The Tower of Green Briars - The Pearldiver's Adventures #5
Being one of the Pearldiver's Adventures; a tale of shipwrecks, storms, and secrets long lost.
I really should be working on chapter 16 of The Jarl’s Son right now, but between springtime allergies and this tension in my neck refusing to let go, I’m in need of a brief mental break. Alas, this need stands opposed to my constant desire to bring my readers something for Sword & Saturday, and so there is but one solution: a simple and refreshing tale of derring-do. Welcome to the fifth entry in The Pearldiver’s Adventures, “The Tower of Green Briars,” which details one of Molo’s earliest adventures as the Captain of The Lady Florenz.
If you’d like to read the rest of The Pearldiver’s Adventures, you may find them in the index:
The Pearldiver's Adventures, Index
My old mother, she wrote to me
Go down you blood red roses, go down
My darling son, come home from the sea
Go down you blood red roses, go down
Oh, you pinks and posies
Go down you blood red roses, go down
"Blood Red Roses," a Sailing SongThe Lady Florenz had run aground.
Slowly rolling to-and-fro as heavy rains and rough seas pelted her, the ship rumbled and groaned as it struck something unseen beneath the waves. Much of her crew was pitched forward, boots and bare feet slipping on the rain soaked deck. Among them was the ship’s Captain, Molo Pearldiver, an ambitious young man from the jungle islands of far southern Sanja-vai. Stood at the helm alongside his lanky First Mate, one Francis Arnold Wuthers, the impact sent the stocky young islander’s boots skidding along the deck. Gripping the helm as he was at the time, his feet flew out from under him, and he ended up on his back with a wet thump.
“You alright, Captain?” Wuthers asked, somehow able to remain standing in spite of his height and reedy build. Leaning forward, he proffered a hand for his young leader.
Molo accepted the help graciously, clasping Wuthers’ outstretched hand at the wrist. “Thank you, Francis,” he said as he rose, straightening his long blue coat once he was standing again. “Did you see what we hit?”
Arms crossed tight against his chest, Wuthers shook his head. Droplets of water flung from his normally wavy hair, soaked straight by the heavy rain. If not for the work worn swarthiness of his visage, he would’ve appeared like an old aristocrat attempting to look young with his rich brown locks framing his gaunt face like that. Quite different from the naturally tawny and youthful Molo, with his round face, black hair, and stocky build.
“Well let’s find out, then,” Molo said.
It turned out to be a long shoal, barely visible through the heavy rain and choppy waters. Seeing this, Molo ordered two boats into the water to inspect the hull. He and a couple select crewmen would check the starboard side. Meanwhile, Wuthers and the bosun would inspect the port side. Since the ship had started leaning in that direction, he was concerned there may be a hull rupture on that side causing her to take on water.
Fortunately the shoal appeared to be mostly sand, so The Lady Florenz was undamaged. Unfortunately this meant they were stranded, at least until such time as either the storm passed and they could dig themselves free, or a high enough tide came in to raise the ship. Back on deck, Molo and Wuthers debated what to do. If there was land nearby, they couldn’t see it. The rain’s gray haze was too thick.
However, the shoal did seem to be taller along the port side. According to Wuthers, it jutted out from the water’s surface not far from where they ran aground. Yet that didn’t mean it was stable. With the waves constantly churning, the sand was prone to shift, and they felt the results of that when The Lady Florenz groaned and further tilted toward its port side.
Molo ordered anchors dropped. Should The Lady Florenz become dislodged, at least she wouldn’t drift away with the storm. Then he had his crew board the rowboats. Dropping into the choppy waters, they rowed toward the rising crest of the shoal. If there was an island hidden in that gray rain haze, they could try to find shelter or make camp to wait out the storm.
If not? Well, he didn’t much want to think about the alternatives. As luck would have it, it appeared he may not need to.
“Land ho!” Wuthers called, his voice just audible above the din of the stormy sea. “Shoreline dead ahead!”
