by Kevin Hearne
“Pull out the biggest one,” the dwarf said, indicating the thickest spear.
Vic nodded, reminding himself that he could do this. His hands closed around the wood, and after a good bit of tugging that showed off his vascularity, it plunked out.
“Now stuff the end in the cannon.”
It was calming, actually, to just do what the dwarf said, instead of watching the rest of the crew swipe at the sea serpent with swords and other tiny weapons as its bleeding, furious head snapped and bashed into the ship. Queefqueg was now unconscious, having been knocked into a barrel, and Morgan had a vicious splinter in her arm, while several other crew members had taken minor injuries and were wailing about it. Vic had never seen such a dangerous creature, and he could not have been more grateful that sailing the Myn Seas wasn’t generally his lot in life.
It took some work, but he managed to get the super tampoon stuffed into the cannon. The dwarf seemed pleased enough with his work.
“Now stand back and plug your ears,” the dwarf instructed as he fit another wicked hook atop the weapon, and Vic was happy to oblige, retreating to Milly Dread’s side as the dwarf aimed the tampoon and lit the cannon’s fuse.
“Fire in the hole!” the dwarf called, and then, again, that massive boom! rattled Vic’s bones and gave him a headache.
The super tampoon flew through the air, and its pronged hook lodged in the serpent’s eye, making the dwarf shout and pump his fist in victory.
“We got it!” the dwarf shouted. “It’s a gusher!”
As if in agreement, the sea monster gave a final surge and fell over backward in a bubbling mass of blood and shark fins. Its shimmering scales sank down below the surface, and the entire crew held their breath as they waited to see if it would rise again for one more unwelcome splurt. It died with gurgling shrieks and a boil of splashing red, and a mighty cheer arose.
“Quiet, fools!” the captain cawed. “Do ye want to arrrrouse anotherrrr monsterrrr?”
The ship went silent, and Feng and Qobayne went from person to person, whispering orders, though Feng was still a tearful mess at the loss of his friend Frij. Vic was not surprised to be ordered to swab the deck. That’s all they seemed to think his massive guns were good for—endless swabbing.
“Good job, friend,” the dwarf said, slapping him lightly on the foreleg in a manly way. “It takes at least two dwarves to stuff the cannon, and you got it in one go!”
Earned pride was a new feeling for Vic, and he felt a wide smile spread across his features. “Hey, I did, didn’t I?”
“One might almost forget that it was your shouting that brought down the wrath of the beast,” the dryad said dryly.
“I wasn’t shouting.” It was almost a screech, but Vic caught himself, cleared his throat, and turned it into more of an angry grumble.
“Hey, it’s okay to make mistakes,” Morgan said, stopping as she rolled a barrel along the deck. “And it’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too. I’ve never been this far away from home. And…we just fought a sea monster. I lit a cannon.” A grin broke out on her face. “We’re really part of the crew. We helped out. We didn’t mess up. And it feels amazing!”
Much to Vic’s surprise, she spontaneously hugged him, her cheek landing right against his horsey chest in a way that was only slightly awkward. In return, he patted her on the back and muttered, “Good game, buddy.”
The dwarf by Vic’s side was counting his leftover tampoons, and he looked over with a weary sigh. “You all did well, yes. But let’s not forget what was lost. Mo was my friend, and he got washed overboard. We’ve been riding the scarlet seas as a duo for ten years. We were the best around—Team Maxi Rad, we called ourselves. It’s easy to forget that the sea is an unforgiving mistress. The smallest lump of chance can be the difference between victory and tragedy.” He looked over the railing. “Goodbye, my friend Mo Trynn. You were a valiant fighter. You loved hygiene and a good shave and tea cakes with a dribble of honey mead on a warm summer night. I will carry on, but I will miss you. And I’ll think of you once a month, on this day, for the rest of my life. Chum to chum.”
Vic walked to his side and looked over the railing at the sea below. It was calming, the red fading.
“Mo Trynn did a good job. He was a good dude,” Vic said in a way that he hoped was kind but also manly. Without really thinking, without looking down, he exerted his magic and held out an exquisitely decorated chocolate tea cake to the dwarf.
