From a distance, the island of Two Mounds was seen jutting from the ocean, its dense foliage packed like a bouquet of trees tied and bursting at the seams. The eastern side, marked by wind and erosion, had a rocky cliff nearly as tall as their ship's mast, and the west showed a thin strip of beach encircling the landscape like the sharpened edge of a blade that ended at the start of the ocean.
Cleo identified the outline of a small village situated directly in front of them on the far side of the island's beach and harbor. The weak-crescent shaped coastline came equipped with a sizable wooden dock that extended a fair bit off the coast to make use of the natural drop off and deep water.
As they got closer, he counted nine buildings, a village—constructed in a single line. It was an island jungle lining the rear of the village, and a beach and ocean hugging the front. Thatch roofing collected from local foliage, plain wooden walls, and open glassless windows equipped with thick storm shutters. Quaint simple structures, though the raw look of new wood made it clear the construction must've happened rather recently.
Pretty standard for small-island living, but this close to Mont Qerath—Cleo would have assumed the small plot of land to be overrun with traders, travelers, and every kind of sailor imaginable. The island was north of the major trade route, but surely it'd be convenient for resupply. Secrecy spoke of other issues. The island had plenty of wood in that jungle, lending credence to the idea that the island harvested timber, but the theme of the infrastructure was wrong. Cleo noticed no sawmills, no transportation lines or roads into the heart of the island to harvest timber. Instead, sitting before them was a resort town—not a work colony.
Cleo didn't like the look of it, but it might be best to reserve judgment until after they docked and met the locals.
Assumptions aside, more and more, he was thinking the village might be abandoned. This time of day, the narrow grey brick chimneys would normally emanate smoke from the people and their families preparing supper. Seeing them sit idle, smokeless, and unutilized—the detail did not bode well for the mission of obtaining supplies. Unless the island was home to a race of monsters who didn't have to eat. A ridiculous idea, one that produced a round of nervous laughter from Cleo.
More than a few of those homes had their storm shutters locked tight. Facing the sun, the inside would have to be as hot as an oven. Strewn trash, out-of-control weeds, choke vine—the village was in a state of disarray and neglect.
Cleo had seen his fair share of the frontier. The types that called those islands home were always in a rush, harvesting, cleaning, preparing meals, or mending tools or clothing. It was that or succumb to the harsh elements of living along the frontier. Something was off with the island of Two Mounds.
A quiet settled amongst the crew and passengers as they came to their own conclusions regarding the abnormality of the island and its village. The excitement from earlier had gone out like a candle dropped over the side of the boat.
Cleo couldn't blame them. The mystery surrounding the island's very existence had bred hesitation, and now, presented with an unfortunate truth regarding an empty village, most of them had resigned to not discovering an easy fix for their precarious situation. They needed water. Nothing else mattered.
It was surreal. Personally, Cleo wished he could blame his problems on dehydration. Unfortunately, it was not that simple. The unusual weather, a pirate attack, and the discovery of the princess had spun his world on its head.
Quinn maintained her post in the crow's nest, calling out sandbars and any other obstacles in their path. The ocean floor appeared to be mostly white sand with patches of dark green seagrass tossed in. They still had to be weary of the stray rock or boulder, anything that could damage the hull in shallow water. Damage to the hull would be a disaster. If they had to beach or careen their boat to mend the hull, they could be stuck on the island for weeks.
"Keep right!" Quinn said. Her earlier grievance and emotion with Cassandra had disappeared. The short shipwright had adopted the guise of absolute professionalism. On the high seas, a fool did not last long. Either they took their crew down with them, or the crew would expel them before the former came to pass. "Sandbar up ahead!" she added. "On my signal, swing hard to port!" She held up her arm, then whistled before swinging her arm in a chopping motion.
Agis spun the helm with all the force he could muster, and Ural angled the aft boom by feeding rope through the rigging. The wind did the rest by pulling the hemp cloth and opening the sail to the new angle.
An individual could do the chore of adjusting sails. Unless the weather had turned, then a powerful gust could rip a line free even from Ural's grip and he was the strongest person Cleo had ever met.
The largest cargo ships, their halyards, often required eight or more men hauling ropes as thick as a man's leg. It was grueling, dangerous work raising sails or anchors, and if the weather turned with one of those sails—a snapped rope could fly with enough force to slice a man in half. Cleo had never seen it, but a group of old sailors at a local tavern had sworn they'd witnessed one such event.
After some maneuvering, they had the boat lined up with the island's dock. Cleo went up and down the port railing, flipping the fenders to keep the dock from damaging their hull. He then tossed heavy ropes over the side before leaping onto the dock to tie them off on the bollards built into the dock's wooden surface.
