Hi folks,

This chapter is dedicated to the fanfiction writer Jettara1. She kindly gave me some writing suggestions and I'm very grateful for her advice.

For a desperate, err... I mean aspiring writer, getting pointers from a published author is a rare and amazing gift, so thank you.

A few notes on this chapter.

For me, I think this is one of my most difficult chapters. Not because it's particularly exciting, but because I had to work very hard to visually explain what I wanted the reader to see in their mind's eye.

I'm hoping that it came across properly and ya'll could feel the sea and storm and I didn't go overboard (pun intended) with my descriptions.

After reading the chapter for the 100th time, I'm finding myself very disappointed in the flow of events. But onward and upward...

For all of those still reading this story... Thank you. For all who left reviews... Thank you.

Buckle up Buttercup: The seas are getting stormy...

Chapter 15 - Hel's Fury

Dawn broke to low, onyx clouds gathering ominously in the sky above the Barbaric Archipelago, like mysterious and shadowy harbingers of doom.

Anvil topped thunderheads, ushered in on gale force winds, reached high into the sky, their bottoms resting on the Norse sea's horizon like huge, dark curtains smothering out the pale grey light of the awakening sun.

Damp-smelling air, thick with a briny mist, chilled the once humid, warm air dropping temperatures close to freezing.

Wind, whistling and shrieking, swept violently across the sea's once glassy, mirrored surface, whipping the water into a frenzy of mountainous froth-tinged cresting waves.

Light, brilliant and buzzing with a magnificent electricity, flashed majestically through the mountains of moisture-laded clouds. Skeletal fingers of golden incandescence forked downward, striking the ocean with great wrath, feeding it's energy to the churning, angry waves before quickly vanishing and plunging the sky once again into a premature twilight.

Cracks of deafening thunder, like the explosion of Thor's hammer striking his Asgard anvil, rumbled through the air, rippling the water below, announcing the start of what the brooding cloud layer had promised since dawn.

In the isolation of the vast archipelago sea, the wind and thunder demanded to be heard...

The lightning fought to be seen...

The rain, driven and merciless, lived to soak the world; it's cold, damp hand drowning all in it's path...

The storm was ferocious, bringing only wrath and tempest as it sought to wash away the very existence of a small, isolated ship struggling to stay afloat on the turbulent sea. Hopelessly overpowered by the gale winds ripping at her sails, walls of monstrous whitecaps slammed into the ship's side with remorseless fury, pitching and rolling it like a cork on boiling water.

The sleek, narrow-beamed wooden craft was a multi-level oared vessel with steep sides, making it almost impossible to board in a sea fight. It's large central mast held two adjustable square sails easily maneuvered to increase speed, and it's flat bottom allowed it to sail in shallow inland waters where heavier warships couldn't follow.

It was built to be fast. To strike its prey quickly and retreat without notice; not for comfort, and certainly not for weathering violent seas.

But it had a mission. One where secrecy was required. One for which it was uniquely suited - Revenge.

Partially hidden under the stern's raised, castle-like tower, stood a lone, ebony door decorated with bright ornate hardware.

Behind that door was a dark, sparsely decorated cabin containing just a few items. In the back corner, tucked partially out of sight, was a hammock slung from the ceiling, swaying rhythmically with the pitching and rolling of the struggling ship. A long, wooden table sat in the center of the square room, it's clawed feet bolted firmly to the floor. Tacked haphazardly to the old, knotted wall immediately behind were maps and scribblings on decaying paper, like a warped homage to some horrible crime scene. Great complicated charts and family trees were splattered across the parchments, all written in what what looked like blood.

To the table's right, strapped against a gnarled wall, stood a heavy dark, mahogany cabinet. Split across the large double doors was the image of a black serpent-like dragon, fangs bared, with a single, ruby eye, it's twin conspicuously absent.

The small, cob-web filled room held a feeling of a smothering oppression, roaming around like a living entity, weaving and bobbing amongst the mess of books and maps littering the floor. Its ghostly presence moving about like a cyclone, swaying the multitude of silvery cobwebs dangling from the wood beam ceiling before seeming to penetrate and vanish into the ancient cabinet.

