Dericore stood his ground while Tillet screamed loudly in his face. His eyes were puffy, and his cheeks stained a furious red amidst his wanton rage. Dericore had ordered Tillet to let the men who had not burned yet to escape and even provided them with their backup skiff and a large sack of gold. Tillet had spat in disgust when Dericore watched Haqor walked away free without keeping him as a captive—knowing full well that the goblins would pay a good price for a captain of a Blackwater Creed ship—as they are always intercepting ships on route for Gobblesfled.

Tillet marched below deck to his private cabin quarters, which in truth was smaller than a closet space. Dericore motioned his head for the ship slaves who survive to begin ridding the ship of dead bodies. Multiple cloaks made of human flesh wreaked of death and the ship slaves hurled until all that was left was bile and phlegm.

Joren Keltin had been a notable casualty. He had forced his way aboard the other ship but had been set astray from The Skadskull when Tillet was forced to let the enemy leave. Tillet kicked down the planks from the two ships and watched Joren be cast away on a burning ship. He ran thrashing and screaming from the bow and plunged into the water to distinguish the ball of flames that ate away at him. His screaming was drowned out as The Skadskull oared away and waited for the black water to fill Joren’s lungs and drown him.

Virion had sustained a blow to the head, but he was able to nod his head and eat. Prysm had a gash along his shoulder which soon became infected, and one of the ship slaves attended to the healing of Dericore’s head who spent the next week resting and drinking ale until he could no longer feel anything.

Kivan Kilmar sat like a statue upon the crow’s nest, Saliske Granyon thwittled his thumbs and muttered anxious prayers, whilst Mott sat beside Alaric, speaking only to ask one another to scoot the blankets over them. The air had grown cold and a stubborn wind had picked up outside. The winds swept through the cracks of the wooden boards and right through their shivering bodies. The nights were worst when the sun went down. The seas grew rougher each day and the nights colder. Sleet pounded the ship one night and two rowers were thrown over the side of the powerful waves.

The crew had all packed inside the cabin after that as the ship became as small as a wood chip as it glided along the crest of wave after wave. Black tar stained the water’s usual green look as the fluid bogged down their ship. The water was ankle high when standing on deck. Men struggled to toss water from the ship as more and more of it flowed over the side.

Dericore was finally recovering after a week and a half and even he was bewildered by the size of the storm they found themselves in. When the sun arose again, it only went from dark to less dark, as the thick clouds rolled in almost ceremoniously. Rolling over each other like the waves themselves, the clouds would light up in a flicker of bright light as lightening crashed across the sky like a whip. The thunder was roar so loud that men covered hands to their ears. Soon that was not possible as the ship was flailed around like a child’s toy. Men required both hands to grip the railings and the floorboards. Four more men were lost the final night of the storm. Three of them were ship slaves and the other was Kivan Kalmar the archer. He had remained upon his crow’s nest and it had cost his life.

Alaric had been stunned to learn of it, but it did not come as a surprise. The archer had not set foot upon the deck since the day they boarded the ship. All in all, six ship slaves remained and seven of Dericore’s original nine-man crew remained. The surprise deaths of Joren and Kivan had rattled Dericore more than anyone. Mott explained to Alaric that Dericore prided himself on guaranteeing the well-being of his crew. He had never lost a man at sea as long as they served in his gang of smugglers.

Dericore was tended to by ship slaves as he remained alone inside his cabin’s quarters reading scrolls and parchment. Saliske had slipped inside and reported that the captain read literature on the Blackwater Creed and subsequently it was feared that Dericore had become one of them. The rest of the crew had begun to split in half. Tillet remained on deck shouting orders to the rowing ship slaves. Heliot and Virion stood by his side as they once had for Dericore. Saliske, Prysm, and Mott remained below deck at the side of Alaric Aymon—for he was their one hope to become wealthy so long as they saw the lord safely into the hands of the goblin trader.

Late one night the four were talking as they always did.

“I don’t like what’s happened to our lord. He is no longer a warlord, but he is a pious man of the Creed,” sneered Prysm. He glared towards the lord’s room where candlelight lit the table of a crouched Dericore.

“I thought he just had his head scalped to fool them. I did not know he had meant it this way,” said Saliske.

