Island of the dead, p.1
Island of the Dead, page 1
ISLAND OF THE DEAD
BRIAN KEENE
APEX BOOK COMPANY | LEXINGTON, KY
Copyright © 2024 by Brian Keene
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (softcover) 978-1-955765-23-7
ISBN (ePub) 978-1-955765-27-5
ISBN (Kindle) 978-1-955765-31-2
Cover art by John Walters
Cover jacket design by Mikio Murikami
Visit us at www.apexboocompany.com.
First edition: 2024
This one is for Maurice Broaddus
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Brian Keene
ONE
The galley’s lower deck stank of sweat, salt, vomit, and desperation. Einar tried to breathe through his mouth as much as possible, but it did little good. The stench permeated the dank, shadowed space. The series of small, round portholes spaced evenly apart along the length of the interior did little to alleviate things, as the ocean outside was currently windless.
Einar sat on a stained bench next to one of those outlets, gripping the rough wooden shaft of an oar in his hands. All around him were other men, each in the same predicament. They were all shackled together at the ankles, and the heavy iron chains rattled and clanked as the ship gently rolled from side to side. Einar’s stomach rolled, as well. It was not his first time onboard a seafaring vessel, but it was his first time as a slave. Regardless, whether as a privateer or as a prisoner, he doubted that he would ever grow accustomed to the feel of a ship swaying beneath him. Luckily, the meager helpings of stale bread, salt pork, and water he’d subsisted on the last few weeks stayed down. Many of the other slaves had spewed their rations onto their feet.
They rowed in unison, and there was very little talking. Part of this was because of the different nationalities and language barriers of his fellow slaves. Another reason was the soldiers walking back and forth amidst their ranks, calling out cadence for the oars, and watching over their every move. But mostly, it was because they were all too exhausted from their efforts to muster casual conversation. One man had tried, early in the voyage—running through a seemingly endless supply of crude jokes and bawdy tales. The guards had let him prattle on. Einar wasn’t sure if that was because they’d enjoyed his humor or if they had viewed it as a subtle form of torture for their prisoners. The comedian had died on the fourth day of the voyage, slumping over where he sat, mouth open, eyes glazed. He’d died in mid-jest, never delivering the punchline to the joke he’d been telling. Two soldiers had unchained his corpse, dragged him onto the upper deck, and unceremoniously tossed his corpse over the side. Einar had seen it plummet past his porthole. He’d been too tired to muster any interest in the affair.
“Stay in sync,” a soldier yelled. “You get out of sync and we’ll turn to one side! Listen to the call.”
Many of the slaves groaned in response, but no one spoke.
Einar scowled. He’d fought and fucked his way across the continent—at times a thief, a mercenary, a pirate, and a bodyguard. He’d baked in sweltering deserts, crossed insect-infested plains, blazed paths through unnavigable jungles, braved dark forests, and climbed to the tops of mountains where the air was so thin it was nearly impossible to breathe. He’d battled in cities, small towns, and wilderness. He’d lost track of the times he’d been injured and had to count the scars on his body to remind himself. Pain and exhaustion were with him always. He woke up in pain and went to sleep in pain. But he’d never been pushed as far as he was now. After days of constant rowing, his back and shoulders burned, and his muscles felt rubbery. His legs and lower back were seized by constant cramps from the lack of movement. His palms, once rough and thick with calluses, were now blistered and bleeding.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself through the pain—raising, pushing, lowering, and pulling the oar in union with the others along the bench in his row. Lighter chains were affixed to their wrists, and they clanked with each movement—a chorus of despair, reminding each man that escape was impossible.
Respite was brief and came in three forms. They were fed twice a day, in shifts. Some rowed while others ate. They slept in shifts, as well, although the slumber was fitful and unrestful, given that they did so sitting up and shackled. The only time their chains were removed was when they needed to shit or piss. Then, two of the soldiers would free them, using a key each guard kept on their person, which they stored in pouches on their belts. The prisoner was walked aft under guard to an area near the stern where two rough holes had been cut into the deck. They squatted over these holes and did their business. Then they were returned to bondage. The stench wafting from that area was curdling. The wooden slats around the holes were stained with shit and piss, and flies crawled over them. Those same flies then crawled over the slaves. It was a foul, revolting process.
But it was one that Einar planned to use to free himself.
Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the oar shaft harder, ignoring the stinging in his raw palms, and watched the guards closely. There were eight of them standing watch, with one more calling cadence. Nine in total. Each was lightly armored and armed with short swords. He would need to strike quickly—a considerable feat given his current physical condition—and then fight his way topside. After that, he’d have to survive being adrift in the ocean, with no food or water or means of flotation. A timid man or a cautious man might have called such a plan foolish or a recipe for certain death, but Einar was neither of those things, and he had survived against far longer odds in his time.
