Anyway, it’s not like there was a wealth of content to be replaced, so I’ve got the novel back up and hopefully someone will actually return to read it.

Sorry for any inconvenience.

“This place is deserted.”

While Calce appreciated that Fica was actually paying attention and would concede that it was indeed surprisingly quiet in the village, he knew that it wasn’t actually deserted and hoped to head off the usual round of absurd speculations that would come after one of the men would rattle off a paranoid observation. One “it’s too quiet” or “I think we’re not alone” could easily spin out of control into a full-on brawl or a shrieking disagreement that would give their position away to everyone within a two hour’s ride.

“It’s not deserted. We saw people on the way into the bay, out in their boats, fishing.”

“The souls of the damned perhaps, luring us to our fate.”

For a normal man, that might have been a question or a theoretical suggestion to be inserted into the conversation by someone playing devil’s advocate, hoping that a listener would follow it with a more reasoned and likely explanation. Fache Outil was no normal man and Calce was more than a bit tired of his bloodthirsty sense of piety forcing him to see dark conspiracies everywhere they went. As much as he wanted to quell any further sinister speculations, he couldn’t let the comment go.

“No. I refuse to even acknowledge that as an option.”

The response was immediate anger. “Do you deny that the forces of darkness might lure men to their watery doom?” Righteous indignation was the only kind that Fache trafficked in.

And there it was. All momentum stopped as they stood there, stock-still, outside the clump of buildings on the most remote outskirts of the village, ruining what could have genuinely been called an “eerie stillness” with a descent into recrimination.

“Yes. I completely deny that. Unequivocally.”

The giant in shining steel armor, covered liberally with the holy markings of his god and the grisly trophies of battle, pointed a gauntleted finger out towards the water and stomped his foot, enraged.

“But we saw the ghostly apparitions with our very eyes! How can you deny it?”

“’Ghostly’? ‘Ghostly apparitions’? That’s what you’re going with? The very normal-looking men in boats, waving at us and smiling? That is what you’d call ‘ghostly’? Not ‘friendly’ or ‘normal’ or ‘human’? These solid, corporeal figures, fishing in their boats, are what you’d call ‘apparitions’?”

The four other men sighed and shifted their weight, dropping their weapons to their sides and preparing themselves for an inevitable twenty-minute-long argument.

“Darkness comes in many forms, my friend.” The “my friend” came with a substantial payload of spite. “I have seen things in my time that would drive a less fervent soul into the bosom of madness, men ripping the flesh from their own bones under the frenzy of seeing unspeakable horrors enacted before their very eyes…”

Fache was really starting to get some steam on his diatribe when his sentence was interrupted by the laughter of children. They ran between the houses, chasing each other with sticks, giggling, and yelling insults back and forth as they made wild swings. Wherever Fache’s train of thought had been rumbling toward, he lost it entirely and his mouth hung slack for several moments before it closed entirely.

Everyone stood quietly for several moments as the youngsters passed them by and ran on, out of the village, laughing cheerfully.

“Just so we’re clear, we’re all in agreement that those weren’t ghosts, right?”

Fache frowned at Calce. “Can we move on now?”

“That’s fine with me, as long as you’re sure we’re no longer in danger of being ‘lured in by the darkness’.”

Fica, who was usually more the kind to start the argument, grew impatient of standing around. It would never be said that he was blessed by his god with an extensive attention span. “Can we just go? You bicker like old women and it’s enough to make me want to go back to the beach and actually tend to the injured.”

There was a smattering of laughter at the idea that Fica would help anyone, aside from himself.

The tension more or less relieved, they lifted up their weapons and continued on into the not-deserted village, ready for the non-existent dangers therein.

It was no bustling Terebintinian town, but there were a few villagers wandering amongst the huts constructed from sticks and fronds and the sturdy but simple houses of piled mud and stone.

The village sat just off the edge of the beach, well away from the tides, and several small boats had been dragged up onto the sand within sight of the buildings. As they watched, a couple of fishermen returned with their day’s quarry. There were definitely many more homes than the limited bustle implied, though no sign of life that would imply there were indeed more people lurking somewhere out of sight.

A man in rough, worn-looking clothes passed them by, carrying the day’s catch and completely unfazed to see armored strangers carrying weapons through the heart of his village. Based on the cheerful look on his face, Calce could imagine the man offering them a fish, some ale, and a fuck with his daughter while they ran him through with a sword. Either something was very strange about these people or they had found an island full of guileless, unsuspecting rubes. Though that notion warmed a place in his heart that would love to take the suckers for all they were worth and live like a king, he knew that he’d rather be the fuck off the island as soon as possible.

“Excuse me, there.” The fisherman didn’t seem to heed his words and continued trodding on towards a row of houses higher up the hillside.

