by Brian Daley
Bracing against the opposite frame, he began kicking. The two swords, one a trust and the other a clue, were too important to abandon. He stamped madly, ranting at the door.
Hinge screws gave. Two more kicks had it hanging from its hasp. He squirmed past, dug through his gear and snatched up the two wrapped swords. Osprey heeled, coming hard starboard; there was no time to burrow after his empty handguns. He heard the loud crack of the catapult’s throwing arm on Stormy Petrel, stopped against its check. The shooting sent him struggling back around the door in panic, the longswords becoming lodged in the gap. He fought to extricate them, but just as they sprang free, a roar of water came to his ears.
Osprey lifted beneath his feet, listing sharply to starboard. He fell across the deck, losing the swords, to crash against the door opposite his own. It gave; he curled up automatically. In the blackness his head slammed something; lights erupted in his eyes. His right shoulder hit the bulkhead.
Osprey heaved back to port as stunning weights and stifling cloth cascaded down on him. There was a world-rattling collision, the rending of timbers. Held fast and smothered in his thrashing, he was borne down. His side throbbed in torment, his head in agony. A malign density settled over his brain. In time, he stopped resisting.
Water, cold, salt-stinging, brought him out of aimless drifting. He came to know that he’d been buried in the bos’n’s-stores locker across from his quarters. He could feel spare blocks and deadeyes on him, and lengths of rope holding him, with stretches of canvas oddments over all, intertangled by the ship’s gyrations. His first thought was to control his breathing, determined not to go lightheaded again from hyperventilating his scant air supply. He tried two shouts for help; when they produced no result, he stopped, saving air for other things.
Probing, he found one foot unimpeded and began worming down in that direction, bridging with his back, fending carefully with his arms. The life jacket dragged, and a length of line had caught around his thigh. It took several anxious tries and forced patience to work his knife from its sheath and sever himself loose. Inching, twisting, he got a second foot free and rested, wondering if help would show. Another shout produced none, so he presumed the Mariners were busy with other problems. At least the water that had awakened him, dripping down from the deck above, had stopped. Perhaps one of the rail-dragging swells had broken over an open hatch.
A victory; his other foot was out from under. He dug in, pulling more efficiently now, drawing with his legs, heels scraping the deck. His right hand emerged, and with it, he extracted the left, and the knife. There was more cutting, some hawser to unwrap. Then he was through.
He gulped air, sitting on a deck that was wet, but not awash. It was tilted though, as if Osprey were taking water in the bow and rocking in the swells. Dirge and Dunstan’s sword lay near where they’d fallen. He got them and fumbled his way back as fast as he could.
But on Osprey’s deck there was only soaked wreckage. The Mariners had abandoned ship.
Chapter Twenty
Hie, Acre-Fin!
Foam-canyon carver!
May skewed courses spare me
thy dreaded acquaintance!
from “The Fish that is an Island,”
a Mariner long-haul chantey
GIL dropped both swords and stumbled to the side, where a boardingnet hung. The fleet was drawing off to the west under full sail. To the southwest, Stormy Petrel was nearly gone, the swells crossing her decks. Osprey’s bow dipped too, the ocean now and again breaking over it. She rode safely enough for the moment, but must be in grievous danger for Landlorn to desert her so cavalierly. There were no boats left.
He waved to the retreating ships, impossibly far off to hail. Teetering on the rail, clinging to a shroud, he gathered all his breath and screamed to the departing Mariners anyhow.
A voice drifted up from the water, “Who calls there?” He thought it had come from astern, and swarmed up the quarterdeck ladder, its pitch steepened by Osprey’s low-riding bow. Holding on to the spanker boom, he leaned out over the taffrail. A small boat bobbed into view, rowed by Wavewatcher, with Skewerskean in its bow.
He laughed with relief. “I thought I was alone, with one helluva wet stroll home. Come to the side; I’ll climb down.”
The two friends exchanged looks. “Nay, stay there,” Skewerskean replied. “We will come aboard.”
Puzzled, Gil returned amidships. When they’d come up the net, he resisted the impulse to babble. There was something wrong beyond the immediate predicament.
“What is it?”
Skewerskean confessed, “We cannot take you after the fleet. We are not going with them.”
