by Ree Soesbee
“Keep it alive—for now,” another voice grated, and there was a thump-thump-thump echoing closer across the boards of the deck. Cobiah tried to focus his eyes on the motion, hoping to see a familiar face, or at least the recognizable colors of a Krytan officer’s coat.
Instead, the face that leaned close to study him wasn’t human at all.
The horrible features were feline, the skin covered with thick white patterned fur. A black nose sniffed distastefully, and the mouth parted to show a row of long, sharp teeth in the jaws of a predator. The creature moved with eerie grace, its paw-like hands sure on the ropes, tremendous claws sliding out of their sheaths to slice through the bonds tangled all around Cobiah. Cobiah stared in horror as two ears cocked forward curiously at the base of the long skull, and two more swept back with disgust. Long black horns, and braids wrapped in leather thongs and straps of sharkskin, lay amid the heavy mane that rippled down the curve of the beast’s thick neck. Claws . . . horns . . . four ears . . . Cobiah struggled with an uncertain, quickly rising sense of alarm. That thing called me a mouse!
“You’re sure it’s worth bothering with, Engineer?” Cobiah could barely believe he was hearing understandable words from the monster’s fanged muzzle. “Seems like we’re just searching for drake eggs in the forest here. Complete waste of time.” The white-furred brute leaned closer, his eye glinting with feral cruelty as it looked Cobiah up and down.
“I’m certain, Centurion. It coughed up enough water to flood a small village, but give it a little rest, and you’ll see.” The first voice had more humor, less threat. Hoping to see a friendly face, Cobiah placed it amid the blurry shapes, marking a big, rust-colored beast standing a short distance behind the other.
Fighting down the bile that rose in his throat, Cobiah refocused his attention on the tawny yellow eyes that glared into his own, struck by the cruel intelligence he saw there. The beast noticed and grunted, poking Cobiah with a sharp black claw. A speck of blood rose where the needle-sharp point scratched the flesh of his cheek, and Cobiah flinched away. Suddenly, he realized what they were, and his stomach revolted again—this time, in fear.
These were charr.
“Fine.” The word curled out of the charr centurion’s lips, as much a curse as a confirmation. “Your responsibility, then. Take the mouse below, but keep it on a leash. When your pet’s done puking, you can put it to work in the engine room singing you pretty songs and worshipping anything that stands still.” There was a cacophony of howls at the jibe, the mocking, terrible laughter of hyenas closing in for the kill. The awful sound swelled and filled Cobiah’s mind as blackness claimed him once more.
—
Cobiah wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. He could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea surrounding him, but this was not the ship he knew. The bed was far too large, a thin shelf hanging from the wall rather than a hammock cradled between two poles. Glancing around to get his bearings, Cobiah recognized that he was in a berth, surrounded by similar sleeping shelves, each with a thin mattress and a worn wool cover. This was definitely a ship, but it wasn’t like anything he’d ever been on before. He could feel that she was a sizable craft, but not as large as the Indomitable. Maybe a small galleon or a brig? Cobiah could see the ribs of the hull holding up the curved wall. They weren’t made of wood but of iron, and forged U-shaped brackets solidified the ship’s frame. The beams were heavier, the doors wider, and the beds far more solid than those on a human ship. Curious, Cobiah sat up in bed, surveying the room more carefully. There had to be other crew quarters. The number of beds here would barely man a sloop, much less a large ship like a galleon.
On a shelf at the foot of the bed lay his clothing—relatively clean and folded—as well as the pilot’s astrolabe and the small rag doll he’d had tied to his belt. Although his knife sheath was there, it was empty, and only one of his boots had made it out of the sea. Cobiah tugged the clothing on over his head and felt the ache of sore muscles stretching through his frame. Rope burns marked his chest, legs, and arms where he had been tangled. He considered the boot but decided not to wear it—two bare feet would be better for keeping his footing on board a pitching ship.
Cautiously, Cobiah touched his fingers to his wounds. They’d been treated with some kind of strange-smelling greenish goop that had dried upon his skin. Suspiciously, he scraped a bit of it away with his fingernail. It smelled of fish oil and pungent herb.
