THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  Carla jumped as Robsin spun, dropping the knife into his bag—his voice harsh and tight as it sawed through octaves like sinew. "Do you bloody mind, you daft sod? Some of us are trying to concentrate on not killing people! If you want your friend to await Araraka's judgement, then keep at it! Gods damn it, man!"

  Dagmar huffed, but when looked at her and saw her biting her lip, he slunk into the sunjammer dome where he could observe through the open section of the canopy.

  "Back in your hole evil troll, or he'll have at you with his dinky pincers," Harcux chuckled, and she turned to see him grinning down the boat making crab motions with a meaty hand. How could anyone jest like this? She almost missed Robsin glowering as she shook her head in disbelief. Harcux winked. She heard Robsin grinding angry teeth as he returned to the task. Gods, Carla thought, feeling her guts twist, please get on with it. Wherever she looked, the arrow pulled her back. Dagmar gave up fiddling with his controls and stood back up to watch them work. Her eyes caught his. Their fate rested on the outcome, and his friend's life with her strength and Robsin's skill.

  "Push when ready," Robsin said, summoning her back to the blood. She heard a click as the callipers tightened on the arrowhead. Carla clutched the shaft tighter, feeling a blood tendril seek her fingers. Her flesh. Swallowing hard, she pushed the shaft as hard as she dared, her knuckles going white under the blood and pressure. Harcux winced, his fascination dragging her gaze to him. Unlike her, he seemed unable to pull his eyes from the gory spectacle.

  "Again! It's loosening!" Robsin barked. Feeling her bile rise until she gagged, Carla pushed harder on the smooth wood, ignoring the crimson snakes oozing over her fingers. She threw all her weight against it and hoped to all seven gods her grip wouldn't break. It shifted! The most imperceptible of movements on her fingertips, and she prayed it wasn't slipping from her gasp. Harcux grunted, she guessed in surprise at the force needed to pin Van Reiver down. She imagined his flesh pulling away from her as she pushed on the arrow impaling him. The officer moaned, gasping quick breaths through clenched teeth, and squirmed like an eel.

  "What is taking so long?" Dagmar hissed. He sounded closer, as though gravitating behind Robsin. She spared him a glance. Anywhere but the arrow. In the glow emanating from the crystal, the tension in his face and his eyes gave him an evil countenance. Carla shuddered.

  "It's lodged tight," Robsin hissed. He looked between her and Dagmar. "One good shove should see us done. Now, get you back, magus, you're in my light." Dagmar shuffled back a pace; it must be unusual for him, Carla thought in a moment of biting humour, to have no rejoinder. The sunjammer looked down, fiddling with the braid on the cuff of his stained grey robe. She knew how he felt—make the tension end.

  Robsin leant to Carla, and she had to make herself not pull away as he hissed, "Now!"

  Carla pushed, grunting with effort as Robsin strained across from her, red-faced. The shaft tore from her fingers into the second mate's body, snagged, gave a sickening grinding noise as her hands punched his shoulder. Van Reiver's scream became strangled. A loud mushy 'pop' jerked Robsin backwards. As he lurched away from her, he held the arrow up as though mimicking the offering statues to Krauag, the God of War. A spray of blood squirted up as Van Reiver rolled against Harcux and splattered Dagmar's face, trickling down his cheek in thick incarnadine rivulets. Men in both boats laughed raucously, pointing at the sunjammer's stunned expression. Carla put a hand to her face as she sat back, shoulders shaking at the abrupt release of tension, as tears cleaned her cheeks.

  "That's not funny," Dagmar muttered, smearing the blood as he tried to wipe it away. The laughter redoubled tenfold. Men with severe injuries convulsed in mirth until their tears matched her own.

  Robsin looked unsympathetic as he regained his seat. "You started it, magus. I'm glad you're keeping the crew's morale up!" He withdrew his flask, waved it and took a long sip. He turned stiffly, as though he'd bruised himself in the tumble, and offered it to Carla. Gods no, she thought, shaking her head and clenching her lips tight. Chuckling, Robsin used a small probe to peer at the injury and dripped brandy around each puncture. Carla winced, pretending to ignore the oaths from Van Reiver. "Sewing kit, please, a yard of thread."

  "Bastards, you're all bastards!" Dagmar countered and flopped beside Grimm. She saw the cox'n and seamen ignoring him and repressed a smile.

  "Are you still with us, Edouard?" Robsin enquired.

  "Where else would I fucking be?" Van Reiver snarled, neck veins bulging, teeth clenched in pain. His head lolled, going from red to white against the thwart, now slick with spray and his blood.

