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Golemancer
Girls
Book 1 – Part 1

Maxx Whittaker
 Golemancer Girls is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance to actual places, events, or persons
living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Maxx Whittaker

Copyright © 2020 Saving Throw Ink

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, including photocopying, recording,
or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law. For permission requests,
write to the publisher, addressed “Attention:
Publishing Partner,” at the email address below.
midnightbookworks@mail.com

First Printing October 2020

Cover Art by Tonzhat

 Thank you so much for buying Golemancer Girls!

This was an absolute blast to plan and write. I loved the serial
format with
Cocidius, and writing more episodic, quick shots is a wonderful way
to
fill time between longer projects.

As always, the best part of all this is you, the readers. Thank you so
much
for your lovely reviews and messages. Getting to know you all
has been amazing.

I hope you enjoy reading Golemancer Girls as much as I loved

writing it,
and as always, the best way to help an author you love
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Sign up for my mailing list here!

 1
“Just this way, master. Follow!”
I stumble over a tree root that juts from the Earth like a
hastily buried corpse, trying to keep the skeletal form of the villager
in sight. Despite a body that I swear is stitched together from spare
parts of four different people, he moves like a shadow between the
ancient boles of the Whisperwood and I can barely keep up.
“If this is another wild goose chase,” I mutter, palming one of
the protective gems at my belt, “I swear to Eros that I’ll–”
“You’ll contemplate murder, and then you’ll toss that walking
pile of fleas a coin and send him on his way, Rend.” Jade’s voice, wry
and teasing, drifts up from the medallion at my breastbone.
“Shut up. No I won’t.”
“Will too. You need this, and you know it’s worth the chance
if you can take a high vampire. Or, rather, what it has inside of it.”
She wriggles against my chest, smug.
“Need this like the last rumor we chased? The fire
elemental?” I shudder, can still feel the heat of the Carex Volcano
washing over me like an open forge. “All I got out of that was burns
over three quarters of my body and new hatred for heights. And the
elemental didn’t even have a captured golem soul.”
“Yeah, but if you want your revenge, you’re gonna have to
take risks. You know that.”
I won’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing, but the little
sigh that escapes me is obviously good enough for her. She vibrates
against my chest in silent laughter.
Bah. She has got way too much attitude for a disembodied
soul that only exists because I cast her into a soul gem.
I shiver at the prospect of harvesting a golem soul. Maybe
this is finally it. After countless disappointments, maybe this vampire
has captured one.
Golem souls. Wandering the world, homeless. Ancient spirits,
cast from their bodies after the great war a thousand years ago. Like
ghosts.
But these are very real. And if you catch one? The power…
it’s enough to imbue into a real golem. And not just some hulking
monstrosity that only cares about pounding things into piles of blood
and bone. No, a golem soul can power a real golem. A thinking
creature capable of independent action. And if you bind one?
Please. Please let there be one at the end of this journey.
They’re incredibly rare. Which is probably why the vampire, if
it has a golem soul, hides this far from civilization. Closer to the
capital or Blackstone, my home, it’d be hunted relentlessly.
“How much further?” I call, squinting against the full moon.
“Not far!” The villager’s high voice pipes from… somewhere.
I’ve lost him. The ancient, twisting trees look so much like him that
any of them could turn and cackle at me and I wouldn’t be
surprised.
But I can follow his voice. A slight breeze whispers through
the forest, but it doesn’t drown out the loud burp that erupts from
the shadows just head.
I sigh again. “Wild goose chase,” I grumble.
If Jade had eyes, she’d roll them.
Our push through the trees ends so abruptly that I slam into
the back of the villager, and for a moment we’re a tangle of leather
limbs and clanking gems. When I extricate myself after a lot of
grunting and cursing, the villager’s kneeling, hands over his head.
“Sorry, Lord! I… I didn’t a mean it. Please don’t… don’t kill me. I
don’t…”
I shake my head. “Stop, stop. None of that.”
The villager… Alvo, I think his name is, peers from behind the
slats of his bony fingers. “Yer… Yer not gonna lash me?”
“No… Gods,” I huff, reaching to help him up. “Mistreated by
your nobles, are you?”
Alvo takes my hand tentatively and makes a sound like a
broken bellows as I haul him up. “No nobles, no lords ‘round here,”
he mumbles, brushing dirt from a smock that’s already so filthy I
can’t tell if he’s making progress. “Just us fringe folk.”
“Ah. Explains why no one’s sent soldiers in to clear out your
threat,” I say, surveying the moonlit landscape. Ahead of us a short
ways off the jagged teeth of gravestones reach skyward. “A high
vampire is a dangerous beast.” Even without a golem soul. “Thought
someone would have tried to kill it by now.”
“Her,” Alvo says, scratching under his smock. “Tis a lady, my
lord. Beautiful as you’ve ever seen, but dangerous. A killer. She takes
the men of the village for her pleasure before…” he stumbles over
his words, pallid skin as pale as parchment. “Before she sucks them
dry.”
“Beautiful, eh?” I gnaw on his words, thoughtful. Might be a
nice bonus. When I take the golem soul from her and put in a new
shell, it’ll wipe the memories of the vampiress for the most part. But
I’ve heard that, in some cases, the golem soul will retain the form of
their former host. And if that form is an attractive woman…
I peer at Alvo as he shifts from foot to foot, running hands
endlessly through the tangled shock of white hair atop his head.
Okay, jury’s still out on this one. This guy probably thinks a
bottle of shine and a goat is a lucky night. He chews his lip before
hocking a huge, black gob into the brush. “And summat did try to kill
her, once. Oh, ‘bout two years past. Mage, he called hisself, and
‘bout a score of soldiers.” He whistles. “Shiny as you ever saw in
their armor. Wearin’ long sheets with a golden sunburst on ‘em.”
“Tabards,” I say absently. Damn. So old Sinshade tried to
take a high Vampiress? Fool. Explains why he went missing a few
years back.
But the news heats my blood. Sinshade wouldn’t bother with
monster killing if he didn’t think there was a reward to be gleaned. A
big one. “Any of them make it out?”
“Nope,” Alvo rasps. “But the vampire come that night. First
time we ever saw her outside the shadows. She did somethin’, some
kinda brain magic, made Elder Tomsin go with her. Said it was the
price we paid for putting a bounty on her, and that if we ever tried
somethin’ like that again, she’d be back for all of us.”
 I cough. “But… You did anyway? I mean, that’s how I found
out…” I still remember hearing the rumor at a tavern a hundred
leagues from here. That a village had gathered every coin between
them to rid themselves of a vampire. It’d been a risk, coming here.
If I chased every monster contract that came across my path, I’d be
a thousand years old before I found a golem soul. But the caravan
leader who’d told me the story had been adamant that it was a high
vampire stalking the faraway region. Had said that his caravan had
employed a seer that knew things, could feel them through the land
and earth.
A seer that had conveniently died in a river crossing two days
before. But something about the caravan leader’s intensity had
convinced Jade and I, and off we went. Praying that this was the
first step of our revenge. I shake off the memory. “You still put
another contract on her?”
Alvo blinks, his eyes closing at different speeds. “Well, yep.
Gotta git rid of her somehow.”
I turn, put my hand on a shoulder jagged enough to cut a
roast. “Why in the hells didn’t you all just… leave?”
Alvo pats my hand like I’m the stupidest creature to walk
Ecosa. “This is our home.”
Jade vibrates at my chest so violently I’m afraid she’ll
explode. I slap my hand over her, stifling a tirade that’d probably
drop Alvo dead. “Makes perfect sense,” I manage. “I can take over
from here. Point me toward the mean lady and I’ll take care of her
for you.”
“Center of the graveyard,” Alvo says, eyeing me so skeptically
that that his enormous white eyebrows look like two caterpillars
mating. “You sure yer gonna go in there like… like that?” he asks,
gesturing at me with a limp flick of his wrist. “You got no weapons.
And you sure don’t look like a mage.”
“No, not a mage,” I say, stifling a laugh. “And I don’t need
weapons. Just tell me where she is,” I finish, running a thumb along
the runes carved into my index finger.
“Well, alright,” Alvo whines. “Just, if she kills you, maybe
don’t tell her about the contract before she does?”
 “Oh, I might not have a choice,” I say, taking a slow step
forward. “If she compels me… Brain magic, you know?” I wiggle two
fingers at my temple.
Alvo pales so quickly that I have the urge to check behind
him to see if the vampiress is already draining him dry. “Uh, maybe
this ain’t such a good–”
“Nonsense!” I say, clapping him on the back hard enough to
send him stumbling. “I can handle her. Trust me. Now, where will I
find her?”
“The mausoleum,” Alvo stammers, features twitching like he
has a brain clot. “Old Petros says he saw her comin’ outta there last
month, and I believe him because when he came runnin back to the
village he’d pissed himself. He stank like a–”
“I get the picture,” I grate, silencing him with an upraised
hand that he shies away from. “One more thing before we settle up.”
Alvo’s thin fingers twine together like he’s kneading invisible
bread. His lips pale as he draws them together in fear. “Uh, yeah?”
“Seen any wights in the area?”
He relaxes, stares at me quizzically. “Well, yeah. Always
wights ‘round these parts. We see ‘em floatin’ around at night,
mindin’ they own business. Like they do.”
Shit. “Any recent sightings?”
“Well, sure. Saw a big ‘un just two nights ago, over by Jainy’s
shithole. Her outhouse burned down a fortnight back, so couple of
lads and me dug her a nice pit out in the woods. Threw a log over it
so she can sit and do her business real easy like. Flies crawl all over
ye while ye shit, ‘course, but...”
He finally trails off at my murderous expression. But I’m not
puzzling over mid forest shit pits, or how in the hells an outhouse
burned down. No, I’m fixated on the revelation that there’s a ‘big’
wight in the area.
“Why do you care, anyway? You don’t have to be afeared,
master. They’re harmless, you know,” he says, patting my hand
reassuringly. “They don’t bother people none.”
“Your payment,” I say, changing the subject. I push a golden
sovereign into his hand. “Take it to the bank in Shylo, and don’t
show it to anyone until you get there if you don’t want to get robbed
and left for dead.”
“Shylo?” Alvo frowns as the coin disappears into his pocket
like black magic. He turns away to disappear into the Whisperwood.
“That’s clear on two days distant.” He hesitates. “Still, might be good
to be scarce in case…” he trails off, eyeing me over his shoulder like
I’m already a dead man. “Well, good luck. I’ll warn the village.”
“No need!” I call, but he’s already gone.
“That was really mean,” Jade admonishes.
“You love it.” I lay a hand on a nearby grave, surveying the
shadowed landscape. “You’ve got a wicked mean streak.”
“I do not,” she hisses. “That magistrate was an asshole. It’s
not my fault that the letter from his lover happened to fall out of his
robe in front of his wife.”
I laugh. “Jade.”
“Rend.”
“Jade…”
“Okay. Fine. Maybe I gave it a little tug with my gift. But it
was already hanging out of his pocket.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.”
“Thank the Gods that yokel’s gone,” Jade whispers, changing
the subject fast enough to tug another chuckle from my chest. “If he
kept going on, I was going to self-disassociate.”
“You’d better not. I need you.”
Jade warms against my bare skin. She loves flattery. “Yes.
Well. Get us back to civilization and all its trappings and you can
keep me.”
“Trappings?” I laugh as I push through the first rough line of
gravestones. “You’re a medallion with no body. What trappings?”
“That soft cloth you use, with the oil?” She mmm’s and I
swear it sounds like a moan of pleasure. “Really does it for a girl.”
Then she hmphs as her metal goes cold as ice. “And it’s really rather
rude for you to bring up my present corporeal… inconvenience.”
“Sorry. I know. My fault.”
“Gods damn right it’s your fault. You’re the one who killed me
and brought me back to life, after all.” She heats again. “Not that I
mind. Definitely beats being inside a dark elf. They’re such assholes.”
I close my eyes, remembering. That was so long ago. I knew
so little. I wish I’d found her now; wish I’d harvested the golem soul
from that dark elf when I knew how to put her into a real body. At
the time, pressing her into the gem she still resides in had almost
killed me.
The graves around us are all shapes and sizes, but they have
one thing in common: they look terrible. Obviously carved over the
years by the villagers with whatever they had on hand, most are
rough slabs of rock barely chiselled with shape or words. I scan the
wide expanse, searching for the mausoleum. Nothing. I grunt in
annoyance as Jade’s last statement penetrates my mind. “Hold on. I
thought you couldn’t remember much about your former host?”
“I can’t, but I know what I was. And I know how to read,
Rend. I did a little research.”
“Read? When did you…? You’re with me all the time. How…”
She sniffs imperiously. “You don’t know everything about
me.”
I blink. “So many questions.” Questions for later. “Where in
the hells is this place?”
Jade’s surface lights just enough that her emerald glow
reflects from the graves around me. I stay quiet as she works, listen
to the wind slip between the graves. It smells like good earth, like
fresh dirt. Comforting.
