It hurt—oh, it hurt.
He needed the cane, though. It was his only weapon.
So when the troll drew back, prepared to swing again, Jasen gritted his teeth, and prepared himself for it.
THWAP!
There was no preparing himself for it, none at all. The pain drew to a crescendo as the cane came down between his fingers again—
But he grasped it, tight, like a wrench around a nut—
And he stumbled backward. Trusting his muscles to do what they needed to—they didn’t seem to be responding at all, in truth—he pulled away from the troll, hoping that, though its grip was undoubtedly stronger than his own, he had caught it off guard—
And he had. The cane came free, brushing past gnarled, thick skin, the only true resistance—
The troll’s eyes—its eye—grew wide. It groped for him—
He was already clear. Grimacing at it—damn, this pain, it was like he’d been slapped with the sun itself—he grasped the cane tight, bent it into the shape of an arch—
It snapped into two jagged points.
Jasen gripped either end—his improvised spears, probably two feet long each—in one hand.
“I’ll say it one more time,” he wheezed. “Get off of this boat.”
“VERMIN BOY!”
Jasen gritted his teeth. “Have it your way, then.”
He flung himself at it.
The troll grabbed for him, but
Jasen ducked. He dodged. He weaved, sidestepping every blind thrust of an arm, a fist—
He shoved into a blind spot.
The troll glared at him with its one good eye—for a second. Then Jasen plunged the spear into it, hard.
The troll roared—not a boom of rage, but its own agonized cry, belted from a haggard throat. Jasen was entirely forgotten as it grasped for the spear, now buried a good four inches into its face—
Jasen dodged backward, releasing it.
No longer holding itself onto the deck, now both of its hands were occupied, the troll tilted backward again.
Jasen took his chance. Sprinting to close the short distance again, he leapt, sailing a hard kick straight into the troll’s chin—
“ARGH!” it boomed—and over it went, backward, a flurry of mad limbs.
Still connected to the netting by its feet, it fell backward in an arc. It slammed into the side of the war galley, and its head and shoulders landed in the water with a deep splosh.
It pulled itself out though, the muscles of its stomach tightening.
Damn this.
Jasen took a second to peer around. The Lady Vizolans—Kosi was down too now, lying sprawled against one of the masts, his head twisted in the wrong direction and a crimson slit running from his throat down to his navel. Not far distant from him was a Prenasian man—and the angle of his head was wrong too. A pool of blood spread from under him, one glazed eye looking across it like a man across the sea.
They’d managed to find a key, the Lady Vizolans. From one of the downed Prenasians, Jasen assumed—maybe that first captain. A handful of them were free, Medleigh among them. They wielded swords, striking out at the three Prenasians who were left.
The fourth was still engaged with Kuura. He loomed over the Lady Vizolan man with the sword poised at his neck—Jasen felt a bolt of renewed panic—but then Kuura rolled, the sword missed him, and he swung out both of his legs, striking his adversary about the knees. The Prenasian yelped—then he was not just tipped but thrown sideways, the sword flying loose—
Huanatha pressed against the rail enclosing the upper deck. Rakon had his sword pointed at her throat. He was speaking—and his teeth were bloodied. She’d got a good hit in, maybe.
She swung out a foot. Tall and long-legged as she was, it was long enough to shoot straight into Rakon’s balls.
He half crumpled, half staggered forward, stabbing out with the sword—
Huanatha ducked it, kicking it out of his grip. It spun in the air, landing farther up the deck—
They scrambled for it, both of them.
Jasen turned back. Everyone was engaged, everyone occupied. And still no sign of Longwell—though he must surely be finished soon; killing all the men on this boat could not take so long, could it? But of course it could—there were dozens of them, probably over a hundred. And this battle upon the deck had not taken very long yet. It was still early into the mutiny, above and below deck.
So Jasen was on his own against this troll.
Well, fight it alone he would.
