EDGE and Tesseract are imprints of Hades Publications, Inc.

Chapter One

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Legacy of Morevi A Novel by
Tee Morris

Luck of the Draw

One-and-Thirty is an elementary card game, provided that its players possess an elementary grasp of mathematics. The rules are simple: Try to reach thirty-one or get close to thirty-one without going over. Cards begin at two and go as high as ten. Face cards are equal to ten. The Aces are either worth one or eleven, depending on the player’s need.

For many of the intellectuals of King Henry’s court, this was not the game of choice. ‘‘It’s a woman’s game,’’

Lord Edward Seymour was once overheard to say, unaware that in the next room, the king was playing a rather heated round between Lord Seymour’s brother, Thomas, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The king’s guards, whose grasp of numbers did not extend beyond ‘‘Less is bad. More is good,’’ also took little interest in One-and- Thirty because it stretched beyond their attention spans.

So what was the appeal of One-and-Thirty? Perhaps it was the thrill of the last two players facing off with each hand so dangerously close to the cap. One card would decide the winner. That one card could edge a player beyond the sum of thirty-one, or it could force the opponent to draw again. While an average game was as quick as the hands that settled numerous side bets, it was the seemingly endless rounds that truly challenged the wits of the remaining players. As they contemplated standing on their amassed sum or defying the odds by requesting one more card, the players’ excitement warmed the room better than a roaring hearth in winter.

Such was the hand currently being played out to the bitter end at The Haven, a small pub located on the
northern coast of Portugal.

The Haven was neutral ground for sailors of all countries and creeds: A place where privateers mingled with the captains who had provided for them handsomely in previous months, noblemen tapped Court spies for the latest news from the throne, and aspiring bards eagerly took notes from any lucky sailor who had survived a journey to the New World.

While the Haven was free of borders, politics, or prejudice, card games could easily restore these three social partitions and silently reinforce them with national pride. At this particular tavern, which reserved numerous back rooms for such revels, games that ended badly could lead to anything from costly brawls to border disputes between countries.

So far, this particular card game remained friendly, although tensions were clearly growing. The two men were staring each other down, with a generous mound of gold and silver coins between them. Behind one of these men stood a large Moor whose crossed arms caused his biceps to swell like a cobra before attacking, his dark face revealing nothing but swift retribution to anyone who would try to harm his master.

Behind the Moor were others of all races, united in their service to the card player. Some of the faces were young, out to sea only a few months. They had already discovered the pleasures of the foreign whore, and it was now time to discover other distractions.

Safer ones, too. No one ever caught diseases from playing cards.

Across the table from this group of sailors, a small collection of noblemen observed their friend silently debating whether he should ask for another card. One or two of these noblemen, newly arrived at the Spanish court, were a mad display of collars, lace, and finery. When their compatriots had said to them, ‘‘Let us enjoy the revels of the night,’’ they no doubt had pictured courtly dances, pretty young ladies-in-waiting, and perhaps a few spirited rounds at the tables. The Haven was a powerful lesson in the dangers of assumption. Their young, privileged faces kept twisting in revulsion at the putrid tavern smells and the erotic caterwauling filtering in from the next room.

The flutter of a lace handkerchief caught the attention of the nobleman now staring at the cards before him.

He shot one of the younger nobleman a look, his eyes darkening as he felt his concentration falter.

“Carlos!” He spat, “Si encuentras este sitio tan repulsivo, por que no guardas tu pañuelo, te compras un caballo y vuelves a España? Si cabalgas rápido, podrás llegar a Madrid a tiempo para que la niñera te cuente una historia antes de ir a dormir.’’

As the younger nobleman fired back a retort that drowned out the distractions outside their private room, the sailors standing behind their captain traded nervous glances. The Moor’s expression never changed in its intensity—not even when he noticed one Spanish soldier casually cleaning his pistol. On the Moor’s silent command, a few sailors slipped into a far corner of the room just opposite the soldier.

The captain could hear his men’s uneasy rustling behind him, but he kept concentrating on his hand. The loud diatribe between the two noblemen and the word “ España” being the only word intelligible to him was growing unsettling, however.