He almost fell on his face from dehydration and the gliding motion of his sea legs. Being on the ocean for so long always made the transition a tad precarious. As a veteran of trade, he should be better than this—today was just one of those days.
Ural soon joined, helping tie off the last rope connected to the stern. "This land is too empty. I don't like it," he grumbled under his breath, slapping his round belly to stress the point. "Never a good sign when you're the only boat in the harbor."
Cleo noticed he already had his sword strapped to his back. Not entirely abnormal, but the promptness of the weapon spoke to the situation.
Marius disembarked next. He glanced at the sun, causing his eyes to flash their usual golden. Cleo wished he could read the old man's thoughts. Days spent as an unsociable hermit, then a princess shows up and he's nearly back to acting normal—normal for him, at least.
Cleo could ask, but the chance he would receive a proper answer was slim to none. Plus, he'd rather avoid the passengers overhearing them argue. Demoralization was a real issue. A negative attitude was one thing, but stuck on a boat, in the middle of the ocean, minor disagreements had a way of blossoming to open conflict.
Eventually, they had the boat secured and everyone moving down the dock and headed for the beach. Cleo hesitated before he stepped on the sand. It felt like they'd reached some sort of threshold, as if going on meant there would be no turning back.
Sails tied down, and the boat anchored to the dock, they certainly could not leave in a hurry, not without a scramble of effort. But this was different. Venturing forth, things had a way of getting real—real quick.
"What are we waiting for?" Cassandra barked. "The island won't bite. Let's get this over with."
"Nothing... I guess," Cleo said as he led them onto the beach, heading toward the village.
She was right. They'd come too far to turn back without water.
Ural continued his grumbling. "I don't like this. Maybe the islanders had run afoul of pirates as well."
"Impossible," Boulder said. "This close to Qerath? No pirating group would dare disturb territory owned by the Matriarch. It would be suicide. The whole of the navy would rain down on their heads."
Ural glanced at the old soldier precariously. "Didn't stop them from hitting your ship."
Boulder's face grew red, but he didn't refute his comment.
Cleo led the sun beaten thirsty group up the beach to the strange village as their feet carved little dents into the soft pristine, untouched sand. It was a line of people, wearing a mix of clothing, traversing the miniature desert. The distance from the water to the village couldn't be more than a few hundred yards. And yet time and distance seemed to stretch. They made it halfway to their destination when a man exited the only two-story structure in the small village.
The newcomer waved them down before bee-lining across the beach in his light-weight cream-colored clothing and curly gray hair. Somewhere in his fifties, he stood a head shorter than Cleo. Stains and wrinkles marred his casual clothing like he'd worn the same thing for a month while working inside a greasy kitchen.
"Kind of late in the season for trade, ya?" asked the islander in a tone too lazy to mask animosity. He'd stopped short to maintain a dozen feet of space between them. In the background, waves rolled in from the ocean with the steady beat of tidal progress.
The islander pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket and slipped it in the side of his mouth. Now that he was closer, it was clear his gray curly hair matched the five-day grey stubble on his face.
Put on the defensive, Cleo fumbled his thoughts. "I-I... we... Poor weather delayed our journey. Our supplies ran low, and it forced us to take an unplanned detour. My name is Cleo, and I am the first mate. We are simple traders on our way to Mont Qerath. We need to purchase enough supplies to complete our journey, and then we'll be on our way."
An uncomfortable minute passed before the islander finally responded. Desperation had weighed Cleo down to the point he thought about pleading from his knees. He'd do it too. Right here, in front of his crew and passengers—even in front of Lilith.
He hoped nothing came up regarding how they'd found the island. Agis rarely had the most legitimate of sources for his maps, using his past position as a curator at a library. The man seemed to have sticky fingers where books, maps, and general information were concerned.
"Alright," the islander said, pulling the pipe from his mouth and pointing it at Cleo. "I'll buy your story. You lot don't look like trouble. The name's Nelson, I'm the mayor of this here village. We're a small lumber colony, and as you might've guessed, we don't get many visitors. Follow me." He turned and started back up the beach.
The group followed the mayor up the beach, and contrary to Cleo's fears, an army of pirates didn't come pouring out of the jungle. Thankfully, the journey proved uneventful.
Nelson spoke along the way to break the silence. "Sorry to hear about your troubles. The weather has been... well, let's say... unpredictable, but that's neither here nor there. I'll not turn you away in your desperation, though I can't say for sure how much help we can offer ya. Supplies be scarce, but I'm sure we can put something together for the right price." He shot them a toothy smile before returning his attention forward.
Cleo had expected nothing less. With bad weather and a mysterious island, they were lucky to have docked. Now, if they could avoid being price gouged—he might call the detour a miracle.
