The Wreckage

Rowan Vale woke to the sound of the waves crashing in his ears and the taste of blood and salt in his mouth. Every inch of his body ached. Every muscle tense despite his overwhelming exhaustion. He felt the water sweep over his feet, up his legs, embrace his back, and nearly smother him as it reached his chin and mouth. He sputtered, coughed once, twice, and pulled his hands underneath him to lift his torso from the sand. His fingers sank within the soft silt, the waves pulling, sucking, trying to draw him back under. Yet still he lifted himself up onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

The world around him swayed. He clenched his fists and instinctively slid his feet further apart as he would to ride out the roughest swells aboard his ship.

But he was not on the deck of his ship.

Nor was he on the sea.

The dizziness he felt was his body catching up to being on dry land.

Rowan closed his eyes briefly, found his center of balance, and pushed the nausea away. Opening his eyes he looked at the scene before him. White sand the color of bone edged with black silt greeted him. It stretched long and wide before ending in jagged rocks as sharp as teeth, bordered by tufts of deep green grass that fed into the blackened trunks of an ancient forest.

He turned his head and saw the bones of the Black Dawn washed ashore. Ragged splinters of aged oak beams and metal straps interspersed around mounds of flesh that could only be what remained of his crew. The tide pulled at the shattered planks and frayed ropes of the main rigging. Barrels and crates bobbed in the shallows, half-buried in the sand. Bodies lay among them. Some stirred, while others lay still.

He remembered the storm that came seemingly out of nowhere. The ocean was calm, even peaceful. And in a heartbeat the sky had turned black, and the sea had risen to claim them. He remembered how the wind howled through the sails, how the waves, relentless and primal, had swallowed them whole.

He remembered the moment their hull struck upon the reef, the Black Dawn’s spine impaled on a bony spire. He could still hear the sickening crunch of wood splitting apart as the barrier tore into the keel. He remembered the silence as the waves receded. Split seconds before the next volley of water struck the hull. He remembered the screams of his men as the sturdy oak exploded with the assault and the sea rose as a mighty wall that blocked the sky. And then…darkness.

Now, there was only the rhythmic pulse of the waves upon the shore.

Rowan ran a tongue over his teeth to clear them of grit. He coughed, then spit what little saliva he had mixed with blood onto the sand at his feet. He ran a hand through his salt and sand stiffened hair. His head throbbed from fatigue and dehydration, but he also knew there was no time for weakness.

"Up!" he barked, his voice rough from seawater and exhaustion. "On your feet, damn you!"

The nearest survivor stirred. As the man rolled over, he recognized Corwin, his first mate, coughing up seawater as he sat up. A few others groaned, dragging themselves from the sand like corpses rising from the grave. Not nearly enough of them.

Rowan's gaze swept the beach, searching for movement. For life. Ten feet away another of his men stirred, finding his feet and rising.

"Scavenge the wreckage," he ordered, sweeping his arm in an arc. "Anything we can use. Wood, rope, weapons. And find the others. If they're breathing, pull them up. If not—" He didn’t finish the sentence, but they all knew what he meant.

Corwin staggered to his feet, wiping blood from a gash along his brow. "Aye, Captain." He turned to the others, voice sharp. "You heard him! Move!"

The men obeyed, some limping, some barely standing, but not one of them hesitated. Rowan knew they needed the task as much as the supplies. It prevented them from thinking too long about the storm, the battle with the sea, and the ones who hadn’t made it.

He paced the shore, turned over bodies, helped some to stand, and stared into too many lifeless eyes. He helped wrench barrels out of the surf, tossed sodden food, casks of water, bladders of ale, and rigging they could fashion into nets, lash together skids for hauling, and dead wood they could use as spears.

The activity was useful. It gave his men a task, to feel alive. To forget. Yet despite their endeavors, Rowan couldn’t help but keep an eye on the sun while also searching the edge of the trees for movement.

Rowan exhaled, rolled his shoulders from the exertion and felt the weight pressing down on him. He stared at the border of the trees. It was too still. The only sound he heard was of the waves lapping at the shore behind him. No birds called. No animals rustled within the foliage of the trees. No breeze stirred the leaves nor cooled their skin. Yet Rowan couldn’t shake the feeling that the jungle before them was alive. And that something was looking back.

This place felt like something far worse than anything he had encountered. And if his suspicions were correct, if they were where he believed them to be, then he envied the men the sea had claimed.

Rowan walked the length of the shoreline, his boots sinking into the wet sand with each step. The tide whispered as it pulled at the wreckage, carrying away what little remained of their ship. His men moved in the periphery, scavenging wood, barrels, and whatever else the sea had not claimed. Their voices called across the sand as they worked as a team to gather what remained. He counted them as he walked. Fifty, including himself and Corwin. Less than half of his men.

The ones who hadn’t made it were strewn across the shore, their bodies pale and still. Some lay half-buried in the sand, while others were caught in the tide’s slow embrace. Rowan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look at those that survived. He assessed each man’s abilities, the assets they would provide.

The sun was getting lower. And if his suspicions were correct on where they were, he knew they wouldn’t survive nightfall here on the beach.

Before the storm they had been dangerously close to the Demon Isles. The haunted stretch of land that sailors spoke about in dimly lit taverns over water-downed ale in questionable villages. They shouldn’t have even been near the blasted place! He seethed at the memory of the fleet they were running from. The last job they had taken had pushed them into unfamiliar territory. Yet the profits had been worth the risk.

Now, he questioned his reasoning.

He turned his attention to the horizon, trying to place their location. Before the storm had swallowed them, he’d studied his charts. They had been close yet far enough away they shouldn’t have run into any problems. He had hoped the storm would have pushed them past it. He had prayed for it as the waves tossed them around like playthings.

But now, standing on this cursed shore, his gut told him the truth.

They hadn’t passed it. They were here. Delivered by the sea herself.

The stories surfaced in his mind, unbidden. Tales of ancient things that lurked beneath the jungle’s canopy. Beasts with eyes the shade of dying embers and teeth like sharpened stone. And worse, the creatures who walked as men but weren’t. They were called many names. Some stories called them blood-drinkers. Others, bone-eaters. Natives who painted their skin in the blood of their victims.

A chill crept along his spine, though the air was thick and humid.

He pushed the thoughts aside and focused on what mattered here and now. He needed to get his men off of this beach and in a secure location before nightfall. The open shoreline left them exposed, too vulnerable to whatever called this island home.

Rowan scanned the terrain, searching for higher ground. The jungle loomed at the edge of the sand, an impenetrable mass of tangled vines and ancient trees. He spotted a rise in the land a short distance away, a rocky outcrop that jutted up from the earth like a broken fang. It overlooked both the shore and the tree line. It was a natural vantage point.

It would have to do.

Rowan turned back to his men. "We move inland before sundown," he called. "Up there." He pointed toward the outcrop. "Gather what you can carry. We need shelter and a defensible position. No one strays from the group. Understood?"

A few men exchanged uneasy glances, but all nodded in acquiescence. They had heard the same stories. Rowan suspected they knew where they were.

As Corwin barked orders, Rowan took one last look at the jungle.

It was waiting for them. He could feel it.

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in defiance, before turning to help his men.