Inside the old cabinet were many shelves full of interesting objects; several rolled up maps were stacked neatly on the topmost shelf, along with some ancient-looking, dusty books and a small journal. Tucked next to these items were a few stoppered ink pots and quills in various stages of use.

On the shelf below sat a small partially open velvet bag containing a spyglass and sextant. Next to the bag was a small, golden box containing an old dagger with an ornately carved handled, dull and tarnished with age. A small spot on the handle had been polished to a bright silver sheen and inside a single, small ruby had been added. On this same shelf, concealed in the back, were several vials of various colored liquids, pills and powders. One of the largest jars contained a sparkily, whitish powder was labeled "Sleeping Draught".

The bottom shelf held used ropes and chains, along with various tools appearing devilish in their construction, all gathered into a small random pile. Drops and streaks of a dried, red-brownish substance clung to the items, a dark reminder of the ships mission. Etched in blood on the inner cabinet doors were two large, semi-circle runes - a telltale sign the ship had been marked with dark magic.

To the left of the large table was a partially open trunk with spare clothing for the crew: several pairs of grey knee length tunics, and leather pants. Sitting askew on top of the other garments was a small, open box containing a carefully folded sheer, white robe and a long red sash, much smaller than the other clothing.

Hunched over the shiny, polished surface of the table, head bowed, one arm braced against the surface, was a dark-skinned man with straight, black hair pouring over several strewn maps of the surrounding area. His dirtied left hand pressing on the curling, frayed edge of the old, yellowing parchment currently fighting against gravity to re-roll. Resting aside the pile of multiple maps, a small hole had been carved into the wood which which held a uncorked bottle of black ink.

Twirling a large goose quill pen absentmindedly in his free hand, completely unaware of the ink smudging his fingers, the captain closely scanned the top map with a magnifying glass. Grunting his dissatisfaction, he grabbed a nearby silver compass and made several small tick marks on the ancient document. Exhaling sharply, he straightened and began rubbing his chin thoughtfully, smearing the ink onto his face as he thought.

Overhead two small oil lanterns swung violently from the long, dark beams, responding to the lurching of the boat as it bounced on the high waves. The light of the lanterns traveled rhythmically over the old documents, casting his face in alternating light and shadow as his eyes continued to scan the tattered material for a new route.

The storm had blown them off course; far off course.

From the last known position of the rising sun, the ship would arrive at its destination hours late. This meant finding their prey at night, something that hadn't been anticipated. This posed a considerable problem due to the remote area and secrecy needed for the extraction.

A flash of brilliant white light suddenly ripped through the darkened sky and burst through the glass of the small, round portholes lining the wall aside the table, illuminating the darkened room. Startled by the deafening thunderbolt of Thor that followed only a second behind, the captain shot his head upward, hastily moving to peer out a porthole into the eerily, darkened day. Through water streaked glass, he strained through the white blur created by icy sheets of rain pouring mercilessly from the ever darkening sky.

Placing one hand on the smooth wood wall, he grumbled over his shoulder, "This will delay our arrival... The window of opportunity is closing."

Turning toward the guard standing silently by the cabin door he briskly ordered, "Make sure the hold is ready to receive our guest."

The soldier nodded, placing a closed-fist over his heart in salute. A moment later he slipped quietly from the room, his black cape rustling in his wake.

Grabbing a cloak still damp from the mist of the sea, he retrieved the eyeglass from the mahogany cabinet. Plucking his helmet from the door hook, he threw on the items and stepped out onto the slick and icy deck.

Hurled like shards of glass by the furious wind, the stinging pellets flew into his face as the small boat lurched against the wind, creaking and groaning with every movement. Thor's thunder rolled out across the black and angry storm clouds as great jagged splinters of lightning cracked open the skies and punched down on the swelling seas.

Clinging to the curved stair rails, the captain struggled up the narrow steps to the aft-castle deck, barely keeping his footing as the shrieking wind tore at his clothes, and froze his fingers till they nearly lost their grip. Pushing the wheelman aside, he grabbed the helm with one hand and lifted the eyeglass to peer through the heavy raindrops, scanning the distant horizon.

