Death Whispers 16: Aggressive Negotiations With a Bad Decision

July 28, 1722. Running through the streets of Kingston, Jamaica, while being chased by a golem in a very bad mood.

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: A late-night break-in at the Word to the Wise bookshop leads Pedro, Elara, and Lysander into far more than ledgers and dust. Suspicious notes link the bookseller to a string of dockside murders, illness, a brother, and a mysterious warehouse. All evidence that they are tangled up in something far more twisted than they expected. But it all takes a sharp turn when their skulking around isn’t noticed by the city watch, but a Death Whisper heading their way!

July 28, 1722. Running through the streets of Kingston, Jamaica, while being chased by a golem in a very bad mood.

Elara saw the Death Whisper before the thing saw us. That alone bought us a few seconds to slip out the back of the bookshop, then escape down the alley for Hanover Street. Elara wanted to ambush it, then beat it apart. Lysander enthusiastically agreed.

I had other ideas.

“Have you lost all your senses?” Elara snapped at me with a sharp look while we ran for the waterfront.

“No, I haven’t,” I shot back with a glance over my shoulder. “They can talk, and have talked more than once! Our timing just needs to be right, along with the right motivation.”

Our footsteps echoed like drumbeats in the darkness. The cobblestone streets were damp from mist, and the tall lanterns lining the road had already burned dim. Between their feeble islands of light and the pale moon overhead, the road was washed in an unearthly glow. That same heavy feeling of a disgruntled graveyard at the first touch of fog.

The Death Whisper ran, if not floated, quickly after us. Its flaming eyes were like hell and brimstone that burned hateful holes in the night. But its shrieks were the worst. They clawed at my nerves, making me almost question my idea. Almost.

“This is the worst place to try this,” Lysander panted while he kept pace with us.

“There isn’t anywhere else,” I replied between breaths. “The bookshop was too close and confined.” I pointed frantically ahead. “Turn west onto Harbor Street, just ahead. Look for barrels, crates, anything stacked tall.”

Lysander gave me a surprised look.

“Harbor Street? The murders,” he reminded me with a sharp look. “Is no one worried about the murders? This is where they happen.”

“Very,” I told him. “But I’m more worried about the Death Whisper. Look for crates, we’ll trap it there.”

We hesitated at the corner of Hanover and Harbor to catch our breath. Doubt clawed at my gut, trying to cut a hole up into my heart. I didn’t blame Elara or Lysander for their reaction. We’d barely stopped the last few Death Whispers.

“This better work,” Elara said grimly before she vaulted a stack of stray barrels at the corner. “If there’s even a hint it won’t, Pedro, I’m cutting the thing to ribbons.”

“Trust me,” I insisted. An overwhelming surge of heat throbbed in and around my right hand. “I have a feeling about this.”

Past the corner, Elara cut west. Lysander and I were right on her heels. Our boots skidded on slick cobblestone and Lysander nearly lost his balance. I quickly caught his arm, then hauled him back to his feet. After a nervous glance behind us, I pushed Lysander ahead of me while we darted down the street.

The cool misty air was a strange balm across my burning lungs. There was a dim promise of rain to it. In the distance, we heard the distant clamor of ships in the harbor. A ship’s bell tolled the hour with a solemn echo. It was an eerie contrast to what was trying to run us down. Then I let out a humorless laugh, threaded with relief.

Outside a carpenter’s shop called the Cobbler’s Wager sat a cluster of wooden boxes bearing markings from the League of Nations. I had no idea what was in them, if anything, nor did I care. They were stacked three tall to the right of the front door. That would do nicely.

I stabbed a finger in the air toward them and lengthened my stride. The others nodded and followed.

We skidded to a stop beside them. The sharp stench of rotten seaweed brushed past us on the evening breeze, trying to steal our breath. A tortured rattle battered the air. We spun around, glancing back for the Death Whisper.

It wasn’t there. Not yet. But somehow I knew it wasn’t far away. We were almost out of time.

“Here?” Elara asked, voice clipped. Her wings flared out behind her from the tension, which cut an imposing silhouette against the street lantern’s sickly yellow glow.

“Yes,” I replied in a low tone before drawing in a deep breath. “It will have to do.”

A faint surge of warmth poured up from my hand. I pointed to the crates, then waved back at the corner while I talked.

“Lysander? You and Elara crouch behind the crates. Stay in the shadows. I’ll be out in front. Slam the Whisper into the wall once it reaches for me. After that, I’ll try to use the ghostfire to subdue it, so we can get some answers.”

“I hate this,” Elara growled, eyes bright with concern. “I hate letting you walk out there like bloody fish bait for a shark!”

“Elara, we could finally learn more about who is behind this,” I replied in a tired tone.

She glared at me. I frowned back.

Lysander’s eyes darted between me and the corner behind us. Almost as if the Death Whisper had just charged around the corner.

“Pedro,” he sighed, jaw tight. “I’m telling you, this is the worst trap idea I’ve ever seen. It won’t fall for this. Death Whispers can’t be that stupid or single-minded. Worse, you’re the bait. It’ll kill you!”

A flare of heat from my right hand made me glance over my shoulder for the Death Whisper. It wasn’t there. Somehow, I just knew we only had seconds left.

“I’ve got the Codex page. Obvious or not, I’m counting on murderous greed over common sense. It’ll head right for me.” I made a shooing motion. “We’re out of time! Go!”

Lysander narrowed his eyes but didn’t press the matter. Elara looked fit to strangle me, which I probably deserved. I fully expected to suffer the full brunt of her anger once she cornered me alone.

That is, provided we lived to see tomorrow.

