The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 31
A thump sounded beneath them, trembling up through the bottom of the ship.
Robbert looked down at the floor, frowning.
“What was that?” Lothar said.
Bernie Westermont had felt it as well. “Rocks,” he offered. “Must be rocks, down there.”
Lothar shook his head. “The coast’s miles away. There are no rocks out here, it’s too deep.”
Robbert looked out of the window again, wondering. “We might be near the Telleshi Isles by now,” he suggested. Running aground on some hidden shoal and gutting the hull would not serve, but if they could drop anchor near a beach or protected cove, they might be able to wait out the storm unharmed. He searched through the falling rains, hoping for some sight of land, but saw nothing but wild waves and black skies, the occasional flash of lighting.
“Do you see anything?” Bernie asked him.
Robb could only shake his head. “Nothing but sea.”
“The other side, maybe?” Bern offered. Their cabin showed a view to port only. They had no sight of the ship’s starboard side from here.
Lothar didn’t think so. “That boy Finn Rivers would have said if we were near land. It’s not land, no way, unless…”
Another thump, louder this time, striking hard from beneath. It was too clean to be a sandbank or rocky shoal. That would cause a grinding sound. That was more like a heavy hammer, striking at the hull.
“There’s something down there,” Bernie said, shuddering. “Some creature. It’s right below us.”
Robbert thought of the flash of movement he’d seen. The shadow, sliding beneath the ship. He had not seen it for long enough to discern its shape, though it looked big. “I’m stepping out,” he said, moving from the window seat. “Stay here, both of you.”
Their protests fell on deaf ears. Robbert marched straight across the cabin and moved out through the door. He could hear the commotion outside at once, the frantic shouts and calls above him. Some soldiers were stepping out of their own rooms, rushing up from belowdecks. Robbert joined them, climbing the stairs and out into the falling rains. Above him the skies were black and menacing, swollen stormclouds filling the air, lightning flashing, thunder bellowing. Faintly he could see the glow of the moon, hidden behind that great sodden swamp. A full moon, he thought. It wasn’t always a good omen for seamen.
The captain was still at the helm, barking out his orders in a frenzy. Robbert could see men rushing to man the mounted harpoons and scorpions, fixed to the bulwarks along the main deck, and up on the forecastle too. Each had beside it a rack containing long steel bolts, to be fixed into the mechanisms and fired. Some were godsteel tipped, lifted into place by specially trained marines with Bladeborn blood. Other men snatched up hand-held pikes and harpoons, opening chests and passing them out. They lined up along the gunwales, ready, as Robbert marched up the stair to the quarterdeck, holding tight to the rail so he didn’t fall. The ship was still lurching wildly, waves crashing into the walls and rushing across the decks, tripping men as they worked, who cursed and got straight back to their feet. The storm-song of the seamen had gone silent. No one was singing now.
The prince staggered to the captain, reaching to steady himself against the helm. “What’s happening?” he called. “What’s down there?”
“Manator,” Bloodhound said. “Big one.”
Manator. The creature was another of which Robbert was only vaguely familiar. “The giant eel?”
“Aye, an eel. Though a hundred feet long, all thick twisting muscle, with tusks as tall as the mizzen mast thrusting up from its lower jaws.” He threw a hand back at the ship’s rearmost mast, rising up from the poop deck behind them.
Robbert couldn’t believe that. “That mast’s got to be twenty-five feet.” There was no way the manator’s tusks could be that long. “How do we fight it, Burton? It’s directly below us.”
“We outmanoeuvre it.” Bloodhound Burton filled his lungs, and at the top of his voice, bellowed, “BRACE! HARD TO PORT!” His officers echoed the call at once, spreading it down the decks, giving only a few moments’ warning before he swung the wheel. The ship turned, hard, to the left, timed with the rising of the waves. Robbert held on for dear life, clutching at the rail at the fore of the quarterdeck, blinking through the lashing rain. He could hear spotters shouting from the crow’s nest, saw the men on the right of the ship swing their harpoons and pikes and take aim, firing and throwing down into the sea all at once and in unison. “Miss,” one shouted. “Miss,” another said. Three others said the same, then a sixth called out - “Hit! Good hit in the tail, Captain!” - and other shouts came in as well. Misses mostly, a few good hits. Robbert sped to the side in a crouch, clutching his dagger to strengthen his stride, and looked over the edge. He had just enough time to see the great shape of the manator sliding away beneath them, trails of blood, black in the water, oozing in its wake.
