Chapter Text
The streets of Heller’s Strand were dark and wet that night, as they were every night. The dirt had turned to mud, and the cobblestones cupped pools of water in their potholes like misers hoarding pennies. The last candles in the windows of the houses had gone out hours ago, and with the clouds covering the sky, there was no hope of light or warmth anywhere. For a beggar huddled against the wall of the empty public house, the wind from the sea was cruel, cutting through the layers of his rags like flensing blades. The storm had left hours ago, leaving him soaked through and shivering so violently his teeth chattered like horse shoes on cobbles. He pulled his worn jacket tighter around his shoulders and stared out into the darkness.
His name was Calas Typhon, and he was young. He wasn’t from Heller’s Strand; he’d wandered into town about a month and a half ago and hadn’t yet been chased out. It was the kind of small fishing village where everyone knew everyone else, and a stranger simply wasn’t welcome. With not a penny to his name and resorting to stealing food, it wasn’t going to be long before Calas had to leave this place behind and find somewhere else to beg. At this point, he was practically welcoming it; Heller’s Strand didn’t have much hospitality to spare, and it looked like he’d run through it already.
Good riddance to this place. Good riddance to every stinking, fish-gut infested inch of it. He flinched as a fat drop of water fell from the roof, hitting him squarely in the nose. Good riddance to every fishwife that threw a brick at me, every man who threatened to call the constables… They hadn’t, thank God. Hell, he’d never even seen a constable in this town. He’d heard a little girl react with horror when she heard her father threaten him so, as though the very idea of calling the constables was a wicked one. She hadn’t had any kindness to spare from him either, though, acting only a little less horrified at seeing Calas than she had at the idea of him being tossed in a gaol or, worse yet, given a push off the creaking and rotting pier into the pitiless depths of the sea.
The next drop of freezing water hit the back of his head and slid down the back of his neck. He hissed and swore, huddling closer against the wall. He should be getting up. Keeping himself warm. But he hadn’t eaten all day, he didn’t have the strength to walk around…
Somewhere off in the distance, beyond the fog beginning to rise in the streets, Calas heard the sound of something stirring. Calas stared in the direction of the sound, trying to make out some sort of shape in the murky darkness. But the night was stubbornly dark, and Calas couldn’t see a thing. Maybe he’d just imagined it. Who would be out in a night like this? Even the rats didn’t dare poke their noses out of their hovels. No, they’d be warm and dry, snuggled up with their families, the mother rats curled around their babies and keeping them safe and dry—
Calas twitched when he heard the sound again. It was closer, and now he could make out what it was: the sound of footsteps, boots on the pavement or in the mud. It was coming from further up the street, and heading towards him.
Probably just someone making their way home after fucking another man’s wife. The walk of shame where no one could see him. The footsteps were too regular to be a drunkard. Either way, Calas didn’t want to be around when the other man found him. So he pushed himself to his feet, and, as quietly as he could, set off in the other direction down the street. There weren’t too many of those in Heller’s Strand, so it shouldn’t be too hard to avoid the man.
But he hadn’t gotten far before he heard another man’s footsteps, this time coming up the other end of the street. He was caught between two strangers, and with nowhere to run. The youth looked around desperately, but the fog was now thick enough he couldn’t see a yard in front of him. He was stumbling blind. The only mercy was that his feet, in their worn-out shoes, barely made a sound on the stone. One limping splash through a puddle, though, and he heard the footsteps of the men turn into a trot.
There was no use for secrecy now. Calas took off at a run, hoping to get past one of the men, his feet pounding on the wet cobbles. The men took off towards him at a run, their feet splashing through puddles. There was no doubt now that they were chasing him, they were after him, that they were going to catch him. What would they do with him then? They’ll drown me, I won’t let them, I won’t let the bastards get me, I won’t drown—
His foot slipped on the stone, then his other foot slipped. “ Fuck!! ” He threw out his hands to catch himself, but it wasn’t enough, he’d twisted as he fell, and he landed heavily on his side. There was no pain—there was no time for pain. He scrambled to his feet and kept running.
Then something hit him in the shins and he was falling on his face again. This time when he hit the cobbles, something heavy landed on his back, pressing its knees into his spine. He scrabbled at the stone, whimpering and swearing, trying to shove whoever it was on his back, trying to dislodge them so he could keep running, escape, breathe free—
“Got ‘im,” the man on his back said triumphantly. “Pass me the rope.”