I’m comforted in a graveyard. I shake my head. How long
has it been since I felt like a normal human?
After a moment, Jade extinguishes like a doused torch. “Over
there. To the left. Down the hill.”
“Thanks.” I move off, dodging around a shattered
gravestone. “I’d be lost without you. And that dark elf clairvoyance
you somehow kept.”
“Don’t you forget it,” she preens. “Now, say there is an actual
living, breathing vampiress down there? You have a plan?”
“She’s undead, Jade. No living or breathing.”
A growl. “Rend. Tell me you have a plan.”
“Course I do.”
 Silence stretches between us as I near the incline.
“You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”
“Nope.”
“I am kind of attached to you, you know. If you die…”
“Aww. That’s sweet.”
“No, I mean physically. If she kills you and throws your
worthless corpse down a midden pit, I swear to every God and Devil
that I will disassociate and capture your soul in a spirit gem, and
then you do not want to know what I will do with you.”
I pause, momentarily intrigued. “Tell me.”
“What?”
“The things you’d do to me.” Probably good to know how
psychotic your travelling partner is.
She grumbles. “Terrible things. Horrible. You don’t want to
know.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle quietly. “Tough talk, but you know
humans can’t be collared like monsters or golem souls.”
“Yeah, well… I’d find a way,” Jade says darkly.
“Shush now,” I whisper, shading my vision from the
moonlight. Maybe a quarter mile ahead, a low stone building looms
in the night. “We’re close. When we get in there, be ready for
anything and follow my lead.”
“Your lead? Rend, you won’t tell me your plan, so what the
fuck lead am I following? And how can I help trapped in this… This
stone, anyway?”
“Your powers. Like the magistrate’s note. Be ready.”
“I can’t move much, you know that.” She sighs. “When will
you find me a body?”
I reach up and hold her tight, feel her gem press into my
flesh. “As soon as I know how. If I tried now… And I fucked it up…”
“I know,” she says softly. “Don’t want to lose you either, you
big idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah, love you, too,” I whisper. “Now, like I said,
hush. Or I’ll leave you out here to wonder whether I bit it.”
Jade sputters and curses to herself, but at least she does it
softly. I’m not sure where the vampiress is lurking, but there’s no
reason to assume she’ll be deep in her barrow. She could be
watching me right now, waiting to erupt from the shadows to tear
me to limb from limb. Or turn me. I run my hand down the stubble
at my chin and over the unprotected skin of my neck. Yeah, not
interested in joining the ranks of the undead today.
I stride toward the mausoleum, flexing my hands. Whether
she’s down below or about to pounce, I’ll be ready.
The runes etched into my fingers almost burn with
anticipation.
I don’t dare light a torch, but there’s enough illumination
thrown by an ominously full moon to make out the mausoleum’s
pitted walls. It looks suitably old and spooky, and I’m roughly zero
percent surprised that an eldritch terror’s made its home here. The
door is thrown wide, almost invitingly, and as I poke my head into its
yawning maw, I can make out dull light somewhere past the bottom
of a set of unnecessarily long steps. Hundreds of skulls leer from the
walls, the hollow pits of their eyes like tiny caves that I can imagine
house traps like poisoned darts or magic flames.
No upper landing? Long, terrifying staircase? Maudlin decor?
Whoever designed this place much have been possessed by a litch.
I shudder at the thought and whisper a silent prayer to Eros
that I don’t encounter one of those tonight.
But that’s a risk of being a golemancer.
One of many.
 2
Despite the fortune in protective gems hanging from my belt,
descending into the mausoleum is terrifying. Places like this are
always filthy with traps and dangers and sometimes even monsters,
and it doesn’t matter how prepared you think you are because
you’re almost always wrong.
The problem is that there are so many different ways the
world can kill you. Prepared an anti-poison gem? Too bad. The fangs
of the spider that inhabits this particular barrow secretes magical
venom! Or perhaps you’ve got a stone that prevents you from being
stabbed by anything sharp? Doesn’t much matter when the thing
doing the stabbing hits hard enough that your gem backfires and the
magic shielding sends you to splat against the nearest wall.
I shudder, remembering the volcano Jade mentioned. Who
knew that heat protection soul stones only protected up to a certain
temperature, and that said gem would shatter and that I’d be forced
to fall down the side of the mountain, chased by a fire elemental, as
my skin’s temperature went from ‘cool spring day’ to ‘inside of a
fucking forge’ in half a second? Certainly not the author of Phylo’s
Guide to Soul Gem Imbuement For Protection From the Elements.
Turned out old Phylo was as shit at soul crafting as he was at book
titling.
These thoughts thrash around in my mind like a horse with
three broken legs as I take the first tentative steps into the
vampiress’ lair. The stairway is as spooky as advertised, and the
skulls stare sightlessly at me, mocking my slow descent. At any
second, I expect flames to pour from their mouths, or for them to
spring from the walls to bite my eyes out, or for some other equally
terrible thing to happen.
But nothing does. Not for the first half of the stairway. In
fact, if it didn’t look like the place was designed by a mass murderer,
this would be downright pleasant. A chill breeze from below takes
the edge off the humid night above, and the stairs are perfectly
carved and spaced. “Weird,” I mutter.
Jade startles against my chest, vibrating violently enough to
crack. “Don’t do that!” she whispers, furious.
“Do what?” I ask as I poke a finger slowly into one of the
skull’s eye sockets.
“Scare me!” She heats enough to burn. “You know I hate
dark places.”
“A medallion with phobias. Will wonders never cease?”
She huffs. “If you’re done violating that poor fellow’s eye
hole, can we move on?”
I withdraw my finger, surprised that my ‘violation’ didn’t
trigger a trap. Weirder and weirder. “Fellow? How do you know it
was a man? Or is that wishful thinking? Hankering for a little ‘bone
on stone’ action?”
“Rend.”
“Jade?”
“Apologize, and then tell me what you think is so ‘weird,’ in
that order.”
I smile and hold her a moment. “Sorry. That was terrible.”
She wiggles in my grasp as I turn my attention back to the staircase
and my slow descent toward the warm orange glow in the distance.
“As for what’s got me creeped? Everything about this place so far.”
“I get it.” She’s cold against my chest. “Usually by this point
there’s a lot more screaming and running.”
“Yup.”
“Burning also.”
“Yeah…”
“Oh, and remember that time you were poisoned by the pit
trap?” She giggles. “You had to lay next to the road for three days.
And I asked you to close me for awhile because the flux was so
powerful. Oh, the stench–”
“Jade.”
“Rend?”
“Maybe not the best time to remind me of how mortal I am?”
 “Right. Sorry.” She warms apologetically. “Let’s just… Be
careful. I’m creeped now. By more than the dark.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Tell that to the pit trap…”
“Jade!”
She laughs to herself as I push deeper. I move with the same
speed and caution as before, and bafflingly am met with the same
lack of danger. This only hypes me up further, and it feels like my
feet barely touch the ground, I’m so tense. I’ve raided a lot of
tombs. Cut through a shitload of hair-raising old forests. Scaled
mountains and fought through sewers.
No matter where I go on the hunt for golem souls, a few
things never change. Dry biscuits and meat so salted it puckers the
lips. Waking up after a night under a tree or cliff with pain in places
you didn’t know you could have aches. That itch you get in your toes
when you haven’t taken your boots off for days.
And then there’s the risk.
Traps. Beasts. Beasts that lay traps. Beasts that take the
form of gorgeous naked women in the hopes of your cock springing
out of your pants before you realize that they are the trap. The risk
of adventure comes in many forms, but there’s always danger on the
way to your goal.
Not this time, though. The trek from my lab under the streets
of Blackstone to here took two weeks even in carriages, on foot, and
on rented horseback. Along the way I wasn’t waylaid by bandits, no
one slipped unknown narcotics into my drink at any of the old
roadside taverns I stayed in, and my mount never reared at the
distant shriek of a griffon or wyvern. Shit, he didn’t even throw a
shoe. Once I arrived at the unknown village that my skeletal guide
led me from, the people were accommodating and kind. I’m used to
at least one enterprising thief trying to steal my soul gems, or at
least my purse.
And now this. A mausoleum that should be teeming with
danger, but instead it’s as lifeless as the skulls that watch my slow
progress below.
It ain’t right. None of this is.
 But I can’t go back. Not now. Not after everything.
Not if I want my revenge.
A face flashes through my memory. A twisted sneer, one half
cut by an old scar earned in a knife fight.
I push Laskel’s mocking grin from my mind. Bury too familiar
rage and grief.
Not now. Need to concentrate.
The steps end in a long hallway. Its dark stone walls are
pocked with doorways, likely leading to crypts filled with the caskets
of whatever ancient family owned this place. They yawn like gaping
mouths, black as pitch, and my visibility as I peer down their lengths
ends a handspan deep. They’re the sort of dungeon accoutrements
that I’m used to, and normally I’m sure draugr or goblins or
something else would come lurching out to tear me limb from limb.
But somehow, I know that isn’t the case this time. Somehow,
I know that the hallways are empty, harmless. Not worth exploring
or paying attention to.
Why am I so sure? Well, it could be the archway at the end
of the hall. Even a hundred yards off, I can make out its details
perfectly. It’s spanned by a door wrought from massive slabs of
wood. Black bolts like rivets strap it to huge iron hinges that plunge
deep into the wall. It’s ominous as fuck; the kind of door you build
when you want to tell the world that something terrifyingly
dangerous lurks on the other side. I’m sure that whatever danger
this place holds is on the other side.
The vampiress? Or something else?
Only one way to find out.
The door is slightly ajar, and warm firelight flickers from the
other side. Inviting.
Dangerous.
I scan the floor, chewing my lip. “Good a place as any, I
guess.”
“Rend, did we not just have a discussion about dark places
and jumpy amulets?” Jade whispers, her voice pitched as low as
mine.
 “Sorry,” I whisper. “Gotta take care of business.” I pause,
heart in my throat. Jade knows my next question, but she waits for
me to ask. She knows when to sass me and when to let me work
through my shit.
I’ve come a long way. Suffered a lot of disappointment. Been
on a lot of ‘wild goose chases,’. And since the betrayal, I’ve come up
empty handed.
I pray that this venture yields… something. I need it to.
Finally, I touch her lightly, run a finger along her surface. She
shivers in pleasure. “What do you sense?”
“Definitely a soul, here.”
I tense, throat tight.
“Strong one,” she finishes. “I think… I think it’s a golem soul.”
Thank the gods.
“But Rend…” Jade hesitates like she already knows what I’m
going to say. She probably does. She’s one of two people on Ecosa
that really knows me. “...are you sure about this? I know that the
last few months have been… disappointing. But this is a really
powerful golem soul. And if a vampiress absorbed it, she’ll be…”
“Unstoppable. I know.”
“You think you can take her?”
My breath whispers through the tiny reed of my throat as
memories assail me. As they always do at moments like this.
Plummeting into darkness. Screams. And then pain. My leg,
destroyed. Useless. Gods…
Can I take this high vampiress? “I have to.”
“I know,” Jade says miserably. “Just… don’t die.”
“Don’t plan on it.” I smile with half my mouth, an ivory tear
in the dark hallway. “Haven’t died yet, have I?”
She’s silent as I pull a stick of rough chalk from my pack. Its
imbued with no less than five fairy souls; I grimace as I palm it.
Unsavory stuff. Fairies are generally harmless, but are hunted
ruthlessly for their souls by lesser golemancers. They’re sold on the
black market for small fortunes because their little souls are packed
with magical energy, and a golemancer of my skill can do so, so
much with them.
 I hate having to use them. Hate the strange melancholy that
I can still feel emanating from the white stick in my hand.
I didn’t kill them. They were already dead. Better they’re
used by me in the afterlife than someone else. Better than a shady
golemancer lazily shoving the soul into a beauty cream or sex toy for
the rich. I take care of my souls, use them with care.
I grimace as I justify. Know I’m doing it. Don’t care, even if I
want to.
How far I’ve fallen.
“Rend?” Jade hisses. “Rend, ah, in case you didn’t realize,
this is a bad time to go off on one of your self-hating, reflective, lost
in your head journeys.”
I shake my head. “Sorry,” I repeat, going to my knees. The
chalk scrapes softly against the rock, a thunderous sound in the still
air. “And I was not.”
“Don’t bullshit me, master. I know you.”
“Master. You haven’t called me that for a long time.”
She tsks. “Don’t change the subject. And stop beating
yourself up.”
“Just…” I pause as I complete a wide circle that spans the
entire hall. “Sometimes I wonder...”
“Rend,” Jade says, voice dangerously loud as anger bleeds
into her words, “he took everything from you. From us. Your life.
Your prize. Your credibility. My sisters.” I almost draw back; if Jade
had a body, she’d be spitting flames. “How much further can you
fall? Can we? This is worth it.” She quiets. “Anything is.”
“Yeah, right. I know.” I add another circle inside the wider
one and don’t respond further. The difficulty and irony of having a
conversation about losing my soul for my revenge isn’t one I want to
deal with right now. Not here.
