Swords & Heroes Story #23

A Nameless Waste of the Unquiet Dead by Michael T. Burke

May 22, 2025

I first encountered Michael’s works in Whetstone and quite enjoyed his Ahanu Foxcloud tales. In fact, I’m privileged to be the publisher of Fragments of a Greater Darkness, a collection of sword and sorcery featuring his intrepid hero. And (in another!) ‘in fact,’ this collection is celebrating its 2nd anniversary of publication. So give it a look-see!

In today’s outing, however, Burke mixes sorcery and a bit of history and shares a story from the annals of another of his traveling adventurers, Irish friar Tomás Ó Caisade. I’d published an earlier Caisade tale, “The Corn Mother,” in the special S&S edition of ResAliens Zine awhile back and was glad to encounter this wandering poet-priest again. If you’ve not yet met this fighting friar, you’ll be glad to know him soon enough! + Ed.

‘A Nameless Waste of the Unquiet Dead’ by Michael T. Burke

Salt spray spiced the air, splashing over the gunwales of the two-masted schooner slicing through the sea. The sails billowed, straining fit to burst; the winds were strong. The tall, rangy man lashed to the mainmast licked his split lips as he quietly worked the ropes binding his wrists.

The high sun beat down mercilessly upon him. He stared longingly at the sail’s shadow at his feet, imagining its shade and relief. Water droplets stung his face, and he unconsciously darted his tongue to taste. The water was not as salty as he had thought it might be, and he suspected he knew what sea they sailed. The moisture allowed for some give in his bonds, but sailors knew how to tie a knot. He did not think he would be able to free himself from his current predicament by strength of wrist alone.

Besides, where would he go? The last he could recall was being in Constanţa, the port city of Romania. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, nor was he much of a sea-faring man. The salinity of the water he had tasted, and his origin point suggested this ship was on the Black Sea, although he could not be positive. At least a dozen rivers and waterways flowed into the Black Sea if he recalled his studies a’right, and he could be on any one of them.

“Yer a big one, all right,” a nasally voice intruded on the tall man’s thoughts. “The bosun said they’d netted a right big fish, he did, and he weren’t kidding.”

“Yes, I’m taller than the average person.” The lanky man squinted his dark eyes at the weasel-faced sailor before him. His crewmates seemed to bend to their tasks, but this one, he had noted in his short time awake, avoided whatever responsibilities he might have had upon the ship. And he always had a furtive eye upon him. He did not particularly care for the little man.

“I am Tomás. Perhaps you could provide me with a cup of water while we speak?”

“I’ll not fall to yer fancy speaking tricks, ‘Tommy’. We ain’t friends, so stop coming on like one. I’s just curious, is all.”

“Well, if you’re disinclined to be hospitable, I must insist that you refrain from using that appellation when referring to me, lest I thwack you.”

The twitchy, weasel-faced sailor laughed, a high-pitched sound that caused some of the other men nearby to turn their heads. “And how might you do that…Tommy?”

Tomás clenched his fingers so that his nails cut into his palms. Normally, he found such obvious jibes to elicit a reaction to be easily ignored, but this little man was most tiresome.

“Not such a big man, are ye, Tommy?”

Tomás closed his eyes and took in a lungful of sea air.

“Mazus! You’ve duties to attend. Get to them or you’ll ride my boot over the side, you bilge rat!”

Tomás’s eyes snapped open to see his temporary tormentor stiffen in shock as a slender but commanding figure appeared behind him.

“Just checking on the prisoner, Cap’n.”

“You didn’t tie those knots, so his security is not an issue. Now get to your post.”

Mazus bowed and scraped, stammering odes to the captain’s supremacy before he scurried off across the deck.

“So.” The captain stood, one hand on the hilt at his hip, the other stroking his smooth cheek. The green durag upon his head matched his pea-green eyes; the long tail of it fluttered behind him. “You’re awake. Methought my men had clouted you hard enough to send you on your way to Mag Mell.”

Tomás thought that a strange turn of phrase for a sailor, specifically Irish as it was, but he kept his face impassive.

