THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "Aye, Bosun. He threatened to throw me over the side if I came close to ‘im," complained the seaman, scowling at the glowering faces.

  "Be off, Stink. I'll finish here."

  "Aye, aye, Bosun." Mason wiped his nose on his sleeve and turned to leave.

  "What's that?" The lookout gestured. "There's that glow again. Larboard!"

  "Still here, Mason?" Van Reiver didn't look back.

  "Aye, sir." The voice ingratiated its way to Van Reiver's ears.

  "Run aft. Inform the first mate, we approach a fire. Suggest reducing canvas and beat to quarters."

  "Aye, sir." The man scampered with an audible gulp; bare callused feet became diminishing thuds, muffled by the thickening mist.

  "That's the fastest he's run for a while," sniped the serjeant wafting the air. The snickering from the weapon crew showed they remembered Wittmann's jibe.

  "It may be an idea, Serjeant, to look for something to shoot at." Van Reiver snapped.

  The marine serjeant spaced each word out as he replied, "Aye. Aye. Sir."

  Still, the weapon traversed in well-oiled arcs. Ignoring the insubordination, Van Reiver strained to make out something through the spyglass. Shouts and rattling disturbed the silence as they reefed the sails, and shrouds relaxed. Somewhere below, near the foremast, he heard the sailing master hiss, "Quiet there! Silence on deck!"

  "The first mate is taking no chances, sir." Wittmann glanced sideways.

  "No choice. We have no idea what we are sailing into with a heavy-laden ship in poor visibility."

  "Shall I check the lead if we're up here, with our dicks in the wind being paranoid?"

  "It's deep, but that clamour will have woken anyone, so go for it."

  "I'll do it. The lads and yourself have younger eyes." Wittmann slid down to the main deck and busied himself at the rail with his weighted line. Moments later, there was a splash, followed by the rasp of the descending line in his callused hands as it descended. Hardened hands from years at sea meant he didn't require gauntlets from the acidic seawater. "Ten fathoms, shale," the bosun's reply was terse.

  "Ten! you said ten?" Van Reiver spun to peer down the steps at the man, alarm sending a chill down his spine. He saw Wittmann frown at the dripping container in his hand and fingered the grit, before dropping it overboard. The bosun repeated the sounding and shrugged. "Still ten, sir. Just a smidgen over." The weather-beaten hands played with the familiar markers on the line, confirming his earlier sounding to the seabed as he peered over the side. He shrugged and hurried back up the steps.

  "It should be more, a hell of a lot more." Van Reiver stepped aside, allowing the bosun space, and glared into the night, heart hammering, breath suddenly tight. He snatched his hat off to run his hand through his hair as though wishing to tear it out. Fuck! What the hell was happening beyond the fog?

  The diligent lookout turned as Van Reiver replaced his headgear, "Definitely a fire, I can see—"

  "He's right. Three hundred yards, I—" Wittmann never finished his interruption. A projectile twice the width and half again as long as a crossbow quarrel slammed into the bosun's brow in a sickening thud and erupted from the back, spraying blood.

  A second clipped the edge of the fo'c's'le crenellation and hissed through Van Reiver's hat before he could react. It clanged off the ballista shield and clattered unseen to the deck. Both forrard lookouts dropped, the two at the rear of the platform slid down the protective boarding as common sense spread faster than wildfire in arid brushland.

  "Fucking hell!" A voice gasped. Probably the serjeant, Van Reiver thought, as the ballista traversed in a scurrying clatter of gears.

  "Where did that come from?" Van Reiver tried not to sound shrill as his knees crunched into the deck, lungs heaving so fast he struggled to breathe, and for a moment he felt light-headed with his vision closing in. His heart tried to hammer through his ribcage with an almighty sudden surge of adrenaline and terror as Wittmann thudded backwards like a felled tree. Brains and blood splattered from the gaping hole, outlined by lantern light flickering on the pale projections of bone, once hidden under charcoal hair.

  "By the fire," gasped one man, chest heaving harder than a smith's bellows.

  "It happened pretty fuckin' fast," the other added, as if they all hadn't noticed. Wittmann gave a gurgling sigh, his gaze affixed to the rigging. Islands formed from chunks of brain as blood pooled and dripped down the steps.

  "I can't see anything, sir. Shall I fire and try to get lucky?" queried the wild-eyed serjeant.

