The sight of such a horrid death numbed his mind and body. It took a while for the hissing of the lava and the laments to fade, yet he did not manage to escape his daze much. While the natives overcame their grief and pledged to keep seeking their god, he simply stood there, incapable of processing the zealousness he was seeing.

Indeed, the death of that one martyr did sadden the tribe, but that would not stop them. Their eyes soon moved away from the open furnace and the smoldering statue inside it, to fixate on him instead. Below their chitin masks, their wonder was evident, and its intensity was what allowed him to escape his stupor.

Olve flinched when the men at his sides nudged him forwards, whispering something he did not understand once more. They did not hint much hatred in their tone, but their sharp staffs were still near and pointed.

He had no choice but to begin to descend the rows of stony steps towards the center of the huge chamber. All the while, the natives seated around stared at him, saying a million things without uttering a word. It looked like they were examining his very soul, even if his figure did interest them as well.

It did not take long for him to reach the center of the room, the lowest point. There, all could see him. But that did not preoccupy him as much. With how the priest looked at him, it was easy for him to ignore the grim statue in the nearby furnace.

As a man loyal to the kingdom, these people were nothing but savages to him. Yet he could not help but see their customs in a new light, now much clearer. Their ways were still barbaric in his opinion, but he now debated their honorable motives, even if misleading. He had to pity their foolish zeal, for their deity was not real.

He prayed to the gods of the pantheon while the priest neared closer, leaning his head to give him a good stare. Under such scrutiny, he chose to puff his chest out and return the stare with pride, something he regretted soon. The pale scrawny man was not intimidated by his defying resentful stance, in fact, he seemed pleased by it.

The priest smiled under his mask made of insect chitin, and then he raised his staff up. Olve huffed a little as he was jabbed, both on arms and chest, repeatedly. He truly disliked the way in which the man hummed in approval, muttering something while he set the staff aside. When the shaman decided to grab one of his arms and tap on his strong biceps, he finally chose to react defensively.

He pushed the priest off with a snarl, enough to make him stumble back. It made the two guards who escorted him yell and point their own staffs, ready to strike him for his blasphemy. Luckily, they did not.

Olve scowled when the priest raised a hand, chuckling and clicking his tongue for the others to halt. He stepped closer again, to then wait a minute before speaking louder for the chamber to hear. That pale hand patted his back all too strongly, with the same fervor that previous push had.

His bright blue eyes widened, understanding even if he did not grasp the language. The chief was now motioning at his body and face repeatedly, showcasing him to the rest. Like if he was the epitome of sacredness.

Even if the guards did not bind him and eyed him differently, they did hold him to prevent him from bolting… because the priest had deemed him worthy of offering their deity a body. All had seen other outlanders react to the furnace, and they had learnt that they were not as willing to revive their creator.

Olve did try to free himself from their hold, but it was pointless to try. He was stronger and buffier that those two slender guards, but they were not the only ones he would need to fight off. The whole tribe would come after him, much more aggressively than the way in which they were nearing now.

He felt disgust and pity for the way the crowd began to descend towards him, muttering admiring chants. The first ones to get close enough started to lay their hands on his torso, saying words that were surely ritualistic. They began to gather around to gawk at him, and the only thing he could do was glare at that priest hatefully.

The chief returned his stare intensely, without smiling. His old eyes seemed to try to convey a million thoughts, perhaps instruct him in the importance of their ritual and his future death. They were desperate in their sacrifices, but they were still very selective with the outsiders they chose. In their eyes, not anybody could be worthy of summoning a superior selfless being.

He was healthy and vigorous; all thanks to the training and way of life he had been gifted. On the other hand, only a few members of the tribe were well built. They lived underground and always hid from the sunlight, which did not help their constitution much. Any outliers were always admired, and soon killed.

There was nothing to do. Olve could only contain a growl when the priest turned around, to head away into a tunnel with his entourage. Meanwhile, he was forced to stay in the chamber for a while, for all to watch. Such humiliating yet admiring stares caused him to feel relieved when the guards began to pull him away.

