Sea of Thieves: Heart of Fire E-Book

Chris Allcock

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 404

Beschreibung

The pulse-pounding origin story of Captain Flameheart, sure to delight new and veteran players of Rare's thrilling game Sea of Thieves in this official prequel novel.The Sea of Thieves is a world of adventure. A world of buried treasure, sea monsters, and, of course, pirates. But there is one name that strikes fear into the heart of all who sail there. Captain Flameheart, dread pirate of the Sea of Thieves, is a ruthless warmonger and captain of the Burning Blade. Together with his skeletal fleets he terrorizes these waters and seeks the insatiable thrill of battle.In desperation, the legendary Pirate Lord hires the crew of the Morningstar to stop Flameheart's reign of terror once and for all. Meanwhile, a crew of misfits swears allegiance to Flameheart who offers them an intriguing opportunity to upheave the status quo.In a frenzied race to decide the fate of the Sea of Thieves, these daring pirates must outfight and outwit one another in a quest to uncover an artefact capable of defeating Flameheart once and for all.Plunge into the thrilling tale at the heart of Rare's multiplayer adventure; the origin story of the Skeleton Lord, Captain Flameheart, and the terrible sacrifices made to ensure his downfall.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Historian’s Note

Prologue: The Magpie’s Wing

1 The Morningstar

2 The Prideful Dawn

3 The Morningstar

4 The Prideful Dawn

Interlude

5 The Morningstar

6 The Prideful Dawn

7 The Morningstar

8 The Prideful Dawn

9 The Morningstar

10 The Prideful Dawn

11 The Morningstar

12 The Prideful Dawn

13 The Morningstar

14 The Burning Blade

15 The Morningstar

16 The Ophelia

17 The Ophelia

18 The Burning Blade

Epilogue: The Ashen Dragon

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Sea of Thieves: Heart of Fire

Print edition ISBN: 9781803362069

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803362779

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: August 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2022 Microsoft Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Microsoft, Sea of Thieves, and the titles of other video games owned by Microsoft are the trademarks of the Microsoft group of companies.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Dedicated to my Grandad, Reg,who had a smile as wide as the horizonand a heart as boundless as the sea.

HISTORIAN’S NOTE

This story takes place roughly eight years before the events of The Seabound Soul, the fateful day that saw Sir Arthur Pendragon and a pirate crew inadvertently revive the notorious Skeleton Lord, Flameheart. The prologue takes place roughly two decades prior to the rest of the adventure.

PROLOGUE

THEMAGPIE’S WING

Whenever Ramsey closed his eyes, he began to drown. It had been like this every night since the battle, and the nightmares showed no signs of granting him respite any time soon. Sometimes they would lie in wait for hours to ambush Ramsey during a peaceful sleep, washing away pleasant memories and casting him down into the inky void of the ocean. On other nights, it took mere moments of slumber before his treacherous imagination plunged Ramsey back beneath the waves.

With a grunt of annoyance, Ramsey forced himself upright and clambered out of his bed, which seemed destined to spend another night unoccupied. He lit no lamp, for his cabin was bathed in moonlight. Truth be told, he knew it well enough by now that he could have moved to sit behind his desk, as he did now, even while blindfolded. This was his ship, his Magpie’s Wing, and she was as familiar to him as his own bearded face in the mirror.

Having almost lost her in the fateful encounter that continued to plague him in his dreams, Ramsey spared no expense when it came to refitting and restoring the little galleon down to the last detail, and the gold he’d surrendered set several lucky shipwrights up for the rest of their lives. Not that money was hard for Ramsey to come by; he was a pirate, and a hugely successful one at that. He had captained the Magpie’s Wing during the perilous voyage that led them to an untouched paradise, now referred to as the Sea of Thieves, and her crew had availed themselves of all the plunder they could carry home from those lawless, untamed lands.

Things, Ramsey mused as he settled into his chair, were very different now. Others had followed in his footsteps and, while the Sea of Thieves remained as mysterious and unpredictable as the day he had arrived, there were now plenty of people in the region who also had their eyes on treasures that had once been his for the taking. Not just shipwrights, but merchants, tavern-keepers, weaponsmiths and any number of competing crews out on the waves. Whether they were seeking adventure, looking to seize some forgotten fortune or simply hoping to live out their lives free from rules and responsibility, the Sea of Thieves called to pirates far and wide.

At first, Ramsey had resented the intrusion of other pirates into ‘his’ waters, though time and experience had softened his anger. Nowadays, he found himself enjoying first encounters with fresh-faced men and women who already knew him by his fearsome reputation. Many of the younger crews he encountered spoke of him only as the Pirate Lord, founding father of the Sea of Thieves, and the sight of his sails on the horizon was normally enough to stop any would-be rivals dead in the water.