Poking defiantly out of the endless, thrashing sea, was the brown scar of a small island, barely visible in the darkness. Focusing his eyes on the tiny, distant blemish, he gripped the wheel's spoke handle tightly and wrenched it into a new direction, forcing the central rudder to fight against the violent currents below, turning the ship into the the eye of the storm.

The craft was thrown sharply forward, heaving and tossing in the rising swell as its nose dipped down and crashed into mountains of angry waves, flooding the deck with frothing seawater. The air filled with foam and spray as the bow of the ship sliced through the towering walls of water.

Suddenly a cry was heard above the storm as the captain shouted orders to start bailing water out of the ship. The crew ran onto the deck with buckets, frantically trying to stop the ship from taking on too much weight.

Fueled by the powerful winds, the waves grew so large that the vessel was dwarfed, riding up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child's toy. Within seconds, another wave smashed into the side of the ship, drenching the already wet crew and throwing them to the deck.

There was no mercy in that Autumn wind, no grace in the waves, only anger in the form of water, turbulent and unforgiving.

As the large sails swung and lashed violently against the masts, more orders were shouted out amidst the tumult of the storm. "Secure the sails and batten down the lines or the ship will tear herself apart!" The captain's shrill cry echoed faintly before being swept away into the howling winds.

Men began scrambling frantically across the deck. One crewman began quickly ascending the rigging of the central mast toward the metal crows nest high above the raging waters. As he climbed, the air above suddenly fizzed with electric energy, crackling, bursting, searching, seeking for a path down to the sea. Great jagged splinters of lightning cracked open the skies and punched down on the swelling seas all around the small ship as Thor's thunder rolled out across the black and angry storm clouds.

One bright, crooked shard of light hurled like a spear, jagged down from the clouds and struck the armored crows nest sending three hundred thousand volts of electricity into metal, throwing red sparks in all directions like a fireworks display. The energy bristled down the pole striking the crewman clinging half way up the mast. Sparks flew from his body and jumped crazily off the wood of the mast, setting it afire. The lifeless body of the man was thrown onto the deck, his clothes tattered and burned, his eyes nothing more than glassy orbs, reflecting the flashes of lightening they could no longer see.

The shrieking wind tore at the remains of the dangling black flag above the crows nest, ripping the singed material from the splintered wood and dropping it onto the deck with a thud. The Captain stared at the remains of the singed material, the blood red runes sewn along the bottom hem mirrored in his black eyes; "Hel's fury".

While virtually unknown in the archipelago, many long tales had been traded around warm, crackling campfires on dark, cold nights about seagoing travelers vanishing or meeting their untimely demise after encountering the demon ship, "Revenge".

Tonight was such a night...

On the small Island of Berk, as the hour grew late, a small fire crackled in the dark corner of a lonely campsite, its shy light dancing across the dark trunks of the trees, twisting and curling in obscure shapes. The rich oaky smell of the burning wood permeated the air as curling wisps of silver grey smoke were whisked away into the night by the building winds.

The fire itself pulsated like it was alive. The glowing sparks from the crackling, popping wood moved in rhythm with the flames, swirling and twisting upward into the cold night air like escaping fireflies caught in a mighty cyclone, winking out of existence before they could make it past the treetops and into the heavens.

The flames rose boldly against the ebony sky as bitingly cold winds from the oncoming storm swayed the grass blades around a small group of weary travelers huddled close to the fire, seeking the comfort of it's warmth.

As Skarskind Mountain loomed behind, Cordizar spoke to the group in hushed tones, his voice almost lost in the echoed crashes of thunder far in the distance.

"It's been said the crew of the Revenge are soulless golems created by a dark soul inhabiting a castle on the island of Skoro...

"It's said that the death ship has no mercy for any who cross her bow..."

"It's on a mission to pay an old debt... one to which the price is death... one in which a soul must be sacrificed... "

Cordizar paused his story, his eyes catching what appeared to be dark figures passing like specters at the edge of the camp. Dismissing the images as the erratic motions of tree branches in the building wind, he continued his story in a deepened voice like a warning.

"It was a dark and stormy night ... like tonight..."