The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  The Sunken Man was confused. There was too much noise, too much splashing water, and it was now half tangled in wire and bone. An arm swung out, and I ducked under it, slicing off one of its jagged fins. It swung back the other way, and I rolled over the top of it, regaining my feet and closing the distance to its head. Dogs began snapping at its extremities, biting and scratching any flesh they could reach. The creature bucked and gyrated, sending water, mud and detritus in every direction at once, but it didn’t strike me. It tried, but I was too close for it to attack effectively, and my nimbus of wyrd deflected anything that would cause injury. I could kill it… I knew I could.

  I growled, using my prodigious wyrd to hover above the water and reach its head. The thing’s mouth was wide open, its grotesque lower jaw twitching in the air. I struck first at its eyes, punching out with a concentrated ball of wyrd, and burning a fist print into the black orb. It fell back, squatting in the water, trying to gather its wounded limbs and escape the dogs, but we didn’t let it. I followed it down, driving my spectral fist into its eye again and again, until it was sprawled on its back. The dogs swarmed, tearing chunks from its sickly green flesh to avenge their fallen pack mates. Its blood was green, and oozed only slowly from dozens of new wounds, but it was the damage I was causing to its head that was going to kill it. I’d burned through its eyeball with my spectral limb, and was now punching through the bone of its skull, snarling as I did so. My wyrd caused ripples of blue flame to cover its face, making its skin bubble and pop under the intense heat.

  Then it stopped moving.

  11

  I sat, panting, on the chest of the dead Sunken Man, looking at its mangled face. My wyrd had retreated, as had the dogs, and the waterlogged clearing was eerily silent. I’d killed it. I’d had considerable help, from a slavering pack of dogs and the creature’s own clumsiness, but I’d killed it. It was a victory. There were few Sea Wolves left, and none could match my wyrd, but it was a victory nonetheless.

  “Adeline,” said a gentle voice.

  I stood from the huge corpse, and was suddenly aware of the vile smell hanging in the air. Putting my hand over my mouth and nose, I turned and saw Tasha and Kieran, standing in stunned silence at the edge of the clearing. Just approaching from the left, causing no reaction from my two companions, was a lump of a man. Dark Wing had not changed, and still resembled a fur-clad oxen who’d learned rudimentary speech. His real name was Roland Lahandras, but he’d lived wild in the Mirralite Reservation, killing Pure Ones on sight, for so long that I doubted he could remember what people used to call him. But he’d known of the Sunken God before any other Sea Wolf.

  “Did well, girl,” said the old duellist.

  “Respect,” I stated. “That’s all I ask of you. Don’t fucking call me girl.”

  He screwed up his face, grumbling and murmuring like he was chewing on his own tongue. “Agreed.”

  I moved to join them at the edge of the clearing. “You were one of the first who told me of the Sunken God, so when you invite me, I come, but remember who you’re talking to. Now, you said something about the big one waking up. Show me.”

  “Are there more of them?” asked Kieran Greenfire, with a catch of fear in his voice.

  Dark Wing nodded, sizing up the diminutive quartermaster of Halfdan’s Revenge. “Come and see, little Sea Wolf.”

  The Yishian Mastiff was playfully leaping around in front of me, splashing through the water and wagging his tail. The rest of the dogs, mostly gathered around Dark Wing, were licking pieces of Sunken Man out from between their teeth. I’d gladly take them to war with me, if only I could cope with their deaths. And, after all, dogs were terrible sailors.

  “Adeline, you need to get cleaned up,” said Tasha Strong. “You’re covered in… brains and… bits of blubber.”

  “Later,” I replied. “Dark Wing, show me.”

  “Follow,” he said, lumbering north, past the ruins of his bone palace, with a dozen dogs scampering in his wake.

  The mastiff stayed with me, and Tasha and Kieran had no choice but to follow. As I turned from the corpse, taking a deep breath, I realized how deep the water was getting. Within a few minutes of following Dark Wing, it was just below my knees, and I could see it bubbling forth from the huge fissures in the forest floor.

