Death Whispers 26: The Bait

Aug 2, 1722. Aboard the Silk Duchess, forward cargo hold. Absolutely dancing around death…

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: After confronting Lucas Argall, Pedro and the others survive to reach the Silk Duchess. But while they escaped Lucas and Captain Storm, the wood wraith’s effect is still felt. A survivor is dying of a strange infection, one that petrifies him. Pedro works quickly, using a desperate gamble on a hasty mixture of three wildly different potions to save a young man’s life. An act that may have far reaching consequences…

Aug 2, 1722. Aboard the Silk Duchess, forward cargo hold. Absolutely dancing around death…

The soft crackle of abused wood faded to nothing as Garvin’s arm slowly stopped turning into ragged driftwood. A tiny sprig pushed its way out just above the boy’s wound. Carefully, I pulled out my folding knife, then turned over one of the oval green leaves.

“Alive and healthy,” I murmured. A confused ramble of theories suddenly rolled around in my head. Nothing I could easily repeat out loud.

It was a perfectly healthy little plant. No gray spot of decay, or even a hint of greasy black tendrils reaching for my knife. That it had grown out of the boy’s arm was unsettling, but nothing about this was normal. I let out the breath I’d been holding that entire time while I put away my folding knife.

To be honest, I was as shocked as anyone down in the cargo hold that it worked. I really thought for a moment that I might’ve accidentally found a new and unspeakable way to poison someone. Alchemists are mentored by assassins in our first year of apprenticeship, after all.

“Señor? Señora? We’ll need to watch Garvin’s wound for a few days. Just to make sure this infection isn’t spreading,” I told Garvin’s parents, swallowing the last of my nerves about the potion. “But, so far, I think this mixture may have done the trick. I’ll brew up another batch. He’ll probably need to drink some once a day. Try to keep his arm dry.”

Hugs and tears came in waves after that, with both parents almost too overjoyed to string words together. The air smelled of old salt, damp canvas, and best of all, relief.

This was fine by me, as exhaustion had slipped up to ambush me when I wasn’t looking. I fought down a yawn that rattled my bandaged shoulder, then got to my feet and left the forward hold.

Lysander caught up to me before I was even ten paces away.

“Pedro? Was that your last… what do you call it?” he asked.

“That green potion? Graveyard syrup,” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “Yes, it was the last dose I had on me.”

The Silk Duchess rocked and bobbed through the waves, cutting her way forward. Her planks flexed and groaned while she sailed, wooden bones creaking, irritated over the storm.

I couldn’t hear the hammer of rain against the wooden deck overhead, so I trusted the storm hadn’t returned. We dodged and sidestepped crew, hammocks, or both while we worked our way to the stern.

“How long will it take to make another mix of that potion for the boy?” Lysander asked. “From what you said, it sounded like he’d need a daily dose.”

“An hour, maybe two. The graveyard syrup alone isn’t easy to make,” I explained, then shook my head. “But it’s all a guess. I’m treating it like an infection, as if Garvin got too close to Lucas Argall and got clawed for it. I just wish I knew why it infects some victims quickly, and others, like Garvin, slowly.”

“Maybe it’s the wound?” Lysander offered. “A shallow wound means it takes more time for whatever this is to take hold?”

That idea stirred up plenty of thoughts. Some of them were actually good. Well, mostly good. I squinted at Lysander.

“You may have something there. If that’s true, then this is more like a venom or a poison.” Tired or not, I managed a little smirk. “I know how to work with those.”

We stepped aside as far as the crowded space below decks allowed to let four crew members move past us for their hammocks. They had just come down from above, dripping with rain and exhaustion.

Crew space, or space of any kind, was a premium aboard ship. Calling it crowded was an understatement. Most of the crew lived below decks with a hammock or nook fixed to the hull, not unlike a pantry shelf for people.

“One of those ingredients was that necrotic nightmare from the warehouse,” I explained, while we continued. “I’ve an idea how Lucas made that, but I’m not entirely sure. So, I’ll need to experiment a little. Hopefully, I won’t poison myself.”

There was also the part where necrotic elixirs could corrupt the maker. Turning them into twisted depths of evil and all of that. I left that part out. It just didn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

“Will it be enough to last the trip back to Kingston?” he asked.

I couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stayed fixed on the narrow path through the Duchess. What I didn’t say was that I barely had enough ingredients to make more graveyard syrup for one person, let alone two.

