THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  Tryphon settled deeper, the sunjammer plating slapping into the ocean. Tryphon's entire length creaked with straining timbers against the barrier under the bows, as crimson gem-glass scythed out in all directions. He grabbed the rail, and by force of will wrenched himself to his feet, howling with the pain. Stirring noises told Van Reiver that his escorts, Harcux and Trevir were conscious, or at least alive.

  Somehow unscathed from the blast, marine Serjeant Merizus looked on in horror with the heavily armed marines he'd led on deck, only to stare upon a fiery hell. The serjeant's helm and armour seemed to mock him with the glow of despair, as their wooden world burned.

  "They are overhead!" Van Reiver croaked, his throat raw as he hung shaking to the rail, locking whitened knuckles to keep upright.

  "You said what?" Merizus seethed, his dark face unbelieving, "Sorry, sir!"

  "They're overhead." Van Reiver repeated. Wincing, he snatched an ankhbow off a stocky marine with a squint and pointed it skyward without falling on his face. Ignoring the bewilderment, Van Reiver attempted to track the form, catching the occasional glimpse as it twisted in the mist.

  Squinting, he focused all his attention on what seemed to be a kite with a man under it and snatched the release of the Spires variation of the common crossbow at the exact moment Tryphon's bows rolled to larboard. The bolt missed, menacing only smoke-filled air. Still, it was enough for the marines to see what Van Reiver targeted. Ankhbows raised high at the strange form, iron sights tracking the jinking target.

  "Fire at will!" Merizus hollered, and in a moment of unreal amusement for Van Reiver, appropriated an ankhbow for himself. The serjeant bypassed the hand crank, stuffing his foot in the archaic hoop which gave the ankhbow its name and pulling the string back with a casual flex of his biceps. Another marine passed him a bolt, as a ragged volley tore free, followed by Merizus's bolt.

  The serjeant's shot was the only one close to perforating the shape which wiped the humour from Van Reiver. While Van Reiver's befuddled mind daydreamed, Trevir snatched the bow from Van Reiver's unprotesting hands and spun the hand crank and snatched a bolt free of a marine's quiver. Glowering up at the weaving shape overhead, Van Reiver saw the wiry marine absently dip the bolt into a bucket of naphtha. In an eye-blink, he rammed a foot into the stirrup and snapped the arm back over the lock.

  Van Reiver snatched the rail to avoid another tumble and would have fallen, but for a hand grabbing the back of his coat. "Get the boat we picked up over the side and let it drift astern on a decent length of line." He said, knowing from the strength it was Harcux.

  Harcux nodded and frowned a valley of worry across his flat forehead. "Shall I get all the boats?"

  "Yes. If whoever commands gives the order, we will need anything floating. Get help as you need it and use my authority if you need to." Van Reiver wondered what the small marine was doing, given that he hadn't fired, as his compatriots loosed off a second ragged volley.

  The overhead form weaved and twisted with unreal bat-like agility, but gave a outraged shout at the barrage. Trevir lit his bolt from a burning plank and tracked the target for a second before loosing his quarrel. A poof of orange transfixed the distant figure. Fire flared in the rush of air, revealing a disintegrating birdlike frame. A wail echoed as it splashed abeam.

  Trevir grinned as he snatched a handful of bolts and followed Harcux, keeping the ankhbow.

  "Get in there, smartarse!" Merizus said, beaming at Trevir's back.

  A manned kite for a warship—what a fucking victory. Van Reiver felt his stomach lurch and flop about like a landed fish. He gulped acid down. "Do you know what to look for?"

  "Aye, sir. We'll barricade the aftcastle around this hole and get some lads aloft to cover the crew. Are the fires the priority?"

  Van Reiver nodded and wished he hadn’t. His head hurt like a motherfucker. Merizus wasn't a ditherer, and his marines scurried to new duties. Feeling impotent, Van Reiver looked at the missing catapult platform—or the space where it existed—and dragged himself aft, staggering through debris towards the quarterdeck. The navigator tried to ignore the burning dome. Please let Dagmar be alive and not roasted like a pig on a spit. It was an unbearable thought. Yet from somewhere deep within he found the strength to drive himself aft.

  .*.*.

