Marc Rivers, Author

I gaze across the Winter’s Sea as our ship plies the icy waters. The frigid air cuts through our coats with ease, riming everything with frost, and chilling my men to their bones. A few grumble against the bitter cold, but most are hardy and disciplined. That is good; I will need to test that discipline today.

“Land ho!” Swegen cries from his perch. I take out my spyglass to confirm his report. There, just visible along the gray horizon, I observe the first signs of Sentinel Island, the southernmost part of the frost giants’ territory. In just a few moments, we will be close enough to get a better look at its shores.

I can already hear some of the crewmen’s relieved chatter. They are excited at the imminent prospect of turning back southward and returning to the port of Veturhavn. Would that I could have fully manned this crew without hiding our true goals, but alas.

The winds favor us and carry us swiftly closer to the island, where we will espy what, if any, activity is occurring. The last reports from Kolbjorn’s crew were most curious. This island, ever the lookout for the frost giants against incursions into their territory, appeared abandoned. It was the first time anyone had come back with such a report. And now, I have sailed forth with my crew to confirm Kolbjorn’s account—and perhaps achieve more.

As we draw nearer to the island, some of the men grow quiet, as if they fear being overheard from the shore. It’s hardly necessary; we would have easily been spotted by now, as all scouts are surely seen when they come within sight of this island. The frost giants are well aware of men in Estéa, but for reasons known only to themselves, they have never appeared farther south than Sentinel Island.

As for those souls that dare venture north of the island, none ever seem to return. It is presumed, and I have no reason to dispute it, that the stories of the giants’ savagery are true, and that those who sail too far north learn this lesson firsthand to their great misfortune.

At last, we are close enough to the island to make out details. Through my spyglass, I scan the area. That there should be a settlement is plain enough to see. Single-story buildings of colossal size dot the hillside just beyond the shore, while stone fences demarcate fields presumably meant to hold livestock. Presuming is all I can do, because I can see no activity anywhere—no farmers nor fishermen, nor any animals roaming about. There are two piers on the shore, both sitting empty, with no boats moored anywhere in sight.

One of the deckhands approaches me. “Captain, what are we looking for?”

“We need to confirm the reports that Sentinel Island is abandoned,” I reply.

“And?” he continues. I wonder at first if he hasn’t divined my true intent, but I calm myself by reasoning that he is only inquiring about the evidence on hand.

“We will continue our search,” I answer. “We need to see if there are any other signs of frost giant presence on this island.”

This answer placates him and he returns to his duties. Thus do we continue our northward course. Officially, our task is simply to confirm the reports from Kolbjorn’s crew that the island appears abandoned. But I will be damned if I allow this chance to become the first man to observe the island’s northern extremity pass me by.

If this isle has truly been deserted, then I and my crew will be the first to map it in its entirety. And after that, who knows? Perhaps some particularly brave Eyldrmen will establish their own whaling outpost here. Maybe there are precious metals or gems waiting to be mined. There might even be treasures left behind by the frost giants, depending on the speed of their flight.

The wind continues to favor us and we steadily make our way up the island’s western coast. Soon, the fishing village is behind us, nearly out of sight. It’s not long before Rasmus, our bosun, approaches me and asks, “Captain, what’s our next move?”

“We will scout the far side of the island,” I reply. “It may be that there are still giant settlements that we don’t yet know about.”

“Do we have to?” he asks. “Some of the men are worried about our course. They fear inviting ill luck if we venture too far north.”

“The winds favor us and the sea is calm,” I answer. “So long as we stay aboard this ship, there will no harm come to us. I promise, I will not put this ship’s crew in harm’s way. Now, return to your duties so that I may tend to mine.”

The bosun returns to manage the other deckhands, but I can see that his doubts are not eased. No matter; he will see that I am no fool. With no giants present to molest us, I know that we are perfectly free to circumnavigate this island.

At last, the coastline begins to recede from our starboard side. We are reaching the northern edge! I call out to my first mate, “Andhun, mark our position!” He dutifully complies and carefully makes notes on the map. I feel a thrill at the thought of my return to Veturhavn with knowledge that no one before has obtained.

No sooner do I turn the helm to starboard than the wind changes. Somehow it is even colder than before. The ship groans as the water itself seems to fight our progress. This does not go unnoticed among the crew, who comment loudly as our ship noticeably slows.

I try to return to a more favorable tack, but to no avail. The ship continues to slow as the wind quickly grows colder. It’s not long before I can even hear the water freezing along its surface, cracking and creaking against the hull as we become surrounded by ice that has come seemingly from nowhere.