"What's this man talking about?" Cassandra asked. She and Lilith walked together, their arms hooked at the elbows. Her position in the back of the group required her to shout. Her shrilly voice seemed to sail on the wind. "Weather? What's wrong with the weather? And what's this about a price? Are you trying to gouge us, you foul little man? I'll not have it, no I won't! Do you know who I am? Ow! Boulder? Why did you step on my foot? Let go! Don't you dare put your hand over my mouth..." The rest of her statement became muffled noises until she gave up.
Cleo shot the mayor a reassuring, toothy smile.
Nelson produced a laugh that left him coughing for several seconds. He covered his mouth, then promptly wiped his palm on the side of his pants. "Ha," he said. "Your lady has been out at sea too long. It happens to the best of us. Tell you what, I'll see what my people can scrounge up. We can talk price later. First, we need to let you guys rest." He stopped to look around at the group and frowned, like he was regretting what he'd just offered. "Just so there's no confusion, this isn't a charity."
"Don't worry your greasy little fingers," Ural said, patting the leather coin purse tied to his waist. "You'll get paid. We've got coin enough to cover anything we need."
Hearing the jingle of coins brightened Nelson's attitude measurably. Likewise, the presence of a long-curved blade on Ural's back seemed inconsequential to the shrewd man. "Well! Why didn't you say so? We got plenty of food for sale, spring water, or perhaps even fresh timber for repairs? You won't find that anywhere else, I tell you. By the way, you wouldn't happen to be aligned with one of the major shipyards? Perhaps a guild out of Qerath?"
"No, we're independent. Our backer is in the north, a member of the Trade Council in the Bissean Sea."
"Oh. That's good," Nelson said a little too gleefully. If he recognized the name, it wasn't clear. "I'm sure we'll be able to work out a price that'll be more than satisfactory. If you would like, I can offer you the use of our guest cabins for the night, free of charge, of course. That should give me enough time to determine which supplies we can sell without issue. Does this sound amiable?"
Cleo resisted the urge to turn and look at the crew for reassurance. Feeling the pressure, he ignored the lines of sweat running along his temples. He needed to be firm and show he had the character worthy of being a ship captain. "I believe that will be satisfactory," he finally said.
"Excellent. This way." The mayor turned away from the village, leading them along the beach and away from the dock. "We keep our guest cabins on the outside of the village in order to offer our guests the privacy they so require." Nelson pointed at a trio of wooden structures off in the distance.
Built close to the jungle, the cabins were similar to the village in design and location with their proximity to the ocean, but without chimneys or an established yard of packed sand.
"You can see them up ahead." The mayor gestured. "Nice and simple and recently constructed. I'll send over food and water once I return to the village. We depend on imports for much of our food, but we should be able to spare something easily enough with how few employees I currently have."
Ural spoke up. His deep voice cut through the menial conversation. "How few employees you have?" he said, mirroring the mayor's words. "What happened to them? Is that why the island feels so empty?"
Nelson's face paled. Sputtering, he nearly dropped his pipe in the sand. He looked near panicked until he started talking. "W-Well... It's hot, dangerous work clearing jungle. People often find the lifestyle not to their liking. And they often search out work elsewhere in the off season. The ships from the east don't arrive until late winter, and the bulk of my labor force should return by then."
It was at this point a second villager emerged from the two-story building. Similar in age to the mayor, this man fit the description of a beggar living on the streets in a port town. His beard and ragged clothing were both patchy and stained with a paint-like substance. In his hand he carried a wide opaque-green bottle, and given the image he presented, it seemed unlikely the dark liquid could be anything as benign as water.
He stumbled, chasing them after them. The effort of running seemed impossible, given his temperament and labored gait.
"Nelson! We gots vissitorss!" his mouth slurred below hooked and crooked nose. He pointed at Cleo and his crew like the mayor might've missed the people talking and standing next to him.
Even at a dozen yards, Cleo caught the stench of liquor and body odor. The beggar's once fine clothes had tears everywhere like he'd gotten into a fight with a pair of scissors.
"Mal, you blood fool!" Nelson said through gritted teeth. He drew himself up, face going an angry red. "Go back inside. You're scaring our visitors. You mustn't say something you might regret."
"I'm fine! You-irritating-worthless clown fish. Did you forget I used to own you?" He then turned his attention to the women amongst the group. "Hello ladies. What is your namez?" Pointing at Quinn he said, "You boy, you're a pretty one. I almost thought you were a girl."
"I am a girl!" Quinn growled.