It was only then that Calce considered the fact that there was no good reason why the people of this strange island should speak his language, or any language he had knowledge of. Odds were better that everyone on the island spoke in some sort of monkey dialect, consisting of hoots and loud farts. It took him a moment too long to realize that the children hadn’t been yammering like monkeys, but, instead, speaking what he considered normally, at least for children. It may not have been the common Terebintinian dialect, but it seemed close enough.

He decided that maybe it was worth another try.

“You there. Fisherman.”

Calce finally managed to draw his attention, the fellow looking back over his shoulder quizzically at the six of them standing in the center of town, armed and ready, like a group of shy invaders, too nervous to begin raping and pillaging.

“Oh, you’re talking to me, lad?”

There being no one else around and he being the only one that could conceivably be considered a fisherman, Calce was somewhat at a loss.

“We are pretty much alone here. Unless that fish can talk.”

The man looked around carefully at the obviously empty area before replying, as if there might be a dozen men hiding inside a bush if only he took the time to examine it thoroughly. Thankfully for Calce, he didn’t also consult with the fish. “Aye.”

“What village is this? And where the hell is everyone?”

“This is the village, sirrah.”

Calce was so dumbfounded by this statement that he had to look around for confirmation before attempting to formulate a response. Standing next to him, Aigo sneered underneath his hooded cloak and shrugged in a noncommittal fashion.

“You just repeated what I said… I asked you what village this is and you told me it’s a village. Not to seem unappreciative that you’re trying to help us… I guess. But could you at least try to answer my questions?”

“Aye, sirrah. This is The Village. It has always been The Village and that’s always how it’s been known.”

The Village. Calce finally understood, though a large part of his brain was entirely unwilling to accept this fact and fought valiantly against the remainder, wishing instead to take the man by the shoulders and shake the shit out of him, screaming at the top of his lungs and striking him about the head until he finally revealed the name of this purgatory that they had been consigned to. But majority ruled within his skull and he avoided the issue.

“Right. We’ll let that one go… And where are the rest of the residents here?”

“They’ve headed to the palace for the evening’s meal, lad.”

“The palace?”

“Aye.” He pointed to the rough stone rectangle sitting atop the hill overlooking the village and the waters of the bay beyond, it’s back to the peaks looming over the shoreline. “Where our Lord resides. We sup there every eve, together, sharing in the day’s spoils.”

“You have a Lord, who rules in that… palace?”

Calce continued to stare at the building, which barely would have passed as a warehouse back in Terebintina. Apparently these islanders had some concept of royalty, though what was there to be ruled? Eight men and a pile of sand?

The fisherman smiled. “Aye, lad. You should come with us and enjoy a fine meal. The Lord will surely wish to know of your arrival and hear of the travels that brought you to our quiet shores.”

The man made it sound like they were visiting dignitaries, popping in for a snack, likely to jaunt back off at a moment’s notice.

“You do realize that we were almost killed by your cove and our ship and everyone we travelled with burned and sunk into the ocean, leaving us here, stranded?”

“Aye, sirrah. I reckon that will mean you’re doubly hungry.”

Calce was sure he was going to hate this place with a burning passion.

Well, he also knew that he needed a boat. There had been the occasion that required him to float and, while his buoyancy was not in question, he somehow doubted his ability to bob the thousands of miles back to Terebintina or, in the opposite direction, on to the New Land. No, he was definitely going to need a boat. And not just the scarred and rough-looking rowboat that his men had dragged ashore and were unloading their gear from. No, a real ship, like the one that was currently at the bottom of the bay, part of its crew and cargo drifting placidly across those previously-mentioned blue waters. Something big, with sails and a crew that wasn’t currently dead or drowning. That would be their only ticket off of this gods-forsaken nugget of rock in the middle of the vast, definitely-blue ocean.

The few sailors that hadn’t drowned or burned alive were finally arriving at shore, having done quite a bit of swimming and/or floating without the luxury of a rowboat. Despite their choking up briny water and being generally waterlogged and exhausted, Calce stopped gawking at the ocean, deciding that caution was the wisest course of action, and grabbed his sword and pack from the longboat, on the off chance that anyone wanted to kill them for, say, leaving them to die in those deep, blue, burning-ship-filled waters.

The first of the angry seamen flopped up on shore like some sort of beached fish… Calce wasn’t sure that fish beached themselves or if any of the flopping they did amounted to clawing their way onto land and collapsing in a heap, because, as was previously made clear, his knowledge regarding the sea was nil. He didn’t even know to catch a fish. Come to think of it, he didn’t really like to eat fish. He had no degree in oceanography from a prestigious university to make clear the vagueries of the watery expanses of the world. He was fairly sure a sextant was something he’d done at an upscale brothel during their campaign against the Baron Quaglie, master of Uovo Rock. He wasn’t gilding the lily about this; he didn’t know a goddamned thing about the ocean and he’d just spent weeks enclosed in an uncomfortable wooden box with five other men, so he didn’t know any more now than when he’d left the only land he’d ever known to go on this idiotic wild goose chase. He wasn’t trying to oversell his lack of knowledge. He was just attempting to make clear the point that he was completely unqualified to judge whether or not sailors or fish were beaching themselves anywhere at any time, including that very moment on the beach where he was standing, sword-in-hand, wondering where he could find a boat to get him the fuck out of there.