The symbols come next. Runes taken from some ancient
civilization, the only remnant of people who died during the great
war. How? No one knows, but a sense of dread at the thought seeps
into my mind. As it always does. Millions of people, an entire
continent. Gone.
 As I finish the last rune, the same that’s carved into my left
palm, I shudder. Hard not to imagine that the same magic I use in
my work is connected to the extinction of those who invented it.
“Done,” I say, knees cracking as I stand. Damn. I’m only
twenty-nine, but my body’s been through a lifetime’s worth of abuse.
Jade laughs silently. “Ready, old timer?”
“Wow. Someone’s angling to be left behind.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Then be nice,” I say, palming the protective gems at my belt
and steeling myself. Now, which crystals to activate? I palm my soul
deposit, the biggest gem on my person. It’s a blue shard the size of
my hand strapped to my side, and at the moment it’s my most
prized possession aside from Jade. Inside are another five fairy
souls, as well as two lesser monster souls. A werewolf and a wyvern,
I think. The monster souls are almost priceless despite being close
to useless to most golemancers. Difficult to harvest and not as
powerful as fairy souls, they’re too weak to imbue into a shell to
bring to life, and don’t even have a consciousness like Jade’s. But
they’re enough to power a few protective gems, and the ferocity of
the creatures they were harvested from yields them qualities that
fairy souls can never possess.
Like the ability to infuse a gem to stop a ballista bolt with my
chest.
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“Definitely at least one impact gem,” Jade says thoughtfully.
“One to resist her compulsion. And then the usual cocktail of anti-
poison and strength gems?”
“Sounds wise,” I say. I hold the soul deposit tight and close
my eyes.
Immediately, my mind connects with the lost souls inside the
gem. The tiny fairy souls and their sadness, something I try and fail
to ignore. And the monster souls, inert and unthinking, automatons
now that they’ve been separated from their bodies for so long. With
my left hand, I tap a series of smaller gems fixed to my belt, and as
I do the souls flow through my body, whispering into my mind and
back out like wraiths. Each gem I touch receives a gift, lighting
gently from within for a heartbeat before fading to a dull glow.
When I’m finished, I take a ragged breath. As I always do. I
pull a skin from my back and take a long drink of water.
Soulsmithing is thirsty work.
I swallow the last of my water and throw the skin aside. I
don’t need it anymore. In a few minutes I’ll be victorious. Or, more
likely, dead.
“Ready?”
Jade frets. “You heard what Alvo said about the wight.”
“Yeah.”
“A powerful wight and a more powerful vampiress.” She
warms with worry. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” I say, holding her tight. “But it’s too late to go
back, now. We’ve got a high vampiress to kill and a soul to harvest.”
 3
The door looms above me like a guardian sentinel, a golem
of wood and iron glaring balefully at an intruder. I bite my lip and I
draw close. The opening that the glowing firelight emanates from
seemed so small in the distance, but in reality, its wide enough that I
can walk through without turning my body.
I hesitate, raising one hand to the pitted wood. I don’t have
Jade’s clairvoyance, but I can still feel something on the other side
of the door. Something old. Powerful.
My quarry? I’m not close enough to sense the soul with any
detail. It could be inside the vampiress. And it could be inside
something far worse.
I sigh. Nothing left to do. To prepare. Time for the hard part.
“Ready?” I whisper.
“No. But that’s never stopped us in the past.”
I smile. Jade always knows how to pull a grin from me, even
in the worst times.
I open my mouth to sass her when a voice like liquid honey
pours from behind the door, silencing me. “Oh, do come in. This is
so tiresome.”
The vampiress’ words seep into my mind. My brain. Pull at
my soul. How do I know it’s her? It’s hard to mistake compulsion this
powerful. And only vampires have the ability. My mind gem resists,
but it’s a boulder sitting in the middle of a river, and the compulsion
overwhelms it.
Shit.
I take an involuntary step forward, fear stabbing my heart. I
wonder if I’ve finally made a fatal mistake… If she’ll be too strong
for me to harvest.
Only one way to find out. And at least I know, now, that I’m
in the right place.
 As I step around the door I reach up and snap Jade closed,
sealing her inside her protective layers of magic, making her
undetectable. She’ll give me hell for it later, but it’s the only way to
keep her safe. My secret weapon. If I need her, I can open her back
up with a word of power.
If I can speak, that is.
The room comes into focus slowly as my night vision fades. I
look everywhere but at the vampiress, watching for traps and escape
routes. Anything to pull my attention from her a moment longer. Her
words still ping around in my mind like billiard balls, smashing into
my brain and battering at the walls of my resistance. If I look right
now, stare into her eyes, I’m afraid she’ll take me on the spot and
I’ll forget my own name.
I’m surrounded by opulence, like someone teleported a room
from the royal palace of Alvastone to here. A carpet, ridiculously
thick, spans the entire circular chamber. Burnished reds and golds
run its length in complex patterns and seem to twine up into the
furniture, an assortment of lavish armchairs and divans that stretch
along the walls. A fireplace the size of a woodland cottage roars at
the far end of the room, its flames taller than I am. The walls are
draped with long red curtains that frame priceless art; I see at least
one DeGaux, the work of a master who only painted ten landscapes
in his lifetime. I’m somehow sure that it’s not a replica.
My vampiress has expensive taste.
“Shy? That’s adorable,” she purrs. Her voice caresses me like
living flesh, and my cock hardens in my breeches.
Not a good sign.
“Just admiring the general splendor,” I say, gesturing to her
painting.
“Hm,” she pouts. “Generally, when a man comes down here,
he admires my general splendor.”
I pointedly don’t turn to her. If she wants me dead, she’ll be
too fast for me to stop. But the fact that we’re bullshitting tells me
she needs me. As I thought she would. Killing me also kills her
ability to feed on me. So I get cocky. “Maybe I’m not here for you.
That painting’s worth more than the villages I passed to get here.”
 She yawns. “Humorous. How refreshing. Most of the men I
bring down here, or come of their own accord, are busy threatening
me at this point. Or they’re pissing themselves.” I hear a delicate
inhalation. “Good. If you’d done the latter, I’d be rather put out.”
“You could avoid the riff raff with a few old fashioned traps.
Maybe a fire pit back there,” I say, hiking a thumb over my shoulder.
“Why would I do that? I prefer my toys in one piece, thank
you very much. It’s difficult to take pleasure from a corpse.” The
chuckles. “Unless that’s your thing. Though, I must warn you, if it’s
your thing, I’d rather not know.”
“No, no,” I say, fighting back a laugh. She’s trying to take me
off my guard. Charm me.
“Good. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, I
should think, and if you were some sort of deviant, you might offend
my delicate sensibilities.” She gives me a wicked laugh, then turns
serious. “And don’t lie to me, please. I know why you’re here.”
“Oh? Enlighten me.”
“Still won’t look? Because a slight turn of your head and you
wouldn’t have to ask me that question,” she says with an audible
pout. “This won’t do. We’ve only just met and you’re already starting
to irritate me.” I hear her shift, her movements languid. “We’re going
to spend so, so much time together. Wouldn’t you hate it if we got
off to a bad start? I know I would,” she whispers, her last words
tinged with menace.
I firm, fighting her compulsion with everything I have. It’s
like trying to stand firm as a tidal wave pours over you, and without
meaning to, I finally look up and take her in.
And it makes things so much worse.
Reclining before me on a couch the color of blood is the most
delicious creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, which is saying a lot
considering the variety of people and monsters I’ve encountered in
my short life. The bulge in my pants thickens.
The vampiress notices, and fathomless eyes like chips of ruby
gleam in the firelight as her gaze drops low. She licks pillowy lips,
and they’re so full I can’t help but imagine them running along mine,
kissing my chest, wrapping my cock. Long, crimson hair cascades
over the couch where her head rests, full locks of it caressing her
shoulders and barely concealed breasts. Her body is absolute
perfection, sin made real. Her only clothing is something more like a
piece of lingerie a noble would wear, a lacey affair that stretches up
from between her legs and barely covers her taut stomach. Twin
straps cover her nipples and nothing else, and I want to tear them
from tits that are full and flawless. She’s thick at the hips and chest,
her neck is thin and elegant, and she has long, powerful legs that I
want wrapped around me as I throw her against a wall and plunge
my cock deep into her–
Stop. Rend. Get a hold of yourself.
She’s doing this. With her compulsion and her words. She
may be perfect, but she’s still a killer. Still an enslaver of men. Still a
monster.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been in more danger.
I resist her. Breathe deep as my runes burn and Jade
trembles at my chest. She can’t sense what’s going on, but she’s
connected to me and can feel my fear. My lust.
The vampiress must sense my resistance. Her eyes narrow as
she taps one perfect fingernail to the dark wood of her couch. “A
fighter, eh?” She sits straighter, which does terrifying and amazing
things to her tits. “Good. I despise weakness in my mates.” She licks
her lips slowly, a long motion that almost makes me cum there and
then. “Men like you last so much longer.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I say, openly admiring her.
“What?”
“That any man would last more than a minute.”
“Yes, well,” she says, smiling deeply. “Perhaps you’ll be the
exception.”
“Shall we find out?”
A predator’s grin splits her delicate features. She’s having
fun.
Good. When she lets her guard down…
I’ll have to be fast. Fighting her compulsion is hard enough.
But high vampiresses are some of the most dangerous vampires that
exist. Faster than thought. Stronger than a wyvern. She stands, and
I’m surprised to see that she’s as tall as I am, a man that stands a
head above most that I meet. She smiles and shows her little teeth
and sharp vampire fangs; a predator that’s sure of her superiority. I
don’t blame her. She’s probably never encountered something strong
enough to take her.
But she’s never met me.
“Let’s have a look at you, my new lover,” she says, gliding
toward me. Her naked toes whisper through the thick fibers of a
carpet she almost floats over. I stand completely still, watching as
she struts around me. Her arms cross imperiously as she studies me,
and her tits swell, coming dangerously close to bursting free. “Not
bad, at first blush,” she says, her voice like liquid sex. “Bit hard to
make out, though, under all that.” She gestures to my greatcoat.
“Off with it.”
It slides from me before I’m realize I’ve taken it off. Her
compulsion slips between my thoughts, whispers through my blood.
I don’t fight her anymore. I’m not sure if I could.
My greatcoat hits the carpet, and the vampiress purrs in
approval. “Good. Good. This is all so much better, so much more
pleasurable,” she says with a little moan that lights me afire, “when
we cooperate.”
“What’s your name?” I ask to distract myself from the miles
of pale flesh that make up her flawless body. Anything to cut
through the rampaging lust coursing through me. Anything to keep
me from taking her and bending her over her couch and gripping her
perfect, rounded ass before I push deep inside– “Name?” I ask
again, desperate.
She cocks her head. “Taking an interest? Ready to admit that
you’re here for more than an old painting? Excellent.” She takes a
step forward and rests one fingernail at my throat. My fists clench.
She can probably take my head off with that tiny red length. Can
stab deep into my body and silence me forever.
Now? My thumb twitches toward the rune on my right middle
finger. Am I fast enough?
Her glittering red eyes watch me intently as she trails her
finger down my chest, severing the buttons of my shirt one by one.
 No. Not yet. She’s too close. Too fast.
“My name is Salana,” she says, close enough that her breath
brushes my lips. I open my mouth involuntarily, want her so badly
that even her exhalation on my tongue is delicious torment. “And
what is yours, my new pet?”
“Rend,” I say as her finger comes to rest on my belt buckle.
My shirt hangs loose, exposing my chest.
“Rend,” she repeats, rolling my name around her mouth like
fine wine. Oh, Gods. I can’t take this. “No surname?”
“Not anymore,” I say, then curse myself. My secrets are my
own.
My answer intrigues her. She waits, fingernail tapping the
protection crystal at my waist. Deep orange and the size of a small
prune, it pings each time she strikes it. She continues waiting, lips
curving in a slight frown. “Not going to elaborate?” Her hand
whispers over my abs and up to my chest. Her nail hovers over Jade
for the briefest moment as she examines the unassuming medallion,
and my breath catches a moment. If she takes Jade, I’ll have to
move. To fight.
But thankfully, she moves on, finger curled at my breastbone.
“No matter. There’ll be time to learn your secrets later. When we’re
done, I will know everything about you, Rend.” She hits my chest.
It’s the tiniest flick of her finger, seems like it’s barely enough to
dislodge a crumb from a countertop.
The protection gem explodes.
I stumble back a step, eyes wide, and she laughs. Deep and
throaty, she chuckles at my alarm. “Oh, come now,” she says,
following me. “You must know what I am. What I can do. Those
worthless villagers must have clued you in.” She holds up her finger,
a finger that’s just hit me hard enough to shatter a gem that I’ve
poured enough power in to withstand a landslide. “You can’t be
surprised.”
“I am,” I manage. Might be time to appeal to her vanity,
distract her from any violence she’s imagining. “Everyone knows of
you. The exquisite vampiress that lives at the fringes of civilization.
As powerful as she is beautiful.” I lick my lips and pant as if out of
breath. “I… I had to see for myself.”
