Seahaven

by Raymond Cain

  Arlayna pushed him back and unsheathed her dagger. She held it protectively but Flynn wrapped his two hands around her dagger hand and twisted her wrist, forcing her to drop the weapon. He caught the dagger in mid-air and brought the blade up against her throat in one fluid motion. It was a technique his dad had taught him years ago.

  “Okay,” Arlayna said, stretching out her neck in a futile attempt to keep away from the blade. “I’ll tell you. But it won’t help. The only way to counteract the poison inside you is by taking another type of poison.”

  Flynn withdrew the weapon from her throat. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lurking in the depths there is a rare animal with magical toxin,” Arlayna said, stepping out from the wall and smoothing her silks. “It is feared by every creature in the depths, and not only for its physical attributes, but also for its spiritual ones.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a snake. There’s one held captive in the Citadel right now.”

  “The wraithsnake,” Flynn said. “It went crazy the last time I was near.”

  “That’s because it smells the poison in you and it desires it. It wants to bury its fangs into you to get it.”

  “So what are you saying? Let it bite me?”

  Arlayna rubbed her throat and checked for signs of blood. There weren’t any. “Yes, exactly. And I know that sounds crazy, which is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  Flynn handed her back the dagger and folded his arms. What Arlayna said sounded insane but the black streaks on his wrists reminded him how desperate his situation was. “I suppose one bite shouldn’t kill me. Master Elgin did mention its poison was not very powerful.”

  Arlayna gulped, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Flynn sighed. “Now what?”

  “Well,” Arlayna said, reluctantly. “One bite might not be enough. Two bites should deliver a sufficient amount of venom. But—and I can’t stress this enough—do not let it bite you a third time. That could prove fatal.”

  Flynn sighed. “Great.”

  Arlayna looked down. “That’s not all.”

  “Of course not,” Flynn replied. “Otherwise it would be too easy.”

  “Its venom gives people visions.”

  “Yes,” Flynn agreed. “Master Elgin mentioned something about it making you see hallucinations that drive you mad.”

  “Not quite,” Arlayna said. “It doesn’t show you false images, it shows you real ones. It provides visions of things that actually happened. And things that are still happening.”

  “And that’s bad?” Flynn said, confused.

  “If you can ignore them, its not bad at all. The thing is, people usually can’t resist what they see and they go off in search of it and never return.”

  That sounded intriguing. “And what do they see?”

  Arlayna shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s probably different for everybody.”

  “So you’re saying that in order for me to cure myself, I have to let a thirty-foot long snake bite me twice and inject a toxin that will most likely drive me mad?”

  Arlayna cocked her head thoughtfully and smiled. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

  Flynn paced in the alley, pondering everything the spiritualist told him. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Ridiculous or not, it’s the only cure for your poison.”

  “Even if the snake cures me, its toxin might kill me anyway.”

  “And if the toxin doesn’t kill you, the visions it gives you will likely drive you insane and lead you to an even more gruesome death,” Arlayna agreed. “Which is why you should forget about trying to cure yourself and just enjoy your last few days in peace.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Arlayna’s shoulders slumped. She took one of his hands in both of hers and looked up at him, her eyebrows wrinkled in concern. “Then at least promise yourself one thing. No matter what you see in your visions, ignore them.”

  Flynn pulled his hand away and looked sternly at Arlayna, but he softened after seeing the empathetic look in her eyes. He nodded at her and marched out of the alley, leaving her behind. He wandered through the streets, his mind racing.

  Days earlier, Flynn believed his parents were simple miners and all he ever wanted to do was follow in their footsteps. After learning about their secret lives as Seablades, the desire to be like them held even more true than before. He dreamed of exploring new lands, saving lives, and slaying fearsome beasts, but none of that seemed likely anymore. As long as poison ran through his veins, none of those dreams would happen.

  Flynn coughed, a dry cough that burned his lungs. His skin was cool, sweaty, and he coughed up some dark-colored phlegm. He covered his mouth and found bloody spittle on his palm afterward. Even worse, the black streaks had traveled past his wrists and into his hands. It was getting worse by the minute.