“What if someone misses him?” the other man said. “He said grab someone that wouldn’t be missed—”
“A whoreson like this? Not a chance,” the man on his back said. He snatched Calas’s hands, tying them together with a piece of rope knotted tight around his wrists, then turned to his ankles. “Now shut him up before he wakes up the whole town.”
There was nothing Calas could do as the boot slammed into his face but lie there, in a cold and dark street, as a world that would never mourn him slept on.
***
When he came to, he was lying on wood that creaked and groaned. It was still dark, and he could hear his own breathing over the pounding in his head. There was something over his head—a sack, he thought, one that smelled like fish guts and mildew. His mouth was bound with a rag across it. He could hear the splashing of water as well, and feel it slop over the sides of the boat to hit him again. He was still freezing, though someone had thrown a blanket over him at least. His wrists and ankles were bound painfully tight. With his arms behind his back he couldn’t lift the sack from his head to see where he was or how much time had passed. The waves jostled the boat, and added to the pounding in his head to make him so nauseous that he really wished he could remove the sack, and the gag, because he was in danger of throwing up all over them.
“He still alive back there?” the first man growled.
“Yeah, he’s still twitching,” the second man said. “Think he mighta just woke up.”
The first man grunted. “Least he’s quiet. Almost there.”
Calas clenched his fists, at least as well as he could with his wrists bound so tight. He couldn’t close his hands, couldn’t make his fingers close to grab anything. Which was a pity, because Calas wasn’t so helpless as he looked. He had a knife with him, hidden in his shoe. If only he could reach it—
What would you do? he asked himself, scornfully. Cut your way free? You’re on a boat , you idiot. There’s more rope where that came from, they can always bind you up again! He struggled, trying to pull his hands apart, trying to slide them out of the ropes, but it was useless. He was well and truly bound.
One of the men kicked him hard in the ribs, and Calas winced. It took all his willpower not to throw up then and there. “Quit yer whinin’!” the second man said, his voice nasally, high-pitched. One of nature’s bullies. “Unless you wanna drown, you’re goin’ nowhere!”
“Don’t give him ideas, fishbrains,” the first man hissed. “Where he’s goin’, he might prefer that.”
Calas jerked in his bonds. Where he was going? Where was he going? What were they going to do with him? Where were they taking him?
But they didn’t say anything else, not that he could hear. They muttered to each other on the other end of the boat, but Calas overheard none of it distinctly enough to understand for the rest of the voyage. The boat continued to tilt back and forth, making his seasickness worse. He had to grit his teeth to keep his stomach still. At least he’d have nothing to lose if he threw up. That was a comfort at least. But there was no way he could turn the waves into a comfort. They were freezing cold, smashing against the side of the boat and pouring over so that he was soaked and shivering before long. Calas struggled to find something to concentrate on other than the physical discomfort or the anxiety of his mysterious destination, the fate that his captors believed was worse than death. Worse than drowning.
Calas had lived his whole life by the sea. But there was nothing that terrified him more than the water. The depths. The cold hands that stole your breath away, stole your life away, stole everything from you, all you’d ever had. There was no fate he dreaded more than to die with water in his lungs, no grave more feared than a watery one. He would do anything to avoid being drowned. Whatever fate they take me to…it has to be better than that one.
It has to be better than joining her.
After what seemed like too long and not nearly long enough, the boat bumped the edge of a dock. The wood creaked and groaned as the men got to their feet, mooring the boat, before turning to Calas. They grabbed him by his armpits and hauled him out. Waves crashed on the shore. Calas still had no idea where they were, but now they were climbing up a hill, the very tips of his toes brushing against stairs. His mind raced, trying to remember the geography of the area. There were cliffs and hills around Heller’s Strand, but there were also scattered islands. Was that where they had taken him? A lonely island, surrounded by water? Someplace quiet to murder him where his body would never be found. Calas struggled weakly in their arms, but they did not react beyond tightening their grip.
Then they were at the top of the hill, the wind blowing across it and threatening to snatch the sack from Calas’s head. One of the men reached over and tightened the string around the opening of the sack so that it was tighter against Calas’s neck, knotting the ends so that it couldn’t come off. Calas shivered violently as the freezing air got straight to his skin through the already sodden rags of his clothes. His teeth chattered as his captors kept dragging him along.
