Sands of Hanubi: Book 1

Sands of Hanubi: Book 1

Jayden Woods

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jayden Woods

Cover design by Jenny Gibbons

Stock photos used:

Snake Charmer by Marcus J. Ranum

Sand Storm by mysticmorning

Python stock from http://madetobeunique.com/

*

BROKEN BALANCE SERIES

Ashes of Dearen

Sands of Hanubi

***

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Bedlam

Chapter 2 - Reunion

Chapter 3 – The Unclean

Chapter 4 - Meeting of the Gods

Chapter 5 – Voyage to Nowhere

Chapter 6 - Friends

Chapter 7 - Purification

Chapter 8 – Unwanted Assistance

Chapter 9 – Into the Desert

Chapter 10 – Prince’s Charms

Chapter 11 - Guests

Chapter 12 - Clawed Hand of Help

Chapter 13 – Treasure Trove

Chapter 14 – Poisons

Chapter 15 – Chaos Rising

Chapter 16 – Honesty

Chapter 17 – Bad Luck

Chapter 18 - Revenge

Chapter 19 - Orb

Chapter 20 - Influence

Chapter 21 – Mortal Touch

Chapter 22 – Primary Host

Chapter 23 - Death

Chapter 24 – The End of Fear

*

Prologue

Transporting water to the Star Tower of the Floating Fortress was one of the most trying and difficult duties in Norsidia, but Sayuri preferred it that way. If her labor did not exhaust her, then she made no personal sacrifice. And if she made no personal sacrifice, of what use was she to the gods?

First, she must traverse the gushing rapids of the Dreaming Stream. These were no ordinary waters; the foam that collected over the spiraling waves had a sticky, thick consistency. If one had to reach past them, as Sayuri did, the foam would cling to the skin and pull her down towards the swirling depths. Every time, the silky touch of the water nearly seduced Sayuri’s senses. If the air outside was cold, the water would be warm; on a hot summer’s day, the water would be cool. The stream had a way of massaging her skin and calming her nerves; if she had an ache somewhere else on her body, then the pain would subside. She would imagine diving into the water and letting all her concerns wash away. But she would then remind herself that if she fell into the stream’s embrace, she would never come out. Thousands of kilikees swam inside the Dreaming Stream—eels with sharp, snapping teeth and saliva that paralyzed the victim with a single bite. They would eat her up quickly if she fell in, and in doing so, add the nutrients of her flesh to the rich waters of the current.

Every day Sayuri had to gather two buckets of the precious liquid, slipping over the smooth rocks of the riverbank, resisting the seductive lure of the water. Once, she tried to devise a rope and pulley so she did not have to climb the rocks every day. But no matter what she created, it did not work; every beam and structure she attempted to erect would not stay upright amidst the shifting stands and rolling stones. So she accepted the difficulty of her task—even celebrated it—and carried it out accordingly.

The water of the Dreaming Stream, so rich with vitamins and minerals, made the buckets especially heavily. Sayuri would have to carry them across the pasture to the nests of the giant ravens. The largest of these great black birds could carry a human in flight. But they did not enjoy the task, and even if one allowed Sayuri onto its back, she could not easily control it. Only with much experience and practice did Sayuri learn to mimic the calls of the large birds, and therefore attempt to communicate. Only with extensive training could Sayuri shape the path of the ravens by using her strength against the muscles of their spine and wings. And even then, only if she was lucky could Sayuri ride smoothly up to the Floating Fortress without spilling any water through the bucket lids.

The Fortress Fortress sprawled across a slab of rock hovering hundreds of feet above the face of the earth. If the location alone was not enough security, sharp stone spikes surrounded the hub of the structure. As Sayuri jumped from the back of the giant raven, balancing the buckets on either side of her body, she must take extra care not to impale herself on a spike. And though she usually aimed for a small patch of grass she knew to be soft, she rarely got so lucky. Most days, she dropped a story or two onto hard stone. Her legs had learned how to bend and shift to absorb the landing with minimal impact. Even so, the fall hurt every single time.

Finally, she had to walk through the maze of hallways to Takashi’s chamber. Before she could enter, she had to use her Influence on the guards. The guards were instructed not to let anyone enter at all. Only her Influence could break their resolve. In this way, she proved her right to enter the chamber, for only a descendant of Takashi himself could make use of the Influence. Even so, using the Influence required a great deal of mental concentration and physical energy. She always felt drained afterward. But at last, the path would open and she could enter Takashi’s bedroom.