“I’m Ridley. Who might you be?”

“I am Tomás Ó Caisade, former friar, and currently a poet and traveler.”

“An Irishman!” Ridley grinned. “You’re a long way from Éire, poet. And you fight unlike any scholar, I am told. You throttled five of my men at Constanţa, and if it weren’t for a well-wielded rolling pin and weight of numbers, it could have been more. What are you, really?”

“I am what I say.”

Ridley considered further, his long fingers still caressing his chin. “You are of unusual height. I daresay you approach six feet and several inches more besides. I have heard tell of a regiment of giant soldiers. The King of Prussia, methinks? Surely, you are one of those, as no academic could best five hardy sea wolves. Are you a deserter, then?”

“I am no deserter.” Tomás stared down at Ripley. “I, too, have heard of the Prussian King’s guard, but as I stated, I am currently a poet and traveling, seeking inspiration for my writings, as I had been cloistered for some length of time.” Tomás maintained his steady gaze. “Have you my journals?”

“Your books are in my quarters. They are interesting reading,” Ridley said.

Tomás nodded. “Thank you. When might your next landfall be? I have no desire to further inconvenience you and your men. The situation at Constanţa was an unfortunate incident.”

“Indeed?”

“Men of a rough nature tend to meet people and circumstances outside their purview in aggressive fashion.”

“Floridly put, ‘priest’. One would almost believe you to be a poet, as you say.” A thoughtful look stole upon Ridley’s face.

“Do you think I might impose upon your charity, Captain Ridley, and be let go at your next port-of-call, considering this was all but a misunderstanding?”

“I am not quite sure of what to do with you as yet, Tomás,” Ridley tilted his head as he regarded the tall poet-priest before him. “I could let you go, as you wish, but the ‘misunderstanding’, as you put it, has severely injured one of my men.”

Tomás swallowed.

“On the other hand, I could always use another good fighting man on the crew of ‘The Night’s Dagger’.”

“I prefer to fight only as a last resort. I fear that your second option would be an ill fit.”

Ridley looked at the towering priest lashed to the mainmast. “There’s an errand that must be done before aught else. That is where we away this very moment. After that, I will inform you of my decision. Until then, you will remain our prisoner.”

Tomás watched Ridley turn on his booted heel and oversee the crew, shouting orders, promising them good fortune, and threatening punishment. There was more to the captain than there appeared to be upon the surface. Perhaps he might tarry amongst these lot at that.

The Night’s Dagger soon laid anchor off the coast of a small islet. The landmass appeared to be barely a mile wide, Tomás estimated from his vantage tied to the mainmast. It looked to be a barren stretch of rock and sand, and he wondered what business Ridley and his pirate crew might have here.

They were indeed in the Black Sea, he confirmed, as he overheard from the crew the past few days. Caution seemed to be their watchword as all eyes carefully observed nearby ships, like hawks stalking prey. When the immediate vicinity was empty of traffic, the crew moved with renewed alacrity. They seemed to be preparing to offload something from the atoll ahead.

Curious.

The brazen, angry glares directed his way from a number of the crew were not lost on Tomás. He suspected his fate had been determined.

Ridley stepped before Tomás, his normally lithe movements now rigid. “It appears the fracas at Constanţa has resulted in the death of one of my men.” His green eyes were inscrutable. A lock of fiery red hair curled from beneath his headwrap.”

“My apologies. I assure you that I did not intend to slay any of your crew.” Tomás leveled his gaze at the captain, who stood stock still. “If you are down a man, it seems only right that I assume his position on your ship.”

“Be that as it may, I would be hard pressed to keep you on. The man was not especially well-liked, but these dogs have bled together. It seems my decision on what to do with you has been made for me. The crew wouldn’t have it, and if I would remain captain I must attend to their desires.”

“I see.”

“Besides, I’m not sure I trust you wouldn’t try to escape at the first opportunity if I did take you up on your generous offer,” Ridley said.

“I see you have laid anchor. What now then?”

