border was the coastline by the Draining Sea. Alaric had understood Ilkard’s incentive, considering that leaving both their north and south borders unmanned would only lead to smugglers and mercenaries encroaching towards the mainland. Alaric’s lands did not have such a problem, since they were only bordered fully by water on one side—and that was where Splitter’s River ran.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Heliot Sangrey heaved him in the side with his elbow, “Let’s go. We’re here.” His tone was sulky. Alaric figured he must have been one in favor of continuing towards Rivertrade despite the rains that hashed at them. They raindrops came down like thick beadlets. Their ship docked and they made their way onto the wood planks underfoot and Alaric found himself thankful to be on land again. He had always forgotten what it felt like not to sway with the waters below you despite only being at sea for four days.

The crew of ten men paid fair coin for lodgings at a local inn meant for travelling seamen, but only seven made for beds. The three left behind to watch their ship was Tillet, Joren, and Heliot Sangrey. Dericore demanded Joren stay with the ship—the inn was not like to offer fair stead if Joren was dragging sickness in with them from the sea. It was known that inn keepers had hired blades in the backroom if they thought visitors to be suspicious, and Dericore had not planned drawing attention to their stay.

Dericore had left Alaric outside in the company of the ominous Kivan Kalmar and his golden arrows. Alaric had heard him speak at most a single sentence since taken captive. Kivan had found them a space in the alley beside the inn where he tied hempen rope from his own his wrist to Alaric’s neck—that way if Alaric should try to sneak away Kivan could simply give a yank on the rope and Alaric would face the rope tightening around his neck. The two sat quietly against the wall of the inn facing the building that partnered the inn. The inn’s wide roofing covered them from the rain and so the only sound that accompanied the two was the sound of rain droplets slapping the roofs of buildings and then dribbling down in small waterfalls. Alaric’s eyes became heavy with the soothing sound and he drifted off into a sleep.

Alaric clawed at the rope wildly as it squeezed his neck and turned his face purple. Kivan Kalmar had begun walking away with the ropes at his wrist which had tightened the knot around his neck. He scrambled to his feet, desperate to catch up to Kivan to loosen the hold of the rope on his throat. When he finally did, he coughed violently and rubbed his neck gingerly. He muttered curses at Kivan but either did not hear or simply did not care. He followed Kivan nonetheless until they arrived at the edge of the coast where the waters washed up against the wooden walkway. The rain had finally stopped but the sun was still hidden by clouds. The night had seemed too short, and Alaric found himself wishing he had longer to rest. His eyes were slow adjusting to even the dim light of day and he yawned often. Kivan remained still as he watched the waters before them.

Ships were beginning the day’s journey and men were undocking their galleys and skiffs. The shops had not yet opened except for a vendor selling crab cakes and lobster legs. Alaric scanned the docks and saw Tillet, Joren, and Heliot less than a hundred yards away, standing beside their ship. Dericore and the rest of the crew were yet to return from the inn. They were likely to have enjoyed an ale too many the night before and possibly resorted to bedding whores if Alaric’s guess was correct.

Alaric rubbed his eyes again after something caught his eye. He strained his eyes to glance open something shining bright along the water. It was not far away at all, and the closer it drifted the more Alaric began to think it was a sword. Its blade was a flame and the hilt glowed like hot coals. He glanced towards Kivan but he either had not seen it or did not react—Alaric could not tell for the cowl of his cloak was covering his face as it always did.

“Kivan, do you see that?” asked Alaric. “Look, just there,” he pointed. Kivan did not acknowledge him nor did his head turn to see where his finger pointed. Alaric huffed an exasperated sigh. He tugged on the rope to try to move towards the floating sword but Kivan just tightened his grip of the rope which choked him again. He gagged from the rope’s tightening, losing patience all the while,

“Dumb peasant,” muttered Alaric so that Kivan could hear him. “No wonder you are a mute smuggler, peasants like you always end up with the scum.” His provocations failed. Kivan did not shutter. Alaric could only watch as the flaming sword drifted underneath the wooden docks where a small galley was moored. The blade was drifting towards The Tycoon where Tillet and Heliot stood, talking with hands cusped over their mouths.