Sayuri carried the buckets across the shining marble floors, feeling especially weary today of all days. Perhaps she felt this weary every day; perhaps her exhaustion increased each day, never to relapse, for she could never take a break from her duty. She took pride in this aspect of her suffering—or at least she tried to.

She collapsed on the floor next to his bed, her knees aching as they pressed into stone. She let her arms rest as she set down the dragging weight of the buckets. Her hands trembled as she clasped them before her, pressing her fingertips to her forehead so that her hands covered her face. Such was the traditional salute to Takashi, the Enforcer, Lord of the gods, Prime Guardian of this world.

Her hands slipped slightly, allowing her to peek through her fingertips at the sleeping god. She wondered if he could hear her, smell her. She did not know whether he retained any consciousness in his current state. No one knew, and no one dared test it. At the very least, surely he could not see her studying him. She looked at him every day. She could not help but admire him, even in his sleeping state. It was part of her ritual worship.

Though several millenniums old, Takashi looked no older than thirty years of age. His light brown skin managed to shine with life even though he had not moved from this bed for centuries. His sleek black hair flowed down his shoulders, past his arms and hips, continuing past his feet to the floor below. The ends of his hair, like her own, faded to a silvery shade of white. He wore no clothes, only the silk blankets covering his perfect form. His strong hands folded over his stomach, the fingers threaded gently in a soft web of veins and muscles. His chest rose ever so slightly in a flowing current of breath, and if she leaned in close enough, she could feel it flutter against her skin.

Great Father, she whispered, intimidated by the reverent silence of the chamber. I have brought you water to nourish the mortal flesh.

She took the golden chalice from his bedside, opened the lid of a bucket, and filled the chalice to the brim. Then she reached forward and cradled his head in her hand. Every time she wove her fingers through his thick locks of hair, her heart beat a little bit faster. She wondered if he felt her touch against him. She wondered if he thirsted for the nutritious waters she worked so hard to bring him. She wondered if he noticed her at all.

She brought the chalice to his lips and poured the liquid into his mouth. Meticulously, she made him drink all the water, wiping every stray drop from his chin in order to brush it back over his lips. Only when both buckets sat empty was her great task complete. And she only had a few more cupfuls to go…

Sayuri.

She jumped in place, spilling the precious water over Takashi’s chin and neck. She wanted to scream with outrage. But she did not want to disturb Takashi any further than she already had. She dabbed desperately at the sparkling water on his jaw and throat, set down the chalice, and turned to the offensive guard with both fists clenched.

Sayuri. The guard bowed deeply. If he noticed her anger at this vile interruption, he did not show it. The Floating Fortress has received a special visitor.

Refusing to converse further in Takashi’s presence, Sayuri reached forward and grabbed the guard’s arm. Her strength served her well as she all but dragged the foolish soldier out of Takashi’s chamber. Only in the hallway, when the door was closed behind her, did she yell with unrestrained passion.

"How dare you interrupt me while I give Takashi sustenance!"

Forgive me. Forgive me. The guard bowed and put his hands over his face in due respect, but he did not let go of his task. I thought you would want to know. A god of turmoil has breached the walls of the fortress and wishes to speak with Takashi. Of course he may not. But I thought you might wish to speak with him, instead.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be intrigued. No other god, but especially no god of turmoil, had set foot on the Floating Fortress for as long as Sayuri could remember. Who is he?

He claims to be Friva.

"Friva? He? She scoffed. She knew that Friva had recently awoken from her own prolonged slumber, but this stretched all limits of belief. Friva has never taken the body of a man before!"

Nonetheless, she is him. That is, he is her. In any case, he commands the power of the winds. How else could he have reached us here?

Sayuri took a stiff, shallow breath. She could not deny that if Friva was really here, this guard had done the right thing by fetching her immediately. She also did not want to admit that the thought of facing Friva right now terrified her out of her mind. She had faced plenty of gods in her lifetime, but always on the ground level. Down on the world, she served as the voice of Takashi. Here in the Floating Fortress, no one else should be able to disturb her. No one should be able to get close enough to Takashi to witness his state of vulnerability. If it came to that, what could Sayuri do? This fortress was supposed to protect Takashi. Not her. So what could she do if Friva proved hostile?