Heavy, booted footfalls stomped down the stairwell outside the sleeping area. Cobiah scrambled back. The charr were coming! Cobiah glanced around in panic. The arched doorway was the only way out of the room. He was trapped. Quickly, he looked around for a weapon, a board, or anything to fight with, but the biggest thing in the room was a pillow. Left with no choice, he grabbed it and spun to face the door.
Out of the dark passage came a charr. He was a bulky fellow, wide shouldered, standing more than a head taller than the slender human youth. The monster’s thick fur was the color of rust, touched here and there with scalloped, leopardlike spots of darker brown and black on his arms and legs. He had a paler muzzle, more of a rusty white, and the lighter shade spread across his chest and down the insides of his arms. Massive ram’s horns spread out on either side of his head, and four slender ears flicked back and forth below them. Cobiah recognized the creature—this was the charr that had rescued him from the sea. The one they’d called “Engineer.”
The monster moved like water over glass, each padding stride cushioned by catlike paws. Before he entered the room, he paused, sniffing at the air, black lips curling back from curved, meat-ripping teeth. “Huh.” The charr tilted his head, four ears flicking forward and back. “Awake already, are we, mouse?” Growling faintly to himself, the beast took another step into the doorway and his golden eyes searched the semidarkness until he found Cobiah. For a long moment the two stared at one another. The charr’s dark eyes flicked from Cobiah’s hastily raised pillow to the tray that he carried in his clawed hands. At last, the beast broke the silence, saying wryly, “I know the grub’s not good, but I don’t consider soup to be a killing offense.”
Cobiah couldn’t help it. The stress of his ordeal, coupled with the entirely ridiculous situation, overcame him. He started snickering. The charr, seemingly amused by his own joke, quickly joined in; the chuckling became guffaws, and those soon turned into howls of laughter. Sitting down on the bed, the burly charr put the tray on the floor between them and wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Cobiah lowered the pillow and gathered enough breath to ask, “You’re not going to kill me?”
“Kill you?” answered the charr. “If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t have hauled you up onto the deck in the first place, you moon-headed idiot.” Despite his reassuring words, the charr’s muzzle seemed perpetually drawn into a snarl, and the claws on his paws were as sharp as daggers. The charr sniffed the air again, and his long auburn tail twitched on the bunk. “Smells like your wound’s healing, too. No infection. Would I go to that kind of trouble just to cut you open again for jollies?”
“I don’t know. You’re a charr.” Cobiah struggled with his fear. “You did save me, but I don’t know why. You had to have a reason.” Still, he slowly lowered the pillow, the rich, warm smell of the soup nearly overcoming him.
“I’m the one who saw you floating out there, spar and all. Been out there since the wave hit, I’d wager, and that was three days before we found you. We saw no sign of your ship or your crew.” The rust-colored charr watched Cobiah out of the corners of his eyes. “Lost, I’d imagine?”
Cobiah managed a nod. “Last thing I remember, the Indomitable turned on her side in the water. The wave . . . swallowed her whole.” He gulped, the adrenaline beginning to run cold in his veins. He shook off the feeling and faced the charr. “What happens now?”
“Now you put down the pillow, human, and you work a charr ship.”
“I . . . what?” Stunned, Cobiah sank down to a seat on the flo
orboards, leaning back against the shelf-bed with the pillow limp in his hand. “Work? With charr? What, until you eat me?”
“Eat you?” The charr snorted, shaking his four ears disdainfully. “Arrogant mouse! I saved your life!”
Suspicious, Cobiah pressed him. “You’re a charr. I’m a human. You had to have a reason.”
The big leopard-spotted charr threw up his clawed hands in frustration. “Pish. The wave’s tossed more fish to the surface than I’ve ever seen before. What do you think that is in front of you? We’ve got plenty of food. We need workers to keep this tub floating long enough to get us safely to shore.”
“So it’s slavery, then,” Cobiah said grimly.
“Consider it indentured service. Once the ship finds landfall, we’ll go our way, and you can go yours. We’re not a slave ship. When that wave hit us, we lost half our crew—and we were running shorthanded as it was. Now we barely have enough sailors on board to trim the sails and heft the rudder.
