The Vanishing Isle

He stepped inside carefully, saber at the ready. Sunlight streamed through a hole in the outer wall where the tower's stones had fallen away and taken the plaster with them. Apart from a few hanging weeds swaying in the breeze, nothing else moved in the tower.

"It's empty," he breathed. Urgan shoved his way past him with a surly grunt. The dwarf planted his fists on his hips and looked around. Though he faced away from him, Bromm could tell the dwarf's face was a mask of disgust. Perhaps I heard his nose crinkling, Bromm thought drily.

"What a cesspit," Urgan grumbled. "Why is this place in such a state when the first place was teeming with treasure?"

"That staircase looks intact," Pyet opined over Bromm's shoulder. The lad extended a finger toward a crumbling stone staircase that wound up the far wall of the tower before connecting to a decrepit wooden ceiling above them. Bromm frowned. Intact was not the word he would have used.

"You want to climb it, be my guest," Urgan barked with a mocking laugh. He stomped off toward a chest of drawers and wrenched them open. The handle came off in his hand, and wrenched part of the drawer with it. Heyne and Nyvald pushed past Bromm to join him, though neither of them looked enthused. Bromm turned to Pyet with a shrug.

"Stairs?" he asked, and Pyet shrugged.

"After you," he replied. Bromm crossed the room, shaking his head as Urgan and his companions tore the decaying furniture to pieces in search of treasure. Together with Imre and Pyet, he gingerly tested the first stone step with one boot. It flaked away a bit of crumbling stone, but otherwise held. Slightly more confident now, Bromm took another step.

The stairs became more worn and unsteady as he climbed, though his confidence mounted all the same the further rose. Above him, the wooden ceiling creaked in another breeze. As he reached the top, the stairs beneath his feet cracked and crumbled, small rocks falling away to clack and clatter on the floor below. Bromm steadied himself with a hand against the wall, and the discolored plaster too crumbled beneath his touch.

The ceiling here was broken from above where a great weight had crashed through, leaving only a pile of junk beneath the hole. The rest of the round chamber was cluttered with broken furniture and debris. Beneath the broken masonry, dirt, and weeds, Bromm spied the familiar glint of gold.

"This looks to be the place," Imre breathed from behind him.

"Aye, but watch these boards. And tell them to look out below."

With great trepidation, Bromm gingerly lowered his foot to the first of the floorboards. It creaked and bowed under his weight but held firm enough. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slowly made his way toward the junk pile beneath the gaping hole in the ceiling. An arc of gilded iron protruded from the mess and Bromm leaned closer. All along the band of metal were carvings in some strange script, along with notches at regular intervals like those on a sextant. Clearing away what he could of the mess, Bromm behold a gilded orrery, some of its crystal orbs shining in the sunlight.

The floorboards creaked behind him, and he turned to see Pyet. The other man looked on the orrery with wonder and whistled low.

"That will fetch good coin in Torvuls," he whispered. He looked from the orrery to rest of the debris. "Look, a mirror! And it's still unbroken!" Bromm saw that he was right, for against the wall lay a silvery mirror banded in brass. Despite all the destruction wrought by time and the elements, its reflective surface was still in perfect condition.

"This must have been the abode of some wizard," Imre called from the stairs.

"Aye. There is a bowl that sorcerers use for scrying," Pyet pointed out.

"Well, magical or not, it's all made of gold and silver. Pack it up along with anything else valuable and let's be on our way." Nodding at Bromm's command, the three of them began collecting various trinkets and baubles that they could retrieve from the detritus. When all the loose objects had been retrieved, Bromm turned his attention to the orrery. It lay wedged against the outer wall of the tower by a heavy stone block.

"Here, Pyet," he demanded, "help me move this damned block so we can get this out."

They grabbed it with their four hands and lifted it clear of the orrery. As soon as the obstruction was removed, the orrery began to spin again, as if powered by bound magic. Bromm stared at it in amazement as its crystal orbs clacked away on their gears.

"What sorcerer made this?" he wondered aloud. He went to reach for it, but remembered the heavy stone in his hands with a flash of frustration.

Bromm dropped the stone to the side with an impatient crash and froze. The floorboards creaked ominously. He had just enough time to regret his haste, and for Imre to shout in alarm, before the whole thing collapsed under from beneath him. he and Pyet went crashing down to the floor atop their loot. One arm of the orrery jabbed him painfully beneath the arm and he felt all the breath blasted out from his lungs.

