The Prisoner of Moorhead

By Eric Maus

Max Windsor is a mischievous fourteen year old boy living on the Bridge, a tropical archipelago controlled by the kingdom of Arkania. Max's father has been missing for longer than he can remember, and most presume the man dead. However, Max holds o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Maus
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887573427

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The Prisoner of Moorhead

The Wayland Saga Part 1

Eric Maus

West Egg Books

Copyright © 2022 by Eric Maus

Cover Art by Meghan Antkowiak

Map by Eric Maus and Meghan Antkowiak

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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Chapter one

GHOULS' COVE

The moon hung like a great lantern in the cloud-strewn sky, its buttery light descending upon the black waves of the Wandering Sea. A single boat graced the waters on this fateful evening as time approached midnight. The small vessel was crude and well-worn, the paint chipping and the engine coughing, but it remained sturdy and reliable, as it was well cared for. A boy of fourteen named Maxwell Windsor steered the craft, his gray eyes fixed upon the dark horizon. Sitting across from him was his best friend, a girl of similar age named Jain Youngblood. Their destination was illegal for citizens of their status: Ghouls’ Cove, a place aswirl in myth and legend.

It was Max who had approached Jain about the nocturnal undertaking. It was a trip both had desired to take for as long as either could remember; they each enjoyed adventure and a bit of mischief whenever possible. Both of their mothers had strictly forbidden their children from this journey, and so until this point neither had ventured to do so. However, Max had made a discovery quite recently that had driven him to disobedience.

Max’s mother, Aurelia Windsor, owned and operated an inn known as The Mermaid’s Kiss, an establishment located on the archipelagic colony of the Bridge. She had moved to the Bridge when Max was no more than a baby, and he had never known his father. While Aurelia did not like to speak of Rand Windsor much, Max understood that the man had been a war-hero, leaving numerous medals and notes of merit in his wake. Rand had vanished without a trace, never to be seen again, while on a top-secret mission orchestrated by the King.

Max had grown up aching for his father’s return, often dreaming of waking one morning to find him downstairs, smiling with his mother. Though she had never expressed the sentiment in so many words, Max knew Aurelia believed Rand to be deceased. Max, however, maintained with resolution that the man was alive. He admired his father, and couldn’t wait to grow up to be just like him, an Arkanian hero, battling the King’s foes for the glory of the Red Kingdom. He spent hours scouring over Rand’s books, history tomes and scrawled journals, soaking up all he could, in order to give him some indication of the man’s possible whereabouts.

This morning, tucked away between the pages of A History of Arkanian Naval Skirmishes, Vol. VII, Max had discovered a small slip of parchment, inscribed with these words:

Dearest Aurelia,

On Ghouls’ Cove, beneath the Whispering Oak, reside the Three. Do not let him find them.

With Love,

Rand

Max had nearly taken the note to his mother, to whom it was addressed, but decided against it. He feared that she would not allow him to investigate, based on her pre-established feelings concerning the cove, and her closed-off nature regarding the memory of her husband. So he had decided to carry on without her knowledge. However, he wouldn’t imagine an adventure like this without Jain in attendance. Also, she would never forgive him if he went without her.

He had known her for years. The daughter of a Grand Admiral in the Arkanian Navy, her family resided permanently in the kingdom’s capital of Constantine, but spent their summers and holidays on the warm islands of the Bridge. Max, Jain, and her older brother Jasper had explored every nook and crag of each islet within reasonable (and sometimes unreasonable) sailing distance, having lots of fun and occasionally causing trouble. This summer had just begun, and Jain had arrived only a week ago - Jasper, however, had left for the infantry; he was to be a soldier, just like his father. Max was jealous of this. It was everything he wanted, and he had to wait another two years until he could join his friend. Jain, however, did not approve of her brother’s choice, nor of Max’s shared interest in a military career.

We’re nearly there, he said, as the dark silhouettes of palm trees began to obscure the lower stars.

This better be worth it, said Jain, glancing over her shoulder. I’m missing prime sleeping hours for this.