  “Something slept under the ground,” grunted the haggard old warrior. “It broke the earth when it woke up. Most of my home was already in pieces when that thing attacked us. Look up ahead.”

  He stopped at the edge of a wide sinkhole, with water rushing away from us. We were near the coast, and multiple wide channels filtered the water to the Red Straits. The sinkhole was irregular, with gravel and stone broken from beneath, forming small waterfalls and rushing channels. I peered downwards and again covered my nose and mouth. Scattered within the broken rock, as if thrown forth by an earthquake, were dozens of bodies and pieces of bodies. They were Sunken Men. Bulbous, pasty white flesh, and mangled fish parts covered the rocks, leading to the sea channels. Everything was torn and bloodied, as if freshly slaughtered, but the pieces were easily put together, like a cursed jigsaw that would drive you mad before you solved it. I saw huge fish heads, with spiny red and green crests, and mouths stretched open at bizarre angles. I saw flabby, frog-like limbs, large as tree trunks, broken in the shallow water. No torsos remained intact, as if whatever had killed them had desired only their innards. There were globules of frogspawn, pulsing over everything, and the smell was now almost painful.

  “It was hungry when it woke up,” grunted Dark Wing. “You killed the only one that it didn’t eat.”

  Around the edges of the sinkhole, seagulls were flapping and squawking above the scattered flesh. They swooped in, tentatively snatching slivers of meat, before retreating to the dry rocks. One of the larger sea birds landed on a huge fish head and started pecking at its crest. Its webbed feet appeared to get stuck in a bubbling patch of frogspawn, causing alarmed squawking from the seagull. It flapped its wings, trying to take off, but the opaque green globules acted like glue. Agonizingly slowly, the frogspawn coalesced and crept higher up the bird’s legs, consuming it as it moved.

  “The Mirralite call it the Ravenous Whip,” said Dark Wing. “I followed it to the coast, but it disappeared into the Red Straits, near the Bay of Bliss.”

  “How big?” I asked.

  He grumbled again, as if remembering how to speak. “They get really big. Don’t ever stop growing.” He flapped a hand at the frogspawn. “From that small they start eating. The longer they live, the more they eat. The more they eat, the bigger they get.” His face split into a toothy smile. “Amazing what you find out by torturing Pure Ones.”

  “How long do they live?” I asked. “How big can they get?”

  “And do they die?” added Kieran Greenfire.

  Dark Wing bristled at the short Sea Wolf, as if he’d rather just talk to me. “They aren’t mortal… not like Eastron. Time doesn’t kill them.” Another toothy smile, now directed at Kieran, with an added note of menace. “Maybe the Sunken God is just a Sunken Man who has lived the longest. Can you understand that, little man? Can you comprehend a million years? How about ten million? How about a time before Nibonay existed? There are living things that have been here since before that time… and the Ravenous Whip is one of them.”

  Before Kieran could respond, likely getting himself beaten up, Tasha intervened. “Will you come with us?” she asked Dark Wing. “Join the fleet?”

  “No,” he replied, clearly fighting the urge to call her a rat. “I will go to Nowhere and flee this realm of form.”

  “You’re a coward,” I snarled, feeling the Old Bitch of the Sea rise within me.

  He looked me in the eye. “But I’m not a fool.”

  *

  Low tide was rapidly approaching and I sat on a platform, halfway up the foremast of Halfdan’s Revenge. I’d chosen to remain aboard Driftwood’s ship, rather than join Jonas Grief on Owl’s Bane. It was a clear afternoon,
with good visibility in all directions. Around us were ten other warships, deployed into groups. The High Captain, aboard the Never, commanded two lumbering catapult ships, busily winching their artillery into position. Jacob Hearth and Siggy Blackeye, aboard the Black Wave, were in charge of three smaller warships, each manoeuvring into a broadside position, ready to unleash their ballistae. Closer to the eastern point of the Bay of Bliss were the Lucretia and the Badger – two Kneeling Wolf ships, with no artillery, but loaded to the rails with grubby men and women, looking for a fight. In the centre, with a good view of our battleground, were two further ships. I was aboard Halfdan’s Revenge, and the master-at-arms was aboard Owl’s Bane. Our ships were the fastest, and both were armed with battering rams. The plan was simple – catapults to break stone, ballistae to deliver fire, raiding parties to clear the village.