  That settled it. Flynn decided he would do everything he could to live, even if that meant believing the stories of an eccentric spiritualist who claimed to be able to see the dead. He marched to the Waterway, floated along the canal, and was soon heading toward the Citadel. Despite the fact his illness raged through him and his body was at its weakest, he felt invigorated by his decision.

  When he was about to step onto the water bridge over the moat at the Citadel, a pair of guards stopped him.

  “I need to go in,” Flynn said, sternly.

  “You can’t go in, sir,” came a gravelly reply. “There’s no school today.”

  Flynn glared at the soldier and the man stepped back a step. It occurred to him that his illness could be used to his advantage.

  “I only need to go in for a minute,” Flynn said, coughing up some bloody sputum. He wiped the blood on his trousers and continued. “I won’t be a bother.”

  The guard grimaced at the bloody smear on Flynn’s trousers. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow when classes resume.”

  Flynn forced himself into a coughing fit. He pretended to be weaker than he was—no easy feat—and he leaned into the guards for support. His nose was running, spittle was flying, and he even squeezed out a small fart to complete the performance.

  “You know what,” said one of the guards, inspecting himself for any blood or mucus Flynn might have gotten on him. “I recognize you so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you so much,” Flynn said, offering his hand in gratitude.

  The guardsman recoiled from the hand with a look of disgust. “As much as I’d like to shake your hand, sir,” the man said in a tone that clearly revealed the opposite was true. He seemed to be searching his brain for an excuse. “We are forbidden from doing so while on duty.”

  His partner nodded. It was a good lie.

  “Of course,” Flynn said, wiping his nose. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  Flynn walked up to the six-sided structure and pulled open one of the double-doors. The twenty-foot tall door swung open and he stepped inside. The wraithsnake was in the next room and the thought of getting near it filled him with anxiety. He tried to distract himself by eyeing the merfolk, sharks, and squid on display, but they, too, seemed menacing in his current state of mind.

  As Flynn entered the next hall, he paused. He peeked at the terrarium on the opposite side of the room and, as usual, the wraithsnake had its head buried in its coils. Its white scales reflected the light from glowdiscs in the ceiling, creating fragments of light on the walls. He took some deep breaths, swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, and stepped forward. The snake did not react.

  After more deep breaths and anxious gulps, he took a few more steps. He was ten strides away from the terrarium and there was still no reaction from the snake. The cracked glass walls remained but they were reinforced by wooden beams. That provided him with a small amount of reassurance. A very small amount.

  After one more step, the snake shuddered. Flynn froze. Many moments passed before he realized h
e wasn’t breathing and he took in a big gulp of air. The terrarium’s wooden beams looked sturdy and the snake seemed securely locked away, but it took all his willpower to take another step.

  The wraithsnake stirred. A shudder traveled like a wave along the length of its coiled body. Somehow, Flynn found the courage to take another step, bringing him within a few strides of the creature. Its white scaly head lifted from its coils and it looked around curiously. The tip of its forked tongue poked out of its mouth, tasting the air. It struck Flynn as odd that the snake could taste the scent of a dying man.

  Flynn took another step and the snake’s eyes widened in alarm. Its bright red orbs locked onto him and its white, scaly body tensed like a coiled spring. On the outside, the snake appeared motionless but Flynn could feel the tension inside the creature. Beneath its mask of self-control, hunger raged inside it like the fire inside a blacksmith’s forge.

  Beads of sweat dripped from Flynn’s brow as he took another step toward the terrarium. His heart pounded and he shook with fear as he stood face-to-face with the creature. Only an inch of cracked glass stood between them and Flynn glanced down at his arms to remind himself why he was putting himself at such risk.

  A pair of steel latches secured the door on top of the terrarium. Flynn slowly wrapped a sweaty palm around the first latch and as he was about to turn it, the snake quivered in anticipation. Its red eyes were fixed on him and he hesitated. It opened its mouth and hissed, revealing a pair of shadowy fangs as long as his outstretched hand.