The problem with having a reputation, of course, was that one needed to maintain it. The days when Ramsey could walk into a grog-house and enjoy a quiet drink were long behind him. Now he would be besieged by pirates seeking a story, a job or a fight – sometimes all at once – the minute his wooden leg clattered over the threshold. Ramsey’s natural ambition, coupled with a significant sense of pride, compelled him to sail out day after day to prove, as much to himself as to others, that ‘Pirate Lord’ was a title he still deserved.

It was that ambition, the urge to pursue the impossible, which was responsible for the totem that rested on his desk, shining softly in the light of the moon. The totem that would, Ramsey hoped, ultimately lead him to the… blast, what the devil had he called it?

Ramsey reached out, fumbling with the lantern overhead until its warm glow overtook the steely moonlight and fully revealed the notes he’d scrawled down in his journal. ‘Shroudbreaker’, that was it – the name he’d chosen for the object of his quest. Yes, with a little luck and a fair wind, that strange name would be the talk of every tavern for years to come.

A decade ago, there had been no journey deemed more dangerous to a sailor’s life and limb than a trip into the Devil’s Shroud – the dense, deadly miasma that concealed the Sea of Thieves. Its boundaries ebbed and flowed, sometimes swallowing up entire islands for years at a time and rendering them entirely uninhabitable, as the fog choked living things, rusted iron and rotted away wood as if the ravages of time itself were crashing down upon them.

Ramsey and his crew had braved the Devil’s Shroud and lived to tell the tale, eventually leading others to follow in their wake, but its true nature remained a mystery, as did the nature of any islands that might currently lie within its borders. Pirates, who revelled in gossip and could spin the most mundane journey into an enthralling yarn, soon began to spread rumours of vast treasure hoards and forbidden temples languishing just out of reach, and one such tall tale quickly grew in popularity. There was an island somewhere within the Shroud, so the story went, so overburdened with gems and precious metals that the very shores themselves were formed from gold.

The prospect was almost too ludicrous to imagine, but then, hadn’t the Sea of Thieves itself been dismissed as nothing more than a fairy-tale by the sailors back home? Ramsey had consorted with merfolk, battled with an enraged kraken and single-handedly forged cursed chests whose properties could only be considered magical by all sane thinkers. Still, upon first hearing about these supposed Shores of Gold, Ramsey did not pay the tale too much heed, even if he did not discount it entirely. An island lost within the Devil’s Shroud was, after all, lost. Until now…

Ramsey toyed with his quill, pondering how many of these thoughts were worth committing to the journal in front of him. He avoided reading when possible and wrote only when absolutely necessary, but the clues that had set the Magpie’sWing on its current course were subtle and strange. Trapping them on paper was the only way Ramsey could trust them to make sense. As he reached for his inkwell, however, a familiar knock at the cabin’s door made him pause. “Come in, Mercia,” he called, his voice roughened by fatigue.

The door swung open at once and Mercia backed inside, balancing a bowl of steaming broth and a flagon of the hot, bitter tea she had taken to brewing at nights. “Your light was on,” she said by way of a greeting. “We missed you at dinner,” she added pointedly, turning to set the meal down on Ramsey’s desk in a manner that suggested continued fasting was not an option.

Ramsey merely grunted, but picked up the bowl in both hands and supped from it gracelessly. Mercia pivoted the half-completed pages towards her and pulled a face as she deciphered Ramsey’s scrawl. “I thought you said you were keeping a journal,” she remarked. “This looks more like a jigsaw puzzle. I can’t imagine anyone else making head or tail of it.”

“Good,” Ramsey replied gruffly. “I don’t want anyone to know what we’re doing until we’ve done it. Words can betray you.”

“If it wasn’t for words, we never would have learned about the Pathfinder—”

“Shroudbreaker.”

“Really? I liked Pathfinder. Anyway, this is the big adventure you were yearning for, isn’t it? A chance to get back out at sea, where we belong.”

Mercia span the journal back around and leaned forward, eyes bright as she locked gazes with her captain. Side by side the two of them made an odd pairing: Ramsey was a great, roaring bear of a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, while Mercia was deliberate and meticulous in everything she said and did. History, however, had proven that they could be a formidable team when they worked alongside one another. Together they had constructed the Magpie’s Wing, breached the Devil’s Shroud, and been the first pirates in Ramsey’s lifetime to converse with the strange, glittering race known as merfolk.

Having spent years studying the mysteries of the Sea of Thieves, it had been Mercia who uncovered legends of an artefact capable of dispelling the Devil’s Shroud, at least for a short time. A ship that held such a relic could, in theory, sail directly into the fog and emerge again unscathed, allowing its crew to escape pursuers or visit unexplored islands with ease. Whether the Shores of Gold existed or not, any pirate who could wield the Shroudbreaker would be the first to know for sure.

Suddenly feeling in much need of some fresh air, Ramsey set down his empty bowl and stood, moving swiftly around Mercia and throwing open the door of his cabin as if to greet the moonlight. At once, he was immersed in the brassy, boisterous chatter of the remainder of his crew, the two men keeping themselves awake and amused with a steady stream of conversation as they worked the sails to catch every gust of wind.