Gradually, Calas became aware that there was a shadow overhead. It had been hard to detect; so far as he could tell, it was overcast, but what little light had been getting through the rough weave of the sack was going dark. Not enough to make him think there was no light; but enough to make him realize that there was something blocking out the sun. That something turned out to be a building. The men opened a pair of doors and dragged him in, slamming the creaking doors behind them. At once, it was darker, but the flensing wind was gone, reduced to a dull howling against the outer walls. Already Calas felt warmer. But the men did not stop to set him down, or take the sack off of his head. They kept up the same brisk pace they had since leaving the boat, taking him down halls, through stairs, and finally down stone steps. The sound of the wind was gone at last, replaced by the growing sound of waves in the distance. Then, even that faded. The footsteps against the stone were accompanied by faint splashes as the men opened yet another door and dragged him into a space that felt much wider and more open than the previous ones had felt. The splashes were louder now as they stamped through deeper puddles, stopping to steer around objects that bumped and scraped Calas’s dangling legs.
“Bring it up here,” a new voice said, deep and cold, colder than the wind or the sea or the freezing night. A new shiver went down Calas’s spine, and this time he didn’t just yank his arms, but thrashed. He didn’t know whose voice that was, but he did know he didn’t want any part of it, not at all. He didn’t want to meet this new man. He didn’t want to see his face. He wanted to leave, be far away from here, far away from this cold place that awakened old nightmares. Because he knew, just by hearing those words, that whoever this man was, he could drown those old nightmares with new and terrifying ones.
“Yes, m’lord,” one of the men holding onto Calas’s arms said, his voice hushed and reverent. Their grips tightened on his struggling form and they dragged him forward. Their boots splashed through puddles, across damp stone and finally up a set of creaking wooden stairs. Thump, thump , Calas’s toes hit the stairs. He still tried to struggle. If his toes could reach the stairs, then his feet could, he could stand on his feet and shove the men out of the way, make a run for it, get this damn sack off his head…
One of the men, tired of their struggling captive, growled. Something sharp was suddenly pressed against Calas’s ribs, pricking through his shirt. “Stop that,” he snarled. “You’re goin’ nowhere.”
Calas went still. He wanted to be free; he didn’t want to die. The man put his knife away and he and his companion carried him the rest of the way up the stairs. They carried him across a wooden platform, then finally dropped him. Calas stumbled, but he kept his feet—for a second or two, anyway. Then someone swept his legs out from under him and he fell to the planks with a thud , not even able to throw out his arms to stop him from falling on his face. They grabbed the top of the sack over his head and yanked him to his knees. Then, with a second spent struggling to undo the knot, they ripped the sack off of his head and stepped back.
He was sitting on a wooden gantry a good ten or twenty feet up in the air in a high, dark chamber carved out of the rock of wherever they were. The room was dank, with moisture on every surface, dripping from the ceiling, glistening from the walls. The room smelled like the sea, and like dead fish, rotting seaweed at low tide, like mildew, rust, and rot, and like misery, everywhere like misery. What little light there was in the room came from stinking tallow candles and from delicate glass lamps that burned with golden whale oil. A wooden railing around the edge of the platform prevented anyone from falling off, but Calas’s eyes flickered to a gap in the railing that looked out over the center of the room.
But his eyes didn’t linger there for long, being far too distracted with the man in front of him, the one with the icy voice. He was tall, dressed in finely-made, tailored clothes that were perhaps a little out of fashion, but not badly so. The look on his face was narrow-eyed, contemptuous, like Calas was just an exhausted beast, and he was the master trying to figure out how to beat another day of work out of it. He waved at the men who had brought Calas in. “That will be all.”
“Yes, m’lord,” they mumbled, and they stumbled out of the room.
Once the door closed, the man they called “lord” smiled. He looked Calas over, then nodded. “You’ll do.” Then he grabbed Calas by his hair and hauled him to his feet. He was much, much taller than Calas, who didn’t even come up to his armpit. He pushed Calas to the edge of the platform, where it looked out over the center of the room. The youth looked down to the floor and felt his stomach fall out.
Below him, set into the floor below, was a well of water, ten feet across. The water inside the well was dark . The lights in the room did nothing to illuminate its depths, turning it into a black, empty pit. Calas’s captor released his hair and Calas stumbled, trying to keep his balance. He didn’t know why he was up here, but he knew what was going to happen next. He took deep breaths. Useless. He wouldn’t be able to keep them for long, but it was all he could to to stay calm.
