Cursed: Legend of the Grimoire, Book One Read online

  His clothing was soaked through within a minute of emerging on deck. It was apparent that the storm had surprised everyone, as the frantic securing of everything important suggested. Dozens of men swung precariously from the rigging as they struggled to furl the sails. The foot of the mainsail was completely loose and whipping violently in the wind, requiring the most attention. Distracted by the unwieldy mainsail, the men left the other canvases as they were for the moment. Suddenly, the mizzen topsail and topgallant filled with a gust of wind and strained against the eased sheets, driving the ship forward with a jolt. The topgallant held for a few minutes, but then succumbed to the force of the gale and split with a loud rip that left the canvas slack and flapping around uselessly.

  “Damn it!” Archer shouted. “Get those sails lashed!” He rushed to help with the mizzens before they lost another one. When the sails were finally secure, he raked a hand through his dripping hair and looked to the next crisis. He found Tate on the bridge, assisting the helmsman in trying to maintain their course. Wrestling with the wheel, it took both men to hold it steady. “Let ‘er go, boys!” Archer shouted. “We don’t have the strength to hold our course against this tempest! Just keep on top of the waves!”

  Tate eased off the wheel with a grunt and let the helmsman concentrate on navigating the swells. “Just what we needed, eh Captain?”

  “Status report, Mr. Tate.”

  “Aye. Hatches are secure, guns are lashed, ports shut, and, thanks to you, the sails are now furled. All hands have been ordered out of the rigging and tops, and we’re doing our best to stay on top of the water, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  The men held tight to the rail as the ship rolled sharply in the chop. Archer flicked a glare over at the helmsman, but the man could do nothing but shrug in apology. The captain’s heart sank as the call he was dreading carried across the deck, “Man overboard!”

  “Toss out a line!” Archer yelled immediately. He peered into the churning froth below, but he knew there was nothing to be done for the poor sailor.

  Tate shook his head and sighed. “It’s no use, sir! There’s nothing we can do!”

  Archer slammed the rail with his fist. “Pass the order along! Everyone below, stay there! Anyone who must be on deck will secure themselves with a safety line! Now!”

  Everyone on deck grabbed the nearest line and tied it fast around their waists. Archer tied his knot tightly and braced his arms against the rail. “We damn well better not go over, or we’re all dead for certain!”

  “I guess our luck hasn’t changed after all.” Tate observed.

  Archer just glared at him and continued to shift his weight with the motion of the ship. The only thing left for them to do now was ride it out and hope they survived. Gazing out at the water, he saw white caps atop the waves closest to them, and the occasional bit of spindrift floated across the deck. The infernal wind whipped the waves to dangerous heights, and every time they would hit the trough of one, the sea washed across the deck, sweeping away anything not tied down.

  Tate and Archer took turns with the helmsman at the wheel, as they tried to keep the Lightning under control. Finally, the captain surrendered his pride. “Deploy the sea anchor. It’ll slow us down, but should keep her steadier.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Tate acknowledged, and passed the order along.

  As soon as the anchor was in the water, they all felt the noticeable drag, but the helm was obviously more responsive. It irked Archer that they’d been forced to practically creep along and just endure the battering of the waves, but they had little choice at this point. He tried in vain to search the horizon for any sign of clear skies. All he saw was wave upon wave hurling vengeance directly at them and the relentless drenching sheets of rain. It felt like all the vilest demons of hell had lined up to strike at them in whatever merciless manner suited their fancy. Archer’s hope drained from his soul and rode the next gust of wind into the neverending night.

  “Roderick,” Archer beseeched his quartermaster. “For the love of the gods, please tell me we’ll live through this.”

  “I’d love to, sir,” Tate replied gravely, “but I just don’t know for sure that we will.”

  Archer heaved a weighty sigh of resignation. “I need to go update the log, in the likely event that it will be all that’s left to tell anyone what happened to us.”

  Tate nodded solemnly.