The patient, lyrical voice drifting down from the upper deck was unmistakably Shan, oldest and most unflappable member of Ramsey’s crew. Shan was a tinkerer, and many of his quirky inventions had become ubiquitous across the Sea of Thieves in recent years, a fact that pleased the bald little pirate more than he would ever have admitted.

Shan was engaged in a lively, mostly shouted conversation with George, the Magpie’s Wing’s newest and youngest shipmate, who was stationed at the front of the galleon’s three sails. Ramsey hadn’t quite made up his mind about George yet, though he could see that the lad’s inquisitive nature might well give Mercia a run for her money. When George wasn’t singing or making up rhyming couplets about their adventures – a habit Ramsey was working hard to disabuse him of – he spent his time aboard soaking up information like a sponge.

“What I don’t understand,” George continued, voice raised over the sound of spray, “is why everybody calls them Ancients!”

“What’s that?” Shan squinted a professional eye at his own sail then tweaked the angle to be just-so. “They lived here in ancient times, didn’t they? All across the Sea of Thieves, I mean. That makes them the Ancients.”

“Right, but when they were here, it wasn’t ancient times,” George persisted, wiping one meaty arm across his face to mop away the sweat of a hard night’s work. “It was now. So what were they called?”

Shan appeared to consider this very deeply. “No, I think you’re wrong, see,” he said at last. “It was definitely ancient times, because they wrote everything down as pictures and built big temples for everything. That’s why the key on the captain’s table looks like a carved animal. They did a lot of that sort of thing in ancient times, carving animals. Not to mention, if it was now, we’d be talking to them, wouldn’t we? We could just ask them about their Shroudbreaker instead of all of this sailing about.”

George, who was still too green to realise that Shan was teasing him, opened his mouth in what would surely be yet another doomed attempt to make his point. Ramsey decided to put the boy out his misery and coughed loudly. “What’s important is not what the Ancients called themselves,” he declared, striding out onto the deck. “It’s that they were cunning, and liked to set traps.

“If Mercia says the totem’s a key to some treasure vault or other, then that’s the case. I say that once we’re inside it, if we should tread on the wrong tile or pick up the wrong gewgaw, it’ll be the last mistake of our lives. Focus on where we are here and now, and save your flights of fancy until we’re back in the tavern.” Eager to please his captain, George lowered the brim of his hat and set his jaw in concentration, his banter with Shan quite forgotten.

Looking to set an example, Ramsey began to climb the ladder that led to the crow’s nest, intending to scan the horizon for other ships whose presence might introduce an unacceptable element of chance to his plan. He had barely laid his gloved hands upon the wooden rungs, however, before his keen eyes spotted the merest flicker. Something was imperceptibly wrong with the skyline. Nothing so threatening as another set of sails, at least not yet, but… something.

Ramsey redoubled his efforts and all but flew up to the top of the mast, pulling out an ornate spyglass and meticulously examining the choppy sea around them. A storm they had passed an hour before still brooded on the horizon, but beyond the large island they were about to sail past, the way ahead seemed clear.

If there was nothing untoward on the waves, then that only left…

“Drop anchor!” Ramsey bellowed, so harshly that George actually jumped. “I have business on that island!” It was Shan who moved to the capstan and sent the ship’s anchor crashing into the waves, bringing the ship to a halt with a protesting screech as the wind strained in her sails. Having sailed together for so many years, he had learned to obey Ramsey’s orders, however confounding they might be, without question.

Despite his bulk, Ramsey could move with a turn of speed that had caught more than a few foes off guard over the years. By the time the Magpie’s Wing had been set back in motion, now easing her way as close to the shoreline as Shan could manage, Ramsey was already clinging to the ship’s ladder, readying himself to drop into the shallows. He waded to shore without another word, striding swiftly across the curving shoreline, cutlass in his hand, until at last he found what had caught his attention.

A little way up from the beach lay the smouldering remnants of a cooking fire, nestled in a shallow gully hidden from the view of passing ships. Quite by chance, Ramsey had spotted the last wisps of smoke as the fire had been hastily extinguished. Someone had been resting here – several someones, judging by the flurry of footprints around the campsite. Either they were nearby and concealed, which was bad, or they were currently boarding a ship of their own, which was worse.

Ramsey plunged back into the foam, leaping for the ship’s ladder and hauling himself aboard, his face set in grim determination. He wrenched at the ship’s wheel the moment it was within his reach, sending the prow of the Magpie’s Wing veering directly away from the island and out towards the open sea at a sharp deviation from their original course. That was why the first volley of cannonballs, shots that came thundering over the island in a deadly parabola, struck the rear hull of the ship instead of toppling its sails.

Ramsey cursed loudly, but had no need to bark orders – Shan and George had begun to weigh anchor as soon as they’d spotted their captain’s flight along the sand. Mercia was ducking below deck to repair the damage, a supply of stout wooden planks balanced on one shoulder and a look of grim determination on her face. She knew as well as Ramsey that the barrage had been aimed with expert accuracy, and only the ship’s sudden, unexpected motion had prevented the Magpie’s Wing from being crippled by the surprise attack.