She purses her lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere, love. If
you came here to court me, or to fuck me, then why do you have
protective charms? They are adorable, by the way. So quaint.”
“I live weeks from here. The land isn’t safe. Bandits, and…
you know.” I swallow, can’t think straight. “More bandits.”
Her eyes twinkle with amusement. “Indeed.” Then they
harden. “I know you’re lying to me. Know that the villagers finally
found enough balls amongst their number to put another contract on
me.” She casts a baleful look to the door. “Last time, I only took their
elder. I could have done more. He was a symbol, hardly worth the
time it took to harvest him. Old and frail. Unlike you,” she says, eyes
flashing appreciatively to my chest. “But this time… I’ll have to teach
them a harsher lesson.”
“Not… lying…” I try.
“Nonsense. But it doesn’t matter.” Her fingers snake back
down my belly, then grip my belt fully. “As I said… before I’m
finished with you, I will know you, Rend.” Her grips tightens. “Inside
and out.”
“Yes, mistress.” She grins at my words. Good. Let her think
I’m totally under her power.
Truth be told, I’m close. But I’ve been doing this a long time,
and if she thinks my throbbing cock is a sign that I’m totally gone,
she’s in for a big surprise.
She releases my belt with a gentle shove and steps back,
taking me in. “Not bad at all,” she purrs. “Take off what remains of
your shirt.”
I do, almost too quickly. I can hear Jade’s admonishment.
Careful, Rend. Want her to think you’re completely gone, but don’t
overdo it.
“Now the pants,” she says, blood red lips pursing like a
beating heart.
Shit. Standing naked in front of a vampire queen sounds like
a death wish, but she’s a yard away now. Too far for me to try
anything. Not before she takes my head.
 Swallowing deep, I try to look slack jawed as I unbuckle my
belt, then my pants. My cock springs forward like an eager pup as
the material slides down my legs and pools at my feet.
She bites her lip in appreciation. “Oh, my. It’s been a long
time since I’ve had prey that was so… endowed,” she says, hanging
on the last word like she’s already considering taking my length
down her throat.
My cock throbs, bouncing in the warm, still air. Goddamn
traitor.
She takes another slow walk around me, coming close as she
runs her hand along my abs, my thighs, my ass. She strokes me like
a prized animal, her fingers touching hard ridges of muscle earned
on a hundred adventures. She lingers on my scars, especially the
long one along my thigh, and almost seems like she’s about to ask
about my rebuilt leg. But then she moves on. Through it all, I stand
still as stone, letting her have her fun. My blood pumps in my veins
like raging rapids, and my breath locks in my lungs.
Gods, I want her. More than I’ve ever wanted a woman. Her
compulsion whispers in my ears, caresses my throat and my shaft.
Jade hums against my chest, barely contained.
Not yet, I think to her. She can’t hear me, but I pray she can
sense the thought under my raging torrent of desire.
“Your tattoos,” she says, voice low. “What do they mean?”
She’s finally noticed. I’m not surprised. Most of them are on
my fingers, but a tiny trail of runes runs along back from the bottom
of my neck and along my spine. Most people don’t notice them.
I shrug. “Family thing.”
She stops in front of me, one delicate eyebrow nesting in the
sweep of hair at her forehead. “Interesting family,” she drawls.
“Do you recognize them?” I ask, faking interest. “I got them
in the far east on a trip with my Da. But I’ve no idea what they
mean,” I lie.
She cocks her head, measuring my every word. “I’ve never
seen their like.”
Is she lying, too? It’s impossible to tell. Her porcelain and
crimson features are impassive, giving away nothing. She’s
hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years old. She probably knows
things that almost no one else alive does. She probably saw them.
But my runes are obscure knowledge earned in fire and blood, and
the only other person I’ve ever known that had them is dead.
Is she bluffing? I don’t think so. If she knows what my runes
are, I’d probably already be dead.
“What happens now?” I ask, changing the subject. I have to
distract her, somehow. I mimic her and bite my lip hard enough to
draw blood.
Her eyes widen as the thin trickle snakes down my stubbled
chin. She leans in, so fast I barely see her move, and licks it away.
Gotcha. Compulsion? Two can play at the game.
She doesn’t back away, panting at my throat like she’s having
an orgasm.
Then she leans back, eyes narrowed. “Your blood is
exceptional. What are you?”
“I’ve been told I have mage’s blood,” I hedge. This is
dangerous, now. Give away too much and she might not think I’m
worth the risk.
But she took Sinshade and his guards. A fourth circle mage
and his cadre of elites. I doubt she’s that worried about me.
She stares at me a long moment, her crimson eyes
measuring.
This is it. In a moment I’ll be in. Or dead.
Then she laughs, a light exhalation that’s more lust than
mirth. “How tiresome. Let us move on to something more…
diverting.” She turns on her heel and saunters over to a small bar set
against one wall. Her scrap of clothing is a tiny strip between the
thick cheeks of her ass, hiding absolutely nothing, and every little
bounce of her pale flesh pulls me closer and closer to making a mess
on her fine carpet.
She deftly pours two glasses of wine that looks like old blood.
Her movements are slow and almost lazy, but I can see through her
facade. Underneath her unhurried pouring there’s a spareness, a
competency I’ve only seen in old warriors who realize that efficiency
is far more deadly than flourish.
 My breath quickens. If I can harvest the golem soul from her,
it’ll be so powerful. And if it’s imprinted with her mind, like Jade?
Damn. She’s so, so dangerous.
Exactly what I’m looking for.
She turns with another heart shaped purse of her lips. Her
eyes drop to my cock and she beckons with one glass, the wine
within sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Come, my new pet.
Let’s begin your…” She pauses with a light flick of her tongue across
perfect lips. “…education.”
“I am eager to learn,” I say, already following the sway of her
ass across the room to a low divan.
She gestures. “Sit.”
I do.
She hands me one of the glasses. “Drink.”
I do. Just a sip. I’m already losing myself to her compulsion,
and alcohol will definitely not help matters. The warm liquid tastes
like sweet berries and sin, and it tingles at my tongue and down my
throat.
The effect is immediate. My head swims. Damn. I’ve got a
good head for liquor, and I only took a small sip, but this is
something else. “What… What is this?” I manage.
She takes a long sip of hers, purring with pleasure. “Good,
no? One of my rarest bottles. Cintrid 8567, imbued with the soul of a
woodland elf.”
I almost choke. Pouring a soul into food or drink? That’s
impossible.
I don’t say this, though. Nothing would give me away faster.
“It’s amazing,” I say, trying to hide my horror at ingesting a soul.
Salana doesn’t answer, smiling slyly. She’s not holding her
glass anymore. I don’t remember seeing her put it away. She takes
mine with delicate fingers, drains what remains of my wine, and puts
that aside, too.
Then she reaches up, pulling first one and then the other
strap of material from her shoulders. Through some back magic, she
manages to hide her tits with her forearm while pulling her top her
to waist with only one hand. It might be the most impressive thing
I’ve seen her do so far.
She glances to my cock again before lifting her perfect tits.
She pulls her arm away, dropping them. They bounce with the
rhythm of my throbbing, dark nipples begging for my tongue as I
stare, rapt.
Somewhere inside, my mind and Jade’s whisper a warning. I
can barely hear it.
I can’t look away as she lowers to her knees. She leans
forward, so close that her breath paints my cock. “Let us begin,
love,” she whispers, and her breath caresses me like a hand.
Before I have time to respond, her mouth dives over my
shaft, enveloping me in her heat.
I don’t know how the fuck I don’t cum there and then. Her
compulsion washes over me in waves as she works my cock deeper
and deeper, taking its full length. Her throat bulges in the dim light
as her lips reach my balls, and then she holds there, so tight I can’t
breathe. Can’t think. My mind dims.
“Gods,” I whisper, fingers kneading the soft velvet of the
divan.
She chuckles against flesh like stone before slowly sliding her
lips back up my length. My head comes free with a vulgar little pop
before she looks up at me. “I told you that this would be good for
both of us, pet,” she whispers.
“Mistress,” I say, equally quiet. “Please…”
Am I begging, or pretending to? I don’t know anymore. On
some level, I don’t care. As she takes me deep again and start to
suck in earnest, I almost stop caring about anything. My revenge.
My lost souls. It feels so good, her mouth is so hot, so soft. Her
compulsion batters down my defenses with each flick of her tongue,
with each suck of her lips, and the closer I come to finishing the
more of myself I lose.
Jade is cold as ice. A warning. All she can do in her present
state.
I barely feel her.
 Questions swim in and out of my consciousness like flashes
of silverfish from the shore of a deep, blue lake. Why is she doing
this? Why prostrate herself and service me like this? Why am I not
on my knees, my tongue deep in her heat? Why…
My thoughts scatter at the image of her little pussy spread
before me. I’ve never seen it, but somehow I know its every detail,
every curve. Perfect and pink, spread like a flower as my mouth
works her clit.
I arch back at the thought, pushing deeper down Salana’s
throat. How do I know all that? How…?
The compulsion. It spikes into my brain, and with every pulse
are images. Sensation. Lust.
Oh, Gods. She’s the most dangerous creature I’ve ever
encountered.
And she’s sucking me off like a high-class courtesan.
Why?
Salana’s fingers knead my thighs so tight she’ll leave bruises,
and suddenly I don’t care about the why. All that exists is her
mouth, and I’m so, so close.
A final spear of compulsion pierces me, stronger than any
before, and when I finally fall over the edge and cum down her
throat I do it with my whole body. Pleasure wracks me in waves, and
I grit my teeth so tight I’m afraid they’ll shatter. It’s so good that it’s
painful, plumbing so deep into my body and soul that… that…
I lose something of myself. As she swallows the last drop my
cum, I feel strangely bereft. Empty, like a dried out well. Like I’ve
lost part of myself.
My soul.
“What… What did you…”? I whisper, collapsing back.
Salana gives the head of my shaft a last little kiss before
leaning back, grinning impishly. “What did you expect, love? A girl’s
gotta eat, after all.” Her eyes shine brighter than before. Her hair is
more lustrous. Her skin shines like ivory.
“That’s… How you feed?”
“One way, yes,” she says, standing. She eyes my still hard
cock, squeezes her legs together like she can barely contain herself.
“Not my favorite way, but I’m going to play with you for a long time,
Rend. I thought I’d start with a treat for you. And I get my reward
either way.” She reaches down, pulling the material at her crotch to
the side. Her pussy is wet and perfect, exactly like I’d imagined. Her
smile is breathless. “And now, one for me.” She leans close, kissing
me almost gently. “I think you’ve got a bit of soul left.” She chuckles
at the look in my eyes. “Don’t worry. We’ll give you a break after
this. You’ll need a few days. Wouldn’t want to use you up too
quickly.” She lowers herself, and her pussy’s so close to my cock that
I can feel her heat.
I close my eyes and she moans, her hands braced on my
chest. She lowers further. Her delicate lips rest at my head. Her
compulsion caresses my mind as she prepares to take me deep.
Yes. Gods, please. I want this. Want her. Want her to
consume me. To keep me forever. Please.
Jade is a glacier. My mind swims, but something… something
breaches the surface of my thoughts like an ancient monster
exploding from the sea. Need. Need to survive. To escape.
Laskel’s face as I fall from the bridge.
Hatred.
Now!
Salana’s guard is down as she rests against me. My fist
comes up like a hammer, my thumb touching the severance rune on
my middle right finger.
To her credit, even taken unawares, even thinking that I’m
completely under her spell, she still almost escapes. Her eyes widen
faster than thought, writ with confusion, and her forearms bunch as
she tries to pull away.
Too late. My fist impacts her chest.
She screams. In her eyes, surprise. Shock. That a creature so
powerful, one that’s won countless battles, could have been taken so
suddenly. So easily.
Blue light. Blinding. The golem spirit explodes from her back,
torn from her body by my spell like a heart ripped from a chest. Her
shriek cuts short as she dies, the light leaving her eyes as she
slumps over me bonelessly. Nothing can survive the severance rune,
not even her. The golem spirit she’d absorbed was as much a part of
her as her blood or bone, and I push her off me, quelling any guilt
with the knowledge that every skull in the hallway above was
someone she consumed and cast aside.
I would have been next.
No time to worry about that, though.
It’s time to harvest.
 4
The golem soul hangs in the middle of the room, a lattice of
blue electric light that still vaguely holds Salana’s form. It’s not her,
never was, but it’s been imprinted over countless years with her
essence. It opens its mouth in a silent scream, a mirror to its former
shell’s a moment before.
I pull a prison gem prepared especially for this moment from
my belt. Have to act fast. Have to hope that the golems’ rage, a
remnant of Salana’s, is enough to cause it to attack me. When it
does, it will be mine. Souls like this one are always more vulnerable
on attack then defense.
It hovers a moment, crackling with impotent rage.
I crouch, touch runes on both fingers in a cadence I know by
heart.
The golem soul contracts, about to spring.
I hold the gem up, ready, and…
The golem soul flees, tearing from the room.
Balls.