It’s summer, responded Max. You’ll sleep in tomorrow.

Not if I’m eaten or drowned or buried alive, she said with a shiver.

None of that is going to happen, laughed Max, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt.

Since before he could walk, he had been inundated with stories of Ghouls’ Cove. Long ago, this island had been a den of pirates, from which the marauders would raid and pillage the coastlines of the neighboring isles. They became a scourge of the Wandering Sea, rendering maritime trade and travel nearly impossible. Luckily, after the Arkanians grew to prominence, the scoundrels were obliterated, driven from the archipelago. Those that were slain were buried in a mass grave, and their final resting place came to be known as Ghouls’ Cove.

Visits to the island were discouraged, and eventually condemned, as those who voyaged to the cursed cove returned with unexplained illnesses or incurable madness, babbling about dead men brought in with the tide, corpses crawling through the sand, zombies prowling through the trees. Some never returned at all.

Max didn’t give much credence to these tales. He had never met anyone himself who had actually been to the cove; all the accounts he had grown up with had been secondhand. The citizens of the Bridge were a suspicious lot, spending their evenings spinning tall tales over too many pints of ale.

Jain didn’t believe the stories either, but something about travelling to a forbidden island in the middle of the night filled each child with a generous helping of trepidation. They were certainly excited, but neither could help the gnawing fear that clung to their spines.

Max’s determination to discover the meaning behind his late father’s note was powerful enough to overcome any hesitation. What were ‘the Three’ that resided beneath the oak? Who was the ‘him’ that his father warned about? Finding the answers to these questions was enough motivation to guide him through a horde of zombies . . . or so he hoped.

The cove was in full view, its sandy shores bathed in the light of the moon. Palm trees tossed to and fro in a gentle breeze, long marram grass growing tangled and unkempt around their trunks.

Max and Jain splashed out of The Rocket and pulled the boat onto the beach, the prow slicing into the sodden sand. The briny scent of the ocean was intermingled with another scent, something foul and stomach-turning. The stench of decomposing flesh, Max knew, though he tried to shake this thought from his head. Jain covered her nose with her hand, and looked at Max with concern.

He pulled a pair of small shovels from the boat, handed one to Jain and slung the other over his shoulder. Beneath the Whispering Oak, read the note. He assumed there would be digging.

He pointed down the coast to their right, where the rotting carcass of a hammerhead lay half-buried in the surf, its jutting ribs extended toward the night sky. They approached the dead sea-beast, driven by curiosity more than anything. From maw to tail it stretched longer than The Rocket, a sizable specimen to be sure. It was crawling with carrion crabs, crustaceans no larger than the palm of Max’s hand, but quick-working and ravenous; he was sure it would be picked clean in very little time at all. Their activity was nimble and silent, interrupted only by an odd squelch emanating from inside the shark’s chest cavity. Max gazed into the dark crevice, and was startled as something erupted wildly from within onto the beach. Jain gasped in surprise; it was a sea goblin, another coastal scavenger. Blue-skinned and not much larger than a house cat, the creature hissed and snarled as it scurried away into the darkness, its wide eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

Any idea where the Whispering Oak is supposed to be? Jain asked, as they moved off the beach toward the interior of the island. The terrain climbed quickly upward, covered in lumpy rocks and tropical foliage.

Not really, said Max. But I know the island isn’t very big, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.

The swaying palms creaked in the wind, their fronds whispering secrets. The occasional hoot of a pitch owl cut through the near silence without warning, causing both children to leap out of their skin, and look about for encroaching zombies. Hulking stone idols, carved by civilizations long preceding the pirates loomed large against the stars, leering faces scowling down upon Max and Jain.

Soon the landscape leveled out, and they were faced with an expanse of long silky grass, dotted with crumbling tombstones. Across the greensward was an immense Whispering Oak tree, its long branches stretching in all directions, its roots bursting from the soil.

