by Wilf Jones
It was Angren who first noticed the fog bank rolling towards them. He had finished his task and, with a cool breeze making him shiver, he stood alone in the bows looking out. The seals had gone! Unaware though he was of sailors’ lore, he realized that something was wrong. And while nothing broke the surface of the fast flowing waters near the ship, as his eyes lifted to look ahead he was astonished to see a white wall laid east to west across the River Sea. There were slow seconds before he worked out what he was looking at, and before he could find the words the ship’s lookout cried:
‘Ware! Ware! Fog blows ahead. Fog Cap’n. Fog ahead!’
The Captain had gone to speak with Seama. Just as Angren reached the bridge he was saying: ‘This is a mighty strange fog, sir. I’ve sailed the River for twenty years and fog I’ve seen plenty out on the open water, but never anything like that. It’s too thick. Sort of fog you generally see near land. Now, far as I remember, there’s no island in this part of the sea: nearest is twenty mile north of here, unless my bearings are out completely. I’ll tell you now, I hope they aren’t, ‘cause that bit of land would be Tumboll, the prisoners’ keep. None has sailed within ten mile of the place in three hundred years. Leastway, none has been able to tell that they have.’
‘What’s so bad about this… erm… Timbol, or whatever you called it?’
‘Really Angren,’ said Seama, ‘Didn’t your mother tell you about Tumboll when you were a boy. No? I am surprised. It’s a tale used to frighten bad children into being good – I suppose it makes sense you haven’t heard of it. Let’s go and have a look at this fog and maybe when we’ve decided what’s to be done I’ll give you the full story. You never know, it may still do the trick.’
By the time they had reached the bows, the fog was nearly on them. The Captain looked worried.
‘If we were on the open sea I’d be happier, trouble is we’re on the River. There’re just too many great lumps of rock in this water, and besides I reckon there’s land not far away, and we can’t see it. Can you not make the fog go away, sir wizard?’
Seama laughed. ‘Do you know, I think I could. But it would cost me too much. We’ll find another way of getting round this problem. If there is land ahead, your navigation has gone wrong, right?’
‘Well, I’d have to say yes, but I don’t see how I could have gone wrong. Though I know some don’t trust ‘em, I always use a Karrel Clock, and it’s never let me down yet.’
‘Maybe so, nevertheless we’re not where we should be. Either your compass has been tampered with or there’s some power working against us. I must know what that power is before I make a move. Let’s wait and see what happens. Meanwhile I’ll help you navigate. The fog is on us, gentlemen.’
They all looked up, as if to catch the last rays of proper sunlight before they were enveloped. In a moment everything was hushed, the waters in quiet motion and the deckhands motionless, apprehensive. All trace of a breeze vanished and the sails hung lank and useless. The fog was so thick they couldn’t see half the length of the ship, and it was deathly cold. The Captain gave the order for men to take up oars and, grumbling, they went to it.
‘I suppose,’ said Seama, ‘we’d better make a start. Come and stand next to me, Bibron; you can instruct the men.’
Bibron nodded an aye but, before he could move, the ship was shaken by a sudden impact.
‘Gods a’plenty, we’re aground already!’ Yelling out orders, and blaspheming by turn, the Captain threw himself across the rolling deck, making for the helm. He didn’t reach it.
A bone jarring roar rent the air, a huge head ripped through the gloom and terror thrilled through every man and woman aboard. The pangalorum was of monstrous size. Its serpent coils encircled the ship in seconds, crushing men, horses and timbers alike; the scales rasping against the hull. Its mighty head lunged at the crewmen as they scattered in horror. The frantic horses, unable to run away, not even able to kick because of the hobbles, were an easier target.
Angren had never seen a pangalorum before. Faced with the unknown and with almost certain death he decided attack was the best policy. He grabbed a harpoon. Other brave men struggled with their swords, trying to defend the horses, but the pangalorum was too fast and caught at one of them with snapping jaws. The screams were terrible as he was dragged off his feet, but silenced when the monster tipped back its head, working its throat, and swallowed him whole like a heron taking in a fish. Now was the moment: Angren swarmed up some of the rigging to give him height, launched himself at the pangalorum’s head and stabbed ferociously at an eye. The eye burst sending a jet of blood and humour into the air while Angren fell to the deck. The creature bellowed and in shock spewed out the half mangled sailor over the backs of the shying horses – but it was in no way defeated. With deadly intent it twisted right and left to seek out its attacker. Even half-blind the pangalorum found him easily. Angren’s fall had knocked the breath out of him, and knocked him sick, and there he lay in full view, spread-eagled upon the deck, incapable of movement and waiting for the end. The grisly, ravaged head reared above him and blood from the pangalorum’s wound rained down, spattering his face. He rolled, grasped at his harpoon and made one last effort to attack. The monster was unimpressed: a casual nudge from its snout flipped Angren onto his back once again and all the fight went out of him. It stooped to tear at his belly, but in that instant a dazzling, sparking white bolt, like lightning, shot from the bows of the ship and hit the pangalorum between gaping jaws.
It was a mortal blow. The monster began to writhe, smashing through mast and rigging in its agony.
