Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  He saw them reach the ladder, two amongst a screaming, panic-stricken crowd. He hoped they would find safety there: he thought there could be none on deck, and did not know why he remained. He looked again toward the she as muskets volleyed, and briefly glimpsed the creature as it dove under the schooner.

  The Pride of the Lord shuddered as the beast swum beneath her keel. For an instant a tail edged with jagged fins lashed the surface on the port side, and Arcole gasped in naked wonder as he saw the creature’s head appear above the starboard rail. The snakelike body appeared long enough to wind itself around the schooner. He saw the head loom high, jaw gaping as a cannon boomed. A ball struck the monster a glancing blow that gouged a line of red along its rising flank, but it appeared unhurt, only enraged by the wound. Swift as a striking snake, the massive head darted forward and a cannoneer was lifted screaming between the jaws, another sent tumbling as the beast shook its prey as a terrier shakes a taken rat. The man’s screams ended abruptly as the sea serpent writhed back and gulped the body down. Then it struck again, even as marines emptied their muskets at a range so short no ball missed its target. But none even dented the scaly hide, only bounced uselessly off, like pebbles thrown at a charging bull. Three more marines were struck down and the morning was filled with the roar of the cannon, the rattle of musket fire, and the shouts of prisoners, sailors, and marines.

  Arcole crouched by the midmast. It occurred to him that the hexes supposed to protect the ship has no effect on his weirdling beast. It seemed immune to magic; certainly it attacked at will, undeterred by hexes, muskets, or cannon.

  Then it was gone, and for a while an eerie silence fell.

  Then the men in the longboats began to scream. They were turning back toward the schooner when the great head came sweeping up and the monster’s jaws closed around one boat. The fragile craft was lifted high in the air, men flinging themselves desperately clear as timbers cracked and broke easily as the bones the serpent snapped. Up and up it rose, the longboat splintering and dividing, falling away in two riven pieces as the beast came down across the second. That was sunk on the instant, carried down beneath the thinning weed by the creature’s weight. A handful from the first boat attempted to swim to the Pride of the Lord, but they were hampered by the clinging weed, and the monster rose amongst them like some awful diner selecting tidbits at a ghastly feast.

  A few succeeded in reaching the lines still hanging from the schooner’s prow, and Arcole darted to the bows to aid them. He hauled one to uncertain safety, but then the serpent rose up before him, so close he smelled the salty, fetid odor of its breath, and for an instant he stared into an unwinking yellow eye. Then the Jaws snapped shut and he fell back, clutching a hard, a length of arm severed at the elbow. He flung the grisly relic away crabbed backward over the planks, thinking that surely the beast must strike again.

  Instead it disappeared, only to strike at the schooner’s port side. The ship rocked with the impact as the great head drove forward like a battering ram. tearing at the bulwarks and threatening to stove in the deck.

  Arcole risked the bow, but there were no more survivors, only ravaged bodies that floated amidst the disturbed weed and the pieces of a longboat. He retreated down the deck as the cannon fired again at pointblank range. It seemed this time that the creature was hurt, for it emitted a shrill, squealing sound and writhed, lifting monstrous coils in furious convulsions that sent reeking seaweed spraying over the ship. It submerged, and the schooner rocked wildly as the serpent swam under the keel and rose anew.

  It reared higher now, snapping at spars that broke and splintered between its jaws easily as a man might snap a toothpick. At the head of the mainmast, a lookout cowered behind the useless shelter of the crow’s nest and was snatched up. The monster let him fall and then itself came crashing down across the deck. Men were crushed under its bulk and others suffered hurt as the taloned flukes scrabbled over the planks, the serpent crawling now like some gigantic worm until all its body draped the schooners and its tail came lashing after. The Pride of the Lord threatened to capsize as the beast completed its journey, tumbling back under the seaweed, leaving behind a trail of slime and carnage.

  Arcole saw a musket at his feet, dropped by a marine who moaned as he clutched a broken arm. He snatched the weapons up, then relieved the wounded soldier of powder horn and pouch of shot. The musket seemed entirely inadequate against such a monster, but it afforded him some small comfort, and he held it firm as he stared around, wondering from which direction the serpent would next attack.

