Morning, or rather noon for Elisabeth Wolf, brought a clear blue sky and bracing wind that snapped the sails. They were heading in the direction of the Hag's Rock, but criss-crossing a shipping lane to search for a prize. The knowledge that they were hunting put renewed energy into the crew, but with an undercurrent of something dark and ugly, rather than their usual ease and banter. Elisabeth came to stand at the rail, her eyes scanning the horizon for a flash of white. Finding nothing, she closed her eyes for a moment, and enjoyed the feel of the sea-spray on her face, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the smooth roll of the ship beneath her feet. The worries of the last few weeks lifted into the air, carried away on the breeze. This feeling was why she was a pirate, why she sailed the seas, risking life and limb all for this sense of freedom.
“Captain,” Elisabeth opened her eyes to see that Moira stood next to her, her hook resting on the rail, its metal glinting in the sun.
“Quartermaster,” she used the title as a greeting.
“Seems we’ve been blessed with fair winds and following seas.”
Elisabeth took a deep breath of the fresh air. “Aye.” A companionable silence stretched between them for the first time since they ventured to Skull Island.
“Might I enquire as to how you’re feelin’ this morning? You’ve taken a few beatings recently, and you’re looking a bit worn.” Elisabeth winced at the words. All of the emotions of defeat rushed back, shame, guilt, fear, anger tumbling together like storm-tossed flotsam. The recent subjugation had damaged more than her pride; it dampened her confidence. Her usual arrogance erased from her in one agonizing moment of forced obeisance. At the same time, her body bore the signs of the duel, and the battle with the siren that followed so closely after. Every muscle still felt stiff, and every inch of skin felt raw. Worse, she felt tired down to her bones. Rest didn’t restore her energy; her mind was constantly turning over the recent past and ruminating on the near future. Elisabeth shook her head to clear it.
“I’ll live,” she shrugged. “Though the yoke he’s put on us chafes and I want to be rid of it as quickly as possible.” She rubbed a finger over a lucky coin worn smooth with the repeated motion. She’d added the coin back to her pocket after the night on Skull Island, returning to an old, comforting habit in the aftermath of the unsettling events of the recent past.
“I know I called you rash and prideful, and that I argued about your compact with Henry Mortimer. All of that was true, but it’s equally true that we all want the leash off,” Moira replied, her gaze raking over her captain with a hint of pity and a lot of understanding. “We’re none of us keen on kings.” She paused, her hand rubbing at the spot where the cuff of her hook met the stump of her flesh, an angry red line of skin visible. “The crew needs you to be the She-Wolf, even if you’re lickin’ your wounds. They need to see you strong and brash.”
“I know, old friend,” Elisabeth agreed, relieved that Moira at least acknowledged the notion of regaining their freedom, and escaping from the clutches of the Skeleton King and his influence. They were pirates, after all, and had been comrades in arms for many years. Having her support, even in part, was important. She clapped a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and straightened the line of her spine. Elisabeth turned her back on the horizon, and focused on her own ship, felt its strong boards beneath her feet, tuned into the creak and snap of the sails. The crew’s frustration crackled in the rigging, their tension loud in the clatter of their work. The women were snappish, trading insults as they toiled. Tasks were completed with no sense of urgency. Instead, a sullenness lay beneath each pair of hands, in the looks exchanged between the sailors, and in the set of their shoulders as they heaved a line or scrubbed at the decks.
Watching them so closely, Elisabeth realized how much they mirrored the emotions of their captain. And it was no surprise, much like the Skeleton King and his palace, she’d imbued her ship with parts of herself, building wards and spells into the wood, thread by thread. It made sense that if their leader was uneasy about their destination, that the crew would reflect that anxiety with their actions onboard. No amount of promised hunting was going to cure that affliction.
Elisabeth’s rage that they were forced into doing the bidding of the self-proclaimed king funnelled through the planks of the deck, and into the women who scrubbed them. With her emotions fueling them, the women got into small fights over insignificant things. It was a nasty loop of emotions. Elisabeth thought she had reclaimed her “devil may care attitude,” but the more she watched the crew, the more she realized that it was only skin deep. A lie she was telling herself to alleviate her discomfort with all of the shame that came with defeat. This level of tension on a ship only ever led to trouble, the kind that no hunt could absorb. She needed to dispel the dark atmosphere her brooding cast over the Silence.
