The ship rocked suddenly, violently, as if it had scraped its hull against an underwater mountain, barely clearing the highest peak. The boat righted itself and the sailors hugged the masts and rails, peering into the sea to ascertain the threat. Pascal shouted down into the hold for a damage check.
“What are we hitting?” Kjell shouted, dragging Sasha back from the rail. She’d tumbled to the deck and immediately risen again, clinging to the side, trying to see what they’d struck.
The sailor in the crow’s nest, hanging on with one hand while he searched the water with his spyglass, peering through the innocuous lapping, yelled back at him. “Not a damnable thing! There’s nothing there.”
The ship across the way was perfectly upright one moment, and the next, sailors were screaming, the sails tipping. The stern came completely out of the water, sending a few men overboard, and two enormous tentacles—knotted and pocked and as thick as tree trunks—curled around the long bowsprit extending from the vessel’s prow.
“Architeuthis!” Pascal bellowed just as the lookout from the crow’s nest began shouting the same thing.
They watched in horror and helplessness as the giant squid, wrapped around the front of the other ship, began to draw it downward. Shouts and screams accompanied bodies tumbling across the decks and into the sea before the bowsprit snapped with a resounding crack, leaving a jagged spar and temporarily shaking the squid free.
“Bring us closer,” Kjell roared to Lortimer.
Jerick, twined in the rigging of the foremast, dangled above the creature with his bow drawn, doing his best to fire arrows at the glistening head of the beast while being tossed from side to side. Gibbous was inching out on the figurehead, and Peter was clinging to the front of the forecastle deck, stabbing at the clinging tentacles with his spear, attempting to land a fatal blow. Architeuthis, angered and stung, slunk to the starboard side and rose again, entwining two tentacles around the forecastle deck rail. Gibbous was catapulted into the water, and Jerick slipped, losing his bow as he grasped at the knotted rigging, trying not to tumble into the sea. The tentacles seemed to grow as the beast came farther out of the water, its smaller, side tentacles embracing the hull as the larger, front tentacles extended, wrapping around the foremast where Jerick was suspended. Peter, the only warrior in a position to do any damage, jabbed valiantly before being swiped aside like he was nothing more than an irritant. The mast bowed and cracked, and Jerick fell to the quarterdeck and didn’t rise.
Without thought or doubt, Kjell threw himself over the port side, his spear clutched in both hands. Before he hit the water, he heard Sasha scream his name.
Isak, the fire starter, was suddenly in the water beside him, swimming toward the beleaguered ship and the creature intent on bringing her down. Isak couldn’t build a fire in the sea or toss flames from sodden hands, but he began to glow, his arms parting the water in long strokes, drawing the giant eye of the tentacled creature. It watched, almost sentient, and as Isak and Kjell neared, the squid snaked a tentacle around Isak’s luminescent form, lifting him out of the water and toward its bulbous head as if to examine him—or eat him. Isak extended his arms, palms flat, not even fighting the beast as he was drawn inward, face to face. Reaching out, he pressed both of his hands against the massive eye, searing the orb, blinding the creature.
Isak was hurled free, tossed away, end over end, and Kjell filled his lungs and dove deep, for once not fighting his tendency to sink like a stone. He swam downward with his lance, kicking with all his strength and sinking beneath the enormous, flailing squid. Then he rose straight up, his spear vertical and extended, and buried his lance into the mouth located on the underbelly of the beast. It writhed, the spear so embedded a mere foot protruded from the narrow slit.
For a moment Kjell was imprisoned by tentacles, encircled by a rapidly retreating Architeuthis. Then Kjell was free, rising as the beast descended into the darkness of the deep, still blind, still impaled. Kjell kicked toward the surface and the light that glowed there, unsure which enemy had been bested—a massive squid or a ruthless Changer.
The passengers and crew were already climbing into the longboat preparing to descend into the water, and those already in the water were swimming toward the undamaged ship.
He saw Isak being pulled from the water, clinging to a line, conscious and relatively unharmed. The second ship was damaged, the railing broken, the bow split, the bowsprit and foremast snapped in two. There would be no saving it or repairing it on the open sea, and the stores were already taking on water.