  Stumbling and sliding back down to his cabin, Archer grabbed the ship’s log and penned the last entry he expected to write in its pages. Then he snapped the book shut and tossed it aside. He took inventory of his amassed possessions, the evidence of his accomplishments. His career hadn’t been long, but he sure as hell had some memorable adventures. Not many pirates were known for their long and distinguished years of employment anyway. Well, if this was to be his end, then, by thunder, he’d go out fighting. He wouldn’t cower and meekly invite death in to stay. It would have to drag him to hell kicking and screaming.

  He glared up at the ceiling and shook his fist defiantly, shouting his challenge to whichever gods would listen, if any still cared. “I don’t know what I did to displease you so, but you won’t take me down so easily, you bastards! If it’s the treasure you want returned, it won’t happen! I’ll die before I give it up! So, come and get me!” He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, awaiting his divine punishment. When nothing happened after several seconds, he smirked irreverently. “I thought so. Impotent figureheads, that’s all you are!”

  Without warning, he felt the disconcerting sensation of weightlessness as the ship fell freely into the deep trough of a wave. She met the water again with an abrupt and shuddering halt of momentum very much resembling a sudden impact with a very solid surface. Archer was thrown violently against the floor, the air driven from his lungs. Then his elaborate mullioned windows shattered in a spectacular shower of glittering shards. The last thing the captain of Tyrian’s Lightning saw through the open void of his once secure cabin wall was an impossibly insurmountable wall of water rushing at him, the inescapable hand of the gods come to strike him down in all its awesome finality.

  ~*~

  Captain Parrish of the Wandering Star glanced up with a frown at the knock on his door. “Dammit!” he muttered to himself. “I told Connelly I didn’t want to be disturbed.” He gave half a thought to just ignoring the intrusion, then sighed and went to the door.

  Connelly nodded his head politely and a rush of words burst from him before Parrish could offer a reprimand. “Begging your pardon, sir. I know you said you didn’t want any interruptions, and I wouldn’t have done, believe me, but we’ve come upon something in the water, sir, and we thought you might want to know about it, in case you thought it might be important. Of course, if you don’t want to bother with it, I’m more than happy to handle it for you if you’d like. I just thought you’d want to know, sir.”

  Parrish blinked and raised a brow at his young, skittish officer. “That was a hell of a lot of words just to say that we’ve come across something in the offing and I should come see it, Connelly.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Connelly lowered his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Nevermind,” Parrish grunted, closing the door behind him as he followed the young man into the companionway. “I hate it when you do that!”

  “What, sir?”

  “When you run off at the mouth so fast I can’t berate you properly. It’s so godsdamn funny it takes all the thunder out of me.”

  Connelly smirked while the captain couldn’t see his face.

  “So what do we have?” Parrish asked as he approached the port rail, reaching for his spyglass.

  “You won’t need that, sir. The debris is everywhere.”

  “Debris?” Parrish glanced out over the water. “Holy hell!” Wood, paper, bottles, personal items, and anything else that would float bobbed gently in the calm water, spread over a wide area. “What happened here?”

  “Well, Captain,�
�� Connelly surmised, “there was that storm several days back that we glimpsed on the horizon. We decided to anchor well back from it, but it looks like someone else wasn’t lucky enough to escape it.”

  Parrish scrubbed his fingers over his scalp. “Aye, a storm like that could definitely do this much damage. But where’s the bloody ship?”

  Connelly shook his head. “No sign of her, sir.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect there to be. She likely went down. With this much carnage, I’d be bloody amazed if the ship or any of her company survived.” The captain surveyed the field of debris again. “Is there anything worth salvaging, Mr. Connelly?”

  “Not much, sir. We’ve already pulled in the things we could use. Most anything of value would be too heavy to float on the surface, unfortunately. We did, however, retrieve their log book, Captain.”

  Parrish’s gaze snapped to Connelly. “You’re sure?”

  “There’s only one type of book that I know, sir, which floats on water, is magically protected from damage to maintain the integrity of the words inside, and features a crest of a rising phoenix. Annali ship logs are rather unique.” He handed the book to the captain.

  “Well done, Connelly. Let’s hope there’s some useful information in here.”

  “May I assume, then, that you’ll be reviewing that straight away?”

  “Aye, we need to at least find out which hapless vessel went down so we can notify the Naval Authority.”

  Connelly nodded. “I’ll prepare the message and await further information, Captain.”

  “Very good. I’ll be in the chart room. Please search the area one more time for anything at all worth saving. Even if we can’t use it, the Authority may want it.” Parrish headed up to the chart room.

  “Aye, sir,” Connelly called.

  Parrish poured himself a glass of brandy and sat at the table. Setting the log in front of him, he placed his hand over the crest on the cover and observed a moment of silence. Poor bastards, he lamented. What a tragic way to go. Then he lifted the cover to read the engraved identification plate.

  Tyrian’s Lightning

  Kendrick Archer, Captain

  Commissioned, 1727 Post-Revolution

  Certified, Annali Naval Authority

  Kendrick Archer. Parrish knew the man’s name, but had never met him. Archer had recently made it known to his peers that he was on the hunt for the ultimate—and widely considered fictitious—treasure of Mezriel’s Hoard, and his reputation had summarily devolved into outright suspicion of insanity. Parrish didn’t have an opinion on the matter, but he felt sorry for Archer regardless of his mental health. Going down in a storm was about the worst way that Parrish could think of for a proud Annali sailor to leave the world.

  He flipped through the pages of the log book. It was all standard, mundane fare, until the entries that began only a couple of months back. Though Archer never explicitly stated any details, it was obvious that he’d found something that he desperately wanted to protect. Then came the accounts of all of the disastrous events that had befallen the company of the Lightning.

  Parrish’s eyes widened with stunned disbelief. “Gods almighty, Archer. Exactly whose wrath did you incur?” He went to the door and looked for his quartermaster. “Connelly!”

  The young man joined him in the chart room within moments. “Yes, sir?”

  “Send your message to the Naval Authority. Tell them we came across the remains of the Annali ship Tyrian’s Lightning.”

  “Kendrick Archer’s, correct?”

  “Yes. Let them know we salvaged all that we could.” Parrish glared intently at Connelly to emphasize the importance of his next order. “But under no circumstances are you to mention the recovery of the Lightning’s log. They will ask about it, I guarantee it. Tell them it must have gone down with the ship.”

  Connelly’s brow furrowed with confusion and discomfort. “You’re aware you’re ordering me to lie to the Annali Naval Authority?”

  “Very aware, Connelly. If they insist on pursuing it, defer to me.” Parrish held his gaze level and steady as Connelly fidgeted anxiously. “Can you, or can you not, follow this order, Connelly?”

  “Aye, sir. I will relay the message as ordered,” Connelly agreed, setting his jaw in a firm line. “What have you found?”

  “Something that needs more investigation, and if the Authority gets their hands on this book, we’ll never get that chance.”

  “I completely understand, sir. Of course it makes the most sense. I’m not entirely comfortable withholding the truth from the Authority, but I trust your judgment, Captain. You can count on me, sir. I won’t let you down. I’ll help you research whatever—”

  “Connelly.”

  “Sir?”

  “Bloody knock it off.”

  The young man smiled and nodded. “I’ll go send that message, then.”

  Parrish rolled his eyes and returned to the Lightning’s log, turning to the last entry. It was scrawled hastily and lacked much of the detail and coherence of the earlier entries. Not surprising, given the circumstances. He sighed heavily.

