by B A Simmons
“My brother salvaged it from a shipwreck. What does Trevisani mean?”
“It is the name of the armaiolo who made it. He is the best weaponsmith in the empire. Your brother perhaps did not know the value of his gift to you. Unused, that weapon could fetch six hundred gold florins.”
“I guess it’s too bad it’s already been used.”
“Indeed, what caused you to use it?”
The Quillian were close enough for them to hear. Their inhuman screams and shouts unnerved the men on the Entdecker. Pompeo began to cry again.
“It was an emergency,” Rob said to Garibaldi.
“Like now, I suppose?”
“Yes. The hellhound would have killed us all if I hadn’t shot it.”
Garibaldi grinned. “The one on the bow,” he said, pointing his chin at the closest Quillian ship. “He is the leader.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s wearing the most teeth around his neck. Plus, he looks the fiercest.”
Rob nodded, taking aim. “You shoot him. I’ll shoot the steersman. That should slow them down a bit.”
On the deck below them, the Falcon sailors, along with the rest of the Entdecker crew, were ready for battle. The only sound aside from the hideous wails of the Quillian were the rhythmic swashing sounds of the oars. Tom bellowed for the oarsmen to remain steady and dig deep. The Quillian vessel was less than a hundred yards away when the Entdecker turned south into the channel. Three or four Quillian arrows struck the hull or the shields held up to protect them.
“Dig deep now, damitall!” Tom shouted at the oarsmen. He began twisting the steering oar as an evasive maneuver. The wind was coming in on their starboard quarter.
Captain Garibaldi lit the fuse of his hand cannon and took aim at the Quillian warrior who seemed ready to throw himself at them. The shot flew true and sent the dark blue alien into the waves. A moment later, Rob’s shot dropped the Quillian who had been manipulating their sail.
The unsteadied Y-shaped sail shifted with the wind and, for a few moments, the reed boat veered off course. It caused enough of a distraction that they did not immediately notice the flaming arrows sent into their bow by Piers and Harry.
The Entdecker sped down the channel while the first Quillian ship lagged in their pursuit. Yet two more ships quickly took up the chase and gained on them. More arrows were exchanged. One of Garibaldi’s men fell with an arrow in his neck. Rob’s mind flashed to the memory of Mark’s body near that same place on the deck.
He shook his head as if to cast the thought out. He placed the Trevisani back into its case, but removed the last shot and flask of powder, giving them to Garibaldi.
“You use the last shot,” he said and hopped down to find Max Claythorne and his map.
More Quillian arrows struck, and Orson winced as one grazed his arm. It was a minor wound, so he gritted his teeth and fired back. Rob located Max, who was loading crossbows with the wounded Falcons.
“Max, where’s your map?”
Max didn’t bother to look at Rob, but reached into the armored jacket he was wearing and thrust the scrap at him. An arrow struck Rob in the chest. The impact of both the missile and the idea of his mortality shocked him. There was no pain, however, as the tip of the arrow did not pierce the wooden plates of the jacket. He realized that he’d been moving about since the Quillians’ attack began and not once had he thought of the danger he was in. Now’s not the time to start such contemplations, he thought to himself.
He positioned himself behind Garibaldi, who had relieved his sailor at the oar. The sailor had taken up a shield to protect his captain from the incoming arrows. Rob took advantage of this shelter also. After a few moments of study, he found what could best be figured for their approximate location on the map. The channels crisscrossed often enough to make it a maze of confusion. Rob, murmuring to himself, plotted a course through to the unknown object at the center and back out to the sea north of them. If he was right, that object could prove their salvation.
Orson’s hand took hold of Rob’s arm. “My arm is going numb,” he said, “I can’t row anymore.”
Rob looked to Max, “Take over for Orson!”
Orson tried to stand, but his legs failed him. Rob caught him and pulled him next to Jordan and Pompeo, and then a strange figure appeared above Max. The ugly snout of a sea serpent dripped water onto the fighting men of the Entdecker. Shouts of alarm sounded from all, but before the creature’s jaws could clamp down on Max, the ringing of a hand cannon blast sounded from aft. Piers had picked up the hand cannon from where Garibaldi had laid it.
