The Black Phoenix

From the original manuscript of Captain Clayton "Clay" Ambrose

This book is dedicated to…

Fistandantilos

ToxicBoi193

TNTRay0611

WoolyTheRam

HM Tanters

KittenMaster#134

TheOneTrueDerp

Flashkannon

A Popular Vote

Thank you all for an amazing year on the Sea of Thieves!

Prologue

In the far southeastern waters of the Sea of Thieves, in the region known as the Devil's Roar, there hunched the charred, ominous island known as Devil's Thirst. Deep beneath this island, below the heart of its smoldering volcano, was a massive chamber: a throne room. The chamber was so tall that a galleon's mast would not even scratch the ceiling, and so wide that four galleons could lie side by side without scraping the walls. These rock walls were crisscrossed with glowing veins of molten rock, sending the temperature of the room soaring to the heat of a kiln.

At the center of the room, perched on a ten-foot-high dais, was an enormous throne carved out of ink-black obsidian with hundreds of glowing ashen runes scratched into its glassy surface. On this throne sat a blazing, brooding figure: Captain Flameheart. He was a burly skeleton of at least 6' 2", his eyes like two deep glowing wells of fire. His captain's apparel was blackened and charred, sending ashes and sparks flying with his every movement.

There were about a dozen ashen skeletons in the room acting as guards around the throne, their scorched clothing hanging in taters from their blackening bones. Their cutlasses and blunderbusses shimmered threateningly in the burning light.

The silence of the chamber was broken by the massive wooden door that sealed off the room creaking open. Flameheart raised his head to see another skeleton boldly enter the room. This monster was slightly shorter than Flameheart but with much more weight behind him and a white beard and hair. The guards immediately parted before him, not wanting to be roughly brushed and knocked aside.

"You bring me news, Horatio?" growled Flameheart.

The old skeleton nodded. "The ritual party you sent out to the Roaring Sands has returned."

"Send them in," Flameheart replied, rising to his feet. Old Horatio signaled through the open door to someone behind him. Eleven ashen skeletons shuffled cautiously into the room, their heads twisting nervously from side to side. Flameheart turned to Old Horatio. "Thank you, Horatio. You are dismissed." The massive skeleton bowed deeply and retreated, shutting the chamber door behind him with a loud, hollow thump.

Flameheart turned his glowing eyes down to the eleven figures standing uncomfortably before him. "Well? What became of the ritual?" His minions glanced nervously from one to the other, each too nervous to speak up. "Either one of you tells me, or you all die," he rumbled threateningly.

Finally, one member of the party stepped forward. "Ah… yes, Your Highness," he began in a raspy voice that grated like sandpaper over rocks. "The ritual was, once again, I'm afraid… unsuccessful."

Flameheart stormed down the steps of the dais, growling like a bear with a toothache. "Unsuccessful?!" he boomed. "This is nearly the twentieth time! You lazy, worthless scum are wasting my time!" All the skeletons, including the guards, flinched away.

"Ahhh… yes, sire," replied the skeleton who had spoken up, trying to somewhat and subtly salvage some of his dignity, "Could it be possible that these rituals simply do not work for our purposes? Perhaps instead we should -" In one blur of motion Flameheart leaped down the remaining half a dozen stairs and struck out with a massive fist. The skeleton flew backward nearly fifteen feet before crashing into the wall and crumbling into a dusty heap of bones on the floor.

The others, now shocked into silence, froze, hoping with all their might not to become Flameheart's next moving target. The skeleton lord stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his heavy breathing rushing like a bellows, his eyes socket burning like twin torches. Suddenly he whirled around with a deafening roar that shook the walls of the chamber and sent plumes of dust falling from the ceiling. "The next one to question my methods will suffer a fate far worse than this pathetic soul!" All eyes instinctively flicked to the pile of bones against the wall. "Another dozen of you will go out tomorrow for another ritual!" None of his subjects dared to say a word, but they were all filled with dread. A group of a dozen was always assigned to go out and perform a ritual, but only eleven would return.