He groaned in pain and rolled off the orrery. Dazed, his gaze was drawn upwards, where he could see the clear blue sky above. More of those great birds wheeled overhead.

"What in Eldrin's name did you do?" Urgan demanded, looming over him with an angrily furrowed brow.

"Ohhhh..." Pyet moaned, crawling out from atop the pile. "We got a little overeager."

"Was anyone else hurt?" Bromm asked and the dwarf scowled deeper.

"Heyne was nearly killed. It was Apliss' own luck that he spied a silver chalice across the room and went for it just before you brought the roof down on him."

Bromm sat up and pressed a hand to his side. Nothing seemed broken, but he would be suffering from this fall for a good while yet. "Didn't Imre warn you to look out above?"

"I did," Imre called from the stairs before Urgan could answer. The dwarf simply glared at Bromm and stalked off. Bromm rose to his feet and looked around. The orrery seemed undamaged, and the fall had disinterred some other pretty baubles for them to carry off.

The loose odds and ends went into one sack, while the rest was piled into another sack and cushioned with bundles of cut grass so that it would not damage itself during the march. Imre then tied the sacks to hang from a pair of tree branches and together with Pyet he hefted the whole assembly onto their shoulders.

"Ready to go, captain!" he beamed.

"Well then, we're all ready. Back up the hill to the dryad!" Bromm cheered, and slapped Imre on the back. The other man smiled, his hand going to his belt in anticipation.

"You mean to head back?" Urgan asked suspiciously. The dwarf's eyes narrowed, and he hunched his shoulders forward. Behind him, Nyvald and Heyne bristled in sympathy.

"Aye, my cock has recovered from that fucking I gave her," said Bromm with a guffaw, "I could do with another turn on the dryad's pretty little ass." The others roared with laughter, backs were slapped, but Urgan frowned.

"If we head back through the valley, we won't make the camp before dark. We may not make it before dark as it is."

"What?" Bromm demanded with a scowl. "How are we to get back?"

"We will head back toward camp along the coast." Urgan pointed toward the shore, where not far away the blue expanse of the sea could be seen. "The return path will be shorter. But the sun is low, and we will need to move quickly. Lukodo will be expecting us, and might get worried if we aren't back before dark. I don't want the ship leaving without us."

"What if we camped here for the night?" Heyne suggested. "Then we could start back in the morning, fuck the girl some more, and get back to camp tomorrow."

"We are only eight of us," Urgan answered. "There are bound to be more of the minotaurs. If we stay out here tonight, we may not survive to return to the tarn."

"We could head back to the valley," Bromm suggested. "Stay there tonight, have another turn on her, then make for the camp in the morning."

"If we stop our bickering and move now," Urgan replied with rising heat, "we can make it to Lukodo's camp before dark. Look here." He sketched their day's journey in the dirt. "We've made two long sides of a triangle. All there is to do now is close the triangle and return to where we started. This one edge back to camp is much shorter than the combined two edges we marched to get here."

"Aye, but the two edges have a pretty, eager slut along the way," Imre argued. The sea rats chorused their agreement. "A pretty slut and delicious fruits. And clear mountain water to drink!"

"Are we here to fuck or to get treasure?" Urgan snapped. "There are plenty of pretty whores in the brothels of Torvuls. My concern lies with getting off this island with our treasure. There will be time to fuck once we're safely in port."

"Easy for you to say," Jeraw growled, "You've got some ass with you all the time. And I didn't get to fuck."

"That's your own fault," Bromm shot back with a laugh. "Don't go expecting us to give you a free turn just because you can't control your cock."

"Will it? We still have no idea what this island is. It's not on any of our charts. Who knows what monsters might prowl its shores, above or below the waves? We've taken a fine haul for ourselves, now we should secure it before we go looking for women."

"I am the captain," Bromm declared at last. "And I say we are going back to the dryad's valley to eat delicious fruits, drink the clear mountain water, and fuck her wondrous little body until we can't walk anymore!"

The crew cheered, except for Urgan. The dwarf scowled deeply, his cheeks turning red beneath his beard. Muttering dwarvish curses under his breath, he shouldered his pack and stalked off.

"You're welcome to head back to camp alone if you wish," Bromm called after him. "I'll take your turn on the girl for you."