He went back to the captain. “Is that it? Did we get it?”
Burton looked over at him. “Takes more than that to kill a manator, lad.”
He spun the wheel again, righting them against the waves, before a fierce swell bore down upon them. He did so just in time; a few moments later a large wave came crashing from the prow, bursting up in a great explosion of water, showering down upon the men on the forecastle. Close, Robbert thought, as the ship rocked and trembled. Had that wave hit them to starboard it might have turned them over. His heart had never beat so fast, and his bowels were turning to water. I could let them empty right here and who would know?
The men were scrambling to reload the mounted weapons and pass out more throwing harpoons. A short silence seemed to take root, a tension thickening, the spotters in the crow’s nest and up in the rigging turning their eyes out, searching. The world went queerly quiet for a moment, as though the world was taking a breath.
“A sighting!” Bloodhound Burton bellowed. “Give me a damn sighting!”
A call came from the starboard gunwale. “Nothing, Captain.” And the port. “Not here either, Cap’n!” From the crow’s nest the same was said.
“It’s under us,” Bloodhound muttered. “This one’s persistent.” Even as he spoke, Robbert felt the tremor rising up through the galleon, the great crack of those enormous tusks striking at the thick wooden hull.
“Will it sink us?” the prince asked, voice a shudder. He looked about, a slow terror climbing up his spine, filling his blood. There was no land about them, no shadowed islands in the distance. Only waves, great monstrous waves dwarfing them, cast like cliffs and mountains beneath a bellowing, dreaded sky. A flash of lightning lit the world, and for a moment he saw ships, faint and fogged in the mist, battling through the storm. Then the light faded and they were gone. “Will those tusks break through the hull?”
Bloodhound Burton gave him a hard look. “Enough questions. I need to focus, Prince Robbert. Go back below where it’s safe.”
He turned away from him, squinting out to sea, reading the patterns of the waves. When he saw another break in the swells, he bellowed the order to brace, and then swung the wheel once more. The harpoons and mounted crossbows moved on their swivels, searching, the men standing at the gunwales, holding to the rail with one hand, pikes clasped in their other, elbows cocked and ready.
“At the forecastle!” a spotter shouted up the ship. “Shadow in the water! Twenty metres to starboard!”
The weapons aimed and fired, slicing down into the waves. Robbert heard the twangs as the mechanisms were released, heard the grunts of the men as they heaved and threw, listened to the calls of ‘miss’ and ‘miss’ and ‘miss’ again. Not a single man had hit their target this time.
“Damn,” the captain cursed. “He went too deep.”
“Moving under us again, Cap’n!”
There was another shaking tremor a moment later, and another, and another. Robbert could see the fixed tension on Burton’s face, the strain in his eyes, as he tussled this ancient beast. He squinted out into the seas. Another thump beneath them. Another.
“We have to move, Captain!” someone shrieked. “It’ll crack the hull and sink us!”
Burton gave no answer. Ahead, the waves were rolling forth in a relentless swell, big enough to capsize them should they turn. We have no choice but to wait, Robbert realised. Then was another blow, another.
“Brace,” roared the captain’s first mate, a man called Bill Humbert.
The waves crashed into them, smashing hard into the bulwarks and running across the decks, the ship tossed about like a children’s toy. Men cursed as their legs were swept from under them, reaching for rigging and ropes, sliding from one side of the ship to the other. Some were swept right over, Robbert saw, disappearing into the depths.
“Men overboard,” came a call.
Burton’s mouth twisted, but there was nothing he could do for them. The prince could see the figures bobbing in the water, waving their arms, hear the sound of their screaming at the edge of his hearing. They looked tiny out there against the waves, specs on moving mountains, already drifting away, thirty metres, fifty, a hundred…then they were gone.
