THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "Fuck!" The marine spat. Slumping, he turned his back to the sea, defeated. Valant showed surprising empathy and gave him a consoling pat. As a bystander, Van Reiver felt his shoulders droop.

  Van Reiver felt Brak prudently drag him down, as Grimm bellowed, "Save the oars!" Harcux turned, swaying for balance, and nodded and reached for the nearest shaft. They never had a chance. With an ear-splitting crack, the steerboard mast leg snapped. With a crackling of timber, the splintered oar speared down, smashing duckboards like parchment. Garshum and Moffan threw themselves from different directions at the five-inch diameter shaft as it twisted, lifted, then descended.

  Crunch! It hammered into the frame, scraped down the knee, and lanced into the bottom planks, before ploughing through sunjammer plating. A spurt of frothing orange fountained above head height as the A-frame toppled and wedged on the splice to the upper blade.

  Garshum froze a pace short, incredulous horror blooming on his face. Moffan's headlong dive over feet and legs continued, and his vain grab shoved the broken oar as far as the strained lashings would allow, tearing the hole wider. Then, as if to add insult to injury, it burned through his hand into the widening hole.

  Opposite Van Reiver, Cephill gave a wry smile, one hand on his tiller, the other clamped on his safety line, his eyes sanguine at the water flooding in. "Oops."

  "Shit!" Moffan screamed. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Give us one fuckin' chance!"

  Who he meant, which deity, Van Reiver didn't know, but they were powerless against nature. Wider cracks spread as the boat lost cohesion and men had nothing else to give. Cephill caught Grimm's eye, then Van Reiver's, with fatalistic understanding. There would be no saga to sing; they would never be sober enough to speak of it.

  The larboard pair of spliced oars ripped its lower lashing apart, as though it was string and not inch-thick hemp. Harcux clung on so the spar smashed across both boats. Shouts and curses erupted into the swirling gale as one badly burned man took the impact on his head and sprayed gore. The big man grappled two precious oars in exchange for a life. Alone, Harcux tore through the splice and flung the lower oar alongside Dagmar's dome. The big man wrestled with the second oar, still lashed at the top with their spar and a flapping sail. The other side dangled loose through the hull of the other boat, with Moffan and other hands struggling to secure it. Van Reiver looked to Grimm for inspiration as men raised arms high to help as though in prayer as the wind raged about them. What the fuck could they do now?

  27

  Grimm staggered as something whipped past his ear; an inch to steerboard and it would've been his brains. Curses and cries swirled with the droning wind, adding to the confusion. Two voices stood out to the cox'n for the barest of moments.

  "Get everyone in here and cut that wreck free," Van Reiver bawled, voice hoarse as water slapped him mercilessly in the face. "Get the rations!"

  "You heard the boss—move! Move!" Cephill roared, leaning across the growing gap in the hulls, and dumped a sack by Brak's feet.

  Grimm glimpsed the other petty officer's face, pummelled red like under the lashing rain. He yelled, knowing only a few would catch the words. "Make space and dump non-essentials! By the love of The Seven, don't fuckin' fall overboard, unless you cunts can swim back."

  For Grimm, it was like living in a nightmare. Men scrambled to shuffle together, ignoring injury. He saw Ephraim shoving Millar towards their boat as the sailor struggled to free the man crushed earlier by the falling spar. He reached across with a vicious snarl and shoved the sailor.

  "Save the livin' and food. Leave him!"

  "But—" Millar's eyes were anguished, twin brown beacons over wobbling lips. Grimm knew he was a hair's breadth from panicking, the three paces distance too far for Grimm.

  "Leave him! He's fuckin' dead!" Ephraim hollered, face grotesquely twisted with rage, his voice huge for a bantam man as he threw Millar towards Grimm's boat. The small marine then pitched flat on his face as the rebellious seas spun the boats once more. Grimm grimaced, he staggered on his bad foot and snatched Millar's hand and dragged him towards Harcux. The big man stumbled, cursing them as the half-free lashing twisted and knotted. Rufus swung his cleaver to clear it, but Hadly shoved past motion unbalancing him. The cook nicked the lashing, parting half the hemp. Grimm recoiled as Hadly threw himself to safety, bound hands held lance-like in front. No-one helped the man and Grimm ignored him as the boats spun, plunging a fathom into a trough as the sodden sail dragged, throwing everyone from their feet. Grimm fell to his knees, and while petty, felt a deep sense of satisfaction when Hadly howled as a slick, near-naked man landed on him. Fresh icy water flooded saturated feet, swirling around legs, foaming as it choked off the writhing quartermaster and sent Grimm's breath bubbling. With a nauseating shudder, the boats descended, then rebounded skywards from the trough.