No time for clothes or to grab any of my protective gems. I
barrel after the soul, flipping Jade open as I bash my shoulder on
the open door. I curse, stumbling into the stone wall of the hallway.
Grinning skulls tear the flesh of my shoulder as Jade shouts. “Hurry,
hurry!”
What in the hells do you think I’m doing?
At least it used the door. A soul like this one can travel
through solid matter, could have flown straight through the ceiling.
But imprinting’s a bitch, and because Salana couldn’t turn
insubstantial, the soul probably thought it couldn’t, either.
Small blessings.
I wish I could say that running naked down the hallway of an
ancient mausoleum while hundreds of skulls leer at me is the
weirdest thing I’ve ever done, but in truth, it’s not even in the top
ten.
Doesn’t make me feel less vulnerable, though. There’s not
much that’s less dignified than your half hard cock flopping against
your legs as you chase the rapidly dwindling form of a lost golem
soul.
It’s fast. Much faster than me. No way I can catch it like this.
Not that I need to.
Salana’s stolen golem soul hits my rune trap like a runaway
carriage slamming into a tree. It spasms in the air, expanding and
contracting and smashing against the walls of my circle as I skid to a
halt, my bare feet diggings furrows in the dust as I heave huge
breaths.
“Gotcha,” Jade cackles. “Now, onto the fun–” She cuts off,
sounds like she chokes on her words.
My blood is ice. “Jade? What’s wrong?”
“Wight. Coming fast.” She takes a ragged breath. I’ve always
been fascinated by the fact that she breathes. Or, at least, sounds
like she does. Like she’s trying to be more human.
Why am I thinking about this right now?
Oh, right. To stave off blind panic.
I had a feeling this would happen. Alvo was only partially
correct. Wight’s don’t bother with people, and don’t seem interested
in much more than wandering the world like wraiths.
That is, until they smell a golem soul. That’s the point when
they become ruthless killing machines that will stop at nothing to
swallow said soul. The kind I’ve got floating in front of me right now.
And anyone that gets in their way?
I try not to think about it.
I rush the trap as the golem soul pings off the circular barrier
my runes have created. Each time it impacts one of the walls, it’s a
hammerblow of power against my meager trap. Gods damn, this
one’s strong.
The thought is both thrilling and terrifying. If I can collar it,
it’ll be a valuable fucking addition to my team, and another step
toward my revenge.
 If I can collar it.
As it slams into the barrier again, igniting lances of blue
lightning that spiderweb across the translucent rune wall, I have
serious doubts. And now I’ve got a fucking wight to worry about,
too.
I don’t hesitate. Hesitation is death. I learned that on the
bridge all those long nights ago.
Well, I didn’t die that night. But there have been times I
wished I had.
My reconstructed thigh aches as I crouch before the rune
trap and press the prison gem to the edge of the glowing circle.
Instantly, warm orange light radiates outward in lances of light that
crawl around the surface of the spirit trap. They spread like spilled
wine on paper until they cover the entire surface of it, staining the
cylinder of magic until the trap is fully visible.
But it doesn’t expand inward, trapping the soul.
Nope. That’s my job.
I take a deep breath in anticipation.
This is going to be rough.
“Where’s the wight?” I grit as I place both hands at the edge
of the barrier.
“Half mile, maybe,” Jade frets. “Coming this way like a
carriage falling off a cliff.”
“Nice metaphor. You should try your hand at poetry.” I push
my senses into the trap, toward the soul. It’s still, now, not throwing
itself at the barrier to escape.
Waiting.
“How do you know I haven’t?” Jade quips lightly, but I can
hear the fear in her voice.
“Another thing I don’t know about you?”
“One of many,” she says, and there’s something lurking
beneath the surface of her words I can’t decode. Something like
desire. A remnant of what just happened in Salana’s chamber?
Whatever it is, it’s something I don’t have time to ponder
because there’s no more time to waste.
“Going in,” I say. “Wish me luck.”
 “I wish us luck,” she whispers fervently.
Gods, I hate this part. The soul seems to watch me with real
malice as I push my hands slowly through the magical barrier.
Energy crackles along my bare arms like electricity, and every hair on
my body stands on end. My bones feel like dried twigs and my
internal organs roil, seem to swap places in my chest.
And this isn’t even the worst part.
Lesser monster souls are used for many things; powering the
gems I use for protection, the automaton guardians the Inquisition
uses back home, or even trivial banalities like enriching beauty
products for the stupidly wealthy.
But a pure golem soul is something else entirely. Pure,
unfiltered, unmatched power. The power to create a living, breathing
golem; a creature that can think and act and love. Tapping into a
pure golem soul is like diving into a crystal mountain lake made of
pure energy. Invigorating, empowering. Delicious.
Tapping a golem soul that’s been corrupted over hundreds of
years by a vampiress whose main concerns are sex, pleasure, and
finding young men to use for both until they’ve been sucked dry?
Less pleasant.
The second my mind touches the golem soul, it’s as if black
oil’s been poured into my veins. I shiver uncontrollably as ice grips
my heart. My limbs droop and I moan. Not with pain. My mind tries
to black out. To protect me from what I’m about to do.
I fight it. Techniques I learned two decades ago slam into
place like gears in a clockwork machine to block out the corruption.
To stop my body from rebelling. I close my eyes, concentrate, reach
for my center.
There. Like a glowing ball of heat at my chest, it sits. Power I
was born with, power passed from my mother. Power the monks of
Shel taught me to harness so I wouldn’t burn out and die before I
became a man. Power I use unconsciously a dozen times a day; to
power gems, to fight.
I take it, shape it, push it along veins clogged with decay and
filth from the golem soul. Gods, it’s hard. I’ve only felt a golem soul
like this once. Jade. And she was far more willing to work with me,
had only spent a little time in her host. And that had still almost
killed me.
But that was different. I wasn’t the same man back then.
The emptiness in my soul, the part of me that Salana took,
aches as I push my senses deeper into the trap. As I grip the golem
soul with my mind. I’m not at my best, not by a long shot. Not after
what she did to me. Gods, I should have acted sooner. Should have
taken the chance. What happened was pure pleasure like nothing
I’ve known, but if I’d been stronger, I would have fought back her
compulsion.
No use crying over spilled ale, though.
“Not much time,” Jade says, voice thin with fear. “The wight
is… I’ve never felt one like this… Just hurry.”
Trying, I think, because speaking requires more
concentration than I can spare. But her fear tugs at me. Wights are
common enough that just about everyone’s seen at least one in their
life. Drifting over the rooftops of the city in the dead of night or
whispering through the woods illuminated by the full moon. But
wights as powerful as the one that’s on its way to tear me to pieces
are incredibly rare. Why is one here? Why now?
Was it waiting for a moment like this? Staying near Salana so
that, when she died, it could make its move?
It’s a troubling question. When a soul’s imbued into a golem
or taken by a creature like Salana, it’s supposed to be invisible to a
wight. How would it know to be here?
Shit. Concentrate, Rend.
Final step. I steel myself and grip the golem soul with my
mind.
It’s like trying to stop a falling boulder with your face. The
golem soul thrashes in my grip like a wild animal, ripping and tearing
at my consciousness. I’m already weak, mentally compromised, and
I almost lose control before I’ve even begun. It almost tears free,
ripping through my defenses and my trap in one fell swoop.
I shore up my mind, and using every trick the monks taught
me, I assert control. It’s a laughably simple process, normally. I
imagine an iron cage that represents the prison gem. It’s squat and
boring, but unbreakably thick bars are its only requirement. Its door
sits wide, open and waiting for its new occupant.
The soul sits in my arms, thrashing and squealing as I push
toward the cage. It lashes at my face, my chest, and each strike
pushes into my body. Assaulting my soul.
I stagger, but push on. Another step. So close.
The soul is frantic, now. My strength, my mental walls, strain
at the soul’s immense power. I try to lift my imaginary leg, take
another step, but can’t. It’s too strong.
Fuck.
I can’t fail now. Not so close.
“Rend,” Jade shrieks, frantic. Her voice is so far away. In the
real world. “It’s here! Rend!”
I’m not strong enough… Not…
And image intrudes. Stabs into my mind like a hot knife, as it
always does when I’m about to die.
Laskel. It’s always Laskel. His face as I fall into darkness.
Jade in my hand as I plummet from the bridge, leaving her sisters
behind. They scream my name, but they’re lost to me.
Lost.
I will not fail them. I will get them back. And I’ll kill the
motherfucker who stole them from me.
And this golem soul is how it starts.
Familiar rage boils through my veins. My grip on the soul
firms. My arms in my mind are bands of iron, gripping the terrified
golem soul. It knows that something’s changed. Knows that I’m
going to win.
“Rend! Now!” Jade cries.
I push.
The golem soul crashes into the cage. The door slams shut.
It’s mine.
I collapse to the mausoleum stones, my head hitting the
ground hard enough to dizzy me. I can’t stop myself. Don’t have
enough strength left to lift my head.
But I can open my eyes.
I wish I hadn’t.
 The wight crouches over me, a beast out of a nightmare. Its
massive, shimmering grey and white body fills the large hallway. And
it’s crouching. It’s an amalgam of a hundred things; a slavering dog’s
head with teeth like blades erupts from a skeletal body of missing
flesh and patchwork bones. Two mismatched arms dangle to the
floor, apelike. One ends in a blade where it’s hand should be, and
the other is a fist bigger than my torso. Legs like tree trunks crouch,
ready to stomp the life from me.
Jade quivers at my chest. I lay, naked and helpless, still not
even able to lift my head. My throat closes, pinched so tight I can’t
breathe as I try to find the strength to… To…
Who am I kidding? If the wight wants me dead, I’m dead.
But for some reason, it doesn’t attack. Its enormous head
cocks slowly, and though its eyes are nothing but inky hollows, I can
detect something like curiosity in its gaze. It’s completely silent,
which fucks with me more than just about any other part of this.
Something this huge should make sounds. Bones cracking as it
bends toward me. Hissing, fetid breathing. It’s as if it doesn’t
actually exist.
Until it inhales.
Its canine nose almost touches my chest as it pulls in air like
a bellows, so much that I feel the rush wind caressing my chest.
It’s searching.
It doesn’t understand where its quarry disappeared to.
Inside the gem, or inside Salana. It’s still hidden from the
wight.
I hope.
Please… please… The word repeats in my head over and
over. Strength slowly seeps back into my exhausted limbs, but I
don’t move. Not a hair.
The wight sniffs along the length of my body, then the
ground around me. It twitches when its nose touches the rune
circle, but then it moves on dismissively, pawing the ground with its
non-blade arm and smudging my chalk.
Interesting. Wights are supposedly insubstantial, though
everyone knows that they can kill if they want to. I can barely see
the wall of skulls through this one’s shimmering paleness, yet it
broke my circle with a very substantial hand.
As the wight sits back on its haunches, head still ticking from
side to side in consternation, I catalogue the information. Even
through the fear, my mind works. Knowledge is survival. Knowledge
is advantage. Knowledge is power.
And I need a lot more power.
The wight rises, still paying me almost no attention. I dare a
long breath, pulling stale air into starving lungs as it turns like its…
leaving?
Then something catches its attention.
The prison gem, pulsing gently at the center of the rune
circle.
It bends like a building collapsing in slow motion until its
nose is a finger’s width from the gem.
Fuck.
I pray to every god I can name that my wards are strong
enough to shield the golem soul. That my skill is enough to hide it
from a beast created to hunt souls. A creature that could smell this
golem soul from miles away the moment I separated it from Salana.
The gem still fades from bright to dull. The golem soul,
testing the bonds of its new prison. It won’t truly be bound to me
until I put it in a new body and then join with its spirit. Until then,
it’s an unwilling passenger.
Can the wight sense it? Like an echo?
I can feel Jade reach toward the soul. She sends clairvoyant
waves of calm to it. Be at peace. You are safe, now. Rest. No need
to fight anymore. We will take care of you. I add my own
reassurance, piggybacking along with her aura as she blankets the
gem with calm.
The wight straightens slightly. Its blade arm comes around,
and its ghostly point hovers above the gem.
No. No, no. If it shatters it…
Peace… peace… peace… Jade repeats it over and over.
The blade lowers.
 I get ready to run. Where? Salana’s chamber? If it gets the
gem, maybe it won’t care about me…
I know it’s bullshit. I’m linked to the gem, now. And if it
escapes its prison, the wight will feel that tether.
Peace…
The blade’s a hair from the gem.
Orange fades to nothingness.
I can feel Jade slump with relief as the soul finally calms.
The wight sits for ten seconds that feel like a lifetime, as
frozen as I am. As it considers. Weighs. I pray that it’s too stupid to
reason what’s just happened.
Finally, its head raises, and the black pits of its eyes stare
into mine.
I shiver.
And then it stands, turns, and disappears through the wall.
Jade and I sit a moment longer, too stunned to move.
“Holy… Fuck…” she finally breathes.
I slowly reach forward and take the stone. Hold it tight, feel
its hard ridges dig into my palm as I slump back and rest my head
against cold floor. “Gods. That was…”
“Too close,” she finishes. “I need a hot bath after that one.”