Max and Jain tentatively began to cross the cemetery, keeping their eyes peeled for any . . . unnatural movement. The tomb markers were overgrown with grass and moss, and the inscriptions were tough to make out. Many were worn down by the wind and rain, and some were broken off halfway. Unfortunately for the state of Max and Jain’s courage, many of the graves were hollow, leaving yawning cavities in the earth, in a few of which could be spied the empty eye-sockets and grinning jaws of a skull. They tried to keep their eyes forward, fixed upon the seemingly unreachable destination of the Oak. As they walked, the sound of the wind changed to a low howl, a noise that hung in the air and clung to the children’s impressionable imaginations. Their peripheries crawled with unreal specters, exhumed fingers reaching out to pull them into black graves - when they looked over their shoulders, they were always relieved to find nothing but the wind.

They reached the tree after what seemed hours of torturous trek. The Whispering Oak stood atop a towering cliff, many of its roots dangling above the crashing waves far below. The trunk was immense; as wide as a small house. It was quite a grand old tree, and Max imagined it had been growing on this ledge far before the arrival of the pirates.

Beneath the Whispering Oak . . ., quoted Jain. Where do we look?

Here, said Max. The bark of the tree glimmered in the moonlight, and Max could clearly discern the initials ′R.W..′ carved between two jutting roots. Right here. Excitement poured through his veins, replacing any fear that had crept inside.

The wailing of the wind increased as the shovels bit into the soft soil, and anyone who didn’t know better would think it was the sound of human agony. They worked quickly, digging wide and deep, leaving a large mound of fresh earth beside them. They dug and dug until they found themselves deep within a pit. Max’s excitement waned the further they delved into the ground, and his mind became plagued with doubt. Were they digging in the wrong place? Had his mother already retrieved whatever had been placed here? Had someone else? Was there even anything here to begin with?

Jain yawned after a time, and glanced up at the edge of the pit around them. How much farther should we go? Should we try another spot?

Clunk. Max’s shovel struck something solid, and the children looked at each other with renewed optimism. As they cleared earth away from the object, Max desperately hoped that it wasn’t just a stone or one of the tree’s roots. As it began to take shape in his fingers, Max smiled: it was a box of some kind.

They climbed free of the pit, Max holding the box in one arm. The wind screamed around them, sounding all the world like a cacophony of furious phantasms. Max cleaned the box as best he could, until the gold fittings gleamed. There was no lock.

Are you going to open it? Jain asked, looking at her friend.

Max had paused, looking at the item. In its presence he felt closer to his father than ever before. He almost couldn’t believe it was real, finding this object after a lifetime not knowing the man. Hope that Rand Windsor still lived burned within him.

He pulled the lid open. Moonlight spilled into the box, illuminating three objects. He examined each carefully, Jain looking over his shoulder. The first was a folded parchment, which when opened revealed a very detailed map of locations Max did not know. The second was a golden watch, intricately crafted and quite heavy. The third was a key, five inches long and blacker than soot. It was cold to the touch, so cold that it ate into his flesh.

He didn’t recognize any of the items and had read nothing about them in his father’s journals. He didn’t have much time to contemplate them, however.

Max, Jain whispered, almost imperceptible over the shrieking wind. He glanced up. Standing on the edge of the cliff, about a hundred feet away, was the silhouette of a man. His features were imperceptible, but he was certainly looking in their direction. Alive or undead, Max did not know. His heart seized in terror as the figure took a step forward.

Time to go, said Jain, and she and Max scrambled to their feet. They tore across the cemetery, careful not to stumble into any open graves, Max holding the box tightly. No matter how quickly they went, the shape seemed to somehow remain only a few steps behind. They crashed down the tree-covered decline, both slipping and falling at least once. After fleeing across the beach, they tumbled into The Rocket. Max gunned the engine and they whisked away from Ghoul’s Cove. Glancing over his shoulder, Max saw the man standing inches from the waves, watching them go, his hands down by his sides.

