"Theft of Destiny"

by Street Howitzer

Prologue

-NOTE: Though this story is a prequel to "Curse of the Black Pearl", one of the bigger plot points ties in to the events of "At World's End". It'd be best for all involved if you've seen all three movies before giving this a read, okay?-

If there was ever a lick of land that didn't deserve all the squabbling over who owned rights to it, it had to be Svyatoy. Leastways, if anyone ever took a vote, that'd be how Bootstrap would cast his.

When they first put out from the Isla de Muerta, Ma Turner's boy did not much care for where they were headed, or what Barbossa had planned for them once they'd gotten there. He was still down in spirits, his heart haunted with the sight of that little speck of nothing they'd left Jack on (and there was another worthless sand-pile, although no one was foolish enough to try and fight over it, to his knowing). That damnedly sensitive thing hurt each time he turned over what they'd done in his mind, as if it weren't able to believe that its master had actually been so treacherous, until he wished he could cut out the offending organ entirely. His melancholy kept him from even paying much mind when they went to the Isla, and as he was nowhere near Hector's favorite, their new captain had not gone out of his way to ensure that Bootstrap knew whence they were headed next.

But that was at first, when the waters at the bow were the good green of the Caribbean, and the air was warm and golden with the bright heat of the sun. As they sailed on, though, the waters began to gray, and the skies along with them--making the whole world seem like a dirty slate, making him think idly of Britain. Not two days later, England did meet with the Pearl, but for no more of a space than four hours. Bill barely had time to stretch his legs, and wonder at being the closest he'd been to his homeland in years, before the Bo'sun went about, re-collecting all the crew. Not that there would have been much they could of done in four hours, anyhow, with how their new captain was sitting possessive over their treasure. Oh, they had all seen the treasures of Cortez, and touched them over--and, yes, even Bootstrap had felt a strong yearning at the sight of so much wealth (but the price, ah, the awful price!). But the loose treasure--the odd gems and statues, the clothing and the helms--all of that was packed tight as a tick in the cargo bay, far from prying fingers, and the chief prizes were kept safe in Barbossa's chambers. All eight hundred and eighty-two of them, from what Bootstrap had been told, once he finally had the presence of mind to ask.

The rest of the crew grumbled at their shamefully short time on land--had they not just spent far too many days at sea? Yet Barbossa reassured them, as was his great talent, promising that they could take a good and well-deserved rest once they got to their next destination, and finished what he wanted done there. (And that was Hector, all in a few words: always happy to give, but only if he got what he wanted, and even then, only if he was in a giving mood afterwards.) At that particular point in their lives, Barbossa had not yet lied to them in a way that could be detected. Thus, they left Britain after less than half a day, having got little more than a lungful of the dank English air... and, as the crew happily discovered that evening, a refilled cargo bay, stocked with fresher food and, more importantly, rum.

After that, they did not set sail back to warmer climes. No, that might have been wise, and Bootstrap was already beginning to believe that Barbossa was, for all his years and all his talk, far less wise a leader than Jack Sparrow. Instead, the Pearl crept a gentle course along the whole of the north of Europe, hugging the coast of all those strange, pale lands that he'd never cared to visit. He'd had quite enough of cold from Scotland, and these northern seas brought a chill unlike even that. But despite the dismay that began to cut apart his silent mourning, Bootstrap Bill did not speak to his captain--no, that would have betrayed too much and too soon. Instead, he kept on as he had, asking quiet, sidelong questions of where they were going, and why. It was only when he realized that no one else, from the Bo'sun to the powder-monkeys, actually had a clear idea of what was in the captain's head, that his concern overwhelmed his depression entirely.

The Black Pearl made her wending path through the north, until she met with the river her captain was seeking--then, suddenly, they were plunging both inland and south, neither of which were familiar to her crew. Here, all the rivers were possessed of fresh waters and strange names, according to the charts that Bill quietly sneaked a look at whilst Barbossa was not at the helm. The lands surrounding bore doubly weird titles--some of it was writ in curves, arcs and dots of which he could make no sense, and some was written in something like English letters, but the words themselves were nonsense. He doubted that Barbossa himself could read it all, but he had yet to figure where his captain was hiding the list of translations. He did learn from the charts, though, that the rivers had a logical end: another ocean, this one locked deep in the heart of land, at the place where the Middle East and the Far East blended together. This name, at least, was written in a way that Bootstrap could understand, although he wondered at its significance: Caspian Seas.

After this, Bill Turner waited, performing his duties in the silent but amiable fashion that earmarked him as a good mate among his fellow pirates. Most men respected and liked his need to listen, rather than to speak, if only so that it gave them lots of air to fill with their own words. Or, rather, since the one man who hadn't was undoubtedly dead (it had been many weeks, and no man could have survived with no fresh water and food for so long) all men now respected his need to listen. So keep a sharp ear out he did, until they sailed at last from the river which, Barbossa said, was called the Volga, to the Caspian proper.

Once there, the men were all set to go on shore--after all, Hector had promised them leave once they reached their goal. But their captain ordered them, instead, to let out all the sails, catch every inch of wind they could, and send the Pearl skidding like a skipping-rock across the surface of the ice-gray ocean. When the crew was slack in following his will, for they could all see the coastal towns dotting the rocky mouth that separated the Volga from the Caspian, Barbossa growled for them all to look closer. A spyglass revealed that each of the towns was standing empty, and from the looks of them, their buildings were filled with nothing but gaping holes from cannon-fire. At that sight, they happily let out the sails, with more than one man spitting through his fingers at those raided, empty ghost-towns. All sailors are superstitious, be they pirate or naval, and why not--the sea was too capricious for one not to feel it must somehow be appeased.

On they went, then, but not for long. The frosted waters of the northern Caspian soon turned a kinder, more delightful blue, and within a span of days, the air became warm and pleasant. After so long in such abominable weather, all the men could not help but drink it in. Bootstrap, who had never cared for winter's chill, oft found himself pausing just long enough to tilt his face up towards the sun, like a plant that has gone wanting for light for too long. But even this did not last: for in a day's time, they were making port at a spit of overgrown land which, the captain said, was known as Svyatoy, for now.

This Bootstrap did not understand, but he didn't dare ask Hector what he meant. It was lucky for him, then, that others were there to ask a stupid question for him.

"'Fer now'--what's that mean, then?" Grapple said, his voice grinding as he spoke. He sounded confused, as if the very act of being curious was something unfamiliar. From Bootstrap's experiences with Grapple, that was likely to be true.

"It means, lads, that yonder isle's got more names than Tortuga's got pox," Barbossa said. He did not look behind him, to his crew, as he spoke--he kept his deadlights on the harbor as they fast approached. "It be in the lovin' care of the russkies, but only for the moment--not ten years ago, 'twas the Persian isle of Pirallahi, an' by my reckoning, it may not yet be long afore the Persians get a mind to take it back."

Bill Turner stared across the narrowing strip of sea between them and Svyatoy. It really did not seem much, especially at a distance--there weren't much there that topped its trees. The only man-made structures that rose above were weird stone columns, all of them surrounded by storms of birds at their tops; he'd never seen anything quite like that before. But by all rights, it looked like nothing but an accidental island, with none of the bawdy fun of Tortuga, nor the warm welcome of Jamaica.

He'd of given much to know why it was that Hector found this spot to be so bloodydamn important, to drive them nearly halfway across the map--but he was not about to ask, and the crew was already wandering off--bored of their new captain's long-winded histories, and thrilled at the sight of new wood and earth that would soon be under their boots.

-to be continued-