  "No. Sound the damn alarm, turn out the lanterns and wait for a target. If their shooting is that good, you'll lose half your crew reloading."

  "Very good, sir." Moments later, after the thumps of a crawling body scraping across the deck on hands and knees, the forward alarm bell tolled its ominous warning.

  "Gaets," Van Reiver said, turning to the lookout and raising his voice over the racket. "When I raise my hat, take a peek and see if you can get a bearing."

  "Yes, sir." The words oozed reluctance like juice from an under-ripe orange.

  Van Reiver shuffled to the base of the ballista, placed his holed hat onto a belaying pin, and clasped Sithric's spyglass in a palm running with sweat. He shuffled on his knees and turned to the lookout, trying to cower his way through the deck.

  "Leesin!" he hissed. "Leesin!" The shout got the man to look and cease scrabbling at the wood with his fingernails. "Get aft. Report we're under attack, with fatalities." The terrified man nodded, his frantic head bobbing until it seemed about to roll off his shoulders. "Wait until you hear two arrows and run. Keep low."

  "Aye, sir." Leesin swallowed nervously, shuffling around Van Reiver, staying within the shadows. Van Reiver wasn't sure what scared the man more, being shot at or speaking to the senior officers.

  "Ready? Gaets? Serjeant?" Van Reiver asked.

  "Aye, sir." Two hushed replies. Van Reiver knew there was no time for delay, "Go!" He lifted his hat and as expected, something ripped it away. The hat spun and pinned itself to the top of the main deck capstan. Van Reiver noticed two smaller crossbow bolts in it as he ducked down. His shirt became soaked with sweat as he gasped.

  "Two points off the larboard bow," hissed Gaets, as Leesin scrambled down steps. Halfway down, the sailor shrilled as another projectile slammed between his thin shoulder blades and sent him tumbling to the main deck. Leesin flopped, then rolled limp onto his side. Several cries and shouts from the fog-shrouded main deck told Van Reiver they saw the incident over the tolling of the bell. A fucking expensive warning.

  "Shit. Three archers, one has a heavy crossbow or something!" Van Reiver grimaced, eyes darting, thinking. Dumb or dangerous? Some damn choice.

  Scrabbling to the sea chest, Van Reiver tumbled it over, scattering cutlasses and boarding axes into a glittering heap. With help from Gaets, they slid the chest over to the larboard side, clattering weapons where Leesin had stood.

  "Reckon you can lift this, Gaets?"

  "I think so, sir. Depends how high you want it?" he sounded unenthusiastic. Hard to blame the man.

  "Two inches, give or take." Van Reiver proposed. Cowering would get many other crewmen killed, if not all aboard. Dangerous it was then, a choice made for him.

  "Fuck! You're not plannin' on stickin' your head in it?" Gaets sounded appalled as he trailed off. His eyes widened, reflecting fear in the dim light of fog shrouded fires. The sight of Wittmann falling dead was reason enough to petrify the men, and Van Reiver wished he could forget that moment.

  "There's no choice if they can hit us up here. We need a proper target to shoot at, or we'll lose our deck crew and top men."

  Nodding at the pragmatism, Gaets slid partway under the chest and shoved a pair of swords away before clasping the corner, ready to raise it. A cry from overhead, followed by a clatter, a thud, then a gut-wrenching thump to rattle the rigging, suggested one of the top men on the foremast had presented an easy target to their unseen opponents.

&n
bsp; Van Reiver twisted for the knife from his boot, allowing Sithric's spyglass to roll unheeded. Juggling his hands on the chest to get a better grip, Van Reiver slid the knife along the chest until he projected the blade above the rear panel. He twisted around, "Can you make this knife out, Serjeant?"

  "Pretty much, do you want us to fire down that bearin', sir?"

  "Please, do you have naphtha for a second shot?"

  "We have two more. You mark them, and we'll feed 'em it."

  "Good." Van Reiver wondered whether he sounded pompous or scared shitless. "Ready?" He whispered to Gaets, cramming all useless distractions to the back of his mind. The distractions cheered back, screaming louder than an execution crowd, then vanished far too fast into the void. Gaets nodded, rivulets of sweat streaming down his narrow face to soak his shirt. Unlike the temperamental Leesin, determination reigned on the lookout, despite the man's misgivings.