  Grimm struggled to make out the figure staggering up the stairs to the quarterdeck. He was gob-smacked to see the battered ruin of a man clutching the rail with shaking white knuckles was their second mate. Dried blood liberally covered his face and streamed down his neck and goatee and absorbed into a crimson mass formerly existing as his collar. What wasn't bloody looked charred and torn. Van Reiver's navy blue seagoing jacket was scorched into a rag any beggar would reject on general principle. His grey trousers were black, with gory highlights smeared along their length. His black hat was missing and his long brown wavy hair a filthy tangled mess pinned in a bloody crust to his skull under a torn ear.

  "Glad to see you, sir." Grimm attempted a grin, but couldn't force one from his pummelled face. Instead, he helped the officer up the last few treads—before he toppled back down them—and waved to where Bullsen was pushing away the doctor's arm and struggling upright. With a forlorn sigh and obvious reluctance, Grimm saw the doctor hooking an arm under the captain's armpit. With the yeoman's help and copious grunting, they heaved the captain onto his feet. Bullsen looked about in irritation, but could only stare at Grimm and then at Van Reiver. Bullsen blinked as though disbelieving.

  "Report."

  "The bumping was wreckage. We have run between two overturned hulls in the fog. One had heavy crossbowmen and a battle magus on it. They killed the bosun, our forrard deck party, and the forrard marine ballista crew, sir." Grimm stiffened. He felt the blood drain from his face as something precious inside died. He almost dropped the second mate and had to grip the shaking man close before they both fell. Grimm turned back, hearing Bullsen wince, his expression locking down.

  "We killed them with a brace of ballista shots. I was heading here to report the boom when something blew up the fo'c's'le; and just now, the steerboard catapults. We're alight fore and aft and wedged on the boom." Van Reiver's rasping voice cracked.

  "Something, Mister?" Bullsen became incrementally more abrupt.

  "I saw a silhouette. The figure overhead looked a lot like a children's kite, covered in feathers. Merizus's section shot it into the sea. From the scream as it splashed, it sounded dead. They must use magic on their arrows as their shooting is extraordinary." He looked about to say something else, but grimaced instead.

  "Fuck," Grimm said. Not much of a contribution, but between pain, grief and blood, it summed things up for the deck crew. And himself.

  "That sounds... well organised," Bullsen grudgingly admitted, needing time to gather his thoughts. His snow-grey eyes dripped agony at his damaged ship and crew, more so than himself. He caught Grimm's stare and did the same with each man. "We need the mast cleared, and fires quelled before we can back her off the old-fashioned way." Bullsen stared at the burning sunjammer dome and sighed at the impossibility of the task. Grimm wanted to agree, but there had to be something they could do, something to get them out of the mess..

  "Men are tackling the fires. We need to repel boarders to give them time," Sithric interjected as though reading Grimm's mind and stepped from the rear passageway with a blood mask half-coating his face. He smiled through everyone's stares. "So far, it has been minor attacks, which have done massive damage and crippled our artillery. Something is coming if they are trapping us on purpose."

  "Fu—" Grimm repeated, but Van Reiver put a hand on his arm. As though a lever was flicked, the cox'n's mouth shut off.

  "The boom at the bows, I'm sure. I saw ropes and bits of masts and spars under our bow before they shot at us. Bodies, too. We aren't the first trapped here." The second mate said.

  "Things get better and better." Bullsen wiped his eyes, "What are the chances on the fires, First Mate?"

&nb
sp; "The sunjammer canopy, yes. Petty Officer Dorad's on it. The forecastle, I don't know. It will be difficult when the men are under fire." Sithric looked worried, more than confident. That concerned Grimm and from Van Reiver going rigid in his grip, him as well.

  "We will go up if we don't. That is assuming we don't spring our planking and go down first," Bullsen commented. He looked Sithric, then Grimm in the eye, "You know what we have in the aft hold."

  "I know, sir. I know," said Sithric. He appeared to find their options as disagreeable as Bullsen's fretting. "That's why I had Dorad tackle the canopy to see if it is salvageable. The catapults, Edouard mentioned, have gone overboard, so that isn't a concern, bar being an opening for boarding. It's the fires spreading to the rigging, and into the hull that worries me, sir."

  "Do what you can. See to the fo'c's'le fire in person, First Mate. Our crew do not rattle, and I fear they are close to breaking." No shit, Grimm thought. Dorad had experience and was reliable.

