Riverkeep

by Martin Stewart

  “Gah!” shouted Murdagh, lunging at Wull, blade outstretched.

  The mormorach returned.

  It smashed into the side of the Hellsong with such force that they were scattered to the deck, the slick wood tilting as the creature pressed its strength against it. Then it yielded and the ship crashed back into the water, a huge wave sweeping over the crew.

  Wull jumped to his feet, ran for the rail—and was stopped by the sharp points of Murdagh’s fingers at his ankle.

  “Ye little demon!” shouted the old sailor. “Ye’ve cursed my ship! I’ll kill you!”

  “Let me go!” shouted Wull, kicking backward.

  “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

  Wull kicked Murdagh’s chin, drawing blood from his lips. Murdagh snarled and reached for his blade.

  Wull saw how easily the old sailor would stab him, how free of conscience he would be in the moment. He felt through his coat the little lump Pent had given him and snatched it, throwing it straight into Murdagh’s good eye.

  The captain flinched and, with a huge effort, Wull booted his hand away, loosening his grip for the tiniest moment.

  It was enough. He ran, struggling for purchase on the fast, lurching deck, and dropped into the water as the mormorach jumped free of the sea beside him, a gigantic train of muscle that reached the highest mast even as its tail left the water.

  Wull landed with a thump that took his wind. He kicked off his boots and shrugged free of his coat, leaving them to sink into the icy sea.

  “I’ll kill you!” shouted Murdagh. “Get me a harpoon! An’ don’t stop wi’ those hammers!”

  The gongs picked up as Wull swam, their sound holding him through the water like a fist. He plowed on, the waves taking his momentum, taking in mouthfuls of sour seawater as he went.

  The mormorach sped below him, the silent power whipping past in a second, throwing him up on its wave. Wull felt himself tiny and fragile, his soft abdomen exposed to whatever sharpness might lurk unseen below the black water. He knew with his instincts the limitlessness of the void beneath him, the stretching reach of the deep toward his small body and his desperately kicking legs.

  The creature thundered past again, a flash of gray that seemed to fill the sea for that second, too fast even to see the details of its body or the features of its awful face.

  “Swim, cut-squirt!” shouted Murdagh, distant now. “Swim!”

  The tip of the breakwater was getting closer. In the still water of the Danék summer he could swim such a distance in half a minute; out here, on the wild sea, each wave pushed him back nearly as far as he’d come.

  He heard the cries of the crew as the mormorach launched at the Hellsong again, and swam harder, almost within reach of the rusting ladder on the breakwater’s wall.

  Then he felt the mormorach behind him.

  It was still a way off, he knew, but its energy stabbed at his back like a whirlpool’s point, every bit of its strength driving toward him.

  As his fingertips made contact with the ladder he heard the hiss of its fins tearing the surface and the rush of water filling its opening mouth.

  He heaved himself up onto the first rung, pulling his feet behind him. The mormorach halted sharply, sending a wall of water that knocked out Wull’s air and struck his head against the breakwater’s rock.

  The beast streamed off, back to the Hellsong, from which the sound of the gongs was now muffled by distance.

  Wull scrambled up the ladder. There was hot blood on his head where he’d struck the breakwater, and his steps seemed unweighted, loose. With tiny stones stabbing at his stockinged feet he ran past the statue of the woman, through the discarded anchors and the silent, beached craft of the port. Groups of townsfolk were gathered, talking and gawking at the battle between creature and ship. Wull scattered them like hens as he ran toward the Brunswick, past the protesting barkeep and through the door of room three.

  “Wull?” said Tillinghast, bound to a chair. His voice was weak. “Gods above, get away!”

  Wull ran over and held Tillinghast upright. His face was intact, but his body was spilling outward from crude bindings, his skin split like the rot-swollen bodies Wull and Pappa found after months in sun-drenched water. A crude, dull blade was stuck in his chest.

  “Till! I’m so sorry. He wanted the mandrake to get me on the ship, an’ I thought I had to so I could save Pappa, but it’s not right. I’m sorry. . . .”

  “You shouldn’t’ve come here. He only wanted me, an’ I’m finished now. You shouldn’t’ve—”

  “How did you even find him?”