Molo was behind Wuthers’ boat. Though they left The Lady Florenz at the same time, the rough seas caused them to fall behind. While some captains might view their first mate taking the lead as an indignity, Molo didn’t. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have paid that much mind in these conditions. The waters were rough for The Lady Florenz, but they were nigh violent to these smaller vessels. Should they move too close the boats would likely smash together and toss the merchant sailors into the sea.
Molo stood at the fore of his boat. Firmly grasping its jutting prow with one hand, he drew his spyglass from his coat and brought it to his eye. The boat pitched and swayed atop those angry waters and rain tracking over the lens, distorting the image. Even so, he could still see the shoreline through the thick gray haze.
“Stay the course and mind those waves!” Collapsing his spyglass, he slipped it back into his cloak and faced his men. “The shore’s not far. If we keep steady, we’ll make it there just fine!”
The men answered with a resounding, “Aye, Captain!” and redoubled their efforts, a testament to their loyalty and strong work ethic. Stormy days like these didn’t just make the usual work harder. They made men miserable, soaked and chilled them to the bone whether the climate be that of the warmer south, or the chillier north, such as they sailed through presently. That Molo’s men could power through these miseries was heartening. Waiting out the storm would still be rough when they made it to shore, but he had no doubts they would endure.
Before he knew what happened, Molo found himself sailing through the air. Shortly after issuing his orders, a commotion broke out among his men. A wave impacted the boat as he turned to face them. The bow vaulted up and left, and it flung the young Captain into the roiling sea.
The world was cast into muffled quiet. Cheeks puffed from the last-moment breath he held, Molo swam up and broke through the surface. He could hear his men’s panicked cries nearby, but couldn’t see them. A current had caught him, and he could feel himself being pulled out to sea. It was good, then, that this wasn’t the first time he’d experienced such a thing.
As a boy growing up in the Thousand Isles, Molo was taught from a young age never to swim against a current. Doing so would only exhaust him, and that was tantamount to death. The better thing to do was to determine the current’s direction, then swim perpendicular to it, so as to escape its pull. For Molo, that meant either swimming toward empty water or the shoal.
He opted for the shoal, though he found this was no easy task. Though stocky and a bit portly, a lifetime lived on and around the sea had made Molo a strong swimmer. Yet even the strongest swimmer would easily tire while ladened with a long coat and heavy boots in a storm roughened sea. There was little he could do about his boots right now. The weight of his coat not only slowed him down, it made it easier for the choppy waves to keep pulling him under. He had to get rid of it before he did anything else.
“Look out, Captain!” one of the crewmen called, though Molo couldn’t tell who.
Looking to his right, Molo saw the overturned rowboat had been shoved up against the shoal a short ways off. Some of the men had climbed atop it, waving and gesticulating at something behind him. Then he turned around, and saw the stern of The Lady Florenz looming above him. Before he could act, his head struck one of the davits that secured the rowboats. His vision blurred, spotted, and went black.
When Molo came to some time later, he was splayed face down on a hard, somewhat smooth object. A stone, most likely. Coral would’ve felt far rougher. He tried opening his eyes. His head throbbed and spun. His ears rang. His vision blurred with a pale bloom.
Slumping back against the wet stone, he let the coolness of it radiate into the skin of his face and forehead. Every few seconds, that feeling was refreshed by the waves that lapped at his legs and the hem of his coat. How had he escaped drowning? He couldn’t remember. Everything between being struck in the head and waking on the stone was a black blur.
Had he just been lucky, or had Wuthers or another of his crew fished him out of the water? No, it couldn’t be the latter, not unless their own boat got dashed after retrieving him. Forcing his eyes open, he looked around for signs of either boat. The rain had stopped, and that made it easier to see, though the bloom from his headache undid some of that. Still, he saw no signs of obvious wreckage. In fact, he saw no ships at all, not even The Lady Florenz. He couldn’t even see the beach that shoal extended from, just an island of tall, uneven crags.
Crawling further up the steep incline of the stone he awoke upon, Molo drew himself fully out of the water. Rolling over, he splayed out on his back and stared at the dense clouds above. The storm wasn’t over, he could tell that from the way those clouds still churned. The worst of the rain had passed him by, its thick gray sheets visible over the open ocean, but it would pick up again at some point. For now, he’d take advantage of this momentary reprieve to rest a little longer.