  Sithric nodded, patted Van Reiver on the shoulder, nodded to Grimm and hurried forward towards the inferno. His thin form walked tall and unhurried, despite the physical disaster he appeared. Grimm's thought was broken when Van Reiver wrenched free of his grip, staggered to quarterdeck side and snatched at the splintered rail. Grimm sighed and spat blood onto the deck. What a fucking day.

  Bullsen turned to Van Reiver. "Edouard, you are a mess," he declared and glanced sideways to the doctor.

  "I'll see to him below, sir." Robsin grasped the hint and took Van Reiver's arm.

  "Do so, sir." Bullsen looked over Van Reiver, then Grimm. "Get below. Don't argue, have a drink for me. I'll need your capabilities back here. This is the start of a long night for us."

  "Just the one, sir?" Van Reiver quipped as he swayed. Rattled? Ha! Grimm considered. The crew weren't the only ones if the first mate was shitting bricks and the second making inane jests.

  To his credit, Bullsen cracked a smile, but his heart wasn't in it; his eyes showed his anguish as his beloved Tryphon died. "Just the one, Edouard. At times like this, a barrel doesn't contain enough. Have a further chat with our passengers to see if they remember who attacked them. It may help us, as our gods appear to have forsaken us.

  Van Reiver nodded. Grimm guessed he wasn't religious, otherwise it would have been an ideal time to suggest everyone pray for miracles. The mate allowed Robsin to help him below, while Grimm wondered what disaster would occur next.

  "I need you for something, Cox'n."

  Bullsen surprised him. He seemed calm, eerily calm, with his hint at the passengers showing where the captain’s thoughts had turned. If his brain worked, Grimm would have thought to ask two questions. Why? And was Garshum right to suggest leaving the buggers adrift?

  9

  Carla looked on in white-faced shock, her every muscle and tendon tense and sung as though about to snap in the wardroom chair. Her hands clenched white on its smooth varnished arms, and her feet had voluntarily positioned themselves as though ready to bolt. Doctor Robsin, grunting and red-faced with strain, half-dragged, half-carried Van Reiver inside, banging the door wide with a gust of acrid smoke cloaking the passage and half smothering the oil lantern.

  Before the door clicked shut on the latch, the dark-haired boy she'd seen hanging around back-heeled it against the stop with a strident clack of brass on brass. A chef at the heavier end of a comatose set of sunjammer robes blocked the rest of the corridor light with the boy proceeding him with booted feet. An opportunistic wave of foul fumes snuck around the limp robed body and coiled over dragging arms to catch at the back of her throat. She coughed twice before the chef hoofed the door shut.

  "Bring the light over, dear," Robsin requested, his gruff charm at odds with their urgency and the hellish smell of a burning warship. He jerked his head towards the sideboard, dripping beads of sweat from his chin, "There's more. There, in the right cupboard, if you will. Rufus put Dagmar in his chair."

  Carla nodded, gulping a breath and thrilled with something to do. She lifted the nearest candelabra and carried it to the sideboard. Straining over a decanter of swaying auburn liquid, she retrieved a second one and, with a quick rummage in the cupboard the doctor had gestured at, loaded it with beeswax candles, lighting the wicks from one of the half-used ones. Boots and shouts rang out from above and from surrounding passageways, making her jump and her heart race. Carla looked to Robsin for comfort, feeling as though she was drowning, every nerve strained to breaking, her every fibre tortured beyond what anyone should bear. His attention diverted, he ignored her, adding to her demoralisation. She followed his stare to see Rufus heave the sunjammer unceremoniously into a chair, then begin clearing the table in jerky gestures.

  Groans echoed ghostlike as though foretelling the future, haunting the aft castle from the passage. She gulped and glanced at the door, her imagination running rampant. She wished it was a portcullis surrounded by cold stone. At any moment, her mind expected her breath to frost the surrounding air, a living nightmare dragging her from a waking hell. Her breath tightened, each rise and fall of her chest a battle in the war of life as fear clenched her in a vice-like grip, it's slow crushing grasp, inexorable, all-consuming.