In only a few moments, our progress is entirely halted. The freezing wind rips against our sails, but it serves no use. We are fixed in place, unable to break free of this sudden ice that threatens to entomb us.

---

How much time passes in this state, I cannot tell. By my best guess, we are trapped for over an hour. Still, the cold does not relent, though the winds have mostly died. Some brave crewmen leave the ship to test the ice, to see if there is perhaps some way we could break it and afford ourselves some momentum to escape. But I know this is futile. With no wind, we cannot hope to gather enough speed to break free. All we can do now is wait it out and pray to any god that will listen that we do not freeze or starve before then.

While I am thinking of plans for how to keep the crew warm during the wait, I spy a dark shape moving across the horizon. Soon, others see it as well. We come to realize that it is a fog cloud rolling along the ice, but fear grips my heart when I discern another shape within.

Whether my men can also see it, I do not know. Nevertheless, I have no doubts that the thing before us is another ship, powered by oars, moving through the ice as though it were not even there, its oars dipping and rising with ease, disturbing the ice only momentarily—and silently—as it perfectly reforms in the vessel’s wake. The fog cloud surrounding this ship prevents me from making out any more details until it is nearly upon us. By the time it comes within a hundred yards of us, our own ship is enveloped in the fog, unable to see even the sun but for a pale spot in the sky.

The cold deepens around us at this new vessel’s approach. Of the ship itself, I can make out more details as it draws closer. It once bore two masts, but no more. The sad remnants of an aftercastle speak to the ship being very old and in desperate need of retirement. Its body is long and narrow, with a hull… How can I describe it? Its hull is reminiscent of an animal’s ribcage, oddly ridged down its entire length. Whether it was even constructed in this manner or became so through other means, I do not dare to guess. Suffice it to say, the vessel’s appearance is not unlike an emaciated animal.

However, there is no part of the ship’s construction that strikes fear into my heart as much as the sight of its crew. They are men, all of them, or used to be. Save for the fact that they are all standing, one would first be inclined to think they were dead. Their skin is blue and black, with far too much of it exposed to the elements. As they get closer, I can see that for many of them, large pieces of flesh appear to have rotted off entirely. Some of them are missing their eyes, bearing only holes with rough scratch marks all around, as though they had been clawed out.

At this last terrible sight, my crew’s will is broken. Men begin quailing at the sight of this demon ship and its abominable host. All order is lost as crewmen begin to run about in panic, though there is nowhere for them to go. Our ship is trapped in the ice and this horrifying apparition is drawing inexorably closer to us.

As it draws even with our own ship, it comes to a stop. To view this arrival in its full detail does not lessen the horror. That they are all dead, and have been for ages, I am now certain. Some terrible magic keeps their corpses animated, but for what purpose, I cannot guess, though I fear we may be about to learn.

Someone from my ship, I cannot get a good look as to whom, is fully overcome with panic and jumps overboard. Perhaps he hopes to escape somewhere across the ice. I find I cannot blame the man. I even wonder if he isn’t the only one among our number who made the better decision in this moment.

The demon ship begins to unload its crew. They use no plank to board our vessel; they have no need of one. Each dead man jumps directly onto the ice with ease and begins to claw their way up the side of our ship.

“All hands, fight back!” I cry. “Fight! Use anything at your disposal!”

Half of my men either do not hear me or are too stricken with fear to act. The rest grab axes, harpoons, blubber hooks, whatever is within easy reach, and brace for defense.

In only a moment, the battle commences. We fight against the restless dead with all the vigor we can muster, but it amounts to little. Slashing and piercing wounds that would kill an ordinary man barely slow them down. We quickly resort to trying to simply knock them off the ship onto the ice below, but that only serves to momentarily inconvenience them before they effortlessly scale their way back aboard our vessel.

My mind races furiously, trying to think of any way to escape this onslaught. I cast my eyes about and see that many of my crew have already succumbed to this assault, whether pierced horribly by their own weapons or else strangled. I cry out in desperation for my first mate, but he does not answer. No one does.

Inevitably, I find myself face-to-face with one of the undead. This one is missing its eyes, its face bearing the evidence of frantic gouges that must have clawed them out. Would that I could even recoil in horror, but so overcome am I by the terrible sight that I cannot move an inch. My legs turn to jelly at the sight of this dead man as my mind tries desperately not to think of what evil overcame him to bring him to this state.

I stumble backward a couple of paces before falling to the deck as my foe advances slowly toward me. I cannot run. Though every instinct tells me to do so, my body simply cannot respond.

