Henry Morgan's Fort (A Buccaneer's Due Book #3): LitRPG Series Read online

  Henry Morgan’s Fort

  a novel

  by Igor Knox

  A Buccaneer’s Due

  Book#3

  Magic Dome Books in collaboration with 1C-Publishing

  A Buccaneer’s Due

  Book #3: Henry Morgan’s Fort

  Copyright © Igor Knox 2022

  English translation copyright © Andrew Schmitt 2022

  Cover Art © Ivan Khivrenko 2022

  Art Designer Vladimir Manyukhin

  Published by Magic Dome Books in collaboration with 1C-Publishing, 2022

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-80-7619-511-0

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

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  Table of Contents:

  Setting Sail

  Chapter 1. Richard Norman

  Chapter 2. Cartagena

  Chapter 3. Island of Sunken Ships

  Chapter 4. Ghost of the Past

  Chapter 5. Fights, Fights, Fights

  Chapter 6. I Must Survive

  Chapter 7. Guadeloupe

  Chapter 8. Diving Bell

  Chapter 9. Finally Reaching the Sea!

  Chapter 10. The Lily

  Chapter 11. The Nootropics

  Chapter 12. Whale Slaughter

  Chapter 13. The Devil’s Maw

  Chapter 14. At the Mercy of the Elements

  Chapter 15. Old Times’ Sake

  Chapter 16. To the Bottom

  Chapter 17. Zugzwang

  Chapter 18. Conversations

  Chapter 19. Negotiations?

  Chapter 20. Henry Morgan’s Fort

  Chapter 21. Sea Battle

  Chapter 22. Breach

  Chapter 23. Seadevil Watching

  Chapter 24. Heating Up

  Chapter 25. Change of Plans

  Chapter 26. Traitor

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Setting Sail

  SIR HENRY MORGAN looked down from the fort walls on a lone pinnace. Most often, mariners did their best to give this island a wide berth, but the little vessel was making a beeline straight for it. Its lone sail fluttered in the shifting wind while its single passenger worked the oars.

  “What the hell is he after?” Morgan asked more to himself than his senior pirates.

  He tried once again to recall the first time he had come here. Nothing. Blank space. As always, his mind was awash with mixed up memories, but they came to a sudden end sometime during the last few days he spent in the famed Port Royal. At times, Morgan even felt like it was all a dream. A strange island with an incredibly large fort. How strange life can be...

  He had been told that Jamaica’s capital got rocked by a powerful earthquake. By then, Morgan had been thought dead for four years — they even erected him a gravestone. Only a select few close friends knew the truth. The former freebooter admiral had become a recluse, leading a sedentary lifestyle. And so, when Port Royal slipped beneath the waves in the blink of an eye, it didn’t occur to anyone that the redheaded old man might have been at the epicenter of events.

  They said an unconscious Morgan had been dragged out of the water by a man claiming to be Richard Norman. While the old pirate and lieutenant governor of Jamaica drifted in and out of sleep and spouted out nonsense, Norman brought him to this island and handed him off to a group of pirates living by the pirate code in its strictest form. The majority of them had gone campaigning with Morgan before — Maracaibo, Puerto Principe, Panama... The great raids still rung in their ears with volleys of shot and the clanging of cutlasses.

  And those pirates nursed back to life an admiral they believed had long since come to dwell with Davy Jones. But Henry Morgan was alive — as alive as any man could be. While coming back to reality, he found out the island had practically been purpose-built for withstanding sieges. Two freshwater lakes brimming with clean water, pastures for goats, chickens and cows, bastions, moats, ravelins... And although this place was devoid of his beloved sugar cane, he no longer felt the need to daydream about another life. In fact, he was already supposed to be dead.

  That made Morgan all the more surprised when he asked the name of the island. The pirates told him it had been named in memory of a great admiral they served under for many years. They called it Henry Morgan’s Fort. Then he asked who had built the magnificent fortification.

  That brought back a memory from the height of his pirate career. Morgan and his hearties had come up with a venture they called the Freebooter Empire. Their naive fantasies were not destined to come true — the freebooters all ended up going their separate ways like ships at sea. But now it became clear that not all the pieces of eight had ended up in Jamaican grog shops. A group of ideologically motivated pirates had invested into building a giant bastion fort shaped like a five-pointed star planned to fit the landmass perfectly. Years later, an unnamed pirate colony took root.

