FLINT KNEW HE had to hurry. The first mate, Master Vael, had left to fetch the bone drill and would be back in a few moments. If Flint wished to remain his own man, he had no time to waste.
His original plan had been to endure the tortures aboard the Seaswift until the boat reached Port Rawl. What was a broken nose and a bit of lost blood compared to the safe passage of the girl to the port city? But as Flint watched Captain Jarplin caress the tentacled creature in his palm, he knew his original scheme had to be scrapped.
Evil rode these waves, and no amount of fancy talking would get them safely to port. If he should succumb and become a thrall to that foul creature, Elena’s secret would be revealed.
A new strategy was needed. And the first step was escape with his skull intact.
With his arms tied behind him, Flint worried the cuff of his battered coat with deft fingers. A small knife, no more than a sliver of steel, had been sewn into the fabric. Among pirates, it was always good to have weapons hidden where they couldn’t be found. Once he had it gripped firmly, he pushed the blade through the ragged hemp. It popped through the material, and for a heart-shuddering moment it almost fumbled from his frantic fingers. Flint bit his split lip, using the pain to focus his attention. If he should drop the knife, he would be lost forever to the evil here.
Eying his former captain, Flint watched for any sign that his secretive movements had been noticed. Jarplin had always been sharp eyed and had seldom succumbed to trickery. Even with the monster in the captain’s head, Flint could not trust that his instincts had dulled.
Licking the blood from his lips, Flint spoke, hoping to keep Jarplin distracted as he began working at the ropes. “So just when did you become this creature’s slave, Jarplin? How long has it been your master?”
As expected, the captain’s face bloomed with color and his brows grew dark. Possessed by a monster or not, a part of Jarplin’s personality persisted. He had been captain of his own fleet for twelve winters, and to suggest that Jarplin was no longer in control was a sore insult. Blustering for half a moment, Jarplin finally freed his angry tongue. “I am and always will be captain of this vessel!” He waved at the back of his head with his free hand. “I am not this thing’s slave; it is a mere tool. It allows me to finally see the play of life for what it really is—a game of power where there is only one winner. And I mean to be on the right side.”
“And how did you acquire such a wonderful ‘tool’?”
“It was a gift.”
“Yes, I’m sure. One you accepted willingly,” Flint said, letting the sarcasm drip. He watched Jarplin’s face twist with frustration.
Flint drove his words deeper as sweat built up on his own brow. “So who was master when this was done to you? Master Vael perhaps? Does he pull your strings like a mummer’s foppish puppet?”
Jarplin jerked with anger, almost tossing the tentacled creature from his palm. “You know nothing! You can’t possibly comprehend—”
“All I know is that the captain I once respected now bows and scrapes to the bidding of his jaundiced first mate—and a stinking foreigner at that.”
Jarplin had always had a hard prejudicial streak for non-Alaseans. By now, his cheeks were black with anger. And if Flint was not mistaken, there was also a bit of confusion in that expression.
Flint worked feverishly at his ropes. Time was running short.
The captain blinked a few times, doubt in his eyes, and a hand went to finger the back of his skull. “What have I—?” Suddenly Jarplin doubled over in pain. A short, choked scream escaped his lips.
Flint almost stopped working at the ropes. Once, during a savage storm, Jarplin had taken a loose harpoon through the leg and had still managed to captain his crew through the gale, stomping around with a length of whaling blade through his thigh. Not a single cry had marked the injury then. But now . . . For Jarplin to show this much pain, Flint could not imagine the agony he must be experiencing.
“Captain?” Flint said, concerned, dropping his attempt at needling the man.
Jarplin fell on the edge of his bed, knees buckling. He sat there with his head bowed, shuddering gasps still shaking from him. Flint noticed that during this whole time Jarplin had never let loose of the tentacled beast. Even now, he held it cradled to his chest like a small infant. This could not be good.
Flint continued sawing at his bindings with the knife as Jarplin finally raised his head. Blood dribbled from where he had bit through his lip in pain. “You . . . you’ll soon learn,” he said weakly. “It’s a wonderful gift.”
