Chapter 2

An Interrupted Ritual

Thoroughly panicked, Clay scrambled to his feet and began sprinting back down the beach toward the ship as fast as his legs could carry him. The skeletons were right on his heels, their gravely snarls filled with bloodlust.

Clay was keeping a comfortable margin ahead of them until, as he peered over his shoulder to see how far behind his pursuers were, his foot came down on a stray stone. With a cry of pain, his right ankle twisted and sent him sprawling to the ground. The skeletons gave gleeful shrieks as they watched their prey fall and began closing in. Clay made a desperate attempt to get back up, but his ankle was in too much pain to allow him to stand.

Just as the first skeleton reached him, a new figure leapt out from behind a nearby rock and body-slammed the approaching monster. The bony creature tumbled backward with a screech and landed in an unsightly heap. Chester Ambrose, wielding his pistol in his single hand, charged toward the band of skeletons, roaring like an enraged bull.

"Go, boy! Run for the ship, and don't look back!" He blew a skeleton's head clean off with one shot, then switched to his cutlass to run a second monster straight through its ribcage. Clay made one last desperate attempt, finally managed to heave himself to his feet, and began hobbling away as fast as his injured ankle would allow. Between the pain and terror of the situation, he was feeling slightly delirious. His vision was going blurry around the edges, his pulse was pounding in his ears, and all his limbs were trembling as though he had a fever.

Chester was making a valiant effort to keep all the skeletons distracted from his son, but one of them sneaked through his guard and began chasing Clay again. Just as the youth reached the edge of the beach, the monster caught up with him. With a savage growl, the creature raised one bony arm and swiped at Clay's back with its fingers, raking a nasty scratch from the back of his left shoulder and down nearly five inches. Clay staggered forward with a cry of pain, losing what little stability he had, and collapsed with a splash into the shallow water.

The skeleton, knowing that its prey was now seriously wounded with no means of escape, crept menacingly closer, its raspy snarls chilling Clay to the bone. In one last desperate attempt, Clay reached out behind him and grabbed his fishing pole, which was still lying in the sand. With a sweep of his arm, he thrust the tip of the pole through the creature's grinning maw. The skeleton lurched back with a distorted gargle of frustration and began violently trying to dislodge the rod.

Trying to take advantage of the distraction, Clay made another attempt to struggle to his feet, but his body was refusing to cooperate. All he could manage was dragging himself on his elbows about a few feet at a time before he had to stop and catch his breath. The skeleton was getting extremely agitated at this point, and it finally decided on the drastic measure of biting through the rod. With a dozen snaps of its jaws, the fishing pole snapped in two, allowing the creature to reach into its mouth and remove what small segment remained. With a screech of triumph, it rushed down the beach toward Clay, bony hands extended. This time there would be no hesitation before the kill. Clay curled himself into a ball like a frightened hedgehog, squeezed his eyes shut, and gritted his teeth, waiting for the lethal blow.

His eyes flew open at the sound of a gunshot to see the charging skeleton disintegrate into a pile of bones. Chester came bursting out from behind a rock, his pistol still smoking.

"Get up, Clay!" he bellowed. "Pull yourself together, lad! I'll keep ye covered!" Seeing his father still alive brought a new rush of hope and strength into his fatigued body. He scrambled into the shallow water and began a desperate dog paddle for the Golden Pondie. His father was close behind, using his pistol to pick off two more skeletons splashing after them.

After what seemed like an eternity, Clay finally reached the ship and clung to the ladder like a drowned spider. He managed to haul himself up every rung with his right leg dragging behind him like a dead weight. Chester ascended a moment later, and father and son collapsed on the damp planks, their chests heaving from exertion. For a full twenty seconds, neither of them said a word or moved a muscle. They just stared up at the ashen sky above and the flocks of seagulls that wheeled lazily overhead. Finally, Chester turned his head until his eyes locked with Clay's. "I think… we've had enough fishing… for one day," he panted.

Clay nodded, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. "I'm really sorry, Pa," he whispered. "I didn't think-"

"Nor did I," his father admitted. "But that's all behind us now." He pulled himself up to his full height and gave Clay a sympathetic smile. "Now the only danger is that we can't keep this little escapade a secret from your mother anymore. She'll have to bandage your ankle and dress that scratch on your back." Clay groaned. Now he wasn't sure if he wanted to go home and face his mother or go back to the island and face the rest of the skeletons.