“More, the ship’s damaged. She’ll never make a southern port, so we’ll have to find a closer one and hope for the best. Which is going to be hard, considering how far that wave tossed us off course. To be honest, I don’t think the centurion has any idea where we are.” The charr’s words were gruff but not unkind. “Your fate’s tied with ours, human. The sooner you get used to that fact, the sooner we all get out of this mess.” The charr gave Cobiah a long look, his catlike eyes unreadable. With a raspy cough, the creature changed the subject. He flexed his fist, and the claws disappeared under the fur. “My name’s Sykox. Sykox Steamshroud.” The charr held out one paw in an unexpected gesture of camaraderie.
Cobiah stared at the extended paw, noting the sharpness of the claws, the thick fur that covered fingers and wrist. Then, with a sigh, he took the proffered paw and shook it, stumbling over the creature’s strange name. “Sick ox?”
“Close enough, close enough. Sykox. I’m the engineer on this brig.”
“I’m Cobiah Marriner, lately of the crew of the Indomitable. Friends call me Coby . . . or they used to.” The words hung heavily in the air. Sethus. Vost. Even bullying Tosh and pompous, self-important Captain Whiting . . . dead. It was hard to believe that he was the only one who had survived.
“Titan’s blood, human, you’re white with hunger. If you don’t eat that soup right now, one of your flower-headed gods is going to show up and take you home, and put all my effort to waste.” The charr’s tail twitched higher, though whether out of amusement or annoyance, Cobiah couldn’t tell. “Eat. I’ll talk.”
Against his better judgment, Cobiah reached out and grabbed the soup bowl, scooting away from the charr to sit on the berth across from him. The soup was thin, but the fish was fresh, and it tasted of strange spices that burned against his tongue.
“Our ship is the Havoc, an Iron Legion tub sailing out of the coastal fort south of the Shiverpeaks. My warband, the Steam warband, is one of two assigned to sail her. We used to be a crew of seventeen,” Sykox said. “But now we’re a crew of seven.” He sighed and lashed his tail. “The Iron Legion’s original goal was to create a naval unit that could challenge Kryta for control of the Sea of Sorrows. Maybe make an assault on Lion’s Arch.” As Cobiah began to bristle, Sykox chuckled ruefully. “What do you expect? We’re at war, human! Oh, c’mon, it’s no use getting your dander up. I bet the whole damn fort’s gone now, town and all, wiped clean by the wave. We’ve been pushed so far north by that wave there’s nowhere else to dock. We’re limping for the shallows around Lion’s Arch and just hoping we can make it that far.”
“Lion’s Arch? Are you mad? That’s the capital of Kryta! If a charr ship shows up there, the crew’ll be hung on the gallows before you can drop anchor.”
Sykox shrugged. “Maybe so, but we’ve no choice. The only other dock that might have survived is Port Stalwart, and that harbor’s too shallow for our ship. What else can we do? Our hull’s damaged, and the mast steps are cracked. Our sails are torn, the engine’s laboring, and we can’t trust the keel to hold if this ol’ brig finds another storm.”
Confused, Cobiah spluttered into the dwindling remains of his soup. “Engine?”
“Yes, boss.” Sykox crossed his furry arms over his massive chest. “That’s my design. The imperator of the Iron Legion wanted us to push the boundaries, so I did. Took one of the experimental engines we’ve been working on and built her into the brig. Coal-foddered pistons propel a turbine beneath her stern, pushing us forward. With that, plus the wind in her jibs, she’ll go half again as fast as one of your human galleons. We can turn ninety degrees and not lose speed. Doesn’t matter what direction the wind’s coming from—we can strike out with it or against it and still make ground.” The big charr’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, the Havoc’s the only one of her kind. We were out of harbor on a test run for the engine when the wave hit; that’s the only reason we survived at all.”
“What made it?” asked Cobiah. “The wave, I mean.”
The big charr shook his furry head. “Nobody knows. One minute the ocean was quiet, and the next, we were sweeping before a sheet of water higher than the Great Northern Wall!”
Taking a long breath, Cobiah ran one hand through his hair and tried to remember. “We’d just passed Malchor’s Fingers, headed toward Orr. Our ship was in combat with some sort of creature. It wasn’t going well. I was in the rigging, trying to free the broken mast, and I got tangled. When the ship went down—” He halted, wiping his sweating face with a torn sleeve. “I saw beyond the wave as it caught us. I thought . . . I thought I saw land.”