  Morgan couldn’t remember how long he’d been on the island. Seemingly, it hadn’t even been a day. But patchy memories of a different life kept surfacing in his mind — uneventful, distant, cyclical. Had it maybe been a month? Six? A whole year? He often asked that question to himself, but the only response he’d ever gotten was the dull sound of crashing waves as if holding a seashell up to his ear. It was like someone had gone poking around in his head and removed some of his memories. Maybe it was all to do with the head wound? Or was it all the boozing? Or was this the afterlife, and he was being forced to relive the same day over and over, pacing hither and thither around his dismal holdings? But if that was true, then why had the pinnace only appeared today?

  The vessel gave a dull screech when it ran into an outcropping of rocks near shore, then its bowsprit collided with the base of the wall. The seagulls standing around on the rocks shot up into the air and started circling overhead. A rope ladder was thrown down from the wall. Even if the stranger turned out to be a madman, unaware of where he’d just drifted up to, at the very least he had to be heard out, Morgan thought. A minute later, a black-bearded old man with a pegleg had climbed up onto the wall. He didn’t have any crutches — but even huffing and puffing, he stood confidently on both legs and smoothed out the rumpled tricorn sliding down onto his forehead.

  “Who goes there?” Morgan asked unflappably, trying to look the stranger in the eyes.

  “So, the rumors are true,” he responded in a rasping baritone. “Hello there, old devil. Don’t ye recognize me?”

  Morgan froze, staring desperately into the visage covered in thick facial hair.

  “Brodar?” he asked cautiously, not believing his own eyes.

  “I heard you could use all the hands you can get, cap,” Brodar Smith responded wearily and took a step forward.

  Morgan pinched himself, trying to wake up.

  Chapter 1. Richard Norman

  THE TAVERN WAS thick with the aromas of spices and wine. The wood shingled roof yawned with a gaping hole letting in the odd whistling projectile.

  “Are you Richard Norman?” Anneli asked incredulously, pointing her revolver at the man lying back behind the table.

  His face looked dimly familiar.

  “Hm,” he stared at her with a piercing gaze. “So, are you the construction workers?”

  “No.”

  “Then who the Seadevil are you supposed to be?” he cringed. “Please, be seated! I imagine you did not undertake such a long journey to simply murder me.”

  I sat opposite Norman. At the end of the day, he was unarmed and didn’t look hostile. His carefree demeanor seemed utterly absurd with all the projectiles racing over the building intermingled with the shouting and gunfire blasting in from outside. Anneli sat next to me, but kept her gun drawn.

  “Were you expecting us?” I asked, trying to remember where I might have seen the man before.

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.” Norman reached for the bottle of wine again. “As a matter of fact, I was just on my way out the door. If the messenger had come a day earlier, ye wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell of catching me. But alas, I was only made aware this evening. And by that time I, uhhh...” he leaned toward the bottle, “was not in the right spirits to just up and vamoose.”

  “So, you’ll run away at the first opportunity,” Anneli concluded. “And you also shouldn’t be trusted.”

  “If I wanted your trust, señorita, I never would have told you that. But from everything you’ve told me, lying would be the best way to garner your trust. A fascinating paradox!”

  “You know why we’ve been looking for you? And who gave us up?”

  The only person who knew we were looking for Norma
n was Shenli Longshanks. Was there any chance he or any of his people could have blabbed so early? That I simply could not figure. Nevertheless, Norman knew we were coming. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “I’m more interested in what you’re after,” the smuggler dodged the second question. “As you know, I am a man of business and I value my time.”

  Anneli’s dark look and flared nostrils told me she was about to say something rude. The memories of how she dealt with the governor of Havana were just too fresh. And so, I decided to intervene:

  “I want to clear something up now to avoid misunderstandings...”

  “Me, too!” he exclaimed, pointing his index finger up. “Esmeralda! Hey, Esmeralda! Treat these two noble caballeros to a drink on the house.”

  I looked around, but the tavern was empty. Anneli also looked wary. That was the name she’d used for cover in Havana. Nevertheless, a servant soon appeared carrying a tray. As it turned out, there was a stairway into the basement in the corner where the woman came from. She placed glasses in front of us, poured red liquid into them from a bottle, then put them on the table and left.

  “Beg pardon.” Norman fitfully grasped the fresh bottle and took a swig right from it. “Hm... Ghm!” He turned to look at the previous, unfinished bottle. “So, have I been drinking vinegar all this time? Ugh, damn this winery! The rosy-cheeked bastards! I guarantee them securely smuggled goods, and they...”

  “Who are they?” I asked, more out of politeness.

  For a second, Norman considered it.

  “There’s a man here called Baron Jacobo. Well, you know, sometimes wine starts turning sour, gradually becoming vinegar. And you know, sometimes I get a bit loopy and can’t tell them apart. Old fool that I am!”

  “And nevertheless...”