A foot struck him in the small of the back and the room gave a violent jerk. He was falling, the room spinning as he fell—
The ice-cold water knocked the breath out of his body and locked his muscles in an instant. Calas opened his mouth to scream, to gasp, to do something , but the water poured in, ignoring the gag, into his mouth, his throat, his lungs—
Free, get free. He struggled to get his hands free, his legs free, anything, to save himself, as he sank, deeper and deeper into the water. The light was gone, the room was gone, the entire world was black, swirling, choking, drowning —
He hit the bottom, some sort of soft and slimy sediment, and thrashed against his bonds, but the ropes securing his limbs held tight. If he could only bend backwards, grab his hidden knife, he could free himself, he could escape, swim to the surface, pull himself out of the well—
Something moved past him. A current in the still water battered his face and he looked around wildly, uselessly. There was something else in here. In the dark with him. And he could not see it.
It moved again, this time behind him. Something clinked in the water, like the links of a chain moving around. Suddenly, drowning no longer seemed like the only terrifying option here. Calas leaned over backwards, his spine arching, his fingers twitching, trying to reach his legs. Not enough, not far enough. He bent over further, his spine contorting into a painful arc, his fingers jerking at the hem of his trousers, desperately trying to lift it far enough to grasp his shoe—
At last, he felt the hard wooden surface of his knife’s handle. With a couple more jerks of his fingers, he had the knife loose. He wrapped forefinger and middle finger around the handle and pulled on it—
And it slipped from his fingers.
No!!
The water swirled again. Whatever it was was closer, close enough to touch, and the only thing he had to defend himself was the knife, the knife he’d just dropped in the mud. His head was pounding, and the well seemed to be getting darker and darker. He laid out flat on the floor, shuffling, trying to find the knife, where was the knife, it was somewhere around here, please, God, please let him find it, find it before he drowned, before he was torn apart by whatever lived here—
Then something grabbed him, pulled him upright. A solid mass pressed against the front of his body, holding him tight. A hand, or something like it, wrapped around him, holding him by the small of the back with a grip like a vice, crushing his body against the thing in the water. Another arm reached around him, sifting through the silt between Calas’s bound legs. Then there was pressure against Calas’s bonds, and something was sawing at them, cutting the ropes from his wrists, from his ankles. With his limbs free, Calas gave a violent jerk, trying to get away from the thing that was holding him. It was surprisingly easy, ripping his torso out of its grip, kicking down at the floor to push himself upwards. Calas swam for the light on the surface with a fervor he’d never felt before, not even when—no, not even then. The world got brighter, but not fast enough, his ears popped—
And he was on the surface, gasping for breath against the sodden rag that sucked into his mouth. He clawed it away with one hand, the other hand groping for the rim of stone around the edge of the well. His throat and lungs burned as air, fresh air, poured into his lungs. He was free, he was free! His hands pawing at the walls found a thick chain, the kind used on ships, set into the stone. He clutched it like a lifeline, leaning against the wall and coughing out the water in his lungs.
Then a shadow blotted out the light and he looked up into the eyes of his captor. The expression on the bastard’s face was inscrutable, his dark eyes narrowed and unreadable. “So you can swim,” he said at last, his voice soft, almost silky. Then he grabbed Calas by the back of his wet hair and hauled him out of the well, over the lip of stone and onto the floor. Calas was too exhausted to move. He lay on the floor like a dead fish, limp, only able to pant for breath. His captor nudged Calas’s chin with the toe of his boot. “You are very lucky, ” he said. “It just so happens I have a job for you, boy .”
Calas swallowed back a retort, the vitriol he so desperately wanted to throw in this bastard’s face. “Sir?”
Necare’s boot moved, putting pressure on his jaw, forcing his face back down into the wet floor. His breath made ripples in a puddle, and the merest suggestion of the fate he’d almost suffered just seconds ago made him shudder. “ My lord, ” Necare hissed. “Is my proper address, cur . As for you, I need this room cleaned.” He moved his foot away at last. “There’s a mop and a bucket in the corner. I want this room cleaned and organized. Get to work.”
Calas forced himself to his feet, his face burning with shame. But he was alive, and that was more important than pride, always. He went to the corner where the bucket and mop lay, his body still trembling, his heart still beating a furious tattoo in his ear.
He needed a moment to rest, to recuperate from his ordeal. Just leaning against the wall for a second would do. But he knew his captor wouldn’t let him rest, not for a moment. So he turned to look at his captor, to make sure he wasn’t watching.
