by Warren Fahy
“See the cave?”
A hand clapped down on Lanning’s shoulder, startling him.
It was Dillon Tobbs, the young ship’s scientist.
“Aye,” Lanning said.
“That’s where the beast’s stomach is!” he said.
Trevin caught the glint in one of the fragments of the Cronus Star. He had just come back from measuring the time left in his hourglass.
The Lightstone Tower was already half-filled by the sea.
As he expected, the water would rise faster as the tower’s girth narrowed, about three inches an hour now. He had five days, maybe four. He knew not where the air in the tower was going. None appeared to be escaping into the sea above.
Trevin sat cross-legged on the white carpet of his room. His candle flickered beside his bed, its heat alone warming the chamber. Five of the remaining pieces of the Cronus Star glimmered darkly before him, but one sparkled brightly. He lifted the diamond shard, focusing on a single facet of its bezel. Gradually, he defined an image: a view from a ship’s mast, in which he could barely make out men fighting on the deck below.
The facet was too small and so he lay on the carpet and used his silver spyglass to peer into it. Then he could see clearly a battle that was ensuing, and Trevin hung his head then, destroyed by the vision.
By what right could he ask for this sacrifice? He deserved his fate and these men did not. As his own damnation, he forced himself to watch these brave people fight in order to save him from his own creation.
Drewgor smiled with Trevin’s face in the Wynder World, for he emerged there in Trevin’s guise to rule his Wynderne kingdom in his stead. “Watch closely! The Sea Mare shall be devoured,” he announced, peering happily into the pool of Halarian water with a few of his unhappy courtiers.
He glared at them in irritation. “I want more knocking about, Theosophiclar. Everyone is to fight and batter each other about on this greensward. I want this turf to be blackened with their blood!” The grass turned black at his notion as all the Wyndernes began battling each other, and “Trevin” purred in semi-satisfaction. “I feel like celebrating today!”
“Yes, lord,” quailed Theosophiclar. The three-eyed court engineer was bewildered and embittered after tasting the sweet sanity of Trevin, who had suddenly changed so completely and become so bitter and mad, arriving this time without his fair queen. He knew that Trevin was capable of darkness, but the soul that moderated it and defined his character was missing entirely now.
The King’s Wyndernalia subjects were pressed into a hideous waltz of carnage, nothing more than a boring spectacle they had to perform yet again. Their king looked back into the pool and slapped his knee. “I put Senix in charge of this one!” He rubbed his hands, a gesture most unlike Trevin.
“Who, lord?” Theosophiclar asked.
“Senix is one of the wildest Wynder demons, fool! I coaxed him to take the form of a seaweed.” Trevin stroked the air. “What sport!”
Theosophiclar knew that this was the Sixth Isle Trevin had raised in Hala, and that good and noble subjects had been ready to serve him at his call. In fact, it was Telniquair, Theosophiclar recalled, who had answered when Trevin created this island. He knew of no Senix, and if anyone should know, it was he.
Yet the King raved on.
“You will see, my foolish Wyndernes. You think these lowly Hala creatures noble, I know! Watch them now. See how weak they are before Senix!”
He leered at his miserable courtiers, a bloody visage that mocked every gentle memory they cherished of their young king.
“That’s getting it, Nofair!” Rept shouted. “’Att-a boy!”
Nofair’s mates swung the sailor along the hull so that he could reap the vines when three tendrils thick as vipers gripped his arm and yanked him with such force his shoes came off as he slipped out of the cinch knot around his ankles. The sailor fell headfirst into the grasping kelp girding the ship.
Cries of pity rang as kelp surged over him.
Nil heard the men howl as he climbed the bridge to look over the wriggling bay. He pondered as the spray of arrows barely held back advancing clusters as weed accumulated around the Sea Mare, pulling her steadily toward the falls. As the thunder of the falls grew louder, Nil realized it was hopeless.
Lanning saw Nofair’s body being passed from vine to vine underwater toward the falls, and he turned and ran to the bridge. “Captain!”
Nil turned sharply. “What is it, Mister?”