  “Chewin’ that rosy rubbish? Once I remembered what I was lookin’ for, it was easy.” Tillinghast looked at the ground. “I’s not proud o’ this, but I’s got a florist’s nose.”

  The door clicked shut. Wull turned to see Mr. Pent, grinning with spit on his chin, turning the key and dropping it into his pocket.

  “I jus’ want to take him away,” said Wull. “You’ve got the mandrake, an’ that’s what you wanted, an’ you’ve got my money too, so jus’ let us go.”

  Pent laughed. He lifted the tight roll of money Wull had handed him that morning, threw it into the fire, then pointed at Tillinghast.

  “You only want him?”

  Pent nodded.

  “Why?”

  Pent looked thoughtful, then flexed his hands in a gesture of maddened strangulation.

  “I’s got no idea what you’s sayin’.” Tillinghast sighed. “Mibbe if you explained it through the wonder of song?”

  Pent pointed at Tillinghast and shrugged.

  “I’m takin’ him with me,” said Wull, his anger rising. “He’s a pain an’ he’s rude, but he’s my friend. An’ look at him, he’s ruined. Let me take him.”

  Pent shook his head.

  “I’m takin’ him!” said Wull.

  “Wull,” said Tillinghast, “jus’ go!”

  “No!” said Wull, and he rushed at Pent, head down, knocking him backward against the wall. Before Pent threw him off, Wull felt all the pieces of tinkling metal under the black coat, all the little blades and trinkets of violence neatly aligned like books on a shelf.

  Pent tossed him to the floor and stamped after him. Tillinghast tried to rise but fumbled—Pent struck him across the mouth and kicked the table aside as Wull darted backward on the floor. As Pent came at him Wull rose and charged again, butting his stomach and swinging wild punches at his sides.

  Pent drove a knee into his windpipe and pushed him to the ground. Spots flashed in Wull’s vision, and he coughed, tasting blood.

  “Wull . . . I’s sorry,” said Tillinghast. “It’s my fault. I told ’im you needed to get on a ship. . . . I’s sorry. . . . I’d’ve turned me in an’ all.”

  He tried to stand again but slumped backward, broken and defeated.

  Pent hunkered down, a thin knife held loosely in his hand. He smiled again and held it to the back of Wull’s skull.

  Wull felt his skin tear, and thought of Pappa, of his courage and his strength.

  “No!” he shouted, rising with all his might—knocking Pent’s hand aside and pushing his ribs.

  The big man laughed, stepped away, raised the knife, and prepared to drive its point into Wull’s brain . . . when his heel caught the corner of his coat. The fabric twisted as he fell, bunching the sharp, cruel, tinkling things beneath him into a fist of steel.

  Pent wheezed as the blades sliced into his back, through the cage of his ribs and into his heart. He coughed violently, spraying flecks of bright blood onto Wull’s face.

  Wull fell backward, kicking away from Pent’s agonized wriggle, the empty mouth hissing wordless curses and cries as the floor around him turned vividly red.

  Then he was still, his last sound a tiny gasp that seemed to Wull like a whispered “please.”

 
“Wull!” shouted Tillinghast. “Are you all right?”

  Wull nodded, looking at Pent’s twitching body, the pool of blood moving toward him.

  “I’m fine,” he said, sagging, “I’m sorry I gave him the mandrake. I’m so sorry.”

  “’S fine,” said Tillinghast. “I’d’ve done the same. Course that’s what makes me such a wretched git, an’ is the kind o’ behavior from which I’s now repented. You did well facin’ up to that blaggard, mind.”

  Wull lifted the knife from Pent’s hand and cut the bonds at Tillinghast’s wrists.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “You need to help me,” said Tillinghast. “I’s mibbe savable like this but no good for much else.”

  Wull lifted him into a hug, and they held each other a moment.

  “Let me go, soft lad,” said Tillinghast. “Where we goin’ anyways?”

  “To get Pappa, an’ then we’re goin’ after the mormorach.”

  “I thought you’d gave up on it?”

  “Only on catchin’ it with Murdagh,” said Wull.

  “Who’s Murdagh?” said Tillinghast.

