The Princess Beard

by Kevin Hearne

  Feng and his three pale friends would be useful, and Luc felt a little better about the crew. Between them, Qobayne, Milly Dread, his regular salty dogs, and a new, heavily muscled youth called Brawny Billy, he doubted anything catastrophic would happen in day-to-day sailing. But he didn’t know if the untested crew would ultimately prove useful or disastrous when they ran into trouble, and he relished that uncertainty, the not-knowing if one would be adequately prepared. Sailing directly into trouble was easy and therefore boring; surviving and sailing out again was where all the fun could be had, and Luc was a pirate parrot who liked to have himself a bit of fun.

  It was possible he’d talked up the treasure while failing to mention the worst of the obstacles they would face on the way there. Luc laughed to himself. The new crew would either shape up quick or fill the belly of a sea monster. If they didn’t like those odds, they shouldn’t have been born without wings.

  Vic was glad to jib the yardarm or yubnub the squidward, or whatever Qobayne was instructing him to do, as it meant he could turn his hindquarters on the grouchy dryad and her murderous bearded friend. He’d thought that the people he met outside the Centaur Pastures would look at him, tally up his size, muscles, and general air of danger, and acknowledge his natural physical superiority, possibly even ask for his autograph. He had not expected to encounter quite so much opposition, especially out of smaller specimens with more noodly arms. It seemed like every time he acted like the lead stallions did back home, he earned derision instead of respect—and got assigned to swabbing duty again. The flames he’d had painted on his hooves had been washed away with salty water within days, and the sea air made his mullet all frizzy and exacerbated his asthma.

  Apparently there was a reason more centaurs didn’t seek solace on the sea.

  “Listen up, landlubbers!” Qobayne shouted. “All apologies for the interruption, but it’s time to talk about what’s to come. If this short trip across Dorf Bay didn’t drain you too much, you can stay on board for the much longer, more tempestuous trip from Lårpendrånk, through the Serpent and Myn Seas, past the Proudwood Lighthouse, across the Urchin Sea, and down to Bustardo. If that sort of extended sea journey gives you an aneurysm, you can walk right off this ship and stay away.” He focused on each sailor, and Vic struggled not to quail under the man’s sharp gaze. “But if you’re a certain breed, ready to dive deep and embrace the sea, Captain Luc invites you to come as you are, land legs and all, and become the sailor you were meant to be.” He looked around and leaned forward conspiratorially. “But don’t be dumb and call the captain Polly, or you might as well be kissing sharks.”

  This was not Qobayne’s first speech, and as always, as if the man had some sort of inborn magical charisma, Vic found himself nodding along. He could do this. He could become seaworthy. He had to. It was the fastest way to Mack Guphinne and the chance to rid himself of his tea magic. Why, he’d nearly splurted sugar cubes when the dryad had accidentally run into him, and that would’ve been the end of his time on the crew. They’d start calling him Sugarfingers or Babycakes and he’d be back on land at Lårpendrånk, surrounded by swole, homicidal dwarves and hunting for yet another ship, with possibly a more vicious captain, who demanded fickels instead of a bit of light swabbing as payment for passage. And the land route—well, he’d be forced to journey back through the Centaur Pastures, where he’d dramatically sworn to never set foot again in a massive flounce, or to enter the terrifying Morningwood, peopled by sneaky elves who loved to torture and spook centaurs with snake puppets, or to venture forth into the mountains, where the gryphons were said to despise the centaurs as abominations and screech sonnets at them.

  No, it was the sea or nothing, which meant it was the sea.

  He kept to himself, did as he was told, spoke to no one, and made it safely to Lårpendrånk. While the rest of the crew went on land to do whatever bipeds did, Vic stayed on board, loudly proclaiming that he would guard the ship. The captain gave him that strange, dead-eyed parrot look but allowed it, leaving Qobayne behind as well, which was fine with Vic. The boatswain was fair if a bit melancholy, and he spent most of his alone time playing dolorous tunes on a ukulele and then smashing the ukulele against a barrel before producing a new ukulele the next day. Vic supposed he must get them wholesale from the same craftsmen who supplied instruments to dwarvelish thrash-uke bands, who broke their ukuleles on the skulls of delighted audience members at the end of every show. (He did not understand why anyone would pay to attend an event where they might leave with a concussion, but centaurs and dwarves had many cultural divides to bridge, starting with the dwarves’ insistence that hunting centaurs while on Meadschpringå was a good idea.)

