Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5) by C. B. Ash Read Free Book Online Page A

rather forthcoming with your plans. Something worries you.”
    Anthony did not reply, but stood silently for a moment, then sighed. “There’s something larger at play here, old man. I don’t want to worry anyone needlessly, but Clark is playing at something more than revenge.”
    “Taking a ship simply to use as bait is extreme for anyone,” the doctor said after a moment’s consideration. “And the message from the Intrepid was rather timely also … if they were so close to know we tried to lend assistance, why weren’t they at the wreck when we were?”
    “Precisely,” Hunter replied with a serious glance over to Thorias. “Something foul is at play, which is why I’m so candid over this. Stay alert while casting about for our kidnap victims. We we may catch a hint as to what is really afoot.”
    Thorias said nothing, but was lost to his own thoughts and planning while the Brass Griffin’s bow turned, beginning her final approach towards Port Signal.
     

 

Chapter 6
     
    A good hour later, under Tonks Wilkerson’s skilled hand, the Griffin drifted casually alongside a black wooden pier. While the ship slowed to a snail’s crawl, stout ropes were tossed from the schooner to waiting dock-hands. Quickly, the mooring lines were tied to the nearby large steel cleat horns, securing the Brass Griffin against drifting.
    The long, weathered gangplank was pulled out from storage and slowly lowered down until one end rested against the wooden planks of the pier. In short order, both ends were tied off, making it secure to use.
    Moira was immediately down the gangplank with the first batch of crew. Once on the dock, she stopped, looking around, caught up in her thoughts and memories. The pier was crowded with the usual eclectic collection of stray items: coils of rope, stacks of large crates – each easily three feet on a side – precariously sitting near the edge of the pier, awaiting their owner.
    Past the pier and its crates were the brightly colored, striped awnings and banners that hung outside the nearby shops. The shops themselves – intended for patrons from incoming ships, its passengers and crew – comprised only a portion of the buildings that made up the outer edge of the station’s boardwalk. Buildings not obviously marked with a shingle or a sign were often storehouses, either for rent or for the inhabitants of the station itself.
    Between the buildings along the boardwalk, through narrow alleyways thick with rapidly cooling gusts of steam, and on the wider main avenues, people of all kinds hurried along their way. Men, orcs, elves and even scaled charybdians made their home here among the chilly winds above the North Sea. Sounds of voices from many different cultures mingled, and everywhere the faint smell of methane mingled with the scent of livestock, stale fish, and wet wood left in the sun to dry.
    A broad-shouldered deck hand in a dark woolen coat, loose white shirt and brown cotton pants nodded a wordless greeting to Moira as he sidestepped past her carrying a stack of wooden planks. He was a charybdian, given his yellow eyes, delicate scale pattern, and shoulder-length snake-like tendrils that passed for their ‘hair’.
    “Pardon,” Moira said, stepping to one side, next to a stack of crates. Suddenly, a sharp squawk of irritation brought her eye to eye with a glaring Iceland gull.
    “An’ what’s yer problem?” Moira asked tartly of the bird. The bird just snapped its bill once, then extended its wings as if to stretch. The blacksmith snorted derisively and resumed looking around.
    “Something awry, Miss Wycliffe?” Captain Hunter asked, a few paces behind her.
    Moira smiled, glancing around her again, “not a thing. Just been awhile,   Cap’n.” Then, as if she noticed something, she squinted at the scenery with a frown, as if trying to remember.
    The captain looked around the activity on the docks, trying to spot what Moira felt was out of place. Finally, he gave up,