by Joshua Turner
in Issue 126, July 2022
The first, biting gusts of winter wind howled in from the dark waters of the Inkwell Sea and nipped at the fringes of Sir Harkin Sarx’s cloak. Though the breeze smelled strongly of salt and cold, it was not enough to drive away the odor of fish and offal that permeated the docks of Blacksalt Harbor. It was times like these that Harkin regretted shaving his head.
“This is a foul place,” growled Tilia, a hood pulled tight over her auburn hair. “And not just for the stench.”
“What do you sense?” asked Harkin. He had come to rely more and more on Tilia’s ethereal intuition in the weeks since they had left Grimhold and its horrors behind. “Spirits?”
Tilia shook her head. “This place is no stranger to violent death.”
Harkin sharpened his watch on their surroundings. From what he could tell it seemed a normal morning in the glum little fishing town. Men bustled up and down the rickety piers with nets, crates, baskets, and harpoons, bakers hawked their warm and fresh loaves from the streets, and whores hung themselves from windows and doors vying to be the earliest bird. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him, but if Tilia said there was wickedness about then he believed her. For were it not for Tilia’s courage and knowledge, Sir Harkin would have been slain by the wicked phantom, known as the Harvestman, that had haunted the fields and forests of Grimhold. Even now, Harkin’s right side ached where the evil spirit had pierced him with its vicious claws.
“Look,” Tilia said, pointing towards a small shrine that stood just before the dock. It was little more than a wooden box affixed to a pole, but dozens of candles burned within, and piles of fish and chum surrounded its base. A harpoon had been tied to the pole and, by the rust on its blade, looked to have been there for quite some time. “This must be a place of worship for that fishing god we keep hearing about.”
“Indeed,” said Harkin, approaching the dilapidated altar. “It seems he is a popular deity.”
“Not the kind of affection you would expect a murderous spirit to garner.”
“Not at all. We should gather more information before we write it off entirely though. Perhaps there is a priest or devout follower nearby.”
“Fishmonger ain’t got no priests,” chaffed a ragged voice from behind them.
Harkin and Tilia turned to see a particularly salty and stooped individual standing just a bit too close to them. The man had skin like leather and a greasy tangle of graying hair held back with a strip of cloth. In his hands was a plump seabass, no doubt intended as an offering to this Fishmonger entity.
“Fishmonger, you say? That is the name of your patron deity?” asked Harkin.
The man gave a curt nod. “That it is.”
“What kind of a god is he?” asked Tilia. “Cruel or kind?”
The fisherman’s mouth twisted in consternation as he stepped forward to lay his catch at the base of the shrine. “That be the question now, don’t it? ‘Slong as I’ve fished these waters, the Fishmonger ‘as been a spirit o’ bounty. Guiding men to the fattest o’ schools and carryin’ a lantern in the foggy nights ta keep sailors off o’ the reefs.
“But now…now I ain’t so sure. These seamen washin’ ashore ain’t drowning. No, these lads all ‘ave blades crafted o’ seashell in their throats or ‘earts. Ain’t been a corsair on the Inkwell in o’er thirty years. An’ I ne’er ‘eard of anyone usin’ a blade made o’ shell…”
Tilia and Harkin exchanged a glance. “Interesting,” said Tilia. “How many bodies have come ashore?”
“One er two a week I’d say,” the seaman said, scratching his patchy beard. “Maybe a dozen all told.”
“And no one has seen the killer?” asked Harkin.
The fisherman shook his head.
“Has anyone seen ever the Fishmonger?” Tilia asked.
The fisherman nodded his head. “One man ‘as seen ‘im. Ol’ Drowned Ben saw ‘im fifteen years back. Said the Fishmonger saved ‘is life, ‘e does.”
Harkin reached into his coin purse and passed the fisherman a gold crown. “Do you know where Drowned Ben lives?”
“Sure I do, but ‘e won’t be ‘ome,” said the seaman, accepting the payment. “‘E spends most o’ his time drinkin’ an’ story swappin’ at the Roil ‘All tavern.”
“The Roil Hall,” Tilia repeated to herself. “Thank you very much, sir. Be safe on the water.”
The grizzled fisherman nodded his thanks and headed out toward the piers.
“Well,” said Harkin, setting a second coin onto the shrine. “I, for one, could use a drink. Shall we investigate this tavern?”