“My good Lords.” The captain leaned forward, looming over his neatly arranged cards. “I thought we agreed. English?”

His opponent’s friend could have been no more than twenty, a privileged pup who was unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner. The Spaniard muttered something under his breath, assured the captain did not need to know Spanish to realize he had just been insulted.

“Forgive the young Carlos,” the gentleman card player said with a smile. His accent was thick, but his upbringing still granted his speech a touch of refinement. “He is so headstrong, as is the youth of this age. I do hope his outburst has not blunted your courage.”

“On the contrary,” the captain replied. “I am waiting upon your wager, Lord Alvaro de Montiallo. I called your challenge, and then I returned with another.”

Lord Alvaro hesitated. Carlos’ handkerchief had taken his mind off the new bet. The pot in the centre had already reached thirty crowns, and the captain had just added an additional twenty shillings from his own pocket. All eyes now turned to him for a response.

He focused on his cards, silently cursing his priest’s sharp and powerful condemnations of cards and dicing.

If God did wish for us to resist such temptation, Lord Alvaro thought, his sight narrowing on the deck underneath the captain’s hand, why does He make the thrill of it so delicious?

From the soft murmurs he was hearing from his countrymen, he could detect a side-bet emerging as to whether the next card would be red or black…provided there would be another card. Lord Alvaro needed twenty shillings, and he had already surrendered his last coin in the previous wager. Of course, he could always part with a ring from one of his fingers. There was the ruby from Isabella…or perhaps the emerald from Maria? His eye fell upon the ring his wife had given him. Only if I am completely certain!

Then he recalled the small velvet pouch hanging from his neck. His salvation. If ever he needed its luck, it was now. With a soft laugh, he placed the brilliant coin upon the table.

“Alvaro,” noted the captain, sceptically noting the Spanish crest, “the date upon this coin is ‘1548,’ and we are just in the infancy of the Year of our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Forty-Seven.”

“Good Captain, that is a unique gold sovereign you hold—a rarity, at present. A coin waiting to be minted soon at the beginning of next year. The king himself granted me that coin upon my appointment.”

Several months ago, Lord Alvaro had been awarded the office of Keeper of the Crown’s Treasury for his amazing abilities with managing money. Only those closest to him—those who kept company with him this night—knew of his gambling habits. It was a secret best kept from the King of Spain, and Alvaro needed the appointment to provide him, and his company, access to a much larger coffer if needed.

“Is that so?” The captain nodded, turning the coin over. “Very well, then. Even if it is still destined to be produced, a sovereign is still a sovereign, I suppose.”

Lord Alvaro looked at his hand of eight-and-twenty. The game had come down to a single card, and that single card had to be a three. Taking a deep breath, he thought of his lucky gold sovereign and its odd rider slaying the beast with a spear-like weapon. Yes, his mind whispered to him in a voice carrying the undercurrent of another tongue underneath it. Draw now and reap your rewards...

“Card,” he spoke confidently.

The card landed face up before him: The Three of Hearts.

Cheers erupted from the Spaniards, soldiers and noblemen alike. Lord Alvaro’s victory signalled something far more significant than an increase in his personal currency. It was a victory for Spain. They clasped hands and laughed heartily while a fair-haired nobleman paid off a few shillings to settle his side bet against the red suits.

The older English sailors straightened to their full heights while the younger ones bowed their heads. The Moor masked his own disappointment as he looked to his captain, awaiting the order to take the crew back to the ship and prepare for the journey home. His eyes stayed fixed on his master’s face, now deathly pale.

Something was wrong.

The captain was now far from Portugal, lost in a realm of savage women whose beauty was paralleled only by their brutality. He pictured the savage queen, a woman of strength and cunning, along with vivid images of ancient, magical beings from folktales and myth. Then he returned to the horrifying vision that still haunted him in nightmares: the one of darkness and shadow coming to life, reaching all the way from Hell’s kingdom.

Once again, he was back in that realm across The Rift.

A journey triggered by a single coin.

“An amazing coin, do you not agree?” Lord Alvaro bellowed, eagerly retrieving his winnings.