He wasn’t. He was gazing, raptly, into the dark water in the well.
“Don’t look at me like that,” his captor hissed. “I gave you supper, you didn’t want it.”
***
At first glance, the chamber was a mess. But after closer examination, the chamber was organized, each area distinct with its own purpose. Each of those areas was its own mess.
There was a storage area, stacked high with crates and barrels, their painted labels unreadable with age. Broken bottles, bones, old rags, burnt-down candle-ends, sacks that had decayed to uselessness, rusted nails, and bits of chain filled them, spilling out onto the floor. These were the things that had hit Calas’s legs while he was being carried to the gantry, which was covered in muddy water, algae, and more mildew, and filled almost half of the room. Across the room, on the other side of the well, sat a small study area, marked out with a large rug, made dark with stains. Bookshelves lined the walls of the study space, which was occupied mainly by a large desk with a comfortable-looking chair in it, from which his lordship watched Calas work. The desk was covered in detritus, papers and books, bottles of ink and pens, discarded glasses and plates with half-finished, long-forgotten meals.
The worst area by far was the space beneath the wooden gantry. That space had been set up for…something else. A long table sat in the center of it, with chains embedded in the wood—thick, like the one in the well. Calas couldn’t help but notice the spacing and arrangement of them: perfect for chaining down a man’s neck, wrists, and a large one for his ankles. The table was covered in dark stains, but unlike the stains on the rugs and the gantry, Calas knew these were blood. The surface of the table was scored with scratches, some long, some short, some terribly crooked, some horrible straight and even. Shelves nearby held evil-looking bottles full of dark concoctions. This space was, by far, the best lit, with expensive oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Calas felt his flesh crawl while he mopped up in that space. Something terrible happened here. Something his captor had wanted to see in every minute detail. And he wished very much not to be the next victim.
He wasn’t finished by the time his captor got up, but he was exhausted. “Follow me,” the man said. Calas said nothing, only put the bucket and the mop away and followed him. He was almost falling asleep as he walked, cold, wet, starving, his head still aching, his lungs still twinging, his throat still raw. But he followed his captor up the stairs, past a cellar lined with bricks, and into the house above, which he now saw was small, but luxurious. It was even warm, stoves and fireplaces lit, fine wax candles and lamps to light the rooms. They didn’t do much, though—the decor was all dark. Dark wallpaper and dark rugs, black couches and cushions and walnut furniture. It was the kind of house that could never be bright and welcoming, but all Calas cared about was how warm it was.
They were heading to the front door, and Calas braced himself for the cold he knew he would encounter outside. His captor stopped at the door, waited for him to catch up, then grabbed the back of the collar of his shirt. “I want to show you something,” he said softly. Then he opened the door and the frigid wind poured in.
It was late afternoon, the sky dark and stormy, and the wind was blowing fiercely. His captor kept walking forward, dragging Calas along with him. Calas hugged himself tight, his teeth chattering in the cold, as the mysterious man who had ordered his kidnapping dragged him across the stone and windblown grass. He walked calmly, confidently, like he didn’t feel the cold, rot his hide . He gazed out across the horizon as if completely unaware of Calas’s presence.
There was nothing out here—nothing at all. Calas looked around, and the only buildings he could see were the house, some worn sheds and outbuildings, and a tower. No—not a tower. A lighthouse, though there was no light in its lantern room. Calas shuddered. The house at its base had clearly once been a small one—part of it looked as old as the lighthouse itself, built from the same grey stone. But the rest of the house appeared to have been built later, from a darker, almost black stone. The windows were larger on the addition, though most of them had been covered in sturdy wooden shutters.
Calas didn’t know the area very well, didn’t know much about the geography around Heller’s Strand at all, but he knew about the lighthouse.
He looked up at his captor to find he was looking at him, waiting. He saw the look on Calas’s face and his face broke into an evil smirk. “Welcome to the Scarred Isle, boy, ” he said.
Calas swallowed. The Scarred Isle. It was said to be haunted, the lighthouse there abandoned after one too many reports of the light here going out when it was needed most. It had been replaced by others, left behind and forgotten. Ghosts didn’t frighten Calas; not lighthouse ghosts or the ghosts of the shipwrecked sailors who had perished on the reefs beyond. It wasn’t the supernatural that scared him now.
He looked out across the water where, in the far, far distance, he could just barely see the smudge of land. Heller’s Strand.
There was no way off this island…but his captor’s way.
His captor laughed.