Whatever damaged the shot did to the serpent, they could not see. However, it reeled back, let out a blood-curdling screech and thrashed in the water. Garibaldi and Max pulled on the oars harder than they’d ever done anything in their lives.
The entire crew watched as the serpent writhed and splashed violently in the water next to them. As they pulled away, it did not attempt pursuit. Neither did the Quillian. They were, perhaps, too frightened by the creature to move around it and continue the pursuit. Despite the fact that the serpent had nearly devoured Max, Rob felt relief that its sudden arrival ended the battle.
He was even more relieved and grateful for Piers’s aim.
“Wonder of a shot!” he said to the mercenary.
“Luck,” Piers replied. “I haven’t used a weapon like that in some time.”
Rob cocked his head to the side in disbelief. “It doesn’t show. Max owes you his life. I dare say we all do.”
Max looked sheepish but muttered a thanks between grunts at the oar. Rob smiled for a moment before looking around the deck. Quillian arrows protruded from the deck, mast, and hull of the Entdecker, giving it the appearance of a pin cushion. Lewis Johnson took over at the oar for Garibaldi who helped strip the body of his fallen man and push him overboard. Orson looked pale, though his only wound was the scratch on his arm. Most of those on board were wearing armor, which proved to be their saving grace. Like the arrow that struck Rob, the Quillian bows didn’t seem to be able to penetrate the leather and wood jackets.
Rob moved to Orson, checking the laceration.
“I . . . can’t feel . . . my moub,” he said with difficulty. Placing a hand on his neck, Rob could feel the slow pulse.
“Dragonfish venom,” Rob announced. “Don’t touch the tips of the arrows.”
He remembered the description of its arresting effects given by Mark and John after they used it on the animals on Alimia. Rob also remembered, with a twinge of regret, their decision to use it on the Falcon soldiers there as well. Was this how those fifteen men had met their end? There were worse ways to die.
Rob pushed his memories aside and focused on encouraging Orson. “You only got a tiny bit in you. You can beat this. Focus on breathing. Stay with us.”
Harry moved to Orson’s side, shooting a dark glare at Rob. He spoke to his friend in a soothing tone and gave Rob the excuse to leave.
“Rob?” Tom called out.
Joining his cousin on the quarterdeck, Rob surveyed their progress. It was impossible to see beyond the tall canes of grass. The channel was narrowing, now only twice the beam of the Entdecker. They had turned round a bend and could no longer see or hear the sea serpent or Quillian.
Tom spoke, “There’s little to no wind. If we have to row our way through this mess, we will not make it out before nightfall.”
“At the rate we’re going,” Piers interjected, “we may not make it out at all.”
“What else can we do?” Rob said. “Turn around and we’ll be right back with the Quillian. We have Max’s map. It shows that we can get out another way.”
“We don’t know how old that map is. We don’t even know if it’s genuine!” Harry said.
“We’ll do our best. All of us. This is how we escape. Any thoughts to the contrary are useless and only serve to our demise,” Rob paused, then added. “I, for one, refuse to die in the Sea of Grass.”
The crew remained silent for some time afterward. They traded rowing duty regularly, Rob taking his turn after Max. All save for Tom and Pompeo, the former was trusted above anyone else to navigate them, and the latter simply refused to leave his nook below the quarterdeck. Rob thought it a sad miracle that he hadn’t taken an arrow during the attack.
The sun beat down on them as the afternoon progressed toward evening. It made the tension onboard worse as thoughts of creature attack in the darkness of night were impossible to avoid. Harry kept murmuring under his breath whenever he was within earshot of Rob. Garibaldi and his two remaining crew were especially quiet, though understandably so.
Rob tried his best not to let the nagging doubts of his decision-making take the center stage of his mind. With all that had occurred in the last month, he felt that it was he who deserved to die, not Greg, not Orson, none of Garibaldi’s men. He looked across the deck at the dozen other men aboard the Entdecker. How many of them would survive this? Why did any of their lives matter any less than his?
