Death Whispers 21: Rising Secrets and the Restless Dead

July 30, 1722. Still in Joshua Argall’s rented warehouse. I doubt his rental contract covered this…

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: Pedro and Elara accompany Miss Primrose Stewart, Joshua Argall’s assistant, to Argall’s rented warehouse. They find signs someone has been living there, and possibly brewing up necrotic alchemy among the crates. Drops of a strange blue and gold elixir hint at death magic, while a locked door reveals more disturbing evidence. Hints that connect it to the local murders. Worried the camp’s owner might return Pedro prepares to collect a sample of the death potion while he sends Renwick, the ghost haunting the Codex page, to keep watch…

July 30, 1722. Still in Joshua Argall’s rented warehouse. I doubt his rental contract covered this…

A haunted echo of Renwick’s footsteps chased after him while he vanished into the warehouse.

I frantically patted myself down for an empty vial, then finally discovered one in the bottom of my shoulder bag. Carefully, I knelt down next to the broken tube. It was copper and curved in such a way that I was almost sure it had been part of a worm tube condenser from a still. Dangerous droplets oozed down, thick and syrupy, testing both my nerves and patience.

While the trickle pooled into the vial, I studied the campsite. Elara had found the remains of a burned map. The stove was the obvious choice where the rest of the map had gone. Alchemy notes as well, unless Lucas took those with him.

“I’ll need to search that,” I murmured. “There could be more map, or some discarded notes on this potion.”

The broken remains of the still were a mess. There was the condenser tube, but the main pot? Long gone. I saw a bent tube on the floor that might have been a Lyne arm. More evidence of a former alchemy still. Anything else was blankets, tin cup, cooking pot, and an old wooden chair.

Finally, I was rewarded with a teaspoon’s worth of the blue and gold death potion. That would have to do.

“You found something.”

Elara had returned from the hallway with Primrose in tow. Neither looked happy, but the latter looked more rattled than before.

I corked the vial, then stashed it deep in my bag for safekeeping. At least I hoped it was safe. If not, my notebook might go necrotic and try to eat me.

“Yes. A necrotic potion.” I made a sour face. “It could just be a very eager plant stimulant, but I think it’s actually meant to try and raise the dead.”

Elara sucked in a sharp breath at that while a deep scowl lined her face and her wings buzzed a little. Her people, like any thayans, had a long history with magic and the Etherwave Arcana. Death magic? That was worse than murder, in their opinion. Beyond that, Elara had some unpleasant personal history with the topic as well.

“Exactly.” I waved a hand at the campsite. “My guess? Lucas Argall was trying to cure himself. Though I’ve a bad feeling something else happened. What’s down the hall?”

“Another way out to an alley. Also? Nothing good.” She rested her hands on her flintlock pistol. “There’s a pile of bloody hemp rope in there with bits of bark.”

“It looked rather fresh,” Primrose said in a thin, brittle voice, face pale as a sheet. “Fresh as such things would go, anyway. I’ve seen bloodstains a’plenty on napkins when I worked as a housekeeper. Those stains can’t be more than a day or two old.”

“Two days?” I glanced down at the floor, then over at Elara. “Wait… the dead dockworker?”

My right hand suddenly pulsed with heat. I thought I saw a flicker of green-white light from the corner of my eye, but it vanished before I was sure.

“Doctor!”

Renwick’s haunted shout from the stacks cut through the conversation like a hot knife. I had hoped sending a lookout would buy us time. Sadly, it only gave us a few seconds.

A gang of six armed men, pirates by the tattered look of them, stormed out of the warehouse stacks with alarming speed. Most brandished cutlass and dagger, but two drew flintlock pistols. Renwick ambushed one, diving onto him, which made the pirate misfire, screaming in sudden terror from the ghostly hug. The second pirate aimed and fired at me.

I was lucky. At close range, a flintlock could punch a hole right through someone. But the pirate’s aim was off, and the lead shot sang past my left cheek to savage the wooden wall behind me.

On my right, Elara drew and fired her flintlock in one motion. The pistol belched smoke and stabbed flame at a pirate, who jerked as the lead shot knocked him flat. Her clockwork pistol could reload twice if she got the chance.

Sadly, she didn’t. Three other pirates rushed at her, swords at the ready.

Three became two when Primrose let out a war cry worthy of a panicked banshee. She smashed a wooden crate lid over a pirate’s head. He crumpled to the floor like soggy laundry.

No sooner had he hit the floor, than Primrose brandished her makeshift club with a wild expression for another target. The next nearest pirate backed off, wanting none of that.

Motion to my left caught my attention. I grabbed my sword and turned just before a cutlass stabbed me in the left shoulder through my long coat. The white-hot pain yanked both air and a yell from my throat. I staggered back, trying to pull myself off the blade.

It was Captain Dryden Storm.

I gulped down air, drowning in pain, and glared at Storm. He slammed a fist across my jaw, then stabbed again. Same shoulder, only deeper.

A yell ripped out of me as I fell back against the warehouse wall. I gripped my bloody left shoulder out of instinct and tried to move sideways out of the captain’s reach. Storm just chuckled while a sickly glowing green vapor billowed out from the squirrel skull around his neck.

“You’re sticking your nose where it don’t belong, Doctor,” Storm snarled at me in a devious, aristocratic voice. “You should’ve gone to find the book, like I told you. But, you didn’t.”