Flint’s eyes grew wide—not at the absurd statement, but at what he found in Jarplin’s gaze. He had sailed through many hardships with the captain and knew him well. Right now, Jarplin not only believed his words, but there was the light of exultation in his eyes.
Mother above, what manner of beast or black magick could succeed in creating that worshipful response after such torture? Flint was determined never to find out. He almost gasped aloud when his knife finally sliced through the ropes that bound his hands.
Using his fingers, he kept a firm grasp on the freed ropes and knife. He could not risk letting them fall to the floor and be seen. Not yet. He must wait for the right moment.
A sudden creak of the door startled them both. The thin first mate pushed through the door. In one hand, he held a long drill that was used to core into whale skulls, a common tool aboard hunting vessels. The steel bit looked well used, its shaft glinting brightly in the lantern light.
Jarplin smiled at Flint, almost warmly. “You’ll soon see.”
Flint closed his eyes. His time had just run out.
ELENA BUNCHED HER hand into a red fist. She could almost sense the malevolence pulsing from the ebon’stone statue.
“How do we destroy it?” Joach asked. “It looks like it would take sledges and several strong men to crack that stone.”
Elena frowned. “No, I doubt even the full force of my wit’ch fire could scratch its surface.”
“Then what can we do?” Joach asked. “Maybe we should just leave it.”
Er’ril, who still stood silently eying the wyvern statue, shook his head. “We can’t leave this thing at our backs. There’s no telling what menace broods here.”
Lowering the lantern, Elena turned to Er’ril. “If the Try’sil is still packed in one of my trunks . . .”
Er’ril nodded, his features turning contemplative.
“What’s that?” Joach asked with a touch to Elena’s elbow.
“It’s the sacred hammer of the d’warf clans, a hammer whose iron was forged in lightning.”
Er’ril finally spoke, straightening his stance. “I know Cassa Dar places much reverence on the rune-carved talisman, but we don’t know for certain that the Thunder Hammer could damage the statue.”
“It succeeded in cracking the ebon’stone armor of the blackguard demon,” Elena argued, referring to the battle at Castle Drak.
“But that was only a shell of ebon’stone. This appears to be cast from a single massive chunk of the foul ore.”
“Still, what other choice do we have? It’s impervious to my magick, and I fear having Joach strike at it with his black magick.”
Er’ril glanced at her brother, silently. The plainsman’s eyes revealed that he agreed with her statement. “Did you see where they took our gear?”
Joach spoke up behind him. “After they clubbed and dragged you off, I saw them hauling our supplies into the main hold.”
“Then we must find a way to get there without being seen.”
Elena held up her pale left hand. “If I could regain my ghost magick, it would be a simple thing to sneak there.”
“But to do that, you’d first have to reach the spirit realm and renew,” Er’ril said, “and I’d rather not have you that close to death again.”
She nodded. In truth, she had no wish to travel there again either.
By now, Joach had wandered to the crate’s back side, peering into the crac
k between wall and box. “Well, the rat that led us here wasn’t in the crate, so it must have gone somewhere.”
“Good point, Joach. The beast reeked of fish, as if it had been nesting near the hold. Following it may be our best chance.” The plainsman waved Joach out of his way, then crawled within the narrow space between the wall and the crate. As they watched, Er’ril braced his back against the wall and pushed. Muscles bunched and strained against his wool breeches.
Joach moved to help, but Er’ril held up a hand. “I don’t want you near this cursed thing,” he said, his teeth clenched with effort, his face reddened to a ruddy fire. Still he strained harder. Finally, with a huffing gasp, he shoved with his whole body, and the crate slid across the floor with a low grind of wood.
Sighing from the exertion, Er’ril rolled out of the cramped space and stood up on his weakened legs. He used a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Bring the lantern,” he said to Elena.
