Burke’s Privateers
Chapter 2: A man’s actions haunt his future
The ghosts of the Wellerman stalked Burke’s dreams.
Their cold boney fingers tore him from his sleep again, leaving him twisted in his sheets. Heart beating against his ribs. It was several moments before he knew himself to be in the Eyrie. Safe and away.
He rubbed his eyes with thickly calloused hands. “Something must be done.”
He stole out into the blue-silver light of a glaring moon. He sat down to watch the light shimmering on the calm waters of the bay below. On impulse, he threw a stone off the edge to watch it fall. And fall. He heard no splash and saw no ripples. It was far too high for that.
Ne’er before had the spirits of those he’d damned stalked him in the Nether. Ne’er before had he heard their whispers at the edge of his mind upon waking. Ne’er before had their anger clawed at him.
The same question tore at him every night upon waking.
Why?
It bothered him nearly as much as the deeper silence in his mind. His skywhael had spoken to him less and less as the days drew on. Between contracts, Burke had more time on his hands than he’d cared for. He’d stalk the narrow rock-cut paths of the Eyrie, hands clasped behind his back and his face a tempest. His crew stayed well clear on those days.
“Nazreal speak to me,” he murmured.
Again, nothing.
She’d become scarce the last few days, ranging further and further away from the Eyrie. Distance between them wasn’t good. Their connection would weaken and fade and she’d eventually nought return. Their Pact was a choice. No one bound a skywhael.
The partnership was a bargain. A parley between species. Lest the old days return of air guns and endless flame. Aye a parley, for the betterment of both.
“Soon may the Wellerman come…”
The shanty mocked him, nought more a joyful ditty. The tune rang hollow and dark as a funeral dirge to those he killed and those he starved.
A warm breeze jostled the palms and brought merry voices of his half-drunk crew singing other songs at least. Burke rose to his feet and made for the singing.
“Captain present,” shouted his first mate.
The men nodded and raised their mugs, and soon their voices muddled back into a bawdy song about an unlucky lord and his beautiful daughter. Burke liked that one.
He motioned for Murphy to come to him. “Call an all hands.”
“Now — most of the men are asleep?”
Burke smiled, but held his stony gaze, “It’s important.”
“The Captain calls an All Hands, says its important,” yelled Murphy, the drunken sailors stared, “Get up you lazy dogs and grab the rest of your bunk mates or we’ll see who can fly by themselves!”
“Nasreal, I need you.”
< No.>
“Then I must make you come. Don’t let me die. I have a wrong to right.”
Silence.
The crew had gathered fully as the sky greyed. Men rubbed their eyes and others swayed, one pair held an obviously sleeping friend up between them.
“Listen up! I’m going away for a little while.”
“Away?” Murphy asked.
“I’ve got a question that needs answering. Some of you know what I mean, the rest of you too dumb to figure it out can ask them. I’ll be gone a while, Murphy is in charge. I’ll send word as soon as I know our next steps.”
Burke turned to Murphy, “No attacks on merchants while I’m gone.”
“But what if he orders it?”
“None. Swear it.”
“I swear.”
“Good, now shave my head.”
Burke stood up, his long locks in a pile at his feet. He clapped his first mate on the shoulder. Pulled the surprised man in for a bear hug and grinned at him before looking toward the cliffs.
“Take care of the Eyrie.”
And then he was off, sprinting his bare feet slapping on the cold bare stone as the scant vegetation cleared to show the calm waters of the bay far, far below. Burke didn’t slow.
“Nasreal! We’ve not broken our oaths!”
No answer.
Burke leapt.
This is the second in the Burke’s Privateer Serial read the first below:
