Death Whispers 17: Ghosts, Golems, and Aggressive Gardening

July 28, 1722. Getting answers we weren't ready for...

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Running through the dark streets of Kingston, Pedro, Elara, and Lysander set a cunning trap for the Death Whisper that’s hunting them. Using a timely stack of crates, they ambush the golem while Pedro puts his mysterious curse to use. But instead of getting answers, the trio frees a trapped ghost from inside the Death Whisper, which destroys the golem. In the process, Pedro learns there may be much more to his cursed hand than he was led to believe.

July 28, 1722. Getting answers we weren't ready for...

I had no idea who or what that voice was that I heard in my mind when I pulled the ghost free. It wasn’t the ghost, and I didn’t have time to figure it out.

“We should head for the harbor, or someplace near it, away from prying eyes,” Elara suggested. Then she gave the ghost an uneasy look. “Those shrieks were loud enough to rattle windows. Someone is bound to come looking.”

I recovered my sword, then the four of us walked down Harbor Street and turned south on Georges Lane for the docks. Any route at all would’ve been fine, so long as we put as much distance between us and the golem’s remains as possible. The idea was to appear normal, or as normal as three people walking with a ghost could look.

Obviously, that wouldn’t be much, but I held out some hope. Not that I felt like a good judge of normal these days.

Five minutes later, once we were much closer to the docks, I cleared my throat. Having any sort of conversation with a ghost was still rather new for me.

“Señor,” I began. “Despite how we met, if I may? I am Doctor Pedro Sangre. These are my close friends and companions, Lysander Riverwind, and Captain Elara Blackwater of the Silk Duchess.”

The ghost nodded, then touched two fingers to the side of his head. A blue-white corpse light flickered in his cloudy eyes with what might have been recognition at Elara’s name.

“Renwick. Renwick Taggert,” he said with a mild Scottish brogue. “So then, it was you who blasted me out of that thing?”

“Indeed, Señor,” I confirmed.

“Though, maybe not as planned as it should’ve been,” Lysander muttered lightly, with a pained look in my direction.

Renwick rubbed the back of his neck absentmindedly. “Well, surprise or no, like I said, I can’t thank you enough for that. Being stuffed into that thing weren’t too much fun. It’s nothing but anger, spit, and bile once you’re trapped inside.”

Then he gave Elara a pensive look.

“Blackwater. I know that name,” he said warily. “Are you the Captain Blackwater that slipped the Trade Syndicate near Pearl Island? Making off with that load of timber, spices and medicines?“

“Yes,” Elara replied evenly. “That medicine went to the local towns to put an end to the fever burning through them. As for the rest,” she shrugged, “just a finder’s fee.”

Lysander chuckled dryly. “It’s not like the Syndicate missed any of it. Probably stole half of it themselves.”

Elara crossed her arms and fixed the ghost with a suspicious stare.

“So, you’re serving under Storm?” she asked Renwick. There was a faint sigh with some steel hidden behind her words like a concealed dagger. “He put you up to this with the Death Whisper?”

Renwick’s expression flickered with a mix of remorse and resentment.

“Was. Am,” he replied in a sour tone. “I first served aboard the Far Ranger for the Trade Syndicate, the East India branch. Cap’n Storm took the Ranger, and I was a survivor. Seemed wise to join his crew when he offered. The alternative wasn’t healthy.”

He paused, glancing up at the night sky while we walked, spectral hands clenched into fists.

“So then, I became one of his gunners on the Rising Eel, Cap’n.” Renwick’s expression turned hard. “At least, I was until they put the Choice to me.”

“The Choice?” I asked warily, even though I had a vague, unpleasant feeling over what he meant.

“Either be fed to that hell-cursed arcane engine or shoved into a Death Whisper golem. I chose the Whisper.” Renwick’s dead voice echoed with a bitter tone. “Again, seemed healthier.”

“Fed to the engine?” Lysander repeated slowly, with a concerned look. “You mean sent? What happens to anyone sent to the engine?”

Renwick didn’t say a word. Instead, he replied with a small, thin smile that lacked any humor to it at all.

A morbid silence wrapped around us like a thick burial shroud for a few paces down the road. The ghost cleared his spectral throat.

“You’ve other questions, I take it?” he asked lightly.

I raised my eyebrows at everything that wasn’t said, but still pushed on.

“What do you know about the Codex Luminari?” I asked. Just in case, I gave a rough description of the book’s appearance. “Your captain, as best I understand it, is cursed to protect it. Is that same curse on you?”

“Not entirely sure,” Renwick replied with a small shrug. “But I think all of us aboard the Eel are. As for having seen the book? I have. It’s always in the hands of that little man out fretting on deck for one reason or another. He keeps it with him no matter what, reading some note, design, or something.”

“This man, do you know his name?” Lysander asked curiously. “What does he look like?”

“Oh, short man. Human.” Renwick cast a pensive look at the near-cloudless night sky. “Five foot four, if I put a guess to it. Light brown hair, going a bit bald. Blue-gray eyes. Mostly thin. Has a rough cough that comes over him occasionally. The captain calls him ‘Argall’. No idea if that’s his given name, or family name.”

Elara’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Joshua Argall?”

“The ledger in the bookshop mentioned a brother, and something about an illness,” Lysander pointed out with a slight shrug.

Renwick gave us an awkward, half-shrug, voice rich with a dead man’s echo. The ghost raised his eyebrows, lips pulled tight.

“Brother or no, that one’s mad as a hatter. Dangerous as a rattled snake, too.” His eyebrows found a way to reach higher. “Whispers to that book like it’s alive. Goes on about ending death, bringing the dead back to life.” Renwick gestured to himself with a light smirk. “Not that I’m too much against that last one, mind you.”