The Roil Hall smelled just like the rest of Blacksalt Harbor, only with the addition of stale beer and sweat. Even at this early hour, the tavern was far from empty. Night watchmen, their eyes dark and heavy with fatigue, sat silently with mugs of ale clutched in their rough hands while sailors preparing to cast off shared one final and jubilant drink amongst themselves. Lurking above it all, strung up to the rafters, dangled the bony maw of what once had been a massive shark. The jaw swayed with every slight draft, and the flickering candlelight made wicked shadows of the hundreds of serrated teeth.
“Quite the fish,” Harkin said, closing the tavern door behind him.
“That is quite the understatement,” Tilia replied. “I did not know fish grew to such sizes.”
“There be ones bigger than that out in the deeps,” said a wiry old seaman. From his bearing and stained apron, it was easy to surmise he was the owner of the establishment. “Meaner than that one too.”
“This is your catch?” Harkin asked.
“Aye.”
“Impressive. Truly.”
“Will you two be needin’ refreshment?” the tavernkeep asked. His face was hard and weather-beaten, but not unkind. “We have a local brew that we be right proud of, and a cask of something dark from up shore.”
“I will have a pint of the local brew,” answered Harkin, taking a seat at the closest table. “Thank you.”
“And for the lady?”
Tilia held up a hand. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
The tavernkeep nodded and turned to fetch Harkin his ale.
From their table, Tilia could look out a window, nothing more than a hole cut into the wooden frame of the building, and watch the waves break against the rocks and sand. There was so much power contained in those waters; so much mystery.
“Ahh, that’s right,” said Harkin once he noticed Tilia’s fascination. “You’ve never seen the ocean.”
Tilia, eyes still locked on the savage beauty of the Inkwell, slowly shook her head. “I had never traveled west of Grimhold until I left with you. Hazen, the town where I studied at the College of Ephemeral Oration, was the only other place I had ever been until now. The largest body of water I’ve ever seen was the lake Hazen was built around. A thoroughly unimpressive drop of water by comparison.”
“Such a vast world,” Harkin said, finding himself becoming enthralled by the undulations of the whitecaps. “Yet not as vast as the sea, if you believe what the sailors say.”
“It terrifies me.”
“It terrifies me, too. Strange isn’t it?”
“Why is that?”
Harkin shrugged. “Here we are hunting a ghostly murderer, something that poses a very real threat to our lives, and we are terrified by the concept of the size of the ocean. I suppose one could argue that you can fight a spirit…but there is no fighting the sea.”
Tilia managed to tear her gaze from the window and regarded Harkin thoughtfully. “You have a philosopher’s mind, Sir Harkin. I fear you may have missed your calling.”
“Knighthood and philosophy are not mutually exclusive.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Tilia, returning to watching the Inkwell’s gentle dance.
“Careful ye don’t let her bewitch ye,” warned the tavernkeep, returning with a mug brimming with golden liquid. “The sea be a temptress, aye, and nothin’ that beautiful is ever safe.”
“Wise words my friend,” said Harkin, accepting the mug. “We are looking for a man named Drowned Ben. I am told he spends a good deal of time here at the Roil Hall.”
A smile pierced the leathern face. “That would be me.”
“Oh.” Tilia’s surprise was evident. “What luck. We seek information on the Fishmonger and word is you are the local expert.”
Drowned Ben took a seat across from the two investigators. “That be true. I be the only man alive what seen the Fishmonger.”
“What was he like?” asked Tilia. “What did he do? Did he say anything?”
“No. Can’t say as he said too much, but as for he did…he saved me life. Brought me back from the brink he did.
“It were a day nigh fifteen years ago, mayhaps more. It were a day like any other; gray ‘n cold n’ windy. I had just cast out me nets not but a league up shore o’ here when it went dark as night. I mean to say it were dark as a new moon with not a star to be found. A horrible wind started howlin’ and me skiff started shakin’ somethin’ fierce. Storms creep up on ye quick like ‘round here. Afore I knew it, I were underwater.
“I sank quick as a rock, and I knew right off that this were the end. Just as the life were driftin’ out o’ me, I felt a strong tug on the back o’ me shirt. Next I knew there were a strong thump on me chest and I began ta cough up what felt like half the damn ocean. I opened me eyes and I were back ashore. Twas just me there on the sands all on me lonesome; what and the crabs scuttlin’ all about nippin’ at me with their pincers. I looked up towards the ruins of the ol’ lighthouse and that’s when I saw him. He were just standin’ there with his back ta me as he gazed out o’er the sea. He were tall and strong, with the bearin’ of a man what knows the waters better than dry land. I hailed him, but he mustn’t have heard me for the surf, and by the time I climbed me way up the rocks he were gone. Vanished.”