  Grimm saw the lightning reflected on steel. Rufus stretched out an arm, surprisingly not injuring anyone with his razor-edged cleaver parting the remaining strands. Harcux toppled under the sudden weight of the other oar. The splintered mast in Cephill's boat now free of the spar dropped, tearing off a substantial section of the protective copper sheathing. Water flooded in, settling as though comfortable in a new home. Grimm rose to shout, finding to his surprise improved stability with the dying boat. Never ignore a boon when granting precious seconds to act, he thought.

  Cephill was faster. "Everyone out!"

  The order that Van Reiver—or Grimm—should have issued. Arsehole, he thought, act—now! Rufus turned to look at Cephill, then Grimm, with dazed, uncaring eyes. Then the planking collapsed. Onvice's boat came apart in the middle. The bow and ballista mount rose high—and independent to the fucking stern, his eyes told him—dropping Rufus through the hole with a startled cry. The back of the cook's head crunched against the jagged side panelling, and he twisted into a heap against the supply locker. A pace away, Moffan paused, mouth agape as Cephill pushed the sailor past the corpse. The wide, staring open eyes told their tragedy to Grimm as the body twisted with the dying boat's gyrations. Moffan looked at the pooling blood before snatching the cleaver from the dead hand and pushing a despised barrel of hardtack biscuits towards Panon.

  "Moooooooooovvve!" Grimm roared, face empurpling. The cox'n beseeched the stragglers with every fibre of his will to escape from the boat already three-quarters full of bloody froth and bodies.

  "Cut the stern lines." Van Reiver's curt order was a reminder to Grimm for their future survival. Grimm saw in a hurried glance the officer had squeezed Carla and her father aft, creating a void. Seamen and injured men scrambled aboard like rats with little propriety or gentleness. The edge of despair yawned closer, Grimm considered, as he heaved Moffan, then Panon into the growing mound over Hadly. With a tearing screech behind Cephill, the transom drifted astern.

  Grimm caught Van Reiver's good arm. "The wreckage will act as a sea anchor." He pointed over a bobbing Cephill who he guessed stood on what remained of the aft half—now a third, to where the transom and tiller rolled and rasped against the sunjammer plating.

  "No, it won't," Cephill contradicted. As if marked by his words, the stern disintegrated, capitulating to the storm's savagery. Grimm heard Carla scream when the stocky petty officer was flung at her in a welter of spray. Brak acted first and snatched one thick wrist in a pincer-like grip, dragging him close. Moving against Brak, Van Reiver stretched, thrusting fingers into the big man's shirt, biting his lip in pain as they fought to prevent Cephill being swept away.

  Splashing on each side pulled at Grimm. It became a struggle to focus—or where to focus. Cep was safe for a moment. He looked larboard, "Nadam, get out!" Grimm shouted. Nadam, the last man aboard the wreck, started. He saw the injured Frend and Morrel floating away, unable to free themselves as the bows sank several feet away. Trevir clambered up and balanced like an acrobat on a midship thwart. He leaned across the upper strake, snatched the captain's maps and log from Nadam and flung them into the stern. Both Grimm and the marine cou
ld see the seaman considering chancing his luck and swimming to the two men. He wanted to say no, but they were his men—not much of an example—but still Tryphon men. Grimm dithered. Trevir reacted on instincts to make Grimm envious: he seized the seaman's collar and shook his head.

  Nadam stared. Grimm could see his face redden in shame. Spitting water, Nadam poised to jump, then snatched one of the floating supply boxes on impulse and flipped it to Mansan. He reached up, grabbing the boat, and allowed Trevir to drag him aboard. Grimm puffed a sigh in relief as the pile of men uncoiled themselves.

  "Salted pork? Could you not have grabbed sommat fuckin' decent? Rum, for instance?" Lukas mocked, pushing Nadam off him and ruffling the sodden man's hair.

  "Fuck off! Swim after somethin' if you don't like it!" Nadam retorted. Stifling a sob, Nadam hid his face with his arm, shaken by dooming the two men.

