-THE INFERNAL ISLE-
Chapter 1
Crawl Ashore
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Many ships had run aground upon the ever-shifting rocks and shoals that shielded the southern coast of the legendary Infernal Isle, their captains outwitted by the callous sea and its capricious wind. Small wonder, then, that sailors suspected that Hell’s sovereign conspired with the forces of nature there, despite the enlightenment of the current age. Rocks and reefs ought to stay put, after all; a reasonable assumption in most parts of the world.
Nevertheless, a small prison galleon glided across that traitorous sea, its fidgeting crew confident that their grim-faced captain would steer the ship true once again. The captain knew these reef-filled waters had earned well the moniker of ‘The Devil’s Chessboard,’ and like all of his peers and pilots that plied these waters, he navigated by eye and gut, with an appeal for luck, since charts were obsolete the moment the cartographer’s pen left the vellum. This captain and his lookouts knew the game well, and played it better than anyone.
The crew knew enough to be anxious, however, and many of the ship’s passengers absorbed and expanded that anxiety tenfold, except perhaps for a few of the more hardy and world-weary souls. Others paid no heed to anything other than their own heaving stomachs, beset by the sea illness so common to landlubbers. Their retching, along with their green-tinged faces and obvious misery provided the sole source of amusement for the otherwise apathetic crew.
A wiry youth of fifteen years sat in the galleon’s lowest hold, shackled like the other prisoners. His stoic, slender face belied his roiling belly and the thoughts racing through his bright, imaginative mind. He, like the score of other prisoners with him, would soon depart the ship and find himself marooned on a desolate island full of nightmares. He’d heard tales, growing up, about the terrible denizens of that forlorn place. He had never heard of anyone surviving banishment to the Isle. He wondered if he could survive and return home, only the second to accomplish the feat. He’d find redemption, a royal pardon, and history would remember him as a hero. They’d remember his name: Wick the Redeemed. Wick the Brave. Wick the Legendary.
His imagination had other ideas, though. It insisted on a full accounting of all the various ways he could meet his end, most often at the hands (or claws, or fangs) of some evil monster or even one of the Accursed that allegedly inhabited the Isle.
Wick the Corpse. Wick the Dismembered. Wick the Forgotten.
More likely, though, that one of his fellow exiles embodied his final doom. His youth stood out among the prisoners, and some of the few that resisted retching and wallowing in self-pity leered at him with unmistakable depravity. He never understood how the wicked could derive pleasure from inflicting pain and suffering on the weak. Where there’s good there’s bad, it’s just the way of things, Wick’s late mother would have said. Death is fair, life isn’t, his late father admonished.
“’Nore them,” a gruff voice advised. A burly man leaned in from Wick’s left, adding “They no live through swim.” Wick couldn’t see the man’s face, which stringy, mid-length hair concealed. An unkempt, graying beard masked the speaker’s jowls and neck.
“Swim?” Wick whispered. The man had huge arms, heavily tattooed, and he smelled musky.
“They no row us in, boy. They throw us in. Swim or sink. Sea or shore, boat no more,” the man chuckled, leaning back and settling against the base of a mast. “I swim. You swim?”
“Yes,” Wick answered. He liked the man, a simpleton to be sure, but strong and streetwise. He’d need allies, he knew. “I can swim. I’m Wick.”
The man turned his head, looking Wick in the eye. The fellow had dark brown eyes capped by eyebrows that matched his matted beard, and what little skin left uncovered by unruly hair was scoured by sun and scarred by many fights. He studied Wick for a moment, then turned his head back and rested it against the mast.
“You skinny as wick, yes. You call me Bear,” the man said through a yawn. “Bear nap now. Long night ahead.”
Wick smiled. He’d heard of Bear the Brawler; a wharfie by day, a pit fighter by night, mostly undefeated. A good ally, he hoped. Wick looked around again at the other prisoners, none of whom leered now as Bear began to snore. A good ally, indeed.
The trip from Cannonsreach began with an evening launch, a rather raucous affair that seemed both a celebration of and a wake for the outcasts. Loved ones’ and admirers’ anguished cries of support sparred with the coarse insults of detractors. Fights broke out, guards arrested dozens, some of whom would embark on the very next ship to the Infernal Isle.
The overnight journey meant that the exiles would begin their banishment shortly after dawn, since the Isle lay only 20 leagues to the northeast. They spent the passage in darkness, forbidden to speak and advised to sleep, best that they may. Few did, though, as most were strangers to sailing. Guards patrolled the ship, bringing with them a welcome respite from the inky black in the form of a small lantern casting a flickering golden glow.