  “Forget it,” Flynn said, letting go of the latch and backing away from the terrarium. “There’s no way I’m letting this thing bite me just because some crazy lady told me to.”

  Flynn hurried away from the snake but he only made it a few steps before there was a loud crash behind him. He was showered in broken glass and wood splinters. The wraithsnake smashed out of its terrarium and pounced on him, knocking him to the floor.

  As he struggled to his feet, the snake smashed its head into him, knocking Flynn onto his back. It slithered on top of him and its crushing weight pressed his body against glass shards on the floor. It reared its scaly head and its fiery eyes brightened with anticipation. The last thing Flynn saw before everything went black was a pair of shadowy fangs plunging into his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The snake’s fangs plunged into Flynn’s chest but he felt no pain. Everything went dark and he could no longer feel the weight of the reptile, nor the glass shards under his back. He floated in a dark abyss until a pinhole of light appeared in the blackness. The pinhole widened, giving him the sense that he was traveling toward it. The spiritualist’s warning about visions echoed in his thoughts but her words drifted away as a scene unfolded before him.

  The light grew until Flynn had to shield his eyes from the glare. Before long, he grew accustomed to the brightness and he found himself in a room with wooden walls. He lay on a bed with an uncomfortable straw mattress.

  The furnishings were unlike any Flynn had ever seen. The room contained a bedside table, a liquor cabinet, shelves of books, and a wooden desk and chair. Wood was scarce in Seahaven and a room full of wooden furnishings was unheard of.

  Even more curious was his clothing. He wore a weathered leather coat with cuffed sleeves and a high collar. Beneath the coat he wore a dirty white shirt made from a material he could not identify. It was softer than kempcloth but more abrasive than the silk and velvet his people harvested from silkworms. His trousers were rugged, similar to the kelp breeches his people weaved, but they were thinner and less comfortable. He wore leather boots—thicker than the inkskin boots common in Seahaven—and they were buckled below the knee. The clothing was peculiar, yet, strangely familiar.

  A hat sat on the bedside table, a leather tricorn with all three sides pinned up by silver skull-shaped pins. A strange smell emanated from the hat and Flynn soon realized why, bird seed was tucked into its folds. Who would do that?

  Flynn stood up from the bed and realized he was not in control of his movements. Against his will, he stared into at a mirror on the wall. It wasn’t a proper mirror like the silvery liquid ones in Seahaven; it appeared to be crafted from glass and steel. Even more shocking was his appearance—he looked like someone else!

  Flynn appeared older, in his late forties or so, and his skin was bronze and worn as though he spent years being slowly cooked over a low heat. His hand smoothed out a dishevelled, graying beard, and his salt-and-pepper hair hung freely past his shoulders. As he looked at himself, he somehow knew he was someone else—William Hayes—captain of a frigate called the Widowmaker.

  “Dragon incoming!” came a yell from outside.

  The words filled Flynn, or rather, William, with panic. He grabbed his hat and ran out the door. What he saw outside was unbelievable. He found himself on a wooden ship floating on an impossibly large pool of water and above him there was an ocean of air. It made no sense.

  Even more absurd was a floating ball of light hanging high above in the airy sky. It should have been blinding but somehow, he was accustomed to the glare. The ship had two large masts and a lookout was stationed on a platform near the top of one. The lookout stared toward the blazing ball of fire floating in the sea of air above.

  As he stepped out onto the deck, all sense of Flynn Arcturus was gone. He was Captain William Hayes, one of the most feared pirates and renowned dragon-slayers to ever set sail. A south wind whipped the skull and crossed-cutlasses flag and blew Hayes’ hair over his left shoulder as he stared east. The breeze felt cool on his sun-bronzed skin.

  A colorful bird flew onto Captain Hayes’ shoulder, a predominately red bird with blue and yellow wings. It nibbled the bird seed in the folds of his hat, oblivious to the impending carnage about to befall them. He squinted to see what was coming toward them and withdrew a spyglass from his coat.

