“I’m sure she misses you as much, Alaric,” said Mott to a dejected Alaric. The lord of Khudril sat in his usual place under deck. His hands had been bound this time to a beam of the ship as demanded by Tillet.

Alaric could not prevent tears from rolling down his face. The thought of those he would never see again had finally made their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

“Aslay…she the woman I loved. I never told her,” he cried. It was a quiet cry though, for he did not want any of the men above deck to hear his woes. The crew’s loyalties had split since Tillet had killed Dericore. Tillet the Terror remained above deck, shouting orders to the oarsmen from the bow of the ship. Heliot and Virion remained at his side constantly echoing his orders.

Below them were Mott, Alaric, Prys, and Saliske. It had been a long week since the change in lead. Tillet claimed they were still on course for Gobblesfled, although Saliske had doubts in his mind.

Alaric continued his talks, his only listener being Mott Soulton who was carving chunks of meat off of a trout and dropping them into a bucket. “She was pretty, Mott. But it was not her beauty that I fell for. It was her wit and her feistiness. She had that stubbornness to her that makes a man hesitate when he looks her in the eye.”

“Aye, the best kind of woman.” Mott kept his eyes on the fish. Alaric knew he only said that to make him feel better.

“No, they aren’t the best type of women. But for some reason that’s how Aslay was. I had known my whole life growing up. She was from a house of poor wealth and so we never married. We never talked about it though.”

“Did you ever get married then?” asked Mott. “You are near thirty if I remember correctly, isn’t that a bit late for a lord to wed?”

“I swore to myself I would not marry a woman besides Aslay, even if I would not bear an heir because of it. My brothers forced me into marriage. They met with the Dalrynd’s without me asking and bound my life to a woman called Kallee.” The tears had stopped rolling down Alaric’s cheeks.

“Ahh, I see. And how long had you been married?” Mott dropped the remains of the fish bones into a waste bucket and started again with a new fish.

“A night,” replied Mott.

Prysm and Saliske emerged the wooden door that led above deck. Prysm’s face was scrunched up angrily and Saliske appeared dejected.

“That snake Tillet means to take the coin for himself and no one else. Those two are fools to serve him and think Tillet will spare them as much as a shilling,” snorted Prysm.

“What makes you say that?” asked Alaric.

“Well it’s nice to see you’re curious. You’re the only one who doesn’t have to check their back and sleep with your eyes open because you’re his token to wealth!” yelled Prysm. Mott calmly patted the air with his hands to quiet Prysm.

Alaric retorted, “What do you mean to say? You’re not the one whose been plucked from a life of luxury as a lord of fertile land to be taken to a goblin wasteland where I’ll be bent over by some goblin warlord used for seasoning in their stews.”

“Well, why don’t you just jump ship then and spare yourself the suffering? The lord of the sea should have mercy on you—oh wait, let me skin your headfirst and then we’ll see!” Prysm’s face was full of fury and his teeth gritted together so hard that saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Saliske glanced from face to face, fumbling his sausage fingers together like he often did when he was nervous. Mott dropped his knife and tossed the fish into the bucket, giving his full attention to the dispute.

“Come on now. If we’re convicned he isn’t gon’ give us a fair share, then let’s do summit ‘bout it instead of chewing each other’s heads off.” Mott tried to offer a neutral truce, but Alaric was having none of it.

“Yeah! How about we take down Tillet and turn around this ship? We can all agree we are lost at sea and most likely never going to find Gobblesfled at this point. Let’s face it—Dericore is gone, and we’re not meant for the sea.”

“We’re no pirates,” said Saliske. “We’re just smugglers…thieves.”

“No,” said Prysm. “I will not listen to Alaric just because Mott has some sort of secret love for the man. I intend to ensure Alaric arrives at Gobblesfled and that I get my fair price. I just don’t intend for Tillet to around by the time we get there.”

The four sat quietly amidst the ship’s gentle swaying. The seas were calmer than they had been for a while, but the sky overhead had grown darker and darker. The day was marked by faint light that pushed through the black clouds overhead. Nighttime brought strong winds and a sky as dark as pitch. Mott had been convinced that the night had cost them their sense of direction, claiming Tillet was leading them towards world’s end where the last of the Draining Sea ended and a great waterfall dropped endlessly until spilling into the Great Void.