She tried to convince herself that Friva, of all gods, would never act hostile. She was the god of joy and pleasure. Additionally, she was purportedly so submissive that she had slept for hundreds of years in order to placate Belazar and maintain her last shreds of happiness. Even so, she—he—was a god of turmoil and chaos. No one could predict what a Wild God would do. Such was their nature. And if Friva had awoken from centuries of slumber, how much more unpredictable might she be?

Show me to him, she said at last.

*

Drab place you’ve got here, said the visitor. You should let me spruce it up a bit.

Sayuri studied the god from afar, wary of his mere appearance. He stood by the window, letting the sunshine dance around his figure like a halo. Such placement was fitting enough; Friva was said to command the rise and fall of the sun. More ridiculous was his outfit, glittering with hundreds of tiny little gems, casting a dozen rainbows about the chamber. Indeed, his mere presence colored the room quite a bit, which consisted of nothing but smooth stone and marble.

Lord Takashi believes in strength and stability, said Sayuri. Not frivolous displays.

Friva chuckled with a chiming voice. Nothing is frivolous, my dear, if it brings someone pleasure.

He swaggered closer, giving her a better view of his face. He had round rosy cheeks that dimpled when he smiled. Bright purple curls spiraled down the sides of his soft neck. His flamboyant clothes and childlike complexion should have set her at ease. But she jolted when she noticed that his right arm, where it showed beneath his sleeves, was made of metal. Bolts and rods shifted smoothly as he twisted his fingers. Something about his eyes made her stomach turn. They swam with a variety of colors, as Friva’s usually did. They should have been beautiful and enticing like a diamond in sunshine. But they had a flatness to them, more like a muddy pool than a crystal, and his sockets were dark and sunken.

Your body doesn’t suit you, Friva. Sayuri could only pray that her voice did not tremble as she dared speak her mind. After all, true power lay in the mind of the beholden.

Friva’s smile cracked ever so slightly, but then he pushed it back up and flashed his bright white teeth. Oh it suits me just fine. In fact I think it’s my favorite body yet.

You like being a man?

Perhaps that’s part of it. But I especially like the way this man thinks. He reached up with a metal finger and tapped his temple. As the fake limb moved, Sayuri saw further up the sleeve. She saw that flesh and muscle wove seamlessly with the metal rods of his arm. It might have been beautiful, if it wasn’t so disturbing. You see, I needed a mind like his to give me…inspiration. Which is why I will no longer answer to the name of Friva. You will henceforth call me Picard.

Picard? Sayuri scoffed. You can’t just…change your name!

Why not?

Because… you’re a god! And all gods have possessed their sacred names since… the beginning of time!

It’s just a name. Picard waved it away with a flourish of his fingers. And I am tired of it.

But—

Picard grabbed her mouth with his metal hand and pushed her lips shut with his fingers. His grip pinched enough to hurt her. She tried to show no reaction, but her heart raced with fear, and her eyes watered from the pain.

I did not come here to argue with a serving girl, cute though you may be. He leaned closer, flooding her face with his tart, flowery breath. My, what interesting eyes you have! Are those the eyes of Takashi?

She could not answer, of course, only stare back at him with as much defiance as she could muster. Indeed, like Takashi, her irises were rimmed with a black ring, then filled with pure white silver from the rim to the pupil.

You must be his descendant. There can’t be very many of you, though. I hear the so-called Guardians don’t like fucking. Such a shame; I hope you’ve escaped that little character trait.

He held her a moment longer, as if to ensure her compliance, then released his vice-like grip. Sayuri’s lips throbbed as she reopened them, letting the blood rush back to the surface.

Picard smiled sweetly, then batted his lavender lashes. Where is Takashi? I’d like to speak with him.

Centuries of sleeping must have damaged your memory, hissed Sayuri. "No one speaks with Takashi. He only speaks to you. And he has nothing to say to you at present."

Funny, said Picard. You may be right about my memory. But I’ve done my best to pick up the pieces. And from what I understand, no one has seen Takashi for hundreds of years—perhaps even millennia? Much longer than I’ve been asleep, in any case. I wonder… can he even speak at all? Or does he rely on his children to do all the work for him?

Friva. Picard. Sayuri’s voice trembled with restrained rage. Are you even aware of what my Great Father can do? Because I think if you knew, you never would have wished to speak with him in the first place.

Picard kept smiling, but his lips twitched slightly, revealing his uncertainty. As I understand, Takashi once possessed a great power, so terrifying that even the gods dared not oppose him. They called him the Enforcer. But when my dear Er’Mekan was born—the Merchant—he made a bargain with Takashi, restricting his power indefinitely. Do I have that right?