Gil’s forehead hurt. Rubbing it, he found a lump the size of a half-dollar, souvenir of his fall. He massaged it carefully, trying to comprehend what they were telling him. “Are you both crazy?”
Wavewatcher bridled. “Acre-Fin struck. Osprey and Stormy Petrel had to be evacuated immediately, for Acre-Fin will be back.”
“Hold the phone now. Give it to me a piece at a time.”
“The monster dove, astern. Lookouts in both ships thought they saw it; both helmsmen were confused. They steered closer to each other. Acre-Fin came up under Osprey’s port bow, lifting her into the air. She slewed down onto Stormy Petrel; fortunate are you not to have seen it. Men fell shrieking from the flagship’s masts and decks, while the Petrel lacked even the time to put her boats out. Many died.”
Gil looked back toward Stormy Petrel. Only her masts showed, and they were disappearing quickly. “What about the whatsit, Acre-Fin?”
“It took no more notice of us. It swam eastward, with all speed, for the Isle of Keys.”
And Yardiff Bey, Gil said to himself. Skewerskean put in, “It will go to Him who called it up. It will come back to savage the fleet. ’Twas bad luck, that we lay in its course, or maybe the monster attacks whatsoever it encounters on the ocean. But one thing is certain, that it moved toward the Isle with purpose. We think Bey will send it back this way.”
“So, let’s haul ass outta here!”
The chanteyman shook his head. “The fleet must find shallow water safety if it can. The Prince will need time. So, when they abandoned ship, Wavewatcher and I caught the small boat and hid behind Osprey. What with all the confusion, we were overlooked, much as you were. We will delay Acre-Fin, if possible. It must be essayed; the beast will destroy the fleet, else.”
Gil’s jaw sagged. “I didn’t see that thing, but it must be the size of goddam Pike’s Peak. Catapults and archers didn’t stop it, so you won’t either. Now, let’s cut the chatter and shove off.”
“I have my whalecraft with me,” Wavewatcher maintained, “and three hundred fathoms of line coiled in the tubs and poison of the Inner Islanders. I shall coat my lances and harpoon with that. With luck we can divert the monster, at the minimum. In any case, there is nothing else to do. We cannot overtake the fleet now.”
The American snarled, kicking a bulwark stanchion. “That coxswain, that bastard, I told him I’d be right back.”
“Many had been wounded,” the harpooner reproved, “even the Prince’s wife, Serene. All was chaos, and you’d been accounted present at your boat station. And the coxswain was among those lost.”
Gil was rubbing the lump on his head again. His vision seemed to have blurred. “Okay, you two do what you want.” Osprey was drifting westward, back through the Strait of the Dancing Spar. “I’m gonna throw me a raft together.”
“It might be wiser to come with us,” cautioned the harpooner. “If we fail to stop Acre-Fin, we may yet avoid death, but in all likelihood the beast will finish Osprey before doing aught else.”
Skewerskean shook his friend’s shoulder. “This is futile. Come, let us tack upwind, where we may yet stop Acre-Fin from reaching him.”
Gil hashed that over. He wasn’t about to go out in the suicide boat, but neither did he wish to die if Acre-Fin made it past the two. “Wait a second, you guys.” They paused, str
addling the rail. He brought Dirge to them, holding the long black blade up.
“Listen, this is Bey’s. This stuff on the blade, it’s all death runes, annihilation spells. Maybe it’d stop Acre-Fin.”
“’Twould fit a lance’s socket,” Wavewatcher allowed, reaching to take it.
“Hey, careful. Any cut it makes’ll bleed until it kills you.” He relinquished it.
Wavewatcher, holding the sword cautiously, eased himself over the side. “Best begin that raft, Gil-O. A sail would be wise, but take a paddle.” He went down the boarding net handily.
Skewerskean gripped Gil’s forearm. “Truly, if we cannot stop Acre-Fin or turn it, this will be no safe place.” He followed his partner. They cast off, set their little lug sail and began tacking eastward. Skewerskean took the tiller. Wavewatcher waved.
“Hey,” Gil called, “what happens when I hit the beach? Is there someplace we can hook up again?”