“I’d expect not, Señor,” I said with a smirk at his gallows humor.

Elara frowned over all of this. Joshua Argall had rattled Elara from the moment they met. She told me later when we were alone, the look in his eyes was unsettling. I had a guess that all this about the man having a brother, who was likely twisted up in necromancy, shook her even more. I knew it brought back other bad memories for her.

“How do we even know that isn’t actually Joshua Argall?” she asked with a strained look.

Lysander shrugged. “We can check again, Elara, but Mr. Argall’s still in the hospital last I saw. Well, his mind’s not really even there when you talk to him.”

“But,” he half-crossed his arms and rubbed his chin, “if he’s really on the Rising Eel, that would be quite the trick. Mr. Argall would have to give the nuns the slip to escape the hospital. After that, steal a boat if one wasn’t waiting for him.” Lysander’s grin was almost infectious. “I’d put my money on the nuns. They’d catch him at twenty paces.”

Elara replied with a thoughtful hum, but kept the rest to herself.

The topic changed as Elara and Lysander peppered Renwick with questions about the Rising Eel. It was details and questions around her ship class, how many cannons, and the like. But I was still focused on Renwick himself.

This man, or rather ghost, was a stark contrast from the Death Whisper he had been minutes before. Grateful and helpful instead of murderous. I also caught the bitter tone about his service to Captain Storm. This wasn’t entirely a surprise, since it sounded like Renwick had been press ganged into service. I had a feeling he’d overheard a great deal while aboard the Eel that he hadn’t mentioned. When Elara and Lysander’s questions slowed down, I jumped in with my own.

“Señor,” I began. “Do you know of a warehouse? One this Argall might have mentioned?” Then I waved a hand idly back at the bulk of Kingston. “Say not far from here?”

The ghost pursed his lips while he gazed up at the sky again in thought.

“No, can’t say that I have. He’s gone ashore a few times, even here in Kingston. But no one’s ever mentioned a warehouse that I’ve heard.”

“Where’s the Eel now?” Elara asked. There was a hard edge like polished wood to her voice, as if preparing for a fight.

“No idea,” Renwick replied as he shook his head. “Truly. Probably harassing the shipping lanes.” The solemn echo in his voice broke a little. “Grabbing crews for that cursed engine, most likely.”

Elara clenched her jaw a little. To be honest, I did, too.

“So not nearby?” Lysander asked with a disappointed frown.

“Doubt it,” the ghost said. “When any Death Whisper is sent out, the Eel drops anchor close. Those golem bodies don’t float, and walking on the sea floor isn’t all that good for them. Once the Death Whispers are away, the Eel weighs anchor, then makes herself scarce.”

Renwick stopped walking at the entrance to a barely lit side street that ran right to the docks. In the distance, ink dark water lapped at shadowed piers with a hungry sound. Slowly, he grimaced, almost mournfully.

“Overheard today that the work with that demonic engine is going too slow. Not enough people being sent to it. There had been a plan to grab the sea hag of Port Royal, and put her to the engine.”

“We tossed some rum in those waters,” Elara replied with a faint note of satisfaction. A small smile tugged at her lips.

“Cap’n Storm didn’t take that well,” he replied with a smirk, but it faded fast. “Argall raged like a wet hen when that plan failed, demanding to step up the work. Grab something stronger. Even ordered the captain to open fire on a fishing town. I’ll tell you, Storm didn’t like that one bit.”

The ghost was silent for a heartbeat, eyes clouded, before he shuddered just a little. The kind of shudder only death brought when he passed by.

“Even that didn’t help, or really do whatever he was hoping would happen.”

The Death Whispers themselves came back to mind.

“Renwick?” I asked slowly. “We’ve fought four other Death Whispers before you.” A pause filled the air while I gave Elara and Lysander an uneasy glance. “Did whoever was inside those three golems return to the Rising Eel?”

The ghost’s chuckle was humorless and hollow, like an empty casket.

“Oh, that they did,” he replied in a low tone. “Each one came right back to the Eel. Argall had them put to the engine for failing.”

Lysander’s mouth pulled into a tight, flat line. Next to him, Elara looked away to the harbor while a string of bitter curses brushed under her breath.

As for me, I rubbed the bridge of my nose, then let out a slow sigh. Being sent back was just what I was afraid would happen. Only the truth was much worse. I wasn’t sure knowing made me feel any better.

“Begging your pardon,” Renwick said softly, breaking the silence. “What now? As I know it, I should’ve faded, but here I am.”

I started to reply, but stopped, puzzled.

“I’m not sure, Señor. Is that how it happens with the others?”

Renwick nodded slowly. “About like. They jerked back into their bodies as if struck by lightning, raving about the world fading.”

“What?” Elara said sharply, wide-eyed. “Their bodies?”

“Pedro!” Lysander exclaimed as he lunged forward.

He grabbed me by the front of my coat, then yanked as a shadow loomed behind me. At the same time, a hand latched onto my shoulder from behind with an iron grip. A quick twist to the side yanked me loose, while Renwick and Elara stepped back in surprise.

I spun around in time to watch an older man, dressed like any other dockworker along the waterfront, wither into a wooden statue. His face froze into a pleading, silent scream. A perfect carving of petrified terror. All around us, the air went heavy with the fresh scent of tree sap and rotten wood.

Another murder victim, just like from the broadsheets.

Only this one was fresh.

The killer had to be nearby. I yanked my sword free, looking around in alarm.

“We need the city watch,” I said in a low, quick voice.

“On it!” Lysander raced down the damp cobblestone street to rouse the evening watch.

I met Renwick’s worried eyes.

There was no way to explain him, if anyone could see him, that is, and he knew it.

“We’ll need to hide you,” I told him.

I just wasn’t sure how.

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.