Tide of the Grave

Chapter 4: The Drowned Battalion

"I’m a mortician," Vesper said, his grin mirroring her own defiance. "I’m an expert at making sure things stay down. Let’s show them why they shouldn't mess with a man who talks to the departed."

Cassian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, her hand tight on the hilt of her sword. "You’ve got a strange way of finding your backbone, Vesper, but I’ll take it. What’s the plan, oh master of the macabre? We can’t just walk out there and start a riot."

Vesper glanced at the black sand beach where the torches bobbed like angry fireflies. "No, we don't walk. We swim, and then we wake the neighborhood. Look at the water, Cassian. Really look."

Cassian squinted, her eyes tracing the dark, oily surface of the cove. "It’s just water. Cold, miserable harbor water."

"It’s a graveyard," Vesper corrected, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, haunting cadence. "The Siren’s Call wasn't the first ship Sterling wrecked to clear his path to power. There are ribs of galleons beneath that tide, and for every rib, there’s a soul that never got a proper burial. They’re stuck, cold, and itching for a fight."

"You want to raise an army of drowned sailors?" Cassian’s eyebrows arched. "That’s a bit ambitious for a man who gets woozy after animating a mop, don't you think?"

Vesper stepped out of the skiff, his boots sinking into the wet, cold sand. He felt the pull—a massive, humming vibration beneath his feet. "I wasn't trying when I did the mop. I was panicked. Now, I’m annoyed. There’s a difference in quality."

"Annoyed?" Cassian hopped out beside him, her boots splashing softly. "You’re going to threaten the local guard with a squad of waterlogged ghosts because you’re annoyed?"

"They ruined my shop, Cassian. They burned my father’s legacy, they broke my favorite skeleton, and they’re currently making my evening very inconvenient," Vesper retorted, his eyes glowing with that intense, blinding white light. "Besides, you said you wanted your ship back. You can't board it with just the two of us."

"Fair point," she muttered, though she kept a wary eye on the approaching scouts. "How long does it take? Because those boys are about fifty yards out and they look like they’ve brought crossbows."

Vesper reached down, his fingers plunging into the dark, frigid water. He didn't just touch it; he pushed his consciousness into the muck, the debris, and the sorrow of the seabed. "I need a moment of focus. Keep them busy for ten heartbeats."

Cassian drew her cutlass, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. "Ten heartbeats? I can give you twenty if I throw a few insults in. Just make sure they’re the angry kind of ghost, not the ‘let me tell you about my gout’ kind."

"Go!" Vesper hissed, his head dropping as the icy pressure of a thousand souls flooded his mind.

He heard the clash of steel, the muffled shouts of the scouts, and Cassian’s melodic, dangerous laughter cutting through the night. But mostly, he heard the whispers. A cacophony of voices—wet, gargling, and bitter. They were starving for agency, tired of the currents dragging them into the abyss.

You want to serve? Vesper’s mind projected, the question echoing in the silent, watery dark. Sterling is just up the beach. He’s the reason you’re down here. He’s the reason you aren't home.

A wave of cold surged up his arms, turning his veins a stark, luminescent white. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. Was this right? To drag them from the quiet of the void just to fuel a vendetta?

"They aren't resting, Vesper," a voice rasped in his ear—a gravelly, drowned-man's whisper.

Vesper flinched, his eyes snapping open. A translucent, dripping figure stood before him. It was a quartermaster, face bloated and eyes glowing with the same eerie light Vesper felt in his own chest.

"They aren't resting, boy," the spirit repeated, his voice sounding like bubbles rising to the surface. "We’re pacing. We’ve been waiting for someone to point us at that bastard’s throat."

Vesper swallowed hard, his heart hammering. "You’re... you’re not angry at me?"

"We’re angry at the one who put the anchor on our chains," the spirit hissed, pointing toward the torchlight. "Give us the order."

"Vesper!" Cassian’s voice strained with exertion. "I’m running out of heartbeats! Unless you’ve got a navy, I’m going to have to start retreating, and I don't like running!"

Vesper stood up, his posture shifting. He felt older, colder, and infinitely more dangerous. He raised his hands, and the water of the cove began to churn. Great, barnacle-crusted shapes emerged from the foam—not the living, but the remnants of the lost.

"Gentlemen," Vesper whispered, his voice carrying an unnatural, booming resonance. "The shore is yours."

The sand erupted. Dozens of shadowy, dripping figures surged forward, blades of rusted iron and ghostly cutlasses shimmering in the gloom. The scouts on the beach stopped dead, their torches wavering as they watched the tide literally walk toward them.

"What in the hell is that?" one of the guards screamed, backing away so fast he tripped over his own scabbard.

"It’s a promotion," Cassian quipped, wiping a speck of seawater from her cheek as she stepped back toward Vesper. She looked at the army of the drowned, then up at Vesper, her expression softening into something like awe. "You really are a piece of work, aren't you?"

Vesper leaned against her, his body trembling as the energy began to drain him. "I think I need a chair. And maybe a very large sandwich."

Cassian caught him, her arm firm around his waist. She held him close, shielding him from the chaos of the fray. "You can have a whole bakery when this is over, you magnificent, terrifying man."

The fight was short. It wasn't really a fight; it was a rout. The guards, faced with an enemy that didn't bleed and couldn't be killed, threw down their weapons and fled into the fog, screaming about demons and sorcery.

As the last of them vanished, the spirits slowed, drifting aimlessly back toward the water. Vesper felt the link fading, leaving him cold and hollow.

"They're going back," Cassian noted, watching the specters dissolve into the mist. "Does that mean they're done?"

"They're tired," Vesper whispered, his head resting on her shoulder. "But they’re closer to the surface now. They’ll be ready when we reach the Siren’s Call."

"Good." Cassian turned his face toward hers, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. The moonlight caught the intensity in her eyes, a look that made Vesper’s breath hitch. "You did well, Vesper. Better than I could have hoped."

"I told you," Vesper murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I’m an expert at managing the dead. Now, tell me, is there a secret to the ship, or is it just another boat?"

The quartermaster’s spirit, still lingering near the edge of the water, drifted closer. It leaned toward Vesper, its face a mask of brine and sorrow.

"The ship," the ghost whispered, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. "It’s not just about the manifest, boy. Sterling isn't keeping it for the gold. He’s using the cargo hold as a siphon. He’s feeding the Siren’s Call with something darker than we ever knew. He’s not building a fleet. He’s building a bridge."

Vesper’s eyes widened, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "A bridge to where?"

The spirit began to fade, his form turning into nothing more than sea foam and shadow. "To the place where the tide never ends. He wants to call back the King of the Depths."

Cassian froze, her hand tightening on her sword. "What is he talking about? A bridge?"

Vesper looked at the dark, roiling water, a chill deeper than the sea settling into his bones. "I think," he said, his voice barely a tremor in the night air, "we’re going to need a much larger army."