Stepping to the edge of the boat, he clambered down into the nets, his one remaining spear held tight.
The troll glared up at him—or at least it would have if it had any eyes left to do it with. The spear embedded in the bloody crater that was its right eye was gone, perhaps fallen into the water. The troll, at least, did not grasp it.
It must have felt Jasen upon the nets, the way a spider does when a fly entangles itself within its web, for it aimed its head right in Jasen’s direction.
It said something in a low rumble. Must be speaking in its own language, whatever that was—Prenasian, Jasen assumed. Perhaps it was not as dumb a creature as it looked.
It was about to be a dead creature, though.
Jasen staggered down the netting. It was a sheer drop, perfectly vertical—although if he did fall, he would land atop the troll, he supposed.
He did not intend to drop.
He descended lower.
The troll rumbled. It was flailing about, trying to right itself. Its hands groped for the netting, so that it could lever itself back up.
Jasen wouldn’t permit it.
He got to within striking distance of the feet. Both were trapped in the same stretch of net. How, Jasen could not imagine. But they were a tangle about the troll’s ankles.
Holding himself in place with one hand, he brought the cane down amongst the tangle.
The troll jerked as the sharp end dug against its skin. “BOY!”
“I told you to get off this ship!” Jasen said through gritted teeth, sawing at the knotted netting with the cane’s jagged tip.
The troll lifted its great hands, levering itself up by its midriff, its abdominal muscles tensing. It swung for Jasen, who ducked, then another fist blindly groped for him. It closed around the netting just a few inches from Jasen’s shoulder. Not finding him, its fingers probed, grasping—
Jasen paused his sawing and stabbed the troll in the palm, driving the pointed tip of the cane hard into the softer flesh there.
The troll howled and pulled back its hand. The spasm of pain caused its whole body to swing backward again, slamming the side of the ship. Its head and shoulders again splashed into the water.
Jasen tightened his hold on the net and began to saw again.
But it was not going well. The ropes were thick. The cane’s jagged tip had worn a small groove—or rather Jasen thought it had. Looking at it again now, trying to find his place, he realized he hadn’t made the slightest dent. And with a great knot to cut loose, the cane would blunt long before even slicing through the first rope, let alone the full tangle.
The troll rose again, roaring, spitting water from its mouth and nose. Its face was bloody, a smear around each of its ruined eyes. But a blind troll was still a troll, one more than capable of wrecking the Lady Vizolans—however many of them remained; Jasen was far below the deck, and with the mad bucking of the troll he could not very well hear what was going on above.
He craned his neck up to look at it, and his eyes grew wide.
The net was affixed to the side of the ship by metal rings, looped around them in knots.
He could climb back up and loose the entire thing.
A desperate look down at the troll—it was righting itself again, raising its body in a mammoth sit-up, its sharp yellowed teeth bared, fingers spread out like claws.
Jasen stabbed with the cane, sinking it into the webbing between two fingers.
The troll roared again, b
ut its momentum was not arrested. The hand swung for him, homing in—
Jasen yelped as it smashed into the war galley’s hull just above his head. A quaking vibration rocked through him, threatening to dislodge his hold.
The troll’s fingers probed again. It mashed its hand back and forth, blindly grabbing everywhere it could reach to try to find him.
Jasen rolled clear of the fist, grabbing for a hold of his own as he dodged.
A hand came down at him again, and he jabbed up again with the cane, putting as much force as he could muster into the strike.
It sank deep into the troll’s palm, a good couple of inches, the sound it made tightening Jasen’s stomach—even more when the troll pulled back roaring, and Jasen saw the cane had gone right through, the tip of it pointing out of the back of the troll’s hand, just below the knuckle of its middle finger.
It reeled back, and Jasen took his chance. Practically throwing himself up the netting, he climbed up the ten or so feet to the top, where the metal rings hung.
There were eight of them in all, spread across a span of maybe a dozen feet. The net hung down between two of the angry faces, leering out from the galley’s hull.