There was a brief silence while Harkin and Tilia absorbed the tale. It was not nearly as fantastical a story as they had expected. Nor was it particularly informative.
“You never saw his face?” asked Tilia.
“Ne’er a glimpse.”
“This ruined lighthouse, it is near here?” asked Harkin.
“Aye, not an hour’s walk north. It sits upon a rocky hill where the waters are roughest. Called the Talons for the nasty rocks what lurk just beneath the surface.”
“Perhaps we should pay the Talons a visit,” suggested Harkin, turning to Tilia as he spoke. “You may sense something there.”
“Be careful,” Ben warned them. “The rocks be treacherous and deadly sharp, and they seen a strange devilish light o’er the ruins of late. It ain’t the white light we’ve seen years afore; not the Fishmonger’s lamp. There be a devil’s lamp on our shores, deceitful and blazin’ wicked with a purple glow.”
“Yes, we need to investigate those ruins,” stated Tilia. “Thank you for telling us your story, Ben.”
“Be careful, I say. Would bode ill fer me if misfortune should befall ye on my account.” With that, Drowned Ben took his leave.
“Strange lights mean spirits; powerful spirits. We will need to be very careful.” Tilia tapped the side of Harkin’s empty mug. “How was it?”
Harkin shrugged and wiped a bit of foam from his stubble. “Fishy.”
Though it was nearing noon the air was no warmer. The sun sat shrouded behind a host of clouds and a bitter wind buffeted Harkin and Tilia from every direction. The Talons, like the grim fingers of a massive, subterranean beast, clutched the ruins of the lighthouse. Even from a distance, the jagged stones filled Tilia with unease. “That’s as cursed a hill as I’ve ever seen,” she said with confidence. “Be on guard, Sir Harkin.”
Harkin drew back his cloak lest it interfere with drawing his blade. “Do you sense something close by?”
“Many things.”
Harkin ground his teeth and took a quick look about them. He saw nothing but sand and the spindly skeletons of dormant shrubs. “Let me know if something draws near.”
Tilia stopped and lifted a small but ornately adorned iron censer from her belt. With a quick strike of flint, she lit the dried, white flower petals within the censer. Tendrils of pale smoke rose languidly from the openwork of the vessel.
“Asphodelus?” asked Harkin.
“Indeed,” Tilia replied as she rose. “Only a particularly determined spirit will approach us now.”
They continued up to the peak of the Talons, following a steep and uneven footpath that wound its way through the rocks. It was an uncomfortable climb and the stones and tangled evergreens that limited their view added to their disquiet. The thundering of the waves against the rocks was a steady companion; a reminder of who was the true master of these shores. Despite this, they reached the top without incident, and, like a breath of fresh air, a grassy plateau spread out before them. Weathered, brown stones lay strewn about and overrun by various lichens, and shards of glass, the last remnants of the lighthouse’s complex focusing lens, crunched underfoot.
“What a view,” gasped Tilia, letting her gaze follow the infinite blue of the ocean. “I see now why man and spirit alike are drawn to the sea despite the danger.”
“Best not lose ourselves in it,” said Harkin, turning his back to the sharp wind. “What do you feel?”
“Several spirits are lingering just out of the reach of the Asphodelus. They feel human. Souls lost at sea most likely.”
“Anything more…insidious?”
Tilia closed her eyes and let her sixth sense wander. Her consciousness extended beyond her corporeal form; an ephemeral hand groping the unseen. “There is a pair of stronger spirits. Their intent is shrouded, but they seem curious.”
“Curiosity can be deadly,” said Harkin grimly.
Tilia took a step towards the shattered vestiges of the lighthouse’s foundation, her hand held out before her like one feeling their way through darkness. She let the censer fall gently to the grass as the last wisps of smoke from the Asphodelus petals curled into the air. “One of them is in the ruins.”
“And the other?”
“Down by the water,” Tilia answered over her shoulder.
With careful steps, Sir Harkin moved toward the ledge where the Talons jutted out over the sea. He peered down onto the churning surf but saw nothing save foam, water, and rock. Yet something made his skin crawl. He sensed the burdensome weight of unseen eyes leering intently back at him. He was not unfamiliar with the sensation. More than once, while hunting the fens and forests surrounding his family’s manor, he had felt the eyes of a wolf or bear watching him from a distance. But this was not the stare of an animal, for Harkin could feel a roiling hatred from whatever had him in its sight. And animals cannot hate.
