THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "I understand." Dagmar rolled his neck, making a painful sounding crack. Through the thinning mist, Grimm caught a faint glow of one moon, which highlighted the bruises swelling on the magus' face. "The doctor wants to look at Edouard and Hatch in daylight. Should we move the boats alongside and tie them together?"

  "It's prolly best, sir. Your cable between is tight. We can sort out rations 'n' see what we have, or we'll start losin' folk who may have a chance. Other 'n' that I dunno what else to do?"

  "Who can navigate?" Dagmar asked.

  Grimm blinked. Shit, he hadn't thought of what course to take, other than getting away. His worried eyes scurried over Dagmar's and he pointed at Van Reiver's shadow in the stern. "Him, can't you, sir? You got us moving with your magic?"

  "I've never had the knack. When we—magus, I mean—use the sunjammer crystal, you're looking on the sea as a clear map—I mean, with the ship a model upon it. Sea leaches bond with the crystal and focus the ship's magic as we collect energy through the sunjammer canopy from the sun and store it in the ruby. We use the magic to lift and propel the vessel over—rather than through—the ocean. We use our plating to direct the hull energies and as a point of focus upon. The ones in these boats are crude, basic movement only, with the thin plating as protection. The ocean water is mildly acidic and chews the seams without the copper plating and my energy bubble. Correct?"

  "I guess, it always sounded complicated for the sake of not having the hull rot. Inspectin' the seams below the waterline is a full-time job for a few small lads. It is not as easy, with the smell, the heat and the wires from your pet ruby runnin' through the framin'. Good caulkin' an' repair is everythin', 'specially up forrard and the main deck where we get spray." Grimm studied the mounting and decoration with what he'd seen of ships in refit and now had an inkling of what the man did. It seemed a cushy job compared to that of the lower deck, but why all the details? "So, what are you saying?"

  "I can keep us afloat with steerage, but not much else, being laden with survivors. It makes a difference with the charge use and duration of availability to me. If we fill up the inside, there is only so much I can do and that is reliant on the suns." Dagmar lamented. Well, shit, Grimm thought. Fog would hide them, but keep them close to the disaster. It gets better and better.

  "We'll keep bailing, sir. I can't complain—you saved us all from the bastard that flamed Merizus's tin-heads. That was fuckin' nice. I never knew sea leaches could do that. It almost had me saying a godsdamn prayer."

  "I thought I had left that kind of magic behind years ago. I wanted a guild for something beneficial. Something non-destructive. It feels wrong—an arcane abomination—a curse!" Grimm could see the other man shiver, and it reminded him of how wet he was himself.

  "Well, you saw us right back there, sir. I'm sorry if it's uncomfortable." Grimm's tone contradicted his words. He didn't care. The arrogant spell-chucker needed to come down from his entitled high table and wallow on the common room floor to understand a seaman's lot. He turned his attention to the wrappings around his foot, and the streak of blood that appeared in the last hour. "Considerin' what they did to the pride of our western fleet, it's a handy ability to 'av'."

  Dagmar let a long breath rasp through his nose. "I'm talented already, Cox'n. I made a conscious choice not to pursue it. I was good at studying it. Too good and it's not good for you as a person." Dagmar tapped the side of his head with one bloodstained, filthy finger.

  "Oh, that's bad with magic?" Grimm frowned, confused. He glanced to each side and Merizus who was half awake twitched a shoulder. A spell, like a sword, is a fucking tool. A man commits dastardly deeds with it, or lives a hero because of it. What the fuck is his hang-up?

  Dagmar didn't reply. He brooded, not meeting anyone's eyes. Grimm didn't know him beyond sight and an occasional 'hello, sir' and left him alone. Life would be more difficult later. Harcux nudged Grimm on his other side and passed a beaker of water and a slice of bread smeared with jam. "That's all I found without smacking in a crate." He said in a hushed tone. Grimm nodded and passed them to Dagmar.

  "Being dead is worse. Eat up, sir. It'll help your head. Go on, get it in you." Dagmar looked surprised, but at the gesture from Grimm took the food. He looked to struggle with each bite, each morsel a challenge to a dry throat as though teasing him to cough.

  "False dawn wasn't long back. The doctor thought we should have a bite. Many of the lads missed their grub with the attack, and I saved yours." Harcux commented.

