A Gust of Ill Tidings

Vernon gripped the helm, the oak slick with freezing spray, his knuckles white against the dark wood. The *Sea Wolf* bucked and yawed, each wave a heavy shoulder slamming against her hull. He was twenty, barely, but his hands knew the temper of this bay, the way it could turn from merely surly to outright murderous in a single squall. Tonight, it felt like it was testing him, a low, guttural growl in the wind.

“See anything, Dana?” he called over his shoulder, his voice raspy from the cold. The lookout, Dana, a year or two his junior, was lashed to the foremast, her small frame silhouetted against the tumultuous sky.

“Nothing but sea and misery, Vernon!” she shouted back, her breath pluming white. “Wait… hold on.” Her voice changed, sharpened. “Light. Low on the port bow. Not a star. Too steady for a fishing lamp. Looks like… a wreck?”

Vernon squinted, peering into the gloom. The *Sea Wolf* was making for the mouth of Crooked Inlet, a known bolthole for those wanting to avoid the Company patrols. He knew the rocks here, their jagged teeth hidden just beneath the surface, but a wreck… that was new. His heart thumped a quick, uneasy rhythm against his ribs. “Carson! Take the helm!”

Carson, a man whose beard seemed to collect ice crystals like iron filings, took his place, his hands as steady as anchors. “What is it, lad?”

“Dana says a wreck. Give me the spyglass.” Vernon snatched the brass cylinder, wiped the lens on his rough sleeve, and pressed it to his eye. The light resolved itself, not a single point, but a faint, flickering glow coming from behind what looked like the snapped mast of a small schooner. It was listing heavily, half-submerged on a treacherous reef known only to a few. Too small for a Company ship, too far off the regular routes for a merchantman. Privateer, then? Or worse, a smuggler who’d run aground?

“She’s a goner,” Carson grumbled, his breath a thick cloud. “No one’s getting off that in this weather.”

“Maybe not *off* it, but *from* it,” Vernon mused, a spark of avarice, or perhaps just stubborn curiosity, igniting in his gut. “Bring us about, slow and steady. We’ll take a look.”

Carson sighed, but didn’t argue. He knew Vernon’s instincts were often sharper than his own experience. The *Sea Wolf* groaned as she came about, fighting the wind, her canvas snapping like gunshots. The crew moved with the grim efficiency of men used to the sea's brutal demands, their movements economical, their faces etched with the cold.

A Ghost on the Reef

As they drew closer, the schooner became a gaunt skeleton, picked clean by the waves. Its name, ‘The Peregrine’, was barely visible in faded paint on its splintered stern. The faint light Dana had spotted was from a small lantern swinging wildly on a remaining shard of mast. The waves crashed over her deck, exposing and then swallowing a dark, square shape lashed to the main mast. Too large for a sea chest, too small for a cannon. Whatever it was, it was well-secured.

“Thom! Get the grapple ready. Dana, keep your eyes peeled. Anything moves out there, you let us know,” Vernon commanded, his voice tight. He watched the rogue waves, calculating. They’d have a few minutes, maybe, before the tide turned too ugly to attempt a boarding. He took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. This was either a fool’s errand or a stroke of luck.

Thom, a hulking man of few words but immense strength, swung the grapple with practiced ease. The iron claw bit into the splintered wood of the wreck. Vernon, with two other men, including a nervous young lad named Thomas, began to haul themselves across the choppy gap, the lines singing in protest. The schooner’s deck was a chaos of broken spars and swirling water. The air smelled of decay and brine.

“Careful, Vernon, she’s shifting,” Thomas whimpered, his eyes wide.

“Aye, she is,” Vernon agreed, his own heart hammering. They reached the large, dark object. It was a heavy wooden crate, bound with thick iron bands, strangely ornate for something abandoned on a wreck. He tried to pry it open, but it was sealed tight. “We’ll have to bring her aboard.”

Just as Vernon was about to signal Carson, a guttural roar ripped through the wind. “You’ll leave that where it lies, curr!”

Vernon whirled around. Out of the driving mist, a darker shape emerged, a cutter, leaner and meaner than the *Sea Wolf*, its black sails snapping. Its name, if he wasn’t mistaken, was the *Tempest*, captained by a cutthroat known only as ‘Crow’ – a man notorious for leaving nothing but bodies and splinters behind. Crow himself stood on the deck, a hulking figure, his face obscured by the swirling spray, a blunderbuss held aloft.

“Right, then,” Vernon muttered, a grin, tight and humourless, spreading across his face. “Crow’s here to collect his broken toy.”

“They’ve got a cannon!” Thomas shrieked, pointing. A single, small swivel gun was visible on the *Tempest*’s foredeck, already being manned.

“Carson! Get us out of here! Now!” Vernon bellowed, gesturing wildly. “Thom, get that crate ready! We’re pulling it across, come hell or high water!”

The cannon on the *Tempest* barked, a flash of orange fire against the gloom, followed by a dull thud as the shot splintered the remains of the *Peregrine*’s foremast. Wooden shrapnel flew. Vernon ducked, a sliver grazing his cheek. “Faster, you laggards! They’re not waiting for tea!”

