by Watson Davis
She grabbed hold of the mast, her feet dropping onto the yard, her clothes now soaking wet. She laughed. “Is that not the way of things? I go to warn you, but I am the one who needs warning.”
“Always,” Tethan said, swinging by his hands from the ropes, grinning. Another wave hit the ship. Tethan stumbled forward, his arm wrapping around Kalo’s waist. His body pressed her up against the mast, and her body was warm and yielding. He looked down into her eyes, and she peered up into his.
“An interesting conversation,” a voice said in Onei.
Tethan blinked and turned his head. “What?”
Mitta hung from the rigging, a fake smile on her lips, water beading up on her face and trickling down her chin. “Discussing the weather, I take it?”
Tethan released Kalo and backed away from her, nodding his head. “Yes. We were actually discussing the weather.”
“I bet.” Mitta winked. She released her grip, and dropped down to the deck below.
Tethan sucked in his breath, reaching after her, but Kalo grabbed his arm.
“Be careful,” she said. “You could hurt yourself in a fall like that.”
Tethan peered down. Mitta glanced up and gave him a curt wave before diving into the hold where the Onei bunked.
Kalo shook her head. “She’s a fool for pulling a stunt like that.”
“She is Onei,” Tethan said, chuckling and shaking his head.
A bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Tethan squinted, peering into the darkness before them until another bolt struck. An island approached, growing closer to the one ship before them. Tethan pointed toward it. “Shouldn’t the ship in the lead be turning already?”
“What?” Kalo asked. “We should be the ship in the lead.”
Tethan pointed toward the island. “That ship is getting close to that island. Shouldn’t they be going around it?”
Kalo peered in the direction Tethan indicated, rising to her feet on the ropes, straining her eyes to see, waiting for the lightning to flash across the sky once more. She said, “There shouldn’t be any islands until we turn up the coast to Enera. You must be mistaken.”
# # #
“Maybe you should give the wheel back to me.” Gartan stood on the deck next to the wheel, facing the wheel with the wind tugging at his hair and clothes, the fat droplets of rain smacking against him.
“I’ve got it.” Simthil stood with both hands on the wheel, his face a mask of concentration, his eyes narrowed, lips compressed, now and again rising up on the tips of his toes for a better view over the bow.
The bow of the ship plowed into the wave ahead and the whole ship shuddered, slewing to starboard.
“You are doing it wrong,” Gartan said, snaking his arms in toward the wheel, pressing against Simthil, trying to push him out of the way. “Let me do it.”
Simthil didn’t budge.
Gartan backed away and set his fists on his hips, bouncing on his toes. “You have to angle the ship into the wave. Let me do it.”
“Go away,” Simthil said, tugging at the wheel, his muscles quivering. “I’ve got it.”
Alvon Simthilson and Boka Icefang stood behind them before their braziers, flames swirling up between their hands, their hands waving in the air, conjuring gusts of wind to fill their sails and keep them moving forward through the storm. Alvon chanted with his face grim, eyes distant, glaring at nothing in particular as beads of water trickled down his face. Beside him, Boka whispered, her eyes closed as though listening to the whispers of her lovers.
Tethan’s ship, with the Nayen merchant lass, lagged behind them.
“Faster!” Gartan yelled, pitching his voice to carry through the wind. “We’ve got to be the first to make land.”
Tayna and Gekisha sat on the masts, their arms looped into the rigging for balance, having a discussion Gartan couldn’t hear. Nohel smiled, glancing at Gartan, shaking his head. “Isn’t the Nayen lass’ ship supposed to be leading us?”
“That’s what she gets for using inferior wind mages.” Gartan grinned at Alvon and Boka, neither of them acknowledging him. Gartan shrugged, smirking at Nohel. “Eh. You try to give a shaman a compliment.”
The thunder roared like an avalanche, like the side of a mountain falling into Aytherron Lake. The flash of the lightning revealed the churning chaos of the waves around them.
“Maybe we’re going too fast.” Simthil glanced back at Gartan, arching his left eyebrow, frowning, taking his left hand from the wheel and holding it out palm up. He shrugged. “Maybe she thinks some bad weather’s coming.”