  Along the deck, Tomas Var was bellowing orders, gathering his marines about him, and Arcole ran to join them.

  Var saw the musket in his hand and nodded approvingly. That he was an officer of the God’s Militia and Arcole an exile—forbidden by law to carry such a weapon—seemed not to matter now, when they faced death together.

  “Fire in volleys,” he commanded. “This God-cursed thing looks armored, but perhaps …”

  “Musket fire doesn’t hurt it!” Arcole spoke, unthinking. “Use the cannon.”

  “How?” Var ignored the presumption. “Save my gunners have clear aim, the damn thing moves too fast.”

  “What if it board again?” Arcole ventured. “Were the cannon directed inward?”

  Var shook his head. “Does it board again, it shall likely sink us. Besides …” He might have been about to add “We’ve no time,” but there was none, for the sea serpent chose that moment to resurface and attack again.

  Var led his force to the bulwarks. The rail was broken where the beast had crashed through, the deck scoured and splintery, a cannon torn from its trunnion and the gunners dead. The marines grouped tight, aiming at the beast that now rushed furiously toward the ship, seemingly intent on ramming the schooner again. Arcole found himself next to Var and raised the borrowed musket to his shoulder, hoping it aimed true even though it would do no good.

  Var shouted, “Aim for the head. Ready … Fire!”

  The muskets rattled. The sea serpent slid swift beneath the weed and, was it hunt, it gave no sign. Arcole thought it likely possessed some primal intelligence, or had attacked ships before: it dove as the guns discharged, as if it knew them dangerous. Var ordered his men to the father rail, anticipating the beast should press its attack from that quarter. Arcole moved to obey, then hesitated as he saw a rope spilled loose from its neat coil, close to the damaged cannon, and an idea took shape. It was likely impossible and undoubtedly perilous; yet did it fail, the ship must be sunk and all on board drown or be swallowed by the monster. He thought of Flysse and Davyd, and that they deserved a better fate.

  He dropped his musket and took up the rope. It was a line such as raised and lowered the sails, and he hoped it was strong enough. He secured the line firmly about the wrecked cannon and ran out the other end, fashioning a noose. Musket fire and cannon’s booming brought his head around in time to see the serpent rearing up beyond the starboard rail and the jaws close over the head and shoulders of a marine. Var sprang forward, sword raised, and was sent tumbling back as the creature swung its head. Arcole hefted the rope, glancing round. The line was heavy—too weighty that he might accomplish his stratagem alone. As the beast fell back into the sea, he crossed to Var.

  The captain was disheveled, his tricorn lost and his shirt soiled. An ugly bruise decorated one side of his face, but he seemed more angry than afraid. Arcole touched his shoulder and explained his plan.

  Var looked a moment amazed, but then he said, “Why not? We’ve naught to lose.”

  “I can’t do it alone,” Arcole said. “I need at least one other man.”

  Var said, “You’ve got him,” and beckoned his sergeant.

  Arcole assumed the captain would order the noncommissioned officer to assist him, but Var surprised him by bidding the sergeant take command of the musketeers. He turned to Arcole, motioning him on. The schooner rocked again as the sea serpent grated against her keel.

  A dinghy lay between
the main- and foremast, and Var shouted for sailors to help launch the little boat. The seamen gaped as if he had lost his mid, and he must bully them into action. Arcole drew one aside, needing his help to spill loose the rope and drop a length into the dinghy. Then, with Var at his shoulder, he climbed on board.

  The dinghy shipped weed and water as it hit the ocean, rocking wildly. Arcole took up the noose and Var the oars, and they moved a little distance from the schooner.

  “God be with us,” Var gasped as he rowed.

  Arcole was not a religious man, but he echoed the prayer, thinking they needed all the luck any power might bestow. Even then he scarcely dared hope they should succeed.

  “There!” he yelled as the serpent’s wide-mouthed head appeared. “Stand ready!”

  Var let the oars drop and snatched at the noose. Each clutching the rope, they moved apart to bow and stern.

  The monster’s blank-eyed face was not expressive, but Arcole thought it smiled rapaciously as the head went under. The finned back showed as great lengths of the body slid down. Arcole hoped it would attack as it had before.