Coughing and retching Angren struggled to his feet and staggered away. He could hardly believe he was still alive. Garaid caught up with him.
‘Angren! Angren! You okay?’
Angren spat out a quart of bile. ‘Grand thanks,’ he said. The deck lurched and they both fell over as the pangalorum, still clutching the Cottle in iron coils rolled back into the river, its dying cries splitting the air around them.
‘It’ll have us over,’ Garaid yelled at him, ‘We have to get it off.’
He wasn’t wrong: the Cottle started to tip and roll. Angren retched again but Garaid grabbed him by an arm.
‘No time for that,’ he said, ‘Get your sword out.’
Without waiting for Angren to understand what he was about, Garaid laid into the nearest section of the pangalorum, hacking like fury. It was no easy task: the pangalorum was at least five feet thick. Others seeing the same danger followed his lead and soon the deck and the air above it were full of blood and flesh. Slabs and gobbets of dark meat slithered away into the river but there seemed no end to the creature. The ship continued to list and the stern began to dip beneath the surface. It was hopeless.
There was nothing for it. Bibron shouted out the order to abandon ship and his sailors ran to free the stays on the boats. There were only two, inadequate for the sixty aboard but at least some of them might survive. Angren, still woozy, doubted he’d be one of them. He sat back on the steps to the quarterdeck and put his head between his knees.
And then another terrifying roar shook the air.
The mate of the first monster, even greater than he, had come to take her revenge. A dark shape in the thinning fog she first circled the ship, her body undulating to drive her through the water ever faster, but then she turned in to attack. She would crush the Cottle in one mighty blow. What could they do? In thirty seconds they’d be as good as dead. Angren looked up to see but it made him feel too dizzy and so he dipped his head once more. It was odd, he thought, and perhaps his vision was blurred, but the planks between his feet looked wrong. And then he realized they were smouldering, and then, in a few seconds more, burning. Leaping up he saw the flames roll out and spread rapidly across the deck. Before he had the chance even to contemplate jumping ship he was engulfed.
There was no
smell, no heat, no pain. It was all illusion, and the purpose was clear. The second pangalorum veered away unnerved by the flames and then began to circle again, enraged but frustrated. Unfortunately not only the pangalorum was fooled. Fear of those flames proved too much for one of Bibron’s sailors. Gibbering in his confusion and pushing past the hands that sought to hold him back, he threw himself over the rail and plunged deep into the dangerous waters.
Those nearest, still desperate to keep their feet and stay on deck, looked down at the man floundering. This conflict with terrifying monsters and now the devilment of the cold flames must have turned his mind: he was screaming as his head broke the surface. Angren, clinging to the ratlines as the deck yawed, lost his footing and for a minute he dangled overboard before swinging back to safety. Below him the water was churning in a curious fashion, an underwater commotion that was nothing to do with the sailor kicking and struggling to stay afloat. A glittering shoal of tiny, silver fish swirled all around him. The water turned red.
Voices cried out in terror: ‘Schiff, the schiff. Gods help us!’ and efforts to free the lifeboats became frantic. The barque rolled again and as one of the boats was released it slid across the bloody deck, crushing one man against the main mast and bowling others overboard. Angren ducked in behind the galley house to save himself as the boat flipped over the side to land keel up on the water. Just then Seama emerged in a rush from the galley hatch carrying a large ball of what seemed to be white lard.
‘Out of the way,’ he yelled.
With agony written on his face, the wizard stumbled over to the portside and pushed his burden over the rail. The illusion of the flames onboard died as Seama drew himself up, squeezing his hands into fists as though the palms pained him. Angren, close behind now, saw the ball sink into the waves.
‘Anabo!’ the wizard roared.
Angren had no idea what the word meant but down in the water an incredible, bright blue fire bloomed and swelled. Impossibly, these new flames were real. They burned fiercely, beneath the tide, consuming both men and the Schiff indiscriminately.
Angren saw no more of Seama in this battle. As the fish burned black, the second pangalorum resumed its attack and the ship received one final, destroying blow. The ship was wrecked, all was lost. Men and horses were cast into the sea. Angren, attempted to jump clear but as he fought to climb onto some shattered decking a falling spar struck him a blow to the head and he lost consciousness.
AN ISLAND IN THE SUN
Tumboll 3057.7.23
The insolent waters of the inlet slapped his face and tugged at his sodden clothes. He spat out dirty water and pulled his exhausted body a few feet higher up the muddy shore. It was a strain to raise his head but he needed to see. More foul water, caught in his sinuses, came snorting back into his mouth as he moved, causing him to retch. Again. His insides were raw.
When he managed to look about him he could see nothing of importance: dawn was hours away and the dark trees made patterns against a starlit sky; the water glinted malevolently. That was all. At ground level everything was black.
He decided to lie still for a while, to let his head clear, to let some strength return. His battle with the river had left him a weakling; he cursed his weakness. Shortly he rolled over onto his back, snorted again and spat to one side. There was a taste in his mouth like burnt fish. He listened. There was little to hear above the lapping of the water, only a quiet breeze rustling the grasses along the forest edge and giving him a fit of the shivers. Testing his strength again, he had decided to seek for warmth beneath the trees but before he could move a different, less natural noise came to him: a significant noise.