You do. Sayuri had heard the full story a thousand times, and it made her heart ache every time. For the sake of granting peace and balance to Forloren, Takashi had willingly promised not to use his power. The other gods feared it so much that they wreaked constant warfare in their attempts to restrain him. Takashi and Er’Mekan joined forces to arrange a compromise. Together, they bound the other gods to a set of rules that could not be broken. All the gods agreed to this in order to restrict Takashi.

What most did not know was that as soon as Takashi lost his power, he lost his concern in all worldly affairs. He retired to his bed and said he would rest there until the world needed him again. And he had not stirred ever since.

But you didn’t answer my question, said Sayuri. Do you remember what Takashi can do?

Picard blinked helplessly back at her. He couldn’t remember at all.

"Go now, Friva. Leave the Floating Fortress and never come back."

Picard staggered in place—as did Sayuri. Using the Influence twice in one day nearly drained all her resources. Furthermore, she was unaccustomed to using it on anyone but the simple guards of Takashi’s chamber. If she had prepared more carefully, she would have prefaced her command with enough dialogue to warm him up to the idea, so it could seem his own decision. But she couldn’t spare the effort. She feared she might collapse in a heap on the floor and sleep as deeply as the Great Father himself. Only her fierce resolve gave her the strength to stay standing. Her head ached as if a spike drove straight through it. She watched Picard turn uncertainly to the window and back again.

Oh. I see. Picard’s voice was weak, his breathing strained. Even a god could not resist her power easily. But as his head cleared, he turned to her with a leer on his face, and his swimming eyes gleamed darkly. Yes, I see now. You possess the faintest shadow of his power. But only a shadow.

He advanced on her, and she nearly screamed. Her exhaustion rendered her silent. She saw him make a strange motion with his metal hand. She thought she saw a blade flash out of his wrist.

Then the doors of the chamber swept open, and in walked a guard. For the second time that day, he did not care whom or what he interrupted. But this time, Sayuri was glad.

It’s…Takashi, he gasped.

What’s wrong? cried Sayuri.

The Lord of Gods… He paused, as if unable to believe his own message. He’s awake!

*

Sayuri rushed into Takashi’s bedchamber, all semblance of order and etiquette gone. She was aware of nothing but the desire to look into the eyes of the Great Father and see him stare back at her. Her entire life, she had treated this chamber with reverence and respect even though the god lay in slumber. Now, she would ruin it all with her excitement on the only occasion he might bother to notice.

Fortunately for her, Takashi stood by the window, facing away from the entrance.

Great Father! she blurted, and fell to her knees before him. Her bones and joints ached from the impact but she didn’t even care. She lifted her hands to her forehead, trembling, wishing she didn’t have to cover her face. She wanted with all her heart to look upon the Great Father as he slowly turned around.

She was vaguely aware of Picard entering the room behind her. Wisely, he stayed near the door, afraid to venture further. Then he waited.

For a long while, no one moved or spoke. All Sayuri heard was the roar of her own breath and the beating of her pulse. After a point she couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look at him. She lowered her hands and lifted her head to the savior.

Takashi stood in a soft robe of white and black, the colors of his essence, his tawny flesh glowing in the sunlight. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, down his sloping back, and over the floor beneath him in streams that faded to silver. As he looked at her with his white eyes, Sayuri stopped breathing. She had never seen anything so magnificent as the Great Father’s gaze. And even if it stole her soul away, she did not care to look at anything else again.

"Er’Mekan gi morde," said Takashi. Er’Mekan is dead.

No! Picard lurched forward, but not enough to forget himself. My dear Merchant. He lifted his metal hand and pulled at his locks of purple hair. Belatedly, Sayuri remembered that Er’Mekan was Friva’s own child. Gods of the balance were often born of two Wild Gods, especially if they wielded opposing forces, such as Friva and Belazar.

"But how? Picard snarled, even as he yanked out a strand of his hair. We can’t die. We can’t die!"

Anything that begins can end, said Takashi, and stared at Picard pointedly.

The god of pleasure, dull as he might be, must have taken Takashi’s meaning. The blood drained from Picard’s face. A gush of wind rushed through the room. And then the god was gone.

Sayuri turned back to Takashi, her hands itching to reach for him, her body aching to embrace his. But she dared not raise her gaze again. Oh Great Father, she breathed. If Er’Mekan’s dead…does that mean…?