A few moments later, the small port had begun to busy with activity as shops opened up for the day and storekeepers unbarred their doors. Travellers set about unmooring their ships for the day and stragglers who had travelled through the night began to arrive. The sun overhead began to heat the morning air as it peeked shyly through the hanging clouds overhead. There was still no sign of Dericore or any of the men who had followed him inside to the inn for the night. Alaric and Kivan remained standing before the water, Kivan sharpening the steel tip heads of his golden arrows. The sound of familiar voices turned Alaric’s head.

His eyes found those of Tillet the Terror, approaching with a cocky look upon his oval face. His eyes lacked any sort of squint despite the morning’s low sun. Kivan turned when he heard a sword escape its scabbard.

“You won’t believe the gift a man has found this morning,” began Tillet. He unsheathed a sword with a charred hilt that shown dully like the glowing embers of a fire. “Watch this,” said Tillet. He ran a sharp rock long the hilt like a match and a lick of flame ran along the hilt and across the blade’s steel, lighting it with flame. Tillet swung it, demonstrating its glory. Alaric stared in fear. Even Kivan’s face had appeared taken aback inside the shadows of his midnight cloak, the brooch pin chastening his cloak reflecting the light of the sword’s flame. Tillet sheathed the sword into a leather scabbard that was slightly too small and so a small portion of the blade stuck out by the hilt. The flame had died once it was returned to the leather scabbard.

“Neat, huh?” Tillet held a dark grin. “I mean to gut the next man who so much as gives me an odd stare. It is a gift from the sea god.”

“The sea god is fable at best.” Kivan spoke now. He removed his cowl to meet Tillet’s eyes firmly. His eyes were the brightest blue Alaric had seen, but he was sure they had been a brown shade when they were aboard The Tycoon.

“Perhaps the sea god is dead, but this sword has magic in its soul.” Tillet said the word with exaggerated interest.

“The Blackwater Creed is in need of reckless fools. I saw their banner beside their sails at sea earlier. Perhaps you should join them,” said Kivan.

“You’re as stiff as a board. Go back to polishing your pretty little arrows, queer.” Tillet spit the words menacingly and shot a cold stare at Kivan until he backed down. Kivan relented, returning the cowl of his cloak upon his head. Tillet was scanning Alaric when he looked up.

“What?” asked Alaric.

“I would like to see your flesh melted upon my blade. Perhaps I’ll have to follow you to Gobblesfled to get my wish.” Tillet spit into the ground and ran the bottom of his foot over it. He walked back towards the galley and Kivan led Alaric by the rope. Alaric struggled to keep up, almost tripping upon the uneven wood planks underfoot.

As if on cue, Dericore emerged from the inn with the rest of the crew at his heels just as Kivan and Alaric arrived at The Tycoon. Dericore was moving quickly and his men followed behind him. Alaric watched in a panicked daze, seeing the look of fret upon Dericore’s face. He soon realized why.

Down the street the sound of swords clanging, and shrill screams began to replace the port’s ordinary street noises. The sound of glass shattering and curses-turned-grunts pricked the hairs on Alaric’s neck. It did not sound like a small skirmish, but rather the sound became almost deafening. Dericore was screaming something but it was drowned out by the encroaching violence.

The source of the commotion began to appear vaguely. Far down the streets lined by brothels and inns came a hoard of Skadjans in boiled leather and half helms with buckets of pitch and flame. They flooded the streets like a swarm of bees, chucking buckets of pitch and flame into buildings and burning those inside turning those buildings into a cook fire for its victims. Men who came out with their hands out in innocence were met by the slashing blows of the Skadjans with their curved swords and battle axes. Some tried escaping down the main road towards the docks where The Tycoon was moored but they were trampled by angry black destriers with riders who wore plated mail and armor from head to toe and full helms that covered all but small slits for eyes that seethed with blood-thirsty anger despite Alaric not even close enough to see their eyes. He knew—for he never known men to hack down innocents in the manner that these men did.

He dully heard the voices of Dericore and Heliot Sangrey behind him, urging everyone quickly into their galley. He felt a hand jerk his arm, but he resisted, transfixed by what occurred before him. A vision of the flaming sword from the waters passed through his head like as quick as a passing instinct of hunger, and it continued that way in intervals. He felt light-headed and soon felt his body swaying limply. The rope around his neck tightened as Kivan pulled, and Alaric fell on his back. He winced; he had scraped his shoulder in the same place it had gotten injured the day he was taken by the smugglers.