With a shake of her head at her own folly, Elisabeth turned back to face the sea, the wind in her face, hair whipping around her like a nest of hungry vipers. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and on the exhale, she let go of her worry, her anger, she fed her rage to the breeze and the oozing hurt of her wounded pride to the sloshing waves. Finally, she let go of the creeping dread that sat deep in her stomach—a sense of terror that she was about to fail and her crew would pay the price of her defeat. Emotions flowed out of her like a river, purging the negativity in a rush. And that’s when her attention snagged on a thread of spell that wasn’t one of her own. She followed it, a spider crawling along a web, and found a net of magic cast over her body.
Tricky, tricky, she thought, pulling at the curse, only to have it snap back into place. She studied it more closely, focusing on how it was constructed. Her inability to shake off the defeat in The Wreck made more sense as she traced the lines of spellwork. The Skeleton King must have slipped this bit of magic around her in the distraction of the battle. A different kind of leash to keep her subservient by binding her to her darkest thoughts. It was clever work, and slippery to grasp even now that she was aware of it. Everytime she grasped at a thread, it shifted and slid away. A growl of frustration escaped her, and she ground her teeth against it. Focus, she had to focus. With a wrench of willpower, she grabbed a metaphysical handful of the web, ignoring the way it tried to shred through her grip, and she cut through it with a cold, necromantic lash of power. Relief was immediate. The feelings she’d been trying to release into the wind fell away completely, and she snapped back into her body, noticing its aches and pains decrease, as well. She finally felt centered and allowed herself to lean into the feeling, drawing on the good that surrounded her in this moment. The sun was warm on her face, the smell of salt and sea filled her nose, and her ship rolled beneath her feet.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
For the first time since leaving Skull Island, finding the Atlas Stone felt possible, despite the obstacles that stood in their path. The task set by the Skeleton King wasn’t impossible, just difficult. Nothing was insurmountable. Not as long as she was still breathing. The thought made her smile. She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled slowly. With a sigh, she rolled residual tension from her shoulders and turned to watch her crew.
“What was that?” Moira asked, scrutinizing her captain with squinting eyes.
“Curse. A little gift from the Skeleton King.” Elisabeth shrugged. “Things should get a little easier now.” They watched as the postures of the women near them began to change—spines straightened and jaws loosened. Their short exchanges were no longer brusk, no longer held an undertone of anger. Above them, the sails snapped and the rigging jingled in the breeze.
“There once was a sailor named Artoz, who feared both dragon and cross…” One of the women started up a shanty to break the monotony of the work. With the curse lifted, the ship relaxed around Elisabeth and her quartermaster.
“Quite the difference,” Moira commented, and hummed a bit of song, her hook tapping against her leg to keep time. Elisabeth took a few more deep, steadying breaths and let the singing soothe the last of her strained nerves. A captain did more than just choose their bounties and lead the crew into battle. A captain set the tone of the voyage, she reminded herself as she inhaled and exhaled. And a captain keeps the crew from suffering the side-effects of sneaky curses. The spiral created by the Skeleton King’s web might have come to an abrupt end, but taking this long to find that nasty bit of work was a mistake. One she needed to avoid in the future. At least she learned something about his nature—the bombast of the display at the Wreck was a cover for a sly and conniving man.
“Both virgins and vixens and drinks with the fixin’s and being pushed in the dross!” More of the women joined in the singing, filling the air with their voices, and a touch of raucous laughter at the bawdy song. Artoz was a terrible sailor, Elisabeth thought with a smile. She shook the last of the tension from her body. It felt good to enjoy a moment at sea. Clarity of purpose returned to her mind. She knew that she needed to prepare for what came next—bargaining with her sisters was going to be difficult. She shrugged off any worry about the looming visit, and instead focused her thoughts on preparation. The next step was to take a prize. She turned her gaze to the horizon, scanning for a flash of white sail.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Moira said after a few minutes of silent companionship. Elisabeth nodded.