Such was the importance that the tribe gave him that he was not escorted by three soldiers like before. He was taken back to the dark tunnels outside the chamber, where he could not see… and far too many steps echoed near him.

They lurked around him like insects, parasites. He was trapped in the depths of the island by a horrible hivemind, one that did not debate the means for an unreachable end.

He did not know when they planned to cast him into fire, but that deadline would arrive. They led him into another chamber, secluded and lighted by the gleams of flowing magma in the walls. It had many commodities and could be worthy of a king, but it was still a cage in which he would have to wait.

There was only one entrance and exit. It was stony, like the one that kept him confined in that hoard of treasure. The figures that escorted him inched back into the shadows with uncanny steps and twitches, to then press a pressure plate. The door slid down slowly, leaving him alone with his own thoughts.

He stood there taking deep breaths. It was only when he stopped hearing their clicking murmurs outside that he let himself sit on a chair made of animal bones and stone. Without word or lament, he buried his face in his hands, knowing that the only one who knew he was here was already out at sea, with the necklace he had vowed to protect.

———————–

Should be out at sea, not here, in this accursed dirty jungle!

Worst of all, she had no crew, no backup. And she could count far too many figures perched on the tall ledges that she could see. They were not moving, like if they did not breathe; but she knew that if they spotted her, they would swarm down and make her bleed.

Barbara snarled silently and loaded her flint gun, keeping herself out of sight in some bushes on a slope. From there she could see the shadows cast by the huge anthills. There was no other way to describe the structures that the tribe built to precede their underground refuge.

Of course, these bastards worship those filthy ants, so why wouldn’t their temples-?

She shut up mentally and gasped, hearing something heavy. In a second, she had thrown herself flat on the ground, just in time to hide more inside the bushes and prevent a patrol from spotting her. Wide eyed, she held her breath while a huge dust scarab trudged its way into the rainforest, carrying two natives on its thick grey shell.

The sun was setting, and with it, the gatherers were finally setting out to fetch resources. In the dark, the jungle awakened, and so the tribe hunted. She soon sat up and peeked at the now distant beast, both in wonder and animosity.

Mutter drunkenly how useful it would be to tame some sharks, just once… get laughed at for months.

She stood carefully without putting away her gun. A good shot did not nothing against those voracious lizards, but she was sure that she could pierce through the masks and shells of anything in her way. Chitin was not as hard as hardened magma.

Her lips twisted into a cocky smile, for she was comforted by the fact that she had a lot of ammo now. When she had dashed for a fierce kiss, she managed to steal away a purse full of bullets for her flint gun.

Thanks, my little Olive.

She wondered if her second in command even realized it, and if she would shout a few curses once she did. It did not matter much, for she doubted she would return to the ship in time to set out with her crew.

Barbara took a deep breath, eyeing the huge stony anthills. They were as big as her ship, yet they were insignificant at the feet of the immense volcano that crowned the island. Lava flowed in a hypnotic manner between the structures; although natural, she was sure that the tribe had spent ages directing its course, judging by the rocky dams that stood all over.

She would be a dead woman if she tried to sneak in directly. The stairs and tops of the temples were guarded, watched by immovable scouts. If the natives were like the animals of the jungle she would be seeing uncountable glimmers above, eyes.

No, she could not simply climb to the tops and go through the arcs there. To descend, she needed to find a secluded entryway, a blind spot. The gods seemed to be on her side, for there was one.

Barbara sighed, looking at the cliffs on the eastern side of the den. The island was pierced by a big canal, which coursed through it from the sea. Its flow ended at the feet of the volcano, below the cliffs. It was a small shoreline, which pierced into the stony earth as much as the beasts that roamed in this land.

There’s a cave.

She knew instantly that it led into the den. Her green eyes almost gleamed when she spotted a few figures roaming down there, carrying casks and baskets. Some servants had gotten out to gather water, surely to take back in and boil over some lava. They did not spend much time there, quickly heading back into the depths. And as they moved away, she crept closer.

