To start off this post, I'd like to inform you all that I'm currently suffering from severe writer's block. Whether it's because I'm in my first year of university (which is to say, I'm always doing school work) or because COVID has kept me inside the house for the last two years to the point that all inspiration has just been drained from my body, I don't know. I went searching through some of my old Google docs and journals hoping to find some sort of cure, when I stumbled across a book I had (half) written about a year ago and completely forgot about. The plot revolves around Asmund, the son of one of the eight Pirate Kings, who is competing to take his father's throne, the King of the Fourth Sea (if you don't know already... I really like pirates). I thought the parts of the book that I had written were pretty good, so I decided to share an excerpt. (All material is copyrighted).
The wooden deck swayed beneath Asmund’s feet. Sea water sprayed the side of the massive ship, splashing the crew kneeling in the centre of the hold, pale and quivering. Circling them were fifteen pistols, extensions of the arms of fifteen of his finest men. Asmund stood at the edge of the main deck, staring down at them all. Beside the warship, Asmund’s own ship, Poseidon’s Wrath, bobbed in the water, attached by ropes and hooks.
“What’s the haul?” Asmund shouted over the crashing waves.
Bianca, his quartermaster and right-hand woman, read the log before him. It was a thick book with yellow pages and a leather cover, filled with the long-hand writing of a well-educated captain.
“It says nothing, Capt’n.”
“Nonsense. I see writing. What does it say?”
Bianca’s sweaty face darkened and with a loud huff, she blew a strand of auburn hair out of her face. “This vessel transports silk.”
Silk? Asmund’s eyes narrowed on the cowering crew below, and the men that awaited his orders. The defeated crew looked strong—fighters littered with scars and weapons. Of course, not as strong as Asmund’s own crew, but still the kind of men that impressed him. And the sheer number of them gave him the impression that they were protecting something far more valuable than silk.
“Where is your Captain?” Asmund’s voice boomed. The eyes of the men swivelled to him abruptly, and the crew cowered back slightly more, to separate themselves from one man in particular whose face had suddenly blanched.
“M—Me,” he said. His greying hair and wrinkled eyes gave away his age, and the round belly attached to him gave away his appetite and wealth. Wealth meant status, and status meant importance.
“What is your name?”
“Captain Gregory Heston… sir.” He clumsily rose to his feet, trembling so badly his knees knocked together.
“What have you aboard this ship?”
“S-Silk, sir.”
A murmur ran through Asmund’s men. Disapproval. At the same time, a murmur of rage ran through Asmund. No. Something was wrong. Why would a warship with this kind of crew be carrying shipments of silk? Why would Zaragoza Bolívar, the Third Pirate King, have a shipment of silk addressed directly to him? There had to be something he was missing. He did not go out of his way to pillage this ship for silk.
Asmund looked away. He turned to his quartermaster, practically seething at the mouth. “Search the hold, the captain’s quarters—everywhere. They’re lying. They have to be.”
“Capt’n—”
“Do as I say.”
Bianca’s huffed again, but she marched down the short staircase to the main deck below. “Split up! Half of you, guard the hostages. The other half, search the ship. Load any cargo onto the Wrath."
Asmund frowned. They’d been tracking this ship for days—one last bounty to bring to Ustrica after his success in The Emerald Sea. This was supposed to be a great victory for him and his men.
He drew his sword and jumped down onto the main deck with a hefty thump, his long coat flapping behind him. The sun bore down on his sweat-drenched shirt as he slammed his shoulder into the door of the captain’s quarters, almost knocking it off of its rusted hinges.
He stumbled inside to find an empty room, with only a bed and a desk to occupy it. Empty. No riches held there. He doubled back, following his men down into the bowels of the ship, where the crew’s quarters and stores were.
He entered down into an open level where cannons and gunpowder were kept, the light from ports shining across the blood-soaked deck. It reeked of men.
“Captain! Captain!” Beneath the deck, a commotion began among the crew. They ran towards Asmund, faces gleaming with grins and twisted sneers.
Bianca pushed through them all and smirked. It was the sneer of a wolf, showing her yellowed teeth and chapped lips. Asmund looked up at her blankly, wondering what exactly made that smile so threatening. Maybe it was the blood lust in her eyes.
Maybe it was the blood between her teeth.
“Capt’n, we’ve found something.”
“Coin? Rum? Weapons?”
No one answered him. Instead, the crowd parted and Bianca hurriedly led the way to the back of the hold. There, a small red-headed man trembled in the corner, previously hidden by a stack of crates. A coward trying to hide something.