They scrambled behind the crates while I stepped out into the middle of the cobblestone street.

I was alone. The street was as empty as a fresh grave. Pale yellow light from the street lanterns danced a dying jig over the damp cobblestones.

Despite the ragged scream from my nerves, I planted my feet and waited. No matter what, I couldn’t run. None of this would work if I did. After a second’s thought, I took a deep breath of the damp harbor air to steady my nerves, then drew my sword. I wasn’t going to use it, but the Whisper didn’t know that.

Just then, the ugly truth of our situation stalked around the corner.

A skeletal hand covered in a pasty, papery skin grabbed the edge of a building at the far end of the street. Then the Death Whisper stepped out to face me.

Its eyes burned with blazing green flames. They spewed a sickly smoke that slid over the Whisper’s head and ragged, unkempt blonde hair. A knot clenched in my stomach, then turn over, making me regret eating lunch. Like always, the Whisper was dressed in the tattered rags of a drowned sailor. The only clean anything on it was its eerie, glimmering cutlass.

Then the Whisper paused at the end of the street and tilted its head, considering me.

Panic needled me, but I stood my ground, holding my sword at the ready. The scars on my right hand burned hot. I could almost see them writhe eagerly from the corner of my eye. They hadn’t caught fire, at least, not yet. I had the strange sense they were lying in wait, too.

Without warning, the Whisper’s face split into a nightmarish grin, teeth jagged as a broken reef, jaw distended and unnaturally long. It laughed. A low, gurgling giggle that echoed through the heavy night air and crawled along my skin, leaving shivers in its wake.

“If you’re done laughing at me, Señor, I’d rather we get on with it,” I snarled, with a bit more bravado than I felt. “Neither you, nor your master, are getting this ‘soul anchor’ page.”

That did the trick.

It rushed down the street at me, shrieking like a noxious nightmare come to full, bloody life.

The Whisper closed the gap between us in a flash, slicing down at my chest. I stepped left and to the outside while I parried, then shoved the golem’s sword arm aside.

“Now!” I cried.

Elara moved fast, erupting out from behind the crates. Every inch of her was all coiled instinct and purpose. A corsair captain to the core.

With a fierce yell, she threw herself at the Whisper, wings fluttering just enough to take flight. She shot straight at the golem like a thrown harpoon, sword ready. Lysander was right behind her, darting in low. She soared in on the left. He moved in on the right.

Too late, the Whisper tried to back away with a shriek. Elara stabbed the point of her short sword into its shoulder. Ghost blade magic sizzled at the Whisper’s clothing. Lysander slammed into golem’s other arm with all his strength.

Together, they dragged it off the street, bashing it against a nearby wall with a bone-jarring crunch.

As soon as they grabbed the Whisper, I threw down my sword and rushed after them. Fear and doubt burned away while greenish-white fire erupted around my right hand.

“Be quick!” Elara shouted over the shrieks. Then she slammed the golem back so its mangled head bounced off the wall. “We can’t hold it much longer!”

I slapped my burning hand against the Whisper’s dry-rotted chest. Did I know what I was doing? No. But I had a guess, and that would have to be enough.

The instant my hand touched the Whisper, the world drained away. All the evening sounds from creaks of wood, to ships in the harbor, and even my friend’s voices faded like fog in the sun. All that was left was an odd warmth, and an odd muted light in front of me. Hazy, glowing threads that burrowed into the Death Whisper.

I locked eyes with the thing.

“Now. You, Señor…” I snarled.

“Pull,” urged a deep voice from somewhere inside my head, interrupting me.

I twitched, nearly pulling away in surprise.

“No,” the voice insisted. “Pull!”

Heat flared, and the hazy, glowing threads grew brighter.

Elara and Lysander yelled something, but I missed it. My entire world had narrowed down to those threads.

I flexed my hand into a fist, and my fingers pulled the threads.

The golem’s screams almost shattered stone. It fought with a renewed frenzy, wild and manic. Desperation squeezed my throat, but I clenched my jaw before I took a shaking breath.

Then I pulled with everything I had.

A sound like snapping sails and cracking timber echoed in my mind. I felt white liquid fire roll through my hand into my heart.

Suddenly, the Whisper exploded into a steaming mess of burnt paper, black ink, and putrid dust. As the golem dissolved, I yanked a ghostly figure free of the maelstrom.

We scrambled back as the ghost staggered forward in confusion. He blinked and looked at us with a stunned expression. Bits of golem rained behind him.

The ghost was a human sailor, or had been when alive. He wore a faded red headscarf around his translucent head and sandy colored hair. The man’s clothing was threadbare, if not stained in spots, along his shirt, trousers, and vest. It was all spectral, but real enough from the memory of the man in life. At best, or worst, he looked like he had been in his 30s when he died.

I clenched my right hand into a fist, extinguishing the flames, even while I felt that liquid fire settle inside my chest. A whirlwind of emotions, from shock to elation, rolled through me.

“It worked,” I muttered wearily.

Elara glanced at me, then narrowed her eyes at the ghost, keeping her sword at the ready.

Lysander just let out a nervous laugh that hung somewhere between disbelief and amazed.

“Well, now what?” he asked curiously with a shrug.

I started to reply, but the ghost beat me to it.

He looked at us through storm-cloudy eyes that sparkled with a hint of amusement. Then his lips curled into a delighted grin.

“You’ve my thanks for this,” he rasped with the echo of a dead man’s voice. “I’m truly grateful, but,” the twinkle in his eyes brightened, “I believe you three might have a question or two to ask of me?”

“One or two, Señor,” I answered with a small grin. “At the very least, one or two.”

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.