  “Beg pardon,” Norman fell silent. “Anyhow, nice to meet you.”

  “We’re not going to...”

  “Come now!” he cut me off. “Don’t you worry, it’s all on the house. I’m too old to nickel and dime such esteemed guests.”

  “You this nice to everyone?” Anneli quipped, losing patience. “You know who we are?”

  “As far as I can tell, you don’t seem to be my construction workers,” he replied with a completely serious look. “Still, I say we have a drink.”

  A pop-up message from Anneli appeared before my eyes:

  Something’s off. I think he’s stalling.

  “My dear Richard,” I began and was immediately cut off.

  “To you, it’s just Rick, my friend. By the way, could you please tell me your names?”

  “...We believe you’re stalling,” I finished.

  “Well, I won’t argue with that.” Norman couldn’t help himself and grabbed the bottle again. “To tell ye the truth, that’s all I’ve been doing my entire conscious life. Think I’m doing a decent job?”

  “He’s unbearable.” Anneli rolled her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh.

  “Rick, you’re in no position to be playing the jester here. We’ve come for a serious talk.”

  “Actually, I’m always in a fair position.” Notes of injury slipped through in his voice. “What do you know to accuse me of anything?!”

  “Well, for one, you served under Henry Morgan,” I replied, not believing myself. “You sailed on a ten-cannon frigate named the Lily. You have been in possession of Sigismund’s manuscript. You once made a stop-over on Saona. You stormed Maracaibo, led the defense of the fortress of San Lorenzo while Morgan made his way to Panama. Then together with Morgan and other freebooters, you had a plantation on Jamaica until one day you disappeared without a trace and started a new life as a smuggler.”

  “I’d never believe this clown lived a life like that,” Anneli noted quietly.

  While I contested the facts I’d read dozens of times (and thus had practically committed to memory), Norman looked unflappable, showing no emotion whatsoever. Then he took his legs off the table, slowly set the bottle down and looked me attentively in the eyes.

  “Blimey! I haven’t heard that old wives’ tales in ages.” He took a cigar from his jacket’s inner pocket and raised it to a candle in a saucer on the corner of the table. “My current life doesn’t fit well with... my past. I usually try to stop such rumors from proliferating like flies in a head tank, but I suspect now is not the time for that.”

  With those words, Norman looked up at the hole in the roof and cannonballs whizzing past overhead, then took a thoughtful puff on his cigar.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “you have come to me for a reason. What can I possibly expect from a gentleman and lady who turned half of Havana upside down to secure a meeting with me? I’m flattered, of course, but... If we can’t just enjoy a drink like decent folk, I’d be delighted to hear your bizarre and most likely entertaining story.”

  To myself, I noted that somehow the smuggler knew about our misadventures in Havana. Very strange...

  “There’s not gonna be any story-telling,” Anneli cut him off. “We need the designs from Sigismund’s manuscript. And you’re going to give them to us.”

  For an instant, Norman froze, as if processing what he’d heard, after which he shot us a thumb’s up and broad smile.

  “Good one! I see you know a thing or two, esteemed guests!” When he saw the still grave looks in our eyes, his face darkened. “I hope you’re not being serious, of course. All this talk has sent a wave of pleasant nostalgia washing over me, taking me back to the days of Admiral Morgan. But that’s no reason to go digging up old hogwash.”

  “This is not hogwash,” I said. “We really are looking for the designs.”

  Norman took a heavy sigh.

  “Then I think we’d better ‘splice the mainbrace,’ as they say. I admit, I was expecting a lot more out of you. Shameful though it may be, I do not have the designs. What the curses made ye think they were even workable?”

  “Jordan Blanc...” I started.

  “That old workhorse hasn’t kicked the bucket yet? Ha! What a scurvy mongrel. He put that idea into your heads? Blanc must have been drunk and messing around with a couple of little sea pups.”

  I could read strong denial in Norman’s words. It makes perfect sense that an NPC who’s impossible to track down would be a tough nut. But the longer we spoke with the smuggler, the more often I forgot I was dealing with an AI and not a living person.

  “Brodar Smith told me everything he knew about the plans before he died and he mentioned you,” I found another counterargument.

  “What the hell did you just say?” Norman’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “That’s... impossible. Brodar...”

  Instead of asking the details or at the very least responding, the smuggler nervously stubbed out his cigar, stumbled to his feet and grabbed the bottle. His drunken gait took him over to the bar where he grabbed a felted hat with a green feather and said:

  “My respects, señores, but it’s time for me to raise anchor.” His tone sounded as if no one was currently storming Cartagena, levelling the gorgeous Spanish city to dust and ashes.