The dwarf tore off half the cake and tossed it into the water below, where it sank with a pretty blurble. Then he stuffed the remainder in his mouth. “A fittin’ tribute,” he said, his words muffled by globs of sugar, flour, and cocoa. “Mo loved chocolate.” Once he’d swallowed, he glanced up at Vic, his head cocked. “Say, you and me might make a good team. How’d you like to join up? Use those guns for good? Join Team Maxi Rad? My name is Skånki Jorts.”
A shark’s fin surfaced and disappeared far below, and Vic shivered. Not only because of the sharks, but because of dwarves. Even if Skånki had never hunted down a centaur personally, he almost certainly had a relative or friend who had, and his culture considered it acceptable. Vic would most likely never feel safe around a dwarf. And lastly, well…it was just so icky. Although he knew nature could be strange—he’d once seen two giraffes mating, for Pell’s sake—the Myn Seas were simply too disgusting to bear.
“Thanks, Skånki, but no thanks. The Myn Seas are super gross.”
The dwarf’s response was unexpected and swift. He drew back, looking affronted and angry.
“Life is gross,” he said simply. “It’s bloody and messy and, yes, sometimes dangerous. If you let fear hold you back—”
“It’s not fear! It’s just—”
“It is fear, son.” Skånki sighed and tugged his beard. “You can tell yourself it’s disgusting all you like, but the truth is that the sight of blood reminds us that we’re mortal. That we can get hurt. That we can die. Blood reminds us that we’re all made of meat. If you’re not manly enough to face a puddle of blood, how can you ever truly find balance within yourself? How can you ever truly connect with anyone else? Strength comes from vulnerability. Every time I sail these seas, I remember how lucky I am to be alive, even when it’s messy.”
Vic’s throat had tightened, and his hooves were dancing again. He had to change topics before the dwarf really said something uncomfortable. “Well, I already have a destiny waiting for me down in the Several Macks, and I definitely don’t want to get Frijjed.”
The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow before turning to his cannon. “If you say so.”
But secretly, Vic was pleased at the invitation. Sure, he’d accidentally called down the wrath of a sea serpent and gotten at least two people eaten. But then he’d helped fight the serpent and ostensibly saved lives after he imperiled them. And he’d done so well that he’d gotten a job offer on the spot. He wouldn’t think about Skånki’s words too much. He just needed a good workout to get him back to feeling normal again instead of…well, whatever was making his insides feel like jelly right now. Adrenaline, probably.
Vic didn’t know what he’d do after he’d visited Mack Guphinne and gotten rid of his tea magic, but he was certain it wouldn’t involve tampoons. Period.
Sometimes, Alobartalus thought, an elf just needs a vacation. Not from being fabulous or desirable or elvish, of course, but from the monotony of existence. New experiences were necessary! Maybe he should try a Drinks ’n’ Diapers Day of Debauchery, a package deal made famous by the resort city of Humptulips in honor of Pell’s last king, Benedick, who had spent much of his benevolent reign diapered and slobbering drunk.
Or maybe Alobartalus could check into a dwarvelish spa for a few days and let them turn his muscles into butter with their massages and baths and magical skin-care regimens, which might include actual butter for all he knew.
O
r perhaps—just supposing!—he could find a ship willing to sail south along the Siren Sn’archipelago and drop him off at the tower of the Sn’archivist. That would be the absolute best, but he had to admit it wasn’t likely. Most ships headed south from Proudwood Lighthouse hugged the coast of the continent, since the siren grottoes were deadly and there was little else in the archipelago to attract much traffic.
Regardless, Alobartalus was going to go somewhere soon. He’d sent a notice to his uncle that he’d be taking a month off, since he had about ten months of leave accrued, and as such the lighthouse would need a decent docent to stand in during his absence. He was going to lock up the lighthouse behind him, and there would be no steady drip of profits from the sale of Enchanted Morningwood Rods if the king didn’t provide some relief.
