Prologue
“We have lost the rest of the fleet,” Nichol warned as the light in the distance faded. “May their souls find rest.” He clutched at the silver chain that was wrapped around his wrist, pulling at it gently as he pictured the vessels sinking into the ocean behind them. How many men now drowned in the colossal waves, dragged down to their demise? He leaned down, kissing the pendant in the shape of an eye that protruded from his fist.
“Khosa preserve them,” Symon acknowledged, resting against the side of their own ship, Le Royale. Despite being the largest ship in the fleet, it was nothing more than a tiny leaf in the storm. It lurched violently from side to side, battered by howling winds and smothered by massive waves that swept across the deck. The siren-like surges threatened to steal sailors away with them, singing a great roaring ballad and promising their kiss of death. It was almost a mercy in the hellacious weather, and was unlike anything any of the sailors had experienced before.
“Reminds me of what they say in those stories,” Nichol called over the calamity of the storm. “I never thought I would be in one myself. Didn’t expect to die in one.”
“A storm? Or a story?”
Nichol grasped at the side of the ship as it bore to the side once again. The knight looked around, relieved to see that they were not the only men left. Others just barely held onto the ship, wrapped around posts and clutching ropes.
“Either,” he spat. “Is this how you thought you would die?” His voice was laced with terror, but he seemed too afraid to fully realize it himself.
“I should prefer dying laughing than living in fear,” came the answer.
The storm raged on, rampant with lust for destruction. Lightning struck somewhere in the distance and the waves swelled quickly in response. The vessel was tossed around in the firm grasp of the gale, left helpless and at the mercy of a vengeful god who looked down with contempt upon all the world, seeing them only as heathens deserving of being washed away.
The sailors scrambled, doing what little they could, desperately trying to carry out their duties in the chaos that surrounded them. Spray coated the ship, blinding them every few seconds, and solid waves pounded the hull in tireless attempts of dragging the ship into the black, churning depths. Icy winds swirled around the masts and ropes flailed like vicious serpents in every direction. The men on the beams attempted to tie them down, gripping as tightly as they could, but many were ripped away regardless and plummeted into the ocean, disappearing into the dark.
Symon knew this was more than just vile weather. It was unholy weather. Ungodly. Profane. He raised his eyes to the skies, petitioning Khosa for favour. They needed His guiding light in this storm, but despite Symon’s constant prayers the storm seemed to only worsen. It was without any calm center, and in response to his pleas the gales grew colder by the minute. Would the wind simply pick up their ship and fling it carelessly through the air? Or would the wind and rain turn to ice first, entombing them and sinking the ship to the sea floor? The sunlight was quickly dwindling, struggling to penetrate the thick clouds that grew and flourished like virile weeds. It took just moments for them to be bathed in a midnight blackness, and their only illumination came from the distant flashes of sinister lightning.
The words he spoke came from his veriture. He clutched the holy book against his waist as the gusts threatened to steal it from him. In the darkness he could not read, but he didn’t need to. The texts were burned into his mind and effortless to remember, allowing him to pour all of his energy into their meaning. He focused his will, lifting his voice and the words to Khosa. If he could not dispel the storm, or if Khosa would not, then he wished to at least calm the waves and achieve safe passage for their important purpose.
Despite his best efforts he was not met with success. A dark presence resided in these waters. He could feel it, and it was not alleviated with the simple act of speaking aloud the holy words. There was something else to it. There was something more than the unfair lashing of the storm. There was a cruelty he detected. A malefic presence. An evil that deliberately and consciously made efforts against them.
The bearded, youthful man walked slowly around the deck, bolstering himself against the fury of the seas as the winds forced him to the deck again and again. The terrible darkness closed further in around them, and within it he could hear the screams of the crew as they were assaulted by the crashing torrents and snatched away in its umbral grip. He did not see them, but it did not offer him any comfort.
“Khosa, grant me your strength!” he pleaded with a resurgence of need and distress. “Hear your faithful! Help me protect your people! Bring us through this foul tempest! Bring us back to your shores! Bring us into your light, as you brought your chosen!”
His voice felt drowned out into insignificance, suffocated beneath the madness in the air. Was this storm so wicked that even Khosa could not reach them? The terrifying thought entered his mind for only a moment, but retreated as the boat levelled out abruptly. The gales continued to blare around them, but they seemed strangled compared to what they had been. Symon breathed a sigh of relief, gripping the veriture tighter and alternating between a prayer and a word of thanks to Khosa. His strength waned and he slumped against the mast to gather his strength.
His sense of relief, and the hopes for a moment of respite were dashed as he turned to look for Nichol. The man was gone. There was no trace of him, and Symon repeated the prayer for the dead. His hand had just reached his silver pendant when he was interrupted suddenly. From beneath the ship came a harrowing, baleful sound that reverberated through the air around them. It sounded like the world had called out in pain, and he had no answer for it.