Asmund stepped forward, sheathing his sword. “What have you got in your hands?”
The man cowered away, shrivelling further into himself. He looked as highly educated as the rest of the crew, and bore a symbol Asmund recognized—a red X on the back of his peacoat. The symbol of the Eight Pirate Kings. He was a messenger.
He must have carried a message addressed to the Third Pirate King.
What precious cargo was this?
Asmund surged forward, grabbing the man by the lapels on his coat. He yanked him upward, surprised to find him so light, and shook the man mercilessly.
A small paper scroll tumbled out of one of his pockets onto the floor. Bianca stooped to pick it up, and Asmund dropped the man in a heap.
This was a messenger ship—meant for more than just silk.
“Head back to the Wrath,” Asmund ordered. He held out his hand to Bianca, and she placed the scroll in his palm. “We’re done here.”
***
Poseidon’s Wrath had been Asmund’s ship for five years. It had been made with the strongest and most durable wood, with three separate levels, eight large cannons and twenty smaller ones. It was a fine ship, small enough to be easily maneuvered, but large enough that it carried an intimidating portion of men and instilled fear in passing merchant vessels. They’d been sailing back home to Ustrica, across the Emerald Sea, when he’d been distracted by the small warship headed towards King Zaragoza Bolívar.
Asmund leaned heavily on his hands, standing over his desk, so hunched over that his spine ached. His eyes followed the words on a piece of aged paper.
King Leon Edorlur is abdicating.
The fourth throne is vacant and needs to be filled.
Go to Chamdosa by the next full moon to vote for the new Pirate King.
Any Pirate Lord being considered for the position has been notified.
His lip curled back. His father was abdicating and didn’t even have the decency to tell him. And what Pirate Lords had been notified? He certainly had not been invited nor notified of any gathering.
He crumpled the letter in his fist. What was his father’s game here? Did he not want Asmund to succeed him? Why was he abdicating? It was rare that a Pirate King did so; they were killed in battle. His successor would be voted in by the other seven Pirate Kings (there was no such thing as hereditary inheritance anymore), chosen out of the hundreds of Pirate Lords that roamed the seas.
He was young, and he’d only recently been appointed to Pirate Lord, but he was hungry. He wanted the throne; he deserved it.
Before he could sulk about it any longer, a knock sounded at the door to his quarters. “Come in,” he called, collapsing into his seat behind his desk.
Bianca walked in. She had cleaned after the battle, her blood-stained face wiped clean to reveal the beauty beneath it. Asmund wouldn’t call her beautiful, but her face had a certain aspect of beauty to it—the way her lip puckered with a scar, her hooked nose that looked like a bird of prey’s, her sharp cheekbones, and her wolf-like green eyes that glinted with mischief. She was a small terror, but she was a damned good pirate. She’d been sailing with Asmund for over a year, and was by far the most ruthless quartermaster he’d ever had.
She smiled at him, tapping her fingers along the edge of the door. “What's the letter say?”
He leaned back, resting his hands on the chair’s armrests. “It has become aware to me that despite our numerous successes in battle, our great pillaging efforts, and our recent victory in the war against the Third Pirate King, we are not good enough to be considered for the Fourth Pirate King position.”
Her brow raised. “Your father is dead?”
“Abdicating.” Which felt significantly worse.
“And he didn’t tell you?” she asked, stepping inside. She shoved the door closed behind her, crossing the room. “What did the letter say exactly?”
“The Pirate Kings are meeting in Chamdosa to vote in the new king. Pirate Lords deemed worthy have been invited to put their name into the ballot. It appears my father did not want me to know, nor be invited.” He paused. “Why does it concern you?” “One might say I’m concerned about you. You haven’t been the same since the war ended. You seem… restless.”
He snorted. That was thanks to the fact that he was returning home to see his father and his court for the first time since he’d left. During the territory battles, the fight had consumed him. He needn’t think about anything else while he was swinging a blade to save his life. Now, the fight was over, and he felt empty. He didn’t realize how distracted he'd been with the thought of winning that as soon as he had won, all his troubles came crashing down on him in a massive tidal wave.
“I’m flattered, truly,” Asmund said, rising to his feet. “You should be with the rest of the crew. As soon as we’re done with my father, we’re sailing to Chamdosa. I am going to rule the Fourth Sea, regardless of what my father does to stop me.”
That's all, folks! I hope you liked the excerpt, and I'll let you know if this writer's block ever goes away.
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