“Tobbs says the seaweed’s stomach is in yonder cave!”
“Tobbs, get to the bridge,” shouted Lince, who had ears in the back of his head as well as an eye on top.
The biologist, who had been cutting the feelers from the fo’c’sle, pivoted on a heel and dashed to the bridge.
“You say the seaweed issues from that cave, Tobbs?” Nil asked.
“Yes! From pools of acid, probably, where it digests its prey.”
Nil pressed his lips together. He could see now that all the vines grew out of five great branches, which merged into one massive trunk. “I wonder…” Nil rubbed his beard.
“Bultin, Tintil, report to the bridge!” Lince cried.
Both big men ran down the deck. They knew that certain dangers at sea were a strong man’s burden, from the battening of hatches against a squall to the reefing of a wild sail. They stood ready before the Captain.
“Look there, men,” Nil pointed. “Beyond the waterfall is a cave. This weed sprouts from it. Men strong enough to chop that trunk are needed. It might be possible to climb on top of the main branches to the base of the falls, then dive under and climb into yonder grotto. This wicked hand might be severed at the wrist. What say you?”
“If I can!” Bultin said.
Tintil scratched his head. “How, Cap’n?”
“With knives ya should be able to get a purchase on the backs of those big branches and climb along them hand over hand to the trunk,” Nil said.
“You’ll have to wave your sword to keep the reachers off now and then,” Lince said. “But you should be able to pull yourself forward and slide along. Then you’ll have to dive for it, and kick under the falls to get to that cave.”
“How do we get past this muck?” Bultin waved his arms at the feelers all around.
“Maybe we can get a harpoon into one of the main branches,” Nil said. “Then you can slide down the line.”
“You heard the Captain, you men at the starboard harpoon!” Lince yelled.
They turned the weapon.
“String a harpoon and aim at one of the big branches,” Nil yelled. “Bury it deep now!”
“Aye, sir,” cried Rept, who sat in the bowman’s chair. This was the same crossbow that had slain Knot. Rept eyed the mark and let the harpoon go, and it sang true, carrying its twirling line and plunging into the closest big branch, which was four feet thick. Others strung the harpoon line through a block and pulled it taut at the rail.
“Go with the Gairanor,” Nil said.
Tintil and Bultin ran to the fo’c’sle.
“Tobbs, you better record this in your log in case you have to throw the buoy. Right, lad?”
“Aye, Captain!” Tobbs ran to the fo’c’sle to get his journal.
“Keep the arrows coming and aim a few at that slippery branch we’ve harpooned!” Lince yelled as the ship lurched closer to the cataract. “Put as many in her as far as you can shoot. Give ’em somethin’ to hang onto!”
“Mind you don’t hit us,” Bultin said, putting on sealskin gloves and grabbing the harpoon line. He climbed over the rail and pulled his legs up around the line as the men cranked it tight. His heavy sword was sheathed at his hip and two knives were slung around his neck as he shimmied down the line.
Bultin crossed the writhing vines encasing the Sea Mare’s hull and over the water. The harpoon that had bit into the branch’s greasy flesh held firm until he reached the branch and straddled it.
Behind him, Tintil grabbed hold and pulled himself
down the line as they kept it tight.
Bultin unsheathed both knives and stabbed down, planting the blades in the brown flesh of the branch, pulling himself forward over the slick surface. The vine Bultin embraced bent toward the Sea Mare, relaxing the harpoon line then behind him.
Tintil fell onto the thick mat of vines around the ship, but they were wound so tight he did not fall through. Only the iron ribs of the Sea Mare kept her hull from being crushed by the force of their collective grip. Tintil unwound his legs from the line and climbed to his feet on the tight mesh of kelp.
As the men pulled the line taut, Tintil let go of the line, judging that he could run across the vines and leap onto the branch behind Bultin. But the hard vines beneath the sailor seemed to sense his footfalls and they loosened like boiled noodles.
Six feet from the branch Tintil sank, and the kelp closed over him so rapidly it sent a spray of water into the air. Not even the mighty Tintil could tear himself free, and the men on the ship despaired.