Jasen cursed the pure dumb luck that the troll had gone over here, of all places, where it could get tangled, and he got to work.
The first two knots came undone easily. The third was stiff. His fingers strained against it—but—there! It loosened, and he pulled the rope free before moving over to the next.
But the troll, of course, was still below. It knew that something was happening. The boy who’d stabbed him was gone now, he could tell even without groping. But the net was also dropping. As the fourth loop came undone, the net flapped, sinking the troll deeper, so that its chest right down to its nipple was submerged.
It rose up again, fighting, spewing water mingled with greenish blood from between its lips. “BO-O-OY!!” it bellowed.
It grasped for the nets—but this time, instead of groping for Jasen, it found itself a hold. And now it began to pull itself up, lifting its upper body past its tangled legs.
Jasen stared for one single alarmed moment. Then he yanked at the fifth knot, pulling it apart—then across, to the sixth—
The net jerked down. Now held by only two rings at one corner, it sagged, much of it hanging in the ocean. The troll was becoming more tangled as the free netting coiled and wrapped about it,
but it fought on, blind and determined, teeth gritted, climbing fist over fist, closer—
The seventh—
Jasen yelled as the net dropped. Now he hung on it too, a couple of feet from the single ring holding it to the side of the boat. Held on by a corner only, it hung down in overlapping folds. There were so many handholds, all one atop the other, the footholds just the same—
The troll rumbled, “KILL YOU, BOY!”
And it would. It was just a few feet below him now. If not for the net wrapping about it, entangling it, the troll would be upon Jasen already. He had only seconds.
Scrambling for holds, he found a twisted purchase and climbed to the last ring. He pulled—
The weight of the troll, and the entire net, had pulled the knot too tight, though, dragging it down against the war galley’s hull. Jasen prised, with desperate fingers from below—but it wouldn’t yield.
He forced himself up, past it, onto the deck—
A momentary glance to see that the Prenasian was down and Kuura victorious, but the other Prenasians were still fighting, and Rakon and Huanatha were engaged in battle with their fists now upon the smaller deck to the fore of the boat—then Jasen pivoted, looking down into the angry face of the troll, wrapped in black netting, but climbing.
“BO-O-OY!!”
Jasen pulled at the last knot desperately.
Too—damned—tight—
The troll lifted itself higher still. Almost within reach now—and in just another two great lifts like that, it would be back upon the deck—it would overpower them by sheer force and might, even tangled and blind as it was—
Jasen found the place where the knot turned in on itself. In one desperate last attempt, he plunged the cane into the tight crevice, using its pointed tip to force the binding to loosen it.
The troll slammed another fist down, rattling Jasen’s bones. It was barely a foot under that last ring now.
Nearly out of time.
He shoved the cane with all his might, so it was through at its widest, then he grasped at the rope, pulling hard—
The knot gave.
Jasen recalled what Longwell had said to him—that killing would blacken his soul. He would be tainted by it for as long as he lived—and beyond.
So be it, he thought, and he released the net.
The troll fell, net and all, in a wild tangle that finally pinned its arms as tightly as its legs. It landed in the water, sinking like a rock, until the deep ocean blue had swallowed all traces of its rough yellow skin.
Jasen breathed. His vision was spotty, he realized now, absolutely covered by the white patches, like the fine, snow-white ash that had fallen from his house in Terreas when it burned. He blinked against them fiercely, sucking in steadying breaths. He could collapse now—and he would, he was certain; all the energy ran out of him, leaving him shaking. He’d held himself up on his hands, but now his arms gave out. The world turned over-bright, washed out.
He pulled himself away from the edge, lest he go into the sea after the troll he’d worked so hard to dispatch. Then he closed his eyes, head between his knees, focusing on each breath as they came, in and out, in and out. The pendant around his neck pressed to him, and he gripped for it, slipping it out of his tunic into a sweaty, aching hand.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Then a hand was upon his shoulder.