  Captain Hayes looked east through the spyglass at a creature flying in the distance. It was difficult to make it out with the sun at its back, but the glint of sunlight on red dragon scales was unmistakeable. It was a fire-breather, the most dangerous species of dragon.

  “Wet the sails and sand the deck!” Captain Hayes yelled. “Ballista crews to the ready!”

  “Squawk! Wet the sails. Squawk!” echoed the bird.

  His crewmen moved fast to obey his orders. They splashed barrels of water on the sails and dumped bags of sand on the deck. It was a poor defense against dragonfire but it would be better than nothing. Once they finished with the deck and sails, they soaked themselves and readied their weapons.

  Built into the quarter deck on the bow and the forecastle deck on the stern there were double-ballistae. Each ballista resembled two giant crossbows attached to each other. A pair of triggers and swivel mounts enabled the operators to fire in any direction.

  The bowstrings groaned as ballista crews winched them back and removed a pair of javelin-sized bolts from their slider mechanisms. They were shipkiller bolts, thirty-pound metal rods with steel cables attached. They could shred a ship’s sails at five hundred yards, a useful tool for allowing their ship to escape an enemy or slow their prey enough to board them.

  The crew removed the shipkillers and loaded broadhead bolts into the slider mechanisms instead. Broadhead bolts were shaped like giant arrows and tipped with Damascus steel, the hardest metal known. They could punch through the dragon’s armored hide with ease.

  The rest of the crew wielded crossbows. Their bolts were not effective against dragonscale but they could penetrate its less-armored underbelly or strike the creature in the eye. The lookout readied a longbow from the crow’s nest and fitted a Damascus steel-tipped arrow to the bowstring.

  “Hold!” Captain Hayes commanded. The dragon was five hundred yards away. It was within range of the ballistae but the creature would have no trouble dodging the bolts from that distance.

  The clever dragon chose a flight path that kept the sun directly behind it. The crew squinted and blinked but they kept thei
r weapons on target. Tears streamed down Captain Hayes’ face but he refused to take his eyes off the beast. The creature was nearly as large as his ship. His heart pounded in anticipation—it would not be an easy fight.

  “Fire!”

  The first two bolts were well-aimed but the dragon banked left and dodged them. The second volley fared better. The third bolt cut a line through a muscle that attached one of its wings to its body and the fourth bolt plunged deep into its abdomen. His crewmen fired a volley of crossbow bolts that fell short or bounced off its armored hide. Despite the ineffective crossbow attacks, Captain Hayes was pleased with how the battle went so far.

  He soon changed his mind.

  The dragon breathed flames that flooded the stern of the ship. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air. The helmsman and one of the ballista were incinerated. Many of the crewmen dove overboard to escape the flames but one ballista crew remained. They winched back the bowstrings and loaded two more broadhead bolts into the slider mechanisms.

  The dragon chose its first target well. The helmsman was dead and the ship swung out of control. A south wind crossed the centerline of the vessel and filled the sails. The mainsail swung across the deck at high speed and the boom and tackle knocked down a handful of crewmen as it swept across the boat.

  “Fire at will!” Captain Hayes commanded.

  Bolts flew and the injured dragon struggled to fly in an arc that brought it toward the bow. Hayes knew that if the creature destroyed their last ballista, they would be defenseless. The dragon must have known this as well because it headed straight for it. They had one last chance to kill the creature.

  The remaining ballista crew fired two more broadhead bolts. The first one sailed over the dragon’s head but the second one buried itself deep into the creature’s shoulder. The dragon squealed, deafening the crew with a high-pitched screech.

  The beast slammed into the hull. The ship rocked from the collision and broken boards flew in every direction. The creature hung on and the ship tilted under its weight. Its forelegs dug into the forecastle deck and the rest of its body hung over the bow. It spewed flames that consumed the remaining ballista and its crew. It struggled to hang on and Captain Hayes felt certain it was no longer able to fly.