Until he left, however, Alobartalus was expected to maintain order on the island. As if on cue, a tidy gnomeric pudding chef who worked in the kitchen of one of the island’s watering holes, the Grog Bog, knocked smartly upon his door and apologized politely for the interruption. He then announced that there was a pale, disconsolate, weeping human with red hair and freckles stumbling near the lighthouse, scaring all the local gnomes (which was, in fact, only him) and shouting at the puffin colony nesting in the rocks. Alobartalus sighed and followed the pudding chef outside.
“See?” the gnome pointed to a clearly inebriated man swaying on his feet and gesticulating at the puffins, who did not understand why he was there or what he wanted. The man had a dangerously large bottle of something in his hand—Alobartalus guessed it was either terrible rum or excellent rum, because that was how pirates liked it. If something was terrible they could complain and curse, and if it was excellent they could brag and curse, but if it was mediocre it left them nothing to do but grunt. They liked having a reason to curse.
Alobartalus was all for letting people do what they wished, except when it started scaring the pudding chef and threatening their supply of free-range, rock-grown, readily available puffin meat. He felt obliged to intervene. It would not be the first time he’d pulled such duty, nor the last; as a young elf in ranger service, he had encountered plenty of drunk humans while working at the Sylvan Port. The elves were amused to welcome mariners on their shore leave, because they invariably wished to be doused in sticky fluids and glitter and get smashed on elvish flower wine. The humans looked ridiculous and woke up with killer hangovers and no money, because the elves cheerfully robbed them once they passed out. No one ever seemed to mind, however; the humans simply lied to save face, bragging that they had experienced a legendary night of debauchery among a harem of elvish lasses. Which only brought more humans with more cash. This system worked out well for all involved.
Alobartalus sidled up to the human, who was dressed in a green waistcoat and in the midst of a long tirade demanding that the puffins do something.
“Ye all jest stand there with your beaks out, doin’ nothin’, when there’s an ongoing crisis jest northa here! Ye could be doin’ somethin’! Ye should! But, noooo, you’re bloody puffins, aren’t ye? Think you’re special. Think ye don’t have any responsibility.” The human had streaks of tears running down his reddened, freckled face. Alobartalus didn’t appreciate how very similar they looked; it was like seeing himself, unelfly and awkward, in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Still, he had to keep the peace, or else the puffins would grow gristly with annoyance.
“Pardon me, good sir, but is there something I can help you with?” Alobartalus asked. “I don’t wish to invade your privacy, but I’m concerned for your welfare.” And for the terrified stiffening and chewiness of stressed puffin meat, which we’d all prefer to be soft and atrophied by a lack of responsibility, he privately added.
“Can ye bring Frij back to life?” the pirate practically shouted. “Because that would be a great help. But nobody can help. Because Frij is dead, D-E-D!”
Alobartalus opened his mouth to point out the rather egregious spelling error, but the pirate barreled on before he could interrupt.
“He was me friend. But now he’s just anudder victim of the crimson tide. Almost got me too, but the tampoo—urp!—tampoonist stanched that bloody monster of the Myn Seas first.” Aggrieved by intense memories, the sailor began to suck in and exhale deep breaths through his nose, as his chin quivered and his eyes welled with fresh tears. With each exhalation a thin snake of green snot peeked out of his nostril and lounged on his upper lip, until he breathed in again and the snotsnake was sucked back up into his nose. “An’ the worst thing is, nobody else seems to care about me friend Frij! ’Bout how he died like that! Actin’ like it’s jest normal!”
“Oh, no, I’m very sorry to hear that. What ship was this?”
The sailor wobbled on his feet and belched again, a fresh wave of alcohol sloshing through his bloodstream and slaying uncounted brain cells. His speech noticeably deteriorated.
“Wuzza Puffy Peach,” he slurred.
“The Puffin Peach? Is that why you’re out here shouting at puffins?”
“No, The Puffy Peach. Under Captain Filthy Lucre. Goin’ after trezzure.”
“Ah! Sailing south along the coast?”
“No, we gonna go through the archipeladough. Archipelatoe?”
“Sn’archipelago.”
“Dazzit,” the human said, waggling a finger at him. “That thing you said.”