A second round of cannonballs followed, striking the waves where the Magpie’s Wing should have been, fizzing and smoking in the water as if filled with some malevolent power beyond mere metal. Ramsey continued to twist the ship this way and that, looking to confound their enemy until they were out of range, while Mercia emptied out buckets full of the seawater that had flooded in down below. Shan and George returned to their posts at the sails; there was no banter to be heard now – only two pairs of eyes fixed on the horizon to catch a glimpse of their unseen foe.

She sailed out from behind the island at last; a galleon with rich crimson sails and a hull the colour of old charcoal, her distinguishing features now clearly visible as the ship’s lanterns flared into life ready for the hunt. Her defiant figurehead was a roaring dragon, but it was the crest on her billowing flag that made Ramsey certain of what he was seeing. This was the Burning Blade, and her short time upon the Sea of Thieves was shrouded in mystery, for no shipwright would admit to constructing her and nobody could remember her arrival.

Her current commander, too, was an enigma. Known as Captain Flameheart by those out in the wider world, he had made his mark as a bold and merciless pirate who gave no quarter to any who crossed his path. As far as Ramsey knew, Flameheart had made no attempt to plunder treasures to increase his own fortune, nor did he visit drinking dens to mingle with fellow pirates. He simply sailed from place to place, often lying in wait for victims, and frequently engaging in ferocious ship-to-ship combat seemingly for the fun of it.

Mercia returned to Ramsey’s side, her boots squelching with seawater. “We’re patched,” she informed the others, then turned to glare at the vessel that had blindsided them. “This makes my teeth itch, Ramsey. Tonight, of all nights, is when Flameheart decides to pick a fight with the Pirate Lord?”

He knows, Ramsey realised, brow furrowed as he stared at the galleon that had begun to match their course. He’s come for the key. His gut churned at the thought of Flameheart taking the totem for himself, and using it to snare the Shroudbreaker from its resting place. By abusing its power, the Burning Blade would be free to flit in and out of the Shroud at will, attacking and doubtless destroying new arrivals to these waters before they had chance to get their bearings. Before long, without a steady influx of fresh blood, the Sea of Thieves itself would surely wither and die.

No, Ramsey decided with a sudden swell of fury that emerged as an audible growl. He never gets the Shroudbreaker. Not ever. Though it humiliated Ramsey deeply, for the sake of their quest – and perhaps even to protect the Sea of Thieves – this was one battle the Pirate Lord would try to flee.

*   *   *

Much to Ramsey’s consternation, the flight of the Magpie’s Wing did nothing to deter Flameheart’s pursuit, and though they extinguished every lantern, the Burning Blade showed no sign of losing her quarry in the darkness. Staring moodily at the waves as he considered their next move, Ramsey felt George’s presence beside him at the helm. “I’ve angled the sails as best I can,” he said, “but they still seem to be gaining. How can that be, though? We have the same wind they do, and we’re both galleons.”

“There’s more to a vessel than her crew and how many sails she has, lad,” Shan replied. “If you don’t mean to take in cargo, you can shape a hull that cuts more neatly through the water. Scrap your stove if you want to shed some weight and don’t mind a crew that’s fed on ship’s biscuit. Besides, the Wing is an old ship, patched and re-patched a hundred times. That slows her down. Not much, but enough.”

“We’ll have to fight after all, then? And risk losing the totem?” Mercia sounded decidedly unimpressed by this suggestion.

“Aye, though it wouldn’t be my first choice,” Shan replied. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something odd about that ship’s cannons. The way they catch the moonlight…”

Ramsey harrumphed, but knew the truth when he heard it. “To arms, then,” he commanded. “If we’re going to fight, let’s try to land a few good blows.” Trusting the others to work the cannons with their usual skill, he span the ship’s wheel sharply so that the starboard side of the Magpie’s Wing faced directly towards the Burning Blade’s prow.

As he had hoped, this burst of aggression seemed to take Flameheart by surprise. The Burning Blade began to turn, but not before three good shots had made their marks upon her hull. Ramsey could spy at least one breach below the roaring dragon figurehead, and nodded in grim satisfaction. If they could deliver a few more volleys like that, it might make Flameheart think twice before locking horns with the Pirate Lord.

The Burning Blade was quick to return fire, and a single shot rang out from its port cannons. But this was no ordinary lump of pig-iron. It glowed from within like an enormous firefly as it sailed towards them, striking the Magpie’s Wing and shattering as if the whole thing were made of glass.

Shan and George turned their heads away in alarm, expecting to be showered by a thousand tiny shards of white-hot pain. To their surprise, though, nothing remained of the mysterious projectile save for a few ethereal strands of light that quickly began to fade away.

“They’re toying with us,” Ramsey roared, and tugged at the wheel with all his might. “Hit them again, and not with any silly baubles!” To his crew’s obvious alarm, however, their own cannons seemed to have seized up completely. No amount of exertion could force them into position, and the fuses stayed stubbornly unlit.