There was a sharp burning in Harkin’s right side. “I do not like what is down there, Tilia. It is a vile thing.”
“Your scars are hurting?” Tilia asked when she noticed the knight holding the wounds he’d received from the Harvestman. She still shuddered when she recalled the hideous spirit that had tormented the sleepy village of Grimhold for so long. “That is a bad sign.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“If the spirit’s presence is agitating your wounds, then it is most certainly malicious. Let me see your blade.”
Harkin drew his sword, an unassuming and well-worn longsword, and set it down on one of the stones. “Do you need a fire?”
“Not for this potion,” Tilia replied. She removed a small vial from her shoulder bag and poured the strange-smelling contents onto the blade. “It is a simple concoction of Asphodelus and sage extracts. Not as powerful as the one we used to slay the Harvestman, but it keeps longer.”
“This will allow my steel to harm the spirit, yes?’”
“Correct.”
Sir Harkin smiled. “Good.”
Tilia lifted the sword and examined it in the wan sunlight. “That will do. Are you ready to go below?”
“As I will ever be.”
The tide had begun to rise by the time Tilia and Harkin clambered down the Talons, and they had to wade knee-deep through frigid water to reach the hidden beach beneath the rocks.
“We should not linger here lest the tide traps us,” said Harkin, sword in his right hand and a flickering torch in his left. “We have less than an hour, I would wager.”
“Let us be quick about it then,” replied Tilia. She swung the refilled censer before her as she walked. “Be on guard. I have a bad feeling.”
The two followed the beach, delving deeper into the shadow of the Talons with each step. A sinister sensation rose in the pit of Tilia’s stomach, and she felt an oppressive weight settle onto her shoulders.
“You feel it too,” whispered Harkin between heavy breaths. “The air here burns my lungs. It is like I am breathing needles.”
“Certain spirits, particularly malevolents and shadowspawns, are known to produce foul odors,” Tilia hissed, lifting the censer higher to try and cover the increasing stench. “But this is no ordinary mephitis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I have never heard of a spirit producing a stench that makes breathing painful. We should turn back.”
Before Harkin could reply, the surf swelled and the two were up to their waists in seawater.
“Th-the water is not receding,” said Tilia, pulling herself to the small shelf of dry sand that remained. “Did something change the tide?”
“Impossible,” gasped Harkin. “What could have that kind of power?”
Tilia raised a finger and indicated a cleft in the base of the cliffside not twenty paces off. “Perhaps…that…”
Harkin followed her gesture. Standing just within the darkness of the cave, visible only by the pale purple glow of some daemonic light, was a figure.
“Is that the spirit?” asked Harkin, wincing at the sudden surge of pain in his side.
“It is the presence that I sensed, yes,” Tilia replied, holding the censer before her like a shield. “But it is no spirit. It is something more.”
The figure shambled forth from the shadows to reveal itself as a man, gaunt and gray, with seaweed clinging to his tattered and soaked clothing. In his right hand, he held the long and sharp fragment of some dead bivalve’s shell. In his left hand, clutched close to his breast, was the source of the queer light; a pearl, large and black and menacing.
“Come no closer, devil,” Harkin growled, holding his blade before him.
“Your blood.” The man croaked out his words like a frog as he lurched forward. “It needs your blood.”
Tilia coughed violently into her hands. “This man is mortal of a sort,” she said. She held out her hands revealing several specks of blood. “Look how he leaves footprints in the sand.”
“If he is mortal, then I can kill him,” said Harkin, stifling a cough of his own while he stepped forward.”.
“Caution, Harkin. Look at him. How can a man so frail move, let alone kill? Something is giving him strength. He is possessed.”
“That evil pearl?”
“Likely so,” she answered, and then to the man possessed, asked, “What is your name?”
The ragged figure grimaced and his head twitched with violent spasms as if the thought of identity were painful. “Viktor…” he growled the word from the back of his throat.
“We can help you, Viktor,” Tilia pleaded, hoping to stop the man’s advance. “We can drive out whatever has hold of you.”
Viktor just laughed; a hideous gurgle of a thing.
Seeing no other option, Harkin stood his ground and raised his sword to a high guard above his head. “Very well then. Stand back, Tilia.”
