by J P Nelson
Seedle tossed his bags into the boat and gave notice to the water casks and other supplies already loaded.
Caroll said to him, “Take umbrage in boat and I will make launch. I shall make purchase of valued time.”
Seedle said, “Well done, my friend …” then his left found its own purchase … hard and deep into Caroll’s belly, followed by a tightly clenched right which lifted the big man up and onto his toes. Surprise radiated all across Caroll’s face as Seedle slammed his best left-cross into his chin. Seedle winced as he felt his hand break.
Caroll spun in a left-wise fashion as Seedle scooped him onto his shoulder, then staggered while saying, “Damn, man … what are you made of?”
Almost falling down, then regaining his footing, he used a controlled fireman’s carry to deposit Caroll into the boat. Staggering again from release of the weight, Seedle collected the scimitar and put it in as well. Then he added his own canteen and food bag.
Untying the anchor rope and tossing it in, Seedle grasped the underside of the stern as best he could. His left hand screamed in pain and his right shook almost uncontrollably. The man’s muscles rippled as he lifted up, and then folded his legs quickly in a clean-and-jerk movement to get his shoulders under the thing.
He tipped his head sideways, hunkered his total body into the movement, and yelled into the wind as slowly the boat tilted.
Seedle saw a hand reach over the stern as Caroll’s face peered over … just as Sheila began to slide …
Seedle half fell over the lip as he took only a moment to watch the boat go. Pushing back, he staggered up and looked to where the beasts should be coming from. There was not much time.
He found Nick’s body. Dropping down he removed his coat, then jerkin and rolled in the blood.
Seedle spoke softly, “Sorry buddy, you done good, but there is more to do.”
Up and on his feet, he soaked his loose garments and suddenly noticed his left boot was cleanly cut and blood slowly oozing out. Very well, so much the better.
Seedle looked to the west and thought, ‘Five miles, can I make it?’ Looking into the billowing snow cloud he cast a grin of irony, ‘I do not have to … just a mile or so …’
Taking a firm grip on his good luck piece, he began to run.
Chapter 61
CAROLL FOUGHT TO stay alert as he was dumped into Sheila, but the unexpected blow from Seedle had thoroughly stunned him. He knew the man had been a boxing champion and could hit, but that was a heavy blow. Caroll could feel the boat being tilted upward and he reached to grasp the back of the boat … this was not a best plan. He, Caroll, was stronger and cob the better sailor.
He got his hands over the edge as he felt the boat begin to slide. The look within Seedle’s eyes he would never forget, it was haunting. Caroll wanted to say something, but they were moving and there was nothing he could do with regard to Seedle. He and Telroy must survive or all was for naught.
Down the incline Sheila slid, slowly, but gradually building speed … but not enough. Caroll worked hard through his grogginess to keep the boat steady with the ice rudder. A double take to starboard and he saw one of the beast things slipping and sliding across the incline to catch them. One … thank Ehl’Rohlahn!
Caroll yelled to his mate, “Mister Telroy! Quick to arms! We are under attack!”
Caroll had put the last of what he could muster in the way of power into Telroy, not that it was much. The young man rustled to the call and raised up, a bloody gash still upon his head. But it took only a moment to see the creature trying to close with them. Seizing one of the crossbows he took aim, but a hard bounce of the craft with a crunching sound caused him to foil his shot.
The beast took a hit, but not a serious one. It was too close, so rather than another crossbow, Telroy reached for a harpoon, getting it up a moment late as the thing jumped. It half-caught the side of the boat, but Telroy managed to spear it in the shoulder. Caroll was now fighting to keep the craft from rolling as it hit another hard bump.
His pant leg now in the beast’s mouth, Telroy had a Vedoan Dirk in hand and was stabbing with a frantic succession of blows. A hefty kick of the heel and a well guided slam of the boat against the ice flume’s side, and the creature was knocked loose.
Telroy and Caroll looked to each other with a relieved smile, when Caroll’s face went to shock. Telroy quickly looked about and saw Caroll’s focus. In the fight, they had hit the sharp decline and had picked up significant speed.
Neither man had secured self or gear.
Sheila hurtled over the ledge and out into the sea … twenty feet in the air at an untold speed. In mid-flight, supplies, canvas, mast poles, oars, Telroy and Caroll slowly became separate of each other as their yells echoed across the face of the ice.
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Every time the beasts started closing in, Seedle dropped an article of blood-soaked clothing. How much longer he could keep it up, he did not know. Worn beyond exhaustion, the man was running on heart alone.
It seemed half the time he was blind, the other half his sight was a blur, all the time his breath came in painful gasps and his sides were screaming. Grabbing hold of his good luck piece, he prayed to make it just that much farther. The Sheila must be free by now … in the soft-water … had to be.
He fell, but where was he? It did not matter. He could stop running now. But he could hear his pap saying, ‘You are almost there, boy …’
His boots burned. He stripped them off, hobbled up and half tripped as he peeled off his socks. It was all he had left. The blood covered things were gone … chewed to bits by his pursuers.
Were they still back there?
He turned to look, by hair-of-the-great-lizard … yes-s-s.
Seedle threw the boots one way and socks the other.