Like a cat, she climbed down a cliff. It took her a while, and time was surely running out, but she needed to be careful. Perhaps she was a seasoned pirate, but she was still a fragile pile of flesh. One slip and she would have tumbled to her death. Luckily, fear was not something she felt.

Frustrated anger was what ran through her veins once she set foot on the sand. She marched silently into the shadows of the cave, ready to put a bullet through anyone or anything she crossed paths with. The more she lost sight of the moonlight, the more she debated shooting at him if he was alive.

—————

They had been sure that they would have been drinking and boasting after sinking that royal vessel. Things had not gone to plan, and it soured their moods in a way they had not predicted. Spotting their ship at shore did not help them feel any better.

As they emerged from the jungle, they felt an eye on them. Dolores did not fail to take aim once she spotted their approach, but she lowered her rifle as soon as she realized they weren’t some natives or royal sailors out for their ship.

The crew soon boarded La ostra, and Olivia cringed when Dolores slid down the mast she stood on, because the question came fast.

“Where’s our capt’n?”

She wore an eyepatch, and her hair was very long, yet she had the sight of a hawk. There came the reply, as baffled as the question was.

“She is still chasing after that damn sailor.”

Dolores blinked once, then twice. Her brown eye soon hinted pure confusion, and her accent intensified in her disbelief.

“What load of crap are ya ranting on about? Why aren’t ya with her then?!”

Olivia snarled, much like a few others did.

“It’s a lost cause! Her thick-headed obsession is preventing her from seeing it’s suicide to go after that necklace now! Those savages took that fool!”

Dolores did understand a little more with those words. Still, she eyed the rest of the crew, in her usual deadpanned gruffness.

“Siempre cabezota como ella sola, eh?” She did not only admonish Barbara’s antics. “She may be hasty and stubborn, aye, but a lot of ya woulnd’t be here if not for it.”

Olivia pushed past and fetched a bottle of rum from some crates, to then open it with a groan.

“She is nothing without a crew. Her care is greedy in its core.” All remembered that one time in which half of the band got arrested in a failed raid. They would have gotten hanged if their captain had not doubled down in her assault, shooting at the fort with all available cannons. “The navy was on her tail, couldn’t set off safely either way, so the best bet was to get us out. We’re replaceable.”

Bickering and scuffles were common, and bitterness was easily held between them. Still, the resent Olivia was showing now was born out of frustration, faked distaste. The crew had settled now to drink and complain about the situation, even if they could set sail right then. No one was making a move to disregard the two days Barbara had asked for. The reason was clear.

The last accusation Olivia growled was untrue, at least partially. They were indeed replaceable, but not meaningless. Each time they lost someone in a raid and then docked in a port, Barbara set out to recruit another member. She never hired hastily like other captains though. Like the most critical of judges, she would wait and observe the layout and lurkers of the piers, to then approach the ones who she deemed worthy.

It was not a coincidence they were all women. Widows turned into thieves, whores wishing to escape an abusive brothel, souls wishing for a change, slaves in hiding, unwilling murderers, traitors of the kingdom… All had been in need of a new life at sea.

There was silence. All had their eyes on the ocean, which called to them, yet they did not make a move to grab hold of the helm. They had threatened with a mutiny, and Olivia did not need one to assert herself as captain at the moment. It was not easy to keep pretending.

“You are so stupid, Barbara.”

She was very aware of how her hand grasped her purse of ammo. It was helpful, but she knew it would not be enough. Her captain was walking into a place worse than the queen’s castle, full of fiends that would not hang or behead her, but rip her apart.

All were quiet, bothered by a moral debate, which they loathed. As pirates, they acted selfishly, harshly. Any other crew would jump at the chance of profiting from a shift in power. But not them.

Dolores eyed the island with her only eye, having been told of the deadline set. They would wait, but once time ran out… they would listen to their deepest instincts and make a move. It was in their nature.