Alas, his rest proved far briefer than he’d hoped. A mere handful of minutes after laying back atop that smooth ocean stone, he felt the water against his boots. This wasn’t in the manner one would expect from the coming of waves, either. He expected the occasional rush of a wave against his feet and legs, and possibly his torso, too. This was no rush. Rather, it was the constant lapping that came with the rising of the tide.
Groaning, Molo rolled back to his front and pushed himself up onto his knees. The throbbing in his head had lessened slightly, but that dizzying spin remained. He didn’t want to stand just yet, not until he got a proper lay of the rocky island before him.
The stone he’d been resting on was attached to a partly submerged outcrop, which formed a land bridge to the island’s steep slopes. A small segment of it jutted up from the water’s surface, while the rest of it was no more than ankle deep. Crossing it would still be risky. He could easily slip on the rock path if he wasn’t careful, but it would allow him to cross without having to swim to the craggy shoreline.
He decided to chance it. Removing his coat, Molo slid down the opposite side of the tall stone on his rump, his boots splashing into the shallow water. Steadying himself against the stone, he then stood upright, took a moment for his dizziness to diminish, and carefully made his way across the land bridge to the island’s outer slopes. From there, he picked his way over and around boulders and pillars of eroded stone. There was very little soft soil on this island, but lush vegetation sprouted from the places he found it, mostly in the form of tufts of long grass or squat bushes with arrowhead leaves.
However, as he moved further inland, Molo noticed a change. Fewer of the bushes grew in the spaces between the rocks, and in their place he saw thorny briar vines clinging to the boulders and pillars. This change grew ever more distinct the further inland he went, until at last he came over the crest of the slope he’d been climbing. The path he’d picked took him about halfway up said slope, and when he cleared that crest, he saw that the island opened into a hidden interior valley.
Vaguely bowl-like, the valley was surrounded on all sides save one by the island’s stony slopes and crags. Vast pillars of rock, varying in their height and thickness, jutted upwards all along those slopes. These natural formations caused the island’s highest points to look almost like they were crenellated, as if the very land itself had been fashioned into a defensive position meant to funnel invaders down a single path.
Of course, that couldn’t actually be the case. The island was an inhospitable mound of rock, home only to grass and brambles, and unmarked on any charts that Molo was aware of. The only reason his ship ran into it was because the storm obscured it from view, and he could see no reason why anyone would make their home in such a desolate place as this.
Setting his bundled coat down, Molo rummaged through the still-wet article until he found his spyglass. The lens was cracked. It bisected his view of the alley as he peered through it, but he could still get an idea of what might be down there other than rocks and briars, which was mostly what he saw.
He scanned the slopes surrounding the valley first, searching for shelter amongst the stones. A cave, or a collapsed slab that acted as a natural lean-to, but there was nothing.
Then he scanned down into the bowl of the valley. It was far more verdant than the surrounding slopes. However, before he’d even drawn his spyglass, he could already tell much of that green was covering yet more boulders. Moss, algae, or lichen might be responsible for some of it, but he suspected that wasn’t the case. Sure enough, peering through the spyglass confirmed his suspicions. Most of the green came from the broad leaves of those thorny briar vines.
He couldn’t see much else other than that from his current vantage point, but something strange had caught his eye. Save for two or three exceptions, most of the knobby trunks he’d seen the vines sprouting from had been squat. They grew adjacent to many of the boulders or pillars, often leaning against them while their vines curled around the stone formations, and most were shorter than he was.
Yet there was one particularly large pillar down in the valley that seemed to be obscuring an even taller pair of these trunks. Molo could see their ends–one blunt, the other pointed and split as if part of it had broken off–twisting up over the top of the pillar. Curious, he moved down the slope a short ways, just far enough to let him see past the pillar that obscured his view.
“By the Highfather, I don’t believe it,” he gasped, for he beheld the last thing he ever expected to see on this desolate isle: a tower of clearly human make, with two massive briar trunks coiling around it.
