The Count's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

The Count wanted a treasure that could enslave every drowned soul in the sea, but he stood on a dead shore with no ship to reach it. He wore his captain's coat and hat like a man born to a deck. He had studied the old charts for years. The cursed waters waited far past the horizon. He had no hull, no sail, no crew. A pirate without a ship was only a corpse in a fine costume. He walked the cracked mudflats at low tide, hunting driftwood he could lash into a raft. That was when he saw the vine. A thick purple stalk climbed from the mud, dotted with small buds and wide green leaves. It grew where nothing should grow. He pulled it, and it did not snap. Instead it slid free, and the earth beneath it groaned and cracked open. Below the broken ground lay a stair of black chain. The Count climbed down. The air turned cold and wet. At the bottom, a vast harbor opened under the shore, roofed by stone. He stopped breathing, though he had no need to breathe. Before him floated a graveyard of warships. Their hulls stacked upon each other, iron on iron, heavy with rust and hanging chains. Ice dripped from the gun barrels. Lamps glowed green in drowned windows. The ships were dead, but they were not empty. He could feel the crews inside, waiting. "These are mine," he said to the silence. The silence answered. A single owl dropped from the dark and landed on a chain near his hand. It wore a pale human mask, painted with a thin mustache and a fixed smile. One yellow eye fixed on him. It did not blink. "You want a ship," the owl said. Its voice was small and dry. "They all do. The armada takes a price for every hull it lends." The Count did not flinch. "Name it." "A soul to sail her. Yours, or one you bring in your place." The owl tilted its masked face. "Refuse, and the harbor keeps you here with the rest." The Count looked at the nearest warship. It was the largest, its prow tall as a cliff, its guns beyond counting. With that hull he could cross any water. With its ghost crew he could take the cursed treasure and rule the drowned. He would not give his own soul. So he lied, and said he would. He set his hand on the iron rail and swore the oath the owl demanded. The chains fell away. The dead warship shuddered, and its green lamps burned brighter. Cold hands he could not see took hold of the rigging. The hull began to move toward a gap in the stone roof, toward open sea. The owl settled on his shoulder. "The debt is sworn now," it said. "The sea always collects." The Count had his ship. He also had a price he never meant to pay.