  "Thanks," Dagmar mumbled with his mouth full. He'd looked too sick to eat. Grimm knew why. Never would anyone imagine being left to contemplate one of the worst maritime defeats in the principalities' history. There'd been dozens over the centuries after the original Aquitani tribe had escaped Atlantis and discovered landfall on their own. Yet, what in the seven hells could they do, other than act on the next calamity appearing on the horizon? Assuming they found the horizon.

  "It was hard work. It took half our boat to stop Harcux pigging it. Ol' mono-brow has a hearty appetite," Grimm observed, speaking to distract his thoughts as much as to the magus. He jabbed a stubby finger at the old man they'd rescued with Carla. "We even gained one. He woke an hour back, then drifted off again. Quite a surprise for the ol' doc'. He's a miracle worker."

  "Heh, lucky sod," grumbled a man near Dagmar, scratching at black stubble, "He missed all the fun before bobbin' in a boat again."

  "Aye." Grimm looked to Harcux and knew the man must be as tired as he felt, if not more so. "After the nibbles, get some lads to haul in the other boat. We'll tie 'em bow 'n' bow. I want someone bailing in each boat, a lookout posted, and a marine on the ballista. Have that ankhbow handy, too."

  "We can't rely on the ankhbow, man." Trevir complained from the bows. "With it being sodden, I could throw a bolt further than the flea-fucker can shoot." The marine held up his dented helm to catch the lantern light and mimed smacking someone with it.

  Grimm shook his head. "Keep it handy. It's better than nothin' and might scare some bugger away. I know seeing you lot would. I don't blame the woman for keeping a blade handy."

  "Ha. Thanks, you weren't nearly diced takin' it off her, an' that was with Mez grabbing her," Harcux muttered. The seaman turned to kick Carilon and jerked his head to the lump of the second boat. To Grimm's surprise, the big man and the youngster pulled it in unassisted. Harcux turned and rolled his eyes. Grimm ignored him. From the way the hemp was being dragged in, checking if any fenders survived was a higher priority, with Carilon being involved. By the seven bloody gods, he missed Wittmann and no fucker here could help with that.

  17

  The sharp crack of Tryphon's boats careering together snapped Van Reiver from an uneasy slumber and nearly threw Dagmar from his feet. "What's gurn on?" Dagmar heard his friend mumble while he recovered his balance.

  "Translation, please?" Dagmar took two careful steps to lean over him and force a smile. He felt it fade as Van Reiver grimaced. "Shoulder bad?" Dagmar leant closer, wincing at his pointless question. His eyes flickering over the myriad injuries but saw no obvious sign of fresh bleeding. Don't make it worse, the magus hoped as Van Reiver shifted in discomfort and looked up, green eyes caustic.

  "Couldn't you get the arrow out? Fuck, that hurts!" Van Reiver complained. He tried to move without catching it, but must have tugged the wound on the blanket wrapped behind him. Dagmar adjusted Van Reiver while checking the bandage and pointed at the arrow bulge as he adjusted a damp blanket to leave some slack.

  "Do you want old Robsin poking at your innards and yanking that out of you, in the dark, in fog, you miserable sod?"

  "Fair point, sorry," grunted Van Reiver, grimacing again before slumping to watch Harcux and a seaman lash both boats together, then wrap an additional line around the aft most thwart, then shuffle past Dagmar to do the same at the bows.

  "It made sense to tie up close together." Dagmar said, more for something normal to say, than to pass along information.

/>   Van Reiver grunted.

  "It ain't pretty, Cox, but should do," the big man said with a defensive undertone to the survivors he'd disturbed.

  "No worries," Dagmar heard Grimm reply and looked at their handiwork. The lashing made little sense to him, but it didn't look like it would come apart. He felt useless pretending to supervise and turned to Grimm and saw him studying his bandaged foot. Then he looked to Dagmar, "I can't be arsed inspecting." Dagmar snorted and looked back to Van Reiver to see him observing the seamen.

  "Ol' tripod's happy, who would have thunk it?" Harcux said, nudging Paska. Several men laughed louder than what Dagmar thought necessary, causing Carla to jerk awake. She glared at Van Reiver, then Dagmar. Damn unfair, Dagmar thought, and ignored her by pretending to scrutinise the lashings. He wasn't the one laughing and as long as the knots held together, who'd know he was faking?

