Vin was out again. A shot like thunder pierced the water and a brick-sized flopper spawned lifelessly from the waves. Like most Rangers of the Queen's Kabal, a gun in velvet was by his side— a dagger of poison and eyes that could hear a man screaming inside. Unless of course money. Jewels. Or another: blood.
"Another one"
"You're wasting fine silver for such a simple task, Manhunter."
"And the gold remains still and cold either way."
"For the right price, Manhunter."
The fish began to boil, puffs of fire burst from its mouth, and the cackle of flames simmered in hot coals. Toil. Burn. Boil.
The clearing began to race off to nothing but rocks and dark hills. And the crack of old ones bled into the grass like a dark plague that spreads and churns back from dust. Vin ate. The taste of salt parted his lips and burned his tongue. The life of the pot ceases its endless waves of heat and dies down.
Vin lay in the hull and slept in dreams. The fires had eaten several clusters of trees, and a man in darkness came from the voidless flames like a lamp lit with fire and brimstone.
If you move you will die" Spoke the man of ash. He knew nothing of this man except that he was an illusion of his past dreams and those that died hard with them.
Vin woke. His brain shifted and his throat choked on a flurry of sweat—his breaths rapid like a drum. The figure's cold whisper stung like ice in his brain and lingered there. Vin got up. The bed swinging settled. He peeped out from the cannon hole. Still black. The door had opened and clicked.
Then it was dawn. The light tread through the cracks of cedar, and dimmed lamp lights that had almost gone out long before.
Vin's prayers and pasts had been answered. It was gone. Everything. barrels, crates, guns. All gone. Morgan shouts from behind. ["Behind you!"] Vin turned. A flash of bright air and fire burst an inch from his face. His eyes, lidless, closed for a minute. All he could hear was a continuous ringing and smoldering sails behind him as he passed out.