With a swirl of his ashen cloak, Flameheart swept to the east side of the room. On the wall was drawn an enormous symbol sketched in charcoal: a pentagram surrounded by flames with the footprint of some enormous bird of prey in the center. The flaming tyrant gazed up at the symbol and gave an evil smirk. "Once the rituals are successful, I will have exactly the key I need to conquer this sea once and for all. I will gain such power that anyone foolish enough to defy me will be annihilated!" He gave a bone-chilling cackle that once again sent the surrounding skeletons cowering away. "Do you hear me, you swaggering pirates?!" he bellowed up at the ceiling, pounding the walls with his bare fists and sending shards of stone flying. "King Flameheart shall return, and this time, my reign… shall… be… eternal!"

Chapter 1

A Detour to the Devil's Roar

Eighteen-year-old Clayton Ambrose sat with his back to the mast of his father's fishing sloop, the Golden Pondie. The ship was moored off the northern shore of Kraken's Fall in the predawn darkness. The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow pink and orange at the first hints of the rising sun.

Clayton, or simply Clay as most called him, ran his fingers through his short, slightly tousled dark hair and sighed. He turned to his father who was sitting at the base of the prow. "Pa, are you sure Ol' Reeler was right about finding seafoam splashtails here?"

Clay's father, Chester Ambrose, wasn't a tall man by any means. Clay's wiry, five-foot-eleven frame surpassed that of his father by a good two inches. Chester was quite powerfully built, however, with a barrel chest and a solid set of muscles from a fisherman's life of hauling in heavy nets every day. At the not-so-tender age of nearly fifty-five, his once jet-black black beard and long hair were now streaked with gray. His right hand had been reduced to a stub decades ago due to a shark bite that had become severely infected. When a doctor had advised getting a hook, Chester had stubbornly refused. "It'll do nothing but get all tangled up in me nets," he argued. This was why many sailors called him Stub (but never to his face, of course). Because of this handicap, he used a special reel that he could attach to the side of the boat for better stability.

Chester shook his head in response to Clay's question. "Believe me, lad, if Ol' Reeler told me that megalodons were bitin' for leeches in Smuggler's Bay, I wouldn't doubt him for a moment." Ol' Reeler was one of the most renowned fishermen on the Sea of Thieves. He had an uncanny ability to predict where certain fish would swarm and could land dozens of trophy-sized fish in under an hour. Many sailors came to him for tips and tricks on how to find and catch the most prized fish.

"We've been fishing for nearly two hours without a nibble," Clay pointed out.

Chester nodded reluctantly. "Perhaps they moved on just before we got here," he admitted. "We did leave home later than planned." He reeled in his line, clapped his hand against his thigh, and stomped up to the helm. "We may have been too late for the splashtails, but I'm more in the mood for some devilfish anyway. What say we make tracks for Flintlock Peninsula?"

Clay's heart beat a little faster with excitement. Flintlock Peninsula was one of the islands that lay in the Devil's Roar region of the sea. These islands were rocky, barren, and treacherous, dotted with active volcanoes. Geysers and earthquakes were quite common as well. Because of all this volcanic activity, the sky there seemed to always be an ashen gray with a slight tinge of sulfuric yellow.

Clay had yet to set foot in the Devil's Roar since his mother was constantly reminding his father not to take him there until he was at least twenty years of age. Clay thought about mentioning this to his father, but his sense of adventure and longing for something new pricked him. One trip to the Devil's Roar couldn't possibly hurt anything, could it?

His anticipation building, he helped Chester unfurl the sails and raise the anchor, and the Golden Pondie began skimming east by southeast. After angling the sails into the wind to give the sloop another burst of speed, Chester turned his attention to the map table which stood on the small middeck of the ship. He began circling more potential islands for fishing spots as Clay leaned over his shoulder to watch.