  "Heh," Robsin chuckled and patted him on his matted hair. "You're damn lucky. It hit a fraction below your collarbone and bent against it. I don't think it clipped any veins, but there isn't much more I can do."

  "Are you sewing me up now?"

  "In a minute, give the lady chance to thread up. Anyway, I want you to bleed, to clean the muck out. Your togs are quite the mess." He held up her shawl and said, "I have a lovely dressing, you can set a new fashion."

  "Uh huh, will that bleeding thing work?"

  "It can't hurt. Most of the bleeding people do is flawed logic, but in theory, it is a sound idea by smarter minds than mine."

  "It's not your blood and you make little sense." Van Reiver objected and struggled to move. Robsin held his arm and nodded to the two men to pin him tight. "Calm down and let me plug the leak. It will hurt, but I hope to keep things under control."

  "Do it."

  Carla thought Van Reiver sounded strained, and she didn't blame him. She skilfully threaded a needle and ran her finger along the thread to straighten any kinks. Robsin took it and she looked away as he stitched both small tears. Breathing deep, she thought it would be awhile before she could think of doing embroidery. It relaxed her, but not now, with Robsin using her threads on men. On flesh. She shuddered and heard the doctor tear the shawl. With Harcux' help, they wrapped the wound tight and tied it at the shoulder. Carla knew she'd never buy a yellow shawl again and bent for the knife she'd dropped and check over the instruments.

  She glanced at the doctor as Robsin wiped his hands in the sea and used a rag to clean the filth from the second mate's face, before he huffed a weary sigh. "Do you think you can keep yourself out of trouble? You've had more appointments than most, and it isn't like we don't see each other."

  "I think so." Carla saw Van Reiver's head jerk at how much blood coated the thwart. The doctor nodded, wiped Van Reiver's scarred chin and returned his pincers to Carla.

  "Can we place him on the other side of the lady and her father, so she can observe them?"

  "I don't see why not—you off somewhere?" Harcux looked puzzled. Robsin nodded at the second boat.

  "I'm still needed in there. I fear I will be busy, for all the purpose that serves. I'll use the thwarts on the other side and you can pass me the instruments across." Carla nodded and Harcux looked at her and the men, eyes becoming mournful.

  Carla leant over the side, grateful not to participate further, and took care not to jostle the sleeping men, and rinsed the filth from her hands. She returned to her seat. Drying her hands as best she could on her damp, filthy tattersall skirt, she snorted. Blue and dark-blue merged into a nondescript shade of grubbiness. The brief exposure to seawater made her still-damp skin prickle, leaving her hands feeling scoured, as though by gritty soap. She looked at her pruned fingers, with blood still ingrained into flesh, and shuddered, chilled by the images she saw from the residue. She could ignore the dirt, having donated her borrowed uniform to three sailors wearing rags. Memories were harder to ignore, and she huddled alone.

  18

  Grimm woke from a doze in which he actually felt warm. It was a disappointment to feel cold. Even more of a disappointment to see Dagmar contorted under the sunjammer platform, arse wiggling like a piglet. He thought he was still dreaming and burped a laugh until Merizus snored in his ear. Chill water trickled down his dundrearies and rolled ar
ound his shoulder and down his spine. He wiped sleep from his eyes and shouldered Merizus to point away from his ear. All too soon, the sunjammer annoyed him more than the spray and snoring.

  "What are you doing, sir?"

  Dagmar muttered and let go of the panel he was prying at. He retracted his head out of the space and announced peevishly, "I need to get in the damn cupboard and there's no key. It won't pry either."

  "We make them not to. Did you try the locker in the bows, steerboard side as per regulations?" Grimm asked, trying to keep his voice level. Knowing the man's inexperience, he worked harder at keeping professional contempt out of his voice.

  "Err no, why would I?" Dagmar looked blank. Grimm gave a long, profound sigh, straining his stitches, grimacing as one snagged and seared like a red-hot poker on his hip.

  "Vaska, you awake?" Grimm barked, taking no pains to hide his tone, his patience exhausted. Merizus twitched. Good, it's only fair.

  "I am now. What do ye want?" the grey-beard huffed, his eyes pinpricks of light in deeply sunken sockets. Hollow-cheeked, the old seadog looked half-dead slumped against the boat's side.

  "Have a look, before any cod's heads do themselves a fuckin' injury." Grimm's head twitched sunjammer-ward and dirty faces smirked.

  "All right, Cox'n, gimme a bloody minute." The shuffling and cursing took two. "Two sets here, different ones." He held them up, jingling them from his steel hook.

