The Thrice Born Read online

  Immediately the men dispersed around the statues at the opening of the circle, blades drawn and ready for what surely seemed an attack. The wispy clouds above swirled in the rising wind where more of the creatures waited, posed, as if to watch the battle.

  “Disgusting,” Albert mumbled to no one. He looked from the darkening sky heavy with the creatures to where some of them were touching down on the ground, and then braced himself for the fight. “Even the morning sun hides from them.”

  The Captain held his ground as some of the crewmen slowly eased back from the perimeter of trees. “What do you make of this, Rufio?”

  Beside him Rufio was also watching the winged creatures hovering over the circle, an unnatural hunger in their faces as they searched the trees for the men on the ground, awaiting any to enter the circle. “These, these creatures,” he said in a low tone, “they look fragile.” He watched one as its spindly wings flapped to keep it airborne. Rufio chuckled louder, bolder. “Look at them! We can take them with our swords!”

  The Captain nodded, eyes steady on the demonic beings. “They look like supernatural creatures,” he said in slow realization. “Who knows what powers they possess?”

  “Fallen angels.”

  The crewmen within hearing distance all looked to Rufio as he said it.

  “Weakened by their treason,” Rufio added.

  The Captain straightened, his swords lowering at his sides. “My God, are you saying they’re Nephilim? The Devil’s host?”

  Rufio hand gripped tighter on his sword hilt. “Aye, I’m saying whatever they are,” he said with a nod, “we can take them. There’s only one way to find out.”

  He turned to the men standing to the other side of the Captain. Fear shone in their rugged faces, but this was not the fear usually accompanying the fight on an English ship at sea. This was another fear, the grounded fear of the unknown.

  He growled a curse. “Do any of you cowards dare join me in battle?”

  Three sailors immediately nodded and stepped past the others to Rufio.

  The Captain looked to them, and then Rufio. “I think it unwise.”

  “We’re land bound, Capitán,” Rufio said, “with all respect due your station; this chance is each man’s own choice.”

  The Captain was about to say more, but Rufio shouldered his way back to the tree covered path leading between the tall statues. Three men followed him.

  Above the circle the Nephilim swooped lower, their screeching higher-pitched as they watched the four men approach, blades drawn. Rufio mentally crossed himself, tasting adrenalin as he stepped cautiously into the circle, followed by the sailors.

  “Nephilim trash,” he muttered.

  As if taking a silent cue from the words, the creatures attacked with an ear-splitting cry. They swooped down on the four armed men in the circle, wings flapping and teeth bared.

  “Holy Mother,” Rufio breathed, and raised his sword as a creature headed for him. He mentally girded himself and slashed at the hideous thing, the blade slicing air as the creature dodged and sent a flurry of wings battering him.

  Rufio bent his other arm over his face at the buffet, the rough leathery wings slapping his face and shoulders sharply, nearly making him lose his hold on his sword. An angry shriek blasted his face and the creature nearly sent him tumbling to the ground with a savage smash of one wing.

  He kept his feet, seeing the other men fending off the creatures as best they could while being beaten by the Nephilim with wings, clawed by the long talons at the end of those wings. Rufio refused the cry in his throat as the creature before him grabbed his arm, razor-sharp nails sinking into his flesh as its hideous face screeched and opened its mouth wide to expose a double row of pointy teeth.

  Around him the chaos was heavy in the rain and prematurely darkening sky, men’s screams and agonizing oaths mixing with the sound of wings beating man and air. Rufio wrenched his arm free, feeling the Nephilim’s skin tear. He sent a powerful backhand across the creature’s torso, the blade slicing into the thin, scaly skin of his attacker. For a moment it was a give and take of flesh-wrenching strikes and counterstrikes, curses and shrieks, as each of the four men battled back against their outnumbered foe.

  Rufio’s sword slashed through the rain, his blade edge opening the taut Nephilim’s hide. Black blood oozed, a foul stench filling the air. It was another several moments of fierce battle until the men from the ship realized they were winning. Barely, but winning. They beat the savage creature back to the far side of the circle near the throne.