Bringing his spyglass back to his eye, he examined the aged tower through the cracked lens. A cylindrical form constructed of large stone blocks, a scattering of circular windows dotted its side. It was broad and tall, but its top had crumbled away over years of apparent abandonment, and its sides were covered in the thick tendrils of the briar trunks. Had the upper levels still been present, and those briars absent, he imagined the tower’s cap would flare out slightly. That cap would then be topped with a crenellated platform, making it look like a rook chess piece, the perfect image of a scouting tower.
What he couldn’t fathom was why such a structure would be built in the bowl of a lonesome island valley. Despite the picture he had in his head, it couldn’t actually be meant for scouting. The men keeping it wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond the valley, the surrounding rim would obstruct their view. So why was this tower here? Who built it, and for what purpose?
A peal of distant thunder pulled Molo’s gaze skyward. As he looked up at the layers of fast moving, dark gray clouds, he blinked. A drop of water had struck his face, landing just underneath his left eye. The rain was coming again. Returning his gaze to the strange old tower, he threw his still damp coat back on as protection from the briars, then made his way down into the valley. Curiosity still nagged at him, but even if he found no answers in the tower, it should at least provide shelter from the storm.
Climbing down to the tower proved a frustrating task. Molo knew the path would be difficult, he’d seen how the briars grew more dense in the valley’s bowl. However, he wasn’t able to see the density of their undergrowth. While the thorny creeper vines coiled over the rocks in long tracts, their broad leaves also hid yet thornier coils of vine that grew in clusters around the bases of the plants. He wondered at first if these were old growths that had withered and curled around the trunks of the briars, or if they naturally grew this way to protect the plant from animals which might otherwise gnaw at it.
That curiosity died swiftly. The thorns snagged on his clothing constantly, tugging, tearing, scraping, and scratching. This made him thankful he hadn’t abandoned his coat after all. Yes, it was wet and cold, but the protection offered by the sturdy garment was so welcome that he practically considered it a blessing from the Highfather himself. The same went for his boots. Waterlogged though they were, he was grateful for their thick soles and firm leather, on which the thorns found little purchase.
Yet this did not mean his descent was easy. It might have been if he had his sword with him. That sharp Bertosian saber would make short work of the skinny vines, though it seemed a sin to use such a fine blade as so crude a tool. Had he known the situation he’d end up in then he surely would’ve brought it with him. Alas, Molo could not see the future, and given the reason he and his crew abandoned The Lady Florenz had nothing to do with attacking pirates, he didn’t see much need for it at the time.
Molo reached the tower’s entrance after half an hour, or perhaps a touch more. Absent the briars he’d likely have made it in half that time, but he had to fight through those snagging plants the whole way. Now the rain had resumed, and Molo stood face to face with yet more thorns thanks to the vines that had grown along the threshold. Spiny tendrils dangled down over the entrance, some so long that they dragged along the ground, and some of the tangles they obscured were so dense that getting through them without a blade would be impossible.
Yet it wasn’t impassable. There was a gap in the briars near the ground, leaving enough space in a lower corner of the arched entryway for Molo to crawl through. Pulling his coat up over his head, he crouched as low as he could and worked his way inside. Vines snapped as he moved forward, his progress slowed as his coat snagged on the thorns, but he did make it inside.
The tower was dark, and bigger inside than he realized. Gray light filtered in through the circular windows and the structure’s collapsed top, but enough of its upper floors remained to protect him from the rain. To his right were the crumbled remains of a circular stairway that once wound its way up the length of the tower. Large sections had been reduced to rubble scattered over the ground floor, all of which had been covered in the vines. The same was true of the door, which Molo only realized was there when he heard the hollow thump one of his boots made against the hard wood. The door had long since fallen from its hinges and splintered into multiple pieces. He stood on the largest of them, which was roughly half the size the door would have been.
Gnarled branches had grown in through the windows. Curling up along the tower’s interior, they imitated the pair of massive coiling trunks outside, trying to wind their way up to the gaping hole at the tower’s top. More dangling briars hung off those branches, and more of the creeping vines had sprouted from them as well. They grew over the crumbling steps, the remains of simple wood furnishings, and empty torch sconces. Molo noticed places along the walls where the rotted and moth eaten remains of banner tapestries hung, their fittings similarly overgrown.