  "Watch it, Cox'n. Yer scarin' the ladies, you randy old beard-splitter!" chortled Cephill from the second boat, causing Robsin to stir and glower at the noise. Dagmar fled to his dome. Bollocks to it. They knew what they were doing, and he was in the way. He'd be buggered if he'd help Robsin put people back together. Guilt made him sneak a glance out of the dome, and he saw the old man peer over everyone crammed together.

  "How are you lads doing on this dreary day?" To Dagmar, he sounded far brighter than his haggard features belied. Dagmar shuddered as though sensing eyes on his back. He leaned over the gem to check the charge and felt the weight of responsibility fade.

  .*.*.

  Another jarring woke Van Reiver. He moaned as his shoulder yelped a fresh wave of agony. White hot pain seared from his neck to his lungs, making each breath a distressed gasp to repeat the process and send tears flooding from his eyes.

  "Easy Edouard, easy," Robsin soothed, placing a chill palm on the navigator's forehead. "It is bright enough to have a go at that shoulder."

  "Gets my vote," Van Reiver grated, muscles bar-taut as the pain ebbed, before continuing with an unrelenting vengeance as hands lifted and manhandled him onto the second to aft-most thwart Robsin was using for an operating table. Robsin saw his glance and leaned in, his mouth close to Van Reiver's ear. Words for him alone.

  "In the other boat, several are in terrible shape. We will lose some in the next few days. There is little I can do. Hatch is one, he's a powerful man but with severe bleeding his fate is away with the gods."

  Unable to speak, Van Reiver lifted his head to nod and regretted it. Ouch, motherfucker. He reclined and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slower. There was nothing he, Dagmar, or Robsin could do if he couldn't calm himself. "Take your time, we aren't going anywhere."

  "Bloody cheek, that's damn insulting!" He heard Dagmar contend from near the sunjammer platform. Few people laughed. Van Reiver focused on sounds. He tried to listen to the sea, but it was hard with the noise from people being jostled and guessing what Robsin would soon be doing. Fuck.

  "Harcux, hold him. Carla, assist me, if you please." Damn, Robsin sounded business like, he must have had plenty of practise if seeming that efficient. Van Reiver gulped, feeling Robsin's breath as a warm wind. He must be close? How short-sighted was the old fucker if you can feel him huffing on the arrow shaft? Warmness fading, noises. Had he forgotten what he was doing? No, he's in his medical bag. Fuck, don't cut my arm off. He shivered, feeling a cold sweat break out.

  "Do you remember the implements?"

  "Yes, Doctor." Carla? So she was nursing? From that gulp, she sounds like I feel. Gods, don't think on that, idiot. If she can get her hands bloody, you can keep the puke in. Don't think on the arrow, think on charts, you need to think of a plan. Think of a course. Silence, more noise. Is that more rummaging? Against his better judgement, Van Reiver peered out. He saw no blade. Instead, she handed Robsin a bright yellow shawl. "This might be of use. If I find my other bag, I think I have more that you can have. I'm afraid they are damp."

  "Thank you. This will be an ideal dressing." Robsin said it with a faint smile, but even so Van Reiver saw her shiver. Fuck, her too? He closed his eyes. The chances of them all being rescued were slender, but it was surprising to hear Robsin trying. He'd been moody since his close friend and their priest died. While it was another reason the pisshead drank, who'd have thought the attack on Tryphon would bring out the old Robsin? Make him important once again.

  "We do what we can, when we can, and hope one of our gods has mercy upon us." Someone spat. No-one responded to Robsin that Van Reiver could hear as he felt him set about his task. Be quick, please be quick.

  .*.*.

  Carla watched on. Using surgical shears, Robsin cut around the arrow shaft and gently pried away the crispy material of Van Reiver's jacket. He worked at the linen shirt which had scabbed under the rudimentary bandage wrapped around the shaft during the night. She could see it was heavy with moisture from the spray that flicked over the side, despite the efforts of Dagmar and the tillerman. For several long minutes Robsin probed, then used a wickedly sharp thin-bladed knife to peel back the material and pry away the scabs. After several moments, the doctor brought the narrow wound into the air. Grunting to himself, he laid a veined hand on Van Reiver's tense arm.