  "Go!" Van Reiver snapped, and both grunted as they lifted the chest over their heads. Van Reiver peered through the gap and to his amazement saw three figures outlined by the flames. Left arm wobbling, he inched his right behind him, ignoring the howl of strained tendons, and angled the blade to the marine. Thud! Thud! Two bolts impacted. One splintered the oaken side panel, and a second heavier one rammed through the gap between the rear chest panel and lid. The fragmented tip tore a slice out of Van Reiver's right ear. He swore, feeling the hot wetness of blood, and the chest toppled.

  Crack! The ballista launched the heavy projectile straight into the rightmost crossbowman. The blow spun him into the third figure wearing an elaborate dappled feathered headdress. The rapidly travelling bolt splattered through the latter's feathered kilt. With a wail and clatter of a wooden staff, the two pinioned men slid over the side of a scarred copper-sheathed lower hull of a sizable overturned ship. One cried out—hard to tell which—a shrill, carrying scream.

  Gaets poked his head up, then ducked back. He a raised thumb at the marines. "That's two fuckers for Ararakta's judgement." With a clatter, the crew dropped a fresh bolt into the slide and ratcheted back the arm. Equally fast, the serjeant and loader prepared the naphtha jug on the end of the missile. Within seconds, the augmented projective sniffed fresh victims. The remaining archer clawed a modicum of revenge, as one exposed loader sagged, another deadly bolt projecting a foot from his chest. The wound created dark expanding stains over his cotton tunic. More thuds and crunches smacked the planking, emphasising new threats. Cursing, the serjeant scurried crab-like around the mounting and rammed his eye against the sighting bar.

  "Loaded 'n' ready!" the second loader barked, igniting the flask with a shaking hand.

  "Eat this!" The serjeant yanked the handle and with a second flat crack, the weapon smashed its projectile in a fiery arc, as the foremast rigging clattered in strident protest.

  This time his aim was short, perhaps caused by the jug, maybe by urgency and fear. Instead of striking flesh, the bolt slammed into the copper hull, skidding several feet in front of the deadly archer. Van Reiver and Gaets lifted the chest again to watch the impact. Van Reiver saw the man recoil shrieking as the flask ignited and ran up his legs. In a heartbeat he became a human torch.

  In the light of the flames, Van Reiver saw the man hurl what looked like a crossbow stock into the sea. Virtually naked, the shrieking man seemed clad only in a stained loincloth and a green bandanna. For a moment in the fire's light, a long turquoise feather provided an iridescent splash of colour before fading to black. With a tortured wail, he convulsed, then toppled into the sea, sizzling under the ochre surface.

  .*.*.

  Van Reiver splattered bloody droplets when he nodded his gratitude to Gaets. He slumped, leaning against the merlon, edge sharp, making his clothes stick against the small of his back and soak up the clamminess. Or some of it. He ignored his injuries, assuming anyone else had fled. Bone-tired, he forced his eyes open as he panted like a dog. Gaets handed him his neck-cloth to stem the blood running down his neck. Wincing, Van Reiver touched a sticky tear in his earlobe, thankful the bolt had not been two inches to the side.

  "Bloody good shooting, Serjeant!" he congratulated, resting his head on the planking for a moment, feeling his strength drain away, before glancing at the ballista and scurrying crewmen. "He alive?"

  The deputy loader rocked back on his heels. "Barely, sir. The bolt's pinned him. We're gonna have to saw it to release him. More of a short spear than an arrow. I've never seen the like." The man looked up, searching Van Reiver's face for something more. Damned if Van Reiver knew what.

  "Me neither. Pad it and send for an orderly," Van Reiver ordered, having little to offer in reply. Noticing the man readying himself to object, he added a bite of firmness. "We need your weapon loaded. Three or four men do not attack an eight hundred and fifty-tonne warship for jollies."

  The marine bit his lip, reluctantly following the order. He slapped a hand onto one of the weapon's arms and made to rise, only to be thrown against it with a muffled exclamation. Van Reiver kept a semblance of balance for a second, squatting on the balls of his feet, then slid against the crenel into a heap. They felt the bows rise as Tryphon's speed faded to nothing, the stem making a low grinding noise before lurching to a halt.

  Scrabbling up, as glassy fragments tinkled to the deck, Van Reiver seized a desperate chance and leant over the bow to look into the mist. Tryphon's curved forefoot rested on a pair of hawsers as thick as his calf, reinforced with pieces of mast, spars and rigging, all tangled into a tortuous mass. The massive curved stem-post sheathed in copper sunjammer plating projected several feet over the barrier. Dimly visible, he could see two face-down bodies bobbing like seaweed under the keel.