Kjell heard Sasha calling his name, raised his head and a hand indicating he was unharmed, and clung to a floating section of the prow, resting momentarily and gasping for breath, before he paddled toward the broken vessel.
“The lieutenant’s in bad shape, Captain. We can’t move him,” a sailor called to him as the longboat was released into the sea.
“Help me up!” Kjell cried, and the rope ladder was dropped, slapping the water. He ascended, his legs and arms shaking with the strain of battle and the fear of what he would find.
A jagged piece of the mast pinioned Jerick to the deck of the damaged ship.
“Everybody onto the other ship,” Kjell instructed, pushing through the few members of the crew and the King’s Guard who remained behind. “I’ll see to the lieutenant.”
“There’s not much time, Captain,” the coxswain implored. “And even if you free him, he’ll bleed out before you can do anything but toss him overboard.”
“Go,” Kjell bellowed, and the man stumbled back, nodding. “Get everyone off.”
He could hear the sea in his head, and his vision swam, but he lowered himself behind his lieutenant, listening and breathing, attempting to muster the strength he would need. Jerick regarded him, trying to smile, but pain bracketed his eyes and undermined his cocky smirk. Kjell laid his hands on Jerick’s chest, avoiding the stake protruding from his body, but withdrew his hands immediately, dismayed. All he heard was a smattering of disconnected cries.
“Your song is like a bloody flock of birds, Jerick! I can’t duplicate it,” Kjell groaned, desperate.
“I’ve always loved your drinking songs, Captain. Why don’t you sing me one of those?”
“Cease speaking, Jerick,” Kjell commanded, but Jerick’s impudence made him laugh, in spite of himself. He closed his eyes and curled his hands around the piece of the mast protruding from Jerick’s belly. He couldn’t make Jerick whole if there was a stick buried in him. Somehow he had to pull it free without killing the man.
Kjell ignored the groaning of the vessel, the cries of those urging him to abandon ship. He thought of the wound he’d carved on Jerick’s face, a mark inflicted to put him in his place. Kjell had wasted his gift. He hoped the insignificance of the wound he’d healed wouldn’t affect his ability to save Jerick’s life now. Jerick—disobedient, defiant, dependable, and dying.
Briefly Kjell wished for Sasha’s hand in his, but knew he didn’t need Sasha to help him find compassion for Jerick. Kjell loved Jerick. He loved him, and he could heal him. With a bellow for courage, he yanked the shaft free and cupped his hands over the bubbling blood that rose from the hole.
“You bloody son-of-a-bitch, Jerick. You will listen to me, Lieutenant. You will listen and do exactly as I say,” Kjell shouted.
Jerick had done as ordered and ceased speaking. His eyes were closed and his breaths shallow, no more energy for jest. Someone was shouting Kjell’s name, but he ignored them, pushing his fury and his fervor out his hands and into Jerick’s abdomen, commanding Jerick’s body to heal itself, to knit the flesh and mend the damage to every vessel and every vein, to every organ and orifice. He ordered Jerick’s body to remember and restore, to preserve and endure, and he sang a damned drinking song—Jerick’s favorite—bellowing the melody as he begged the boy to remain.
“Heave ho, back we go, the ale is coming to ya. Heave ho, back it goes, ale is flowing through ya,” Kjell sang, and imagined it w
as healing, not ale, flowing into his lieutenant, soaking him in life and light. The salt water stung Kjell’s eyes so he closed them tightly, feeling the heat in his hands and the vibrations in his palms.
And he sang, and he sang.
“Never mind, Captain,” Jerick breathed after the fifth chorus. Kjell’s eyes snapped open. Jerick was staring up at him cheekily. “I don’t really like your drinking songs. I’d rather hear about love and fair ladies.”
Kjell eased back, noting the pinking of Jerick’s skin and the genuine grin on his lips. His shredded tunic—gaping open where the mast had skewered his stomach—revealed new, unblemished skin streaked with gore and the bloody imprints of Kjell’s hands.
“I knew you cared, Captain,” Jerick muttered and inhaled deeply, as if celebrating the sensation. Kjell rolled to his back on the remains of the forecastle deck and began to laugh, weakly at first, then with lusty appreciation, howling gratefully until Jerick wobbled to his feet and extended his hand. Together, they stumbled to the rails and, with little finesse, tossed themselves overboard, trusting that their friends on the other ship would fish them out again.