Bultin turned to the task ahead as tears streamed down his face. The thick stalk floated so high only his feet touched the sea. The muscle-bound sailor clawed his way forward, planting one knife after another.
As they fought the onslaught, the crew looked at him every chance they could, the first waves stirred by the falls rocking the Sea Mare now. Mist soaked her decks as the cave yawned wider behind the crushing column of water. The monkey-sailor shrieked from the crow’s nest in terror and had to be called down by Mister Feferl.
The vine was slippery and Bultin nearly fell over the side several times into the beds of seaweed that were following hungrily beside him. He gripped his legs and dug in his heels to right himself whenever he was about to lose his balance. At times he had to pause, and slash random feelers that had caught hold of his ankles, but he managed to move forward a little faster than the stragglers following him.
It was exhausting to move in this fashion, however, and even Bultin was hard-pressed as the branch grew thicker, making it impossible to straddle.
He came to a fork and climbed on top of a broader branch to scramble forward on hands and knees, which worked for about ten yards before he started to slide off. He spread his legs and arms to grab the branch, planting his knives. He groaned as his groin took a blow.
A vine whipped around his throat and he cut it away. He pried the squirming cable from his neck and threw it into the sea, pulling himself forward.
Another fork was 60 feet ahead. The falls drenched him in mist and rocked the branch, though they were still 75 yards away.
He looked behind him and saw the Sea Mare coming faster behind him as all the branches of the vine curled around her, gathering her in. The sailor gritted his teeth and charged ahead, hand over hand.
At the next joint, the trunk became knottier, wider, and not as slick. He got on all fours and scrambled forward again, splaying out and staking his daggers whenever a wave knocked him off balance. Finally, he made it to one of the five main fingers that joined the trunk at the falls, some 50 yards away. The branch was so wide Bultin tried running on its back between swells, diving down and stabbing his knives when he lost his balance.
“By the Gairanor, he’s a brute,” Rawley said.
The men cheered Bultin as he went.
Bultin rose to run again on the heaving branch and made it 20 feet this time before losing his balance, badly this time. He fell over the left side and clawed with his knives. His right hand plunged the dagger deep but his left hand glanced off and stabbed his own leg. He hung from his right arm and pulled his sword from its hilt with his left arm and then planted it in the side of the branch. Bultin sheathed one knife and gripped both hands on the sword’s hilt and swung from side to side, and on the third swing he swung back and straddled the branch.
“That bloody bastard!” Rawley shouted, stomping his wooden leg on the deck.
Bultin pulled the knife out of his thigh and pried the sword loose, using it to rake along the side of the vine and steady himself as he crawled forward on bloody knees. Thirty punishing yards later, he finally made it to the trunk.
Seven feet wide, it curved down into the water before him under the roaring tower of water.
Behind him, Bultin could faintly hear the encouragement of his shipmates. The gnarled wrist of the hand pitched up and down beneath him from the cataract’s turbulence. Rain soaked him as he looked down into the water. He was not sure if he could swim to the other side, but since he had no choice, he started breathing in and out very fast, a trick his father taught him. He put his sword into its scabbard and held his last knife in his other hand, breathing until he was dizzy. Then he rose to his feet, sucked in a barrelful of air and dove.
The falls beat down on Bultin’s back even under the sea, sending him deeper through a blinding haze of bubbles. He thought he could never get to the surface again when he ran into a wall of rock, gashing his forehead. He pulled himself up across its face.
Bultin burst from the sea onto a ledge of pitted rock, blood streaming over his head, partially blinding him. The roar of the falls echoed inside a twilit cavern.
He saw the giant trunk of the seaweed draped over the ledge to his right as he climbed to the top of the ledge.
The trunk seemed to be rooted in a wide pool steaming wisps of bitter fumes inside the giant cave. He looked into the still water and saw white pads of plant-flesh layering the bottom from which innumerable cords sprouted and joined to form the seaweed’s massive trunk. Bultin noticed a shredded dolphin, fish carcasses, and even the bones of a whale on the bottom of the acrid pool. Then he saw Nofair, his body bloated and eyes pale as they stared back at him from the acrid water.