The rain fell in a harder sheet, the drops cold and fat, their impact clattering on the ship’s wooden deck like hailstones. Gartan looked up to the skies, pointing at them. “It’s just a squall. Maybe you Greathouse Onei haven’t been to sea with a little weather before.”
“I think it’s more than a squall,” Simthil mumbled, returning his attention to the wheel, his massive shoulders hunching up with tension.
“Pfft.” Gartan slapped him on the back.
“Lord Gartan!” a voice called from the stairs in Shrian. Dyuh Mon, a heavy cloak wrapped around him, staggered forward, his right hand holding his cloak closed, his left hand waving in the rain, searching for something to hold onto, something to steady himself with. “Lord Gartan!”
“Here,” Gartan said, raising his hand to motion the Nayen mage forward.
The ship rocked, sending Dyuh Mon staggering two steps back, surprise on his face, then forward several more steps. Gartan crossed the deck to the man, catching him by the shoulders, holding him up, steadying him.
Gartan peered into the man’s eyes, wide and with irises as black as night. The man’s lower lip quivered, and his body shook beneath the heavy cloak. Shifting his mind to Shrian, Gartan said, “Yes?”
“Gartan, you… uh.” Dyuh Mon’s eyes narrowed. He fidgeted, the fingers on his left hand tapping against his thumb. He pointed in their current direction. He spoke several words Gartan couldn’t understand before shaking his head and settling on, “Bad. Very bad. Must turn.”
Gartan glanced at the sky, at the rain whipping about, the flashes of lightning. He nodded. “Yes, having a bit of bad weather. No need to worry.”
“Um, no.” Dyuh Mon raised his left hand to his face, his fingers tapping now on his lips, his brow furrowing. He pulled a handful of bones from his pouch, rolled them into his palm, and shook his head. “No. Bad.”
Nohel edged up to Gartan’s elbow, asking, “What’s he saying?”
“He said it’s a bad storm, I think.” Gartan kept his attention on Dyuh Mon.
“This?” Nohel stepped away, raising his hands into the air and smiling up at the clouds. “This is but a drizzle compared to the storms of the Last Sea. You have said so yourself.”
“Hah!” Tayna leapt down from the mast, landing like a cat behind Gartan, waving her hand toward Nohel. “The tempests in the Far Wastes make the worst storms of the Last Sea appear to be merely the morning dew.”
“Pfft.” Simthil snorted, turning the wheel, angling the ship along a wave’s front. “You’ve never been anywhere near the Far Wastes, especially during a tempest.”
Something moved out in the sea, something hinted at among the waves with the flashing of the lightning. Gartan squinted, searching for another glimpse.
“Oh yes I have.” Tayna surged forward, puffing her chest out, her fists clenched and a dangerous glint in her eye.
Dyuh Mon stuffed the bones back into his pouch and reached up, patting Gartan’s chest, saying, “Too much danger,” and some other syllables Gartan couldn’t put together.
Gartan raised his hand, and in Onei, he said, “Everyone quiet down.” He turned his attention to Dyuh Mon, studying the man’s face, his lips. “Danger? What is problem?”
“Yes,” Dyuh Mon relaxed, relief washing over his face. “Yes. Too danger. Need.” He pointed to the stairs, to the hatch to the hold where the Onei had taken up residence. “Must go down now. Get sword. H
arpoons.”
Gartan turned to the Onei, saying, “I think he’s telling us to leave the deck and go below to ride the storm out. But he said something about swords.”
Tayna laughed. “This poor excuse for a drizzle?”
“Tell the Nayen to go below if he’s so scared,” Nohel said. “He is little, and it’s understandable for him to be scared.”
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, blinding Gartan. He ducked his head just as the ship hit a wave, pitching the boat into the air. The hull crashed down, white water lapping over the side of the ship, washing over the deck. From the prow, an Onei sailor waved his arms, another pointing out to sea before them.
“What are they going on about, then?” Nohel asked.
“I wonder if something really is wrong, or if they’re just complaining at how poorly Simthil is handling the ship?” Gartan blinked his eyes, and shook his head. He released Dyuh Mon, handing him over to Nohel, and moved forward, squinting his eyes to see in the darkness.