Ridley gazed past Tomás’s shoulder. “There is much business to be done ashore, and we need to be about it quickly before any undue attention comes upon us. We bury our dead there. Those that have not gone down to Lir’s dark domain, that is.”

Interesting. Another specific reference to Irish pantheon. Tomás pondered.

“You are coming ashore with the landing party. It is only fitting you help dig the grave of the man you killed.”

A cold wind blew despite the shining yellow orb in the blue vault high above. The ever-present din of froth breaking on the shoreline muted the sounds of circling gulls. Tomás watched three of the pirates remove the shrouded body of the man he had killed in Constanţa from one of The Night’s Dagger’s jolly boats.

Tomás shivered as a spidery chill skittered across his back, and he did not rightly know why. Aye, impending death loomed, for he did not know if Ridley intended to have him killed here on this nameless atoll, but Tomás had faced down doom before. No, it was the specter of something deeper, outside the sphere of what he knew, something that froze the marrow.

Mazus did not appear discomforted at all. The fidgety pirate leveled his musketoon at the bound poet-priest. “End of the line, Tommy.”

“I tire of your wagging tongue and odious nature. Be silent.” Tomás did not fear death, but he certainly did not wish to meet his end with this irksome scrub nagging at his heels, by God!

Mazus’s pinched face reddened like an overripe fruit. He brandished his firearm menacingly. Tomás steeled himself.

“Mazus! Lower your gun. I decide who dies here.” The twitchy little man trembled. “Don’t make me tell you again, Mazus,” Ridley barked. He stood, hands on hips, glaring at Mazus’s back until the tension drained from the rodent-like sailor.

“But Cap’n, this tall lubber was askin’ fer it. Bein’ all holier-than-thou, he was.”

“Get you to the cave. Help Barden and his crew there. I’ll see to the priest,” Ridley said.

“But, Cap’n—”

“Now.”

Mazus slunk off, stealing a glance back at Tomás before vanishing. Bitterness burned in his rat’s eyes.

“You’d do well not to taunt Mazus. His memory is long.”

“He is a knave,” Tomás spat. “I admit to surprise such a man is one of your pirate crew.”

“He has his uses, priest. Mind your tongue, lest ye wish to be gutted right here,” Ridley snarled.

Tomás stepped back despite himself. The speed with which the captain’s ire had risen was alarming. True, he was the captain’s physical superior, but he suspected him to be a deadly adversary. And he was bound, nonetheless.

“Come,” Ridley ordered. “You have a task to perform.”

Tomás followed the captain, frowning at his backside. The lingering questions he had about him continued to gnaw at his mind. A sudden, sharp jab to his ribs from one of the pirates in the party hurried his steps along.

Shortly, the priest found his hands untied and a large man thrust a shovel into his grip. Tomás laid the shovel down and rubbed his wrists. He paid little heed to the gun barrels that suddenly waved at him.

“Get to it, man,” the large man, a Frenchman, snarled.

Tomás continued massaging his wrists. “I have been bound for days. Surely, you do not expect me to dig a hole right away. In order to accomplish the task at hand, I must have time to let the blood circulate freely.”

Several of the pirates traded puzzled glances with each other. Their dead fellow offered no explanations. The Frenchman looked to Ridley for clarification.

“Give him ten minutes. But watch him. Remember, he may be a priest, as he says, but he’s a hell of a fighter. As several of you know.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Tomás said.

“I want to be off this rock in an hour, lest we run the risk of being seen. The Black Sea is a busy waterway. Granted, to the outside observer, this slab of land has nothing of value to it, but someone is sure to be curious why a schooner is at anchor here for a length of time.” Ridley took a pull from his flask. “Besides, the ten minutes’ grace will make your fate all the sweeter.”

Several of the gathered pirates chuckled.

“So, you do plan to kill me?” Tomás asked.

“I’m afraid so. Keeping you alive is too great a risk.”

Frenzied yells and the thunder of guns split the air before Tomás could reply. Repeated multiple fire from the other end of the atoll.