The Unicorn Tavern had been the home and business of the Ambrose family for the past three generations. It was perched upon the highest point of Ancient Spire Outpost: the last outpost one would pass before entering the Devil's Roar from the west. All the other shops, such as the weaponsmith, shipwright, and emissary liaisons' stalls, stood directly on the lowest beaches.

After Chester docked the Golden Pondie at the main pier, he helped Clay down to the boards of the wharf and supported him as he hobbled along the path that would take them up the steep hill to the tavern. As father and son walked, they passed many of the shopkeepers as they began opening their stores for the day's business. Wilma was firing up the forge in the weaponsmith's shop. Herbert the Hoarder was counting his latest stash of coins in his Gold Hoarders tent. Earl was desperately fishing in his pockets for his keys to unlock the Pirate Emporium. Everyone called out greetings and concerns, asking if everything was all right and if either of them was seriously injured.

"No need to worry," Chester answered to all of them. "We just had a nasty little tumble this morning, that's all." They seemed satisfied by this answer and went back to their daily routines.

As Clay and Chester started up the hill toward home, they passed the last shop, the clothing shop, just as someone left the building. It was Madame Olwen, the outpost's liaison for the Order of Souls. She was a slender woman with dark brown skin and piercing black eyes. Like most of the members of the Order of Souls, her clothing consisted of dark reds and purples, with bones and a skull hanging from her belt. She also wore the traditional mark of the order: two thick streaks of black makeup that stretched from her eyes to her chin.

She spotted the two Ambrose men and seemed ready to also ask how they were doing when a shadow passed over her face. She gave Clay in particular a long, analytical gaze before she suddenly turned and glided away down the path to her tent.

"Never mind that ol' recluse," Chester advised his son. "She's a bit odd sometimes. She was probably just doing a quick soul check on ye," he added with a chuckle.

What if she didn't like what she saw, Clay couldn't help but wonder with a gulp.

The two of them finally reached the door at the tavern just as Chester's pocket watch read one o'clock. He pushed open the door and called, "Tasha, my dear! We're back!"

There was a rustle of skirts from the storage room in the back, and Clay's mother soon appeared behind the counter. She was a heavyset woman with deeply tanned skin and usually wore a red kerchief over her coarse, wavy brown hair. Her dress was also red with a thick leather corset that she was constantly having to readjust. Her right eye was a sparkling dark brown, while her left was made of cloudy glass. She wore a necklace with a large padlock-shaped pendant: a token of engagement crafted by Clay's father decades ago.

She gave them both a fond smile and came bustling towards them. "Ah, my two fishermen have returned! Tell me, how many of those slippery devils did you…" her voice trailed off as she took her first good look at them. They were a sorry sight to behold. Chester was coated with a fine layer of bone dust, and he had several nicks and scratches that were still oozing. Clay, of course, still had a limp. His clothes were dirty and sandy, and the big scratch on his back had left a bloody patch of dark red on his white cotton shirt.

"What in heaven's name have you two been up to?" she demanded, her voice edged with concern. "Chester, you haven't been putting our son up to any foolish dares, have ye?"

Tasha led Clay and Chester over to two stools near the fireplace and made them sit. "Wait right there, and I'll get something to patch you up." She hurried up the stairs to the family's quarters and brought down a bowl of steaming water, a couple of clean cloths, and a bottle of salve.

As she dressed their wounds, both Chester and Clay poured out the story of fishing in the Devil's Roar, Clay's runaway fishing rod, the run-in with the skeletons, and so on. During the entire tale, Tasha just sat there in silence, rubbing the salve on their abrasions before applying the bandages, her face a mask. When they both finally finished their story, she heaved a heavy sigh, shook her head, and fixed Chester with a stern gaze. "You see, Chester? This is exactly why I told you not to take that boy sailing in the Devil's Roar before he was twenty."

Chester hung his head in shame and embarrassment. "Yes, my dear," he acknowledged.

Tasha then fixed her stern gaze on Clay. "And as for you, young man, even if your father takes you to the Devil's Roar, you certainly should not be leaving the boat without him knowing."