  "The key you're after should be on the rings, sir. There could be a set for each boat, or a spare for the skipper's barge if there's extra on one." Grimm shrugged.

  Dagmar nodded and waited for the keys being passed from hand to hand. It relieved Grimm that no-one tried to throw them in excessive cleverness. Keep it simple, he thought, watching the show. It's not a fucking hard concept, is it?

  Dagmar worked the first set of keys without success. The second set caused him to yelp at the fourth key. He hauled out an inch-wide bronze cable with a pair of heavy clamps on the ends. Grimm looked blank, along with the seamen and the marine. No deckhand was permitted access, and he'd never seen the keys used. He asked the burning question sizzling everyone's minds, "Do I want to know what that is, sir?"

  "Unlikely," Dagmar grinned, his teeth a white gleam in the purple and green bruised face. "I prefer the suspense at the mystic art you mock behind my back—which by-the-way—keeps you smelly oiks out of the amber…" He coughed, "You'll be able to guess in a moment."

  "Do you see what we've had to put up with, while you're square bashin'?" Grimm drawled to Merizus, who gave an easy-going chuckle before wincing. Grimm rolled his eyes as the marine held his side and looked again at Dagmar. "I hope we don't run into anythin' in our condition."

  Merizus nodded as Dagmar climbed into the next boat, leaving them looking at each other. Merizus shrugged and leaned back, leaving matters in Grimm's hands. Grimm sighed.

  Dagmar waited while an injured seaman moved his legs clear of a matching cupboard in the second boat and set to work with marginally less aggravation. A minute later, the sunjammer crystal in the second boat flared into life, and Grimm felt the lashed boats increase speed by a couple of knots. Merizus raised an eyebrow and mimed applause. Grimm nodded as Dagmar checked the cable and returned. Grimm blinked in surprise as the keys were thrust at him.

  "You know what you're doing." Dagmar didn't meet Grimm's eyes and slid back under the dome, like an eel into its lair.

  "How will that help us, sir?" Merizus asked the next obvious question and looked between Grimm and the sunjammer.

  "I've linked both boat's crystals. I can charge them in one go when it's daylight and use the power of both boats from one controller. It's pointless running backwards and forwards with the wounded and people trying to nap."

  "Ahh, nice one, sir." To Grimm's surprise, the marine sounded impressed.

  "So, Cox'n. What now?"

  "Excuse me, sir?" Grimm jerked at the rapid subject change, broadsided by the magus.

  "Don't play coy, Coxswain," Dagmar smiled thinly, direct. "We both know my knowledge of boats is limited." He hiked a thumb towards the glittering red crystal in the bronze mount. "Asides from that." To Grimm, it seemed the sunjammer said the last more to himself than to the boat's occupants, or himself.

  Grimm pointed to Van Reiver. "It's his job, sir, but I can offer suggestions, if you wish?"

  "Just speak plainly; there is no point being pedantic, is there? It will kill more of us, or add difficulties." The sunjammer shrugged, voice trailing away.

  "Well, no, sir. Few officers would be frank about it." Grimm confessed rubbing his pate, ruffled by the candour. When the fuck did officers act almost human?

  Dagmar looked troubled—the wry tint to him, Grimm presumed, was from having any influence on their situation. Grimm's easy-going manner had made him a cornerstone of Tryphon, yet he'd never conversed with the magus. It surprised him it could be a straightforward experience, considering the man's prissy-seeming nature and the crew's mocking him each time he turned his back. Given their predicament, it was a trivial thing compared to survival, if it didn't affect discipline. Despite any misgivings he might feel, the sunjammer returned his gaze, waiting for Grimm to continue. Shit, now Grimm had to pretend to make sense.

  "I suggest we leave off making any major decisions until the doctor has finished. After that, we can rearrange the wounded between boats, sort the trim and see how we can help him."

  "That seems reasonable. What else?"

  "Make a log. Someone should, but you've other duties. A list of survivors and I guess a list of any we can confirm dead. Maybe an inventory of supplies, but I figure that'll all be fuckin' depressin'."

  "Do you think we should?" Dagmar gave him a direct look, making the older man feel uncomfortable as the responsibility shrouded him like the fall of night.

  "Expect the worst, sir, be pragmatic. If the lads are burned and cut about, it'll finish the weaker ones. I hope the doc will agree. Our most important issue will have to wait until the second mate is up."

  "Navigation?"

  "Aye. I saw no stars last night, and with the low cloud, it's hard to tell our heading. I just hope it isn't in a bloody circle. We're fucked if it is."