Carson, a master at the helm, was already heeling the *Sea Wolf* hard to port, turning her broadside to catch the wind. The sails billowed, groaning. Thom, with a grunt of effort, secured the lines to the heavy crate and threw a coil of rope back to the *Sea Wolf*. The men on both sides hauled, their muscles straining, as the *Sea Wolf* began to pick up speed, dragging the crate across the frothing gap between the two vessels. It was a brutal, desperate ballet.

Another shot from the *Tempest* whistled past, splashing into the waves just ahead of the *Sea Wolf*’s bow. “That was a warning shot, Vernon!” Dana yelled, laughing nervously. “Next one won’t be so polite!”

“I’m counting on it!” Vernon retorted, scrambling back onto his own deck as the crate was wrestled aboard. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked. Thom grunted as he cut the lines. “Crow’s going to be in a foul mood when he sees we’ve taken his loot.”

The *Tempest* was gaining, its smaller, nimbler frame cutting through the waves with predatory grace. Vernon knew this stretch of water. It was a maze of half-submerged rocks, known only to the most reckless or the most experienced. He was both, tonight.

“Carson! Head for the Needle’s Eye! Full sail!”

Carson’s eyes widened. “The Needle’s Eye? You’re mad, lad! We’ll tear the bottom out!”

“Or we’ll lose our heads to Crow’s cannon! Your choice!” Vernon snapped back. He could practically feel Crow’s hungry gaze on their stern. It was a gamble, a desperate, heart-stopping run through a passage barely wide enough for the *Sea Wolf*, let alone with this wind.

The *Sea Wolf* plunged into the narrows, the rock faces rising like dark, wet teeth on either side. The wind funnelled through, screaming. Vernon felt the keel scrape, a terrible, grinding shriek that vibrated through the deck. Thomas let out a choked cry. “We’re holed! We’re holed!”

“We’re not holed until the water’s up to your chin, lad! Keep hauling!” Carson roared, wrestling the helm, his face grim. The *Sea Wolf* scraped again, harder this time, a sickening lurch. But then, she was through. The channel widened, and the *Tempest*, seeing the impossible manoeuvre, had fallen back, unwilling to risk its own hull on Vernon’s recklessness.

Contents of the Prize

They secured the crate in the hold, the ship groaning softly now, the ominous scraping having ceased. Below deck, the air was warmer, but no less tense. Vernon wiped his brow, the cold still clinging to his skin. “Right. Let’s see what Crow was so keen to keep.”

He and Thom set about prying open the crate. The iron bands resisted, groaning, but finally gave way with a splintering crack of wood. Inside, nestled in oilskins and straw, were not furs, or rum, or even gold. Instead, there was a stack of heavy, rolled parchment. Charts.

Vernon unrolled one, spreading it on a table under the dim glow of a lantern. His brow furrowed. It was a chart of Hudson Bay, familiar enough, but with new, meticulous markings. False shoals. Misleading depths. Entirely new, non-existent islands marked with peculiar symbols. Another, then another, each one detailing new, fabricated dangers.

“What in the blazes are these?” Dana asked, leaning over his shoulder, her brow furrowed.

“These aren’t real charts,” Vernon said slowly, tracing a phantom reef with his finger. “These are fakes. Designed to lead ships astray. To run them aground. Or… to funnel them into certain routes. Where, perhaps, other ships might be waiting.” His mind raced, connecting disparate pieces of information. A few recent disappearances, rumours of an unusually bold privateer operating in Company waters.

“But who would go to such trouble?” Thom rumbled, his voice low. “And why?”

“Someone wants to control these waters, Thom. Not just steal cargo, but dictate the flow of trade,” Vernon concluded, the ominous weight of their discovery settling heavily upon him. “Someone very powerful. And someone who doesn’t want these found. Which means Crow was either delivering them, or retrieving them.” He looked at the charts, a chill colder than the bay seeping into his bones. This wasn’t just about a bit of contraband. This was about something far larger, far more dangerous.

“So, we’ve just stolen from someone who makes a habit of sinking ships,” Dana said, a glint in her eye despite the gravity. “Always a good day, isn’t it?”

“Better than letting them get away with it,” Vernon countered, a grim determination setting in. “But it means Crow won’t just be angry. He’ll be desperate. And desperate men are dangerous.” He rolled the charts back up, the rustle of the parchment sounding like a whisper of trouble.

Later, much later, Vernon stood on deck again, the wind having died down to a cold sigh. The moon, a sliver of bone, peeked through a rent in the clouds, casting a weak, watery light across the vast expanse of the bay. The *Sea Wolf* was making good time now, away from the treacherous reefs and the pursuing *Tempest*.

He leaned against the rail, feeling the thrum of the timbers beneath his hand. The falsified charts were below, locked away, a silent testament to a scheme he barely understood. He thought of the phantom islands, the misleading depths, the ships that might have already met their end because of them. He thought of Crow, a predator, now a desperate one. A quiet dread settled in his chest, a heavy, cold stone. He had always loved the bay’s wildness, its unpredictable nature. But now, it felt less like a challenge and more like a vast, cold maw, waiting to swallow them whole. He didn’t know if this was courage, or just profound stupidity, but he also knew they couldn't turn back from this. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter. The autumn nights were getting longer, and the shadows they cast were growing deeper.

He glanced over the rail, the dark water churning below, stretching endlessly into the unknown, carrying with it the secrets of the ice, and the promise of a very hard winter.