A man came rushing up from belowdecks, panting. “Captain, there’s a leak,” he gasped. “Water coming up into the hold.”
“Seal it,” Burton shouted at him. “I’m not losing this ship.”
The man dashed away. Another shout sounded. “Sighting to starboard! Fore of the ship!”
Burton snarled like a wolf. “Ready on the port side! Ready the harpoons!” The bolts and lances were loaded, tips gleaming, misting. “Brace,” Burton roared. “Hard to starboard!”
The ship swung right, wood groaning, the world a maelstrom of noise. Robbert could see the thick dark shadow coming toward them, black blood still leaking from its wounds. It was shaped almost like a tadpole, he saw, the head much larger than the body. From an extended lower mandible, the two great tusks rose up, greyish white, pitted and cracked, breaking the surface. The left tusk was chipped, he saw, a full foot shorter than the right, which was less sharp than he’d have supposed, more blunt and rounded for battering.
The weapons fired, men hurling.
“Miss,” shouted a man, and, “Miss,” another bellowed, but then the hits came in. “Hit to the left flank,” shouted one in triumph. “Hit to the head,” said another.
The creature thrashed as the spears bit down into its flesh. Robbert saw the body twist, contorting, then it thrust forward with great speed, its enormous, flattened tail propelling it into the ship’s keel.
“It’s going for the rudder!” Burton shouted. “Brace! Hard to port!” He swung the wheel, turning the ship, but the manator crashed into them anyway, sending the entire ship shuddering. Men were thrown from their feet, more going over and into the water. Around them the waves were growing again, the ship lost in a range of towering black peaks. Robbert could hear the sound of desperate shouting ahead. There was a horrid ripping sound and one of the sails tore free of the foremast, flapping wildly away into the sky. A man came rushing back. “We’ve lost the fore-topsail, Cap’n!”
“I know, damn it! I saw!”
“We’ve got to lower the others,” said Bill Humbert. “There’s a crack in the foremast, it won’t last much longer.”
“We lower the sails and we’ll be at Iulla’s mercy. That manator will smash us to bits.” Burton looked up, saw a great wall of water rising before them, casting them all in its shadow. He had barely enough time to call for the crew to brace before the wave surged over them, cascading across the decks, sweeping more men to their doom. It reached the quarterdeck, flooding past, and for a moment Robbert thought that was it, the ship would founder, but suddenly the waters were receding, rushing away over the walls and through the scuppers, and the men were standing again, spluttering, returning to their stations.
“We can’t take much more of this, Captain,” called George Buckley, the ship’s bosun. “We’re taking on too much drink.”
Bloodhound Burton scowled at him. “Are the men manning the pumps?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Then what else can we do? Unless you want to get down there with a bucket?”
“Sighting to port!” came a shout. “It’s coming back!”
Burton snapped his eyes that way, scanned the seas, judging them in an instant in a way that Robbert Lukar could never hope to match. He barked his orders for the starboard weapons to be readied.
Robbert looked down, saw one harpoon unmanned. Its operators must have gone overboard. Without thinking, he ran for the stairs, leapt down to the main deck, speeding for the bulwark. He’d never fired one before, though they were much alike to castle crossbows, and he’d been shown how they worked during the early days of their first voyage from the north, a lifetime ago that felt, when the fleet had first sailed to siege the Perch. He went for the rack, fetched a godsteel-tipped bolt, six feet long, and fixed it into place. The captain was shouting his commands - “brace, hard to port,” - as Robbert pulled back, cocking the mechanism, grabbed the handles and turned the swivel. The ship swung, as it had a hundred times, lurching wildly. Robbert saw the world turn, saw the shadow approaching beneath the waves, the tips of tusks slicing through the water. He aimed, steadying, unsure where best to fire, heard a great loud crack fill the air, glimpsed the foremast come crashing down, and pulled the trigger.
The godsteel-tipped harpoon went flying into the sea, taking the manator somewhere in its left flank, mid-body. The creature twisted, thrashing, and gave out some deep otherworld bellow that seemed to shake the very air. “Hit,” Robbert shouted at once, breathless, and for a moment jubilant.“Hit to the left flank, Captain!”