  "Rufus, when you're done, ask the stewards to sort the screens. We need more space; there will be many more. Send Morrel and Frend to assist the apothecary with the lightly injured. Only send me the ones who have a chance. Have Hadly supervise, understand?" Robsin, his voice soft like a horsehair brush, snapped her back to normality.

  Rufus stood, scratched his head, looking distracted, then nauseous. He glanced at the furnishings with the two blood-smeared and crispy officers, then at her. He nodded, his face becoming grimmer as though about to complain about the invasion of his empire more than the responsibility of life and death. Without a word, he shuffled out.

  "What happened? It's something dreadful, isn't it?" Carla asked the pressing question boiling in her mind. Her face paled when Robsin cleaned the matted blood off Van Reiver's savaged earlobe and probed the lacerations across his face and beard.

  "Jimi, spread the sand, quickly now boy, and have Rufus ready the pitch when he returns. Also, send someone to the bloody apothecary, I need supplies. Damn his eyes, they should be here! Where is the man? This is no time for slacking. We have men dying!" he hissed, his eyes wild with worry for a moment. Shocked, the boy scurried out. Carla shivered as more smoke coiled inside.

  Van Reiver coughed through the soot. "Archers attacked us from the fog. Two magic users set Tryphon ablaze and destroyed half our deck artillery. For good measure, they killed dozens of our crew and I expect will board us." The navigator turned to Carla, fixing her with an unsteady green gaze through Robsin's hands. "Is there anything you can add to your tale that will help us?" To her, Van Reiver seemed to struggle to keep bitterness out of his voice and remain dispassionate. His self-control strained as his words trembled, she guessed in anger and with Robsin fussing at his head. The doctor's hands were workmanlike, but like hers, shook with faint tremors.

  Carla frowned, her eyes narrowing as her mouth set into a thin line. Tale—ha, that was more than a little offensive—but he placed no particular emphasis upon the word. She took a deep breath to check herself and replied more evenly than she felt. "I don't know the boarders or the people I saw. They were near silent. There were voices, but nothing carried I could understand." Her tight voice faded as worry chewed away her anger. She could only say so much, for all their sakes. Had they tracked the shard? It was easy to guess what father had hidden as Van Reiver nodded for her to continue. To dissemble. Damn, her throat hurt.

  "The nearest skiff was around thirty feet long, carrying maybe a score of men. I did not see the glint of armour in the low light, nor recognisable helms, tabards, or banners. I could be wrong, as it was dark, and they were rowing fast."

  "The ones who first attacked us wore loincloths with a headscarf or a feathered helmet. Could they be the same?"

  "I don't know, we were tryin
g to hide," she snapped, the words lancing across the room like a blade. Carla forced calmness using every ounce of iron-rigid control. It seemed to work for a few seconds before her hands shook again. She forced them together, hoping unity would give her strength.

  "Would your father know?"

  "He might, as he knows dozens of ambassadors and nobles around West and Central Spires. He said nothing in the boat, perhaps for my sake." She hesitated, thinking on what had happened, her hands clasping and unclasping. "He was most anxious."

  "He's still not awake?" This time Van Reiver's frustration reverberated. Her own frustration wanted to match it. How could a massive warship be so unprepared? How could they be so fucking arrogant?

  "No, I'm sorry if you believe we have brought this to you," Carla agonised, unable to meet his eyes. Her father's case was under her chair. Returned by a fearful looking sunjammer whose shaven head poured with sweat. Had he brought this down on them? Would it help to suggest this? No, she was as guilty as the bleeding man.

  Carla tried to prevent her hands from fidgeting with each dread noise. The navigator was polite, but his bitterness was understandable. He had brought her aboard Tryphon, and death had followed. Yet, inside, she bristled at the accusation of lying and wanted to scream. How was this her doing? She wanted to shout what she thought at the bastard. At him, at her father and the bloody prince.

  Van Reiver winced, not at her, but at Robsin jerking his head with each stitch, allowing Carla a chance to glare. Robsin handed him a small potion. "Drink that, it'll help it heal up. Edouard, this isn't as bad as it looked, other than you bleeding like a leaky bucket. I always knew you had a thick skull. I thought you'd cracked it good and proper from your staggering. The cut will heal nicely, with my stitches and that recuperation tonic. Whatever got you was like a razor, it's a clean cut. You can tell the ladies you cut yourself shaving."