Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter 145: Aftermath

March 7th, 1720
Present Day
Tortuga

Dark blood stains the marble floors, caked and insolent, sticking to their noses, their uniforms.  The tinges of ruby most infernal glistens under the sunlight streaming from the six windows overhead. Admiral Smith tears his eyes away from the puddles and holds his breath, taking a tentative step forward to the last end of the island, where the Brethren lords gathered.

And where one of them, maybe more, met their ends.

But no corpse greets them here. Instead, before them stretches the worn, tattered map of the world - slashed from Florida to Brasíl, its edges burned, bright red streaks running down from the edges of its wounds. The Admiral scowls darkly. He follows where the blood drips, and drips—

Admiral Smith cannot stifle a gasp and steps back.

A charred mark is burned onto the marble.

"Dear God!" Murdoch cries behind him, pressing his soot-covered jacket sleeve up his nostrils. However, he slips—from a chunk of someone's piece of brain littered in the pools of blood. The lieutenant shakes his head in disbelief. "This... this is a murder, Sir. A massacre for all we know!"

A massacre is not far from his thoughts, not when they glimpsed the corpses strung about the island. However half-buried, they are fresh. Still, the Admiral cannot buy it thoroughly. For it does not make any sense at all that an escaping group of pirates will even attempt to bury their victims.

Nor does it makes sense to have a map that has the breadth and width of the Caribbean slashed mercilessly.

Admiral Smith lifts a forefinger, hovering it over the shredded patch of the map. "With hatred."

"Sir?" Murdoch asks amidst the tinkle of tools as their men prod and inspect the Hall.

"Hatred," Admiral Smith whispers, brows furling at his own words. "See these... the direction of the hand—" He motions with his own palm. "Whoever stabbed this map, is frantic... and probably has deep hatred for..."

"The Caribbean?" Murdoch blinks, unsure as he looks where his superior is focused on. "But whoever this is, Sir, is a pirate too."

Admiral Smith purses his lips tight. Deep in his heart, he already knows who this is. There are times when he curses it, this love, ashamedly so, whenever he curses that he is a father, that he has loved people whom he must be against—first his Spanish wife...

Now, his pirate and witch for a daughter.

His throat tightens and he closes his eyes, damning himself for the unabashed frustration. How could he? She would have never been in Tortuga, in the Caribbean, in the Americas, if he himself had not uprooted her and her mother with the promise that they'll always be together... that he'll compromise his kingdom and service, just to give them a home. A true home.

But God tested his soul.

Admiral Smith dares not say it aloud nor give the blasphemous, bitter thought anymore fire. And so, he straightens himself and turns to Murdoch. "Whoever it was, just did us a favor."

Murdoch grimaces; oh, Admiral Smith knows what that look is like. The young officer cannot believe his Admiral condones what a gentleman would have gagged at. "But Sir..." he frowns and gapes, overcome by a sudden thought. "Sir, I think not."