It came from the near distance, not close enough to pose an immediate threat, but near enough to worry him. Many people were moving through the forest and they didn’t try to hide their movements. They yelled, chattered, screamed, whistled and beat at the undergrowth. A shout went up and the clamour increased and people were running.
Terrible screams rang out: the screams of one man in agony. Then there was silence, and then a cheer, and then the dreadful beating began again as the hunt resumed.
Despite the chill of the night Angren was sweating. It was certainly a hunt and Angren was sure he was one of the hunted. He strained to hear correctly: which direction? There was little doubt. The beaters were drawing closer. Angren presumed that the woods near the beach were being scoured for his shipwrecked companions; they were being forced out onto the open beach, or herded perhaps onto some last spit of land where, cornered and weary, they would provide good sport.
It was time for action, and the sea frozen muscles, now charged by need, wrenched him staggering to his feet. He knew about hunts. The beater’s job was to scare the quarry into making a desperate dash for freedom but the quarry that succumbed to fear and bolted was the quarry most quickly caught. If the line of beaters was thinly spread the best bet was to lie still and hope to be missed. Angren’s advantage was the dark: even if stumbled upon the beater would be startled and Angren would have the chance to do something about him. Better still not to be seen at all. Having weighed the options, Angren found himself a suitable tree, climbed as high as he could and waited.
As luck would have it, another hunted man was Angren’s downfall. He had laid up quiet in his tree and listened with relief to the hunt passing by beneath, not looking out for fear of being seen. Feeling pleased with himself, he was contemplating striking off into the depths of the forest, if fatigue would allow it, when he heard the clamour increase again and then continue to rise as the hunters came back towards him. One of his companions had bolted but surprised the hunt by running through the line instead of away from it. Angren saw him coming: it was one of the sailors. He limped as he ran. Catching up came wild looking men with hair done up into spikes and paint on their faces. They carried boar sticks and long knives. The sailor was done for. He had no chance of getting away.
Angren was in a quandary. Should he go down and try to fight alongside the man, both in such poor condition they would lose, or should he try to avoid attention and save himself? He was inclined to the latter course but the decision was taken out of his hands. Incredibly, the sailor was leading his pursuers directly towards Angren’s tree and just before they could reach him the man leaped with amazing strength into its lower branches.
That was the end of course. As the sailor climbed higher the huntsmen swarmed the tree behind him and Angren came down slowly to meet them. Without words the two turned to fend off their many attackers. Armed only with knives, other weapons lost to the river, they did their best to delay the inevitable but although they managed to dislodge several wild-men from the branches they received too many cuts and were soon overwhelmed and dragged down to earth, in Angren’s case still kicking.
He expected nothing less than a tormented death but instead they produced waxed twine and trussed up his arms behind him. And then they made him watch as his co-prisoner was disembowelled. Hardened though he was from years of sometimes brutal action, Angren closed his eyes as the creature that was once a man tried his best to save the guts that were falling from his gaping belly. He was all reaction: in too much pain and shock to think. The huntsmen were cheering him in his work. Two of them brought out more rope, grabbed at those frantic hands and tied them together. Whatever was left in the sailor tried to run, and his captors let the rope pay out maybe twenty yards before they pulled him back, staggering, crawling, slithering and trailing his innards through the dirt. They strung him from a strong branch high up in Angren’s tree and there they left him: a live dangling feast for anything that could fly or jump, or could make its way along the branch and down the rope. The huntsmen seemed satisfied with their work.
Soon Angren was made to stumble through the scrub toward some unknowable destination, fearing the result of the journey but unable to do anything about it. The exhaustion began to tell as the march dr
agged on and, though he continued mechanically, one foot then the next, and then the next and on and on for what seemed an eternity, he was virtually senseless before they reached the journey’s end.
He awoke in the heat of the day and was at once assailed by the sun burning his face where a coverlet had slipped, and by an appalling stink. He felt dreadful. Someone had thoughtfully covered over any bare skin with assorted scraps of cloth but he must have moved in his sleep. Looking around him, through narrowed eyes, he could spy little in the way of shade. The sun was ferociously hot and it looked down into a compound high walled by ancient and ruinous masonry. On three sides a line of columns parallel to the walls, with crumbling arches between them, suggested there had once been covered walkways to offer some respite but these were now open to the sky. Huge nettles grew up in the corners, and in the thin shadows of the perimeter, but the rest was all bare earth and, gods help them, several centuries worth of rotted pig shit. Angren gagged: the ordure was mercifully dry and hard but the accumulated smell was almost more than he could bear. The sun may have been damnably fierce but Angren could not bring himself to wish for rain.
He was not alone here. More than thirty Partians were imprisoned with him. They sat with their backs against the nearest wall where two inches of shadow and fewer nettles made for the most desirable residence; all had covered whatever they could of their bodies against the heat of the midday sun and Angren found it hard to tell who was who. He presumed correctly that all the prisoners were his companions of the wreck.