Presently, Molo’s attention was on these things, most of which were high on the walls or stood upon multiple landings all along the ruined stairwell. These landings each coincided with one of the circular windows that looked outside. Strangely, most of them were crenellated, as if they were actually defensive structures. Molo had never seen something like this before. Why would the men who built this tower design defensive positions pointing inward?
The answer came as Molo approached the nearest of these landings for a closer look. He couldn’t climb up to it with the stairs so long collapsed, unless he wanted climb the vines, which he wasn’t about to do. He had no desire to slice his hands on those long thorns. They’d scratched him up enough already. As he approached, though, he stepped on what he first assumed to be just another chunk of masonry rubble tangled up in the vines. It was large, roughly the size of his own head from the feel of it, and part of a larger pile of similar rubble that he needed to step atop of to get that closer view.
Only when it crunched beneath his weight did he realize what he’d stepped on. Gazing up at him with a single empty socket was the half-crushed skull of a man. His head, as well as the rest of his skeletal body, was wrapped in the vines that covered the rest of the tower, including the surrounding rubble.
A chill ran up Molo’s spine. In his concern for shelter, he’d grown so focused on what was above that he’d failed to consider what was at his feet. Bones were scattered all amongst the rubble. Most wore the tattered remains of nigh unrecognizable uniforms, while others were draped in the remains of rough spun garments or soiled linens. Jailers, and their prisoners.
He knew this must be the case because of the two dozen deep pits all along the ground floor. Trapdoors made of long rusted iron bars sealed these narrow holes, a series of cruel oubliettes meant to house pirates, murderers, rapists, and those who were politically inconvenient to Riverre’s aristocracy. This was why the tower was built in the bowl of the island’s hidden valley; it was a secret prison.
Yet Molo still couldn’t wrap his head around what actually happened here. Given that over half of the trap doors were open, and that a third of the skeletal corpses were clearly prisoners, he expected to see signs of conflict. There were none. No signs of bones cracked by maces or chipped by swords. No bolts from the old and broken arbalests racked on the crenellated landings. Even the signs of crushing from the tower’s slow collapse were strange, because the briars had grown thick even over bodies half buried in rubble.
A sinking feeling settled in Molo’s gut. His nape prickled, and the uneasy sense of danger came over him. It was like being home in the jungles of the Thousand Isles and knowing a leopard was prowling nearby. Something far more sinister than a breakout of violent prisoners happened here, and he couldn’t shake the idea that if he stayed here, he’d end up like them.
Deciding he’d rather face the rain, Molo turned back to leave, only to find that the gap in the entrance was sealed. The vines had filled it in. Cursing under his breath, he took a step back and nearly fell in one of the oubliettes when the door broke beneath him. Looking down with a start, he was met with the image of a skeletal prisoner suspended halfway up the pit. He stared open mouthed and eyeless, his skull screaming in eternal silence against the briars that bound up his body and wove between his bones.
Scrambling to his feet, Molo felt something tug and snap by his ankle. One of the vines had wrapped around his boot. It had broken when he fled from the sight of the briar bound prisoner. Highfather’s name, could this be real? Were these accursed vines truly responsible for the deaths of all these people?
Molo wasn’t going to wait around to find out, but with the front entrance sealed by the snaking briars, he needed another way out. The best option he could see was the window above the first crenellated landing. It was small, and vines grew over both, but if he could clear them then he should be able to fit through. But how? He scanned the floor and walls for anything he could use to clear them.
There, near the back of the tower, opposite to the entrance. Fallen before a broken table and a vine wrapped chair, one of the prison keepers clutched an old saber in his skeletal fingers. Rushing towards it, Molo felt more vines snap around his ankles and legs. The damned things were trying to snare him!
Sprinting across the prison floor, Molo practically leaped with every step, avoiding the vines as best he could. They slithered and coiled at first, their movements slow and deliberate. As he stamped past them, though, they began to whip and lash, seeking his living flesh as they sensed him pass by.