  When everyone returned to the ship that night, jolly and tipsy, they brought along a quartet of solid, beefy dwarves, each armed with a murderous-looking stave and a magnificent beard that made Vic very self-conscious of the scraggly goatee he’d managed to cultivate. They hauled on board strange, smallish cannons on wheels and what looked like thickly padded mops, or possibly wooden spears wrapped up in canvas. No one mentioned the odd luggage, so Vic assumed it was something normal for dwarves, perhaps used for beard care or centaur bashing. If there was one thing he knew, it was that showing interest in others and asking personal questions only made him seem less authoritative, so he remained committed to being the strong-but-silent-unless-lightly-bumped-and-then-whoo-boy-look-out type.

  The next morning, they set sail on calm seas, the boat cutting the water like room-temperature butter as it billowed toward a sunrise the color of a ripe tomato. It made Vic a bit uneasy, since he’d never really liked butter or tomatoes, and when he looked to the captain, the parrot wore an inscrutable expression that suggested he was thinking dark thoughts or was ravenously hungry for some sunflower seeds. But the boat didn’t change course, and if the crew was quieter than usual, that only served to help Vic maintain his own silence and not accidentally produce an éclair while fidgeting nervously.

  He was getting used to the ocean and to his place on the ship.

  Except…

  It finally hit him when the fussy dryad lady turned to her disturbingly competent friend and declared, “You know, I’ve never been out of sight of land before.”

  And it was true. They were nowhere near land. The ocean went on and on in every direction, deep and blue and vast. And Vic was a heavy centaur. Who couldn’t swim.

  As this realization hit home, a masculine and musky sweat broke out across his sunburned shoulders and the back of his mullet-protected neck, while a cool chill ran down his spine. His nipples puckered up and his rear sphincter went loose, which seemed like the opposite of what would be useful in a fight. When he’d put together his plan to sail down to the Macks and find his destiny, he hadn’t really thought about the weeks he would spend on a creaking wooden ship, barely able to walk without tripping over his own horseshoes and making a fool out of himself—much less what would happen if he somehow fell or was forced off the ship. He’d always gone through life assuming that if any interaction went badly, he could extricate himself through just the right insult, or, barring that, just the right kick to a solar plexus, or, barring that, turning his tail, dropping a few apples for emphasis, and sauntering and/or cantering away. He’d never considered that his only options were dealing with the problem at hand or leaping to his death in a briny sea.

  Vic’s heart began to thunder and clatter, his hooves echoing the sound as they clicked and clacked, dancing against the boards of the ship. He felt his hindquarters bunch up, and without meaning to, he began walking backward in little circles, his front hooves lifting of their own volition, threatening to rear. A dribble of Juicy Jukai tea oozed out of his fingertips.

  “Vic? Are you okay?” Morgan asked softly, keeping her distance as the dryad lady raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed.

  “Yeah. Totally chill. But, you know. Can’t, uh. Can’t see the land. Lik
e, at all. But that’s fine. I can be a seahorse, right? Heh heh. I’m tough. I can deal. This is not…this is not a problem. This is just the chillest thing ever. I am soooo comfortable right now.”

  Morgan stepped forward and put a hand on his forearm, and he whipped it away right before a shortbread biscuit plopped out of his palm. The girl didn’t step back, though. Her voice was so low he could barely hear it over the snap of the sails and the slap of the sea. “Breathe, Vic. Breathe in for a count of four, hold it, breathe out for a count of six. Or you’re going to—”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Centaurs can’t barf,” he informed her, failing utterly to breathe deeply and starting to wheeze a little.