“But why not sail down the coast? The Siren Sn’archipelago is dangerous.”
“Captain is wanted. He’s the Clean Pirate Luc, y’see.”
Alobartalus raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve heard of him! And what’s your name?”
“Me? I’m—urp!—I’m Queefqueg.”
“It’s a pleasure. Listen, Queefqueg, could your ship use another experienced sailor?”
“Prolly, I dunno. I mean, yeah! Because we lost Frij!” The man’s face flushed again with remembered grief as he bared his teeth and pointed at the puffins. “And they didn’t do anything to help! Go ahead and join the crew and maybe you’ll get Frijjed too, and these dirty birds will sit here and go fishing and not care a smidge.”
“Come on. I’ll buy you some fresh rum and a raisin pudding, and then we’ll go see the captain.”
“No, ugh. I hate raisins. Nature’s shriveled boogers, they is.” Queefqueg abruptly vomited and Alobartalus deftly took a few steps to the right to avoid getting splashed. This was not his first consultation with a drunken pirate.
“Some other pudding, then. The Grog Bog has the best gnomeric pudding chef in the midwest! I promise you’ll feel better.”
“What about the puffins?”
“Not to worry, my good man: Someone will eat them, sooner rather than later.”
“That’s good. Solves that porblem. Ye know, you’re not bad for an elf.”
Alobartalus hid his smile. The man was drunk, sunburned, and covered in vomit, but at least he knew an elf when he saw one. “So I’ve been told. Shall we?”
Queefqueq allowed himself to be steered a couple of blocks to the Grog Bog, an unusually clean pirate haunt, due to the fastidious natures of its dwarvelish owners and the fussy gnomeric pudding chef. But it did have appropriately dingy lighting, décor of the rusted-anchor variety, an appropriate amount of crusty netting hanging in corners, and wooden benches as likely to give one splinters as to support one’s weight. And the clientele was raucous, unshaved, and unwashed but gently sprinkled with antibacterial deodorant spray on their way through the door.
“Is your captain here?” Alobartalus asked as they entered. Queefqueg paused to scan the room.
“Lemme look. Yep! Over there in the corner.” He pointed at a youngish man who looked like he might hail from Teabring or the Seven Toe Islands, with a bright-red-and-yellow parrot perched on his shoulder. He wasn’t dressed in the trappings of a captain, but Alobartalus had heard that the Clean Pirate Luc was a bit unusual.
&n
bsp; Queefqueg wobbled as he escorted Alobartalus to the table and said, “Cap’n, thish elf is innerested in signing on with us.”
Alobartalus beamed at the young man and said, “Captain, I understand you might be sailing south?”
The man smiled back wryly. “I’m not the captain. I’m the first mate, Feng Zhu Ye.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I was misinformed.” Alobartalus tried not to blush, although he knew he was going to blush anyway. He glanced around the room, hoping to see a big floppy hat or a hook hand or some other indication of captain-ness.
Feng hooked a thumb at the parrot on his shoulder. “This is Captain Filthy Lucre.”
Alobartalus said nothing. He just stood there, slack-jawed, trying to figure out if this was a joke or not. Then the parrot spoke.
“Why arrrre ye interrrrested in wherrrre we sail?” he asked, sounding a lot more amused than a parrot had any right to be.
But Alobartalus was an elf, which meant he’d dealt with plenty of people who had immense power but looked like walking jokes—and the opposite of that as well.
“I’d like to visit the tower of the Sn’archivist and pitch in with ship’s duties along the way.”
“An elvish pirrrrate?”
“An elvish sailor. I may not look it, but I am an expert seaman of the Morningwood, and I’ve got a lot of spunk.”
“What do ye mean by experrrrt? That ye can swim if needed?”
“Oh, yes, I am an excellent swimmer. Remarkable stamina. Very motile. But I can also tie all the knots you’d care to name, and more than one captain has admired the cut of my jib.”
“Have ye any cerrrrtifications, any way I can know ye have competencies without testing ye for hourrrrs? We’ve just finished trrrraining up the new crrrrew, ye see.”