Chapter two

THE MERMAID'S KISS

Max rolled out of bed sometime the next afternoon, sun streaming through his bedroom window and planting golden squares on the hardwood floor. He rubbed the blear from his eyes and stretched like a cat, erupting into a loud yawn.

His room was small, with barely enough space for a bed, dresser, and bookshelf. The ceiling was steeply slanted, and covered with maps, posters, and a tattered Arkanian flag.

He crossed his room with two strides, over to the window. He tugged it open and poked his head out. There, stretching out below him was the Wandering Sea in all its glory, an endless expanse of turquoise, waves gently rising and falling, the scent of brine delivered to his nostrils by a soft breeze. The smell of the ocean conjured adventure and expedition, exotic faraway lands, treasure and loot, potential and possibility. Gulls kee-awed, and the water lapped against the soft white sand of the beach. It was lovely.

The events of the previous evening rushed back to him, forcing all grogginess from his mind. He could not wait to re-examine the contents of the box, which he had left safely on The Rocket, to determine exactly what they were and why his father had hidden them.

Max turned and went to his dresser. He slipped on a tee-shirt and jeans, and headed for the door. His small room rested at the tip-top of The Mermaid’s Kiss: Inn and Eatery.

He and his mother shared the apartment that made up the top floor of The Kiss. It was an undoubtedly small, cramped space, but nothing either complained about.

Max’s stomach yowled like a mad tiger, in desperate need of sustenance. He placed a hand on it. Hang in there, bottomless pit. I’m on my way.

He quickly passed through his apartment, strode out into the narrow hall and walked to the end, which was capped with elevator doors. He pushed the cracked, faded button marked with an ‘L’, and waited while the contraption creaked, groaned, and finally opened. A small lightbulb just above the frame dinged a tired orange.

He entered and slowly rode downward toward the very bottom, passing by floors filled with rooms, whose occupants were most likely downstairs eating, or out on the town enjoying the warm weather.

The elevator ground to a halt on the fourth floor, halfway to Max’s destination. The doors sighed open, and Professor Fidge joined him on the lift. The gnome was in town for business, conducting a study for the Academy. He had been staying at the inn since the beginning of the summer. He was no taller than a human toddler, dressed in a crisp suit, complete with tie, waistcoat, and coral sandals. He wore crystal-lensed spectacles on his whiskered snout. Large, murine ears jutted from the sides of his head, and his chin was covered in a silver beard. He nodded to Max as the elevator resignedly resumed its descent.

Greetings, Maxwell. Enjoying your Saturday? His eyes were in a book, and he seemed mentally preoccupied.

So far, said Max, stifling another yawn. Taking the day off, Professor?

Alas, no. There is a full moon tonight, and I have many preparations to make, said Fidge. The weresharks are out there, I know it, and tonight is the night I finally prove my hypothesis true. I wonder if there is enough mackerel in my chum concoction . . . maybe add a bit of slugfish . . . he trailed off, lost in thought.

The elevator jolted to a stop when it reached the lobby, the light dinged again, and the doors scraped open. Max was immediately greeted by the aroma of crackling bacon, and his stomach lurched in sheer protest and desire.

Well, adios, said Max. I’m off to eat everything I can find. Let me know if you need help catching the wereshark, professor. He added this last bit with sincerity.

I’m afraid I do not wish to be responsible for the gruesome death of the son of my hostess, thank you very much, said Fidge gravely. You would not survive the encounter, much too reckless. Please remain far away from the water tonight.

I’ll buy a plane ticket for the furthest and driest desert right away, returned Max, his sincerity evaporating.

Yes, wonderful, said Professor Fidge, gazing down at the leather-bound journal as he strode out of the elevator.

The bottom floor of The Kiss was primarily dedicated to one great room, filled with tables and chairs, where around thirty people sat eating or socializing. To the south were enormous windows, which gave one the delightful pleasure of gazing upon the Wandering Sea. There was a big, blackened hearth on the eastern wall, and above this hung a large painting of some scallywag pirate captain.