He drew a breath and was about to call out to the nearest guard when the man across the bench from him spoke in a language Einar was unfamiliar with. The man paused, waiting for a response. Einar shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand.
The man tried again.
Einar narrowed his eyes. “What did you say?”
The man kept rowing but leaned forward. He was older than Einar by perhaps fifteen or twenty years. His wiry beard and mustache and the curly locks atop his head were a mix of white and black. His tunic and trousers were finer than those usually worn by a laborer or a commoner, but both had clearly seen better days. He was barefoot, and Einar noticed white bands of skin around his toes and fingers, indicating that they had been adorned with rings until recently.
He repeated himself, but this time in Einar’s native tongue. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re planning an escape.”
Einar glanced furtively at the guards, but they gave no indication that they had overheard the conversation. They continued to stride back and forth, calling out cadence with bored expressions.
Chuckling, the man switched to the more common tongue. “Judging by your expression, I’m not wrong.”
“Keep your voice down,” Einar murmured. “And how is it you know my language?”
“I make it my business to know many languages. People are more inclined to buy your wares if you can first put them at ease and build a rapport with them.”
“You’re a merchant.” Einar grunted. “I should have known that. Your belly is fatter than the rest of this lot.”
“Not for long,” wheezed a small, skinny man shackled next to Einar. “A few more days of this and he’ll be as scrawny as me.”
One of the soldiers glanced in their direction and all three men fell silent. Einar turned toward the window and spotted two more identical craft rowing alongside their vessel. He wondered just how many vessels were in the fleet. When the guard’s attention became focused elsewhere, he stared forward again.
“My name is Chuy,” the merchant said. “I would offer to shake your hand as is the custom of my people, but I am afraid that I can’t right now.”
“I am called Einar.”
“I’m Rasto,” the skinny man said, “but my friends call me Rat.”
Both men ignored him.
“You are from the north,” Chuy observed. “The barbarian tribes.”
“You knew my language but not much else.” Einar scowled. “Others call us barbarians. We do not.”
“I meant no offense, of course. My point was that you’re a long way from home. How did you end up here?”
“A tavern brawl. I got knocked out and woke up in jail.”
“A big man like you?”
“It was eleven against one. Several people were killed.”
“By your hand?” Chuy asked.
“Yes. But the magistrate decreed it was in self-defense.”
“If it was self-defense, then why are you here?”
“There was a lot of property damage,” Einar explained. “More than I could afford to pay for. I may have also broken the tavern-keeper’s nose. The details are murky. I’d had quite a lot to drink.”
Chuy and Rat both laughed. Attracted by the sound, a soldier hurried over to their row.
“No talking,” he yelled. “If you bastards want to eat again and avoid the lash, you’ll keep your mouths
He stood there and glowered at them. Chuy stared straight ahead, his expression serene. Rat glanced down at the deck and twitched. Einar turned his attention back to the porthole. He noticed that the horizon had now turned black as if a wall of darkness were crawling across the ocean. A cool breeze billowed through the opening, strong enough to tousle his long, unwashed hair. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of it on his face and forehead. Someone several rows aft began to cough violently, and the guard moved on.
“It seems the magistrate assigned us both to the same fate,” Chuy whispered. “Conscripted and indentured to the military. Rowing their soldiers and equipment off to war.”
“We’re not indentured,” Einar grumbled. “We’re slaves.”
“Not me,” Rat replied. “They said if I do a good job, I can go free afterward.”
“Keep your voice down,” Einar warned. “So, if you do their bidding, they’ll grant you freedom? That sounds like slavery to me.”
“Perhaps.” Rat shrugged. “It’s better than the gallows, though.”
“Forget the gallows. They can kill you at any time between here and there. And even if you do regain your freedom, it will be on a foreign shore as part of an invading army with an entire country full of people who also want to kill you. The gallows seem preferable to all that. Quicker, at least.”
Rat paled and grew silent.
Einar nodded at Chuy. “What about you? What crime landed you here?”
“No tavern brawl for me, I’m afraid. I ran afoul of a nobleman.”
“Selling junk wares?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Chuy protested. “My wares are top quality and priced fairly. No… he caught me in bed with both of his wives. Rather than kill me, he trumped up a series of false charges. He was a powerful, connected man.”
“You should have just killed him.”
“I’m not a fighting man. I prefer to use words over weapons if I can.”
“And here you are.”
“Yes,” Chuy agreed. “Here I am, aboard this miserable, stinking ship, and my entire life—everything I have built for the last twenty years—is receding behind me with each push of this oar. If I wasn’t in so much pain right now, I might cry.”
The ship rolled hard, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Mist sprayed in through the opening, and Einar blinked. His lips tasted of brine.
“That’s some storm coming in,” Rat murmured. “Fast, too. It was clear weather just a few moments ago.”
Einar noticed that Chuy’s expression had grown sullen. Wincing, the older man raised the oar in unison with the other men beside him.