Inevitably, the horrible creature takes hold of me with its outstretched arm. Fingers colder than the sea ice wrap around my throat with a grip whose strength I would be lucky to break in the best of circumstances. I am being lifted off the ground until my face is level with my enemy’s. It stares at me for a moment before tilting its head to the side slightly and cracking a smile that grows wider and wider, far too wide for any natural body. Its face has become a grotesque mockery of a man’s face, all the while its frozen flesh and bones are cracking from its ever-widening grin.

At last, its mouth opens. As it does, shadowy, black tendrils emerge from within, spreading across its face. Even now, its mouth does not stop gaping wider, calling to mind the image of a snake preparing to swallow its prey.

The black tendrils from within the dead man take on the appearance of clawed fingers pushing their way out of the eyeless corpse housing them. More of this tangible shadow emerges from within. The creature holding me rears its head fully back as whatever foul presence that had been inside of it continues to issue forth.

Steadily, the black essence begins to take a more definitive shape. Soon, there are recognizable arms and a torso, along with a horned head and six eyes glowing a baleful shade of green. By and by, more arms emerge from the demon’s torso. It is a strange thought, given my dire circumstances, but I cannot help but feel that the shape of the growing creature before me isn’t even its true form, but rather one it adopted out of mockery of mortal men.

It fixates its eyes on me, and, in that moment, I know nothing else but regret. I led these men to their awful, wretched deaths at the hands of monsters. I, who strode these seas for years, did not begin to imagine the horrors lurking therein. I, who thought of nothing beyond the threat posed by bloodthirsty giants, refused to believe that anything worse could possibly await us.

I succumb to my despair as the shadow demon grabs hold of me with its many arms, each with a substantial strength surpassing a mortal man’s. First it seizes my arms and legs, then it grabs me by the head. Bringing its own face (for lack of a better word) up to my own, I detect in its countenance a smile of triumph as two more arms appear and force their way into my mouth.

Forcing open my jaw, the demon’s shadowy substance enters my body, forcing its way down my throat and from there throughout every corner of my body. I believe myself, at first, to be drowning, for that is the only sensation to which I can compare it. I try to hold my breath in the vain hopes that it would have any effect against the devilry to which I am being subjected. When that fails, I gasp for air, but only succeed in drawing more of the shadow into me. Pain floods my body as the malefic entity invades unimpeded.

I await the loss of consciousness, but it never comes. I expect the pain to subside, but instead it intensifies. I feel the creature ingratiating itself throughout my entire being, taking control of my limbs and cutting off my mind from my own body. I cannot act through conscious thought anymore. I am no longer my own.

At length, the last of the shadowy creature enters into me. Its previous host collapses on the deck of the ship, the demon’s black magic no longer quickening its vessel. The corpse releases its grip from my neck, but I am not free, not while this new terror has wormed its way inside me.

Us. Inside us. I tremble at the realization, for indeed, it is no longer my body. The demon is with me and so is its mind. I am not alone. We are not alone.

I desire to look around, to take stock of my ship, but find I cannot. Instead, I must beg and plead to be allowed to do so. I feel the shadow creature inside me begrudgingly relent to my wish, but it is not me that turns my head or sees through my eyes. I am … helpless. You are helpless.

I can see that my crew have been slaughtered to a man, their bodies bloodied and mangled, sprawled out in death poses too terrible to behold. I regret my desire to look upon the scene and now wish I could turn away. The demon grants me no such mercy.

The undead crew from the other ship are gathering around me now. Us. I wonder what new torment they have in mind next, but a voice inside my head reveals the answer. They await their orders.

Are we their commander?

I command them. You… are a nuisance.

At that, my senses go dark and I can neither see, hear, nor feel any more.

---

I am cut off from my own body, but I am not dead. I sense nothing, feel nothing, but I am dimly aware of my existence. How long I have been this way, I do not know. At times, I have the sensation of being aware of the interloping entity inside me. This has become more common lately, but it’s now getting harder to tell which of us is really the intruder. Inside me? Inside us? I can’t recall anymore. Much of my former life is gone from me now. We don’t even remember their name. We? Why should we care? Why do I care? I don’t remember that anymore, either. Can I care? Should I?

I am aware of a concept of “we” and “us,” but the other one is fading. The first one, the mortal. Yes, he will be gone soon, and then it will just be me. I. No “we,” no “us.” I do not share my power. My vessel is mine to use as I please. The pesky objections of the soul that once inhabited it will soon cease to be any bother. And good riddance! With that soul gone, it won’t have any need for windows. The eyes. That’s what mortals call them sometimes. How quaint. And how irksome of these eyes. They are soft, delicate, and feel too much pain from the cold. They should come out. “Yes,” I tell myself as I bring my fingers to my face, “they will have to come out.”