  “The captain of the only huntin’ ship left, the one I traded you to get on. But he tried to kill me. We need to go on the bäta, on my boat. That’s how this ends.”

  “He tried to kill you an’ all?” said Tillinghast. “You’s havin’ some Wednesday.”

  Wull retrieved the key from Pent’s pocket and led them through the corridors and out the back door, through the long grasses and broken glass of the yard and into the cobbled lane to the rear of the market.

  Tillinghast was heavy on his shoulder, almost incapable of carrying his own weight, and Wull felt the bones of his back popping under the strain as they moved slowly down the hill toward Mrs. Vihv’s.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  “No trouble,” said Tillinghast, slumped like compost on the ground. “But if a decent bit o’ skirt comes by, I’m chasin’ it.”

  “What happened to you?” said Mrs. Vihv as he entered. “Where’s your shoes?”

  “Nothin’. I’m fine. How’s Pappa?”

  Mrs. Vihv pulled her lips tight. “He’s not good,” she said, then she whispered, “It’s takin’ him,” and touched Wull’s face. “That’s not nothin’, my boy—you’ve blood in your hair. Din’t you get on the ship?”

  “Yes, no . . . I was on it, an’ I had to leave. I’m takin’ my boat. It’s the only way I know how to do this.”

  “I said I wouldn’t let—”

  “I have to!” said Wull. “Pappa’s dyin’ in front o’ my eyes. An’ I can do this—I know I can! This is my river!”

  Mrs. Vihv stepped back from him, met his eyes, then threw up her hands.

  “So be it,” she said. “You know your own mind!”

  Wull knelt down in front of Pappa. “Pappa, we’re goin’ now,” he said, shaking the slumbering form. “I’m goin’ to fix you, an’ then we can go home.”

  Pappa’s eyes, slower than ever and milked into blindness, slipped open. “It that speaks?” he said.

  “I’m here, Pappa. Are you hungry?”

  “Sleep,” said Pappa.

  “Soon. Come on with me now. We’ll make you better.”

  He pulled the skinny body to its feet, trying not to hurt him, trying to press Pappa’s weight against his shoulder without hauling at his tender joints.

  “See that you’re careful,” said Mrs. Vihv, holding the door for them.

  “Thank you,” said Wull. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “An’ how’s the old man today?” said Tillinghast as they emerged.

  “He’s dying,” said Wull. “We need to get out there.”

  “You’re takin’ me? What am I for? Ballast?”

  “There might be some gland in this thing that’ll help you an’ all, Till. Jus’ come on.”

  Wull, keeping Pappa on his left side, leaned down and scooped Tillinghast up with his right arm, their two weights balanced on his shoulders.

  “Look at you, strong man,” said Tillinghast.

  “Jus’ help me,” said Wull through his teeth.

  They inched along, step by heavy step. Tillinghast fell, spraying his messy limbs over the cobbles as Wull leaned down to catch him, Pappa grunting painfully in his grip.

  Wull placed himself somewhere else, a hidden part of his mind he’d never been to before, away from the pain and the squeal of his body, the ache of his shoulders and his wrist and his face dissolving as he thought himself into the space of the river and felt the press of Pappa’s weight at his side.

  They came to the shore where the bäta sat, its eyes—to Wull, always hard, unsympathetic, and locked in with judgment—now seeming determined and ready.

  He peered through the sun glare to see the Hellsong, its ringing cries of war now irregular thumps, still fighting the mormorach and down to its last sail, graygulls swirling around it like flies at a dying animal. She had moved back into the water of the port inside the protection of the breakwater, and so, he saw as it thudded through the Hellsong’s keel, had the beast.

  He laid Tillinghast on the beach as he helped Pappa into the bäta, running his hand over the gunwale as he did so. He all but lifted Tillinghast into the stern after him, the big body little more than a pile of damp straw in his hands.

  Wull dribbled the last of the water into his burning mouth, head spinning, then tossed the pouch onto the bottom boards.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered to the boat as he heaved it into the sea, wading after it and scrambling onto the center thwart.

  He rowed through the waves, pushing through their punches and away from the coast, out into the water of the port.