  “I was going to say that you’re going to stomp a hole in the deck if you don’t chill. Or you could wake up the—”

  “I am chill!” he screeched. “Totally very much chill, okay, thank you!”

  “Shh!”

  “Okay, but you can’t just shush me. You’re not my mom! Or a librarian! Or my mom’s librarian!”

  Morgan’s teeth clenched, and she looked out at the ocean and snatched his flailing wrist and hissed, “We’re on the Myn Seas, Vic. If you keep squealing, you’re going to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  At that, Vic flooded with defensive aggression, a far more comfortable feeling than fear. “Yeah? And what’s the wrong kind of attention?”

  The ship heaved to the side, forcing Vic to scramble to avoid bowling over Morgan and her dryad friend, and something broke the surface of the water, rising high overhead.

  “That kind of attention!” the dryad wailed.

  “Sea serpents?” Vic screeched. “Oh, gods, oh, gods, we’re all going to die!”

  “Didn’t you listen to anything Captain Luc said last night?” the dryad muttered. “Sea serpents in the Myn Seas? How they hate loud noises and being disturbed? How we brought on casks of special chocolate to keep them soothed so they wouldn’t attack? Milly Dread’s been dropping truffles in our wake for hours.”

  Vic’s horsey half was in a full-on panic now, stamping and jigging willy-nilly. “I wasn’t with the captain last night! I was here! I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Did you not notice the red skies this morning?”

  “Sure I noticed! Even centaurs can notice the sky!”

  The dryad shook her head in a disappointed sort of way. “That old chestnut—”

  Finally, something Vic understood. “My dam was a chestnut!”

  “Vic, really, shut up. It goes: Red skies at night, sailor’s delight. Red skies at breakfast, toss chocolate and sail fast.”

  Vic refrained from mentioning that since he found hardtack unbearable, he avoided the breakfast table and usually found a quiet spot where no one else could see him use his magic to produce a nice cup of Baoshu Mist and some protein-based tea cakes. He’d never learned the little ditty about the skies, and he’d never heard anything about sea serpents being actually really real and not just another joke by the elves, who loved to spread false maps and lead unsuspecting travelers into stink holes or overpriced troll toll bridges.

  He was about to explain all this to the dryad at length, as he felt it very important that everyone know what was and was not his fault at all times, but Captain Luc shouted, “Code Red!” and the deck went insane, the previous premium on silence utterly forgotten. The captain began flapping his wings and screeching orders that made no sense and contained at least twice the usual amount of Rs, and Feng and Qobayne scurried all over, translating the captain’s commands and putting people to work. No one shouted at Vic to do anything, so he backed up until his rump was against the mizzenmast and watched the terror unfold as some mighty beast thrashed and circled the boat, causing it to sway in a way that made Vic wish he could vomit, after all.

  Morgan and the dryad ran to where two of the new dwarves were unpacking their contraption. It looked much like a cannon but was on big wheels, which the dwarves blocked with special wedges once the black iron tube was in place and facing the huge, snakelike red beast rearing over the boat. The nearest cannon had AUNT FLO written on one side, and the other one said merely TOM. As Morgan and the dryad aimed their tube, one dwarf stuffed a canvas-wrapped spear into the cannon’s mouth and the other set to lighting a candle, which Vic considered a total waste of time, given the current predicament. With red, callused hands, the dwarf rammed the fabric-wrapped end of the spear tightly into the tube and fitted a wicked-looking metal hook over the wooden butt of the spear, then gently eased the ladies out of the way so he could expertly aim the peculiar weapon.

  “Light the rags!” the dwarf shouted, and the other dwarf shouted back, “Rags glad and ready!” He held his candle to a short fuse, and both dwarves doubled over, hands over their ears.

  “It’s gonna get a bit explosive and temperamental, my good friends!” one cried, and everyone nearby covered their ears except for Vic, who needed to prove that he had exceptionally durable eardrums.

  The moments ticked by. An enormous head at the end of a long, sinuous neck wavered over the boat. The beast was a dark liver crimson, and its head looked a bit like a weasel crossed with an angry snake. Its eyes were a sick, acid yellow with evil black slits for pupils. Opening its foul mouth to show sharklike rows of teeth, it hissed and spit globs of sticky brown acid at the boat.

