CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Soran wore the shame of inaction like a weighted cowl. The negligence that had led to Tugg's horrific injuries pecked at his bones like a starved bird, and he knew there was only one path to absolution.

  Due to the spectacle below, the upper elevations lay vacant, a distraction Soran would use to his advantage. Sleuthing around the bent edges of his rusted hideaway, he combed the adjacent clifftop for movement before traversing one of the rope bridges.

  Each step summoned a groaning complaint. The ramshackle pirate construction seemed moments away from collapse, plunging the boy into the Thistlegore pit below. Pinpricks of platinum twinkled across the surface of the jagged cliffs, distracting him from the creaking boards as they bent under his weight. He dismounted the bridge with an eager leap and prowled through a wall of shadow cast by the makeshift huts. His estimate as to the size of the crew fell far from the reality. Hundreds of shacks, each capable of housing half a dozen men, were affixed to almost every wall sturdy enough to support them. The cavern wasn't just a hideout but a hidden barracks to house an army.

  Soran ducked into an open doorway as a group of boisterous, drunken men rounded the corner. He held his breath, pushing his body flat against the rusted surface of folded steel.

  "I heard we make our move tonight," one of the men exclaimed. His voice muffled through the breathing apparatus hooked around his face.

  "They're not gonna know what hit 'em," another replied, belching as he laughed.

  Paying no mind to their inebriated ramblings, Soran waited for them to pass. Peeking through a fissure in the wall, he watched the men trundle into a hut three doors down. He sighed with relief, running his hands over the protective film that coated his face. Scouting the disheveled abode, he clocked a case protruding from under a bunk. After several unsuccessful attempts, the case bitterly agreed to slide free. He flicked open the silver claps and, to his surprise, revealed a bolt-action plasma pistol. The technology was ancient. So ancient that it was Soran’s first encounter with one in the real world. Nowadays, you have to scour through a library of old books than to see one holstered at the hip. As he lifted the weapon, it became apparent why the case had been so heavy. Modern weapons construction uses lightweight Plastrite to enable the user swift access during any 'delicate' situations that might arise. This pistol, however, was pure Ven steel, a material not used in weapon assemblage for decades. This classification of weaponry had one indisputable advantage: raw power. Instead of releasing plasma in controlled bursts, it would charge for a few seconds until a beam screamed from the barrel. Without a strong arm and good aim, this could lead to some disastrous consequences, of which Lanic had relayed many a cautionary tale.

  Holstering the pistol into his belt, Soran scampered from the room and dipped around the corner the pirates had emerged from. He was stopped in his tracks, forced to retrace his last few steps, struggling to discern if what lay before him was the most impressive or terrifying vessel he had ever encountered.

  The ship was unlike any he had ever seen: a mace of a ship. Immense blocks of welded scrap protruded from all possible angles, interrupted by the jutting nose of a cannon every few meters. It was a Dreadnought, fashioned in the appearance of a seafaring galleon. Lost were the muse's intricate curves and carved designs, replaced with angular, jagged extrusions, haphazardly affixed with no thought of precision or aesthetics. Soran mourned the blighted beauty, imagining how she appeared at her creation and what madness could possess a man to such acts of desecration. The galleon was a model dreamt up in humanity's infancy, a product of man's desire to tame the untamable oceans. It was a time of great natural splendor, before Earth's waters turned to sludge and her skies drowned with ash — a time all to which all longed to return.

  The Bow of the vessel was the apex of nightmarish architecture. The iron statue of a woman sat in a regal pose, one arm raised as if beckoning onlookers to the hideous construction. Her lower body was a specimen of chimeric perversion. It possessed a serpentine tail that coiled into the shadows of the ship's rusted underbelly. The pirates had taken it upon themselves to debase the original artistry of the sculpture further, replacing the head with a crown of iron spikes. Soran recoiled from the villainous image. Though his body pleaded for escape, he knew his redemption lay inside.

  Swarms of pirates crowded the exterior deck in a jumble of fevered activity. Supplies sailed along frayed ropes, and cargo elevators transferred vast caches of weapons and ammunition to every level of the ship. Volcanic energy churned from the ship's core, drowning out the sound of the orders yelled at the lower ranks. The entire vessel vibrated steadily. Large cylindrical canisters burst from the hull to expel excess steam and hazy clouds of spent fuel, retracting quickly into the galvanized underbelly. The rising mist shrouded the titanic construction like an ethereal cape. Engraved deep into its unsightly shell, Soran read aloud the title bestowed upon this gruesome catastrophe. Gallowmare. Uttering the words made him shudder and filled his mouth with a foul taste. A more fitting dwelling for a Pirate-Lord he struggled to imagine, shuddering at the thought of what horrors lay waiting inside.

  Upon taking his first step toward what was likely his doom, Soran's advance halted. He felt a cold, firm grip on his shoulder. Filth-encrusted nails sank into his suit. Turning his head, a putrid stench assaulted him. The pestilent odor billowed from an earthy, matted beard littered with food scraps and dripping with sweat.

  "You don't look like crew to me." The pirate spewed. His teeth, mostly black, were riddled with worms that squirmed through the innumerable cavities, the lower canines replaced with golden fangs, a simulacrum of the flag insignia that adorned the cave. Fear was strangely absent as the pirate lowered his hand and reached for the dagger attached to his belt. Something had changed; something inside the boy was different now. Whether or not his brain had accepted near-death situations as mundane, he didn't know, but the paralyzing fear that had overtaken him so many times before failed to appear. Mimicking the pirate's actions, he grabbed the faded handle of his gun and freed it from the grip of his belt using all the strength he could muster. The pirate reacted with lightning swiftness, landing a punishing blow with the blunt hilt of his blade directly to Soran's forehead. The boy's eyes began to twitch, his surroundings drained of all color as he collapsed, legs buckling beneath his weight. As he splashed onto the ground, his head bounced off the rocky surface, and an explosion of blood burst from his left eye. Through the crimson gauze, he saw the pirate hover over him. The bearded vagrant sheathed his weapon, spitting a jet of thick brown liquid that splattered over the boy's cheek. Soran tried to lift his arm, showing defiance with his last shred of energy. However, the boy's fighting spirit failed to rouse even a shred of respect from his adversary. Raising his foot from the ground to show the torn underside of a tattered boot, the pirate brought it crashing down onto the boy's head. Soran plunged into black.

  Grunting at the lack of challenge, the pirate grabbed Soran's feet. Through the gaps in his eroded teeth, the pirate whistled the tune of an ancient sea shanty, dragging his prey back toward the Gallowmare and to whatever cruel fate lay behind that tortured exterior.