Slowly the night passed, filled with the creaking of the ship, the rush and gurgle of the water by the hull, and the measured tread of the guards on the deck above. The prisoners added their own chords to the symphony, melodies of bodily expulsions and oft-voiced misery. All conspired to keep the exiles awake, weary and restless until the light of the dawn finally lifted the gloom.
As Wick listened to Bear snore, he caught a change in the cadence above. Muffled, shouted orders to the crew signaled the end of the journey. The rush against the hull lessened, and the exiles became agitated. A pair of guards descended the ladder into the hold, scanning their charges with knowing smirks and brandishing nasty-looking lashes. Wick heard the prisoners being unshackled in the hold above. Dust, grit and worse fell between between the boards, punishing anyone looking up for too long.
A loud thunk reverberated the ship, prompting a fresh round of yelps and furtive glances at the guards. Wick looked down and Bear, who somehow managed to continue sleeping through the commotion. The sounds from the hold above began to lessen, and Wick could make out a deep voice speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words.
“All right, you poor saps, soon you’ll be moving up this ladder to the deck. Give us any grief and its the lash. Persist and its a blade through the gut. You’ll live long enough to blood the water and put the sharks in a frenzy. Which means anyone around you will likewise make for a tasty morsel.”
Something splashed outside the hull, followed by more, immediately escalating to hoarse screams and banging against the hull, prompting derisive shouts and laughter from the crew and guards above. Yells for help and piteous begging for a rescue soon turned into frantic gurgles and desperate coughs. Wick looked at the guards, who returned his gaze and smiled. One even winked. Wick nudged Bear, who finally stirred and woke.
Silence fell outside, save for small waves slapping the hull, and an occasional bump from a drowned exile’s body, at least to Wick’s estimation. A shouted order from above ended the interlude.
“Bring up the rest!”
Two crew members slid down the ladder and began freeing the prisoners, a couple at a time. The guards hurried the exiles up the ladder.
“Get moving, you lot,” one of the men exhorted Wick and Bear, after a crewman freed them. Wick rubbed his chafed wrists as he stumbled to the ladder, Bear before him. Bear had said nothing since waking, but he turned smiled at Wick before mounting the ladder and grunting as he moved up. Guards stood around the ladder on the middle deck, prodding them on with threats of a lashing.
Though expecting to be blinded by brilliant sunshine, Wick instead found the skies to be rather gray and dreary, and a fine mist swirled about the ship. The humid air brought on unwelcome clamminess, and a chill raced down Wick’s neck as he pushed himself through the hatchway, brought on by his first glimpse of the Infernal Isle.
A low surf ground its way into a beige strip of beach that did not appear far away. A tangled, seemingly impenetrable forest buttressed the strand. Wick noted the land rising to what he thought was the northwest, consistent with the old maps he had seen in his childhood that showed a spine of mountains hugging the west coast of the Isle all the way to its northern extremity. On a clear day, he would have seen the distant mountain tops, but the mist and gloom concealed the Isle and guarded its secrets.
Then, glancing to the water, Wick saw the bodies. Six that he could see, bobbing in the waves, face down, barely afloat. He saw the shoals and rocks. He saw stragglers thrashing in the water until they could stand and stagger to the beach. Others already stood on the beach in a group, struggling over something on the ground. Some of the exiles were shoving each other. A pair of men fought and rolled on the beach near the group. One man finally straddled the other and strangled his adversary. Guards and crew cheered and laughed until the captain shouted them down.
“Hurry it up, dogs, there’s a storm brewing and I want to be well away from here when it comes,” the tall, robust man bellowed. The guards herded the exiles to the side of the ship, forming a single line along the rail. Soon, the last of the exiles joined the group, all peering at the looming Isle. Bear poked his elbow into Wick’s shoulder and winked. Wick glanced back at the captain.
“Listen up, you curs,” the first mate yelled, moving from beside his captain to pace behind the line of prisoners. “You can see some of your fellow outcasts have made it. They are divvying up a bag of supplies. There’s some food in there, some water, even a skin of wine. There’s some clothes, and blankets, and even a couple of rusty knives.
“When a couple of you get to shore, we’ll use our ballista over there to launch another bag to the beach. Be there or you’ll miss out on the loot,” the first mate said, chuckling. Wick looked over at the foredeck and saw some men preparing the ballista.
One man jumped the rail; a guard rushed forward, with a crossbow, and shot the man in the head.
“No one jumps ‘til the captain says,” the first mate yelled, forestalling the leap of a couple of other prisoners. Bear rested a hand on Wick’s shoulder.
“They are ready, Captain,” the first mate said after a moment.
“You have been condemned by the Crown, and you have chosen banishment to the Isle as your punishment,” the captain said in a booming voice as he tread slowly down the deck behind the exiles.