With a grumbling Urgan in the lead, they lugged their treasure and the dead pig back up the slopes toward the dryad's valley. Bromm took the lead, strolling confidently through the forest with his head filled with thoughts of the dryad's delicious fruit and delicious body. Just the thought of fucking her a third time made his cock hard in his breeches.

It was perhaps these thoughts that left him distracted, and he obliviously set his foot into a vine snare. It tightened fast about his ankle and jolted him from his reverie. Bromm looked down at the snare with confusion, unable to make sense of it.

Urgan barked behind him: "Ambush!"

Bromm's heart began to race, and Urgan's cry was answer by a roar from the woods. Five minotaurs burst from hiding and rushed down on them, axes held high and eyes burning with voracious malice. He froze in the icy grip of fear.

Behind him, a pistol cracked, and one minotaur's arm burst apart at the elbow with blood. It fell screaming, but its companions paid it no heed. The other four trampled through the brush, bellowing war cries that turned Bromm's blood to ice.

Pyet fired his pistol and missed high. Beside him, Imre lowered a boarding pike to impale any minotaur foolish enough to charge into its point, but there were too few of them to form a proper formation.

Urgan drew two pistols of his own and the sight of it spurred Bromm to action. The men need their captain, a voice said from somewhere deep in the recesses of his head. He fumbled for his saber and pistol and somehow they wound up in his hands.

The minotaurs reached them at last, and one beast with a yellowed skull hanging about its next simply bowled over poor Jeraw. The sea rat was hurled to the ground with a crack that Bromm hoped was a branch beneath him. Imre's pike warded the rushing monsters away from him while Heyne deftly parried the blow of an axe.

The russet-furred beast that had knocked over Jeraw reached down and seized the man by his foot. The sea rat screamed as he was dragged toward the brush, flailing his sword about. He cut the minotaur just below its knee, drawing a roar of pain. Pikmin darted forward to help his companion, blade at the ready. But another minotaur stepped forward and cut him off.

Jeraw fought desperately to escape his captor's grip, but it was for naught. The russet-furred creature kicked his sword from his hands and loomed over him. Jeraw screamed and covered his eyes at the monster raised a heavy hoof over his head and stomped.

Bromm cried out as the sea rat's body jerked with a sickening crunch. Gore splattered outward from beneath the hoof. Jeraw lay still thereafter. Without thinking, Bromm raised his ivory-handled pistol and fired a shot into the russet minotaur's flank. He struck home, and the beast staggered to one knee. Its horned head turned to glare at him, eyes burning with hate.

With the smoking pistol in one hand and his saber in the other, Bromm stood stupid under its baleful glare. So much so that he did not react when another monster lumbered toward him with a long axe gripped in its two hands. Turning, he beheld his death as the blade came whistling down at him.

There was a sharp crack, and the air filled with smoke. The axe blade shrieked past him and crashed into the forest. The minotaur staggered and fell, clutching a blossoming red wound in its chest. Bromm turned to see Nyvald standing with a smoking pistol.

"Come on, captain!" the Northman urged, "There's only three of them now. Find your courage!"

Bromm clutched his weapons in a white-knuckled grip and nodded mutely. Find your courage, he told himself. He stepped closer to the dying minotaur and plunged his blade into its neck.

The two minotaurs still standing backed off, bellowing war cries and brandishing their weapons. Nyvald watched them for a moment.

"Reload your pistol captain," he said softly. "If they want to loiter and talk, we'll shoot them dead without the need to risk getting our heads chopped off."

Bromm nodded. He fumbled for his powder horn and spare shot, hands trembling. He had come so close to death, only to be spared by a man he had never especially liked. He only wished someone could have done the same for poor Jeraw. He involuntarily looked to where the man lay, head smashed open like rotten fruit, and shuddered.

Imre and Pyet were advancing slowly against the last two minotaurs, driving them back toward the brush that had hidden them before. Urgan clutched his messer in both hands, also moving toward the minotaurs with Heyne in tow. Clearly, they hoped to surround the minotaurs and then attack from all sides. It was good fighting skill, Bromm noted, the kind that all experienced pirates knew but he had somehow forgotten when the minotaurs came rushing down at him. He at last pulled the cap off his powder horn and held up his pistol's muzzle.