“I think we can agree that Tillet will not look out for anyone whose loyalties are not cemented by his side. In which case, all three of us are doomed.” Mott used his hand to signify the three men besides Alaric. “But I cannot get my hands dirty, I am only a fisherman.”

“Only a fisherman, huh?” muttered Saliske. “I am the crew’s keeper of whispers. Does that make me eligible to get my hands dirty? You’re useless. We don’t even need a fisherman. All the fish are dead, Mott. The black ooze runs through these waters.”

“Not if you clean the fish. I had some this morning,” Mott replied.

“Enough,” said Alaric. “If you still intend to take me to Gobblesfled, there must at least be a plan to take down Tillet and possibly Heliot and Virion too. Those men clearly want nothing to do with you lot.” Mott resumed picking at the fish, rinsing black tar off of a silver and chrome colored minnow.

“We all saw Dericore duel Tillet. We cannot hope to beat his flaming sword,” claimed Prysm.

“Our lord was drunken, though.” Saliske didn’t lift his eyes from the Mott’s busy hands as he spoke.

“He is not our lord anymore, Sal.” Prysm had calmed since his outburst. His soft eyes, too, had now fallen onto Mott’s hands as they went about rubbing tar from the fish. “And we cannot hope to beat that flaming sword,” he repeated himself.

“Who said we had to face him in a duel at all?” Saliske’s eyes darted across each of their faces.

“What do you mean? You’re not going to catch him unawares, he’s got Virion and Heliot at his heal at every turn,” said Prysm.

“Exactly,” replied Saliske. “That’s why we’ll wait until he sleeps.”

All except Alaric returned an excited glint. It was something.

And so, the plan was made—that one night when Tillet went to lay his head down to rest Prysm would go in with his dirk and stab Tillet in his sleep. Saliske would stand just outside Tillet’s quarters, which used to be Dericore’s, and stand watch. The only problem was that Virion and Heliot would take turns standing guard outside Tillet’s door. That was a match up that Prysm, Saliske, and Mott did not think in their favor despite having the numbers on the two men. The two were both brutes—one being a former renown knight and the other a seasoned warrior with no morals. Nights passed and the men awaited an opportunity.

The opportunity came a few nights later when the seas grew rough at night and all hands were needed at the oars. Heliot and Virion were both strong men and so they joined the ship slaves at the oars. Water sprayed powerfully from the sides of the ship, spraying the deck in sheets of rain. Thunder slammed overhead and cracked like the whip of the sky god. Tillet had not slept for two days and so he retreated to his quarters to rest his eyes. Virion and Heliot remained at the oars.

Mott ascended up onto the deck. He approached Prysm secretly as he rowed, “Tillet is in his quarters. Now is the time,” he whispered. Prysm sneakily left his bench at the oars and crept below to the cabin where Saliske was already waiting. The two debated using the old, rusted chainmail but decided it to loud and clunky. Instead, they went in dark robes hoping to be concealed in the shadows as they approached Tillet’s sleeping body.

The ship lurched and swayed wildly underneath the raging sea. Alaric watched from the other end of the cabin up against his pole. His hands had been chafed and rubbed raw and so now it was his ankles that were bound to the pole. Mott had gone above deck to remain away from the happenings in case something should go awry so he would be far from harm. Alaric had not blamed him. He was only a fisherman.

Prysm crept in through the wooden door to the small room that Tillet slept in. His dirk was held with the point down so that he could jam the blade overhand into the sleeping pile under the blankets that was Tillet. The ship swayed harshly and Prysm struggled not to grab hold of something. He steadied himself, hoping he had not made enough noise to wake him. He glanced back through the cracked door and saw Saliske’s watchful eyes peering back at him.

He took two cautious steps towards the polished wood that served as a bed for Tillet. His body was a long lump covered by furskins, blankets, and extra cloaks for warmth. Prysm took a sharp intake of breath and raised the dirk.

He brought it down. He slammed the tip of the dirk into the lump underneath the furs and blankets and it bit through more softly than he had imagined. The body made no grunts or moans, and Prysm held his dirk in place for a moment. His blood froze. The shadow of a figure rose along the wooded cabin wall in front of him.

“Sal?” he called out. He withdrew the dirk and flung the furs to reveal a body. But it was not Tillet’s. Dericore’s white corpse stared back at him. The shadow behind Prysm jutted his sword through Prysm’s back, impaling him. The scythe was jammed into the cabin wall in front of him, pinning Prysm up against it. His mouth was stuck open in shock as blood pooled from it. He gasped and shuttered, and Tillet let go of the scythe. It stuck to the wall, keeping Prysm impaled like cooked meat on a stick.