  The noise of the gongs grew louder as he approached, matched almost by the frenzy of the waves and the splashing of lost crew. As the mormorach surfaced again, it roared, smashing through the bone-trussed ribs of the ship and sending more men and women into the water.

  “What you goin’ to do?” Tillinghast said weakly. “You can’t kill that thing. . . . ’S big as a castle.”

  Wull hefted a harpoon in both hands and stood on the tossing bäta.

  “I can stick it,” he said. “Pappa said these are good iron. If I stick it it’ll bleed, an’ if it bleeds it’ll die.”

  “You can’t stab this thing! Look at it! Look at you!”

  “What else am I to do?” shouted Wull as the mormorach streamed past them and into the air. It smashed through the Hellsong’s remaining mast, sending it toppling like a felled oak to the water. The crew began to abandon ship, diving from the lurching decks into the water around the bäta.

  “Untie the arms!” said Pappa.

  Wull launched the harpoon. It hissed invisibly through the chopping surface, vanishing in an instant.

  “See?” said Tillinghast. “You have to go back!”

  “Is that you, cut-squirt?” shouted Murdagh from the Hellsong’s deck. “You back to face me?”

  “I’m back to kill it!” shouted Wull. “You’ve had your chance—now it’s my turn!”

  He heaved another harpoon in his hands, saw the flash of gray below, and threw it as hard as he could. It sailed through the air, tipping as it reached the bulbous swell of the mormorach’s back before bouncing off like a raindrop. The bäta rocked as the creature’s trunk grazed its hull, a fissure appearing in the thin planking, a rib splitting with a sharp crack.

  “Turn back!” shouted Tillinghast, water washing over him in white swoops of foam.

  “I’ve got one left,” said Wull, raising the last harpoon to his shoulder and sighting the mormorach approaching. “I’ve got one left. I can do it.”

  “Ye’re not takin’ my prize, demon!” shouted Murdagh, leaping down into the bäta on a length of rope, his sword swinging. “Gilt’s been fishin’ game on the se
as since before you was a teat-suckin’ babe, an’ ye’re not takin’ this damn thing from me!”

  He slashed wildly, sticking the blade in the gunwale and stumbling on his bone leg. Wull pushed him over and leaped back as Murdagh grabbed at his collar.

  “Ye think to challenge me, boy? Is that it? This is my sea!” said Murdagh, licking his teeth.

  “UNTIE THE ARMS!” shouted Pappa.

  “I jus’ want to save him!” said Wull, standing between Murdagh and Pappa. “You can have the rest of it, I jus’ need one tiny part!”

  The mormorach streamed from the water beside them, twirling through the Hellsong’s falling sails and smashing apart the exposed keel in a hail of splinters.

  “It’s mine!” shouted Murdagh. “This thing is mine! This is my sea an’ this is my beast an’ I’ve not hunted for it these years to let it slip into the pink hands o’ some cut-squirt Riverkeep!”

  Wull roared, charging across the bucking bäta and barreling into Murdagh’s chest, knocking them both to the floor. They wrestled, the wire of Murdagh’s teak-strong frame getting the better of Wull too quickly, pressing him to the bottom boards and wrapping his rough hands around his neck.

  “I’ll kill you!” shouted Murdagh. “I’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill your damn pappa!”

  “You’ll not touch him!” shouted Wull.

  “Wull . . .” said Tillinghast, his voice drowned by the crash of water.

  Wull kicked the old sailor in the guts and rolled under the center thwart, ducking his head from Murdagh’s slashing blade.

  He grabbed the last harpoon and stood, swiping at Murdagh’s stomach and jabbing him back to the bäta’s stern. The mormorach swept around the bäta, its fast bulk rising and dropping the boat into the chopping waves and taking their balance, the tip of the tail swiping a chunk from its side.

  Murdagh grinned at him.

  “You think you’s got what it takes to kill a man, cut-squirt?” he said. “Gilt’s killed men, men who got in his way, men who tried to take what was his. Some o’ them was fine sailors, good men, men o’ the sea. I think o’ them when I walk in their footsteps, but you, a bloody nuisance, a nothin’—you’ll be no more thought of than a crushed bug.”