Molo grabbed the skeleton’s hand the instant he reached it. Ripping the sword free, he ended up taking both its hand and forearm with it. Then he smacked the hilt hard against the stone wall, shattering those fragile old bones and claiming the sword for himself.
Vines lashed around him again, and this time he lashed back with the old saber. The blade was old and rusty, but enough of its edge remained for Molo to lop the ends off those murderous briars. He cleaved his way to the first landing. Slicing this way and that, he showed none of the surprising dexterity or panache he displayed against human adversaries. In this moment, he wasn’t Molo, Captain of The Lady Florenz, nor was he Molo the swordsman. This was Molo, child of the Thousand Isles of Sanja-vai, hacking his way through dangerous flora much as he had done as a youth in the jungles of his tropical home.
The vines were growing more violent. Against all reason, Molo imagined them as sentient, as if they were reacting to the pain of being sliced by the old saber with greater ferocity. He’d been caught by a few of them, mostly around his legs and arms, but their thorns couldn’t pierce his tough leather boots or the thick fabric of his coat. Even so, some managed to cut at his face, hands, and his legs through his linen trousers.
Yet this wasn’t enough to stop him now that he was armed. He cut these grabbing tendrils away, then hacked away at the vines draping the lowest of the crenellated landings along the ruined stairway. Shearing them clear, he grabbed them in a bundle and threw them aside, ignoring the pain where the thorns pierced his palm.
With a path carved clear, he returned to that nearby pile of rubble and bones where he’d crushed the skull of that first corpse he’d seen. Taking care to climb atop the rubble this time, he ran three steps, then leapt over to the landing. Grunting as he struck the crumbled side of it, Molo pulled himself up with all the strength he could muster, cursing his somewhat portly form as he did so. Happily, his small excess in weight was not enough to stop him, nor was his girth such that he couldn’t fit through the window once cleared.
Molo emerged feet first out the other side. Panting, he hunched over and rested his hands against his knees, letting the cool rain fall against his exposed neck while he caught his breath. The reprieve proved brief, for within moments the briars around started to move again. With a huff, Molo hacked them down and began making his way, making it no more than five steps before he heard a familiar voice.
“Captain Molo!” Wuthers cried from the far end of the valley, where the shape of the bowl cut a downward path, and he wasn’t alone. The whole of Molo’s crew was with him.
Breathing a momentary sigh of relief, Molo quickly resumed weeding those wretched briars when he felt yet another tug at his ankle.
“Have care!” he called to the men. “These vines are killers! If you’ve no blades on you, stay where you are, I’ll come to you!”
Alas, most had no blades on them, but some did, Wuthers included. Drawing their swords or knives, and in one case a pair of hatchets, the five who could sliced and chopped their way through the brambles to meet Molo halfway.
“Boy, am I relieved to see you, Captain,” Wuthers said, clapping him on the back.
“Likewise, Francis, as I am for the rest of the crew,” Molo replied. “Is everyone well?”
Wuthers nodded. “Aye, all accounted for, though your rowboat was lost. Slipped off the shoal and sunk after it capsized.”
“And The Lady Florenz?”
“Still stuck,” Wuthers sighed, “but the tide’s good and low, and the storm’s not nearly so bad as it was. I reckon we ought to be able to dig her out.”
“Then let’s not waste anymore time,” Molo said, stepping past the others as he spoke. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m more than ready to get off this accursed rock.”
Flagging the other men, Wuthers called, “Back to the beach and load into the rowboat! We’re digging out our Lady!”
A heartening cheer came up from the rest of the crew as their Captain rejoined them. However, before they left, Wuthers leaned in to ask him something.
“Do you know what that tower was, Captain?”
“A tomb,” Molo answered, saying nothing more on the subject.
Later that evening, after The Lady Florenz had been freed from the shoal, Molo sat at the desk in his cabin, reviewing one of his maps. An inkwell rested beside him, and a freshly sharpened quill sat in the black ink. Marking a path along the map with his compass, he set it down next to an area of open water a short ways off from their charted course. Taking up his quill, he sketched a crude drawing of a rook and circled it. Beside it, he wrote three simple notes:
Island.
Shoal.
Death.