  Ahead of us was something most of my fleet were trying not to look at. Our ships were in a half-circle, facing the Place Where We Hear The Sea. The Mirralite village languished under a muddy, black cloud, and was comprised of barely a handful of intact buildings. The land around the stone structures, from the rocky beach to the border of the forested hills, was black and infertile, with wood and fishing gear left to rot. The village itself looked dead, but as the tide receded the grey stone of the Temple of Dagon dominated the bay. A single square monolith was in the centre, with rounded tunnels, far lower and covered in knotted seaweed, weaving their way outwards, like a spider’s web.

  I swung from the platform and climbed down a rope to the quarterdeck. I needed to extend my spiritual limb to do so, but thought this preferable to flailing my way downwards. Word had spread of my encounter in Dark Wing’s forest, and my reputation was at its peak. To lose it in an ungainly fall from the foremast seemed foolish at the very least.

  “Signals coming, my lady,” said Kieran Greenfire. “All ships are stopped.”

  Across the deck of the Revenge, sailors moved quickly, relaying messages, stowing equipment, and readying the ship for a fight. The rest of the fleet were similarly engulfed in activity, preparing as best they could for a battle most didn’t understand.

  “Get all boats to deploy the nets,” I ordered, walking forward and standing at the bow of the ship.

  “Aye,” he replied, turning to relay the order to his bosun.

  She was a tall, blonde-haired woman, with an unusually loud voice. “Deploy nets!” she roared.

  Signals were relayed across the fleet, and each group of ships dropped huge fishing nets between them, throwing ropes from one deck to another and creating a barrier. They were weighted to the shallow seabed, and tied-off securely at the bow of each ship. It would give us a slight advantage against anything submerged, or would at least provide a warning. The fleet had deployed as close to the enemy as possible, trusting the tides that we wouldn’t run aground. Now, as the sea reached its lowest point, I was sure that no enormous Sunken Man could sneak up on us through the water. The Ravenous Whip was ancient. It was awake, well fed, and was out there somewhere, but it couldn’t hide in the shallows.

  Behind us, just arriving at the tiller, came Captain Tynian Driftwood, with Tasha Strong hurrying along behind him. The crew would never let a Kneeling Wolf onto the quarterdeck unless they were accompanied by an officer of the ship. Even I would have struggled to persuade them she was worthy. Luckily, Dark Wing had chosen to remain behind with his dogs, and I didn’t have to explain him to the crew of the Revenge. The Yishian Mastiff had reluctantly left my side, though I’d promised to return.

  “Not much of a rest, I’m afraid,” I said to Driftwood, now fully aware that he didn’t like me.

  He shrugged. “It’s not been too bad for me. I didn’t have to punch a fucking frog to death. Not that I could have done. My wyrd does not flow with such strength. Kieran says you were glowing like the Old Bitch of the Sea.”

  “A tale for another time,” I replied.

  Driftwood screwed up his face, his red hair and beard appearing to bristle. “I was voicing no complaint,” he said. “The harder you are, the better for all of us. But I’m still flesh and I’m still blood… so are all my crew. Remember that. And remember how few of us there are.”

  I glared at him. “I don’t need reminding of that, captain. I saw half the Sea Wolves die, and what’s left is… broken.”

  He smirked. “But enough for an honourable last stand, eh? Fighting Sunken Men at Last Port? A good end for what’s left of our people.”

  He was taunting me, but I wouldn’t allow myself to doubt. “We have to win at the Bay of Bliss first,” I replied, fighting the urge to strike him and exert my dominance. “Then we can plan an honourable last stand against the Sunken God.”

  Those around us were pretending to ignore our exchange, some more successfully than others. Kieran and the blonde bosun stood by the helm, gritting their teeth and fiddling with anything within reach. Tasha was just staring at us with an awkward look on her face. Everyone knew the Sea Wolves were a broken people, but no one wanted to address how few of our warriors were left.

