ILLON IS BEAUTIFUL.
The sand is soft beneath his shoes, golden waves of it extending in either direction, lapped by the blue waves of the Ebony Ocean. Inland, the beach gives way to lush green vegetation: tall grasses and palm trees.
He raises his pistol, closing one eye to sight down the barrel. It jolts in his hands with a satisfying CRACK, and the bird drops out of the tree as if suddenly made of stone. Its wings twitch on the sand, flashing vivid blue and yellow. Moments later it is still.
Beautiful, but unprepared. Just like the village his scouts have uncovered on the far side of the island.
Tonight he will have his cooks pluck the bird and roast it for dinner.
And tomorrow, at dawn, they will kill the fishermen and burn their homes.
Two figures are approaching across the sand. One strides, tall, elegant and dressed all in white, a heavy broadsword on her back. Major Turnbull’s long blonde hair is loose, fluttering like a flag in the sea breeze. The other stumbles, wrists tied together with a bit of old rope. A scruffy old human with thinning hair, missing teeth and wide, terrified eyes. A prisoner. One of the few captured in the skirmish with the Fayter scout ship.
Worthless.
Perhaps.
‘Good day to you,’ says the Duke. ‘I believe you know who I am. And you … you are from Port Fayt, I take it?’ He pours gunpowder into the barrel of his pistol.
‘No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir. I’m just a smugg— a sailor, sir. From the Old World. Azurmouth.’ The man’s eyes flicker from side to side, as if in hope of escape. But there is none. Just the smooth golden sand stretching away from them.
‘Indeed?’ The Duke pulls back the hammer. ‘From Azurmouth. And yet you sail on a vessel with the Demon’s Watch.’
The smuggler licks his lips.
‘I – we came to spy on your fleet, sir, if truth be told. On the League. It was Newton who sent us. Captain Newton of the Watch.’
‘I have heard of the man.’
He sights down the barrel again. Another bird has landed in the branches of a tree, even closer this time. It is almost too easy.
‘What of the others? Your fellow … “sailors”.’
The smuggler swallows.
‘Our ship was pulled down below. By merfolk, sir. They took Captain Clagg and most of the crew. And the watchmen. I don’t know why. You have to believe me, sir.’
Merfolk.
Interesting.
‘Well then. That will be all.’
He swings the pistol round, resting it against the man’s forehead. At once the smuggler begins to whimper, weeping and begging.
He savours it.
‘My friend,’ he says softly, ‘you are scarcely worth the waste of shot.’
The man’s eyes go wide as the pistol is removed. As the Duke lets the hammer go and steps back. There is shock and gratitude in his eyes. Hope.
Delicious.
Even as Major Turnbull slides the sword out of its sheath.
Even as it glints, held high in the glorious sunshine.