Sweat dripped from his arms as he shoveled quickly. His head pounded hard and the muscles of his arms and chest burned from the strain. He continued for as long as his body would allow, and then stopped. His feet had already become buried in the new sand. Sections of the deck which hadn’t been attacked with shovels were now knee deep in grit and the weight of it all began crushing the ship deep into the sandbar below.
Despondent with the certainty his battle was hopeless, Smith glanced at the deadly weather formation that would kill them all. It looked dark, ominous and evil to its core. Smith had spent nearly thirty years venturing into unexplored regions of the world. He’d seen every type of weather pattern known to man, but he’d never seen this. It was a once-in-a-generation meteorological event. The ferocious winds were leveling the monstrous sand dunes of the Namibian desert and dumping them out to sea.
His eyes turned to the warriors who lined the coast. They were going to win. He was going to die, but he doubted any of them would live long enough to revel in the knowledge. The storm was indiscriminate. It would kill all of them. Smith blinked, trying to see through the sand. When he opened them again, he saw an even more ghastly sight — the fiends had started to walk on water.
It was proof they were unearthly creatures. For a moment, he questioned whether or not he was still alive, and if he was now being punished in hell. He’d already accepted his fate, as impossible as it had seemed only a few hours earlier, he was going to die. But this was different. This was something evil, from the darkest unknown. Because no one walks on water.
A gust of wind knocked him onto his back. Nearby, one of the crew fell overboard, and Oswald screamed for the remaining men to keep working. Smith glanced at the fiends of his nightmare. There was something eerie and unnatural about the way they moved across the surface of the water. Like some sort of ethereal wraith, they glided above the water, and slowly stalked him.
Smith heard a man cry out for help from the sea. It was the man who’d fallen overboard. Smith clambered to the starboard railing. The crewman was standing in ankle deep water. My God! The ocean’s being swallowed by the sand! He reached down and helped pull the man back onto the deck.
Oswald had seen it, too. “Forget shoveling the sand, men. Prepare to repel boarders!”
Smith stared in horror as the warriors from the sand temple slowly approached. Their original numbers had been decimated, but they were still much greater than Oswald’s men, and they looked terrifying as they approached the Emerald Star. Smith followed the rest of the crew and fired his musket at the onslaught of warriors. His replenished supply of shot would outlast the weapon’s ability to continue to fire.
The first set of shots was fired and the smell of burnt sulfur and saltpeter filled the deck once more. Sand tore at their fragile skin, while the storm buried the meager light from the crescent moon. Their attackers advanced in an eerie silence, and the howling wind mocked them. Visibility was quickly reduced to nothing. The muskets rapidly failed under the sandy conditions. Flints broke, powder was spilled, and barrels became jammed with sand.
“Cutlasses and pikes out!” Oswald yelled. “This is it lads. Do or die!”
Smith rammed the butt of the musket into a boarder. The man fell backward and Smith dropped the weapon. He picked up a cutlass and swung it at the next man he saw. In the darkness, only the cries of the crew of the Emerald Star could be heard above the cold wind. He had no way of telling how many of the pirates were still alive.
It no longer mattered. They had been overrun by boarders, whose numbers and savagery would inevitably slaughter every last man. He heard his brother growl like a wounded beast. It could have been his bloodlust, or he could have been killed. Smith had no way of knowing. What he did know was there was only one place left where they might survive.
“Into the hold!” Smith yelled. “Retreat into the ship.”
He ran forward along the deck, through the darkness. One man stabbed at him with his dagger. Reflexively, Smith sliced back with his cutlass. The attacker’s gut opened up and Smith kept running. He climbed into the open hatch.
Once inside, he grabbed a pike off the rack, and pointed it upwards. If one of the boarders were to try to advance inside, he would pierce the man with the blade. He waited a few seconds for the other members of the crew. One of the attackers tried to drop down into the hold. Smith lifted the pike so it stood upwards, and the man was killed as his own weight drove the weapon through him when he landed on top of it.
Smith grabbed another pike off the rack, and waited ten seconds for more survivors, but none of the crew came. He knew he should wait longer. But how long could he keep fighting off the rest of the attackers? Sweat filled the palms of his trembling hands, and made the pike slippery. He climbed the ladder, and looked out into the darkness. Three of the attackers ran toward him. Smith closed the hatch and locked it shut. He wondered if their daggers of fragmented obsidian would be capable of penetrating the hardwood hatch. Smith dismissed the thought. There was nothing he could do about it. He quickly slid down the ladder, and lit a lantern.
“Is there anyone else down here?” he asked.
Only silence returned.
Above, the cries of men being slaughtered had finally dwindled to nothing. Smith carried the lantern and continued to search the bowels of the Emerald Star. He was on his own. He recalled the words the man with the purple eyes had said to him about the ancient relic — He who possesses it shall rule in solitude. For that is the price of unimaginable power.
He quickly opened the leather satchel, and unwrapped the protective cloth that surrounded the golden skull. He stared at the wretched artifact. Its hollowed eyes were tormenting him — Aren’t you glad you stole me?
He wanted to throw it overboard. Get rid of the cursed thing, but the outward opening hatch was now filled with sand and unable to be opened from the inside, even if he wanted to. His eyes darted to the porthole. Maybe there was still time to open it and escape. But even if he could, where would he go? The answer came to him immediately — to his death. Anything would be better than being buried alive.
Smith kept staring out the porthole in horror. It was pitch dark outside, and the light of the lantern flickered and reflected back at him on its glass. The porthole was too small to escape through. It was barely large enough to squeeze his arm through if he tried, and nowhere near large enough to expel the golden skull.
Above, he heard the unnerving sound of fingers scratching at the deck. The people from the pyramid were trying to dig their way through the sand and the hardwood to reach him. Not him. They didn’t really care about him. He glanced at the skull. Its sinister hollowed out eyes were mocking him. You know why they’re really here, don’t you? They had come for it, and the sweet smell of its burned, blackened powder. He would gladly give it to them, if he could.
His eyes focused on the porthole, as he watched the last remnants of the outside world being taken from him. Suddenly a man’s face peered through it, staring back in at him. It was one of the warriors. The man was silent. His eyes wide, longing for one last glimpse of it. Smith was no longer frightened of the creature. To him, the poor devil outside, looked just as pained and tormented as himself.
The man pressed his eyes hard against the porthole, as though he was trying to squeeze his head through the much smaller, brass hole, in an attempt to get a better look at the golden skull. Smith grabbed the ancient relic and picked it up and brought it to the porthole window.