Another bolt of lightning lit the sea before them, revealing a sandbar, possibly a small island. Gartan whirled around, pointed out to the sea with his left hand, and shouted, “Simthil! There’s a sandbar out there!”
“What is that?” Simthil pulled on the wheel, and something smashed against the hull, the entire ship tilting to starboard, the masts almost parallel with the horizon.
Gartan fell, sliding down the deck on his back, with Dyuh Mon and Nohel skidding down before him. Gartan twisted around, looking up now. Simthil held onto the wheel, dangling from it as it rocked back and forth.
The mages’ braziers flipped over, their coals arching out in a trail of embers. Alvon’s grim face now registered surprise, his arms flailing about, his feet now above his head, and Boka in the same position. Their magic whirled around them, out of control, the forces and powers coming together and exploding. The blast launched Boka over the rear of the ship, and Alvon into a wave to their starboard.
Gartan hurled himself out, his right hand grabbing the rigging line, his left hand reaching out, stretching out as far as he could. The water slammed into him like a wall, his still delicate wounds protesting, but his hand found something, and his fingers latched on.
The ship righted itself, jerking upright, swaying to port, to starboard, while Simthil hung onto the wheel. Gartan dangled from the mast, holding Alvon by his leg, his right hand losing its grip. Tayna clung to the back rail, peering back at the waves, screaming, “Boka!”
Nohel lurched to his feet, holding a squirming Dyuh Mon in his arms.
“Let me go!” Alvon yelled, the crash of thunder drowning out most of his words, the man’s chest and hands smoking from the magical backlash, his left eye now a milky white.
Gartan bellowed, “Simthil!”
Simthil, now solidly on his feet, glared up.
The ship rocked from side to side, the sails ripping.
Gartan pitched Alvon toward him, letting him go. He spiraled through the air. Simthil stepped back, stretching out his arms, angling himself, going down to one knee, and caught his son.
Gartan let go, dropped to the deck and rolled as he hit, leaping forward to take the wheel, his eyes searching for a line through the waves. Glowering at Nohel and Dyuh Mon, he pointed off their bow at the shape he’d mistaken for a sandbar now slithering through the water, and in Shrian, he roared, “What the hell is that?”
Dyuh Mon thought about the words, then mumbled an incantation and wriggled his fingers. He squinted, his head drifting forward.
“Do you see it?”
Dyuh Mon’s eyes snapped open and he screamed, clawing at Nohel’s hand, twisting and squirming. Nohel let him loose, letting him drop to the deck.
Dyuh Mon staggered across the deck, waving his hand over his head, screaming in Nayen, but not screaming any of the paltry handful of words Gartan had learned. The ship rocked and Gartan caught Dyuh Mon, keeping him from tumbling over the side.
Gartan pulled and pushed at the wheel, while Dyuh Mon tore his pouch of bones from his belt, opened it up, and reached his hand in.
Nohel yelled, “Gartan? What’s wrong?”
Behind Nohel, illuminated by a flash of light, a giant shape loomed over the ship, wet and shiny and green, a large flap opening and closing, a fetid hot wind flowing over the deck.
The ship stopped, all its forward momentum gone in the blink of an eye.
Gartan flew forward, flipping over the wheel, hands flailing as he sailed the length of the ship, barreling through the door and into the junior officers’ quarters. He scratched at the deck, searching for some sort of purchase, his hand wrapping around a wooden beam. Everything not bolted down—axes and armor, britches and shirts, plates and good luck charms—tumbled forward to smash against the bulkhead.
His crew slid past him from the main deck, through the door Gartan had fallen through, yelling in anger and confusion, clutching at the deck and each other, trying to stop themselves. Gartan gained a better grasp, climbed up, and leapt to catch the door frame and pull himself back through to the main deck.
A large grayish-blue column exploded from the water to Gartan’s right, flatter on the side toward the ship and with round cup-like growths, each growth half the size of an Onei.
A tentacle?
The base of the tentacle hammered the side of the ship, the rest of it falling gracefully down, ripping through the ship’s rigging, toppling the main mast, the wood splintering.
The magelights glittered off the tentacle, the surface appearing to be a kind of knobby hide, undulating as it moved, hinting at the muscles beneath. Dyuh Mon crawled on the deck, his shaking hands reaching for his pouch, the bones bouncing across the deck. Gartan wrapped an arm around Dyuh Mon’s waist, jerking him to his feet, shouting, “Fight!”