"Yes, Ma," murmured Clay.

"Now," said Tasha as she put away the medical materials, "both of you wash up for supper. It'll be ready in about fifteen minutes."

"You aren't mad at us?" asked Clay, somewhat surprised.

His mother just gave a dry chuckle. "Let's just say this probably won't be the last mishap either of you will have. As for your father, this definitely wasn't his first."

That night, Clay had a nightmare. He was standing on what seemed to be a broad, flat rock in the center of a massive circle of fire. The flames soared nearly ten feet above his head, and beyond the flames, he could see nothing but darkness. The heat seemed twice the intensity of a cloudless, summer day. Standing directly across from him stood an ominous figure. Even though there was fire all around, the stranger was shrouded in deep shadow. All you could see were his eyes, which glowed like twin torches.

The figure spoke. "So, I finally meet my newest recruit. You must be honored to serve the Flame."

Clay was deeply confused and alarmed. "Newest recruit? What are you talking about? I don't even know who you are."

The stranger gave a deep chuckle and took a step forward. Now Clay could see him clearly. It was a massive skeleton lord with a short dark beard. He was wearing what once had been magnificent dark captain's garb, but it was now scorched and charred around the edges. Through his exposed ribs, Clay could see that his core seemed to be made of living coals that pulsed with light every time he breathed.

Is this what the Devil himself looks like? Clay couldn't help but wonder. Aloud he exclaimed, "You… You're Captain Flameheart!" He had heard countless stories from his parents and sources from every corner of the Sea of Thieves about this man's villainy. He had even seen a picture of this monster painted by a friend of his mother.

"That's King Flameheart to you," the skeleton snapped. "I will not allow such lowly subordinates to address me anyway else."

"I am not your subordinate," Clay shot back. "I never will be! I know stories about you: how you were the worst rogue these waters have ever known!"

Flameheart threw back his head and gave an ugly laugh. "Is that what they say? I'm glad to hear my reputation hasn't faded since I've been away." He fixed Clay with his blazing eyes. "As for your question of loyalty to me, I don't think you have much of a say in the matter."

"What do you mean?" Clay demanded, his voice rising a bit with fear.

Flameheart could sense his dread and gave a nasty grin. "That scratch you received from the skeleton today… It has infected you… with a curse!"

Clay's heart somersaulted. "What? That's impossible! You're lying!" he yelled, trying to convince himself more than anything else.

"Am I?" sneered Flameheart. "Let's put it to the test, shall we?" He made a motion to someone behind him, and two ashen skeletons marched through the flames, dragging a prisoner with a bag tied over their head between them. They stopped before Flameheart, forced the unfortunate victim into a kneeling position, and tied their wrists to their ankles, leaving them immobile.

"Now," smirked the blazing skeleton lord, "I will prove to you, boy, that I have control over you." He raised his right hand and pointed at Clay's chest. "Pick up this sword." One of the ashen skeletons threw a sword in Clay's direction, the blade spinning end over end.

To Clay's surprise, a bolt of searing hot sensation streaked from his chest to his right arm, and his arm jerked up and caught the handle of the cutlass on its own accord.

"Excellent," purred Flameheart, his finger still pointed at Clay. "Come here." Clay felt another flash of heat, and his legs began to move, one foot placed in front of another. He was beginning to panic at this point. His mind was screaming at him to drop the sword and run away, but his body just wasn't listening. It carried on as though it were attached to an entirely different person.

Clay stopped beside the hooded prisoner. "Now," finished Flameheart, his voice dripping with savagery, "kill the prisoner!"

"Never!" screamed Clay. "You can't make me do this! I won't shed innocent blood! I-" It was no use. His right hand slowly raised itself above his head, the blade of the cutlass glinting greedily in the firelight. As Clay's arm reached its highest point, Flameheart suddenly reached out with his left hand and yanked off the prisoner's hood. Staring back up at him were the solemn gray eyes… of Chester Ambrose.

Flameheart gave a maniacal cackle at the sight of Clay's horror-stricken face. "Now, you will finish what my other subjects couldn't!" The flaming despot gave a flick of his pointing finger, and Clay, screaming, "No, no, no, no!" in terror and defiance, brought his sword slicing down.