Yes, my daughter. He reached down and gripped her chin. Though his nails were long and sharp from years of slumber, he touched her gently, barely tickling the skin. He pushed her face up to look at him. Gods of the balance were not supposed to feel emotion. So Sayuri must have imagined the slightest smile on his face as he spoke his next words. "Gooza fereeben."

I am free.

Chapter 1

Bedlam

Captain. Your men speak of mutiny.

Gregor sighed, lifted one hand from the wheel of the ship, and reached into his jacket for his pipe. What he wouldn’t give now for a pinch of safra, Friva’s magical dust that could fill one’s mind with happiness. Instead he must make do with black gruff, a paste made somewhere in the midlands that could dull his senses and quiet his inner fears.

I appreciate your frankness, Hogan, but this is no time to speak about such things. Someone might hear you. He struggled to keep one hand on the wheel while stuffing and setting the pipe. Fortunately, his nimble fingers fulfilled the task without stumbling. Match, please.

Hogan pulled a box from his sailor’s wrap and swiped the tiny kindle. Gregor watched his first mate fondly, remembering how ridiculous he had found the sailors’ garments when he first ventured over the north seas. Pirates like Gregor often wore a hodgepodge of clothing, creating costumes out of the finest pieces of fabric they ever stole, whether the colors matched or not. But most sailors dressed simply in a long streak of cloth that draped over the shoulder, under the groin, over the other shoulder, and back around the groin to form a giant V. The remaining fabric was wrapped like a skirt round the buttocks. Gregor initially took offense at the poor fashion. But over time he had come to appreciate the economy of the outfit, as well as the visual appeal of the men showing through it.

Many such men filled the planks of the Lucky Licker now, sweating through their wraps as they labored on the oars. He watched from under the shade of his hat as muscles rippled and sweat shimmered under the golden evening sunlight. This was barely enough to distract him from the beauty of the ocean itself, rippling with languid strokes toward a horizon of purple clouds. A storm, from the looks of it, and a mean one at that. Nothing he could do to change that.

He leaned forward and sucked on the flame as Hogan held it. Once he tasted smoke, he withdrew and let out a gray sigh.

I’m sorry, Captain, but it has to be said, Hogan continued. The short but stocky fellow had away of setting his chin that made him difficult to argue with. We all see the storm up ahead. I think… He took a deep breath, mustering up more courage. "I think you have to turn Lucky Licker around. We’re done chasing gossip. We need to go back to the mainland."

Gregor coughed a little on his next breath of gruff. To the mainland! Which one, do you figure? Because every one I can think of has a reward on my head. Just my head, mind you—they don’t want the rest of me.

You’ll give them the runaround, Captain. Just like you always do.

Last time they came a little too close for comfort.

Yes, well. Hogan puffed out his chest a little further. Then it’s either the authorities or your own crew you’ll have to deal with, Cap.

Gregor felt a flicker of anger, combining somewhere in his chest with the burn of the gruff-smoke. Did his own first mate have so little faith in him? That did not bode well, indeed. Hogan, I’m not just chasing gossip. Fang Island is a perfect place to hide a bounty of treasure. I’ve picked up enough clues from Port-Hound’s crew to glean that it’s their personal depository. And who here wouldn’t dive for the chance to take Port-Hound’s treasure?

You were sure about the last place, too. And all we got from that trip was our paddles stuck in jungle-weeds.

Gregor straightened up, stretching his thin frame to the peak of its height. He wasn’t a particularly large or muscular man; he had not earned his reputation as Greedy Gregor by winning tavern brawls. He had a slender, wiry body, making agility his most admirable trait, and the women called him handsome—some of the men, too. He could usually talk his way out of a pinch, and he had gathered his crew by getting them out of trouble, as well.

Even so, he had never asked to be a captain, or even a pirate. It just sort of happened. He began as a legitimate sailor, eager to do anything for cheap fare from the shores of Dearen. He had taken a fortune with him in the form of safra, but he hid it away and hoped the price for safra would get higher the longer he could afford to wait. For years he jumped from ship to ship finding work on the crews, hoping to see the world and expand his horizons. Then one such ship got captured by pirates.