“Land? Out there? There’re no islands that deep in the Sea of Sorrows.” Sykox furrowed his brow. “You didn’t imagine it? A fever dream, maybe, while you were shipwrecked?”
“It wasn’t a dream,” Cobiah said firmly. “I saw mountains. A black plain and high peaks beyond. Ruins and . . .” He paused. “People. Things that looked like people, at least.”
“Now I know it was a fever dream.” The charr shook his head. “Hurry up and finish your soup, mouse. I’m ordered to bring you on deck to meet Centurion Harrow, and that’s the last thing you want to do on an empty stomach.”
After the soup was gone, Cobiah followed Sykox out of the berth. It was clear from the moment he set foot on deck that the Havoc wasn’t like any other galleon Cobiah’d seen. To start with, it was smaller from stem to stern than human galleons, but wider through the middeck and the rear. Two masts stood side by side on the ship’s open deck rather than stretching stem to stern. Their sails were triangular and oddly rigged, ropes running to the fore rather than square-blocked to the mast. A strange musky odor hung in the air—not that of wild animals or feral cats, as he would have guessed, but rather a thick sulfurous smoke. None of the furred sailors seemed distressed at the smell, and he assumed they knew their ship better than he did, so Cobiah tried to put it out of his mind. It must have been the scent of the Havoc’s engine.
The ship’s main deck was crewed by seven sailors—a pitifully small number, even with Sykox’s brag that they needed fewer to run the ship. There was a high forecastle and a rear quarterdeck, but no captain’s quarters and no decorative brass. It seemed the centurion—whoever he was—slept with the men, somewhere in the main berth. Above the rear of the ship rose two short cylindrical chimneys of iron that chuffed out streams of grayish smoke. A thumping, uneven rhythm emanated from the area below the quarterdeck, matching the ship’s strangely jolting movement forward against the sea.
Worse, it was filled with charr. White-furred ones, as well as brown, black, and tawny, many marked with stripes or spots amid their tufted fur. They moved about the deck with ease, claws sinking into the wooden floor to hold them steady in a swell, and clawed, pawlike hands working rigging as deftly as any human sailor. Just like Sykox, they all had horns, four ears, and long waving tails, but each was nevertheless distinctive. Some were brawny, some slender; one had shaved most of his mane away, leaving only a stiff crest, while another had
waxed braids woven through his, giving the charr a fierce, bristling appearance. A slender charr, one that Cobiah guessed might be a female, sat on her haunches near the ship’s bow, playing a low, mournful rhythm on a drum. Others repaired injury done to the hull by the mighty wave. Even though few of the beasts turned to look at Cobiah, he could feel their attention riveted on him, the way he’d seen stalking felines in Lion’s Arch pretending not to notice an injured bird before they pounced. Cobiah took a deep breath to settle his nerves, then immediately regretted it. The whole ship smelled like wet cat.
Sykox took Cobiah to the forecastle, ignoring their pointed gazes and low snarls. Cobiah felt his hackles rise at their stares and thought immediately of Tosh. If he picked a fight with these bullies, it wouldn’t matter if Cobiah got in a few good hits. He’d be dead. The thought chilled Cobiah’s usual daredevil nature, and he stayed close to Sykox. They passed a black-furred beast with narrow yellow eyes sharpening a long, wicked-looking knife against a leather strap, the swish-swish echoing in time with Cobiah’s steps. Another, his fur streaked with gray and his body slightly bowed from age, lowered his head and growled a warning as the human walked past.
“Hail, Centurion Harrow!” Sykox’s bellow almost made Cobiah leap out of his skin. An even larger charr at the bow of the ship turned his head to regard them thoughtfully. His title might have been centurion, but Cobiah recognized the stern aura of a captain without any need for explanation. This soldier was in charge.
This was the pale-furred beast who had threatened him when he’d first come aboard. Harrow was shorter than Sykox but even more muscular, with white fur marked by gray and a sharp, fierce cast to his muzzle. He had many scars lacing his fur and face, and his left leg below the knee had been replaced by a thick peg of iron. He wore clothes like a human, but far less than most sailors Cobiah’d known: leather straps to hold his weapon to his side, and a simple pair of breeches; no hat, no shirt, and no shoes.