The Raven's Reckoning

‘Another run, then,’ Edgar muttered, his voice scraped raw from the wind, not quite a question. Edmund didn’t look at him. Didn't need to. He could feel the question hanging there, thick as the bay fog that still clung to the water’s edge despite the late July sun trying its best to burn through.

The *Raven* groaned beneath them, a living thing settling its ancient bones. Edmund’s hand, calloused despite his youth, traced the worn grain of the mast. The wood felt warm, almost alive, carrying the shudder of the rigging as the light breeze picked up. He tasted salt, sharp and metallic, on his lips.

‘Aye. And a tight one, by the looks,’ Edmund finally replied, his gaze fixed on the shifting, indistinct line where the sea met the horizon. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his belly, a cold, hard stone. It wasn’t courage, this feeling, but something like a tired resignation, a well-worn path through a constant fear.

Edgar spat into the dark water, the sound swallowed by the lap of waves against the hull. ‘Heard tell the cutters are out. Farther north than usual. Looking for… well, looking for us, aren’t they?’ He fidgeted with the frayed cuff of his jacket, his knees knocking together slightly as the ship dipped.

Edmund sighed, a sound thin against the vastness of the bay. ‘They’re always looking, Edgar. That’s their job. Ours is to be quicker.’ He pushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. It stuck there, insistent. The air was heavy, humid, the kind of summer air that promised a sudden, drenching squall even if the sky looked clear.

‘Quicker ain’t what the *Raven* does anymore, Edmund. She’s old. We’re old,’ Edgar grumbled, his voice barely a whisper. He kicked at a loose coil of rope. His brother had been on a similar run, last spring. Hadn't come back. The thought was a familiar, unwelcome guest in Edmund's own mind.

Jebediah’s booming voice cut through the early morning stillness, a rasp of thunder. ‘Look alive, lads! Wind’s shifting. Get that foresail trimmed, Edmund! You too, Edgar, stop yer gawkin’!’

Edmund flinched, then snapped to attention, the captain’s words a cold splash of reality. He didn’t need the prodding. He was already moving, his boots finding purchase on the slick deck, the old timbers complaining underfoot. He caught Edgar’s eye, a quick, grim exchange. Responsibility. It wasn’t a choice, not really. It was just… what you did.

The Grey Hound's Teeth

Hours later, the sun, now a brazen, unforgiving eye in a cloudless sky, beat down on the *Raven*. The air shimmered above the water, distorting the distant coastline into an uneven, watery smear. Edmund, now at the helm, felt the burn of sun on his neck, the relentless pressure of the wheel under his hands. His focus was absolute, every nerve ending alive, translating the ship's subtle movements into swift, precise adjustments.

‘Sail ho!’ Jonathon, the bosun, a man whose face was a roadmap of sun and salt, roared from the crow’s nest. His voice, usually gruff, held a note of genuine alarm.

Edmund didn’t need to ask. He’d felt it, a change in the air, a sharpening. His eyes scanned the shimmering expanse of the bay. There it was. A speck, growing. Too fast. Too low in the water. ‘Cutter,’ he breathed, the word a curse. His throat felt dry, a sandpaper rasp.

‘Course change, Captain?’ Jebediah bellowed, his voice betraying a hint of desperation. Edmund glanced at the captain, who stood by the mainmast, eyes narrowed, already calculating. The old man’s face, usually ruddy, was now a pale, drawn grey. He gripped the mast so hard his knuckles were white.

‘Aye! Hard to port! Cut through the narrows, Edmund! She’ll never follow us in there, not with that draught!’ Jebediah pointed towards a treacherous stretch of islands, a labyrinth of rocky shoals and shallow channels known only to a few. It was a gamble. One mistake and they’d be aground, easy pickings.

Edmund nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drum. He spun the wheel, muscles straining. The *Raven* heeled over, groaning anew, protesting the sudden shift. Canvas snapped above them, a gunshot sound. Edgar and the other lads scrambled to adjust the sails, their movements clumsy in their haste, fear a palpable thing in the air.

The cutter, now unmistakably a sleek, menacing greyhound of a ship, gained on them, its white sails taut, straining. Edmund could make out the glint of brass, the dark uniforms of the King’s men. He could feel their eyes on him, a prickling sensation on his skin. He was vaguely aware of a splinter in his palm, a sharp, tiny pain, but he barely registered it.

‘Hold steady, Edmund!’ Jebediah roared, his voice now a steadying force. ‘Watch that reef, starboard! She’ll rip us open!’

The reef was a dark scar just beneath the water’s surface, a jagged maw waiting to tear the *Raven*'s belly open. Edmund gritted his teeth, his eyes darting between the chart, the reef, and the rapidly approaching cutter. The ship was lurching, waves slapping over the bow, soaking him to the bone. He felt the cold spray on his face, tasting the raw, wild salt.

He pushed the helm harder, coaxing the old ship through a gap that seemed impossibly narrow, barely wider than the *Raven* herself. The cutter, close enough now for Edmund to see the determined faces of the officers on its deck, hesitated, then followed, emboldened. A fool’s move. He could hear the shouts from their deck, fragments carried on the wind.

‘Too close, you damn fools,’ Edmund muttered under his breath. He saw the reef again, a wider, crueler one this time, lurking just ahead, partially submerged. He knew this channel. He knew the hidden currents, the deceitful depths. He had spent his childhood charting these waters, not with maps, but with memory and the feel of the current beneath his dinghy.