  “That acid’ll eat everrrrything!” Luc shouted. “Keep back!”

  Vic was horrified and disgusted, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, so he stood his ground and stamped like he meant it.

  “Your ears, Pony Boy!” a dwarf called, and Vic put his hands over his ears just to shut the dude up. “Things are about to get grouchy.”

  Boom!

  The spear exploded from the cannon, the hook lodging in the beast’s neck with a spurt of deep-red blood that colored the dark-blue water below. A dastardly invention, Vic thought, just the thing a brilliant man would create.

  “A solid hit!” the captain crowed. “Team TOM, light the fuse!”

  The other cannon went off, its hook lodging in the monster’s cheek and causing it to shriek and thrash. As the hideous head flailed on its scaly neck, it flopped over the side of the ship, sweeping one of the dwarves overboard and causing the other dwarf to shake his fist and shout, not with an incoherent bellow of grief but with ardent poetry, “Maddening beast of the Myn Seas! You have claimed my bosom friend! To the last I grapple with thee; from Pell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee!”

  “Everybody’s so dramatic during the crimson tide,” someone said with an annoyed sigh.

  “What are those things?” Vic asked Milly Dread. The little old lady had suddenly appeared at his side, arms crossed as she watched the scene unfold with that sort of experienced curiosity that suggested she had evaded death long enough to hope it had conveniently forgotten her. “Those weapons?”

  “Tampoons,” she said. “Only thing to control the monsters of the Myn Seas. Them dwarves are specialists, see? They’re veteran tampoonists who hire on with ships along this route, bring their cannons, watch the moon’s path, and leave gore in their wake.”

  “But it’s so…gross,” Vic protested.

  Milly shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you think about it, kid. It’s gonna keep on happening as it always has, whether you like it or not, ain’t it? At least we’ll eat well tonight.”

  “We’re going to eat sea monster?” Vic cringed. He hated seafood.

  “Nah. Sharks; they come to eat the monsters, and we’ll have meat to last for days. It’s always shark week when we sail the Myn Seas.”

  Vic pranced to the port side and peered over the rail, where he spied sharp gray fins cutting through the water. Frij and Mort whooped and tossed fishing lines down into the churning waves, and Frij’s line jerked the moment it hit.

  “I got me one!�
�� he shouted. “Stand back, it’s a big’un!”

  He began yanking in the line as Mort grumbled by his side, his line ignored by the sharks. Then, in a flash of red as quick as lightning, the sea monster’s bleeding head careened around, its jaws snapping into Frij’s midsection and drawing him down into the sea, screaming all the while.

  “Frij! Nooooo!” Feng wailed, running to the rail and extending an ineffective arm after his chum, who was now literally chum.

  Without a word, Mort pulled his line in, sweat dripping down his bald head. “Not in the mood for shark tonight,” he muttered. “Weevily biscuit’s lookin’ pretty foine.” Queefqueg snickered nearby, which was mostly what he seemed to do, but this soon proved to be false bravado, as his expression crumbled and he dissolved into sobs, moaning, “Friiiiij. He was me mate, he was!”

  Vic shuffled anxiously away, as if feelings and weakness were contagious. But he’d accidentally shuffled toward the dwarves.

  “Hey, Knock-Knees!” the nearest dwarf called, and Vic’s knees did knock as he realized the dwarf was talking to him.

  “Who, me?”

  “I need your strong arms over here.”

  “For what?”

  The dwarf’s bushy eyebrows drew down. “For standing around, looking swole and uncomfortable. Honestly, kid, use it or lose it. This next tampoon is a super one, I’ve lost my partner, and I could use your leverage.”

  Vic couldn’t think of a single excuse that didn’t exude cowardice, so he stepped forward on sliding hooves. The boat was rocking with the sea monster’s flailings; red-stained water sloshed over the wood and mixed with an unfortunate puddle of Khotran sweet tea. He made it to the dwarf’s side.