The Mosque Hill Fortune (The Sons of Masguard, Book One)

Prologue

Dropping his quill, he pressed his palms to his eyes.

Masguard the Relic Hunter. Masguard the Bold. For all his titles and accolades, he was now a long-forgotten voice. A nondescript explorer with no account for wandering and no excuse for fame. Maybe it was a strange form of justice that had him turning at last into what he had always been, deep down. Masguard the ghost.

"The crew's ready whenever ye are, Cap'n."

Masguard looked up to see a grungy marmot standing in the door of his cabin. The quartermaster's habit of intruding unannounced had become a welcome discourtesy over the past few months. So few of his crewmembers had any remaining interest in conversation. There was too much they didn't wish to say aloud. Too much they didn't want to hear.

"And Ustim?"

"Silent as ever," the marmot shrugged.

"Thank you, Fender," Masguard lifted his quill and resumed toiling over the words on the parchment. "I'll be along shortly."

If Fender should have taken that as a cue to exit, he ignored it, coming instead to stand over his captain's desk and peer down at the paper with unabashed interest.

"Ain't exactly how this li'l adventure o' ours was 'sposed te turn out, eh?" he said, his voice gruff and quiet.

Masguard sighed, leaning back in his chair. His shoulders were slumped in something very like defeat. "I know. Believe me, I know. But if we turn back now..."

"Dumb things will happen, Cap'n. We got that," Fender finished for him. "Don't make it any easier."

"No, I don't suppose it does."

The two were silent for the longest time, staring in separate parts at a ship that was practically rotting beneath their feet. With only a skeleton crew remaining, the sound of the open sea overtook the vessel with little resistance. It creaked and moaned as the waves bullied it about, whimpering with all the strength of a fragile old woman. In a way, Masguard supposed that's exactly what it was.

Don't give up on me just yet, old girl, he thought. We've a few miles and one more task yet to complete.

"There's still the matter o' the demon on deck." Fender bit his pipe, expressionless.

Masguard rolled his eyes. "Must you call him that?"

"Jus' saying, if I'm out te meet me doom, I'd rather not do it wi' him o'er me shoulder, yeah? Still gives me the willies. An' I ain't the only one what feels that way."

"Fine, fine. I'll talk to him. We have an outstanding matter to discuss anyway. Just let me finish up here and I'll meet you on deck with the... the..." Masguard furrowed his brow and rummaged through his desk. "Where is it?"

Fender was slow to respond and looked uncomfortable when he said, "Same place it's been since I walked in here, Cap'n. In your hand."

At that, Masguard felt a chill creep up his arm. He suppressed the urge to swallow and looked accusingly to the relic in his palm.

Of course.

The blasted thing would be the death of him yet.

Wincing inwardly, he whispered, "For what it's worth, Fender... I am sorry. For all of it."

Again, Fender shrugged, this time a little slower, a little more deliberately. "We're with ye, Cap'n. Always have been. Always will be."

Masguard could only nod in response as his Quartermaster left.

After putting the final touches on his letter, the otter captain tucked the relic into the pocket of his burgundy coat and turned his focus to a very different item; one seated prominently on his desk.