The harpooner smiled, teeth flashing in red tangles. “Should we fail to ride this one out, look for us beside that springlet in your song, what was its name?”
“Huh? Fiddler’s Green?”
“Aye. There will we await you.”
If those two don’t stop that big sucker, that’s just where I’m headed, too. He scanned the deck for materials. There was plenty of wood, pieces of spars and mast, rail and deck planks, and miles of rope. He thought about dragging one of the smaller hatch covers off and using it, but had misgivings about how well one would serve in rough seas.
He tried to work out a usable design. He’d never done this sort of thing before; no combination of wood and lashings struck him as stable and buoyant enough for the trip to shore. The knot on his head and the ache in his shoulder were worse. He roped two lengths of spar together and decided they weren’t wide enough. Finding an axe in the ship’s carpenter’s locker, he chopped loose a hunk of fallen fore topmast and found it too short when he tried to fit it in.
A scrap of cloth blew along the deck, and he heard tatters of sail fluttering. A breeze had come up, from the east. The sea was roughening, Osprey’s bow now plunging beneath the swells. He went aft, and saw that the barque had drifted farther westward. In the distance he could make out the two Mariners, who’d lowered their sail to wait. Clouds closed in, the winds heralding Acre-Fin.
He was astounded, not having thought even a monster like that could swim to the Isle of Keys and back so quickly. No wonder the two Mariners had despaired for their fleet; the ships had no chance of eluding Acre-Fin unaided.
Turbulence moved the water in the distant east. Gil knew he had no time to finish up his raft. His life jacket, he remembered too late, was back among the junk in the bos’n’s-stores locker, likely under water by now.
A fish broke the water, then another. In a moment the ocean teemed with creatures fleeing the monster, some of them flopping onto the deck in rainbow spasms. When they’d passed, rain hit, pocking the swells. Shreds of canvas flapped, and the barque wallowed from crest to trough. White froth showed Acre-Fin making straight for the flagship.
He saw Skewerskean and Wavewatcher hoist their sail. The two weren’t quite on Acre-Fin’s course. Knifing along, wind bellying their canvas, they cut for a point of interception. The rhythm of the monster’s strokes sent combers tumbling from the alpine ridge of its gleaming back. Gil could make out the tip of a gigantic dorsal fin and part of the ponderous tail, swaying through beats of incredible power. This was no mammal, but a deep-water fish. Would it stay close enough to the surface for the harpooner to strike?
The Mariners paralleled it riding just ahead to keep out of its crest, but it closed the distance quickly. The boat heeled sharply. There was a twinkle of light from whetted iron. The smooth pattern of the colossal tail fell off for an instant.
Then Acre-Fin bolted straight for Osprey, swimming furiously, pricked by the toggle-iron head of Wavewatcher’s harpoon, burned by its poison. It bore down on the derelict like an express train. With a surge, its head broke the surface.
Gil looked on in horror. Acre-Fin’s head reared. Its eyes, white-glowing circles wider than cartwheels, were without lens or pupil. Cavernous jaws gaped, and the sea broke in waves over and around spiky rows of monolithic teeth. Its underside was encrusted with barnacles and other sessile growth acquired in eons spent brooding in the sea, as if Acre-Fin itself were part fossilized. The ocean, falling back from it, nearly capsized the tiny boat pulled by the harpoon line.
Gil was up on the taffrail now, judging which way to dive. He could see water blown in banners of foam from the tips of the monster’s teeth, and the spasms, deep beyond, of the twilight gullet. The wind, sucked down that abyss, made a moaning. Great lateral fins broke the surface, and it seemed they were, in truth, an acre in size.
The American decided to dive toward Veganá. But pausing for a last look, he saw the beast turn in that direction. He checked himself; Acre-Fin was coming around to see what had brought it pain. The Mariners’ boat bashed along through the pinnacles of the waves behind it, the two men clinging to their mast, as line-tubs, spare whalecraft and anything else not tied down was bounced into the water.