“Just enough if you open an Arcane Gate for us to outside Kingston. Outside the harbor,” I said over my shoulder as I grabbed the ladder to the deck above.

“Though, I might can make it stretch if we have to sail back the long way.” An almost inaudible sigh spilled out of me. “Either way, once back, I’ll get what I need from my shop to make a large batch for the boy.”

Lysander must’ve caught the part I didn’t say, since his eyebrows bunched in a hard scowl across his dark, olive-skinned face.

“What about for you?” he asked solemnly, eyes stern.

“I’ll manage,” I replied, then started up the ladder.

Lysander grabbed my shoulder before I took a step.

“Like hell you will,” he snapped. “I know what that means coming from you. Have you taken any of that green syrup today to stave off the killing curse?”

I didn’t answer for a good four seconds, jaw tight. This wasn’t a conversation I needed to have right then. To be honest, I wasn’t sure any conversation about that topic was a good idea at all.

“No,” I replied, voice a little harder than I intended. “The boy needs it more.”

Lysander’s grip tightened when I tried to climb the ladder.

“Pedro! You’re not stalking your way out of this one,” he said. “Elara said you were struggling over drinking the cure.”

“It isn’t a cure, and this isn’t the time, Lysander,” I shouted.

“Oh yes, it is!”

I spun around to scowl at him, and he matched me glare for glare. Anger bubbled up inside me like a bitter fountain of bile.

“The boy might have died!”

“He didn’t!” Lysander yelled back. “But if you die, then who can mix the medicine the boy needs? Damn it, Pedro. It’s like you’re trying to kill yourself. You could make a new batch of that potion, and then what? What if he needs more and you die from that curse?”

I started to turn away, jaw set, but Lysander pulled me back around.

“Use your head,” he continued sharply. “Treat yourself first, then the boy. What’s gotten into you?”

A dozen thoughts crowded my head, each one competing for attention. I pinched the bridge of my nose, then took a long breath. The scent of stale sweat, canvas, and other ship smells I didn’t want to identify helped me sort my words out.

Deep inside, my anger burned so hot, I thought the Duchess might catch fire. But in truth, I wasn’t angry at Lysander. I was angry at me.

Everything inside me wanted to rant at him that I felt responsible. That when we first got the warrant for the job, I didn’t research the Codex enough, as if I even could, to know that it was this dangerous. That every death so far was somehow my fault through all this.

But I didn’t say any of that. Mostly because I knew that it wasn’t entirely true, even if I wanted to take the blame.

“Mierda,” I swore bitterly before I glanced away a moment.

“I’m a doctor,” I said. “An alchemist. I try to save lives.” My words had dipped down into a light growl. “But right now? I’m doing a terrible job of that. Lucas and his pet pirate are cutting a bloody swath through people like a scythe cutting through stalks of innocent wheat.”

Lysander squeezed my shoulder, mouth pulled into a complicated line.

“Just remember that when you try to save lives, you’re included on that list, my friend,” he said in a low voice.

I nodded, then drew in a shuddering breath. It had been a really long day.

“Those bastards still stay a step ahead of us,” I explained, or maybe complained. “We need bait. Good bait. Something to lure them out. Not money, but something they don’t have.”

“Like a cure? At least something they think is one?” Lysander raised an eyebrow at me as a slightly devious smirk blossomed over his face.

There are times I miss the obvious. It happens. Then there are times the obvious is dancing in front of me wearing colorful silk veils, slapping me with a wet rag. This felt like the latter.

I scrubbed a hand down my face.

“Now I know I’m exhausted,” I murmured, rolling my eyes skyward. “Yes, like a cure. Just like that damn elixir I threw together.”

Lysander patted me on the back with a grin.

“Go get some rest, Pedro,” he said. “Then brew up enough for you and Garvin. We’ll figure out the rest later. I’ll get to work on opening that Arcane Gate.”

I nodded, then started up the ladder.

Once on deck, things got far more interesting than potions, or me being too exhausted to have functional common sense.

“Ship inbound! No flag!” shouted a lookout.

Uneasy conversation rolled through the crew like a wave. No flag often meant only one thing… pirates. I only knew of one pirate that was close enough to be a problem.

Captain Dryden Storm.

That’s when I heard the roar of a cannon as it fired in the distance.

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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.