  A cry of Spanish victory came from two of the sailors, egging Rufio and the fourth man to grin at the gaunt, winged creatures as they ignored the cutting fangs and talons.

  But it was a victory too soon called; one of the largest, most grotesque creatures grabbed a crewman by his shoulders, talons piercing his flesh as it lifted him from the ground.

  The man screamed in agony and terror, his sword jabbing desperately into the gargoyle-like beast’s underbelly as it lifted him higher into the rain-pelted air. It was joined by three other Nephilim, each with claws embedded in the man’s body. They shot up, disappearing into the thick gray clouds with their prey.

  Rufio paused only momentarily, watching in horror as the sailor was swallowed up in rain and storm cloud.

  “Retreat!” the Captain’s voice cried over the screeching and rain. “All men to the boats! Come, Rufio!”

  The remaining two sailors with Rufio backed quickly away from the circle, still fighting off the creatures. Rufio drew the long knife from his belt, brandishing it as another creature attacked him from one side.

  He was vaguely aware of the crewmen watching the battle obey their captain and make a hasty retreat down the line of golden statues back to the shore. He looked up to the sky. There was no sign of the captured seaman. He glanced to his two comrades.

  Each were still fighting, bloodied and weary, the rain washing away the thick black blood oozing from the creatures’ wounds that splattered them. He turned and slashed at the second Nephilim that snapped at his arm. A flash of the knife severed half its claw-like hand. Enraged, it knocked him nearly to the ground with a stinging swipe of gristly wing.

  “To the ship!” he cried to the two men. “Follow the Capitán!”

  Within seconds the three men abandoned the fight and joined the retreat. For twenty minutes it was a frantic stampede of sailors through the dark, rainy trail of tall gold figurines, the glittering statues seeming to mock their plight as the Nephilim gave winged chase.

  At the shore the crew immediately pushed off the three long boats pulled onto the sandy waters and climbed in to row for the safety of the El tesoro del cielo anchored in the cove farther out.

  “Quickly, men!” the Captain shouted as every man scrambled into the boats and grabbed for oars.

  A whoosh of wings followed them out of the statue-lined trail, the creatures in angry pursuit.

  Rufio turned in his boat just in time to see one of the other boats mobbed by half a dozen of the creatures. The cries of men filled the dark air as the screeching beasts clawed and pushed at them. Men raised oars and swords to fight back, but within mere seconds the boat was pushed into the water by a horde of the creatures. The men thrashed back and tried to swim to the closest boat, but the Nephilim followed.

  The Captain, Rufio, Albert and the other three men of the third chinchorro watched in horror as the creatures beat down the men of the second boat, drowning the remaining crew trying to swim away.

  “Pull for the ship, men!” the Captain ordered, both swords in his hands as the Nephilim looked their way.

  Every muscle in the four men pulling at the oars strained as half a dozen creatures swooped in on them from behind the boat. For fifteen grueling minutes the men rowed for their lives as Rufio and the Captain fought off the swarm of creatures with swords and knives. As the boat neared the ship, the air lightened, the rain falling away. The screeching did, too.

  Bloody and ripped, th
e crewmen looked behind them to see the Nephilim whirling around to return to the drizzling gray of the cove near the shore. The Captain looked to the ship, and then Rufio.

  “Even the light of the sun has turned its back on us, as the Father did the Son,” he said, looking skyward at the misting, gray clouds above them. He glanced back to Rufio.

  “God’s back,” Rufio said, wiping the blood and thick, black slime from his face with his torn sleeve. “God has turned his back on this place.”

  The boat eased up to the wooden hull of the ship and a chorus of cries went up from the crew still aboard.

  “God’s blood, what was that?” one man called down from where he leaned at the rail. “Looked like Hell gave up its best!”

  Rope ladders were thrown over the side as other sailors readied the winch to pull up the chinchorro.

  “One boat, Capitán?” the quartermaster called down to them from where he waited at the rail’s gangplank entry.

