The other side of Drake’s cabin was even larger, housing a desk and a number of cabinets and chests of drawers. Smithe spied numerous bottles of booze in one of the cabinets, and had to stop himself breaking the glass to take one of the more expensive looking bottles. He wondered how that fancy rum tasted, having never tried anything but the swill most taverns sold, but that could wait. Smithe was playing the long game. His goal was the riches, the ship, the power, and the reputation. He would have them all before he was done.
He went to the first set of drawers and rifled through them quickly. All he found was blank parchments and the ink to write on them, a number of letters each signed by someone called Rei, a child’s game set on a board with a number of squares and some little toy figures to go with it, and a yellow gemstone the size of the palm of his hand. The gemstone looked valuable, and Smithe pocketed it without another thought.
The next cabinet had a desk atop it, bare except for a small pistol. Smithe had never used one of the little weapons, but he’d seen them put to devastating effect. He knew how easy they were to make work, and he decided he would have one of his own some day. Smithe wrenched at the door to the cabinet, but it was stuck fast. A small gilded lock sat front and centre, mocking him.
He had no experience with picking locks, and he very much doubted the key would have been left lying around. If this cabinet contained Drake Morrass’ charts then it was likely the most valuable key on the entire bloody ship, and Drake would no doubt carry it on his person at all times. Smithe pulled on the door with all the strength he could muster. It didn’t give. With increasing certainty, he knew that this cabinet was his target and the charts were right in front of him.
With a growl of rage, Smithe punched the door. It hurt, but the metal knuckles on his knife did some damage to the wood. He punched it again, and again, and again. Smithe kept punching, heedless of the noise he was making, until the door splintered and split. He wrenched the lock free, throwing it into the middle of the cabin. Inside were rolls of leather-backed parchment, and plenty of them.
Smithe pulled the first roll out and opened it up, glancing over the words and pictures and calculations as he tried to find anything that indicated which area the chart depicted. He saw New Sev’relain written boldly on a blob that looked like an island, and tossed the chart behind him. Smithe glanced at the door to the cabin. He could still hear the sounds of battle outside, so he went back to rifling through the cabinet.
He threw away five more charts before he came to the one he was searching for. It depicted a coastline with hazards marked all over it and the words Forgotten but not lost written on the landmass. Smithe grinned. He’d achieved what that ponce Stillwater could not, and the crew would rally behind him for it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” someone said slowly.
Smithe turned his head to see a man standing just inside the doorway. He was tall and broad and thick with muscle, but his head was small, too small for the mass of his body. Smithe was tall and strong himself, but in a straight contest of strength the giant would crush him.
Without a word, Smithe grabbed the pistol from the top of the cabinet, pointed it at the big pirate, and pulled the trigger.
The giant stumbled back against the cabin door, his body slamming it closed as he fell. Thick red blood leaked from a hole in his chest, and he looked at Smithe with confusion in his eyes.
“Why does it hurt?” the pirate said, tears welling up and rolling down his face. “Make it stop.”
Smithe dropped the pistol onto the cabin floor and sauntered over to the simpleton. “Hurts because I just killed you. Still need to make sure though, eh? Can’t have you telling nobody what you saw.”
The big pirate let out a mewling whine as Smithe closed on him.
Kebble walked onto the beach, wincing. Every step was agony lancing through his side where the soldier had cut a slice. The man had died from a point-blank rifle shot to the face, but not before he’d given Kebble what should probably have been a fatal wound.
Having given Drake the weapons he needed to fend off the soldiers in the town, Kebble had followed the man’s orders and come looking for Keelin. The captain of The Phoenix was nowhere to be seen. Even down on the beach, where the fighting was as good as over, there was no sign of him.
Amidst the fires, the blackened sand, and the dark objects that could only be bodies spilling out their life blood, pirates were celebrating. Some looked wounded and others drunk, and there was likely still fighting taking place in the town, but the pirates were congratulating themselves on a hard-won victory – and it did look hard won.
Kebble spotted blond hair amidst burning sand and instantly recognised the crumpled body of Drake’s Arbiter. Not ten feet away he saw the site of an explosion, but not one caused by black powder, the scorch marks were all wrong. Bodies lay on the sand everywhere he looked, and many of them were missing parts, or were scorched beyond recognition. All were certainly dead.
The coconut fell from Kebble’s grasp, and he used his free hand to peel away the shirt stuck to his wound, gritting his teeth against the pain. He looked down; it had stopped bleeding, and was little more than a gooey red line across the left side of his abdomen. Kebble sighed. His immortality was still keeping him alive long past his time. He’d received worse wounds than a sword slash in his long years, but he’d hoped for a moment that this one might be his last.
Still using his rifle as a crutch, Kebble started towards the Arbiter’s body. He could only hope Captain Stillwater wasn’t one of the corpses in the sand. Kebble attempted to avoid attachments to those more short-lived than himself wherever possible, but he’d come to respect Keelin Stillwater and almost considered him a friend. It had been a long time since he’d named anyone a friend.
As Kebble drew nearer the Arbiter, he heard a scream from behind. His legs gave out as he turned, and the pain in his side was enough to blur his vision and cause a cry to escape his lips.
By the time Kebble’s vision cleared it was almost too late. A crazed soldier was almost upon him, eyes wide and filled with the kind of fear that drives a man to irrational action. Kebble managed to raise his rifle to block the sword meant for his head, but the soldier didn’t stop his mad charge and both men went down in a tangle of limbs, Kebble screaming in pain.
Rolling free of the soldier and clutching at his side, Kebble opened his eyes to see the man rise to his knees, his sword raised high above his head and about to remove Kebble’s.
The sand around them erupted, and something shot up and crashed into the soldier, bearing him to the ground in a combination of blood-curdling screams and cracking bones. Kebble crawled away, his heart thundering in his chest.
Three pirates leapt past Kebble and began to stab their weapons down into the sand.
Ignoring the searing pain streaking through his body, Kebble got his feet beneath him and struggled upright. He looked around for his rifle. It was nowhere to be seen. The three pirates had slowed their stabbing and slicing and were busy panting and congratulating each other. As Kebble approached the men, he saw the giant form of a sand monster lying on top of the dead soldier. The creature didn’t appear to be alive; its body and wings were covered in deep red cuts, and the smell that drifted up from it was almost unbearable.
“Damn, Salt,” said one of the pirates, a small woman with fiery red hair and a criss-cross of scars marring her face. “If you ain’t the luckiest bastard I ever seen. Must’ve been the last bloody sand demon on the beach. Only one we missed, just waitin’ for months, an’ it picks right then to have a snack.”
Kebble forced a smile onto his face. “Yes,” he said. “Lucky. Thank you for killing it.”