  Grimm knew few deckhands had befriended them, and it wasn’t like other men didn’t have close relationships aboard ship. It didn't make ignoring their plight easier, and Nadam through his inaction would have to live with the guilt. Be the shit who survived when they didn't, and who made fuck all effort to help them. Grimm saw a hand squeeze Nadam's shoulder and, despite everything, grinned as Nadam looked up to see Harcux's face turn sympathetic.

  "I like the pork, ignore the shanker. He's all mouth and tiny apples." Harcux dropped his voice to glare down at Lukas who ducked back, feigning helpfulness in untangling wriggling men. Harcux held thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Tiny."

  Nadam snorted, snot dribbling over his chin. Soon the snorts became racking sobs. Harcux patted Nadam's heaving shoulder as other men looked elsewhere. Grimm didn't and Harcux winked at him. Grimm nearly smiled back. Yet others were not so fortunate, pinned in awkward positions, or suffering injury with little chance of attention beyond cursory glances from those more fortunate with a comfier seat.

  Grimm stared around. Exhausted by doing nothing, his wide crimson-rimmed eyes burned in their sockets. So exhausted he felt like standing was beyond him. His leg buckled—his good leg. He squeezed back beside Merizus, who punched his shoulder. The extra bodies meant they sat lower in the water, making the ride a fraction more comfortable in the turbulent sea. The other boat's remains drifted past. With a glancing knock, it passed, and like the men lost, disappeared.

  "Help. Help." A plaintiff voice wheedled.

  Grimm glanced to Brak, "Get tubby aboard, huh? We don't want him slowing us, or pissin’ in the amber and scaring the fish."

  "I heard that, tripod. If I get ate, a sea dragon might ate you too." Cephill's fingers poked above the planking like hairy fat sausages. Grimm could imagine him pressing his face tight against the timber and plating, like a lover seeking affection in a warm bosom. It wasn't a pleasant image. Moffan and Brak volunteered and took a hand each and, straining, hauled Cephill into Van Reiver's space with the bare minimum of oaths. Cephill was stocky, with a heavy paunch, and saturated. His linen shirt exposed too much belly for anyone's comfort as he slid from the sea. Grimm shook his head in disbelief as he'd lost one of his boots. The other clipped Van Reiver on the shoulder.

  Weary and drained, the navigator didn't move fast enough to avoid Cephill. With a sharp cry, the officer's eyes rolled up to expose white orbs. Grimm saw Carla put her hand to her mouth, the sleeve of her dress a sudden flash of colour amongst the battle-stained humanity. It was such a stupid freak accident everyone could only stare.

  Brak dumped Cephill in a tangle between the comatose mounds of Dorad and Hatch and looked over at the officer without Grimm needing to tell him. The seaman shook his head. "Fuck's sake, he's out again."

  Carla freed herself, and with Moffan dragging Cephill aside, she removed Van Reiver's blanket. Muttering under her breath, she glowered at Brak, until the seaman pulled Van Reiver forward, allowing Carla's shaking hands to strip away his jacket and the bloody bandage. She reported coldly. "You reopened his shoulder, that's why he's out."

  Brak sighed, as though it was all his all fault. Spitting overboard, he glared back. Grimm watched Carla take a yellow shift from under her father and rebind the injury. Brak settled the comatose officer against the transom, tickled the blanket around the man, and looked to Grimm.

  Grimm shrugged a shoulder. "We'll drift until it eases, or the sea leach wakes. Again."

  "Can we not do anything, I—?" Hadly wheezed, shifting with a futile grimace to straighten his neck.

  "No." Grimm cut through him and pointed a finger at him. "Sit, be quiet or swim home. You have caused enough men to die, cunt." Hadly considered responding, but his shoulders slumped when no-one objected. Cephill hoofed his remaining seaboot into him and stifled the conversation.

  "We are at the mercy of the sea," Brak grunted after a minute, and slapped the tiller bar in a futile narrow arc with a rusty creak. The boat gyrated around ignoring the tiller, gradually slowing before the swirling sea changed to sporadic waves several feet high. Instead of spinning, they tilted, bobbed and rolled. As a respite, it was uncomfortable, but exhausted by wind, by the cold, sleep deprivation and the stress, many fell asleep.

  Merizus tapped Grimm's arm. "It's a good job we had that bit of spare room."

  "We deserve some luck. By the gods, what a trip. Talk about being put through it. It'll make an epic tale. We could call it 'One fuck up from calamity' and make a fortune in plays and shit."