Bultin drew his sword and ran at the trunk in rage.
He landed his first blow across the shoulder of the vine, and he shuddered from the resistance his blade met.
Nevertheless, the trunk had never been so scathed, and a spasm rippled across the entire bay.
He tore the blade from the slit and lifted it again. Another stroke, and a bleeding wedge was opened, releasing a reek of death.
Frantically, Bultin hacked down, wedging chunk after chunk. Between strokes, he glanced at the sunlit wall of water to his right. Yet as he mowed down the sword like a windmill, Bultin soon ran out of steam. An impressive gouge had already been gashed. But it was a scratch compared to the whole.
By this time, though Bultin could not know it, the bay had gone wild. The fist of weed began hauling its quarry in much faster—and an angry dispatch of kelp beds headed for the cave, reaching under the falls.
A bestial urgency lit Bultin’s eyes and he bared his teeth, his muscles twisting and quaking as, with one flex of his body, he plunged the blade down to the halfway point. He pried it loose, and with a frightful stroke matched its depth, opening a gaping wedge: a quarter of the vine was severed.
A flow of grayish-yellow liquid spluttered from the wound, reeking of rotting flesh. Bultin lifted his blade for another thrust.
A phalanx of vines reached over the ledge beside him, and they knotted into a ram, slammed against his side.
He staggered, caught off guard, and teetered over the black pool.
From behind, the tendrils bashed Bultin again, and he fell forward. The deathly waters of the pool spread wide, but he reached behind and grabbed onto a few of the vines. They seemed to sense where they were being dragged, pulling back and saving him. He swiveled, sweeping his sword through the feelers, which retreated against the falls.
His arms heavy, Bultin struck the trunk twice more before the trailers hit him again, more numerous now, and he fell, swinging wildly at them. They retreated once again as the Sea Mare’s shadow fell across on the falls.
He saw vines drag Tintil’s body over the ledge then into the pool.
The shouts of his mates pierced the thunder as, sobbing, Bultin turned back to the weed’s trunk. With two heart-bursting lunges he cut another deep wedge in the far side. Then he concentrated on the near side, whit
tling the gap down with rapid blows until at last his blade struck the rock ledge. Only the far third of the trunk remained as he stood, teetering.
The bowsprit of the Sea Mare pierced the falls and the screams of his shipmates seemed to spill through.
He staggered forward into the gash, dazed and doused with the monster’s blood, his head pounding. His bleary eyes fixed on the gap before him as he reared back like a machine with one purpose. As more shrieks pierced the falls, Bultin’s mind reeled. He detached from his body and viewed the spectacle of himself swinging the blade down, down, down, his strokes weaker and weaker. He noticed a few cords whip around his blade and pull it out of his hands, as if it were happening far away. Three thick vines grabbed his arm and his waist and pulled him onto his back, dragging him backwards as a fist of vines rammed into his side, knocking him off the ledge and into the pool of poison.
He struck the still waters and plunged deep into their shadow.
As the coating of the beast’s blood washed from his body, his stinging eyes saw strange arms reaching for him from the bottom of the pool, and a splinter of light glinted among them.
He felt his skin burn as the tendrils grabbed him and pulled him down, but the shining crystal that erupted from the bottom of the pool transfixed him, and he kicked his feet to reach it as he sank.
The crystal weapon seemed to have extruded from rock as if formed by nature into a perfect sword of melted minerals pure and clear, its handle connected by brittle fingers to the living rock. He swung his hand at the hilt and it broke off easily, falling into his grip. With a weak swing, he sliced through the fleshy arms that pulled him and shoved off from the bottom.
Bultin rose from the poisoned waters, his eyes still burning, to see the Sea Mare’s figurehead glaring at him under the pounding cataract. Sobbing, he staggered toward the wounded trunk of the hungry monster with the luminous blade hoisted high over his head, and he fell forward with his last breath of strength.