“Well he didn’t at first, obviously.” Mott was always quick to assert his understanding. “Our lord was shaken by them once he realized how deeply they believed. You saw the way he studied Haqor when he spoke. He’s always wondered about the black ooze too. He saw the way it nearly killed Joren.” Mott leaned back, relieved to have stammered the words out.

“And now he is dead,” stated an obvious Prysm.

“Tillet is restless now. Dericore must gather his strength and soon,” said Saliske.

“Tillet can do whatever he wants now. He’s got that flaming sword. We all saw what he could do with it,” replied Mott.

“Ssshhh…you must at least try to keep your voice down. Dericore is just on the other side of the wooden door.” Alaric had been listening quietly up until that point.

“Now that the storm has passed Tillet will try to assert his dominance,” stated Saliske.

“Well how do you suddenly know everything? Did your god reply to your prayers finally?” spat Prysm. He despised all things pious.

“He’s right,” said Alaric. “And I’m the only one he can’t kill. I’m worth all of the gold that he wants.”

The four men appeared inconspicuous when the door to Derciore’s quarters shot open and out walked the captain. He brushed by the four men without so much as a glance. His face was pasty white, and the severed scalp had healed poorly. His hair had been torn out from stress and his face showed sleeplessness.

Out on the deck Dericore approached the bow of the ship where Tillet was standing with Heliot and Virion.

“You know, there’s only one reason I can imagine you’d spare those pirates who raided us,” started Tillet. He smiled as he spoke, “And I think the scalped head speaks for itself.”

“Back down. Heliot. Virion. Take his sword from him.” Dericore sneered amusingly, but the two men just returned insolent stares. It was Tillet’s turn to scoff now.

“If you want this sword yourself, you’re gonna have to come get it.” Tillet unsheathed the blade. The sun glinted off the orange flames. The licked thirstily at the air as he swung the sword in his hand. The weight was perfect.

Dericore unsheathed his own sword. It was a fine weapon in its own right, stolen from a warrior slain in a skirmish when he still lived amongst Skadjans. The two danced around in circles with both hands clasped firmly around their respective hilts. Tillet’s sword shown a bright glow upon his angry face. Dericore’s face held firm but calm. Heliot and Virion backed off, leaving the two to a fair fight.

Mott, Alaric, Prysm, and Saliske scurried up onto the deck from below. Their eyes grew large with disbelief at the sight. The two were going at it. Metal clashed on metal as the blades kissed and twirled. The two tooks turns absorbing blows and parrying strokes off to the side. Dericore was the stiffer of the two but he was stronger. Tillet danced and poked and tried to tire out his captain.

Dericore got a step on Tillet, who hesitated and slipped. Dericore sliced down on Tillet catching his sleeve. A gash poured blood from his arm and his sword clattered down by his side. His cheek rested against the wooden plank as Dericore brought his longsword over his head. The tip of the sword hung over Tillet’s face. His waited for the blade to pierce his head but instead he saw a blade protrude from his chest. The sword twisted, digging deep. Behind the other end of the sword was Heliot. A dark scowl had overcome his own face. Tillet laughed hysterically.

He grabbed his sword again and the flames shot from the edge of the steel. “Hang him up!” he shouted. Heliot tied Dericore’s ankles to the riggings of the mast’s pole. The lord hung there spunning. Tillet touched the flaming sword to his linens and cloak. The screams sent the hair on Alaric’s neck straight up.

He couldn’t watch as the flames ate away at Dericore, burning him alive.

“We are not a part of the Blackwater Creed. This is The Skadskull and we’re taking lord Aymon to Gobblesfled. Dericore Badrome is not going to get a single shilling. Well…maybe his corpse. We’ll have to see if the god of the sea favors him and returns him to us as one of the Men of Bones. Isn’t that what they said?”

Heliot cut the riggings and the flayed body flung into the black waters below. The waves engulfed the body and it was not long before their ship was miles and miles gone. Tillet turned to Alaric Aymon, “And you…you need to be tied up. Elsewise, I was on a role. Anyone else want stared murderously at Alaric.

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that the lord of the sea meant for me to have this.” Tillet pet the flat of his sword calmly. The flames bit at his hand.