He spotted the anchor chain—real iron, still solid, still obeying the laws of the living world. He grabbed it and swung, kicking a skeletal bosun into a heap of shattering ribs. He fired his pistol point-blank into a wraith’s face. The shot passed through, but the powder flash—brief, bright, alive—made the creature shriek and recoil.
Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Ashworth of His Majesty’s 43rd Foot Regiment was not a man who believed in ghosts. He believed in flintlocks, cold steel, and the unshakable superiority of a disciplined line. Which was why, as he clung to a splintered spar of his wrecked troop transport, he refused to believe the ship bearing down on him was real. pirates of the caribbean: dead men tell no tales redcoat
Salazar’s eyes flared. “Kill him!” He spotted the anchor chain—real iron, still solid,
Fire. Light. The quick, hot world of the living. That was their weakness. The shot passed through, but the powder flash—brief,
The sea was a churning grave beneath the Esperanza , a Spanish galleon that had no business being this far north. But its captain, a man named Salazar, had long since stopped caring about business. He cared only for the scent of English gunpowder and the sight of a red coat sinking beneath the waves.
Salazar laughed—a wet, gurgling sound. “Consequences? I am the consequence, Englishman. I am the vengeance of the deep.”