The Corsair’s Shadow - Excerpt

Read the opening pages from Wayfinder Press’s debut adventure thriller.

March 12, 1718 — Caribbean Sea

Captain Diego Navarro paced the quarterdeck of the Spanish galleon La Fortuna, boots clicking against damp planks. Hours ago the ship had been moored in Cartagena, her hold filling with silver, gold, and emeralds for the treasure fleet bound for Havana. Now she cut through black water alone, torn from the safety of convoy and daylight.

Orders had come at dusk—royal, urgent, impossible to question. La Fortuna was to break from the fleet and deliver a sealed chest “of utmost importance” directly to the King of Spain.

Breaking from the fleet was madness. Yet here they were.

“They could not have chosen a darker night,” Navarro muttered. Low clouds smothered the stars; the horizon dissolved into the void. No moon. No allies. Only the creak of timbers and the smell of pitch and saltwater.

He gripped the hilt of his rapier, the cold metal steadying him. His other hand brushed the crucifix at his throat—an unconscious motion repeated too many times to count. “Keep the lanterns low,” he ordered. “We’ll not light the way for pirates.”

The command spread across the deck like a chill. Sailors moved quietly, eyes darting toward the hold. They all knew the tavern tales—ships that vanished without a cry, their crews cut down by a shadow with black sails. El Corsario, the whisper always ended.

“Captain,” said Lieutenant Ríos, voice tight. “The men are uneasy. They say the voyage is cursed.”

Navarro forced calm. “Tell them to man their stations or they’ll answer to my whip.”

Ríos hesitated. “It’s the cargo, sir. The hold grows colder by the hour. Some swear they hear—whispers.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Navarro snapped, though the words came too quickly. “Whatever lies in that chest is the King’s concern, not ours. Now to your post.”

When Ríos left, the captain’s gaze lingered on the hatch. The memory of that chill gnawed at him—the air below thin and cold as a crypt. He crossed himself once more and turned to the wind.

Unseen beyond the darkness, La Fortuna was already being hunted.

***

Less than a mile away, The Specter slid from the gloom—a sleek brigantine with sails blacker than the night sea. She moved soundlessly, her hull low and lean, built for speed and stealth.

At her prow stood Elias Grey. The wind tugged at his coat, salt spray stippling the leather. His eyes fixed on the faint lantern glow of the Spanish galleon.

“She’s riding low,” murmured Silas Morgan, his first mate. “Heavy with treasure.”

“Slow, then,” Grey replied, a half-smile ghosting his lips. “Ripe for the taking. But gently—we want what’s inside intact. We are corsairs, not butchers.”

Orders whispered through the crew. Steel rasped against whetstone, ropes tightened, dark sails trimmed. The Specter crept closer, her figurehead cutting the water like a blade.

“Hold steady,” Grey murmured. “The prize is within reach.”

When the Spanish voices carried across the water, Grey raised his hand. “Fire.”

Ten cannons spoke at once. Orange fire split the night, the roar rolling across the waves. La Fortuna’s stern shattered; splinters rained into the sea.

“¡El Corsario! ¡El Espectro!” someone screamed from the galleon’s deck.

Grappling hooks hissed through the dark, biting into rail and rigging. Corsairs poured over the lines like shadows with swords.

Grey was first across. His cutlass flashed, precise and economical. Around him his men fought in disciplined bursts—no wasted motion, no wild shouting, only the clash of steel and the wet thud of victory.

“Protect the hold!” Navarro bellowed, drawing his rapier. He met Grey mid-deck, the blades sparking under lantern-fire.

“You’ll not take this ship, Corsair!” he roared.

Grey parried smoothly, calm as a tide. “Keep your ship,” he said. “I came for what’s in your hold.”

Navarro lunged; Grey sidestepped, turned the blade, and disarmed him in one fluid motion. The captain fell to his knees, clutching a bleeding arm.

“Order your men to stand down,” Grey said. “No more blood tonight.”

Navarro’s jaw worked, then the fight drained from him. He nodded once.

“Secure the ship,” Grey ordered. “Cut their wheel ropes, leave them boats. Balance, not butchery.”

The battle faded into the groan of wounded timber. Smoke curled skyward; the serpent-and-anchor flag of The Specter fluttered black against it.

Silas joined him, blade red, eyes uneasy. “They whisper about the cargo. Say it’s cursed.”

Grey frowned. “Cursed?”

“They guarded it more than the gold.”

Grey’s expression hardened. “Bring me their officers.”

Minutes later, three Spaniards knelt before him, faces pale beneath grime. Grey crouched, resting his cutlass across his knee.

“What’s in the hold?” he asked. “Tell me, and you won't take a late night swim.”

The eldest rasped, “Not treasure. Something sealed by the native priests. It chills the air… it whispers.”

Another muttered, “It never should have left the Spanish Main.”

Grey’s gaze sharpened. “Take it aboard The Specter,” he told Silas. “If your King treasures it more than gold, I’ll see why.”

Moments later, as the corsairs worked, Silas burst back into the cabin. “Spanish frigate off the port bow!”

Grey strode to the porthole. Sails loomed out of the black.

“Get the men aboard. Cut the lines!”

The corsairs moved with drilled speed. Ropes slashed, cargo hauled, sails unfurled. The Specter slipped free just as the frigate’s first shot roared and fell wide.

Grey took the helm himself, steering by instinct. “We'll lose them in the darkness.”

They vanished, the enemy’s guns flashing futilely behind. When the thunder faded, only the hiss of foam remained.

“Silas,” Grey said quietly relinquishing the helm, “have it brought to my cabin.” 

Like what you read? Join the Crew for more updates.