“Would you even enjoy it?” I ask absently, still waiting for my
blood pressure to drop to the point where it doesn’t feel like my
heart’s about to explode out of my chest.
“Maybe come in with me and find out.”
“Ooh, someone’s feel sassy.”
“Yeah. I read something about near death situations and
arousal, once.”
“Reading again?” I laugh. “Wait, you can get… you know…”
“Horny?” She makes a little pff noise. “Rend, how long have
we been bound?”
“Five years, give or take.”
“Five years, sixty-two days, thirteen hours, and a handful of
minutes. And you don’t know by now that if I had a body, I’d climb
you like a gods damned tree?”
I cough to hide my surprise. “Jade!”
 “Hah!” She crows. “Told you that you didn’t know everything
about me.”
I laugh silently, still laying. It’s uncomfortable, the bare stone
digging into my back, my ass. I don’t care.
I’m still alive.
“Speaking of which,” she says as I finally sit, “thank you for
not telling me your plan ahead of time.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” she says. “If you’d told me that letting a vampire
queen have her way with you was your grand plan, I would have
disassociated right then.”
I laugh. It feels good. “Jealous?”
“Maybe,” she snarks. An invisible hand slaps my bare ass. I
yelp, earning a giggle. “Not your smartest plan.”
“Wasn’t part of the original version,” I say. “It was something
about playing to her vanity, challenging her to a game of wits.
Appeal to the fact that she was probably bored as fuck down here,
all alone.” I shiver as I remember her compulsion washing through
me. Her full lips wrapped around my cock. And then I go cold as I
remember what she took from me. What must have died with her.
“That didn’t last long.”
I poke my mind at the missing part of my soul, then shy
away.
One more bit of the price I pay for my revenge.
“Worth it,” I mutter as I start back to Salana’s chamber for
my clothes.
“Oh, hells yes,” Jade says, giddy. “I’d tell you to fuck a
thousand vampire women if that’s what it took to finish this. Men,
too,” she says with an invisible grin I can feel.
“Men aren’t really my thing,” I say, smiling. She
misunderstood what I meant by worth it, and I don’t correct her. I
don’t want to spoil the mood.
“Back home?” Jade asks. “Time to make a golem?”
“Time to try to make a golem,” I correct. “We’re not out of
the woods, yet. But yeah. Back home.”
It’s time for the next step.
Another random document with
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“No, no,” urged the panic-stricken Minister of War, “let us wait until
they get into the city and then bombard them with your guns.”
“Which would mean,” I said, “killing four or five of your own people to
every one of the enemy. I am not used to that way of fighting and
don’t know how to do it.”
They told me there were about three thousand men in the attacking
force. We had more than four thousand men under arms, which gave
us the advantage of numbers. The city had no defences worthy the
name and I insisted that the thing to do was to go outside and fight it
out in the open, while the doughty General, who seemed to be
seeking delay more than anything else, was in favor of making a
rough-and-tumble of it in the town. The President, who had imbibed
something of American ideas during his three years’ residence in
New York, and who had apparently regained a little of his nerve
while we were canvassing the situation, agreed with me, and,
against the continued objections of his brother, we went out to meet
the attacking army.
Gen. Baez commanded our centre and right while I commanded our
left flank. His reason for wanting to postpone the action was quickly
apparent, for he was an arrant coward. He began to give way, before
a force that was inferior in both numbers and discipline, with the
firing of the first gun, and fell back so rapidly that before I realized it
my command was flanked and almost cut off, with the sea on one
side of us and the enemy on two others and rapidly closing up the
fourth. My men fought surprisingly well until they suddenly
discovered that they were almost surrounded, when they promptly
went into a panic. Most of them dropped their guns and ran for the
city, with an activity of which I had not dreamed them capable, while
nearly all of the others, in regular South American fashion, about-
faced and joined the rebels on the spot. In a few minutes I was
captured, along with about a hundred men who were so numbed by
fear that they could neither run nor fight, and had not enough
discretion to join the enemy. I was furious over the cowardice of
Baez and put up the hardest fight I was capable of, with the
satisfaction of putting six or eight blacks on a permanent peace
basis, but with my revolver empty and my sword broken I was
overwhelmed by the inky cloud. Gen. Baez galloped back to the city
and he and his bewildered brother, the President, had barely time to
board a small schooner and sail for Curacoa before the capital was
in the hands of the rebels. Gen. Ganier d’Aton, a tool of Pimental
and Cabral, was at once proclaimed President, and hailed by the
populace with the customary acclaim.
Instead of being killed at once, as I had expected to be, I was taken
to a small fort on a hill near the town where, on the trumped-up and
altogether false charge that I had fomented trouble and brought on
civil war, I was tried by drum-head court-martial and sentenced to be
shot at sunrise. The verdict was, of course, dictated by revenge, and
execution of it was delayed because they wished to gloat over me for
a while. This was a little the most serious predicament I had ever
been in and, with the idea of taking every chance that was open to
me rather than with any distinct hope that it would be answered, I
gave the grand hailing sign of a powerful secret order which I had
joined while in Caracas. I thought I saw a sergeant raise his eyes
but, as he gave no further sign, I concluded that if there had been
any movement it had been one of surprise and not of recognition. I
was placed in a large sala with windows opening on the courtyard
and blank walls on the other three sides. The windows were barred
and after satisfying myself that they were secure, and that there was
no way of escape, I laid down and smoked, reflecting that if my time
had come there was no way of interfering with the programme
scheduled for the break of day. The soldiers were drinking and
celebrating their victory with shouts and songs, which lessened in
volume and vehemence as the night wore on, but two sentries who
paced back and forth in front of my room and met under one of the
windows religiously kept sober. Now and then a drunken coterie
would press their dirty faces against the bars to hurl at me
denunciatory bursts of Spanish eloquence, to which I vigorously
replied, but these enlivening visits grew less and less frequent, as
the consumption of tafia rum increased.
Along about three o’clock, just as I had about made up my mind that
in a couple of hours I would be due to start on an indefinite
exploration into regions about which nothing is known except that no
traveller ever returns from them, I heard a short scuffle at each end
of the path the sentries were patrolling and a gurgling noise as
though a man was choking. The next moment Lorensen’s voice
came softly through the door, “Are you in there, Captain?” I assured
him that I was.
“Stand away from the door,” he said, and I obeyed the order with
pleasurable alacrity. Three blows with a log of crutch mahogany
taken from a pile in the courtyard which had been brought in from the
mountains for export, smashed in the door. Lorensen seized my arm
and, led by the sergeant who had, after all, recognized the sign I had
made and answered it, we climbed down a declivity back of the fort
and made our way to the shore, where two boats were waiting for us.
The smashing in of the door of my prison aroused the drowsy guard
and we were hardly well out of the fort before there was a beating of
drums and loud shouts from the few half sober officers, directed at
the soundly sleeping soldiers. They finally mustered a detachment
which was sent in pursuit of us, but they were not in a condition to
move rapidly and did not reach the shore until we were a
considerable distance away from it. They fired a few shots in the
general direction of the sea but as we were in no danger of being hit
we did not raise a gun.
When we got out to the “Juliette” I heard the story of my deliverance.
I had been taken prisoner about the middle of the afternoon and it
was early in the evening when the death sentence was passed on
me. The sergeant, whose name was Alexandro, had understood my
signal. He went into the city as soon as he could get away from the
fort and, by persistent questioning of the natives, finally ascertained
that I was in command of the American ship lying in the harbor,—for
I had not hoisted the Santo Domingan flag on the “Juliette.” He then
rowed out to the ship and, after telling Lorensen what had happened,
through a member of the crew who could speak Spanish, offered to
lead a rescuing party to the place where I was confined. He said it
would be comparatively easy to get me away as only a small body of
troops had been left at the fort, the supply of rum in the city being
much larger, and they would be helpless from drink.
Lorensen, being a member of the same order, could well understand
why a white man should have taken the deep personal interest in my
welfare which Alexandro manifested, but he was suspicious that the
negro was seeking to lead him into a trap. He decided, however, to
take no chances, so, after warning Alexandro that he would be the
first man killed if he attempted any treachery, Lorensen went ashore
with sixteen well-armed men, six of whom were left with the boats
while the others proceeded to the old fort. They surprised the two
sentries at the opposite ends of their beat, throttled them and, as the
surest means of preventing an outcry, cut their throats, which
accounted for the gurgling noise I had heard. Then they broke in the
door of the sala, in which operation they were obliged to make
enough noise to arouse the guard.
Such are the obligations of a great secret order.
Men whom I sent ashore reported that President Baez and his
brother had fled and the rebels were in full control of the
government, and as soon as it was day I sailed close in and
bombarded the fort where my execution was to have taken place.
There was a great helter-skeltering of rum-soaked braves when the
first shells exploded around their ears, but there were some who did
not get away, and the crumbling walls came down and buried them.
Then we headed for Venezuela again, after an experience that paid
me only in excitement. I had not drawn a dollar from Baez and I had
been obliged to pay for the changes made in the “Juliette” and for
the guns that were brought from England, for I could not find a
banker in Halifax who would advance a cent on the letter of credit
from the great Republic of Santo Domingo. Still, I figured that the
experience had furnished me enough excitement to justify its cost.
Several years later I met Gen. Baez again in Murphy’s Hotel at St.
Thomas but did not see him until he took a good-natured shot at me.
The bullet smashed a pile of dishes on the arm of a waiter ten feet
away from me, and from the start that waiter made I would not be
surprised to hear that he is running yet around the hills back of
Charlotte Amalia.
At Caracas I found that Guzman had been duly elected
Constitutional President. He was inaugurating a scheme of public
improvements, the country had settled down to business, and the
prospect was all for long continued peace, which was displeasing to
me and I wanted to get away again. However, Guzman had a plan to
keep me busy. There was not then, nor is there now for that matter, a
decent map of Venezuela. It was reported from Paris that a
Frenchman had gone up the Orinoco to its headwaters and had
found that the Casiquiare River, which empties into it, formed a
natural canal connecting with the Rio Negro, which runs into the
Amazon at Manaos, Brazil. Guzman proposed that I go over this
route and seek to verify the Frenchman’s report. Exploring unknown
lands has always been as much a passion with me as aiding and
abetting revolutions, and I willingly accepted the commission, but,
though I did not tell Guzman so, I had no intention of returning to
Caracas. As an evidence of my appreciation of his friendship I gave
him a Jurgensen watch, which I had had made to order, and the
“Juliette,” just as she stood, sending Lorensen and one or two others
to London to work under the direction of my agents until I should
arrive. He used the good little ship for years as a mail boat between
La Guaira and Curacoa. Guzman gave me a Damascus sword of
exquisite workmanship, which, not long afterward, I used with good
effect on the pirates of the China Sea.
He wanted the exploration made on a grand scale and suggested
that he send along a detachment of soldiers. I convinced him that his
plan was impracticable, for a small party could get through much
more easily than a large one. Late in October I went to Trinidad to
outfit for the trip. There, at the old Ice House Hotel, I met two young
Britishers who were men after my own heart: Dr. Rogers, a rich
Church of England clergyman who preferred the legitimate pleasures
of this world to the prospects of the next, and Frank Anderson, son
of a wealthy Glasgow merchant and a recent graduate of Edinburgh
University. They had come out to hunt for big game and were
outfitting for a trip up the Orinoco. When I told them where I was
going they expressed a great desire to accompany me and I readily
agreed. I was glad to have such good companions for the long and
probably dangerous journey, for it was a tradition that there were
many “bad Indians” far up the river. I was the commandant of the
party, Rogers was the scientist, and Anderson the provider. They
had brought out from England two Peacock collapsible boats and to
complete our fleet I bought an Orinoco lancha, a large flat-bottomed
scow with a single enormous sail.
We went up as far as Ciudad Bolivar, the head of steam navigation,
on the old side-wheeler “Bolivar,” and there took to our boats, which
were provisioned for six months and carried seven natives to do the
hard work. There was only a slight current in the river, which was at
low stage as it was then “midsummer”—their winter comes with the
rainy season in our midsummer,—while the steady trade wind from
the Atlantic blew straight upstream, so we made good progress
under sail. It was a lazy trip in the early stages and a tiresome one,
for there were only a few dirty hamlets along the way and the llanos
stretched away on both sides of us in an interminable monotony. At
the confluence of the Apure and Arauca Rivers, two hundred and fifty
miles above Ciudad Bolivar, we found a great inland delta, larger and
more bewildering than that at the mouth of the Orinoco where there
are thirty-six separate channels that have been charted. This delta,
like the one on the coast, was formed by the tremendous force and
volume of the “midwinter” floods, which had built up so many islands
of soft mud that it was at times difficult for us to stick to the main
stream.