  It seemed slow minutes passed in silence. Var’s face was pale, his eyes darting hither and yon over the weed. Arcole saw his knuckles white on the rope; his own hands felt sweat-slickened.

  The dinghy trembled as the water under its keel was disturbed. Then it was hurtling upward, propelled high even as the clinkered sides stove in between the serpent’s jaws. The massive head rose—through the noose.

  Arcole let go the rope as fangs longer than a saber’s blade clashed viciously before his face. The creature’s breath overwhelmed even the reek of the seaweed, and he gagged as he tumbled helplessly through the air. Then he was choking as weed and water engulfed him, and for a while his world was a place of darkness and confusion, filled with the dreadful anticipation of those jaws closing about him.

  Then blue sky shone bright above and he spat, tugging layers of wrack from his face. The monster still rose, the noose drawing tight about its throat. Arcole saw the Pride of the Lord off to his right, and Var’s weed-littered head appeared. Pieces of the dinghy fell in a wooden rain. The sea serpent seemed to climb the sky, and when it dropped, Arcole was pushed toward the schooner by the wave it made. The ship seemed horribly far away, and he feared he would not reach it before the monster took him. He began to swim, awkwardly for the obstruction of the weed.

  He saw Var was ahead of him, pausing at the foot of the rope ladder flung down by his marines to assist Arcole. They climbed together, propelled by desperation.

  Overhead, the line ran taut. A soldier shouted warning and they both flattened against the schooner’s side as marines and sailors threw their weight against the cannon, sending it after the tightening rope. It hit with a great splash and sank.

  Arcole and Var reached the deck and turned panting to observe the serpent. The beast thrashed furiously, caught like some gigantic fish on the line, its movements hampered by the weight of the sinking cannon. It was not enough to dreg the creature down but sufficient for Arcole’s purpose—or so he hoped.

  Var coughed, unable to speak as yet, and motioned that the sergeant order the cannoneers to fire.

  Two pieces remained intact on the port side, and now the gunners had an easier target. They sighted carefully as the monster coiled and splashed and struggled against the rope. One gun roared, its charge hitting true, carving a bloody wound in the serpent’s flank. The second boomed and a fresh gash spread blood over the turbulent wrack. The serpent shrilled in pain; on the ship a cheer went up. Again and again the cannon blasted, and thought they sometimes missed as the monster writhed, still they scored enough hits that the creature’s thrashing slowed, its blue-gray hide becoming speckled with red wounds. In time its struggles ceased and it floated atop the weed, fixing the schooner with a sullen stare. The cannon fired three more shots, and then the serpent opened its vast mouth a final time and sank.

  Arcole stared long at the bloodied weed, waiting for the beast to surface. It seemed impossible that it should be at last slain. But nothing appeared save the lesser worms that wriggled up to feet on the blood and chunks of riven flesh.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Tomas Var grinning at him. “By God, I thought us dead then. That was a wild venture.”

  “But it worked,” Arcole replied.

  “Indeed it did.” Var clapped him vigorously on the back. “By God, ’sieur Blayke, you saved us all.”

  For the moment there were no differences between them, only the comradeship of shared peril: they were only two men who had faced death together and survived. Arcole answered Var’s grin with his own, and when the office extended a hand, he took it. Then there was a crowd about them, soldiers and sailors all shouting Their approval. Evan Captain Bennan came to add his voice to the congratulations. Arcole felt a blanket draped about his shoulders and turned to find Var’s sergeant at his back, that impassive face split by a huge smile.

  “This calls for celebration,” Var declared. “Sergent, issue a tot to all present.”

  The sergeant saluted; his eyes shifted to Arcole, a brow raised in silent question. Var nodded and said, “Everyone, sergeant.”

  The exiles began to emerge from the hold, and when they saw the serpent was gone they, too, began to cheek. Flysse and Davyd came forward, hesitating as they saw the company about Arcole. He caught sight of them and beckoned them on, and the marines cleared a way until they stood beside him. He put is arms about them both.

  “It’s gone?” Davyd asked.