Wavewatcher had his lance, awaiting the opportunity to use it, but the creature wouldn’t give him the chance. It came about, never noticing the tiny boat, bearing eastward in search of whatever had hurt it. It returned to where it had been pricked, found nothing, and went on. The harpooner’s poison would have slain anything else alive, but only burned Acre-Fin. The beast knew no enemy had come against it, and so continued the way it had come, assuming it was pursuing its assailant, unaware of the boat jouncing along behind. Gil let himself down off the rail, trembling, waiting for the next crest of water, or the next, to batter the Mariners’ boat to splinters.
Acre-Fin grew smaller in the distance. For a long time it bore onward through the Strait of the Dancing Spar. The rain began to let up, the clouds to dissipate. Acre-Fin stopped, mystified that it had overhauled no antagonist. Gil tensed, knowing this was Wavewatcher’s moment. It was too far away to see clearly but he thought he caught a black sparkle, as if Dirge had reflected the scant light. The ocean grew still.
There was a fountain of exploding seawater and white froth. A stupendous shape half-cleared the water, twisting monumentally, awesome in size and the proportions of its fury. It came down; waves and concussion sped from it in all directions. Then the monster thrashed in agonized circles, bent in upon its own pain. It seemed doubtful that the harpooner and the chantey-man could outlive their enemy’s throes. Gil had no idea how much damage the vindictive magic in Yardiff Bey’s sword would do, but sensed that the Children of the Wind-Roads would not be pursued.
The thing stirred in a final fit of torment, then cut through the water to the east. Its stroke was uneven, conveying grave injury. He followed it until it disappeared, toward the Isle of Keys. For a time he kept surveillance, but saw no sign of the two partners, nor even a fragment of their boat. His vision had become blurry and his head ached, functions of that rap on the head below decks. Concussion was just one more worry, less immediate than his others; he dismissed it.
Leaving the rail, drained, he dragged himself amidships, where wavelets lapped at his half-finished raft. He noticed dazedly that Osprey had drifted nearer the shore of Veganá. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the raft after all; he sat down listlessly, watching the shore with arms clamped around knees, to wait and see. The barque didn’t seem to be taking on any more water. Minute after minute the current dragged her closer to the Crescent Lands.
A roaring penetrated his fog. He knew he’d heard it before. With electric fear, he recalled where. Looking up suddenly, he fell to the deck. Cloud Ruler was speeding toward Osprey on pillars of demon-fire. Insight came; Acre-Fin had in fact returned to the man who’d called it up. Yardiff Bey had seen the creature was wounded by his own sword, Dirge. He’d known who was out here on the ocean. He’d come.
Gil charged across the deck to the hatch cover. Slight hope, it was better
than the unfinished raft. He heaved the edge up, got a shoulder under, and crouched beneath. Cloud Ruler circled in; he felt its scorching heat even at this distance, bringing steam off the water.
He lunged, biting his lip, lifting. His vision darkened with the exertion, the pounding lump on his head threatening blindness. In an effort of animal survival, he got the hatch cover up and overboard.
He was seen. The demon-ship swept through a snapping turn, the ocean boiling beneath it. Gil flung himself back, one arm to his face to ward off superheated vapor. Coughing, eyes tearing, he lurched at the opposite rail, to swim or die. Bey’s craft came around, blocking that route too with fire and steam. He pushed himself away, tripping backward on the slick deck. The demon-ship hovered, unavoidable.
From a bay on its underbelly, weighted nets fell, covering Osprey’s small remaining deck. He clapped his hand to Dunstan’s sword, but they hit first, carrying him to his knees, enmeshing him. He started sawing strands with his knife.
Vibrations traveled down the netting. Shapes rapelled quickly down landing ropes carrying swords, clubs and catch-poles. He had two strands cut when the first Southwastelander touched down on Osprey.
A tall, burly Occhlon, the man pounced on him. Three others hit the deck and did the same. More came after. He thrust with knife; his wrist was caught and wrenched around. There was no room to get out Dunstan’s sword. Nightmare fight, its single mercy was brevity. Battered, disarmed, immobilized, he came into the dire captivity of the Hand of Shardishku-Salamá.
Chapter Twenty-one
My soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger…
Francis Quarles
Emblems
SAILS clewed up, the masts of the anchored fleet rested untenanted, fewer now, with Osprey and Stormy Petrel consigned to the uncaring ocean. In the distant southeast, the Isle of Keys was sunlit by a break in the clouds, as if blessed.