As one, Tomás, Ridley, and the six gathered pirates turned to where the larger second group of men had gone.

“The cave!” Ridley sprinted, boots slipping in the sand, toward the noise.

Tomás thought this an opportune moment to slip away, but to where? He was stranded on this tract of rock with nearly twenty pirates. Only the sea offered escape, but how far could he get before those very same pirates recaptured him? A rough shove from one of the men propelled him to follow Ridley and the others toward the echoes of the now-silent melee.

Mazus met them at the head of three other fleeing men. Terror lit his rat’s eyes, and a burning, primal desire to get as far away as he could from whatever was behind him. Startled at the approach of his shipmates, he raised his musketoon, his eyes wild.

Ridley slapped the rifle from Mazus’s grip with his sword, knocking it to the sand. “What the hell, Mazus? Where’s Barden?”

“Get away, away!” Mazus shouted hysterically as Tomás and the others caught up.

“Get a grip, man!” Ridley cuffed Mazus across his fear-maddened face. “Barden and the others. Why are the four of you fleeing?”

“Dead. They’re dead,” Mazus said, rubbing his stubbly jaw, a measure of calm seeping into his demeanor at his captain’s strong command, although panic still lined the edge of his voice.

The steel hiss of withdrawn swords and metallic clanging of flintlocks being loaded resounded in the sudden wind swirling about the party of men.

“Dead? Another band of pirates then? Is that it? Are we being robbed?” Ridley shouted. “Speak, man!”

“He came from inside the cave,” Mazus said, the pitch of his voice rising. He began to tremble.

“What?”

Mazus hugged himself, rocking in the sand and dirt, faster and faster, trying hard to recall what he had seen. “Out of the cave, just walking easy as you please, he glowed, both dark and bright. He had no face, no face! Barden yelled. The…man, HE spoke. Everything, everything went crazy! Dead, dead…”

“There’s only one way in and out of that cave. You know that. Stop spouting nonsense!” Ridley scoffed, glaring green daggers at Mazus.

“But he did, he did, he did!” One of the men that had fled with Mazus fell to his knees. All he could do was babble the same answer over and over.

With a maddened scream, another of the pirates that had survived whatever unspeakable event at the cave suddenly drew his blunderbuss, aimed it at his cringing fellow, and fired. Before the pirate could fall to the ground, his face a red ruin, his attacker calmly pointed his own gun ’neath his chin and his head exploded in a shower of gray brain bits, yellowed skull splinters, and crimson-tinged smoke.

“Bloody and bugger!”

Ridley spun on the large Frenchman who swore. “Quiet!”

“What does this man look like?” Tomás spoke up, not really knowing why he did. Whatever had happened to Ridley’s men at the cave had to be the source of his unease since setting foot on this nameless rock. He was not particularly invested in these pirates, but if he was forced to ally with them against an unknown enemy, it would be prudent to learn what they were up against.

“Well, man?” Ridley prodded Mazus. “Who is this man that slew eight of my men and made four others flee like craven jackals?”

Tears ran rivulets through the dirt of Mazus’s face as he struggled to get ahold of himself. Finally, after several minutes, he managed something. “Sometimes, he looked like them thar fancy rulers in Egypt. But bright and dark at once. And terrible.”

“A pharaoh,” Tomás whispered.

“What?” Ridley scrunched up his face. “Madness.”

A gunshot shattered the moment. The last man who had fled with Mazus tumbled to the blood-stained dirt, having shot himself through his own eye. His finger kept twitching on the trigger. The resultant clicking resounded louder than the echoes of the shot itself.

“You say our coffers are untouched? This…pharaoh,” Ridley looked to Tomás, who simply nodded at the ship’s captain. “This Egyptian pharaoh simply walked from out of the cave somewhere, started speaking, then all hell broke loose.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Mazus replied shakily. He looked back toward the cave. The group had retreated several hundred paces away to better assess the situation, but it was not far enough for Mazus. He shuddered, still rattled. A vibrant dark light seemed to wink madly from the cave.