“I should have known better than to bring you aboard!” bellowed Margrid, the admiral of the once-fleet, and now overly-decorated captain. He emerged on deck at Symon’s side, and his contingent of uniformed officers was close behind. “I should have known! They warned me! The church has no place on any ship, least of all on mine!”
“I appreciate your concern, admiral,” Symon said calmly, “but I think you might see the church as a preferable alternative to what is to come.”
Whatever response Margrid had was suffocated into silence as a chilling breath swept across their skin. Symon reeled as a sickening despair settled into the pit of his stomach, and as he stared out into the empty blackness he felt something staring back. The lightning no longer struck to illuminate their surroundings, and blind in the darkness he found it suddenly hard to breathe.
“No,” Margrid whispered, suddenly audible in the lull. His voice croaked with a scratchy dryness that came from a life of shouting and drinking, and too many years inhaling the salty air. The ocean almost became still and yet their situation felt more dire than ever before. The admiral swallowed, then ran his hand across his prickly, bearded chin. “No, I think that would only make things worse.”
Symon agreed wholeheartedly. He doubted it would make a difference for much longer. Another haunting, dismaying roar shook them, and they all felt something colossal move in the distance. It shifted with the slow, confident enormity of an island and disappeared beneath the waves as slowly as the sun set. The sea grew even more insidious. No longer was it comprised of salty water, but of ink and blood, dead bodies and splintered wood, and now a malefic presence that feasted upon the thrill of the suffering of men.
“Light of dawn, grant your servant your radiance,” Symon pleaded swiftly, holding the veriture aloft and reaching down with the hand other to retrieve his warhammer. The weighty iron weapon was hot to the touch, and yet it didn’t burn his hand. The heat spread through his fingertips and into the rest of his body. An instant later he burst into blazing flames, but they didn’t consume him. A flickering, golden glow was cast upon the ship around him, spreading and pulsing like a heartbeat, growing larger with each second. A comforting calm embraced his mind and the storm faded as the Music filled him. Its melody touched his core, and he looked to the admiral, smiling at the man’s wary, awestruck expression.
“Be unafraid, captain. Khosa is with us,” he said in reassurance, though his words concealed his concern. Khosa was with them, but the situation was a terrible one indeed for such intervention.
Symon stepped forwards and the light moved with him. It flooded across the railing before him, growing more intense as he glanced over the side. A foreboding whirlpool of death greeted him and a cold, stale wind washed over him once more. The ship shuddered, then tilted suddenly, and he caught sight of a huge, lidless eye staring back at him from within the abyssal depths. It was attached to a writhing, shapeless body, which in turn was attached to a dark, savage hunger.
The terror beneath them considered the light before it as a threat and it lurched towards them, battering the side of the ship. A shower of splinters and fractured boards hurtled in every direction. One of Margrid’s men was thrown from the ship, and another fell to the ground in pain as a board tore into his neck. He screamed for just a moment, then could make no sounds other than to choke and twist. An officer knelt to help him, but he was dead before anything could be done.
Symon’s attention remained upon the creature, observing it as it crept towards them. It glowered at them with nefarious intent and Khosa’s light reacted. An arc of blazing fury lashed out, flaring with searing heat. Another ghastly utterance emanated from the monster and something struck the ship, snapping the boards and sundering timbers. Shouts echoed from below-deck, followed immediately by cries of death.
“It’s inside the ship!” Margrid alerted, drawing his weapon. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his eyes were manic. “Weapons! Every man, fight!” The men were quickly brandishing whatever they could find. Knives, spears, harpoons and sharp pieces of wood were brought to bear as hammer-blows punctured the hull and tore the mighty sailing vessel asunder. Symon braced atop the deck as it cracked beneath him, fighting to stay in place as the searing light continued to burn the beast. At his side the admiral warded off the creeping vine-like appendages of the creature, but each strike of his sword was in vain.
“Protect the cargo!” Symon shouted, more of an order than a warning. The sound barely carried over the din of the shouts, the storm, and the snapping of the deck as it abruptly split in two. Margrid wavered momentarily, and his eyes met Symon’s as dread settled into the admiral’s soul. An instant later he was flung over the side and to the waiting beast below.
Symon stared helplessly as he disappeared, clutching his weapon and veriture tightly as he cast his eyes over the destruction of the ship around him. There was no chance they could escape now. The vessel was nothing but a wreck, and no one else survived. There was nothing left for him to save, but he intended on upholding his oath and fulfilling his duty. He clutching his holy book to his chest, rallying his strength before leaping from the ship with a yell. He clutched his mace tightly, and Khosa descended with him into the waiting mouth of the fiend below.