"By the way, lad," Chester added, twisting his head to fix Clay with a stern, steel-gray gaze, "I think it would be best if we didn't mention this to your ma." He gave a mischievous grin. "It'll be our little secret."

Clay returned the grin and a smart salute. "No sir, cap'n."

Chester returned to the helm, for the ship had now entered the Devil's Roar, and Flintlock Peninsula was looming close on the horizon. Once the boat was about a thousand feet from the southern shore, he ordered Clay to drop the anchor. The boy released the capstan, the anchor lowered with a rattle, and the ship glided to a halt.

Chester secured his fishing rod, fitted some grubs onto his hook, and cast out a line. Clay did the same, and twenty minutes later, Chester fell asleep. His snores rivaled even the sounds of the geysers bubbling and bursting on the island.

Another twenty minutes went by, and Clay was just about to lose hope again when he felt a firm tug on his string. Eagerly, he began winding up the reel, raising the tip of his rod every so often. Sure enough, he could spot a pearly seashell devilfish thrashing wildly on the end of his line.

Just as Clay had managed to drag his catch halfway back, the devilfish made an unexpected lunge to the right. Clay lunged to the left to counter this maneuver but slipped on the wet boards, causing him to stumble. While he stumbled, the fish gave a mighty jerk on the other end of the line, yanking the entire rod out of Clay's grasp and sending it tumbling into the sea.

Not wanting to wake his father, the boy shimmied down the ship's ladder, jumped into the water, and began swimming after his rod, which was still trailing behind the fish like a kite on a string. Finally, the devilfish managed to dislodge the hook from its mouth and swim away, leaving the rod to be washed up on the beach by the waves. Clay clambered out of the water with a sigh of relief. If the fish had decided to take off for the open sea, his father would have been seriously annoyed.

Clay had just bent down to pick up his runaway rod when there was a hollow boom that sent a small shudder through the sand. He straightened up in an instant and swiveled his head around, trying to locate the source of the sound. Turning a full circle, he finally spotted a huge plume of black smoke rising like a bad omen over the island's far eastern beach.

The boy was now greatly intrigued. The cloud was much too large to have come from a powder keg, and it certainly didn't come from the island's volcano. Planting the handle of his rod into the soft sand, Clay began trotting along the beach toward the smoke, which was rapidly beginning to dissipate in the strong sea breeze. After clambering over a dozen rocky outcroppings, he finally made it to the eastern shore. At the top of a small pile of boulders, Clay peered cautiously to the other side and caught sight of something that made his blood turn to ice.

Below him, eleven ashen skeletons stood in a wide circle around a giant scorch mark that was at least twenty feet in diameter. The surrounding rocks and driftwood lying on the beach were covered with small crude drawings of a symbol that Clay could barely make out. None of the skeletons had moved an inch or said a word. They just stood there, heads slightly bowed, each holding what looked like some kind of lava rock in both bony hands.

Finally, one of them, apparently the group leader, raised his head and declared in a raspy wheeze, "The ritual has failed once again." All the skeletons groaned at this, and another spoke up.

"If we return to Flameheart saying we have failed, he will surely kill us all. Perhaps it would be better to not return."

The leader whipped out his cutlass and waved it menacingly at his subordinate. "No more treacherous talk!" he screeched. "Remember what Flameheart did to that fool yesterday? If you dare desert, he will make you suffer a far worse fate." The underling fell silent.

As Clay shifted his position to better hear what the skeletons were talking about, his right foot came down on loose gravel. With a smothered shriek, he lost his grip on the boulder, slid down the embankment, and landed with a jarring thump on the packed dirt below.

All eleven skeletons whirled around to face him, their grinning skulls now seeming to glower with malice. "A spy!" shrieked the leader, drawing his cutlass once again in a flurry of sparks. "He is trying to learn of our rituals! Seize that little bilge rat and tear him to pieces!"