He jolted up—the battle!
But it was Kuura. Bloodied and exhausted, covered in welts from the troll’s cane, and his broken arm held carefully to his midsection, he looked at Jasen with a grim kindness.
“It is over,” he breathed. “We have won.” He, too, was out of breath, and he pulled it into his lungs with a rattle. “Thank you.”
Jasen nodded. He hadn’t the air for words. Just the shock of Kuura’s touch, the fear that he’d have to thrust himself into a battle anew, had taken it out of him even more than ever. So he rocked back on his heels and took in the picture that was the war galley’s deck.
It was not a pretty one. All but two of the Prenasian men were dead. At least five of the Lady Vizola’s crewmates had gone with them. Jasen felt a pained spike at that—and then a guilty one as relief came over him when he saw that Burund was among the survivors. He was tending to Medleigh, who bowed below a mast, blood running down his face. His bottom eyelid had split, by the look of it. If it was the worst he had suffered, he had gotten off lightly.
The two Prenasians left alive were a slight, rat-faced man who now found himself bound in chains and cuffed to the mainmast—and Rakon. Huanatha had finally overcome him, although not without plenty of cuts and bruises of her own. Now she stood over him, his sword in her hand, pointed right between his eyes. She did not thrust at him with it though, just stood poised—an act of courtesy in return for the favor shown to her, Jasen supposed.
Were it him who stood over Rakon with his sword, though …
Just then, the door to the deck below was kicked open.
It splintered and cracked as though one of Baraghosa’s own bolts of colored lightning had struck in the middle of the deck, the door slamming against the wood in an aftershock of thunder. Jasen felt a quiver of fear run through him, tensing at the sound.
Jasen turned, the Lady Vizolans too, to see. They tensed, grabbing for their stolen swords or their improvised weapons, ready to do battle again with another wave of Prenasians.
But it was Longwell who stepped out, spear in hand, armor drenched in red. Only a step behind, walking slowly, her dress damp with stains at one of the sleeves, came Alixa.
Jasen’s heart leapt. Thank the ancestors, she was safe.
Bloodied, practically soaked in it, Longwell glistened in the early morning sunlight. Tri-point spear in hand, he tramped across the deck. Bloody footprints followed him behind.
His expression was grim … and perfect silence greeted him.
Burund stepped out to meet him.
“Shipmaster,” Longwell finally said, reaching him. “This vessel is yours.”
14
The Lady Vizola II, a much more poetic name than Prenasian War Galley 324, was en route to a port at Nonthen. The plan there, said Shipmaster Burund, was to release the Prenasian captives into the port city to be about their lives. Jasen was not sure how to feel about that; it was certainly more merciful than anything the Prenasians had intended for the crew of the Lady Vizola.
After that, their course was undecided.
It was five days after the bloody battle that had wrestled the boat from the Prenasians, and Shipmaster Burund held court on the war galley’s command deck, the sun shining overhead and the breezes pleasant as they ruffled the sails. He was joined by Kuura, Longwell, Huanatha, Jasen, and Alixa. They discussed their course aboard the top deck, looking out at a late morning ocean, bobbing gently with waves. No sign of land masses out there yet—but they’d appear before long. Jasen wondered whether it would be as majestic as the Aiger Cliffs.
But it didn’t matter. Whatever happened next, Jasen already knew he would not remain long at Nonthen.
He hoped that Longwell still felt the same. It had been over a week since their conversation on the shores of the isle of Baraghosa. That was plenty of time for him to have changed his mind.
“We must discuss our next course,” said Burund. He spoke in the slow, measured way he always did—as though the course of events five days prior had not changed him in the slightest. And perhaps it had not. Jasen did not know what Burund had seen during his many seafaring years before this. Violence might be something with which the shipmaster was intimately familiar.
A Home in the Hills Page 11