Mercia’s eyes widened in sudden realisation. “It’s the—”

Her thought hung in the air uncompleted as another glowing cannonball, this one sickly green in hue, struck the centre of the deck, sending a billowing wave of green smoke washing across the crew in a matter of seconds. Ramsey was a hard man to surprise, but even he could not hide an audible gasp as Shan, Mercia and George suddenly crumpled before his eyes, clutching at their legs with expressions of agony on their faces. A moment later, Ramsey felt a spear of pain lancing up his own good leg, stumbled, and almost toppled to the deck along with his crew.

The cannonballs, Ramsey thought, realising what Mercia had been trying to tell him. They’re cursed. One seized up our cannons, another our bones. He glanced down grimly at his lion’s claw with unaccustomed gratitude. A wooden stump, at least, could feel no pain.

The Magpie’s Wing rocked again and this time Ramsey heard the splintering of wood. Having incapacitated his enemies with curses, it seemed as though Flameheart now aimed to sink their ship via more traditional methods. Hardly honourable for someone who claimed to love the thrill of a good battle, but Ramsey had no time to dwell on that now. He alone could still move, and that meant he alone would have to take responsibility for what happened next.

Relying solely on his wooden claw, Ramsey crashed into his cabin with all the grace of a wounded animal, snarling and muttering to himself as he reached for the crudely carved stone container from which he’d first retrieved the key. It was heavy enough to sink swiftly, at least. With a twinge of remorse, Ramsey plucked the ancient totem from its spot on his desk and flung it angrily into the chest, his heart lurching in time with his ship as more cannon fire tore great rends in her hull.

Throwing open the door to the balcony that adjoined his cabin so that the ship’s bulk hid his actions from the Burning Blade, Ramsey raised the chest above his head, waited for another explosion to rock the Magpie’s Wing, and hurled the chest into the sea with all of his might. Gone, he thought sombrely, but not lost. Mercia has been keeping logs. One day…

Pushing that line of thought to one side, he retreated through his cabin – where Flameheart’s latest broadside had created an unwanted extra porthole – and back to the main deck, noting with relief that his crew appeared to be recovering from their supernatural affliction. The ship itself was still lurching, however, and sat noticeably lower in the water than she should.

George moved past him, looking sick to his stomach. “I’ll get ammunition…” he began, in a low, rasping voice, but Ramsey laid a hand on his shoulder. “Belay that, lad,” he said softly, though his voice seemed to echo in a sudden silence. Mercia’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. “Now pay heed. The key is sunk, but I’ll be damned before Flameheart learns that. Now, our task must be to draw him as far away from this place as we can, before we’re scuttled for good. Lead him towards the Wilds, perhaps, and find a place to make our stand.”

He looked to each of them, then, old friends and fresh young face alike. His heavy heart lifted a little at the sight of their expressions: not hopeless, not doubtful, but determined and proud. Ignoring the bombardments as best they could, the crew set about keeping the Magpie’s Wing alive long enough to reach her final destination.

Furniture was hurled overboard to lighten the load or torn apart to make repairs. George and Mercia patched and bailed relentlessly, wading around in the rising water and stumbling as the ship swayed from side to side. At the helm, Ramsey drew on his lifetime of experience to keep their foe at bay, tacking towards familiar ocean currents that would help speed them along. The Burning Blade continued to pursue, taking pot-shots now and then in the way a cat bats at a wounded mouse in search of more amusement.

Only when the Magpie’s Wing began to slow, its lower deck now completely submerged despite the crew’s struggles, did the executioner’s blade descend. One final volley of cannon fire struck the ship’s central mast, toppling it with an almighty crash and a tangle of rigging and cloth that came within inches of pinning Shan helplessly against the deck. Ramsey used the last of their inertia and steered the ship into the shallows near a tiny island, so insignificant it lacked so much as a name, and told his crew to carry whatever valuables they could to the shore.

Side by side with swords drawn, they watched helplessly as the Magpie’s Wing, the first little galleon to sail upon the Sea of Thieves, surrendered to those same waters. A pile of trinkets – Ramsey’s journal, Shan’s latest music box and a few strange-smelling bottles Mercia used in her research – were all they had left to guard, but guard them they did. They stood defiantly as the Burning Blade drew closer, expecting a thunderous hailstorm of buckshot or bullet to strike them down at any moment.

“They’re certainly taking their time,” Shan grumbled at last. “If I’m going to die here, I’d at least like it not to be of boredom.”

“They seem to be turning…” Mercia, who had lowered her blade to peer through a spyglass of her own, announced. “There’s – I don’t believe it. There’s another galleon coming around Crook’s Hollow, and the Blade is changing course to pursue her!”

“What?!” Ramsey roared. “Are we no longer sport enough without a ship? They can damn well get back here and fight me after costing me the Wing!” He pulled his great tricorn hat from atop his head and waved it furiously like a flag of war, as if it might somehow goad Flameheart into re-joining their battle.