From beside him, he heard a sickening splat - a sound he knew all too well. Turning, he saw Nyvald standing transfixed, a heavy battleaxe jutting from his collarbone. Behind him stood a huge, white-furred minotaur, a second axe held high for a killing blow. Bromm cried out against his will as it came hurtling down. It seemed to whistle in the air and time stood still for a moment before it crashed sickeningly through Nyvald's collar until it clanged against its opposite number. With a bestial roar, the minotaur lifted Nyvald's head from his shoulders and hurled it over his horns to crash, trailing viscera, into the brush behind him. Four more minotaurs crashed through the brush behind their leader.

We're surrounded, Bromm realized with panic. "Run!" he cried, involuntarily at first and then again with intent. "Run for the dryad's valley!"

Without waiting to see if the others would obey, he turned and ran. His pistol and powder horn were cast aside in the rush, but he kept his saber at hand to hack at the foliage that blocked his path. The slope ahead of him was treacherous; choked with roots and stones that threatened to trip him up and serve him up as a meal for the horrific monsters who were hot on his heels. All the while, his sides ached from when he had fallen through the tower floor.

Shouts and bestial bellows behind told him that the others were following his lead. Someone screamed, he heard Urgan yell, but he did not turn back. He carried on up the slope as fast as his legs would carry him. His breath began to fail him, coming shorter and shorter with each pained stride. But the crags had come into view and the bellowing of the minotaurs behind him had not abated.

At last, he drew near to the valley. He feared he was on his last legs, and could hear the grunting of a minotaur close behind. His heart pounding in his chest, he poured on every last bit of speed he could muster until he passed between the towering rocks at the entrance to Oromeia's valley.

From all around them, vines burst from the ground, snapping and grasping at the air. Bromm did not stop running and carried through them until one snagged his foot and sent him spilling to the earth. He turned over, ready to meet his end with saber in hand.

To his great surprise, the valley mouth was choked with vines that had snared a hulking, black-furred minotaur. The thorny vines had hoisted him off the ground, where he struggled futilely like a fly in a spider's web. On the interior side of the thicket were Urgan, Pikmin, Imre, and Pyet. Bromm breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his friends, but Urgan lay in the grass with tears in his eyes.

Oromeia appeared from the trees. She had dressed herself but remained no less desirable than when Bromm had had his cock inside her by the tarn. "You return so soon, and with my brothers in hot pursuit."

"Yes, well," Bromm gasped, trying to maintain some levity, "we missed you so much."

She laughed, silvery bells ringing in the cool evening breeze. "It is good to see you again, Bromm." She looked to the trapped minotaur. "What have we here?" she wondered, moving toward the beast.

Inspired by her cool confidence, Bromm followed. The thrashing vines calmed where she walked, then retreated into the earth without a trace. Soon, the only vines left where those holding the captive aloft and those blocking off the entrance to the valley so that the others could not join him. Beyond the retreating vines, Bromm could see the big, white-furred minotaur lurking among the trees, his terrible red eyes just as frightening from this far away.

Undaunted, Oromeia stood below the captive minotaur, head tilted up to look at him with an amused air. Bromm stood just behind her, where he could feel the menace in the beast's eyes. He thrashed about in the clutches of Oromeia's vines, arms pinned to his side and axe discarded in the grass below.

The minotaur kicked at the dryad's head, but she had positioned herself just out of reach. It snarled with frustrated fury.

"Hello, brother," she called in her silvery voice, tinged with derision. "You are not invited to my valley, so why have you come here?"

The minotaur roared at her, shaking with fury. Spittle flew from its maw, where fanged teeth dripped with unsated hunger. "Manflesh," it spat at last, "We must feast, sister." It spat the last word, dark red eyes fixed on her with palpable hate.

The minotaur wore only a harness of leather, the provenance of which he decidedly did not want to know, and a rope belt woven through a trio of old skulls, and between its legs Bromm could see its monstrous cock. It stiffened and rose at the sight of Oromeia, despite its shaking fury.

"Let me down," it spat, "Let my brothers through. We will devour these mortals and fuck you raw!"

"Not this time, I'm afraid. These are my guests."

"Guest!" the minotaur sneered. "Tasty morsels, nothing else. We feast and we fuck, and it has been too long since I've feasted on manflesh."

"Eight set out," Oromeia observed, "Five return. You have your manflesh. Now begone."