  I softened my eyes and gave Driftwood a thin smile. “I need you on my side, captain. Ironic humour I can accept… but I need your loyalty.”

  “Oh, you have my loyalty,” he said, as if it was not a question that needed answering. “I’ll always be a Sea Wolf first… and an ironic bastard second.”

  I nodded. “That’s good enough for now,” I replied, turning from him and looking again at the Temple of Dagon.

  As the tide reached its lowest point, the first movements could be seen from the blocky structure. Bloated creatures scuttled from the wash, crawling over the old stone in the bay, apparently oblivious to the ten warships at anchor. The Sunken Men were all of similar size, smaller than the one I’d killed, with knotted seaweed and brightly coloured shells adorning their flabby limbs. They made grotesque popping sounds, leaving slimy trails in their wake, but none of them acknowledged us. There were perhaps two dozen of them, spread out across the algae and seaweed that covered the temple.

  I glanced behind me, at the crew of Halfdan’s Revenge. Each one of them had seen Sunken Men before, and reacted to the spectacle by simply pausing in their work, and staring with stoic resolve. A few gulped, a few more took heavy breaths, but none turned away. Across the fleet, I could see varied reactions. Closest to the coast, the War Rat’s ships were at an acute angle, and could barely see the creatures. Elsewhere, the Sea Wolves all stood on deck in silence. Some dropped ropes or ballistae bolts, others simply froze in place, whispering to their mates. They would all have heard detailed descriptions, but such things could never capture the true vile countenance of the Sunken God’s minions.

  “It’s time,” said Captain Driftwood. “All ships stand ready. No movement from the village, but the enemy are sighted.”

  I took a moment. Jaxon wasn’t there to talk to. Arthur wasn’t there to call me an idiot. Lord Ulric wasn’t there to take charge. Even Tomas Red Fang, probably the only remaining opinion I valued more than my own, had chosen to remain at the Severed Hand. I felt alone and detached, but also that I was being foolish for thinking about other people. This needed to be done, and I needed to do it. As it was at the bone palace. If there were emotions to be felt, they would wait until I could return to my dreams of Swordfish Bay.

  “Signal the Lucretia,” I ordered. “Get the raiders in position. Signal the Black Wave to prepared fire and ballistae. And signal the Never.” I paused, taking a good look at the exposed stone of the temple. “Open fire.”

  He smiled, ever so slightly, and bowed his head. “Aye, my lady.” He turned to Kieran Greenfire, the blonde bosun, and a dozen other sailors. “Right,” he bellowed. “This is fucking it. We will move like we have a purpose, and we will relay the Alpha Wolf’s orders with speed and with gusto, and, wherever possible, with a spring in our fucking step.”

  Everyone aboard the Revenge began to move. Whistles and flags were used to convey orders between ships, and Driftwood’s crew kn
ew what they were doing. The two Kneeling Wolf ships replied quickly, launching boats and heading for the low coast, east of the village. Captain Jacob Hearth and the ballistae boats were slower, but quickly pulled their eyes from the temple, and prepared to launch flaming bolts. Wilhelm Greenfire, the High Captain, and his huge catapult ships, were already in position, their engines sighted.

  “For the Sea Wolves!” I roared, using wyrd to send my voice to all parts of the fleet.

  A second later, the Never and two heavy catapult ships sprang forwards, as they launched three boulders at the central block of stone. Their trajectory was precise, and all three thudded into the side of the square structure. A Sunken Man was thrown backwards, and another was smashed to pieces, but the stone block remained intact.

  I could hear the High Captain shouting for his crews to reload, which they did quickly, winching their engines into position and levering a huge boulder into each catapult. For the first time, the Sunken Men, oozing across the seaweed-covered surface of the Temple of Dagon, turned their slimy heads to face us. Within moments the catapults fired again. Three more boulders, each enveloped in a glittering net of wyrd, thumped into the central structure. The air crackled behind them, pulsing with spiritual force, and each one exploded as it struck stone.