Mercia laid a placating hand on the heavy leather of Ramsey’s coat. “I’ve lost quite enough for one day, thank you,” she soothed. “I don’t need to lose you too. Any of you,” she added, flushing slightly.

“Good, because you’re stuck with us.” George was scanning the horizon, a look of abject glumness settling on his face for the long haul. “If that ship doesn’t come back to rescue us, we’ll be marooned here.”

Mercia shared a glance with Ramsey. “Do you really think so?” she asked with a tinge of amusement in her voice. She strode over to the young pirate and span him around so he could look to the west, where several foaming trails were slicing through the water towards them. One vanished beneath the surface only to arc out of the ocean in a graceful backflip, and George caught the briefest glimpse of silvered scales glinting in the first rays of dawn.

“Merfolk,” Mercia said when it became obvious George had momentarily lost the power of speech. “We have an… arrangement, you might say. They’ll get us back to an outpost right enough, though you might want to keep your eyes closed during the journey. Saltwater stings.” She gave George a push, and he waded slowly into the water as if hypnotised.

“We’ll need to buy a new ship,” Shan said as he helped Ramsey gather up their belongings, bundling them neatly into an oilskin pouch. “That is, if you mean to retrace our steps and find that key of yours. The Shroudbreaker’s still out there, somewhere.”

To Shan’s surprise, Ramsey shook his head slowly. “Let the totem sleep for now,” he said, hoarsely. “At least until the seas are a calmer place to explore.” He strode into the sea, reaching for the outstretched hand of a patient mer, and Shan caught his last words before the Pirate Lord was borne across the waves.

“Sooner or later, someone’s going to have to put a stop to Captain Flameheart…”

1

THEMORNINGSTAR

Things were going to be different this time, Jill told herself firmly. Her plan was absolutely, definitely going to work. The trouble was, she knew herself to be a very bad liar.

When Jill dared to raise her head and peek over the edge of the building upon which she was currently splayed, she had an excellent view of the path that snaked its way through shops and stalls towards the shoreline. It was almost dark, which was also part of her plan, but from here she could still make out the distinctive canopy of the shipwright’s storefront, which served as her landmark. She knew it very well indeed, for the business was her livelihood, the closest thing she had to a home, and – unless she did something about it, and soon – the stall in which she’d be stuck working for the rest of her life.

Jill was an apprentice shipwright, and that meant her place was down at the outpost docks where she could serve her customers. Out here on the Sea of Thieves, that usually meant talking with passing pirates looking to spruce up their sails or celebrate their fortune with a gilded figurehead. The shop gave Jill an unparalleled view of the horizon as she worked, and afforded her the opportunity to watch, dreamily, as nimble sloops and stately galleons sailed back and forth. Only out there, on the wild waters, did the ships Jill helped to shape become real.

Suki, who owned the business, took a very different view of… well, the view. Every capstan carved and every sail sewn by Suki were nothing short of exquisite. Gems would be set against deep mahogany, nestled snugly in an intricate web of golden brocade that Jill supposed must be as fine as the lace on a petticoat – not that she’d ever seen one. Striking splashes of paint brought attention to the way a handle tapered, or drew the eye away from minor blemishes and imperfections in the grain of the wood. Nothing on the Sea of Thieves was truly new, but Suki could take any ship part, even one that had mouldered on the ocean floor for years, and bring it to the lustre of a freshly painted masterpiece.

This was a skill, Suki had been clear, that Jill would only learn with her gaze fixed firmly on the workbench and not on the waves. “I have raised three daughters,” she would say sternly. “I did not waste my days worrying that they might face adversity, for it was certain that they would. I spent my time making certain that they would endure it. So it must be with our ships. If you do not distract yourself with thoughts of grand adventure, you will not make mistakes. A fine ship built with no mistakes will, of course, endure adversity of its own. How could it not be so?”

Had Suki learned of Jill’s intentions, she would almost certainly have dismissed her at once. A shipwright taking an apprentice at all was an unusual occurrence, least of all one as talented as Suki. That was part of why Jill was currently hiding on the roof of a tall, stilted building underneath which the Order of Souls had stationed their representative – one of the highest spots on the outpost, and somewhere she was unlikely to be spotted. It also gave her an excellent view of incoming ships, though there was only one she cared to spy this night, and it had sailed into port at dusk.

The Morningstar. Few pirates, particularly new arrivals, knew her proud history upon the Sea of Thieves, but Jill had spent many sunny days at her post, hammering and sawing gently enough that she could overhear the old salts talking. The Morningstar had sailed in an alliance with the Pirate Lord, stood firm against the Twisted Knife at the Siege of Crescent Isle, and had once been split clean apart by a kraken – only to be salvaged by merfolk and restored through the hard work of the grateful traders she’d protected. The gleaming stars upon her burgundy sails that gave the ship her name, along with the wooden bear carving affixed to her bow, showed how much pride her crew took in their ship’s pristine appearance.