Other shouts rang out, of hit and miss, the manator diving, slithering back beneath the rough wild waters. Robbert leaned forward, seeing the shadow darken and fade away, moving beneath the ship, felt a scraping, as though the creature was brushing against the hull, moving from port to starboard. He spun, rushing across to the other side of the ship, shouting, “It’s coming this way. Ready to fire!” He saw the shadow reemerge, heard the sounds of the weapons discharging, saw several savage bolts strike true. Blood burst and bubbled to the surface. Some men shouted in triumph, “Hit!”
Another man roared out, “Wave!”
Robbert turned, and saw it. The wall of water right before him, tumbling and crashing over them. He had no time to react before it smacked him hard in the chest, knocking him back and off his feet, dragging him across the ship to smash into the port side wall. For five or six heartbeats he couldn’t breathe, his whole body submerged, before the water passed over. He gasped, moving up onto his knees, saw white water rushing at him again, another wave coming. He had barely enough time to snatch a breath into his lungs before it drowned him anew, tossing him into something hard. He felt a crack, a hard crack in his ribs, and coughed, losing precious air. Then he gulped a measure of seawater, scrambled back up, broke the surface, spluttering, retching.
Another wave. This one from the other side. It knocked him hard from behind, pushing him forward, bullying him across the deck. He felt himself rolling, reaching out for something to hold onto, felt the hard coarse touch of hempen rope, and clung on. The waves kept coming, rolling one after another after another, crashing in from all sides, stinging his eyes and blinding him. We’re going down, Robbert thought. This is it. We’re going down.
Then the ship bobbed up, bursting back above the surface, and Robbert gasped for air. The sound of the winds and waves returned, and shouting of the men, the trumpeting of the storm. Robbert was at the mainmast, he realised, clinging to a rope dangling down from the rigging. He managed to get to his feet; others did the same about him. There was a sharp pain in his side from where he’d hit the wall. He coughed, bringing up more seawater, then dared to look around.
He wished he hadn’t done so.
Ahead, he saw a cliff of water, rising so high it seemed to kiss the very clouds.
Oh, Prince Robbert Lukar thought.
Then he closed his eyes and prayed.
15
He peered into the trees, narrow-eyed, listening.
“Quiet,” he said. The word was a whisper, but the men behind him heard. At once both of them stopped in their tread, freezing. No crackle of leaves and twigs underfoot. No sound of squelching mud. Even their breathing seemed to still, and grow silent. And in the silence, Jonik heard. The rumbling of breath, the stalking movement, the unknown creature, closing.
He turned sharply to his men, standing with their horses. The woods were thick about them, the branches deeply knotted and tangled. A hundred years of humus had formed underfoot, softening their tread, and all else too. “Something stalks us,” Jonik mouthed, quiet as a crypt.
“Where?” Gerrin mouthed back.
“There.” Jonik raised a finger and pointed, away to the right of the way they had come. He had sensed something lurking in this old wood, some fell creature, though had refused to go around it. That would have only added precious time, and time they did not have. Months, he thought. A year at best. That was how long the world might last before it fell to unrecoverable ruin, he deemed.
The trunks were tightly packed, the canopy dense. Roots as thick as Jonik’s thigh wrestled for room beneath the earth, snarls and juts poking out from the undergrowth. This was no place to stand and fight. “We go, on my command,” he whispered. He had sighted a clearing ahead, where the trees seemed to thin out a little bit, forming a glade. “Follow me. Draw swords. We leave the horses here.”
Harden frowned. “We need our horses,” he hissed.
“We’ll draw the beast away from them,” Jonik said. Thus far the horses hadn’t so much as raised their eyes, or turned their heads. They were munching as the men spoke, unaware of the threat. This creature is silent, Jonik thought.
He pulled his bastard sword from its sheath, a weapon taken from the refuge, a pristine blade of Tyrith’s forging, made with the Hammer of Tukor. Double-fullered, double-edged, with a long, two-hand grip and wide, thick cross guard, it was not the Nightblade, no Blade of Vandar, but he would deal death with it just as well. Mother’s Mercy, he had decided to name it. He had taken it the day Cecilia died.