He looked up and time froze inside his head. He watched in slow motion as a one of the armored horsemen reared his horses’ front legs as it neighed wildly. The rider was flooded on either side by men on foot in their boiled leather and half helms—making hastily for the ships docked at the port.

Alaric returned to his senses and obeyed the tug of the room now, realzing he could not breath. He dashed into the galley, gripping the rope around his neck anxiously. Kivan sliced his knife through the middle of the rope and Alaric tore it from his neck, gasping for air. Their galley was already being pushed away from the port and soon they were away from the dock. The man who had demanded payment for their stay at the docks hadn’t finished scolding the smugglers for leaving without pay when his desire for coin had been punished by the slashing blow of a toothless Skadjan who jammed curved iron into the back of the tradesman—cramming the tip all the way through to the other side so that Alaric could see the sword’s tip protrude from his chest.

Lightenbrag’s coast bled orange and red with flame and smoke rose high in the sky from its destruction. The screams and cries that one only hears when a man is dying drifted across the water as sound so easily does and kept the smugglers quiet. Even Tillet sat without his usual grin, pulling at the oars with all his might towards their next destination.

“Looks like Thorck’s men have made it from Brindvale to Lightenbrag. Soon they’ll be upon Ilkard and they’ll have the whole northern border of Osknia.” It was Heliot Sangrey who spoke—the only man who was not breathing sharply from heaving on the oars. His arms were twice the width of the next strongest man on board, and so it was no surprise when silence met his remark.

Dericore relinquished his place at the oars and so too Joren, whose face had taken on a new shade of white that lingered like death itself. “If the other Skadja lands get behind Thorck’s cause with their badlands brothers then soon it will not be Drotia-Quth alone. Middigol’s army is nearly as large and will be looking to take the three kingdoms south of Splitter’s River,” said Dericore Badrome.

“And the Icemere?” asked Prysm in a strained voice, heaving back an oar.

“The Icemere have never fought, and I don’t imagine they’d start now. Their people live in their igloos and their king in his ice palace. But I’d imagine Thorck would grant Middigol those lands to the south of Splitter’s River and he’d take the lands north of the river for himself,” replied Dericore.

Heliot Sangrey glanced side on at Alaric. “Your lands will be the first that Middigol attack, your lands are rich with trade since it sits along both Splitter’s River and Rivertrade. But that shouldn’t interest you, since you will be in Gobblesfled before you know it.”

Alaric wondered where Sarin was and if she was still alive. His color had returned to his face and his breathing returned to normal as they moved away from the dreadful noises of Lightenbrag’s coast. He tried to forget Sarin, but that only made it hurt more when she popped into his head again without permission. Blight Malle, Troisten Brackos, Aslay, Lady Kallee, King Eyowen, Qavrin, Fance…the names ran through Alaric’s head and he became thankful he could not cry. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy. A lord does not cry—that is for children, he would tell himself.

The rain had tamed a bit and now it only came down in small fits of prickly rain. Alaric knew they were close; the coast had begun to change from the scattered marinas and ports of Lightenbrag to more of a scenic docking. Natural coves offered places for large and small ships alike to anchor and rest as needed. Alaric overheard Heliot tell Joren they were in Ilkard, which Alaric knew was less than half a day’s travel until Rivertrade where he was to be sold off to pirates that navigated the sea route from Osknia to Gobblesfeld.

He watched Tillet sitting upon a bench beside the oars. The men had eased off the oars and let the wind carry them towards Rivertrade. Tillet’s flaming sword sat in its scabbard, the top part of the blade sticking out. Tillet hand instinctually rested upon the hilt. He wondered if Tillet had planned on telling the others of his discovery. Kivan certainly was not going to say anything.

Alaric jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. It was Dericore Badrome—his dreads tickled Alaric’s neck from behind. He whispered into Alaric’s ear, “I would tread carefully from now on, lord. If you try anything dumb, I will make sure you see a fate worse than death. Death would be a mercy for you.” Dericore gave him a firm pat on the back that hurt more than he’d have liked and then moved to the prow of the galley to sit beside sick Joren and the mighty Heliot Sangrey, a scowl covering his face as it always did.

Mott was tampering with his fishing lines when he spoke to Alaric, “You’re a braver man than I first took you to be.” His eyes didn’t lift from his fishing supplies.

“What do you mean?” Alaric asked half-heartedly, although compliments were not much of a comfort now. His heart had begun to flutter once he realized how close they were to Rivertrade.