With a guttural yell, Edmund threw the wheel hard over, calling out commands to the crew that were almost lost in the wind. The *Raven* lurched violently. The cutter, committed to its pursuit, couldn't react fast enough. There was a sickening crunch, a roar of wood tearing, followed by a chorus of shouts and curses from the King’s ship. Edmund risked a glance back. The cutter was listing heavily, its bow impaled on the reef, sails flapping uselessly.

A wave of relief, hot and dizzying, washed over him, immediately followed by the bitter taste of bile. They were safe. For now. But the image of the crippled cutter, a broken bird, would stay with him.

The air tasted of triumph and exhaustion. The sun was well past its zenith when they finally dropped anchor in a secluded cove, its shores fringed with thick, dark spruce. The forest smelled of damp moss and rotting pine needles, a heavy, earthy perfume. The only sounds were the distant caw of a raven, the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, and the ragged breathing of the crew as they began to offload the bundles of illicit tobacco and rum.

Edmund felt every ache in his body now. His shoulders throbbed. The splinter in his palm still burned. He jumped awkwardly from the ship's side onto the rocky shore, his ankle twisting slightly. He scraped his hand against the barnacle-crusted hull, a sharp, dull pain, but he hardly noticed.

Edgar, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead, dropped a heavy sack of tobacco onto the pile. ‘That was… something, eh, Edmund?’ He grinned, a wide, tired, triumphant flash of teeth. ‘Thought we were done for, I did. You really stuck it to 'em.’ He nudged Edmund with his elbow, a crude attempt at camaraderie.

Edmund managed a weak smile. ‘Luck, mostly. And their captain was an idiot.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the grit of salt and dried sweat. His shirt clung to him, heavy and uncomfortable. He could hear the hum of a particularly aggressive mosquito somewhere near his ear. He swatted at it, missing.

Jebediah, however, showed no signs of celebration. He stalked among the crew, his gaze sharp, his movements surprisingly agile for a man of his years. He watched them, his expression unreadable, then beckoned Edmund with a curt nod.

Edmund followed, his boots scuffing on the loose stones, the silence between them suddenly thick with unspoken meaning. They walked to a small, sheltered hollow in the rocks, where Jebediah kept a canvas-wrapped chest hidden. The captain knelt, fumbling with a rusty padlock, his fingers surprisingly nimble.

‘Good work today, lad. Saved our skins, you did,’ Jebediah said, his voice low, devoid of its usual bluster. He pulled a rolled, oilskin-wrapped parchment from the chest, its edges brittle with age. It looked less like a map and more like a secret, something unearthed from the very past itself.

Edmund swallowed, a dry, nervous sound. ‘Thank you, Captain.’ He watched the captain unroll the parchment on a flat rock. It wasn’t a chart of known channels or safe harbours. It was a crude, hand-drawn map, covered in symbols and spidery script he didn't recognise. His brow furrowed. This was different.

‘This ain’t another run, Edmund. Not like the last. This is… a reclamation.’ Jebediah’s eyes, usually sharp with shrewdness, were now clouded, distant, like he was looking at something far away, or deep within himself. He traced a finger along a jagged line on the map. ‘There’s something out there. Something important. Hidden for decades. Too long.’

Edmund leaned closer, trying to decipher the strange markings. ‘What is it, Captain? Where?’ He felt a chill, despite the humid summer air. The air in the hollow suddenly felt colder, heavier. He saw a tiny spider, black as coal, scurry across the rock next to the parchment, disappearing into a crack.

Jebediah looked up, his gaze locking with Edmund’s. His eyes held a fierce, desperate glint. ‘Gold, lad. Or rather, the means to claim it. A legend, some might say. Buried deep in the ice, up past the barren lands, where few dare to tread. But first…’ He paused, his finger tapping a small, circled X near the bottom of the map, a place far to the north, beyond the familiar smuggling routes. ‘First, we need the key. And that, Edmund, is where you come in. There's a particular old fisherman, a loner, who knows the way to this spot. He's got a piece of this puzzle, a cipher. He'll be in Rupert's House, within the week. You'll go alone. Get it. Bring it back. Undetected. There will be others looking for it, mind. Others who would kill for what’s marked here.’

Edmund stared at the map, then at his captain. Rupert’s House. A trading post deep in Cree territory, a bustling hub, and a hotbed of whispers and rivalries. A place he’d never been, notorious for its dangers, its unpredictable tides of fortune. He felt a shiver, not of fear, but of anticipation, or perhaps a strange cocktail of both. This wasn’t just a smuggling run. This was… a hunt. A dangerous, solitary, utterly vital hunt.

He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second, standing there with the secret unrolled before him, the map a silent, terrifying invitation to the unknown.

Jebediah’s finger, gnarled and thick, pointed directly at Edmund. ‘You’re the quiet one, the quick one. You blend in. You’ll find him. And you’ll get what we need. You’re our best hope, lad. Our only hope, if I’m being honest. The *Raven* can’t risk putting into Rupert’s House with all this attention from the Navy.’ He rolled the parchment back up, securing it tightly. ‘Get ready, Edmund. You sail with the morning tide. Alone. Find the old man, get the cipher. Don’t trust anyone.’ The captain’s eyes held a pleading, almost desperate look that Edmund had never seen before.

Edmund nodded, his throat tight, the enormity of the task settling upon him like a cold, heavy blanket. He felt the phantom weight of the cipher already, a burden that seemed to hum with unseen power. He would go. He would find it. He would bring it back. He had to. There was no other choice. The bay, once a known quantity, now stretched out before him, vast and unknowable, full of currents he could not predict, and secrets he was now bound to uncover.