  Arcole nodded, grinning at the boy. Flysse, her eyes bright with tears of joy that he survived, clung close. Then she sniffed and made a moue of distaste. Arcole realized that the stood soaked, draped with seaweed, and stinking. He laughed, and Tomas Var laughed with him.

  Then the sergeant approached, carrying a keg. Rum was issued, but as Var raised his cup in toast, Bennan said, “Captain, this is hardly fitting.” He frowned at Arcole.

  “Even so”—Var held out his cup in Arcole’s direction—“I drink his health. Exile or no, he saved us all.”

  Bennan’s frown became a scowl, and he shook his head. “I cannot join in such a toast.”

  He turned away, passing his cup to a soldier, and strode back to his position at the helm, from where he watched the proceedings in open disapproval. Var ignored him, holding his cup high. “To ’sieur Blayke,” he cried, the toast echoed by his marines and not a few of the sailors.

  Arcole drank deep. The rum was strong, but it seemed only to warm him, and no sooner was his cup emptied than the sergeant refilled it. He raised it, saying, “To Captain Tomas Var.”

  At that moment it seemed not at all odd that prisoner and guard should toast one another.

  But when that was done the mood shifted subtly. There came an awkwardness, for the moment of danger was passed and now they must look to the future. The marine cleared his throat. “I must change,” he said, “and I imagine you would welcome dry clothes.”

  Arcole shrugged. “Unfortunately, I was not able to bring my wardrobe on board.”

  “Of course.” Var smiled, somewhat shamefaced. “Forgive me, I was not thinking.” Then he frowned, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. “But I cannot see you remain in those stinking garments, ’sieur Blayke. Do you come with me to my cabin, and I’ll see you outfitted.”

  Such generosity surprised Arcole, and he bowed, murmuring thanks. Var gestured awkwardly and motioned that Arcole accompany him.

  His cabin was small and spartan, but from a sea chest he produced shirt and breeches, clean undergarments. Two soldiers brought in a tub of seawater, boiled clean and now cool. It was a luxury Arcole had not anticipated, and he eagerly washed the stink of the weed from his body.

  “This is difficult,” Var said. “I’d sooner we had met under different circumstances.”

  “The cards fall as they will,” Arcole replied. “It’s up to us how we play them.”

  Var nodded, his expres
sion unhappy. “I’ve little choice in the matter.” As if to emphasize the point, he buttoned on a clean tunic.

  Arcole said, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Your actions, though …” Var’s face grew thoughtful. “They shall not be forgotten. When we reach Salvation, I shall inform the governor of your bravery.”

  “My thanks.” Arcole ducked his head in formal salute, then grinned: “And I suspect Captain Bennan will speak of your actions.”

  Var snorted. “Bennan’s a stiff-necked fellow, for sure.”

  “And how,” asked Arcole, “shall your masters take it, that you entertain an exile in your cabin? That you toast him and clothe him?”

  Var looked a moment doubtful, then shrugged. “They must take it as they will,” he declared. “And surely take into account that you saved them a ship.”

  Arcole felt less confident of the Autarchy’s sense of justice, but he held his tongue. Var appeared disposed to talk and there was information to be gleaned that might be useful. Casually, Arcole said, “The hexes did nothing to deter that beast.”

  “No.” Var drew a cloth over his sword. “Such magicks as are set on these transport vessels are designed to hold their prisoners, not to deter the monsters of the deep.”

  “We’re not so valuable, then.” Arcole made his voice careless. “I’d thought us prized cargo.”

  “Oh, Salvation needs its servants.” Arcole wondered if it was bitterness he heard in Var’s tone. “But exiles are plentiful, and the hexing that would protect a craft of this size is hard to work. What matter if some find a watery grave?”

  “And the crews and your marines?” Arcole asked.

  Var snorted a sour laugh. “We take our chances with you, no? And the serpents are not so often found.”

  “That seems”—Arcole hesitated, not sure how far he could draw Var out—“somewhat careless of your welfare.”

  “We do our duty.” Var drove his sword home into the scabbard and faced Arcole. “And I fear I perhaps say too much. Forgive me, but I’ve matters to attend, and you—”