  "Serjeant, take over here, but keep everyone's head down. Shoot anything you deem a threat. Gaets, spot for him. I need to see the captain."

  Van Reiver could not bring himself to send another man to do his bidding. To die. There was little he could do here beyond being an obvious target. The non-commissioned officer with his considerable experience could cope without him diminishing Tryphon's crew roster further. The serjeant—whose name he didn't know—nodded and ordered the weapon reloaded. His eyes flicked sympathy to the pinned marine, yet he held his tongue.

  Holding the cloth to his wet ear, Van Reiver almost slipped on the bloody pool from Leesin at the base of the steps. He strode aft, retracing his steps along the gangway, his imagination leaving diminishing half circles of blood prints from his heel. With every pace, his shoulder-blades itched as though lice-ridden at the thought of thousands of bows aimed at his back. Each one tracking his every motion, as he avoided the arms of the ornate capstan and ducked the ratlines to the foremast.

  He'd progressed as far as the steerboard catapult when the blow came. It was like some vast fiery god flexed its hand and swatted him into the deck timbers. Crushing him. He thought he would break—nothing human could withstand such might. The pressure of the detonation forced away all breath, ground his flesh hard into the woodgrain with the following blast-wave. Silver sparkles flashed at random from the sides of his eyes as his sight surged down a narrowing tunnel. A strange bell-like chiming filled his skull, deafening as heat blanketed him within its agonising embrace.

  The ringing remained in his ears as Van Reiver rolled onto his back, coughing air into flattened lungs that stabbed with each inhalation. With an inhuman effort of bloody-mindedness, he forced himself to his hands and knees, only to find the blurred horizon swung drunkenly around in his vision. He sagged against the side rails, then slumped to the deck, cracking his chin on the scupper edge, dribbling blood and mucus onto the deck as unconsciousness grappled with misery.

  Voices swirled, drifting away or bellowing in a booming as though too close and failing to see him.

  "Get him to the crocus! Don't bang his costard, there's blood everywhere on him!"

  "Not his arm, hold his head steady, look at the mess on 'im!"

  Someone rolled him over, and Van Reiver almost vomited fr
om the motion, which sent his head spinning. Men were shadows, dull blurs whose silence suggested uncertainty on how to help. He wanted to speak, but his mouth wasn't his own—it took effort—far too much effort to spit a mouthful of blood over himself. Croaking through bodied coated teeth, each word seemed a death rasp.

  "Not the doctor, quarterdeck!" He saw a change in expression by the white of teeth and guessed indecision. With cumbersome desperation, Van Reiver spaced each word as though the man was slow-witted. "There is more than a fire. Get me, to the, fucking, captain!"

  The master-at-arms shrugged his capitulation. Grunting with effort, Van Reiver felt arms hoisting him up. Van Reiver sagged between them with a dreadful urge to vomit again and no strength to stand on his own. Hot blood pattering from somewhere under his face to the deck as his vision darkened. He regretted his outburst; they were dead if the inferno worsened. Nearby another voice swirled, battered between the roar of sizzling timber and the acrid clouds it gave off.

  "Well, you heard the navigator. Get him aft, an' don't jostle 'im."

  7

  Gabriel Dagmar, Tryphon's deputy sunjammer, made his excuses shortly after Van Reiver departed the wardroom. It was unusual for his friend to be this taciturn during an evening meal. The pair had spent years winding each other up with caustic remarks and the occasional prank which, much to their chagrin, only amused Sithric and pissed off Hadly. The first mate laughed, rather than lecture, or chide them, and Dagmar didn't get a shit what the quartermaster thought. Dagmar agreed with Van Reiver that this approach was more humiliating.

  Tonight was one of the handful of occasions that felt somehow different. Van Reiver wasn't an attention seeking man. It piqued Dagmar why his friend remained subdued. After all, Dagmar was the one with the sleepless night. There was no small talk, no remark on their guests, or the breaks in shipboard routine. Nothing. Van Reiver was a quiet man, but not to monosyllabic silence. With muddled, sleep-deprived logic, Dagmar considered his hope of Van Reiver leaving behind his gloomy moods to be overly optimistic.