“What could he want, if’n not our treasure?” one of the crew asked. Mumbled, yet frightened agreement rippled among the men.

“Aye,” the big Frenchman chimed in. “Someone must have learned of our stash and is making a bid to take it.”

“Shut up, the lot of you!” Ridley shouted. “No one knows of this island’s purpose, I’m sure of it. This is something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.”

“Methinks he’s not truly a pharaoh,” Tomás interjected. All eyes turned to him. “The last true pharaoh of Egypt was one Nectanebo II in the Thirtieth Dynasty. His reign concluded in 340 BC, well over a millennia ago. An actual pharaoh would be a physical impossibility.”

Mazus bristled, some of the fear draining off him. “Ye callin’ me a liar? How do you know this stuff?”

“I am a scholar of some repute,” Tomás replied simply. “I purport that whatever it is you saw was not an ancient Egyptian king, but something else. Something that took the form of said ruler.”

The weight of the friar-poet’s words sat with the gathered pirates in the ensuing silence.

“What need would such a being have for treasure?” Tomás asked after a moment. “Methinks he is here for something more important than mere riches.”

“Are you saying this man whom Mazus saw, that slaughtered Barden and his team, that drove three others to madness, is not a man, at all?” Ridley asserted, his keen eyes struggling with the implication of Tomás’s words but beginning to accept the meaning of them.

Tomás exhaled. “I am saying that while I am no longer a friar, I did study with the Church and have full faith in the existence of Our Lord. But I have reason to believe there are other…beings…’neath Heaven and Earth. The possibility exists that this dark pharaoh may be such a being seeking ingress to this plane. Or, perhaps, it is but an elaborate ruse of which we have not yet glimpsed the full scale.”

“Surely, if you were a priest, and this is an otherworldly creature of some sort, you’d be able to protect us?” Ridley asked.

“I am a former friar, not an ordained priest. I have no special powers.”

“Aren’t you all the same? Priest, friar, monk?” Mazus spat.

“No,” Tomás stated flatly. “And, I fear, we do not have the time for me to clarify the distinctions.”

Mazus gritted his teeth, his earlier reticence from the harrowing experience at the cave, now fully burned off by his anger. “See here.”

“Enough!” Ridley interjected. “We don’t have the luxury of arguing amongst ourselves. This…being…has slain members of my crew and threatens my store of riches. Our first order of business is dealing with him.”

The men grumbled assent.

“Eight of us remain, nine, if you stand with us, priest.”

“But Cap’n!” Mazus shouted.

“Silence, you dog!” Ridley whirled on Mazus, and he cringed backward. “The priest seems to know of this pharaoh and information is valuable. We need every hand available to deal with this scurvy bastard. Do you stand with us, priest? It’s that or the hole I intended for you.”

“You do not present me much of a choice.” Tomás stroked his chin. “Of course, I stand with you. If I may have a blade?” He extended his hand.

Ridley offered the tall friar-poet the saber of one of his fallen men. Tomás hefted it, testing its balance.

“All right then,” Ridley cleared his throat. “I propose we rout this dog at the cave mouth. We have foreknowledge so he can’t surprise us like he did Barden and the rest. And we have over fifty men on ‘The Night’s Dagger’ awaiting my order.”

Tomás considered Ridley’s plan. The dread which had squirmed through his veins since making land on this nightmarish island increased. He did not think it wise to face this dark man and the crawling chaos that seemed to follow in his wake. And Tomás had his doubts the pharaoh was even a man, though he could not put a logical reason to his fears, only that the notion gnawed at his consciousness like a rat wearing away at a hole in a wall.

“Perhaps it would be best if we make for the ship,” Tomás said. “This dark pharaoh handily slew eight men and drove three more to madness. I propose we shell the cave with a barrage from the ship’s guns and bury the thing. I assume ‘The Night’s Dagger’ is within range of a cannonade?”

“But that would bury our treasure,” Mazus sputtered.

“No,” Ridley stepped to Tomás, eyes flashing green fire. “I will not be made to flee like some lowly scallywag, and I will not lose my treasure. We will fight this dog and bring him to heel.”