Tillet turned slowly, his eyes meeting Saliske’s own eyes. He gave a gasp and turned to run. He did not make it more than a step when he ran into the hard stomach of Heliot Sangrey. The disgraced knight gripped Saliske’s head with his palm and squeezed. Saliske shook in utter pain from the pressure. Alaric still sat in the corner, covering his eyes and refusing to watch.

“Hang him from the mast,” ordered Tillet, coldly. Heliot grabbed Saliske like he was a piece of driftwood and carried up onto the deck. Heliot and Virion hung him from his feet atop the mast, swinging and swaying with the ship. The blood rushed to his head and Saliske was begging for mercy. The sound of cries for help forced Mott to return below deck in hopes that he would not hear Saliske’s cries.

Tillet turned to Heliot as he strode upon the ship’s deck in between the rows of oarsmen. “Let the current take him. The sea will swallow him up soon enough.” And he was right, for a great storm was coming yet again, but this time it was worse. The clouds overhead durned the day to darkness despite’s the sun’s best efforts.

Blackened waves the size of mountainous rose up from either side of The Skadskull. Men above deck retreated to the cabin. The oars were pulled in. There was no steering the ship. The storm tossed their ship around like a twig in the wind. Rising and falling on the waves, Alaric prayed to the only God he knew for protection, and he saw Mott doing the same—although he knew not which god he prayed to.

Saliske’s cries were soon drowned out by the powerful screetching of waves crashing and slamming into their hull. One of the masts cracked under the zap of a lightening bolt. It was a deafening noise that sent men to whimpers—the loudest any of them had ever heard. The mast snapped in half and went over the side, taking Saliske with it into the belly of the ocean.

The storm rage and raged, sending the ship into every which direction and up and over wave after wave. The ship tossed and turned, and water flooded the ship up to their knees, even in the cabin. Multiple ship slaves who had barely crammed into the cabin’s entryway were dragged out onto the deck by the waters and its current. One slave tried his best to hold onto Virion’s boot, but he swung his other leg around and kicked the slave in a panic. He watched as the ship slave screamed his final breath and then. Water filled his lungs and he was tossed out into the bouts of raging waves to be with the sea god.

None of the men on board The Skadskull could have said for how long the storm raged, for day and night were the same and the storm only seemed to worsen. Their clean water was spoiled and claimed by the sea. Their food was spared, guarded by the ship slaves with their lives. They clutched onto chests and tubs of fish—knowing to lose the fodder would be to starve.

The waves had finally ceased to rise as high as the mountains although it still rained and stormed. Men were able to take to the deck again, although only to heave buckets of water out of the ship’s hull. All hands were required on deck, even Alaric now who feared that their way was lost and so he no longer bore value to Tillet. But he knew Tillet would not give up on that dream—and so even in his delusional state he ensured Alaric was safe and secure like a valuable treasure that could not be lost. The ship glided along smoother waters, but the color of the water had only gotten darker. The ship was forced along a current, and so the oars were useless. The one mast that was left no longer had a sail. It had been ripped away by the vicious waters and so The Skadskull obeyed the current and drifted along toward its doom. It was Mott Soulton who first saw it from atop the poop deck by the wheel.

“Maelstrom!” shouted Mott. “Maelstrom! Grab the oars—our lives depend on it!” he shouted.

Heads raised from stooped men who dumping water from the port bow. Their ship was indeed drifting speedily towards their doom. Up ahead, waters swirled like a tornado. Wind spun like an angry hornet, attracting their ship like a magnet. The ship slaves tested the oars, but they snapped against the current. The wooden oars splintered and crumbled from the force of the waves. Their ship was headed for the black hole and there was no escape.

Alaric glanced around desperately. He was searching for anything to grab hold of but found none. He did not want to go below deck for he could be sandwiched amidst splintering wood and a crushed ship. If he stayed on the deck he would surely be flung into deadly current and tossed and flipped until he drowned. He saw other men pondering the same thing with looks of panic in their faces that is only seen when one knows they will die.

The hole sucked their ship into its vast black center and the men on board grabbed onto poles and ropes. The ship cracked like a whip, exploding against the force of the wind as descended into its doom. The ship was dipped low into the hole and slipped right through the maelstrom.