Despite her best efforts, this was the third time Jill had attempted to speak with the Morningstar’s captain, and that was the other reason she had hauled herself up onto a windswept rooftop for the evening – it was uncomfortable and certainly precarious, but she was running out of ideas. When she’d first tried to make contact in the tavern, a runaway grog barrel slipped from Tracy the tavern-keeper’s grip and careened over Jill’s foot, leaving her able to do little more than gasp breathlessly while her swollen toes were held in a bucket of icy water by an apologetic barmaid. By the time Jill had recovered enough to stand once more, the Morningstar and her crew were gone.

A week later, the same ship had appeared unexpectedly during a bright afternoon, and Jill had risked Suki’s wrath by slipping away to pursue the crew as they ambled along the docks. Through sheer bad luck, an argument between two pirates haggling with the Merchant Alliance had erupted into a full-scale brawl, and a wayward elbow had knocked Jill off balance and sent her tumbling off the dock. She’d been more embarrassed than hurt, but the commotion drew Suki’s attention and Jill was unable to sneak away for the rest of the day.

“I’m never one to gossip,” Tracy had said cheerfully to Jill as she drowned her sorrows afterwards, “but ol’ Eli comes in here every month, regular as you like, and never leaves without paying his bill. He’ll stop by again, I’m as sure of it as I’m sure Madame Olive’s sweet on young Tyler down at the weapon shop, not that you heard that from me.” This, at least, seemed like information Jill could use to finally meet the man face to face.

Jill had waited impatiently for what seemed like an eternity, but on the day of the Morningstar’s expected arrival, the fates once again conspired against her. An unexpectedly cheerful Suki had informed Jill that they’d be shutting up shop earlier than usual, because she was meeting her friend Sharon for a drink that night. As there was only one tavern on the small outpost, Jill would certainly be spotted by her mentor if she stepped inside and began conversing with pirates. That was why she’d come up with her new, admittedly rather desperate, plan.

There was a spot at the back of the tavern colloquially known as Tanner’s Alley, a name that Jill hadn’t immediately understood the full implication of. It was, Tracy had explained, a haven for pirates in search of some privacy and a chance to deal with the consequences of a night spent drinking. Jill’s vantage point offered an excellent view, though it made not getting spotted all the more essential. She doubted pirates would take kindly to being caught with their breeches down, as it were. No, best to stay quiet as a mouse until nature took its course and the Morningstar’s captain stepped outside for a moment’s relief…

She was so caught up in her own musings, Jill nearly missed her moment entirely. Her quarry had appeared and, having gone about his business, was now making his way back around to the entrance of the tavern. Stifling a curse, Jill shuffled gracelessly to the edge of the roof and swung her legs over, scrabbling down onto a balcony that ringed the building and tottering down the steep wooden stairs at speed. She nearly collided with Madame Olive when she stuck her head outside to see what the commotion was, and mumbled a hasty apology before making a beeline for the tavern’s steps, rounding the corner to find—

Nobody. The walkway was deserted. Dumbfounded, Jill stared at the spot where the man should have been, confident that he’d been out of her sight for a couple of seconds at most. Pirates could be fast, but not that fast. Had he somehow slipped back into the tavern via a side entrance and denied Jill her opportunity to speak with him?

Something – a sixth sense, perhaps, or the slightest crack of a snapping twig – made her turn back towards the pathway down to the docks. There was Jill’s target, having suddenly changed course to veer away from the bright lights and bawdy shanties of the tavern. She hadn’t the slightest idea how he’d slipped past her so easily, but that didn’t matter now. If she didn’t act quickly, she’d miss her chance.

A life spent clambering over and around half-constructed galleons meant that Jill was a lot nimbler than most people assumed from looking at her, but she wasn’t used to sprinting. She sprinted now, though, thundering across the distance to the docks as quickly as she could. The pirate was climbing the gangplank of the Morningstar now, apparently eager to get underway. “Hoy!” Jill called, cursing the breathlessness in her voice. “Captain! I want to talk to you, please!”

All at once, he stood before her: Eli Slate, Commander of the Morningstar. Though his build was slim and his hair and beard were white with age, there was something about his demeanour and impeccable appearance that made him seem somehow larger than life. His face was impassive and his gaze hard as Jill skidded to a halt in front of him. “I am well aware of that, young lady,” he said offhandedly as Jill reached the jetty. “Have you considered that I may have little interest in talking to you, however?”

He’s been avoiding me, Jill realised, and felt her stomach drop clean out of the world at the revelation. We’ve onlyjust met and he doesn’t like me. “I…” she began, feeling the beginnings of a blush spreading, and hoping furiously Slate would think she was simply flushed from sprinting. Well, at least now I can’t say anything to make things worse.

“Ach, don’t let the cat catch your tongue, lassie.” This unexpected interruption came from another, younger pirate as he slung himself over the railings of the Morningstar, his bulky frame causing the jetty to creak as he landed. One good-natured eye, framed by the bushiest beard Jill had ever seen, sparkled as he looked her up and down; the other eye covered by a large patch. “We don’t bite. Speak what’s on your mind, that’s what I always say!”