The potentially-beached sailor proceeded to cough and wheeze, as he undoubtedly attempted to dislodge several gallons of seawater from his lungs. There was a rasp that sounded like a word. Calce looked back at this companions, who didn’t seem to notice or, at very least, chose not to acknowledge it. Of course, they were too busy finishing the task of unloading their rowboat and strapping everything they could to their bodies to notice much of anything.

“Did you say something?”

The second time, though low and raspy, it became clear. “Help.”

“Help? With what?” The man had done a fine job of pulling himself aground. Calce couldn’t imagine that the fellow thought he could swoop down like a god and remove the water from his lungs.

The sailor just groaned in reply and let his face fall into the wet sand.

As the next wave rushed in and back out around the man’s prone body, Calce noticed a red haze in the retreating water. With the toe of his boot, he pushed at the man’s ribcage, rolling him over onto his back.

There was a gash in the man’s chest. Maybe it was fatal, maybe not. It was hard to say with his bloodstained, soaked and matted tunic in the way, but it definitely didn’t look good. It was probably the result of a flying piece of wooden debris from the exploding ship, which could still be lodged inside him.

“Oh. Well, I don’t know what you want me to do about that either.”

“Help.” The voice was growing weaker, or possibly despondent at the notion that his only source of assistance didn’t particularly care if he lived or died.

“It’s not like I’m a surgeon. I mean, what am I going to do for you? Stitch you up with this sword? Maybe if you needed something within my wheelhouse, say, fight a creature or kill a man, then I’d be able to help. But you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

“Cleric.”

Calce looked back at his party, who were paying close attention to the exchange, not that there was anything else thrilling going on to steal their interest away.

“Oh, yes. Well, of course, we do have a cleric with us…” He gestured towards one of the men, a surly-looking fellow dressed in thick grey robes. “Fica is a follower of the Fourth God. I’m… not sure what he can do for you, though.”

The sailor gave a rather pathetic, pleading look before the cleric had time to curtly respond. “Your timing is shit, friend.” The hope went out of the sailor’s eyes. “I’m a man of the fucking cloth, you see. I need time to prepare for something like a miraculous healing. I’d need incense and unguents and… things. It’s not just something you jump into willy-nilly. And, for the sake of argument, say that we were to face some sort of danger from these… people who apparently live on this bay. Would you want me to waste all of my healing powers on you if we were to lay siege to these foreign heretics? I fucking doubt it very much. What good would being alive do you if you’re dead?”

The sailor gave up. Or passed out. Or expired. There was no way for them to know without actually checking or applying aid to the man, which they really didn’t want to do. And, with more men washing up nearby like so much driftwood, it was perhaps time for them to beat a hasty retreat before anyone else asked them for something, such as a ship to get them off the island.

They retrieved all their gear and headed toward the fishing village lying at the foot of the rectangular stone keep.

Perhaps they had just seemed good, as Calce Asino was a passenger and his past two weeks at sea hadn’t consisted of back-breaking labor, spent baking in the sun, or violent waves nearly throwing him over the railing to his doom in the endless abyss. They also hadn’t been spent being burned alive, as Calce was so currently thankful for. No, he and his companions had mainly been below deck, whiling away the time by complaining, playing cards, and wishing they’d never accepted the task of crossing the oceans to the New Land.

The New Land: it was always something about that damned place. Every fortune teller and two-bit seer pinned all hope for the future, wealth for the wanting, and salvation for the blighted on that fucking New Land. From the talk of the few dozen who’d survived the voyage to see it and were stupid enough to attempt a return trip, the New Land was some sort of magical dream world with all manner of unbelievable men and beasts never seen in the history of the kingdom of Terebintina. It was said the place was steeped in magic and the rivers ran with the colors of the rainbows and the trees seemed to breathe with a life of their own and blah-blah-blah… Calce was sick as hell of hearing about it. And he was fairly sure that those who returned were just blowing smoke up everyone’s collective ass, knowing full well that virtually no one would make the trip to investigate their claims.

He wouldn’t have been caught dead crossing the ocean towards that obviously mythical place if it hadn’t been for that thrice-damned King. That rotten old bastard had chosen a terrible time to die. Oh, people could talk all day about how wise and kind the blow-hard was, but Calce and his strange band of mercenary adventurers had been around Terebintina more than long enough to know that the man was half-retarded and barely knew what he was doing most of the time. What the inbreeding of royals had started, the old age and ever-increasing effects of syphilis on the brain had surely finished with panache.

