The Dead Shoals:
Near one of the scattered islands off the coast of the Isle of the Pirates
* * *
The massive tavern floated on the water like a bloated tick. The structure was tethered to the craggy cliffs by iron chains that groaned with every swell. Lanterns dangled and twisted in the wind from crooked masts, flickering green-blue magical flames that cast eerie shadows across the warped planks. The sign swinging over the main deck read The Drunken Barnacle—though most knew it by a different name: The Salted Witch.
The tavern, built from the remains of dozens of wrecked ships, towered three stories high above the waves. The bar was on the second deck in a chamber that reeked of sea brine, gunpowder, and unwashed bodies. It was here that the most notorious creatures of the land, sea, and sky gathered to drink and gamble.
“I need to speak with-with his Lordship,” Bolder stated to the two creatures standing guard outside the doors.
One guard—a hulking brute with barnacles crusting his face—turned to stare at Bolder with twin, beady black eyes. Bolder might be broader than the creature, but he knew if there was a fight, he wouldn’t be the one walking away. Eight octopus arms rose, three of them wrapped around broadswords while the other five patted him down, removing his weapons.
“Proceed with care,” the creature chuckled, opening one of the double doors.
Bolder nodded, wishing he had sent Bones in his place. Unfortunately, Bones was keeping an eye on the two females they had seen a few days before.
He pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, not quite hiding his jumpiness when the door behind him closed with a snap. The bar quieted for a moment as heads turned to stare at him, then resumed their indistinct murmur of conversation.
Bolder scanned the room before his gaze settled on a throne made from coral spikes and barnacled bones. Lounging with ease in the gruesome chair was a man—or what was left of one.
Blackheart.
Blackheart’s coat flared like dark kelp in water. The sinewy lines of his skin were marked with barnacle-crusted scars and sea serpent ink. His right eye glowed green while his left was milky white and cracked with veins of obsidian. His left hand was monstrous—clawed, webbed, dripping with brine—and shimmered like sharkskin beneath the torchlight.
On the table before him, a map of the isles glowed faintly, pulsing as if alive.
“We strike here,” Blackheart rasped, pointing with his claw at the heart of the Isle of the Pirates. “Ashure plays at king, but he forgets the sea bows to no crown.”
“Even he bows to that weak female he has married and calls queen,” a gravelly voice scoffed.
“’Ashure, you’d better not be stealing the Empress’s bourbon and Lightning Ponies again,’” another joked in a mockery of a woman’s voice. “’She’s going to send those nasty little sea monkeys after you if you do.’”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Bolder paused just outside the group. He pulled his tattered hat off and fumbled with it before he cleared his throat. The men and women sitting around the table turned to stare at him. His heart thundered in his chest when Blackheart slowly lifted his gaze and met his.
“Speak,” Blackheart commanded.
“Your Lordship,” Bolder squeaked before clearing his throat again and starting over. “Your Lordship, I have news you might find… useful.”
Snickers rumbled through the group before silencing when Blackheart lifted his hand. He flicked the fingers of his right hand in dismissal. The group rose as one and left the table, glaring at him but not saying a word. Only one remained—and she frightened Bolder as much as Blackheart.
“What would a lowly thief have that I might find useful?” Blackheart inquired.
Bolder watched as Blackheart rolled a piece of eight between his fingers. His gaze flicked to the woman who remained partially in the shadows. Doubts began to cloud his mind.
“Tell us about these strange children,” the woman murmured—her voice silky, hypnotic.
“There-there are two groups of them. We-I escaped them on the Isle of the Giants, but there-there appear to be at least two-two more here,” he stuttered.
“Saldusa,” Blackheart said.
“With pleasure, brother,” Saldusa said.
Bolder released a choked cry as the woman stepped forward and raised her skeletal hands. A dark mist swirled outward, pulling him forward until he was pressed, half-bent, over the table. The woman raised a clear, crystal orb in her hand.
He tried to resist, but the black mist invaded his nose and mouth with every breath. He felt like he was choking. Gagging, trying to draw in air, he coughed and sputtered. He reached up and clawed at his throat.