“Cheer up,” Einar told him. “Perhaps there will be wives you can sleep with when you reach land.”
A grin slowly spread across Chuy’s face. He winked at Einar. “I can’t help but notice that you said when I reach land. I rather than we. So, I was correct in my initial observation. You plan on leaving us before that.”
Einar raised his head and made sure that the soldiers were out of earshot. Then he slowly nodded. “I do. Within the hour. Do you wish to come with me?”
Chuy shook his head. “I am afraid I wouldn’t last long in the ocean. In truth, I don’t see how you will, either. Clearly, you are strong and blessed with the constitution of a bull, but we are far from any land, and even a bull can only swim for so long before they tire and sink.”
“I’ll worry about that later. One thing at a time.”
“I don’t know,” Rat said. “Seems to me that here you’re still alive, at least. Jump overboard and maybe not so much. Ten minutes in that sea and the gallows might not seem so bad to you. Particularly when that storm hits.”
“I’d rather die of my own free will than wear these chains for another day.”
“What’s your plan, then?” Chuy asked.
“I’ll show you.”
Einar sat up straight and squared his shoulders. Then he waited for a pause in the cadence calling. When it came, he drew in a deep breath.
“Ho, guard! I need to make use of the head.”
Two of the soldiers approached his row. Both men walked slowly as the ship began to roll harder. One of them was an older man with a gray beard like Chuy’s. His complexion was gnarled and grizzled, and he had a pale, wide scar that crept out from just below his helmet, ran down his forehead, and then zig-zagged across his nose and left cheek. Clearly, he’d seen some battles in his time. The other soldier was a slender youth. He had a few wisps of blond hair poking out from beneath his helmet, each strand as fine as gossamer. His blue eyes were wide with nervousness, and he kept staring past Einar and the other prisoners, watching the storm roll closer.
“Keep at the oar,” the veteran admonished the men in Einar’s row. Then he turned his attention to the barbarian. “Can you wait? There’s a storm coming. We need every hand on these oars.”
“Aye.” Einar nodded. “I see it. But nature calls. If you want me to shit right here, I’m fine to do that, but the smell isn’t going to help us row any faster.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed, making his scar stand out even more. “Are you mocking me?”
Einar shook his head. “Not at all. My apologies if it sounds that way. I just have a knife twisting in my gut. I suspect these choppy seas have stirred me up inside. I can do it here or over yonder at the head, but what I can’t do is wait.”
The soldier hesitated. His expression indicated that he was considering everything Einar had said.
The youth stepped forward. “Maybe we should let him do his business. If he—”
“Shut up,” the older man interrupted, glaring at him. “This is your first deployment. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you’ll see. You can’t let these bastards take advantage of you because they will. Every chance they get.”
“Pardon,” the boy replied. “I only meant that if he shits himself while sitting there at the oars, then we will have to smell it, too. My stomach is already in knots.”
A sneer slowly spread across the veteran’s face. “Still seasick, are you? Well, we can’t have you spewing your guts all over the deck, can we, recruit?”
A blast of thunder rumbled outside, and the ship listed hard to the side. Both soldiers struggled to keep their balance.
The older man nodded at Einar. “Okay, you. Let’s go. But you had better be quick about it.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Einar replied. He screwed his expression into a look of discomfort.
The soldier ordered the men chained to Einar’s oar to halt their efforts for a moment. They did so quietly, but with obvious relief. Their shoulders sagged and their posture relaxed. He carefully wended his way down the row between them and stopped in front of the barbarian. Then he produced a key from his pouch.
“No tricks now. I heard about what you did in the tavern. You might think the nine of us down here are acceptable odds, but there’s an entire company of our brothers on the decks above. We’ve got a very special cargo onboard.”
“What kind of cargo?”
“Never you mind. Something that will help us win the war. It’s none of your concern. All you need to know is that if you try anything, you’ll never make it off this vessel alive.”
“No tricks,” Einar agreed, trying to sound pained. “I’m in no shape for them with these cramps.”
Chuckling, the older man unlocked Einar from the other prisoners. His wrists and ankles were still manacled. The soldier backed away, not taking his eyes off him. When he reached the end of the row, he motioned at Einar to follow.
“Come on then.”
Einar stood slowly. After sitting for so long, his feet were numb, and his legs tingled. He wobbled from side to side, and his chains rattled.
The older man laughed. “No sea legs on you Northerners, eh? Guess you don’t develop them living in the rocks and snow.”
Einar ignored the taunt, doing his best to appear more unsteady than he really was. The poor circulation in his lower extremities helped the charade, as did the movement of the galley. The edge of the fast-moving storm was upon them now. Darkness seemed to quickly swallow the ship. The ocean was no longer visible outside, but they could still hear the waves, crashing and roaring. Rain battered the vessel and blew through the open portholes like arrows. Lightning flashed, eradicating the darkness for a second and turning everything white.