Gregor had to betray a few of his crewmates, but he got along well with the pirates, in the end. Stealing came naturally to him. He did what he could to save his friends’ lives, then became a pirate himself. A few years later he acquired a reputation as Greedy Gregor, for no matter what crew he served on, he always came out of a voyage with more coin than his mates. He made plenty of enemies amongst his fellow pirates, because he often snatched treasure out from under them. And he made plenty of enemies amongst the greater authorities, for often the money he gathered was theirs to begin with.

Eventually pirates flocked to him in the hopes of learning the trick to his trade. It didn’t seem to matter that Gregor was not a natural leader—just that he was good at stealing. He had spent most of his early life as a thief or a slave. He also disliked sharing his treasure. So the fact that mutinous tendencies besought his crew did not come as a complete surprise. The problem was that now Gregor was in his mid-thirties, he did not care for any more setbacks in life. He wanted the rest of his life to be a downhill stroll to luxury. If he lost his men now, how would he steer the Lucky Licker?

He reached out and put his hand on Hogan’s shoulder, careful to keep a grip on the wheel with the other. He leaned in close and lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. Hogan. I’m sure about this one. The treasure on Fang Island is beyond anything we’ve encountered yet. In fact, that’s why I haven’t spoke of it. I fear how greedy the men will get once I tell them what’s in store for them. There might be enough money in this venture to last us each a lifetime. And in the face of that, most men would take the goldons and vanish. Do you see my dilemma?

Hogan’s eyes were already shimmering with the vision of mountains of gold. I glean it, Captain.

You’ll keep my secret, won’t you? All I ask is that you keep my men in line. That’s your job. I will find the treasure—that’s my job. And you will reap the benefits of what I find before anyone else does. That’s my promise to you. Understand?

Hogan gave a solemn nod. I understand, Captain. Hopefully, he didn’t. Hopefully, he would blabber to the whole crew about treasure beyond their wildest dreams. That ought to keep them going for at least a little while longer.

Good. Gregor slapped Hogan soundly on the shoulder. Then take the wheel. And tell me where I might find Angelo.

Resting below, Captain. He had moon duty last night.

No, he didn’t. But thanks for saying so. Gregor leered through the stick of his pipe.

Hogan frowned as he took his captain’s place. Some of the men don’t like it, Cap.

Then they can add it to the list, said Gregor, and tipped his wide-brimmed hat.

*

The door had barely closed behind them before Gregor and Angelo tumbled into the captain’s quarters, tugging at each other’s clothes. Gregor unraveled Angelo’s wrap with a quick tug and ran his hands over the man’s chest. Angelo faced a little more difficulty with Gregor’s jacket and shirt, consisting of various straps and buttons, plus a scarf around his neck. Gregor reached up to help him so he would not lose the grip of Angelo’s lips against his own. The man tasted as sweet as sugar, or perhaps as a sweetened liquor, for Gregor could certainly get drunk by consuming him.

They fell into bed before Gregor had managed to kick off his boots. Angelo’s short blond hair sprawled across the pillows as Gregor climbed on top of him. Gregor paused to admire his lover—the crisp green eyes, the lush pink lips, the jagged throat and the slope of the neck—but could not afford to do so for long. The sensation of Angelo’s hips against his own set him on fire. He flipped Angelo over and mounted him quickly.

It was over all too soon for Gregor, and his partner shortly after. Gregor collapsed on the sheets, licking the taste of Angelo’s seed from his lips. Angelo reached over and brushed Gregor’s black hair from his sweaty face and neck. His fingers dawdled on Gregor’s chest, then walked slowly down his stomach.

Finished already? Angelo tried to stroke him, but Gregor wrenched his hand away.

By the gods! You’re insatiable.

You’re one to talk. Angelo propped himself up on one elbow. Even in the lull of the aftermath, Gregor found himself admiring the younger man. Angelo was slender, but much softer in form than the captain. Where Gregor’s thin arms bunched with muscles, Angelo’s sloped with gentle curves. It was a wonder the man had found his way onto a pirate ship at all.

They met each other in Port Fogsrow, the last place Gregor and the Lucky Licker had docked. They saw each other in a tavern and recognized an immediate attraction. After a frenzied tumble in the tavern stables, Angelo confessed that he had heard of Greedy Gregor and wanted to join his crew. He knew of a island in the Kelt Seas that harbored an item coveted by the gods themselves. Angelo refused to say what the item was, and every time Gregor asked, the fellow grew timid. As for why the gods had not bothered to take this precious item, Angelo claimed that the gods feared it, and wished to obtain it only for the sake of destroying it. But it could not harm a mortal.

"How do