  The Captain stood up in the boat, eyes still on the dark waters and atmosphere hanging behind them in the cove. “Everyone aboard,” he ordered, searching the quiet waters. The rain suddenly shifted, growing cooler, and fell harder. “Quickly, men; these waters are cursed.”

  The crew made short work of boarding the El tesoro del cielo. The long boat was lifted and secured, and the crew that had remained aboard the ship gleefully examined the small chest of jewels and coins that had survived the trip. One man knelt and lifted the lid completely open, and was about to plunge his hand into its depths when the Captain snapped it shut.

  “Not now,” he growled at the crewman, leveling a look of disappointment on him. “Those creatures might be back. There is time enough for shares later.” He turned to the rest of the men surrounding them, each eager to get their first glimpse of the voyage’s booty. “Listen now, men; no hand on any treasure until we’ve cleared these waters.” He looked back to the misty dark of the shore waters. “First we get out of here.”

  No one noticed Albert slip away below deck to the forecastle. Few cared for the Englishman, and fewer would have cared had he been one of the drowned men in the cove. The gray darkness that hovered over the ship suddenly thickened, appearing as if early twilight had descended on the afternoon.

  Rufio looked to the growing darkness, and then to the Captain at the port rail where he was speaking with Estefano. An eerie silence hung over the ship’s deck, growing more forceful as the dark pressed on every man. The cove shoreline was impossible to see, the dark obscuring the day.

  Rufio joined Estefano and all three men watched for any sign of the creatures’ return.

  “Are they coming back?” the Captain wondered aloud. He scowled at the stillness, searching for any sign of movement.

  Rufio shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “They’re very quiet. I know we haven’t beaten them,” the Captain admitted reluctantly.

  Estefano’s eyes darted along the waters, the only sound the lapping of water against the hull in the gray cove waters.

  “Maybe they’re regrouping,” Rufio said.

  “We should leave, Capitán,” Estefano said, fear tingeing his tone. “Now!”

  Rufio looked to the Captain. “No! Not yet!”

  “You want to fight them, Rufio?” the Captain asked incredulously. “For the gold?”

  Rufio’s face darkened, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. “No. The hell with the gold.”

  “Now, Capitán, yes,” Estefano pleaded, all bravery gone as he looked to the sky beginning to swirl with darker clouds.

  The Captain still watched Rufio. “Then why not leave?”

  A rare twinge of guilt passed through Rufio, knowing his role in encouraging the three men to fight with him at the circle. “We’re leaving good men behind.”

  The Captain clapped a hand on Rufio’s torn and blood-stained shoulder. “It was a valiant fight; but I cannot sail up to the clouds, my friend. I would if I could.”

  Rufio glanced back to the island. Darker shapes began to form in the gray. “If we could wait,” he said, eyes searching for any sign of survivors in the water. “Just a bit ... for –”

  “No time.” The Captain turned to Estefano. “Hoist anchor and turn us about!”

  The first mate grinned in relief. He pivoted and looked to the helmsman at the quarterdeck. “Set sail! South by southwest.” He cast a mournful glance to the dark water of the cove. “Take it slow.”

  Rufio gave Estefano a sour look, and then took his bearings, judging the ship’s distance from the unseen shoreline. “We’d have to be broadside to the island to use cannon,” he told the Captain. “We’re defenseless if we retreat like this.”

  The Captain nodded, eyes skimming the dark. He turned to give a cursory search of the main deck. “Where’s Albert?” He waved to the quartermaster. “Get the guns up! Every cannon we can move to the aft deck!”

  Rufio looked to the high deck at the rear of the ship. The El tesoro del cielo was a twelve-gun ship, modest for its time but well-equipped enough to make it a challenging force against the Spanish or English navy. Six cannon ports lined each side of the hull high above the waterline, but none of these were usable when sailing away from an enemy. The cannon master took his orders from the quartermaster and every cannon light enough to lift to the main deck was brought up from the lower decks to be shifted into position at the ship’s rear.

  “Where’s Albert?” the Captain called to anyone within earshot. This was clearly the English seaman’s department and he wanted a knowledgeable head to oversee any cannon fire needed. “Albert! Albert!”