There are just too many possibilities, Rob thought to himself. Then, as clearly as if the old man were standing next to him, he heard Doctor Morris’s voice.
“Rob, never disregard faith. When applied to correct principles, faith is a lifesaving factor of humanity.”
Why was this, of all of Morris’s teachings, coming to mind now? Rob pondered on the idea before realizing the solution. He was a capable leader. Deep inside, he knew that to be true. Yet he lacked faith in himself—in his abilities, in his own intelligence. He needed to trust himself.
Trust yourself, Rob, and you’ll become the leader these people need you to be.
It was Doctor Morris’s voice in his head, though the words were his own. Rob looked down at Max Claythorne, drowsing in the hold with his box clutched to his chest. Max had been a meecher to be out alone near the Sea of Grass, yet they wouldn’t have the map if he hadn’t been there.
He looked at Lewis Johnson, pulling on an oar. If Mister Johnson hadn’t tried to save Mister Jones, Rob wouldn’t have mounted this rescue. If Raymond Johnson, who now stood at the bow with a loaded crossbow looking out for any approaching menace, hadn’t been so adamant about negotiating with Pompeo, they wouldn’t have needed a rescue. If Pompeo, sleeping fitfully under the quarterdeck, wasn’t so capricious and corrupt in his dealings, the negotiations would have had a chance at success.
Tom tapped Rob on the shoulder. He looked up at his cousin, the quiet yet self-assured captain. Tom’s eyes were looking ahead of them, past the bow. Rob followed his gaze to where the tall canes of grass parted to reveal stone. These were no sea rocks; the stone was carved or formed into tall corbelled arches and pillars. They were buildings, or at least the tops of buildings, jutting above the water level. A few odd creatures Rob had never seen before, and whose quick escapes prevented him from studying, scampered away into the dark recesses of the buildings or plunged themselves into the silty water.
Then Rob saw it. Faded, but still visible above the largest of the archways. It was an image he had seen once before, in the ruins of K’ork-eatop. A large, open-mouthed creature carved into the stone with a jewel for its eye—the Duarve representation of Kith-Mor, the taker of life. Into the archway formed by its jaws, the Entdecker sailed.
10: Ode to the Johnsons
With a storm brewing to the southwest, Eugene Bell was worried. For the two and half days they had been sailing south toward Engle Isle, they had been traveling across the west wind. Now, just as they could see the island on the horizon, the wind was shifting. It now blew his long stringy locks of blond hair away from his face as he stood at the tiller.
His brother, James, seeing Eugene’s worried expression, tried to console him.
“It’s still a long way off. We’ll get to Engle Isle before it hits.”
Eugene shifted his glance to the face that always reminded him of their father, especially now that James was letting his beard grow out. “I know. It’s just that it looks nasty even so far away. It’ll delay us getting back to Edwin.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s got Ches to take care of him.”
“I can’t believe he stayed there. That horrible island,” Eugene said.
“You think he’s gone meecher?”
There was a silence between them.
Eugene said, “Are we meechers? For being his crew, I mean?”
“Edwin is a Johnson,” Duncan said. “The Johnsons are noble people.”
James smirked, “What does that mean?”
“They do what is right, no matter what. Or they’ll try, no matter what.”
“You mean to say that Edwin felt that staying on Fishhook was the right thing to do? After one of them tried to kill him?” Eugene scoffed.
“Yes, they need a leader. Edwin is the leader they need. If anyone gets them to be civilized, it’ll be a Johnson.”
The Bell brothers had no reply to this
The three of them sailed the final day to Engle Isle, and upon arrival, they found Port John in an uproar. Dozens of people, both islander and mercenary, met them at the docks and launched into immediate inquisition. At the same time, several tried to inform them of the events preceding their arrival.
“Where is Edwin? Is he hurt? Is he dead?”
“We’ve been attacked by the Falcons! You must help!”
“Eugene! James! How many men can we get aboard the Anna Louisa?”