“What occasion does this coin commemorate?” asked the captain, his eyes never leaving its design.

One of the Spaniards, his celebration abruptly ending with the privateer’s question, placed a warning hand upon the Lord Treasurer’s shoulder. Alvaro cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “Well, I am newly appointed in my office. I will find out once I become more acquainted with my duties. Now, good Captain, if you would please return my sovereign to me.”

The captain remained engrossed with the coin, but he did manage an answer for the Spanish nobleman.

“No.”

This was his men’s signal to quietly move into position, hands slipping around dagger hilts and concealed pistols.

Lord Alvaro rose from his chair with a slow grinding of heavy wood against the thick oak floorboards. They were perhaps three or four men short of the English. Many of those privateers were young, not as tried and tested as those in his company. It was despicable how this Englishman could not lose gracefully. So common.

“Perhaps I was foolish to believe we could behave as gentlemen and enjoy the revels of the tavern together.”

Lord Alvaro extended a bejewelled hand. “Please, my coin. I would not care for this evening to turn unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” The captain’s eyes finally left the sovereign with a disarming smile. “That could never happen, my friend, because I possess a charm of my own.”

“And pray, sirrah, what is that?”

The captain sat back in his chair. “Insurance.”

In a moment of swift and fluid action, blades reached from the room’s shadows and rested against the Spaniards’ necks. A cutlass quickly drew across a soldier’s arm, relieving him of his pistol. Rapiers fell to the floor with a clatter as English sword tips touched their chests and bellies. Then the silence returned, the tension much higher.

Carlos, who now felt a privateer’s grip on his neck and a blade in the small of his back, gave thanks that he had not indulged in a glass of wine or a pint of ale earlier. If he had, his fine clothes would now be ruined.

“I asked you about the coin.” The captain held it between his index finger and thumb, still studying the engraving.

“Alvaro,” one Spaniard warned him. “Not a word.”

Lord Alvaro could not stop shaking as the edge of another privateer’s blade pressed deeper into his smooth, pampered throat. While a nervous swallow would alleviate the dryness he felt there, he feared the action would push against the blade and break the skin.

“Captain,” he tittered nervously, “you must understand…I already told you, I am newly appointed in this position of Royal Treasurer.” The blade moved away from his neck so he could speak freely, but Alvaro’s voice remained a dry croak. “There are things I will be made aware of in time.”

The captain pulled out his pistol, an impressive piece of brass with an ivory handle that bore the skilful engraving of an endless Celtic knot. Shaking his head with an unnerving calm, he slowly primed the weapon in front of the Spanish.

“You are a man of luxury, Lord Alvaro de Montiallo, so I promise you this—your funeral will be most grand.” His eyes shifted to the young boy holding Lord Alvaro at knifepoint. “Dispatch him.”

The Spaniards flinched. So did the English. Privateers, commissioned soldiers, and royal guards shared far more in common than they cared to admit. One trait found in all of them was the responsibility for taking a life. For King and Country, or in defence of comrades, yes, but this nobleman was unarmed and posed no threat. Despite the two groups’ varied professions, the rules were understood.

“Sir?” the boy asked timidly.

“Did I stutter, Mister Grey?” the captain spat. “Kill him.”

The boy’s eyes returned to Lord Alvaro’s, which were wide and blurry with tears and sweat. Alvaro’s nervous panting filled his ears; as he pressed the blade deeper into Lord Alvaro’s neck, he could have sworn he also heard the nobleman’s rapid heartbeat. Grey did not understand the words the Spaniard was whispering with eyes tightly shut, but he could tell by the urgency that it was a prayer.

No, thought the young privateer, this is not right.

At the sound of the gunshot, Grey’s dagger flinched, its fine edge breaking Lord Alvaro’s skin. In the next instant, the nobleman’s body flew from his chair, knocking aside his gambling companions and slamming hard against the back wall.

Before the corpse hit the floor, Carlos and the remaining noblemen were restrained against the table, their faces pressed hard against the thick wood. They could still see the wisp of smoke slithering upward from the barrel of the captain’s pistol.