  Below deck in the forecastle, Albert had made his way to the sleeping quarters for the crew. They were dark, cramped, with every beam slung with hammocks and the hull sides shelved with bunks. Only a few small oil lanterns were burning as he made his way through the body odor stench of the dim quarters to his bunk.

  The fight on the island had baffled him; the treasure in the waters delighted him.

  He smiled as he slunk into his lower berth, his precious loot wrapped in his shirt against his stomach. Far above him he heard the footfalls of sailors making way, his mind already on the hidden treasure he alone had salvaged.

  He let it slip from his shirt. It was one of the smallest golden statues from the sandy beach of the island. It had easily come out of the ground when he found it, unbeknownst to the rest of the crew who’d gone ashore. It was two hands tall, its severely beautiful, stern face staring back at him in dusty glory. He smoothed its robe, fingers feeling the wings of the gold.

  Above him the bunk creaked, and Albert quickly wrapped both arms over his shirt, hiding most of the statue.

  From above a young Spanish man named Chapado looked down at him. He had a flat, simple face, an idiot look to him, and the Captain had only kept him on as a shantyman for the crew’s spirits. Some sailors joked he was a eunuch, some a simpleton. Albert didn’t like him, despite his pleasing falsetto.

  “What’re you doing here, capon?” Albert growled.

  The man frowned. “No. My name is Chapado. You always get it wrong. Not capon.”

  Albert was in no mood for the simpleton. “Everyone calls you capon. Why are you down here sleeping when there’s ...” He didn’t finish, watching the younger sailor’s eyes rest on his shirt.

  Chapado grinned, having seen a flash of gold. “What’s that?”

  Albert wrapped the statue more securely in his shirt. “Shut up or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  Chapado grinned wider, looking more foolish than usual. “That’s gold. I seen it. The rumors are true?”

  “Aye, but you say a word and –”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Chapado said importantly. “But if the Capitán or Rufio found out —”

  He stopped speaking as Albert’s hand came up from under his shirt with a dagger. The tip angled at Chapado’s throat, his grin fading.

  “But they won’t, will they, capon?” Albert took out the small statue, its
gold glinting in the dank quarters’ ill light.

  Chapado looked at the statue, easing back from the knife blade. “They’ll hang you, Capitán will. In the blink of an eye.”

  Albert’s eyes were on the statue, his gaze following the sleek lines of fine craftsmanship, the knife lowering in his hand. “With this I’ll build my castle in Madrid.”

  There was a lurch of the ship, and then the rumble of heavy movements. Albert sat up quickly and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He tucked the statue well under his blankets and listened.

  “Those are cannons,” he murmured, but not to Chapado. “They’re moving the cannons!”

  Up on deck the Captain and Rufio were still watching the darkness as the indiscernible objects began to take shape. To their horror the sound of large wings flapping and the high-pitched scream of the Nephilim grew incessantly louder as a horde of airborne creatures charged the ship. The crew that had not gone ashore gasped in awestruck terror as the scores of beasts crowded the dark skies.

  “Prepare for battle!” the Captain commanded his gawking men. “Battle stations!”

  Within moments the deck was alive with sailors drawing swords and knives, the few cannon at the aft deck quickly loaded. As if sensing the greatest threat, a group of Nephilim descended on the rear deck and smashed at the cannons with their wings, sweeping them to the rail. Wood splintered and the cannons fell overboard like playthings.

  The air was thick with them, the creatures’ wings and claws tearing the crewmen’s clothing and flesh, swords flashing as the men tried to fight off the massive attack. Rufio took down three of the beasts before he was thrown to a mast post by a large Nephilim with black dripping from its mouth. Everywhere was the sound of wings beating, men screaming and wood crashing. At first the crew of the Tesoro seemed to be winning, with winged bodies dropping into the waters until the cove churned black and scaly green, but more and more of the creatures came.

  It was a losing battle, and the Captain knew it. So did Rufio.

  He made his way across the deck where injured sailors and winged bodies were amounting, dodging individual fights to reach the Captain.