One of our most interesting experiences was at the junction of the
Rio Meta and the Orinoco, one hundred and fifty miles farther on,
where we encountered the so-called “musical stones,” of which we
had heard marvellous tales from the natives. These are granite cliffs
which, we had been told, gave out at sunrise sounds closely
resembling the tones of an organ. This mythical music, as we
regarded it, caused us to stay here several days and finally, on one
very cool morning, by placing our ears to the rocks, we distinctly
heard subterranean growls, groans, and whistles, which could
without great stretch of the imagination be compared to the notes of
an organ, though it must needs be a wheezy one to make the
similarity approximately honest. We all knew something about
geology and, without pretending to give a scientific conclusion, it was
our opinion that the sounds were caused by the hot air of the day,
which the rocks retained during the night, being driven out by the
cool air of the early morning through narrow fissures that were
partially obstructed by thin layers of mica, lying at an angle to the
general stratification, which served as reeds. The resultant vibrations
were musical enough to produce a weird sensation as we listened to
them, and it was easy to imagine the effect they would have on the
ignorant and superstitious natives, and the stories for which they
furnished a foundation. The Orinoco is navigable as far as the Meta
for light-draft steamers at all seasons of the year, but it may be
centuries before the “musical stones” become an advertised
attraction for tourists.
At Atures, one hundred miles above, and again at Maypures, just
beyond, were two rapids around which our boats had to be carried;
but with these exceptions it was plain sailing, or paddling, until we
crossed the line into Brazil. Another hundred miles beyond the rapids
brought us to the jumping-off place of the world—the indescribably
filthy little hamlet of San Fernando de Atabapo, built where the
Guaviare River comes down from the mountains of Colombia to join
the Orinoco. It is on the border of Venezuela and Colombia and its
population is largely made up of murderers and escaped convicts
from both countries, with a few from near-by Brazil. A number of the
leading citizens undertook to waylay us as we were leaving the place
but the only result of their misguided effort was that two or three of
them received what the law would have administered if it had been
given a chance.
From the time we left Ciudad Bolivar we had been sailing through a
veritable wilderness, with human habitations few and far between,
but after we left San Fernando de Atabapo we travelled through the
primeval forest, which came down to the river’s edge on both sides.
Its only inhabitants were widely scattered Indians, who were
inquisitive enough but not at all ugly. There were miles and miles of
magnificent rubber trees, which were especially abundant along the
Casiquiare, and great stretches of vanilla and cacao growing wild.
The Orinoco is indeed a wasted waterway. The vast empire it drains,
covering more than half of Venezuela, is marvellously rich in
minerals and in its forests, and could easily be made as rich in
agriculture. Yet when we made our trip there were fewer people
living along it than there had been four hundred years before when
Ordaz, the Spanish explorer, ascended it to the mouth of the Meta,
and I doubt if there has been any increase in the population since
our visit. Ten Hudson Rivers could be added to or taken from the
Orinoco without affecting it, yet it is traversed only by the native
lanchas and bongos, or dugouts.
We turned into the Casiquiare River, two hundred miles above San
Fernando de Atabapo, with considerable regret, for we would have
greatly liked to follow the Orinoco to its unexplored source in the
mysterious Parima Mountains, where is said to dwell a race of white
Indians, who are popularly supposed to stand guard, with deadly
blow pipes shooting darts that produce instant death, over vast
treasures of virgin gold. But that would have taken many months
more and we were not prepared for so long a trip. The priceless
forest which surrounded us was filled with game of all kinds and
great snakes, and alive with birds of wondrous plumage. There were
so many snakes, in fact, that we anchored our boats at night and
slept in them in the middle of the river, where we had nothing to fear
but the enormous crocodiles which poked us with their ugly snouts to
prevent us from oversleeping. We landed every day to stretch our
legs and shoot, with ridiculous ease, enough game to keep us in
fresh meat, but we never camped on shore at night.
After following the Casiquiare for one hundred and fifty miles or more
we came to the parting of the ways—the point at which the Rio
Negro, coming down from the foothills of the Andes, five hundred
miles away, divides to feed both the Orinoco and the Amazon—and
solved the mystery of the two rivers. There was no connecting canal
of slack water, as the Frenchman was said to have reported. The Rio
Negro, a wide and deep stream, forms the boundary between
Venezuela and Colombia for nearly two hundred miles. At two
degrees north latitude, or about one hundred and twenty miles from
the equator, it divides, the smaller part, approximately one-third of
the volume, forming the Casiquiare, which runs east for a short
distance and then north to the Orinoco, while the main stream runs
south and then east until it empties into the Amazon at Manaos.
Though we had no map to guide us the situation seemed plain when
we reached the larger river, which fed the Casiquiare, and by
following the downward course of that stream until we were certain it
was the Rio Negro, we settled the question.
Just below the junction of the Ucayari River with the Rio Negro,
almost directly under the equator, we came to a succession of falls
and rapids around which we made a portage. From there on, through
the same silent wilderness of natural wealth that we had traversed
for weeks, we leisurely sailed and drifted down to the Amazon, for
the blistering heat discouraged all physical effort that was not
mandatory. It was not until we reached the lower reaches of the river
that we found men gathering rubber, and they were taking only
ounces where tons were at their hands. We reached Manaos early in
May, 1874. We had been six months on the trip and had covered all
of two thousand miles which, everything considered, was fast
travelling. Aside from its educational value the exploration had been
delightful, and though tired from living so long in cramped quarters
we were all in better health than when we left Trinidad.
My companions, who rejoiced in having been thrown in the way of
greater sport and more interesting experiences than they had
expected to find, were ready to return to England and I arranged to
go with them. After resting for a week or two we went down to Para
on a river boat and thence to Rio Janiero on one of the Lloyd
Brazilero steamships. From there we sailed for England on the Royal
Mail steamship “Elbe,” commanded by Captain Moir, who was in
command of the “Trent” when Mason and Slidell were taken off. On
the way across I compiled a full report of the exploring trip which I
mailed to Guzman, with a promise that I would return to Venezuela
within a few years. I left my British friends at Southampton and went
to London to join Frank Norton and start for the China Sea, of which
he had pictured so much that was good in my sight.
 CHAPTER VII
PREYING ON PIRATES

AS a boy it was my ambition to fight Indians, but if I had known as

much about them then as I do now, I would have selected pirates.
They have none of the claims on life which the real, red, native
Americans enjoy, and they can be fought on the glorious sea instead
of on land, which adds to the inherent excitement. It was in the
Summer of 1874 that I made my first plunge into piracy, for, with all
of the trimmings and aids to deception stripped away, that was what
it really amounted to. I did not know into just what I was being led
when I embarked in this new enterprise; but I am frank to say that it
would have made no difference, for a free translation of the word
“pirate” is “adventure of the first order,” and that was what I was
looking for.
When I reached London, after my strange escape from execution in
Santo Domingo and the exploration of the headwaters of the Orinoco
and the Rio Negro, Frank Norton was coming up from the
Mediterranean with the “Leckwith,” carrying a general cargo, and I
had not long to wait for him. He was joyous when I told him I was
ready to accompany him to the China Sea, which he had pictured as
an El Dorado of excitement, with many golden Manoas that might be
converted into Bank of England notes. There was to be no
filibustering there for we had no thought of playing against the
concert of Europe with our one little fiddle, even had there been any
prospective revolutions worth the hatching; but Norton insisted that
there was plenty of adventure to be found and much money to be
made in handling equally illegitimate cargoes which included no
explosives or munitions of war. As he was familiar with that part of
the world I took his word for it, without going into minute details. He
said we would need the “Leckwith” and two ships to carry on the
business to the best advantage, so I selected the “Surprise,” an
American brig, and the “Florence,” a topsail schooner, both stout,
fast ships. I put Lorensen on the “Leckwith” as sailing master,
George Brown on the “Surprise,” and old Bill Heather on the
“Florence.” The “Surprise” took on a general cargo for Japan and
was ordered to rendezvous at Hong Kong, while the “Florence”
loaded for Singapore. Norton and I followed in the “Leckwith.” Two
brass cannon were mounted in place of the yacht’s guns she carried
and we took on board four small carronades, a French mitrailleuse,
and several hundred rifles, cutlasses, and side arms, with an
abundance of ammunition, all of which were stored in the hold.
Before our departure I had printed on parchment, in exact imitation
of the genuine, certificates of registry in English, Dutch, German,
French, and Spanish, and seals made to correspond to them. These
I filled out, as occasion demanded, in the name the particular ship
bore at the time, and in the nationality which I thought would furnish
the best protection. I also had certificates of health, consular
clearances and bills of health, custom house clearances, and
shipping certificates printed in different languages. Forged service
certificates were also issued to old men of long service who were
competent officers but who could not pass the technical
examinations provided for in the amended maritime laws. These and
the certificates of registry were aged with a solution of iron and, if
necessary, rubbed on the cabin floor to add to their years. I had used
similar forged papers while filibustering in the West Indies but had
never had such an elaborate outfit, though I was never afterward
without it. With these papers I could give a ship a registry under any
flag and make it appear that she had come from any port that suited
my purpose. They were signed with an illegible scrawl, as are the
genuine. To further complicate matters the “Leckwith” was supplied
with a telescopic smokestack which, when lowered, was completely
hidden. She was schooner-rigged and could be transformed into a
fore and aft schooner by dousing the stack and housing the yards on
the foremast, or into a brig by putting yards on the mainmast. Similar
changes of rig could be made on the “Florence” and “Surprise.” I
never used a ship on which this could not be done. The efficacy of
these precautions is proved by the fact that I have never lost a cargo
of contraband, though I have handled scores of them.
With provision made for all of the deception and trickery which
experience and foresight could suggest we headed for Singapore, to
begin a career of adventure such as my wild mind never had
conceived, even in its dearest dreams. On the long trip out I whiled
away the time in an effort to evolve a torpedo of a new type. I had
been interested in high explosives all my life and had long believed
that a non-dirigible torpedo could be devised which would be an
improvement on our own Harvey,—which was towed in a bridle and
was not practicable for a greater distance than two or three hundred
yards,—and which would have advantages over the dirigible type. To
facilitate my experiments I had on board a lot of sheet brass and
before the end of the trip I had developed a torpedo that I regarded
as perfection and which I afterward used with success, though it
finally got me into trouble in South America. It was six feet long, thirty
inches in diameter, and shaped like a fat cigar. The inside was lined
with air cylinders to give it the required buoyancy, and inside of these
was packed the explosive charge, of wet gun-cotton or dynamite. It
was towed by a wire or small rope attached to the blunt nose, from
which projected six spider-like arms two feet long, and alternating
with these were six shorter arms extending outward from the thickest
part of the torpedo. The forcing backward of any one of these arms
cut off a shear pin and released a spring which set off a fulminate of
mercury cap. This exploded a disc of dry gun-cotton which set off the
main charge. The shear pins were of copper wire of any desired
thickness, but were intended to be only thick enough to prevent the
arms from being forced backward, and the torpedo discharged, by
the current of a river or by the resistance of the water when being
towed or by small driftwood which might be encountered.
The buoyancy of the loaded torpedo could easily be calculated and
by means of the air cylinders it could be kept awash or floated just
below the surface, the latter being the preferred method when it was
to be used during the day. The towing wire or rope was kept on the
surface or just below it by small floats, distributed at such distances
that they would attract no attention even in the improbable event of
their being seen. The torpedo was intended to be towed across the
course of the vessel that was to be destroyed. The moment the
ship’s bow picked up the towing rope her fate was settled, for
whether the rope was fifty yards or five miles long it was simply a
question of time until the torpedo was dragged alongside and
exploded by the pressure of one of the arms against the side of the
vessel. The torpedo could be towed astern of a ship or a launch or
even an innocent rowboat. In river work it could be stretched across
the stream with a line at each end, the shorter one being only strong
enough to withstand the current, so it would part easily when the
unfriendly ship picked up the line attached to the nose of the
torpedo. I was greatly pleased with my invention and it was not long
until I had an opportunity to prove that it was a complete success.
We reached Singapore more than a month ahead of the “Florence”
and on our arrival there Norton unfolded his whole scheme to me.
The gist of it was that we were to prey on the pirates who infested
the China Sea, and particularly that part of it lying between
Singapore, Sumatra, and Borneo, which was dotted with islands and
beautifully suited by nature to their plundering profession. Every ship
going to Europe from China, Indo-China, Siam, and from the
Philippines and the network of islands to the south of them, as well
as vessels coming up from the Indian Ocean through the Strait of
Sunda, between Sumatra and Java, had to run the gantlet of this
piratical nest, and many were the good ships that ended their cruises
there, along with their passengers and crews. It was here the pirates
held out last in their long and bloody fight against civilization, as the
present state of mankind in general is called. The British
Government had been trying for years to put an end to their
operations but there were so many of the islands, and the
opportunities for concealment and escape were so numerous, that
the undertaking was a gigantic one. It was not until years after my
tragic appearance on this stage that it was officially announced that
piracy had been suppressed. Even that long delayed declaration was
not altogether true, for in that accursed region, now well known but
yet mysterious, piracy is still being carried on, even to this day,
though in a small and desultory way. There were a few islands
farther north, off the southern coast of Indo-China, among which the
pirates sometimes rendezvoused to lay in wait for their prey, but in
ordinary weather it was easy for ships to keep clear of these danger
spots. But they could not avoid those islands lying northeast of
Singapore, and it was there that most of the merchantmen were
looted.