She crossed to him and lifted the lamp toward the darkness behind the crate. Near the base of the wall was a gnawed hole about the size of a ripe pumpkin. She squeezed past Er’ril and knelt slightly to better illuminate the hole. As Elena got closer, she caught the whiff of an awful reek. She blinked against the smell, her nose curling. It stank of offal and the sting of salt.
“Do you see anything?” Er’ril asked.
“No,” she said, “but I do smell something.” Fighting against the stench, she pressed into the cramped space, knelt with the lantern set beside her head, and peered through the ragged hole.
Just beyond the opening, she spotted the bottoms of barrels and nothing much else. Still, even through the reek, she sensed that the neighboring chamber was much larger. The slight drip of water from deeper in the room echoed hollowly, like the trickle of rainwater in a cavern. “I think you were right. There’s a large chamber, and from the smell, it might be the fish hold.”
“Let me take a look.” Er’ril and she exchanged places. He peered silently. “Brine and fish. If this isn’t the main hold, it must be close.”
“Then stand back,” Elena warned. She cast out threads of fire from her outstretched fingers.
Er’ril ducked away as she set about melting the nails and screws that secured a section of the wooden wall. Planks fell away, clattering against a row of barrels in the next room. Joach and Er’ril hurried to secure the falling boards before the noise should alert the crew.
“Mother above, that stench!” Joach choked.
“It’s only salted fish,” Er’ril commented, but Elena noticed the slight curling of his nose. The reeking smell seemed to seep into their very skin. “It’s not as bad if you breathe through your mouth.”
With Joach’s assistance, Er’ril tilted and rolled a barrel of oil out of the way, clearing a path into the next chamber. They hurried, sticking close to the shadows by the wall. Er’ril ordered Elena to shutter the lantern’s flame to a mere flicker. Now was not the time to be spotted.
They edged forward to where the floor of the chamber opened into a wide hole. Staring over the edge, they saw a sea of dead fish awash in thick crusts of salt. The smell stung their eyes, raising tears.
Er’ril pointed for Elena to shine the light above. “If that’s the fish hold, the main hatch of the ship must be directly above us.”
“What about our packs?” Joach asked. “They must be stored somewhere on this level.”
Er’ril nodded. “You two search for our things,” he answered. “I’m going to find the crew hatch to the decks above.”
Elena hated the idea of splitting up. The main hold encompassed the entire midsection of the ship and was divvied up into smaller cubbyholes and side chambers. They would surely lose sight of each other as they explored, and that frightened her more than a pack of ravers. But she knew better than to complain. She sensed that time was running thin for all of them.
Joach took her hand as Er’ril disappeared into the shadows along the wall. “Let’s check over by those stacks of dry goods,” her brother whispered. He began to lead her along the edge of the deep hold.
Glancing forward, she spotted the section of decking where sacks of flour and grain lay piled like cords of wood. Once there, Joach pushed among the stacked barrels and burlap sacks. Elena followed, lantern raised before her like a shield.
They searched the short rows, the scent of rye and pepper almost masking the reek of fish here, but there was no sign of their gear.
“We’d better move on,” Joach said, his eyes darting all around.
She nodded just as one of the sacks near her elbow shifted, the rustle of burlap as loud as a scream in her tense ears. She almost bobbled the lantern from her fingers in her hurry to jump away.
Joach was immediately at her side. “What—?”
Already Elena was swinging her lantern toward the displaced sack, using the lamp as both a weapon and as a means of illuminating any hidden menace. Beyond the far edge of the sack, toward the middle of this particular pile of stored goods, a small reddish-furred creature lay nestled.
Elena’s first thought was that it was the back of a huge rat, but a small frightened sob suddenly arose from there. Raising the lantern higher, she realized her mistake. It was not a rat. It was the top of somebody’s head—someone hidden in a castle of flour.
A small boy’s face rose into the light, his features filthy and tearstained. Horror and fear reflected in the lamplight. “Don’t hurt me,” he moaned.
“Who are you?” Joach asked a bit harshly, his throat still obviously tight with his own fear.