“Very well,” Tomás stated. “Then we all shall lay with the dead already buried here.”

Ridley clutched at the brass basket hilt of his cutlass. He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and made ready with a retort.

A horrified screech broke the tableau.

Tomás whirled, instantly assuming a fighting stance with his saber up and on guard. Upon viewing what was before him, he lowered his blade in disbelief and unconsciously retreated two steps.

Shambling figures, corpses all, moved forward haltingly, advancing on him and Ridley and the remaining pirates. Black clouds of flies buzzed in annoyance as their fresh feast of carrion moved relentlessly forward. Gobbets of red flesh dropped with thick wet sounds every step they took. Terrible skeletal figures moved jerkily, unsure of their motion after so long asleep. Translucent skin, like parchment, flapped from various cracks in their bones, like the standards of an unholy host in the cold wind.

Peering closer, Tomás beheld something even more terrible, and his horror mounted. A large dusky mass glistened at the back of the cadavers’ necks. They were sick and gray like living mercury. Tendrils protruded outward from their bodies, thrusting into the human forms they rode, animating the corpses. The slug-things seemed to ripple with an oily glee.

“Those, those are our men,” Mazus said, slack jawed. “Huh, how?” He collapsed to his knees, trembling with a fear bordering on insanity.

Terror, like a serpent, slithered through the living pirates gathered on the isolated rocky plain. The awful stumbling horde grew closer. Their jaws moved soundlessly, biting and gnawing, anticipating living flesh between their teeth.

More shuffling and lumbering noises scraped against the rocks from the direction of the cave. Barden and his team, looking like waxen effigies of the men they were less than an hour agone, spilled over the rise. A new wave of fear swelled in Ripley and his six remaining men.

“No!” Tomás shouted, revulsion burbling in his gut. “I will not abide such abominations!” He charged forward despite himself and slashed madly at the nearest creature.

The blade sheared easily through the grasping arm of a dead pirate. The limb fell to the sand, still clutching spasmodically for him. The corpse continued unabated by what would be considered a major injury.

Shrill, horror-stricken screams punctuated the steady cacophony of gunfire and slashing steel. Tomás wheeled, only to see the wave of dead crash upon Ridley and his men. There was only a score or so of the liches, and a concerted effort may have won them victory against such numbers, but the horror of what they faced was more than the pirates could bear.

Some fought, others ran, only to be dragged down and swarmed by the slavering dead. In short order, the men fell, no matter how they met their end. There was no way to stand against the inexorable force pitted against them. They died horrifically. Their screams would echo in Tomás’s mind until his dying day.

Which would likely not be long in coming.

Only Ridley remained fighting now, red hair flying free, sword and blunderbuss dealing futile injury. Mazus curled at his feet, mewling.

Tomás kept one eye on the pirate captain and his sole surviving crewman in between hacking at the snatching claws reaching for him, his throat. We must away. Or find a means to stop the dead lest we join them. If he must die today, he would prefer it at the side of the berserker mad Ridley.

A rotted face leered at him and Tomás thrust his blade through the revenant’s mouth. He nearly lost his grip on his sword as he unexpectedly felt the steel meet thicker resistance for a moment, then continued through easily. The corpse fell. Unmoving.

A spark of light frayed the edges of his despair.

Tomás spared a glance at the ungodly thing, still laying on the stained sands. The slick gray slug-thing spasmed, its tendrils thrashing before finally ceasing their movement.

“Ridley! Direct your blows to the slugs on their necks!”

Tomás tested his theory further, this time swinging his blade in a glittering arc. The saber cleaved right through a dead pirate’s neck, bisecting the slug. Grayish liquid spurt everywhere in a nauseating rainbow of pus.

Ridley had heard Tomás’s cry and aimed his blows accordingly. Even Mazus found his feet and swung a blade. The horde of dead surrounding them thinned quickly.

Soon, the animated dead walked no more. They sprawled across the rocky plain, befouling the land. The weird slug-things separated from their hosts, lying still in thick slimy pools of gray ichor.