Mal stopped to think for several moments as he eyed everyone in the group. "Fine, I'll leave! I can see you're no fun." He turned and stumbled back toward the village. Before he'd gone a dozen paces, he added, "Stay out of the jungle!" His voice rose several octaves, as though a terrible memory had fought its way to the forefront. "Mayor won't say, but this island be cursed. There be demons at night. They swoop in and steal people." He made large hand gestures to make his point. "Caw! Caw!"
His extreme display drew laughter from Quinn and a little from Agis, but no one else found the display the least bit humorous.
Nelson did not look happy. "Drunk fool! Go back inside!"
"Bah!" Mal dismissed him with a wave of his hand before finally returning to the village.
"Demons?" Agis asked once Mal had gone. "Is there any evidence of such a creature? I've spent time studying the wildlife in this region, and I've never come across anything that could be categorized as dangerous, especially to humans. It's possible there could be a subspecies specific to this island, but I don't think this land is old enough to allow for that sort of biological diversity. On the other hand, a group of creatures losing access to a familiar food source could explain why they had resorted to human flesh." He looked around, noticing the disgusted looks on everyone's face. "This is pure conjecture, of course, not based on any evidence."
Cleo rubbed his temples, trying to contain and manage his headache. They needed supplies and to return to the boat. They didn't have time for ghost stories.
"What? No. Nothing is attacking us," Nelson insisted, growing increasingly desperate. "This island is perfectly safe. That man is a troublemaker, nothing more. He spouts lies trying to intimidate visitors. Please pay him no mind. I'll admit the island is not perfect, but if you remain indoors at night—nothing will happen. I swear." Nelson's eyes darted back and forth, trying to read the group. The tightening of his features suggested he didn't like what he saw. "Fine, I will instruct my merchants to sell you supplies at cost. Will that make you happy? Just promise you won't spread rumors. I can't lose any more workers."
"I wasn't going to..." Cleo began.
"It's fine!" Nelson said, cutting him off. Angry spittle flew off the edge of his lips as he spoke. "We won't profit from your misfortune. Just no rumors. I'll have my men get two barrels of fresh drinking water onto your ship by nightfall. Do we have a deal?"
"Yes," Cleo said. They shook hands, and Nelson left to return to the village. Before he'd gone out of earshot, they could hear him grumbling about "rumors" and "lies."
The three cabins were clones of a single design. Square, thatch roof, door, and one window each. Nothing spectacular, unpainted and untreated wood like their construction had only finished within the last few months. The windows were open port holes fixed with heavy shutters able to swing down and block the elements should the weather change. Each building sat a dozen yards apart with powdery sand filling the space between.
"That's it?" Quinn asked. "Hearing the mayor, I was under the impression these guest cabins could belong in a resort. Instead, we're left with plain, ugly cabins a child could've put together."
"She's right," Cassandra added. She then turned to address Cleo and Ural. "Your crew may find these accommodations suitable, but I will be escorting the princess back to the village. I'm sure a quick conversation with the mayor will fetch us proper accommodations, like a bed and bath. I'll not continue roughing it if the situation does not require it."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Ural said. "You'll notice my little buddy omitted your identities. We're still in the Western Sea. They could have a connection to the pirating group that hit your ship. Best to not take any chances."
"I think he's right," Boulder agreed. "We should remain in hiding until we reach Mont Qerath."
Cassandra didn't look happy, but she opted not to argue the point. "Alright. I'll allow it." She took Lilith by the hand. "Come on, my dear. Let's see how bad it is."
The passengers from Qerath entered the cabin on the right, leaving the other two buildings for the crew. Cleo stole one last look at Lilith. Each time her curious gaze passed over him, his stomach danced like he might be sick. Had his mistake with supplies ruined any chance of friendship between them?
"I don't like this island," Marius said, once the passengers had gone. His sudden input caught Cleo and the crew off guard.
"What do you mean?" Cleo asked. "You don't like any of the islands we visit. You barely like sailing."
The days of being stranded had failed to impact the pale, greasy, long-haired old fool. Tough as an old barnacle, Cleo doubt anything could harm his uncle.
"The land smells bad," Marius finally answered. "There is death here."
Quinn wrinkled her nose. "I don't smell anything."
"If you know something, tell us," Cleo added. He prepared to dismiss him outright until he noticed a tightness around Marius's golden eyes. Be it worry or fear, there was something bothering him.
The only other time he'd seen his uncle react so severely was after a horrible accident six years ago where a neighboring boat at the harbor dock had seen a worker fall from a mast beam. They had survived, but with a broken neck. Unable to control his muscles below the chest, he'd ended up suffocating by nightfall. Remembering the connecting theme, Cleo nearly demanded they head back to the boat regardless of the water. "Please tell me," he reiterated.
Marius turned his gaze toward the interior of the island. "There is death out there." He then made large sweeping motions with his hands. "Soon this island will die, and us with it."