“Give me your blood,” Viktor said before he suddenly broke into a loping run and closed the distance between him and Harkin with unprecedented speed.
“Father’s Fury,” Harkin exclaimed, bringing down his blade to parry the possessed man’s thrust. He had no time to recover before his foe struck again, jabbing Harkin in the abdomen with such force as to double him over. Fortunately for the knight, the shell shattered and failed to puncture his chainmail. Harkin staggered back, winded but unwounded.
Viktor did not let up, lunging forward with what remained of his weapon to catch Harkin across the left cheek. Harkin roared and lashed out with a vicious counterstroke, opening the lad from left shoulder to right hip bone. Yet even as his decaying entrails spilled forth, Viktor pressed the attack and wrapped the cold, damp fingers of his right hand about Harkin’s throat. Harkin, unable to remove himself from the dead man’s grip, buried his sword to the hilt into his foe’s curdled flesh. It was of no avail, for whatever evil that had its hold on Viktor was making him impervious to pain. Harkin beat helplessly against the arm that was throttling him while Viktor stood still and silent, eyes ambivalent while he watched the knight struggle in his grasp. Harkin could feel his head begin to swim and saw the darkness of death creep into the periphery of his vision. Just when all consciousness was preparing to abandon him, Harkin saw Tilia step forward with her censer spinning above her head like a flail. There was a horrendous crack and suddenly Harkin could breathe again. He fell gasping to his knees, fighting to regain his senses.
“Harkin,” Tilia cried, gripping the knight beneath the arm and forcing him to his feet. “Can you breathe?”
Harkin croaked some unintelligible response.
“Good,” said Tilia. “We’ll have to swim!”
Harkin looked back at Viktor to see that he lay in the sand groaning; thick, black blood oozing from a large gash on his head. Just a hair’s breadth out of Viktor’s reach was the black pearl. The desperation with which the young man groped for the vile orb was almost pitiable, but Harkin knew what had to be done. Summoning the last of his strength, he took three bounding steps and snatched up the pearl in his left hand. Instantly he felt as if he were squeezing a handful of razors. The pain traveled up his arm and into his chest, tearing at his heart. He let out a cry and raised the pearl above his head to smash it against the cliffside, but something held him back. A little worm whispering in the back of Harkin’s mind prevented him from harming the gem.
“Drop it, Harkin,” shouted Tilia. She upended her shoulder bag to search for some herb or concoction to counter the evil that was assaulting her friend.
“I…cannot…” Harkin managed to gasp.
Tilia felt a panic begin to swell in her breast; felt her fingers go numb and her breath catch. The image of Harkin, desiccated and hollow, sustained only by the wicked energy within the orb, kept intruding on her thoughts. She slammed her fists in the sand, her fear and frustration threatening to boil over when a sudden and calming presence manifested before her. She looked up and saw the faint form of a man standing next to Harkin. The figure was tall, with dark skin well-loved by the wind and water, and his arms were lean and corded, no strangers to hard work. The apparition placed its hands on Harkin’s shoulders and instantly the knight dropped the dark sphere.
“Father have mercy,” said Harkin, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. “Thank you, Tilia. You have saved me once again.”
Tilia blinked. The spirit was gone and only she and Harkin remained. “That was not me.”
“No? You did not cast some spell or burn an herb to release me from the curse?”
Tilia shook her head. “A second spirit appeared; a kind one. He touched you and then vanished without a word.”
“The Fishmonger?”
“I believe so.”
Harkin rose to his full height and sucked in a deep breath of sharp, sea air. “My lungs no longer ache. That is a good sign.”
“And the tide has receded,” said Tilia, indicating the dark sand where water had once been. “Let us be rid of this place.”
“What of the pearl?” asked Harkin, nodding his head toward the nighted orb at his feet. “And Viktor?”
Tilia stepped to the motionless young man and held a hand beneath his nose. “He is gone.”
“A shame. I will carry him back to town. He deserves a proper burial.”
“I agree,” said Tilia, turning to examine the gem of the abyss. “As for this. It is too dangerous to simply dispose of. We should take it to the college in Stillgrave. Someone there will know what to do.”
Sir Harkin Sarx looked out to the sun setting beneath the waves. A burst of red-gold light broke through the clouds and gilded the oil-black waters of the Inkwell. “Just as well,” he said. “I have had my fill of the sea.”
©July 2022, Joshua Turner
Joshua Turner has had two previous related stories appear in Swords & Sorcery.