  Caught in the most hellish tempest I’ve ever seen. No discernible landmarks in any direction, and no way to determine our location. Nothing to see but wind-driven rain, black clouds, and waves twice again the height of the main. Fore mast already crippled prior to the storm; have now lost the mizzen topgallant and at least one man. Deployed sea anchor to regain some navigability, but staying afloat is top priority. Minus the one man I know went overboard, there are currently 117 men aboard, including myself. Original battery of 20 guns now down to 12, as far as I know. Hold modestly full: spices, rum, confiscated weapons, recovered talek, small amount of valuables.

  We’re in a bad way. In desperate need of repairs and supplies of all types before the storm hit, things may be dire enough at this point that even if we survive the weather, we may not live long thereafter. The gods have forsaken us, and I don’t even know if there is merit in praying for our souls. It seems we’re judged and damned already.

  Our last known location was 12° 15′ 21″ S, 23° 27′ 30″ E. Whoever finds this record, I beg you, please tell our families and loved ones of our fate…

  Chapter Two

  Holystorm, Annali Republic

  Guinn McCabe folded up his newspaper and tossed it aside as he reached for his steaming mug of coffee. What a waste, he thought. The account of the tragic loss of the Annali ship Tyrian’s Lightning was poignant and respectful, but it made Guinn all the more determined to never allow such a thing to happen to his own ship.

  Guinn would accept nothing less than the best for himself. He would have the best ship, the best crew, the best magical protection, the best weapons. If only he didn’t have to suffer through the next five years in this sleepy little college town wasting his time on acquiring his magic license. If not for the governmental requirement that all Annali naval officers complete the full five-year degree program at a certified Annali magic academy, he wouldn’t even be at Holystorm Academy of Magic at all.

  There was no way in hell, though, that he was walking away now. He’d gotten himself here, dragged his sorry ass out of the idle, wasted decadence into which he’d fallen, and gotten himself back on track. He was doing this, no matter how pointless it seemed.

  Draining his mug, he cleared his small table and hoisted the large duffle containing all of his worldly possessions over his shoulder. He’d already checked in at the school and received his schedule and room assignment; he figured it was about time to settle in for a long haul.

  ~*~

  “You’re daft and blind, Delecourt! It was a clean hit, and you know it! I can’t believe you’re siding with the damned ref against your own team!”

  “My dear, delusional William, please set aside your irrational emotion for a moment to allow your common sense a chance to get by. It was a foul; even Northcut himself acknowledged it. I’m just as devoted a Rebels fan as you are, but you just don’t get points for
dirty hits.”

  “What dirty hit?! There was absolutely—” William stopped. His mouth dropped open, his eyes flew wide, and both his heart and his breath halted for a few seconds. He grabbed his friend’s arm. “Shana! Please, for the love of all that’s holy, tell me I’m not hallucinating!”

  She looked around frantically. “What?”

  He pointed at the man who had just entered the common room.

  Shana looked, and then turned back to William with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “Who is he?”

  William smiled wickedly. “Mine.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” she hissed at him so the newcomer wouldn’t hear.

  “Back off, Delecourt!” William growled. “I saw him first!” He sat back in his plush chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and stared intently at the man over his tented fingers. Sinfully delicious, he had short, well-groomed dark brown hair over slate gray eyes. He was tall and broad, with not a hint of softness anywhere on his muscled frame, and he carried himself with a confident, arrogant air that spoke of a privileged past. He was dressed impeccably in knee-length tan suede boots, buttery soft burgundy breeches, and a loose white shirt that exposed tan skin over exquisite collar bones that made William drool. He had a large bag slung over his shoulder, and William followed his every movement as he crossed the room to the stairs up to the men’s quarters. “I must have done something very good recently to deserve such a tasty treat. That man is all of my dark fantasies come to life.”

  “Keep dreaming, Hannigan,” Shana whispered in his ear. “You have no chance with that one.”

  He glared at her. “What the hell use is it to me to have a friend who knows my secret, yet thwarts my every attempt to get some action? Honestly, Shana! You’re such a killjoy!” He sulked childishly. “How do you know I have no chance?”