He twisted his bloody cutlass, the point still aimed at me.

“So now, Doctor? You had your chance. I think I’ll have your life as payment.”

“You’re welcome to try,” I hissed back between clenched teeth.

Storm lunged for my throat. I sidestepped as I threw a vial from my belt. The vial landed first.

Glass shattered against his chest. Fog billowed out to swallow the air, and Storm stabbed at nothing. The captain yelled in a rage before he was grabbed by a coughing fit.

Pain shot needles through me with each step. My vision blurred, and I nearly fell over, but I managed to keep on my feet. I hissed out in agony through clenched teeth while I drew my sword.

The instant my blade cleared the scabbard, greenish-white fire erupted over my hand. Those cursed tattoos on my skin writhed with life. A warm fire washed through me like hot water.

It wasn’t just the heat of the fight. Something was suddenly there, next to me, watching. For just a moment, a deep voice whispered in the back of my mind. Before I understood the words, they were gone, but the warm feeling never left.

I pushed through the pain and off the warehouse wall to head for the door by Elara and Primrose. One of Storm’s pirate crew burst through the fog and was on me before I took a step.

The man slashed, and I parried, then stepped aside. My head pounded slightly from the effort, but the pain in my shoulder seemed far away and muted. The pirate stepped in with a thrust, but I knocked away his sword, then rammed my elbow against the side of his jaw. He dropped like a stone.

I felt that same warmth suddenly pour along my arm. A soft heat that soothed my pain. It didn’t remove it, but made it more manageable for the moment.

Then Captain Storm barreled out of the fog at me with blood in his eye. He slashed. I stepped back, and my head throbbed. Our swords crossed once, then twice. Each time, the fire around my hand flashed bright, as if it wanted to climb my blade. With each parry, every cut, I took a step closer to the door and freedom.

Somewhere to the side, I heard voices, shouts, cries of alarm. I couldn’t spare a glance. If I did, Storm would’ve run me through. I was an alchemist, fairly skilled with a sword. But Captain Storm was a corsair, a true swordsman, and it showed.

But while I blocked, and the ghostfire blazed, Storm’s amulet dimmed. It didn’t go out, but after a few seconds, I realized it wasn’t nearly as bright as before. The captain chanced a look at his skull amulet, then shot a glare at me to curl steel.

“So, you think you’ll break the curse? Think you might steal it from me before the strain of it kills you, Doctor?” he snarled, hate boiling in his voice. “Think again!”

Before I could raise my sword, he slammed a fist against the bloody mess of my shoulder. A yell tore out of my throat while I collapsed against the warehouse wall. The greenish-white fire sputtered, not quite dying out, as I tripped and fell to the floor.

Storm thrust at me with a wicked snarl. I raised my sword a second too late.

But the blow never hit.

Just before the captain’s cutlass ended my life, a figure rushed in between us. The cutlass stabbed deep, almost all the way through, then stuck. There was a sharp wheeze and gasp of sudden pain.

It was Renwick. Somehow, in all the curses and twisted necrotic magic, he was solid enough to be stabbed in my place.

I watched, frozen, in complete horror.

Renwick clutched at the captain’s coat, quickly looking over his shoulder at me. Agony was painted across his ghostly face.

“Get out while you can, Doctor!” he yelled.

I struggled to my feet, stunned, not sure what I was seeing. Elara shoved the last pirate off her sword, running to help me with fire and panic in her eyes.

How could this even happen? I had no idea. Renwick was a ghost. My thoughts spun like a whirlpool, unable to get any footing.

One thing was certain. From the look on his face, Dryden Storm wasn’t surprised. He had done this, been in this moment right here, before. Murdering someone who was already dead.

“Miserable rat!” Storm snapped at Renwick.

The ghost tightened his grip, while a trickle of ghostly blood showed at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut it!” the sailor spit back. “I know you can feel the curse like I can! You can’t have that page back for your wart of a master. You can’t!” Renwick trembled. “Doctor Sangre has changed the page, made it his own. He’s the owner of it now, not that madman, Lucas Argall!”

Captain Storm growled like a feral dog and tried to shove the ghost loose, but Renwick held on.

“Oh no. This is for my crewmates you murdered! I stand with the Doctor and his crew, not yours,” Renwick spit out again. “You’ll have to go through me to get that page, even though you know you can’t touch it! I’m bound to protect the page by the same curse that forces you to protect the rest of that damn Codex!”

“No,” I protested with a wheeze and tried to help Renwick.

“Stop!” Elara hissed in my ear, pulling me away to the door, then down the hallway. “There’s nothing we can do. Storm’s dead men are also starting to move, bathed in that green fog or whatever it is.”

I was too tired to struggle, but I tried anyway. Elara still half-dragged me along as Primrose yanked open the door to the outside.

“Asa mvur! Listen to me!” she snapped while we staggered into the alley. “I don’t at all understand what’s happening, but there’s nothing we can do about this. Renwick, for whatever reason, gave us a chance. Don’t waste it!”

Suddenly, a man’s scream of agony echoed loud enough inside the warehouse that I thought the windows would shatter. I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt my strength ebb. The tattoos on my hand slid just an inch, and the flames burned low.

“Let’s go,” I murmured.

Failure tasted bitter in my mouth. Renwick’s screams faded away as we ran.

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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.