  "True, damn true. You'd need a splendidly handsome chap to play me. With perfect teeth and intensity." Merizus rubbed at his peeling pate. "Better bail, though, or we might still go down," The marine sniped, sloshing the water with his enormous feet as they drifted.

  "What's up? Too proud to swill now we have Cep as company, or lost yer tin head?"

  "The latter. My favourite, too. It wasn't like you were doing aught, could you not've caught the fucker?"

  Grimm snorted, before wiping tears from his eyes at Merizus's overdone hangdog expression. The cox'n was silent for several minutes, then as steady as he could manage with his chest heaving in the aftermath of terror and adrenaline, "We need to ride it out as there's fuck all we can do. Bandage up and get comfy." Several heads moved, but no-one spoke. "Whatever happens, you've been a great crew, and I'm proud to serve alongside you. Well, those who aren't tossers. Try to hang on—and next time, ensure we have a fuckin' priest aboard before we cast off, so one god is with us. We still afloat, and we ain't dead."

  "Aye, an awesome idea. Can you go find one, Cox'?" Paska entreated with a vapid look of hope.

  "Dominoes?" Merizus suggested, rattling a wooden box. "Anyone?"

  Grimm snorted again; with the jeering, he wouldn't need to prevent anyone drifting off into the endless sleep. Worst-case, he could make each person play a game with Merizus.

  Cephill pushed himself up. "How in Menosar's dangly wart-encrusted knackers did you keep them, with what went down?" Merizus grinned and winked. He looked smug, and after several long seconds tapped his nose with a beefy finger. Cephill glared, then laughed. Belly jiggling through a rent in his linen tunic, he raised a middle digit.

  Harcux joined them and banged knuckles with Cephill. "We'll wait for him to nod off and lob 'em overboard. Problem permanently solved."

  "Do it!" Paska hollered from somewhere forrard. Grimm looked that way but couldn't see him among the heads. He looked back as the sailors cracked identical evil smiles. Merizus's smirk slipped, but the smug grin reformed as the wind whipped overhead, lamenting a sanguine victory.

  28

  The suns shone brightly. Too brightly. Too hot. Dagmar groaned as glittering sparkles of light shimmered over the inside of his closed eyes. Harnessing the sun was a fundamental skill in his guild, but stabbing his eyes like a demented butcher was a step beyond the pale, and then some. He felt someone lift his head and place something to his lips. He almost choked and stifled a cough as something seared his throat to burn and twist its way to his stomach. Said stomach rumbled in petulant protest while his lips tingled from the aftertaste of brand
y. He swallowed, trying to speak, but his throat was raw, forge-like. Something else pressed against his lips. A breaker of water, he surmised from the metallic tang and alchemical aftertaste.

  "We still alive?" Dagmar queried. Three stupid words while willing gummed eyes to open. He blinked at the light and focused on Trevir. The blurry marine assisted him to a sitting position, causing Dagmar to moan from lances of pain from his head and neck. With firm hands supporting him he sat, head hanging, feeling nauseous. Sharp spikes of torment impaled his chin. His skull pounded hard enough to cause tears. He clutched his head, groaning as though his greatest desire was to remove the bloody thing and toss it overboard.

  "That we are, Mr Dagmar, sir," the marine said in a deafening voice. To Dagmar's eyes, the short man looked haggard, yet one of the fitter survivors. Another face with bruises to match his own. "The storm blew itself out after dawn. We've been driftin' for over a day. I think we're headin' in the same direction as before, as there's a current runnin'. A soddin' strong one, you can feel it if you put a hand over the side, like a great sea dragon pissing alongside us. We've four oars left. Kicked about but they're fuck all use—like most of us."

  Shoving Onvice's legs off his own, Dagmar levered himself upright, with Trevir supplying a steadying hand. It was hard to comprehend it was the same sea when he leaned over the side. There was a modest swell, rippling and rolling the glossy orange surface, rocking the boat with flat slaps. Somehow, they'd descended the high oceanic mountains to a gentle meadow. He ran his hand into the sea and grimaced—Trevir was right about the strength of the sea. He sighed, then noticed a haunted cast to Trevir's eyes and his words now made sense.

  "What happened after I—" Dagmar trailed off as he pondered the missing boat, absent mast and cramped conditions. Trevir described the events in a flat, gravelly monotone. Just like everyone in the boat who'd experienced the drama, Dagmar felt his blood chill as the story unfolded. They'd been in the shit previously, but the lid was off the honeypot now.