***
When the final headcount was made, Peter, Gibbous, two sailors, and the second ship’s captain—Egen Barnaby—were missing and believed drowned. Five men buried at sea. Kjell took their deaths hard. Sasha took them harder, assuming responsibility for things she hadn’t seen or properly prepared them for, blaming herself for the voyage across the water and the perils of the unknown. Regardless of Kjell’s insistence that she could not manipulate fate, and Padrig’s reassurance that the voyage would help more people than it hurt, she held herself accountable.
The remaining ship, now carrying twice as many passengers as she had at the beginning of her journey, limped into the Bay of Dendar two days later. Unlike Jeru’s coast with its tropical trees and soft, sand beaches, Dendar’s shores were rocky with soaring cliffs and narrow inlets just wide enough to sail a ship down the corridor, a buffer from the sea.
Once past the corridor, the inlet widened again to a sprawling shoreline, revealing the signs of abandoned prosperity and the well-constructed docks that had once moored dozens of ships, big and small. Amid the staggering cliffs, the greenery was rich and resplendent, the trees creating a shadowy sentry above the rocks. Beyond the harbor, a spiked wall also attested to human settlement, though it wouldn’t have kept a single birdman from breaching the height and finding its prey.
As the ship entered the silent harbor, the travelers stood at the rails and waited, watching for signs of life before they moved to disembark. Empty structures and a desolate dock, it was Kilmorda without the ships marooned in the bay. Sasha was mute at the helm, as if she had expected as much, as if she’d seen the abandoned seaport.
“There are no ships,” Isak marveled.
“No. Those who could flee, did,” Padrig answered.
“And those who couldn’t?” Isak asked.
“They died. Or they hid. Or they spun themselves into something the Volgar wouldn’t eat.”
“There is no one here, Spinner,” Kjell said.
“We will go to Caarn,” Padrig soothed, as if that would rectify everything, but Sasha looked at the Spinner, her brow lowered, her eyes shuttered, and Padrig said no more.
Half of the sailors and the guard were lowered into the water on the longboats and rowed ashore, waiting on the docks for the ship to gently moor so lines could be tossed, the anchor dropped, and a gangplank lowered. Four years after Queen Saoirse had left Dendar, she returned, disembarking with the weary voyagers sent to escort her home. No one ran out to greet them, no citizens of Dendar showed themselves or stepped out from hiding places celebrating the arrival of the bedraggled delegation from Jeru or the return of their queen.
With the loss of one ship, everything had changed. Captain Lortimer and his crew would be forced to either wait in the harbor until the expeditioners returned, or they could join them. Captain Lortimer wasn’t eager to return to a sea with a creature who could drag a ship beneath the surface, but he still complained about his choices.
“I’m a bloody ship’s captain, not an explorer.” Lortimer grimaced. But he threw his lot in with Kjell, indicating he’d just as soon stay close to the man who could heal and kill with equal prowess. His sailors were quick to agree.
Kjell promised to intercede with King Tiras and convinced the men charged with going to Willa to remain with the group going to Caarn. There was strength in numbers, and too much was unknown. Faced with the reality of the expedition, staying together seemed the best option, and the travelers—minus the men they’d lost and the supplies and horses that had gone down with the ship—prepared for another journey. Wagons were unloaded and reassembled; enough horses remained to pull the wagons and the remaining gear, but the travelers would be walking to Caarn. All of them. The group was solemn, their outlook diminished, and their anxiety increased.
“It will take two days to travel inland to the valley of Caarn. But we aren’t going to have to climb cliffs and drag these wagons through the grass and trees,” Padrig encouraged. “There is a fine road, laid with stones. There are roads connecting every corner of Dendar. Caarn is at the apex with roots and branches spanning into the countries of Willa and Porta. The king, and his father before him, and his father before that, commissioned the roads, connecting the people to their king and his kingdom. Everything in Dendar is beautiful,” he boasted.