  "I agree. Do these boats have sails, I thought they all did?"

  "Usually a small one, with a mast and spar stored either side of your dome. I checked earlier. This boat hasn't—the mast and spar are missing. Next door's the same, but the shrouds and rigging remain. Some bastard is laughing at our expense and deserves a good skull cleavin'. I don't know whether to fuckin' cry or scream."

  "Fuckin' dockyarders must have half-inched 'em after inspection. Cock-sucking arse-danglers." Vaska opined from the bows. He gestured with a marline spike, then tapped it on his hook. "We have two oars lashed each side and the pair we used to hold station on the big T'. Maybe we can rig something up, if we use the shrouds an' odds 'n' sods of line?"

  "Or one of the crew." Brak scratched his protruding ears, still bitter over the masts.

  Panon nodded his agreement. "We all know many a light-doddled lad will snatch anythin' shiny and sellable. I wonder who's gamblin', owed a tart tavern, or got married on the quick. That's who I'd be lookin' at. Some cunt from Traffle, maybe. I hope they're here to enjoy it."

  Dagmar looked to Grimm, who shrugged. "It can't hurt, sir. There's nothin' we can do. A couple more knots won't go amiss, and it'll be some shade when the suns come out. The spray and heat'll be bad enough."

  "Can I leave it to you, while I sort the crew?"

  "Aye, sir. Sort?" Grimm demanded, playing with a band of alternating indigo and amber beads on a leather thong around his neck. When he realised what he was doing, he dropped his hand.

  "I should check to see how everyone is and find something to scribble on. Also keep our QM quiet, right?" Dagmar grinned cynical amusement and moved aft. Merizus exchanged a long look with Harcux and Grimm.

  Grimm puffed out his cheeks, lost for words, before feigning cheer, "We'll get
sorted. Harcux, have a look about, will ya?"

  "What the fuck for?" unequivocal words from the big man.

  "If we have masts, we need a sail? We'll need as much line as we can scrounge up, eh?" Grimm looked at Vaska. "Look next door and don't jostle folk. I know we're cramped, but the old doc' won't be happy after all the sewin' he did."

  "Aye, Cox', I get the idea. I aren't a fuckin' nonce," muttered Vaska, as surly as usual. He rolled his eyes at Valant, his oldest friend on Tryphon, who blew him a kiss from the depths of his round chubby face. The man's weasel eyes kept little humour. Despite his advanced age and grouchy countenance, Vaska crossed through the twisted limbs with impressive nimbleness, contorted his way over a thwart and slid into the adjacent boat.

  Grimm twisted away from their bickering to watch whitecaps. He'd seen the instrument the doctor was preparing to use on a young seaman, a little older than a boy. You can survive the loss of an arm, but for how long in these conditions? He swallowed, biting down nausea as his stomach seethed with acid. Misery stared back, unyielding and unrelenting.

  19

  Dagmar looked at the napping Van Reiver and selfishly wished he could rest as comfortably. His greatest desire at this moment was to palm all the responsibilities back to his friend. His thoughts could be a spiteful bastard at times. He couldn't expect him to jump up and do everything after having old Robsin yank an arrow out. Banishing the thought with a lengthy sigh, he turned to Grimm and gestured to the thwart beside him. With a flat expression at being disturbed, Seaman Seatan leant forward to let the cox'n keep his bandaged foot from the bilges while he sidled past. At any other time and place, it would have been funny to see. Not now. Dagmar rolled his head, hearing his neck crack as Grimm sat and invited Vaska and Harcux over. Dagmar blinked and thought it over for a moment, rather than using his mouth, and looked at the people left.

  Hadly? Hmm, that was a hard one. He had the rank—more than Dagmar and Van Reiver being lieutenants—but he was logistics. A quill pusher. He looked in the next boat and found him staring back. A hardness to the stare and something the sunjammer had never noticed in the man. There was a glint to his eye Dagmar didn't trust and thinking on it, he realised he'd never trusted the man beyond the occasional coin and it was a shame Carla hadn't rammed her blade into his chicken neck. Instead, Dagmar forced blank expression onto his face and jerked his head in invitation. Dagmar frowned as he saw the boy cadet shivering in the bow of Hadly's boat. Berating himself for not thinking matters through, Dagmar called out, waved to him and shuffled against a slumbering Ephraim to give Onvice and Hadly room. Grimm looked at the sunjammer, then hid a smile as Dagmar winked, ignoring the boy's flush of embarrassment while he fumbled his way into their boat and sat surrounded by hard, angry men. A waif among giants.