Jill stared at the man for a moment. This must be Dinger, she thought, the one even Tracy thinks is a chatterbox. She’d tried to find out as much about the Morningstar’s other crewmembers as possible, and it turned out that every tavern-keeper across the Sea of Thieves recognised Dinger – or at least, the sound of Dinger’s voice as he approached and started the tankards rattling. If the rumours were true, he’d been banned from singing indoors after one too many shattered bottles.

“I want to join your crew!” It took Jill a moment to realise that the words were hers; that she’d blurted them out instinctively. The sentence seemed to hang in the air, twisting slowly under Slate’s scrutiny. “As a pirate,” she added, suddenly feeling utterly foolish. “Not as…”

“A shipwright?” Slate’s visage was stern, but his voice sounded amused. “I should think not, Jill.” He caught sight of her startled expression, and added, “Now, there’s no need to look quite so surprised. Tracy means well, but she was hardly likely to resist the temptation to tell me all about you and the questions you’d been asking. This in turn leads me to question – why? What makes a shipwright down tools and aspire to the pirate’s life?”

Here goes nothing, Jill thought. I hope I can explain this better to Slate than I can to myself. “It’s… about the future,” she said, slowly, feeling the words out as she went. “The shipwrights here, they’ve been making sloops and galleons the same way pretty much forever. Yes, they’ll carve a new figurehead or add some jewels to raise the prices but that’s not the same as making things better. For that, you’d have to spend time with a living ship. Working aboard her out there, in the real world, learning all about her quirks and her shortcomings. Sensing her soul.”

Slate observed Jill for a long while before speaking. “I knew a chap once, used to be a bit of a tinkerer,” he remarked, “and I have to say that he would have agreed with you. It’s one thing to handle a ship in the calm waters at port and quite another when she’s straining against a storm, riddled with holes, with her wheel spinning fast enough to wrench your arms off. It’s correct to say that no-one knows a ship better than her crew. But why come to me?”

“Because it’s the Morningstar, sir,” Jill replied, promptly. “She’s a fine vessel. Well, more than fine – she’s got the Merikov capstan design, with the double-linked chain they used to forge out at Tortuga. That’s not the strongest, but the load gets offset by an interleaved bracing mechanism most shipwrights wouldn’t even attempt on a galleon… Oh, and there’s the classics in there too, because you’ve got the Epping oak masts and what I think is an original Chapman rudder, but I’d have to get under the bilge to see if I could find his initials…” She trailed off, aware that the two men were staring at her with blank expressions, and felt another blush stirring.

“Well,” said Dinger after a moment’s stunned silence. “I may not have understood anything you said afterwards, but you’re right about her being a fine vessel! Isn’t she, skipper?”

“You have an appointment to keep, Mister Dinger,” Slate said evenly. “You know how the Senior Traders dislike it when we tarry.” Dinger looked like he was about to protest, but instead shuffled mutely past Slate and ambled away up the dock towards the small, hut-like building that served as this outpost’s office for the Merchant Alliance. Jill thought he might have given her a cheerful wink as he passed by, though it was hard to say for sure in the gloom.

“I should say that you must be an excellent shipwright,” Slate said. “That much is obvious just from speaking to you. Perhaps one day you will even be a capable pirate. The situation aboard the Morningstar, however, is somewhat unique. I run her much as I would a vessel in the merchant navy. There is a chain of command I expect to be obeyed and each member of the crew has a defined role I expect them to excel at.”

Slate’s voice softened very slightly as he continued. “It hardly seems fair of me to demand that you make best use of your skills as a pirate when you do not yet know what they are. No, I think it would be best for you to find a more… informal… set of shipmates, shall we say. A post aboard a sloop or a brigantine, perhaps, where the rules are more relaxed and you can find your sea legs.”

Jill stared. She’d expected laughter, or dismissal, or even anger at brazenly approaching a crew of seasoned pirates and asking to be counted among their number. She hadn’t expected kindness. But this was still a refusal, no matter how neatly gift-wrapped, and the worst part was that Slate’s argument was entirely reasonable. Even so, Jill’s brain was spinning as she tried to think of something, anything, she could say to prevent the majestic piece of engineering that was the Morningstar from sailing out of her life forever.

Something large and leathery brushed against the back of her neck, and Jill let out an involuntary yelp, spinning around to see what had touched her and nearly getting a mouthful of salad as a result. Someone had placed an enormous green plant down next to her while she’d been lost in thought, and its thick, moist leaves swayed around as the wind picked up. As she watched, Dinger staggered down the causeway carrying more of the oversized greenery, clearly struggling to see where he was going through the mass of foliage.

Slate looked distinctly unamused, snatching at the order slip pinned to the crate of plants. His brow furrowed as he read through the manifest, Jill seemingly forgotten for the moment. “Rare silks… spicedtea… asnake…”