“Send someone with my glass. I’ll be up at the bow,” she called after the quartermaster. She wanted to see what lay in front of them. And while the sailor in the crow’s nest was more likely to spot a target, Elisabeth always loved looking at the wide horizon. Putting herself into position at the bow also kept her out of Moira’s way, while the woman ensured the smooth operation of the ship. And when the time for combat arrived, the captain would take the wheel. A division of labour that maintained clear lines of authority. Both women had the respect of the crew, and if they lost that, they would be replaced. That was the way of piracy. With a laugh, she sauntered across the deck, hips loose, thumbs in belt-loops, and added her voice to the crew’s song: “His craven heart trembles with fright! Every time we get in a fight! And when day turns to night, oh, someone leave on the light.”
The crew cheered as they finished the verse, all of them aware that their captain had sung with them, that whatever pall had been hanging over them was lifted. As she made her way through them, she caught grins and winks directed her way. She clapped shoulders as she went, reassuring the women with touch and magic, leaving eddies of pleasure in her wake, a charm well-spent. They deserved what happiness she could give, all of them clawing at the world to give them room to breathe, just as much as she did.
And while most of her recent doldrums were a result of the hidden curse, the knowledge that they were headed towards danger and darkness still sat in her stomach like a stone. What had changed was that she was prepared to face the obstacles they were sailing towards with her usual confidence and bravado. Even the need to confront her sisters seemed less daunting. She reached the bow as the song finished and settled in to watch the slow movement of clouds and the soft movement of the horizon as they cut through the waves. The sting of sea-spray in her face and the cool touch of wind in her hair was invigorating.
“Your glass, captain,” a young woman stood a foot behind her, the telescope rattling in her shaking hands. Elisabeth noted callouses on thin fingers, pale wiry arms, mousy hair, and soft blue eyes. She didn’t recognize her. Must be a new recruit, the She-Wolf thought with a wicked grin, and took the instrument before the lass shook it to its breaking point.
“My thanks. And what’s your name?”
“Lyra, captain. I joined in Freeport.”
“Welcome to the crew.”
“LYRA!” The young woman flinched at the quartermaster’s bellow.
“You best be going,” Elisabeth advised, and turned her back on the deck. She unfolded the glass and put it to her eye. The crew’s singing continued, and she hummed along, the smile still on her face as she listened to the familiar lyrics. Cressia hovered at the edge of her awareness, blending into the meager shadows, a knife and whetstone in her hands. The bodyguard was never far away, even on the ship, bound to Elisabeth with an oath the captain didn’t quite understand, but fully respected. A long time ago, she’d saved the woman, offering her a life on the high seas, and in return, Cressia pledged herself not to the Silence, but to Elisabeth. The rhythmic sound of the bodyguard sharpening her knife was a comfort as Captain Wolf continued to scan the horizon for a sign of a prize.
Late afternoon found her dosing in a hammock, her hat over her eyes, the breeze ruffling her hair. They’d seen a ship earlier, but their paths weren’t meant to cross. She wasn’t willing to deviate too far from their course. Much as she wanted to delay her return home, she was also fueled by the desire to find even the most minute piece of information about the Atlas Stone’s location. So they kept sailing. Once they were far enough from Freeport, Captain Wolf instructed the two sailors who were able to manipulate air, to speed them along. She knew from past experience that the hunting was good in a stretch of ocean due south of them, and that’s where they were after only a few hours. The ship was quiet around her. All hands were working to keep her moving steadily.
“Sail ho!” A smile tugged at Elisabeth’s lips at the call. Just as she expected. With the sun edging towards the horizon, it was the perfect time for them to hunt. She swung her legs to the deck, pulled her coat on, straightened her hat and headed to the bow to have a look. Lyra was there holding the spyglass, this time with less trembling. The captain took it with a flourish and put it to her eye, scanning the distance for the flicker of white. She found it after a moment.
“Aye, sail ho,” the grin on her face as she tossed the glass to Lyra was feral. “Let’s chase her down!” She rallied the crew.
delicious.