“Well I mean, it’s just…if it were me in your shoes…” he trailed off for a few seconds.

He looked Alaric in the face this time, “I’d just be prepared, that’s all.”

“Prepared for what?” asked Alaric, suddnely concerned.

“The men who are buying you. They are worse men than us. They work for the goblins. When you come face to face with them it changes you.” Mott seemed sullen now, sympathy in his voice.

“Well that’s a comfort to hear,” muttered Alaric sarcastically. The ship was swaying gently underneath the churning waters that the rain had stirred.

“I don’t mean to scare ya. Here, take this.” Mott glanced around the sheep nervously, handing Alaric a small sax knife when he was sure no one was looking. Alaric grabbed and quickly hid it in his boot. He turned towards the bow of the ship where Kivan sat alone, his face hidden in his hood. He was sure Kivan had seen the transaction.

“He won’t speak of it, don’t worry,” said Mott.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Alaric.

“Because you seem a good man,” Mott said, abashedly. “Most noblemen we’ve captured were snobs. Tillet would’ve taken a finger and a toe off of one by now.” Mott continued on; his eyes still fixed on two lines that had gotten tangled together. “I think the captain has taken a liking to ya, but you didn’t hear it from me.” Mott’s lips had moved but he did his best to appear inconspicuous. A man named Prysm who had jumped from the galley with Joren glanced side on at the two of men. Mott acted distracted. Alaric searched the horizon line.

Alaric spoke out of the corner of his mouth, “Help me escape.”

Mott tried to shush him and then stop himself realizing his shush was louder than Alaric had been originally. Prysm eyed them again before returning his gaze to the coastline.

“You know I can’t do that. Traitors aren’t treated well here. The last one to do something like that was before my time. If the tale is true, he was skinned alive by Tillet and then forced to remain alive for three days before he was drowned with his hands and feet bound. They tied an anchor to him and watched him sink to the ocean floor.” Gulls had flown overhead, making an obnoxious sound as flocks often do.

Another hour had passed before Dericore Badrome returned to the center of the ship to speak to his crew. “We should arrive before evening falls upon us. We arrive at Rivertrade and make for the Red Gailing. There, we should find the pirate Likt Vosi. He’s offering the largest sum we’ve ever seen for a captive of Osknia. The prices for noblemen are at a premium since Thorck has usurped the throne. Let’s be quick and orderly about the trade, no messing about. If anyone should try and raid our ship whilst we are ashore, I command you to throw your life before the riches. If you do not do as I say and you live to see another day, I will hunt you the rest of my life until I get my hands on you and I will feed your remains to the Draining Sea for the spirits of the Blackwater Creed to feed on. Are we clear?”

Nods of understanding and “yes, my lord” echoed softly amongst the crew of The Tycoon. Even Kivan had risen from his place at the bow, counting his arrows and slinging his quiver onto his back. They were drawing near and the sight of Rivertrade made Alaric’s stomach flip. Alaric glanced over the edge of the ship into the waters. The water was hardly green anymore. Instead, black ooze covered the surface of the water as far as Alaric could see. It floated along like algae, and the bones of fish and various dissolved sea creatures rose to float along the surface with the black ooze.

Mott’s head leaned over the side beside him. “The captain believes in the spirits of the Blackwater Creed. I’m starting to believe it as well.”

“How long has the water been infected like that?” asked Alaric.

“It has gotten much worse recently, but I have never seen it this bad,” replied Mott. “It seems that the waters beyond Gobblesfled where the world ends are making their way to Osknia. Some say that is how the Men of Bones have returned.”

“I don’t want to go to Gobblesfled.” Alaric’s voice was pleading, but Mott just pursed his lips.

Dericore raised his voice and all heads looked to the south. “We’ve arrived!” the men shouted raised cries in rejoicing. “Let us fill our ship with riches that will make us wealthier than the spoiled lords of Osknia! Today, eight men aboard this ship will become rich in their own right. And one man will be on his way to Gobblesfled, and the only man who can save him is the god of the Blackwater Creed.”

The Tycoon arrived at Rivertrade. Waiting for them was none other than the pirate who buys—Likt Vosi.

Alaric’s eyes met his buyer’s and those murderous eyes smiled back at him.

“Greetings, Lord Aymon. I’ve been waiting a long while for you to arrive.”