His hand had quit shaking, why? Who cares? He was burning up and pouring sweat, and him on an iceberg. That was funny.
What was that up ahead? Oh shit, the cliff.
He looked back, they were right there … one with a sock in its mouth … the other … just two … damn … what about the other?
No time to measure or set.
He could feel their breath … it stank … he yelled, “What do you call two heavyweights standing in a pub?”
There was one on each side … he made the lip and vaulted up into the air. He did not feel the rip against his side. He did not feel the tear along his inner hamstring. He did not feel the nick of his artery or the sudden spray of his blood.
No, Seedle was back at home on the family farm, getting ready to jump from a cliff into the crystal clear water. One of his brothers, Sarrell, was asking, “Why are you doing it, Seedy? You are going to kill yourself …”
… He executed a perfect back-somersault as the two beasts went flying through the air …
Pap was telling him, “I be proud of yee …”
… He continued into another back-somersault as he still climbed higher into the air …
Seedle remembered his very first kiss, with Rochell, and he was just twelve …
… Starting down he entered a third perfect back-somersault …
He relished the feel, the flight …
Seedle opened his eyes and looked down … this was true commitment … he loved it … he would die doing what he loved … he positioned his arms …
“What to call two heavyweights standing in a pub? Why, dumbbells, of course …”
His hands were together as he came down in perfect form.
When Seedle’s fingertips hit the water he was smiling …
~}~}~} Splash {~{~{~
… The Sheila hit the water---HARD---sending a shower of spray up all around as she came down in an awkward angle, then rocked violently as she slowed with considerable force. Then men and equipment hit the Sheila, not at the same time, and not in a uniform manner.
Caroll hit the mast support solidly before touching deck, and Telroy almost flew over the bow. A sack of Sean Dodgers broke
and showered the deck with small disks of corn. The two remaining loaded crossbows discharged with one shaft embedding in the other bag of food, the fletching coming to rest against Caroll’s nose. A coil of rope flew over Telroy’s body, draping over his head and hanging over the bow into the water.
The Meinkutt was of disgruntled nature and the waves choppy. In an immediate effort to help stabilize the boat, Caroll let down the keel and locked it in place while asking, “Telroy … Telroy … please lend to me speech.”
“Yea---yeah … I … am here.”
“I pray, hold place brief moment more …”
Telroy’s voice was strained, “I am going nowhere.”
Working his way forward, Caroll eased the heavy coil from his mate’s neck, then carefully lifted him from his backward arched position. Telroy could not have been comfortable.
Slowly the younger man bent forward to stretch his back muscles and gingerly shake his head. Hesitantly he asked, “Are we clear?”
Caroll looked around and caught his breath, his hand quickly going to his curved knife. In the water was one of the beast things … but wait … it was floating, dead, the same one they fought, one of its forepaws hooked into the wood-flesh of Sheila’s hull.
Reaching over the side, Caroll severed the paw at the wrist with a single swipe of that blade. Looking to Telroy’s ribs he said, “You bear wounds. Take seat as I give to study. Then we must make sail, with haste.”
“Where are the others? Did not---”
“We two are that which remains.”
Telroy was stunned. Sitting still he remained quiet in reflection.
Caroll helped Telroy out of coat, then up with his jerkin. He winced and opened his mouth with an expression of pain, but he did not cry out.
Seedle had often commented to Caroll, and Dessi too, ‘That is one tough kid, I wonder if he is one of mine.’
The first time he said it, Dessi came back with, ‘I do not know. He is kind of manly to be one of yours.’
Dessi’s face and tone had been so straight, Seedle had glanced to him quickly with, ‘What …’
It had been Caroll who caught the joke first and chuckled. He looked to the ice flume they had just descended. How many friends, in fact brothers of blood, had he lost over the years? Too many. At the right time, he would mourn.
The wound on Telroy’s side was nasty and had bled much, but it was a flesh wound without internal penetration. A touch like unto feather gentleness and Caroll determined a rib had been broken, altogether the wounds were not grievous … still …
Caroll took a flask of purest spirits and said, “This will lend not to comfort.”
Closing his eyes, setting his teeth, and tilting his head, Telroy prepared for the cleansing. Caroll expertly applied the liquid, but not a sound was heard other than the language of the waves.
As he tended to Telroy, Caroll was very aware of his own jaw and belly. Seedle could hit! Those were no random blows, the man knew just where to aim. Caroll’s jaw was not broken, but it ached and was already swollen. It was good his teeth had not broken. He could perform simple healing, but putting teeth back together? It was not something Caroll had tried, and he would rather not.
Looking once more to the big ice, Caroll gave a nod to his friends. It was best not to lament at this time. The man gave silent prayer, then turned to Telroy, “Let us set mast. You then make to rest. I shall take first turn to till, and then I rest.” He indicated Telroy’s side, “I then shall endeavor to tend wounds.”
“You are one of those magic healers, are you not?”
Modestly shaking his head as he began to exchange rudders, “A healer I am not.” He smiled as a father to a son, “Master Logan gave time to lend me understanding of that which is within each of us. He then rendered education for my pursuance of relative skill.”