The pirates were chiefly Chinese, with a considerable number of
Malays and some Dyaks. As to bravery and bloodthirstiness there
was little choice between them. They were all desperate villains and
their thirst for gold was exceeded only by their truly Oriental cunning.
When they fell from wounds they would watch for an opportunity to
hamstring their opponents or disembowel them with their long,
crooked knives, which were as sharp as razors. After we discovered
this devilish trait no quarter was ever shown them. When one of
them fell he was shot through the head or stabbed, to make sure that
he would do no further harm. Nothing else could be done with such
an enemy. The Chinese operated chiefly in large junks, with which
they could go well out to sea. Most of them carried guns of
considerable size, while all of them were supplied with a multitude of
stink-pots,—their favorite weapon. These were round earthenware
pots, twelve or fifteen inches in diameter, filled with a black mixture
of the consistency of moist earth, which was lighted just before the
missile was thrown. They were handled in a sling, such as every
small boy has used but on a larger scale, and could be thrown with
great accuracy for one hundred feet or more. When the pot struck
the opposing ship it broke open and the contents spread out on the
deck, giving off a thick, pungent, and vile-smelling smoke which
would quickly produce complete asphyxiation if it was inhaled at
close range. If the smoking mass was left long enough undisturbed it
would set fire to the ship. The pirates themselves were largely
immune to this horrible smoke and under its cover, following a rain of
stink-pots, they would board a ship almost unseen and have her
defenders, whom they always outnumbered, at a great disadvantage
from the start. When fighting at close quarters the Chinese used
long, curved swords, something like a Turkish yataghan, while the
Malays were armed with the krese, a short, double-edged sword with
serrated edges. Both were murderous weapons and the pirates were
graduated experts in the use of them; in fact, they preferred their
butcher knives to firearms, for they were miserable marksmen. As
soon as an engagement became general they would throw away
their guns and pistols and use their swords, with both hands, striking
powerful, chopping blows.
The Malays and Dyaks used proas or feluccas, light, strong, low-
lying vessels from sixty to one hundred feet in length, from ten to
sixteen feet wide, and five or six feet deep, with less than three feet
draft. They were rigged with two large lateen sails and were very
fast. The only material difference between them was that the proas
were supplied with long sweeps with which they could be driven
along at a fair rate of speed when there was no wind. The junks were
used for outside work, while the proas and feluccas kept close
inshore, seldom going more than fifteen miles out. On account of
their shallow draft they were easily hidden in the mouths of rivers
and creeks, and when so concealed they could not be seen at a
distance of half a mile.
It was this ease of escape, and the fact that unless they were caught
red-handed conviction was impossible, which combined to make the
stamping out of the pirates such a tremendous task. The junks
always carried just enough cargo to enable them to pose, technically,
as peaceful traders and, with the aid of their friends afloat and
ashore, they could easily prove an alibi, or anything else that was
needed. When closely pursued by a suspicious warship and certain
to be overhauled and inspected, they would throw overboard their
surplus of arms and, if necessary, any loot they happened to have on
board, to remove all incriminating evidence. Through an elaborate
system of spies the pirate chiefs were constantly advised as to the
movements of the warships and kept their craft as far away from
them as possible. Thus it was that unless a cruiser happened along
just as a merchantman was being looted, and her crew butchered, or
immediately afterward, the chance of capturing the scoundrels was
remote. Even with the large retributive fleet of cruisers and gunboats
that finally was established in those waters, beauteous and romantic
but thickly dotted with villainous havens, the number of piracies that
were punished, including the joyous justice which Norton and I
meted out, was trifling when compared with the total of murder and
robbery.
The chief of a large section of the Chinese pirates was old Moy Sen,
a rich Chinaman who lived in a handsome home in Canton and
posed as a legitimate trader. He owned a large fleet of junks and one
steamer, and there was not a ship that left Hong Kong with a rich
cargo that he did not know all about. The evil genius of the Malays
was a shrewd scoundrel known as Leandrio, and he and Moy Sen
operated under what would be known to-day as a “gentlemen’s
agreement,” by which they divided up the territory, in a general way,
and did not interfere with each other. As a matter of fact there were
practically no honest trading ships in that section, with the exception
of the big merchantmen engaged in the export trade. All of the
coasting ships were either pirates themselves, when the conditions
were favorable, or were in league with the pirates, to whom they
carried information as to the value of cargoes being prepared for
shipment and their probable date of departure. The result was that
there was not a ship, except the easily distinguished merchantman,
which we did not come to regard as legitimate prey.
Norton argued that the pirates were bound to keep on robbing and
burning and murdering in spite of anything we could do, and that we
could derive plenty of excitement and large profits by robbing them.
Incidentally, he contended, we would put a lot of them out of
business for good and all, thus contributing to the end desired by all
nations. I fell in with his plan heartily, for, while I cared little for the
money that was to be made, it promised as lively adventures as I
could wish for. It was arranged that I should pose as Dr. Burnet, a
rich English physician who was cruising in his private yacht for his
health. To make it appear that they were engaged in legitimate
commerce, the “Florence” and “Surprise” were to carry some general
cargoes from port to port among the islands but were to so shape
their cruises that they would be at certain fixed points on or about
given dates, so that we could keep closely in touch with them. They
were to be given large crews and so heavily armed as to be safe
from piratical attacks. The “Leckwith” was to do all of the preying on
the pirates and the loot we took from them was to be turned over to
the other ships at the meeting places. This would make it
unnecessary for us to put into port often as we could use our sails a
great deal and husband our coal. This arrangement, and the
changes which could quickly be made in the rig of all the ships,
would, we figured, remove us from suspicion, for a long time at least.
Agencies for our legitimate cargoes were established in Sumatra, on
the island of Banca, where there were extensive tin mines, in Borneo
and Rajah Brooke’s independent government of Sarawak in North
Borneo, and at other convenient places. It was arranged that the
bulk of our loot should be sent to a firm of Chinamen at Singapore,
who dealt largely in dishonest cargoes but were absolutely honest
with their clients.
With the schedules of the “Florence” and “Surprise” established and
with the “Leckwith’s” bunkers stuffed with coal, we headed for the
islands in search of pirates. We then had a crew of about seventy-
five men, though at different times we had as few as fifty and as
many as one hundred, independent of the “black gang” in the fire
and engine rooms. The crews of the three ships were frequently
interchanged, except for about fifteen especially brave and reckless
fellows who were always kept on the “Leckwith.” With all of our sails
set and in the guise of a trading ship we sometimes trapped the
pirates into coming alongside and grappling with us, which made it
easy work for us, but when we had reason to think they had valuable
booty on board we went at them full tilt under steam and took it away
from them. All of our guns, which were always unshipped when we
went into port, were close up against the rail and were concealed
under what looked like deck cargo, but it was the work of only a
moment to cast off their covering and lower a section of the bulwarks
long enough to give them a wide radius of action.
Our first experience was a profitable one. When near the “hunting
grounds” we lowered the smokestack, got up our canvas, and sailed
along awaiting developments. We were getting in among the islands
when we met a big junk which had just looted and scuttled a richly
laden Brazilian barkentine. She had much more than enough on
board to pay her for one trip, but cupidity got the better of her
commander and he put about and came after us, thinking we were
only a trading schooner but might have something on board worth
taking. We made a pretence of trying to get away, which we could
have done, for the “Leckwith” footed fast even under sail, but in
reality we eased our sheets to hasten matters along. When he was
close astern of us, with the wind abeam, we luffed up, got out guns
ready for action in a jiffy and, as we crossed his bows, raked him
fore and aft with our carronades, which were loaded almost to the
muzzle with slugs and nails. Before he could change his course, with
his decks littered with dead and mangled, we came about and gave
him a broadside at close quarters, along with a deadly rifle fire from
the hitherto unseen members of the crew who had been concealed
in the ’tween decks. He replied to this blast with a lot of stink-pots,
only a few of which came aboard and were tossed into the sea
before any ill effects were felt from their nauseating fumes, and a
weak and poorly directed fire from his guns. Taken completely by
surprise and with more than half of their number littering the
reddened deck, the pirates were panic-stricken. Before they could
regain their senses we came about again and gave them another
broadside which took all the fight out of them, if there had been any
left, and put them at our mercy. As we ranged alongside, keeping up
a rifle fire but disdaining any further use of our guns, they managed
to launch a couple of boats and all who could get into them pulled for
the nearest island. When we threw our grappling irons and hauled in
on them the few survivors who had strength enough left to get to the
rail threw themselves overboard and swam for it. The first man
aboard of the junk had one of his legs almost severed by the wicked
sword of a badly wounded Chinaman, and after that bit of
fiendishness our men lost no time in making sure that the rest of
them were really dead. We took out of the junk fully one hundred
thousand dollars’ worth of specie, silk, tea, porcelain, and drugs and
then set fire to her, leaving her to bury her own dead.
After that easily won victory we trapped and sank half a dozen proas
and feluccas in the same way, though with more spirited resistance
in some cases, for we were so anxious to get things to going that we
threw off our mask before we had them at such close quarters as we
got the junk. We had two men killed in these engagements and a
dozen more or less seriously injured. Norton sustained an ugly cut
on the leg that sent him to the hospital and I got a slash on the arm
that gave me considerable trouble for a few days. In only one
instance did a ship get away from us and that was when two proas
attacked us on either side in a dead calm that settled before we
could get steam up. We could not change our position, while they
manœuvred with their long oars and one of them escaped, though
she took a lot of dead with her. We got nothing from them to speak of
but there was excitement in extenso and we gloried in it. Norton had
not overdrawn the picture of the adventurous China Sea.
We had turned our cargo over to the “Florence,” along with a number
of wounded men, and were back among the islands, though outside
of the regular course of sailing ships, when early one evening a full-
rigged ship hove in sight. She passed us but was not more than six
miles away when we saw flashes that told us she had been attacked.
We had our fires banked, for it was just at the break of the monsoon
when the weather is variable and the winds uncertain, so we lost no
time in going to her assistance. As we closed in we saw a Malay
felucca on each side of her and the pirates swarming on her decks,
with the crew putting up a brave fight. Running the “Leckwith” up on
her starboard quarter, we threw our men aboard of her and they
went at the pirates savagely from the rear. I led the boarding party
for it looked as though it would be one of the kind of fights that I
never would miss. In those days I was young, athletic, and vigorous
and I had rather have a fight with death at one end of it than anything
else. No matter where I went, or what the odds against us, I knew
the men of the “Leckwith” would be at my heels, for a braver set of
dare-devils never lived.
The Malays outnumbered us more than two to one, but we went at
them with a fury that was new to them, and were slowly forcing them
back toward their one good boat—we had smashed the other one to
bits when we slammed alongside—when a beautiful white yacht
came tearing up on the port quarter and sent three boatloads of men
to our assistance in such smart style that I took her to be a gunboat,
though the quick glance I took at her showed her lines to be
unusually fine for a warship. Her party clambered over the bows
under command of a stockily built young officer wearing what looked
like the uniform of a naval captain, and we had the pirates between
us. I understood later, when I learned who and what they were, why
these reinforcements, instead of discouraging the Malays, caused
them to fight with renewed desperation. But they could not withstand
our combined rush and the last of them soon went over the side into
their proa, which drifted away into the darkness when they cut her
loose. However, in the last few minutes of fighting the young British
officer, as I took him to be, sustained a savage cut in his right
shoulder, and after we had laid aside our dead and given our
wounded rough attention I was surprised to receive an inquiry from
him as to whether we had a surgeon on board. I replied that I was a
surgeon and, taking him aboard the “Leckwith,” dressed his wound
on the cabin table. I then saw that his uniform was that of a captain,
but not of a naval officer. He told me his name was Deverell but
when I asked him the name of his ship he answered evasively, and I
had learned the ways of the China Sea too well to press the
question.
“Your wound is rather a bad one,” I told him, “and is likely to require
further attention. I am simply loafing and expect to be cruising in this
neighborhood for some time, even though it does seem to be pretty
thick with pirates. I will be glad to have you call on me if I can be of
any service to you.”
He mystified me still more when he replied: “We know you, Doctor,
and will know where to find you if it becomes necessary to take
further advantage of your kindness.”
I had not time just then to think much about the strange incident, for
the fight had been a bloody one and there were many men who
needed attention. We had six men killed and there were fully twenty-
five more with injuries of some sort. When I came to look myself over
I found that one bullet had grazed the top of my head and another
my chest, while the right shoulder of my jacket had been sliced off by
a cut that, had it been properly placed, would have taken my arm
with it. My only injury was a trifling flesh wound on my leg. Had I
been less of a fatalist narrow escapes of that kind, to which I grew
accustomed, might have affected my nerves, but instead they were
only entertaining. It interested me, in every fight, to see just how
close I had come to being killed, knowing full well that death could
not add my name to the list until my time came, and that then there
would be no way of avoiding it.