Red and white streamers hung from the ceiling, and banners hung over the windows. It’s Colony Day. Max remembered. The annual Seaside Parade would be tonight.

In the back of the great room facing the windows was a bar, with a row of stools in front, a bartender behind. Half the stools were filled with patrons engaged in meal or drink. Max walked to the end of the bar and hopped atop a stool, putting his elbows up. Bottles of all shapes and sizes were on display on the shelves behind the bar, filled with elixirs of every color. There was also a small box television mounted in one corner, rebroadcasting a beast-race from the previous week.

Tessa, the bartender, walked over to him, polishing a glass. Her black hair was piled atop her head, and sweat glistened on her dark skin.

Don’t tell me you just woke up, she said.

Okay, he said, shrugging. I won’t.

I’m assuming you’re here for food, not to wash the mountain of dishes waiting for you in the kitchen? she said, her eyes narrowing.

I can’t do dishes, Max protested. The water gives me a rash.

Didn’t give you a rash last week.

That you saw, he said, then, Is it ok if I get some breakfast, or do you guys need help? he asked, desperately hoping for the former.

Nah, it’s not that busy, she said, her face relaxing into a smile. Go ahead and get something. A burger and fries okay?

Yes, he said. Extra fries?

She rolled her eyes and headed back to the kitchen.

Many thanks, my good lady! he called after her. The burgers could be ordered in six different sizes, as the many life forms that passed through the Kiss ranged from mouse-like to hulking. A Tiny burger would be just a half-bite for Max, whereas an Enormous burger would take him a few days to finish; Large was perfect for a minotaur or the average teenage boy. There were thousands of hungry species in the world, and his mother liked to have her bases covered.

Finally up, lazy bones? came a bright voice. Max looked and saw Aurelia Windsor, his mother, approaching. She was a short woman, middle-aged, an uplifting smile always present on her face. She ruffled his hair. Thanks for your help last night.

Max had stayed up late with his mother, counting the till and organizing reservations. It wasn’t until after she had turned in that he had slipped off to Ghouls’ Cove.

He winced at the disruption of his locks, and said, I only did it for the money.

You work for free, she said.

Worth a shot, laughed Max. Gonna be busy tonight? The crowd always migrated into the Kiss after the Parade.

Oh, I’m sure of it, she said, nodding. His mother cared for nothing as much as making sure the customers who came in hungry left with a full belly, those who came in thirsty left with a full bladder, and those who came with sadness in their hearts left with something to smile about. She loved her business, and she loved people.

Will you need me here? he asked, happy to help if needed.

I need you to go pick up your uncle later, and Frando might need some help with the dishes, but if you do that, I think I can get by without you for the rest of the night. As long as you promise to stay out of trouble.

Uncle Arthur’s back? asked Max, eyes going wide. Since when?

He arrived earlier this morning. He stopped by a couple of hours ago, she said.

And you didn’t wake me up? Max cried, half indignant.

I don’t have time to drag your carcass out of bed every morning, she said with a wink. You miss a lot of things, sleeping the day away like that. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and then headed back for the front desk.

Aurelia’s brother, Arthur Goose, was an accomplished scientist, with specialties in the fields of zoology, taxonomy, anthropology, and archaeology. He had written more than a dozen books on all sorts of subjects, the most famous being Arthur Goose’s Unfinished Compendium and Guide to the World’s Creatures, Sentient and Non. Max had a signed copy upstairs. He could picture the scrawled handwriting in his head:

Max,

Don’t forget, most animals are more frightened of you than you are of them. Especially the scariest ones.

Uncle Arthur

His uncle had discovered over twenty-five species himself, after visiting nearly every corner of the world at some point in his life. In the absence of Max’s own father, Arthur had taught him so much, from how to jump-start a boat engine to removing a tick-fish painlessly. Max loved the man dearly, and was always gloomy when his uncle left on his frequent trips. Arthur had offered to let Max accompany him on a few adventures, but his mother would hear nothing of it, to Max’s chagrin. The man had been gone for the last three months, and Max had long anticipated his return.