“Can you teach me?”
Caroll just looked at him.
“It is not as if we have much else to do.”
Caroll smiled again, then nodded, “It will be my humble delight to lend that which I know …” with a raise of his eyebrow he added, “… have you knowledge of He who is called Ehl’Rohlahn?”
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Thousands of pounds of roiling ice and snow spewed down, churning its way through a network of tunnels like white, frozen lava. With no specific path it filled or followed passage or cave, sometimes breaking through to another passage or cave below. Finally the mass came to a stop … but something was still moving within.
It could almost be described as a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, as wondrous patterns of crimson grew from within. Then the movement stopped … but only for a moment. A glistening hand of human shape punched its way out with a red coated dirk, serrated on one edge, held firmly within grasp.
The hand moved about as if seeking purchase, then a sweaty, ice and snow covered head pushed through the mass and breathed in with labored gasps. It was as if the man had been long without air, either by choice or force.
Peering out from his predicament, he saw a faintly lit corridor of smooth ice approximately five and a half feet in diameter. It led forward of his position by thirty-odd feet and took a hard right turn. He smelled fresh air, but felt no wind.
Slowly he fell unconscious and slid back into the mass.
When the man awakened, it was with a start. He looked about his cocoon and realized he was covered in blood … his? It was still warm, or rather he was still warm. Beside him he felt the huge body and realized it was dead. He, Dessi, had killed the troll, but what of himself, what of the team?
Whatever had happened, it had happened. He needed to get out, figure where he was, and regroup. If possible he needed to find the team if there were survivors. The mission was not fulfilled.
He squirmed out of his hole and found the dim light to still be in place … then he had not been out long, or had he? Was it the next day? No. The blood around him was still warm.
Dessi had a hunch where he was, if he was seeing light, that is. If the Waddles were still in the lagoon, if that was where he was, and he was pretty sure … supplies were still there, hopefully. That meant blankets, food, fresh water and the contingency box. If not, he would simply have to improvise. It would not be his first time.
Checking his gear, he found he only had his one Vedoan Dirk, of which he had not let go even in unconsciousness. Digging in that ice for his sword was not an option, he had felt around for it while in the hole, no good. As he made way around the tunnel he did a recount of the encounter.
Dessi had just taken a spiked club-like weapon from a troll and began using it with his dirk. He remembered there were so many it was as if they had been swarmed by a nest of large insects. Some how he went down and slid with two other trolls in the snow, then he was up and caved one of their heads in.
It was then he saw off to the side one lone troll barking orders … literally. To Dessi it sounded as if he were a dog speaking with only slightly shaped barking sounds. What caught Dessi’s eye, however, was the leather breast plate he was wearing, and the cutlass. It was a basket-hilt weapon specific to officers of the Vedoan Navy.
This leader-troll turned to someone beside him, pointed at Seedle and gave an order. This other troll stepped around and held up a gnarled five-foot-long stick and pointed it at the cob.
Without thought, Dessi drew back with the cudgel and threw just as the leader-troll saw him. The moment he made throw, he did a border-switch toss with his dirk to his right hand while drawing back again. The cudgel knocked the staff skittering across the ice.
Before the leader-troll could respond, the blade was thrown into the startled magic using troll. The leader-troll charged Dessi as he whipped his second dirk into play and deflected the troll’s attack, meeting him corp-a-corp. The troll was much stronger, but the powerfully muscled Marine was also a master of leverage. Breaking apart they clashed weapons many times, the troll showing unexpected fencing skill … a skill of style specific to Vedoan mili
tary.
Seeing his own blade standing up in a troll corpse, Dessi managed to parry a thrust, roll under, and secured his weapon as the troll moved in for what it thought might be a kill.
Launching a volley of attacks putting the troll in constant state of defense, Dessi gave his adversary an object lesson to remember for the rest of his life … all ten seconds of it.
Once more they drew up corp-a-corp, only the dirk was firmly impaled through the armpit opening of the armor, into his pulsating organs. Dessi smiled congenially into the troll’s face, partially withdrew the blade with the serrated edge against bone, thrust it again at a better angle and said, “That, my friend is how it is done.”
Stepping back, Dessi put his sword fist against his opponent’s chest and forcefully withdrew his dirk. The troll stared stupidly for an instant as his life liquid covered his arm, then the cutlass fell from his hand as he followed it moments later.
Dessi wanted to retrieve the basket hilt blade, but he then saw Rymon as he killed his seventh with a down-cross strike across the torso, followed by a back-slash to the belly, then running him through. Just as he withdrew his blade, a brawny nine-footer stepped from behind an ice shape and grabbed him by the front, whirled him around into the shape, then drove his clawed fingers under the Marine’s sternum and lifted him up.
It only took a moment for Dessi to cross the field to support his man, but it was already over for the young sergeant. Dessi’s blade bit deep, but the speed of the creature was alarming as it turned with sword in body. It swiped at Dessi once, which was met with a wrist slicing parry, then again, which was met with a duck under the arm combined with a slice through the arm-pit. From behind, Dessi mounted his opponent and hooked the serrated edge of his blade across the troll’s naked throat … that was when the ground collapsed.