Elena placed a hand on Joach’s wrist. “It’s just a boy.” The lad could not be any older than ten or eleven winters. She lowered the lamp away from the boy’s face and crept slowly nearer. He cringed back. “We mean you no harm,” she whispered kindly. “What are you doing down here?”
He seemed on the verge of tears. “Hiding,” he finally said, half whimpering.
She continued in soothing tones. “It’s all right. You’re with friends now. Why are you hiding here in the dark?”
“It’s the only safe place. The smells keep the monsters from sniffing me out.”
Elena looked with concern at Joach. She did not like what his words implied.
Joach motioned for her to continue coaxing information from the boy.
She stepped nearer. “Monsters?”
Nodding, the small lad shivered and hugged his arms around his belly. “I’ve been hiding down here since the ship was bewit’ched by Master Vael. Him and the creatures that was with him. They made . . . They did . . .” The boy suddenly sobbed and buried his face in his hands. “I ran and hid with the rats. They didn’t find me.”
She placed the lantern on the floor and reached to his cheek, resting a palm there. He was so cold. “We won’t let anything happen to you,” she whispered. She waved Joach over to move some of the sacks out of the way.
“What’s your name?” she asked as Joach began freeing the boy.
“Tok,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I was the ship’s cabin boy.”
Joach and Elena helped him from his hiding place. The lad wore scraps of torn and soiled clothes. As he stood, his limbs twitched, and his hands kept picking at his shirt in nervousness.
She knelt to be at eye level with him and took his tremoring hands in her own. “How long have you been hiding down here?”
“Almost a full moon,” he said. “I been picking at the supplies when no one was around. I was hoping we’d reach some port. Then maybe I could run away.”
Now that he seemed calmer, Elena finally turned to the more important question. “What happened here?”
His eyes grew round with her question. He obviously feared even talking about it. But she stroked his arm and squeezed his hands until his tongue finally freed. “On the far side of the Archipelago, Captain Jarplin spotted an island that we never seen before. He ordered the ship to turn about and go explore it.”
Elena glanced significantly at Joach. The island of A�
��loa Glen.
“But as we neared,” Tok continued, his voice growing smaller as he recounted the tale, “a horrible storm blew in. Lightning seemed to crawl across the sky after us. We thought we were dead for sure. Then a ship came up out of the darkness—a ship like you never seen before, all lit up with blue and green crackles in her sails, like the storm itself were powering her. We could not escape. Creatures came at us. Beasts with bony wings and skin so pale you could see their bellies churning.” He raised his eyes, as if checking to see if he was believed.
“Skal’tum,” Elena whispered to Joach.
Tok continued. “There was a foreigner with sick-looking skin and teeth filed sharp as a shark. His name was Vael. And after what he did to the captain and the others, Jarplin made him his first mate.”
“What did they do to the crew?” Joach asked.
Tok shook his head and bit his lower lip. “It were so horrible.” The lad slipped his hands from hers and covered his eyes as he spoke, as if to lessen his view on this horrible event. “They marched all the men on deck. They bent them over the butcher’s block and drilled into the back of their heads with the whale pinner. And the screams . . . They went on for a day and a night. Some of the crew tried to leap overboard, but the winged monsters snatched them back.” Tok suddenly lowered his hand from his face. His eyes were half mad. “I saw them eat Mister Fasson. Tore him in half and ate him while he still screamed.”
Elena pulled the boy into her embrace. He shook for the longest time. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed him so soon.
After a few more shuddering breaths, he pushed out of her embrace. “But that weren’t the worst of it. After they drilled them holes in the men’s heads, they shoved in these creatures that looked like squids, but they weren’t nothing like anything I ever seen netted from the sea. The men twitched and moaned on the deck for near part of a full day. Afterward, they’d do whatever Master Vael said. At his order, they even butchered some of the men that didn’t wake up fast enough from the drilling. They chopped them up and fed ’em to the winged monsters.” Tok stared Elena in the eye. “And the crew didn’t even care. They laughed while they worked on their friends with the axes and saws.”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 20