“When I give word, you will jump over the rail and swim to shore to begin your sentence. But be not without hope, for your King is merciful, even to the condemned,” the captain continued. “Go to the northern tip of the island, a mere ten leagues or so from that beach. There you will find the ruins of Oldecastle, seat of the Empire that once ruled the world. We call it Port Absolution now, since if you can make it there by five dawns hence, I will be waiting with this ship to take you home, where a King’s pardon and a feast will welcome you.
“Now ready yourselves, say what prayers you may. Mayhap our Crown’s God will have mercy even on you miserable dogs,” the captain finished. Wick looked again at the beach. The group stood there now, spread out along the beach, looking back at the ship.
Waiting.
“JUMP! JUMP NOW, YOU SAPS! SWIM FOR YOUR SOULS!” the captain bellowed, and some exiles jumped. Wick started and pulled back, but Bear grabbed him around the waist and hurdled over the rail. Wick turned and had his back to the water as they fell in, and he saw guards pushing other reluctant prisoners overboard. Then, he was under the water.
He didn’t stay under long. Bear pulled him to the surface and began swimming for shore. Another prisoner latched onto Wick’s leg, screaming and thrashing about, stark terror blazing in his eyes. Bear lost hold of the boy, and Wick found himself under water again, tangled up with the other prisoner who seemed set on clambering to sit on top of him.
Wick wriggled and kicked and managed to get his head out of the water, his mouth full of brine and his hair in his eyes. He saw a dark blur smash into the drowning man’s face, and then a strong arm looped under Wick’s right armpit and across his chest.
“I swim strong, Wick. I get us in,” Bear said. Wick couldn’t believe how fast they slid through the water, weaving through the rocks and coral. He tried to ignore the bodies, but then he saw something no one could possibly ignore.
“Shark, SHARK!” Wick yelled as a fin popped through the surface not far from them. Then a huge, blunt face emerged in front of the fin, and a monstrous mouth opened, exposing a thousand gleaming teeth as sharp as fine daggers. The shark bit into the man who’d nearly drowned Wick, and blood poured into the frothing water.
The ocean came alive.
Fins rose and cut in from every direction. Wick yelped as he felt something smooth brush his leg. The bloody water erupted as the sharks converged on the remnants of the corpse. To his increased horror, a fin pulled away and started to close on them.
“Go, go, GO!” Wick screamed as he kicked harder, but the shark came up on them in an instant and began to surface.
“No, let me go, NO!” Wick yelled, trying to break out of Bear’s grip. The man spun around, throwing Wick up out of the water and toward an exposed rock. Wick landed against the side of the rock, but still in the water, as air gushed out of him from the impact. Gasping, he clung to the rock and tried to pull himself up. Wick saw other prisoners likewise flee the sharks, some making it up onto rocks and exposed reefs, while others kept swimming for shore. The sharks caught a few and pulled them down in a frenzy of gray and crimson.
Bear smacked the top of the shark’s snout as it approached, driving it away momentarily as a short woman swam up and found a flat-topped reef to stand on, her knees breaking the surface. She reached under the waves and pulled up a long piece of coral with a sharp, broken end.
“Come this way and bring that beast with you,” the woman yelled to Bear. He nodded and swam toward her, kicking at the shark which continued to dart in and away from Bear. Wick could see small clouds of red floating around the big man.
“Bear, you’re bleeding!” Wick yelled as he finally managed to get atop the rock. “Get out of the water!!”
“Almost.. a little more,” the woman said, stooped now and poised with the coral as if to spear a fish.
Bear lunged toward her just as the shark surfaced, mouth agape, eager to chomp into flesh.
The woman dove, driving the spear into the shark’s eye, and blood spurted out of the wound in a great geyser.
“Go, get away now, get to shore!” the shark-killer yelled as she resurfaced and started again for the beach with quick and sure strokes. Wick sat, frozen and staring at the dying shark. More fins started closing in. Then, Bear knocked the boy from the rock, and Wick came to his senses when he hit the water. He started swimming as fast as he could.
His feet soon touched a soft, sandy bottom. Bear hauled him up, half dragging him toward the beach. Wick heard a distant thunk; he looked back and saw a large burlap bag hurtling toward them in a high, gentle arc. The bag cleared their heads by a man’s height or two, then it crashed into the base of a large tree.
Wick fell to his knees and crawled the rest of the way out of the water as Bear barreled his way toward the bag. The boy collapsed on the wet sand as a group converged around the bag, and the fighting and arguing began anew. Wick glanced over at the body of strangled man, who still lay on his back, his head turned to one side and his tongue dangling from his ruddy, dead face.
Wick looked back at the gray sky, closed his eyes and cried.