The silence wasn’t beautiful. It was eerie. Signs of the Volgar—strewn nests, the rare feather, and picked bones—were evident but old. No fresh remains, bird droppings, or stench littered the corners or clung to the air. A human skull, still attached to its long backbone like a macabre club, lay on the main thoroughfare. Someone had stayed behind in Dendar Bay, unwilling to run, and had met his death in the street he’d refused to abandon. A little farther down, the remains of several birdmen were piled, and Kjell hoped the skull they’d seen belonged to their slayer.
They split into groups and perused deserted alleys and peeked into abandoned cottages. A tavern with neatly stacked goblets and corked bottles coated in dust lured them with her grimy bounty. The sailors helped themselves—the guard too—yet celebration seemed wrong, and they walked, traipsing through the quiet harbor town sipping spirits and growing more morose as they searched.
Bags of grain, suspended from beams in the stable to keep them from the rats, remained untouched and unused. Volgar birdmen didn’t eat grain. Kjell and Jerick lowered the bags and fed the horses, loading what remained in the reassembled wagons to bring to Caarn. Kjell left coin in an empty sack and nailed it to the wall, just in case the owner ever came back and found his grain gone, his livery gutted of supplies.
“They intended to come back. It is easy to see. They’ve left almost everything behind. They intended to come back,” Sasha insisted. “The day I left, this village was teeming with people. There was fear, but there was also excitement, adventure.”
“Were these people Spinners too?” Kjell asked.
“Many of them . . . yes,” she replied.
“Where did they go? The ones who didn’t leave?”
“Everyone was going to Caarn. The king—Aren,” Sasha stumbled on the name, and Kjell sensed her discomfort, as if she betrayed the king with every word. “Aren wanted everyone together, just as you are urging us to do now.”
“But they haven’t come back. Surely . . . they would have come back, eventually,” he said.
“Yes. Unless they felt safer remaining. Unless . . . there is still danger.”
“But it isn’t that far. The wine, the grain, the homes with furnishings and belongings. Someone would have come back.” Kjell stopped. Sasha knew all these things and didn’t need the burden of his observations. He didn’t ask her what would happen if Caarn was as empty as the Bay of Dendar.
They reunited back at the docks, arms laden with discoveries. Half of the travelers from Jeru had lost everything they owned when the ship had
gone down. No one was using the clothing left behind or the blankets on the beds, but Kjell hoped they wouldn’t arrive in Caarn and have a shopkeeper recognize his boots.
“Chickens,” Isak gloated, holding the headless, plucked birds by their curled feet. “And Jedah has more. They were just running wild. Volgar will eat chickens. If there were Volgar here, there wouldn’t be chickens. It’s a good sign, right Captain?”
Kjell nodded slowly.
“Yes. A good sign, and an even better meal. The inn has a galley as big as a castle kitchen. Start a fire, Isak, and get the cook to help you. We’ll eat there tonight, and we’ll eat well. We’ll leave for Caarn in the morning.”
They found oil and tightly sealed barrels of flour in the inn’s stores and carried pails of heated water to the iron tubs of the well-appointed chambers. They ate like kings, filling their bellies with another man’s bread, washing themselves with another man’s soap, but that night, no one remained on shore except a few guards in the stables with the horses. Although beds and rooms were plentiful, the travelers chose to sleep on the ship, stretched out on the deck in nervous reverence of a bay that felt more like a burial ground.
Sasha slept in the quarters she’d occupied for much of the journey, and Kjell guarded her door, stretched out in the narrow corridor on a pallet that barely fit in the space. Jerick would relieve him halfway through the night so he could get some sleep, but he wouldn’t grow complacent simply because they’d made it to Dendar. He dreamed of the squid, his lance protruding from its soft underside, sinking into the depths and, at the last moment, changing into Ariel of Firi with dead eyes and lifeless limbs. But he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t make himself believe the threat was truly gone.
An hour after the ship grew quiet and the lapping of the water started to make him drowsy, Sasha’s door opened and she stepped out, gently closing it behind her. He sat up as she sat down, facing him, drawing her knees to her chest, the only option in the constricted passage. Her nightgown was an ivory silk and modest in every way, but her toes peeked out beneath the hem, and his stomach clenched with longing. He stroked the soft skin of one dainty foot before he forced himself to withdraw his hand.