At last, Charlie Burke and John Cooper arrived and ordered the crowd to disperse. The two men approached the ship, speaking directly to Eugene.
“Where’s Edwin?”
“He’s on Fishhook Isle. He insisted we leave him there after his sovereignty was challenged.”
“Taking this king business a bit too serious, is he?” Charlie said.
Duncan scoffed, but no one said anything in reply.
“The Falcons sent another ship,” John said. “We can fill you in on the details later, but the essence is this: We need the Anna Louisa to search for the Entdecker. Rob and Tom took her out to track the Falcon ship, and they aren’t returned yet.”
“Right, well let’s replace this lumber with fighting men and be off!” Eugene replied. “James, get a detail to fill the water barrels. You men there! Go below with Duncan and start lifting that wood!”
Charlie added his own encouragement. “Let’s move you lead back-sided meechers!”
The bustle began again, though far more organized, and within an hour, the lumber was on its way to Harrisville. The Anna Louisa was replenished with water and more food than was necessary for the expected journey. Louisa Johnson had put aside her weeping and gathered the women of Port John. They prepared food and medicines for her husband and Raymond Jones, as well as any of the Entdecker crew. She had also taken her daughter in, keeping Anna from the bustle and gossip that raced across the island like an actel. Anna sat on her old bed, lost in her grief and desperation. No doubt, the fear of losing her father so soon after her husband weighed heavily on her.
Two hours after arriving at Engle Isle, Eugene, James, and Duncan were cruising back out to sea with ten others. Among these were Charlie and John. The latter joined the crew with some hesitation, knowing that upon his return he would receive a severe scolding from Lisette.
The dark, overcast skies above them portended difficult weather for sailing. The grim countenances they wore bespoke the expectations of trouble they harbored in their hearts. Would they find the Entdecker? Would she be a wreck? Would they be able to rescue their stolen countrymen? Yet, the compulsion to make a rescue had stilled in each of their brains so quickly that none had considered the mortal dangers inherent to such a quest. They simply did what they felt to be necessary. Hidden within each of them was the hope that before the day ended, they would encounter their sister ship with a living and healthy crew aboard.
Eugene stayed at the helm despite the little rest he’d had. The wind from the storm helped them in their easting—perhaps a little too much. He openly a
dmitted that it might drive them along faster than they wanted, causing them to sail past some sign of the Entdecker. Each extra man on board stood at the rails or climbed the mast to look out on the waves. The grim intensity which they took to this task replaced itself with frustrated boredom after hours of nothing but water. While none of them grumbled or lessened their commitment, they could see in each other’s eyes the weariness that monotony brings to the mind.
Early in the morning the next day, hope returned as a man cried out, “There, in the water!”
All hands went to investigate the low object to which he pointed. It was not the boat they sought, but rather a shallow drafted skiff, turned over and shot full of holes.
“That’s Max Claythorne’s boat!” Duncan declared as they brought the Anna Louisa up to it.
“Are you sure?” John asked.
“Positive. Look there on the side, you can see the tally marks. He scratches one for every cask of ale he finishes.”
Eugene approached John. “We need to go farther south then.”
“What? Toward the Sea of Grass?”
“The way the wind’s been blowing, that skiff would have been back that way a couple of days ago.”
“Why would Max have been out here? We warned all the fishermen to stay within sight of Engle Isle,” John asked.
Duncan joined the discussion. “What does Max have to do with the Entdecker anyhow? If he’s got himself eaten by something . . . well, it would be about time.”
“Not a nice sentiment for fellow Engle Islander,” John chided. “Besides, those aren’t teeth marks on the skiff. Those holes were made by hand cannons. This means Max encountered our Falcon ship.”
Duncan nodded in acknowledgment.
“So we turn south, across this devil wind. Agreed?” Eugene said.
“Agreed,” John said, and the Anna Louisa turned toward the Sea of Grass.
The fervor of the search returned as they left Max’s skiff to the waves. In tandem with this fervor came an ominous tension as they neared the Sea of Grass. Holding to hope, they knew they were increasing their risks.