Please God, Carlos thought, have someone fetch the Master of the Watch. Someone must have heard the pistol shot and is fetching an officer.

But the revels continued outside the door, laughter and bawdy drinking songs rising and falling like waves lapping against the sides of a ship. No one was coming. No one outside the private room really cared, so long as they were not involved.

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Lord Alvaro gunned down without warning, but for a time, no one— especially the Spaniards, with their faces pressed into a table covered in English and Spanish coin—noticed the captain until he grabbed Mister Grey by the scruff of his neck. It was time for this boy to ascend into manhood. Tonight.

“Harris, Gower, there is a door at the end of this corridor that leads outside. Take our Spanish friends out for a night’s stroll. Once outside the village, you will watch young Mister Grey here dispatch them by cutting their throats. If Mister Grey fails to do so, you have my permission to dispatch them and young Mister Grey with them. Understood?”

Ian Grey was only in his fourth month with the Defiant. What was happening before him was very different from the stories he had heard from his friends, in the pubs, and in local seaport chronicles. As he stared at the two men struggling against the table, he saw the same terror he had seen in Lord Alvaro’s eyes just before he was killed. Now, Ian Grey was being given a choice: Either kill, or be killed.

“Aye, sir,” the boy chimed in with Harris and Gower, taking some comfort in seeing a moment’s hesitation in his crewmates’ eyes as well.

“The rest of you, to the ship. We set a course tonight.”

“Home, sir?” asked a crewman, his thick Welsh accent unable to mask the hope in his query.“No, Simmons. We must make a run for the Graveyard of Lost Ships.”

While Simmons and the Moor looked to each other in alarm, Harris gave Gower a nod. Young Mister Grey was at a loss as to why Gower was smiling.

“You have your orders,” the captain spoke evenly.

Harris and Gower picked up the two Spanish noblemen from the table and wrestled them out of the room, followed by the other privateers escorting the rest of the Spanish, then Grey bringing up the rear as he primed a pistol.

“Mister Khamal, a word.”

The Moor’s hand tightened on the doorframe. Grey has been dealt his punishment; now, it was to be his turn.

“Mister Khamal, tell me,” the captain asked, slipping on his fine leather gauntlets, “what is your position on board the Defiant?”

“First mate, sir,” Khamal’s deep voice answered softly.

“That it is. As my second, you are to set an example for the crew and supervise their training. Agreed?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tell me then, Mister Khamal, why didn’t Mister Grey carry out my order?”

Because, sir, you wanted him to kill in cold blood. Something Mister Grey knew was wrong. “I do not know, sir.”

The captain flipped his spent pistol, turning the butt of the handle toward Khamal. Even Khamal’s muscular frame was no match for the metal-and-ivory handle that was quickly driven deep into his stomach, expelling the breath from him in one strike. He crumpled to his knees before his captain, who was still as even and controlled as he was during the card game.

“It was because you failed to set a proper example. Stand up, man.”

Khamal pulled himself up to his full height, a good foot taller than his master, when the captain struck him again. This time, Khamal let out a small cry as he fell, his gasps turning into rough coughs.

“Mister Grey has been with us for four months. He should be harder than what I saw tonight. Any further insubordination from the crew, and I will hold you responsible. Am I clear, Mister Khamal?”

With help from the table’s lip, the Moor pulled himself up to his feet and took a deep breath, suppressing another cough. When his voice did return, his bass betrayed a hint of a rasp.

“Aye, Captain Bayliss.”

“Good.” The captain took the gold sovereign into his hand once more. “Collect tonight’s winnings and return to the Defiant. We set sail tonight for the Graveyard of Lost Ships. Mister Grey will take first watch.”

“Aye, sir.”

While Khamal collected the coins, the captain was captivated by an image opposite the Spanish king’s crest on the “lucky” sovereign. At first glance, the design appeared to be St. George slaying the dragon, but on closer inspection, the etching mocked the English legend. The fine details seemed the come alive the longer he gazed upon it.

A plan began to form in his mind. With his next command to his crew—a command he had once taken an oath never to give—he would give that plan a voice.

 

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