Tessa came back from the kitchen. She held a plate in one hand, and on that plate were two things that made Max very happy. The first was a heap of steaming potato fries, sparkling with salt, the outsides crispy, the insides soft and wicked hot. The second was the famous Mermaid’s Kiss burger: a seared patty of bluehorn meat, topped with a melted slice of Nidarian cheddar and a mound of charred mushrooms and onions, slathered with a bounty of Frandolio’s secret sauce, all inside a toasted and buttered roll. Max had lost count of how many of these burgers he had eaten in his short lifetime, but he knew he would never grow tired of them, even when he was old and fat and risking heart failure to eat one.

A sacrifice fit for a god, he said, as Tessa placed the plate in front of him. And the god is pleased.

It may or may not be poisoned, she said.

Your puny toxins cannot harm one as powerful as me, he said with dramatic flair, chomping on a fry. It was perfection.

You’re very strange, Max, Tessa said.

Sorry, he said. I’m just hungry.

She moved off to tend to other orders, and left Max to devour his lunch. While he ate, he watched the patrons of the restaurant. He enjoyed people-watching, enjoyed seeing the variety of folks that found their way into the inn from all over. Sitting next to Max, nose in a newspaper, was a man dressed all in blue, his head balding and sweat-streaked, round glasses hiding beady eyes. A blue bowler hat sat on the bar next to his steaming mug of coffee.

Further down the bar was a tiny old woman, probably a foot shorter than Max, who was surrounded by empty plates, and was scraping clean another. A bit further down was a man who stroked a dark beard as he read an old dusty novel encased in dry leather. This was Mr. Pirzada, owner and proprietor of Pirzada’s Books, Old and New. He always came in around this time for a cup of tea and a bowl of soup, rain or shine. He smiled and waved a weathered hand at Max, for they were old friends. Max returned the gesture.

There were other patrons seated around the tables behind him. A few older kids from his school sat drinking milkshakes, chatting and laughing with their mouths full. He saw the Burgle family. Mr. and Mrs. Printangle. Mrs. Banthoria.

How is the grillmaster’s handiwork today?

The voice came from his right. Max looked over at the man in blue seated on the stool next to him. This gentleman had been staying at the Kiss for a few days now, mostly keeping to himself, but always around. Max wasn’t quite sure who he was or why he was in town. His nose was diminutive, his lips fleshy and piscine, and round spectacles covered his small eyes. He wore blue trousers with a matching blue waistcoat, and from what Max could tell, they were made from expensive materials. On the back of his neck, tattooed in miniature font was the number 300, denoting the man’s exceptional value to the Arkanian kingdom.

His tone was friendly. He seemed somehow familiar to Max.

Delicious, as always, said Max, now very curious as to why someone of such importance was in his mother’s inn. Best burgers in the world. Frandolio, he’s our chef, has tried burgers from all over, and says no one can make one as good as him.

So there’s no need to stray from this place then? asked the man.

Oh, I definitely want to travel, said Max, almost too quickly. That’s what I want more than anything.

How much have you seen? asked the man. Of this world, I mean.

I’ve never been off the Bridge, said Max, through a mouthful of fries. Well, when I was a baby, my mother moved here from somewhere else, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. Other than that, I’ve been here all my life.

I see, said the man, nodding politely.

It was true. Max had never been off of the Bridge, and he wanted nothing more than to spread his wings and explore everywhere. As soon as he turned sixteen, he planned to enlist in the Arkanian Navy and start his adventures battling corsairs in the Abaza Sea.

What about you? Max asked him, once he chewed and swallowed the food in his mouth.

The man stared off behind Max, and spoke after a moment or two of recollection. I’ve had my fair share of this world, but there’s nothing I enjoy quite as much as sitting in my chair at home next to a warm fire with a glass of brandy and a book.

Where’s that? asked Max.

Pardon? said the man.

Home, clarified Max.

Ah, said the man. "Brundidge. A village a few miles south