  "Try to relax. I know it's easier said than done, but it will hurt less. Hmm, that's the simple part complete."

  Carla saw how corded the muscles were on Van Reiver's neck and reached over. She lifted his chilly hand in hers and massaged it with her thumb. She could guess what was yet to come, and her stomach became leaden. This was worse than after she had threatened the quartermaster. The pulse in his hand was rapid, which explained the clenched eyes. Like him, she had to show a brave face. Show she wasn't weak. Carla felt anything but brave as fear and terror warred within. She gulped, noticing Robsin's nod of approval, and he winked at her before looking to Harcux. "Roll him onto his side. Careful, though."

  "Aye, I don't like the screaming either," Harcux cracked a tired smile. Carla gave them space and shuffled around. With adroitness and luck, they rolled Van Reiver without disturbing the others. She looked back to her father and hid her hands unseen under the thwart Van Reiver lay on and allowed herself a minute of silent shakes. Feeling the tremors fade, she clasped Van Reiver's hand again and tried to distract the officer. He shook enough for both of them, and she forced reassurance onto her face in case he looked to her. Inside, she felt as hollow as a market fraud.

  Robsin carved away the soiled coat and looked relieved to find the head of the arrow projecting from a ragged tear in the shirt. "You are lucky, Edouard, the head is all out. I wasn't sure last night, so I won't need to go digging for it. Having said that, I still need to cut the shaft and run it through."

  "Thanks. Now I feel like a target dummy."

  "I wouldn't waste my excellent brandy on a dummy," Robsin pulled a small silver hip flask from the pocket of his coat and took a steadying sip and a well-fortified sigh, dribbled a drop onto the skin around the shaft. Her stomach back flipped at the smell. How could Harcux give a sigh of regret as the doctor returned it to pocket? She was beyond thankful when Robsin blanked him. Less so when he took a firm grip on the shaft and gave a slight twist. Pain bloomed in her fingers as Van Reiver flinched, moaned and clamped tight. Carla held his hand until his grip slackened and gave a squeeze before letting go to prepare Robsin's tools. With each clink, she saw Van Reiver flinch as though struck by another arrow.

  It was almost a relief to watch the doctor run his fingers along the shaft, checking for splinters and trim the twine and feathers at the end. He sat back, nodded approval, and held out his hand with the bloody blade. Carla swapped the knife for a menacing pair of narrow iron callipers and tensed in expectation. Robsin tested the movement he planned to make and nodded to Harcux, before leaning close to whisper in her ear, "Do you think you can push the arrow at the back as I haul it from the front? I need Harcux to pin him."

  "If I must." Carla felt her face somehow pale further. She imagined she must seem ethereal before shaking her w
ay back to reality. She could see the space Robsin worked in, and it now made sense. Looking at her hands holding the small knife, they shook with nervous tremors beyond her control. "I hope I am strong enough."

  "You will be fine. It will be faster, and less of a shock for our dummy here." He looked to Harcux, "You ready, big man?"

  "Aye, he ain't going anyplace." Harcux rumbled, exuding a confidence she didn't feel. There was a movement by her side and she saw Trevir prudently pinion the officer's legs. Like everyone else, his eyes were red-rimmed from wiping away seawater, and Carla wished she could seem as calm as he did.

  "Are you sure you don't want me to knock him out?" Harcux asked the doctor. Carla winced as she saw him consider the question.

  "No. He's had too much of that. He's all we've got, other than the crimson-eyed jester and the boy next door."

  "Shit, fair enough, Doc." Harcux observed, looking past her to smirk at Trevir and pull a face the sunjammers back. Dagmar, fortunately, neither heard nor witnessed the mockery. Carla decided on prudence and ignored their antics.

  "What do you want me to do?" Van Reiver croaked. She jumped and saw his worried eyes focus on the pincers Robsin held inches away.

  Several men snickered half-heartedly and looked to see how Robsin responded. Carla looked down the boat and saw Dagmar turn to Grimm, on the other side of the sunjammer panel.

  "He should get shot through by arrows more often. He's funny now."

  She saw Grimm knuckle his eyes theatrically before giving a bemused smile to the feeble chuckles.

  "Oh, come on," Dagmar lamented, waving a hand and adopting a canting tone, "That's as funny as his one."