When the old loon had finally kicked, things were, of course, in nearly-unmanageable disarray, as the King had left no male heir or a named successor, so it was an all-out war for the throne. They had been dragged into the whole affair, much to Calce’s continued chagrin, and he did his best to never think about the events that he had taken part in, leading to the crowning of the King’s only daughter, the Princess Ingannato.

She was a pretty girl, if you were into that whole “blonde and dumb as a pile of dead marmots” sort of thing, but she was definitely her father’s daughter, a half-wit through and through. Most of the sycophants and advisors that had kept the King’s rule from turning into total disaster made the bum’s rush for the throne, leading to their eventual demises by way of every conceivable betrayal, act of cunning, or violent deed known to man. Calce even had to execute one or two to make way for Her Highness’ boneheaded ascent to the throne. With no worthy advisors to rein in the girl’s abject incompetence, she was left to her crown, alone. Terebintina collapsed into chaos, which hadn’t been bad for their business, but Calce would have gladly traded the extra gold for villages that weren’t starving to death or catching plague. The kingdom was cursed, or so the Princess insisted. It was her fault or personal vanity or the shameful bloodshed that had seen her take the crown: some such nonsense. Of course, her reliance on the fortune tellers and seers hadn’t helped. In the mind of the sheltered and incredibly naïve girl, the horrible state of her kingdom was a blight that could only be lifted with magic. Calce supposed that wise council, appropriate application of public works projects, and tax funds used on upkeep of the kingdom and its agricultural system were entirely out of the question.

And, so, those fucking fortune tellers and seers had set her mind to the mythical Stone of Taille, across the ocean, in the New Land. And who do you think she would send on such an important mission, with the whole kingdom riding on the line? Those fine fellows that had helped her gain her rightful place.

The other men didn’t complain, because the girl bled money out her ass and they would be absurdly well-paid for the fool’s errand. Calce didn’t bother to tell them that someone so far removed from having to actually pay for something as simple as food and who had no reasonable concept of value probably wouldn’t be a stunningly cautious treasurer. By the time they returned (if they returned at all), he was sure that the coffers would be empty, someone, if not the whole of her kingdom, would have risen up to kill her and take the throne, and they wouldn’t see a single coin. They should have gotten the money up-front.

So, they’d spent weeks on the Fahla, bored out of their minds. They started to doubt the New Land’s very existence.

The crew was grim, tired of the long days, the rough seas, and the boat’s dwindling stores. Nerves were on edge when land was sighted: a green, lush island.

As they drew closer, they saw civilization: the smoke from chimneys, the simple stone buildings, small fishing boats with smiling, waving fishermen tossing their nets into the waves. The ship drifted into the deep waters of a cove lined with huts, small buildings, and what appeared to be a primitive keep. A long, slender dock stretched out toward them, deep into the small bay and away from the shallow beach sandbars.

And that was when it had happened. The six men were fighting each other to look out the porthole of the cramped cabin they had shared so uncomfortably for so many weeks when the boat stopped with a crash, a loud cracking of timbers, and a jolt that sent everyone and everything not tied down flying toward the bow. In the gun deck, unbeknownst to them, a lantern smashed against the wooden beam it hung from and spread burning oil all over the floor. As the ship shifted back in the water, the flaming puddle crept toward the powder stores. On the quarterdeck, the six of them had already grabbed most of their belongings when the exploding powder ripped a hole up through the middle of the boat.

Being paid passengers on the vessel and having no real skills in regards to seamanship, they made their escape quickly. There was no point in them hanging around and dying. That was someone else’s responsibility. They managed to find the only lifeboat not burning or exploded into kindling and dropped it into the water. Pushing deckhands out of the way as they climbed down into the rowboat, they stowed their gear and started rowing for shore, leaving everyone else to burn alive.

As the burning sailors toppled overboard and others leapt into the water’s embrace to attempt a long swim to shore, Calce’s men had finally put enough distance between them and the flaming ship to see what had happened; while drifting toward the dock, the boat had punctured itself on some gigantic fang of rock, unmarked, laying just below the water’s surface.

Those left on the ship would unlikely appreciate that the fire would soon be put out as the lower decks filled with the water rushing in through the gaping hole in the fore.

Still stuck on the stone spire, timbers cracked and the screaming intensified as the rear of the boat sunk down in the water. The burning sails drooped and there was a crash of breaking wood as the tip of the fang snapped off in the ship’s bow and the whole craft lurched back and began its decent. Calce couldn’t help but think that the Fahla had made sure no other boat would run aground in this cove.

By the time they reached land, all that remained was an armada of wreckage, floating on the surface where the ship had been.