“We must away to ‘The Night’s Dagger’,” Tomás exclaimed, “before the dark pharaoh Mazus saw comes. I fear we will have no recourse against him.”

“Aye,” Ridley agreed, tucking his hair beneath his durag after retrieving it from the ground where it had fallen.

They set off at a run, dodging the fallen bodies of the once-again dead men as well as the pustulant gray chunks of slug beast.

Tomás stopped suddenly when he heard the muffled thud behind him. Ridley had also ceased running.

Thick, greasy fluid coated Mazus, seeping slowly down the contours of his weasel face. He lay sprawled in a disgusting oily pool of grayish slug residue. He choked, vomiting forth a shining pearly sick.

Mazus splashed helplessly in the ashen gore, terror fueling his ever-increasing madness. He could not seem to rise. His eyes bulged, threatening to fair burst from his skull. The sunlight appeared sooty on his countenance.

“I fear he’s gone,” Tomás strode forward, careful of his step. He raised his saber.

“No. He’s one of mine.”

Ridley cleaved the doomed pirate’s head in twain with one mighty downward stroke. Mazus lay still, gray ooze leaking from the twin sides of his head, where there should have been crimson blood and brains.

The priest and sea captain continued their dash to the jolly boats moored on the beach. They swiftly hauled one out and jumped in, rowing back to The Night’s Dagger as swiftly as they could.

“Arm the guns!” Ridley shouted.

“Captain Ridley, we heard gunfire,” the bosun said. “Where’s the rest of the crew?” He gazed askance at Tomás.

“Dead,” Ridley answered. “Weigh anchor! Bring us in closer to that hellscape of an island. Target the pile of rocks that’s our cave.”

“But the treasure,” the bosun stuttered.

“We’ll steal more! I want that rock destroyed in the next three minutes!”

The crew of The Night’s Dagger were proficient in their duties. They did not understand their captain’s orders but moved about their tasks with urgency. Better that than risking his wrath.

The thunder of cannons deafened Tomás for the next several minutes. In between barrages, he could barely make out Ridley’s shouts of “Again!” He watched trails of smoke and fire impact the atoll.

The sleek schooner sailed past slowly, inspecting their handiwork. A heap of smoking rubble littered the end of the islet where once the cavern had stood. Numerous dead lay scattered across the ground where last Tomás recalled them. Flickering puddles of grayish blight winked in the smoky sun.

Of a mad, dark pharaoh, there was no sign. No indication.

“You did well, Tomás Ó Caisade. You stood beside me, and it appears your plan to bury that tomb was a sound one.” Ridley stood beside the priest, who had not heard the pirate captain’s approach, lost in his thoughts as he was.

“Of course, you owe me for that treasure,” Ridley grinned.

“Oh?”

“Aye. I’ll have you sign on until I can replenish my crew. In the meantime, we’ll likely relieve some ships of their wares. You’re a good man to have in a fight.”

“I would be happy to sail with a captain of such renown,” Tomás turned and looked down at Ridley, a knowing glint in his eye.

“What now? I am but a humble buccaneer.”

“You are more than that,” Tomás said. “As I stated before, I am a scholar of some repute and a keen observer. I detected the barest hint of an Irish accent in your speech. Couple that with your very specific references to the Celtic Otherworld, I know you to be well read. And you do not move like a man.”

Ridley’s green eyes flashed with fury.

“You fight unlike any man.” Tomás lowered his voice. “Your center of gravity is that of a woman. I believe you went missing in 1721, and you’ve been gone for several years now.”

Ridley snarled. “Listen, priest—”

“I’ll keep your secret.” The friar winked. “And I’ll sail with you for a while. Captain Bonny.”

The pirate captain uncoiled like a spring and shouted to the men, “Bring her about, me hearties!”

Laughter drifted on the waves, mingling with the dissipating smoke on the nameless isle, as The Night’s Dagger made for the open sea.

A Nameless Waste of the Unquiet Dead © 2025 by Michael T. Burke (5200 words). All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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