Tossing Dyuh Mon aside, Gartan pulled his axe from his belt and charged the tentacle lying across the deck. He chopped down with all his strength but his axe bounced off the thick hide.
Dyuh Mon set his feet wide, one arm looping around the railing of the stairs to the forecastle, his other arm moving, chanting, his hand glowing. He yelled and reached out, a ball of fire flying from his palm and slamming into the tentacle, ripping into the flesh, blowing chunks of it off.
“Where’s the head?” Gartan screamed, hurling himself toward the wound in the tentacle, raising his axe, and hacking into the exposed muscle.
Something wailed, a high-pitched, deafening keening, and the whole ship twisted as the tentacle pulled it sideways through the water. The waves pummeled the ship. Gartan staggered backward, fighting to maintain his balance, catching Dyuh Mon with his left arm.
A giant black beak rose up out of the water. Gartan sprinted forward, leaping with Dyuh Mon silently clinging to his back, the man’s legs wrapped around Gartan’s waist. The beak smashed down into the ship, puncturing the deck, shattering the hull. Gartan and Dyuh Mon landed on the creature’s slippery hide, and slid off into the sea.
# # #
“What’s wrong?” Tethan dropped to the main deck and jogged after Kalo, peering out across the waves, squinting at the mass before the ship off their starboard bow and trying to distinguish waves from what appeared to be long, single-branched trees, trees bowing to the winds. “What is that?”
Kalo bellowed in a voice inconsistent with her small frame, a voice of command, but she bellowed in Nayen. Tethan understood not a single word. Nayen sailors, however, swarmed up the masts, swinging through the rigging, braving the winds, the rain, the lightning. More sails dropped.
“What is that?” Tethan screamed. The mass in the water, so hard to see in the darkness, appeared to be moving, directly at the one ship ahead of them and to their starboard.
Kalo sprinted up the stairs to the rear deck, yelling at the mages at their braziers. The sailor behind the wheel stepped aside, holding the wheel steady until Kalo took it from his hands. Kalo spun the wheel to direct the ship to the port side, away from the other ship, the chant of the magicians changing, t
he newly dropped sails fluttering in the storm’s winds now filled with winds redirected by their magic.
“What about that ship?” Tethan asked, shouting over the wheel at Kalo.
“Get out of my way!” Kalo leaned to the right, to the left, peering around Tethan.
Mian-on, his hair unkempt and blowing free in the winds, staggered onto the deck, calling out in Nayen. On Kalo’s response, Mian-on’s eyebrows rose, his mouth dropping open. He craned his head, peering past Tethan.
“What is that?” Tethan asked, but Mian-on stumbled in beside the other mages, adding his movements, his voice, to theirs. With the sails straining, the masts creaked, threatening to break.
Tethan staggered to the starboard rail, holding himself steady against it, against the increasing bobbing and dropping.
The water before the mass churned. The ship approaching the mass—visible from the magelights adorning the masts and deck—stopped, the ship’s rear rising and falling back into the water, the waves lashing against the hull, crashing over the sides.
“Which ship is that?” Tethan whispered, the hair on his arms and neck rising, a cold terror gripping his heart. He turned, screaming, “Which ship is that?”
“That’s Dyuh Mon’s ship,” Kalo cried, her attention returning to the wheel, turning it this way, that way, rising up a wave, turning the ship to catch the next at a diagonal.
Behind them, the other ships, all lit so brightly, turned to their port sides as well, away from the mass, away from the ship that had been stopped, following Kalo’s lead.
“You mean my father’s ship?” Tethan yelled. “You have to turn back. We have to go help them.”
“We can’t help them.” Kalo pointed toward the ship as a response, and Tethan turned, his heart thudding, his throat clenching.
Something long and thin, almost delicate, uncoiled out of the sea, rising up from the waves with water streaming from it, cascading down. The base smashed against the hull of the ship, wrapping around the ship and falling across the deck, the top of the thing still high in the air, ripping through the rigging, slamming into the mast, cracking it, splintering it, bringing the whole thing down into the water, ropes popping as they gave way.
