“Heave,” a man yelled from above.
A net closed around Yerdan and pulled him from the cold sea, bringing driftwood and splinters with him. The roar of battle still echoed in his mind but faded as it made room for the sloshing of water and the smell of salt. Water dripped from his drenched clothes and clattered onto the deck of the ship that pulled him aboard. Before long, its hard, sun-warmed wooden planks supported his body as the net gently released him.
The blur of a man stood over him against the sunlight. A tall silhouette of unknown intent. Was it a friend? Or was it a Mahearean?
“He’s alive, thank the Tribunal. He’s alive.” The man knelt beside him, and his face came into focus.
It was Ulf – his tunic torn, revealing a nasty cut in his shoulder, but alive. Yerdan could do naught but smile.
Then Ornea, too, joined them. “Oh, thank the Gods.” She embraced him. “I thought I lost you.”
“We won, then?”
Ulf’s face went grim. “Yea. But it cost…” He did not finish his sentence and instead motioned around him. “Look.”
Ornea helped Yerdan up. They were not aboard Captain Drebbin’s ship. This was the Hauler, one of their cargo ships. Originally, it was a trade vessel, but the captain recommissioned it to carry the loot of their conquests.
Around the ship, the aftermath of the battle was laid out plain in carnage. Countless corpses floated in the waves, together with broken boards and shredded sails.
“Where are the other ships?”
Ornea shook her head.
“All of them?” How was that possible? Their entire fleet was gone. So, too, were the Mahearean war galleon and its escorts. So, too then, was the treasure they sought. Everything had been for naught.
His thoughts were interrupted by a raspy voice. “I found him. I found the captain!”
Yerdan pushed the others aside to make it to the railing.
In the water drifted a still figure atop a large wooden plank. His face and body had been scorched by fire, but the clothes were unmistakable. It was Captain Drebbin.
“Don’t just stand there, get him out!” Ulf yelled at the sailors.
Just like they had done with Yerdan, they fished Captain Drebbin out of the water with a net. Carefully, they lowered his body onto the deck, the flotsam still beneath him.
Yerdan hurried to him. Only now that he was close did the horror of the captain’s disfigured visage truly dawn on him. His skin had melted, and his flesh seared to form blackened ridges. They spread a sickly rotten tang. Ashen flakes covered his body, and his once lush hair had vanished completely.
A raspy breath caused Yerdan’s blood to freeze solid. Wheezing. Rattling.
He was still alive.
Captain Drebbin’s eyes stared at him without lashes. Without blinking. What once glistened with intense green had been reduced to a cloudy haze. His hand grabbed Yerdan’s bare forearm. The grip was coarse and forceful, though it lacked strength.
“Who…” His voice was barely audible and resembled the grind of gravel. “Who burned… the galleon?”