by Conrad Mason
Arabella opened the wooden casket and took out several small bottles of powder and colored liquid, a wooden pestle and mortar, and a large book. She opened it and began to read out strange words that Tabitha didn’t recognize.
At first it seemed as if nothing was happening. Then—was it her imagination? The sky seemed darker than before, and a breeze began to blow.
There were no more than twenty smugglers, and not one of them looked like a fighter. They held battered old cutlasses, blunt axes, and rusty firearms, and shifted around nervously, casting furtive glances at the enemy ship. Probably wondering how they’d let Clagg talk them into this.
At least the Demon’s Watch seemed confident. Old Jon was sitting on a barrel, face as calm as ever, his cudgel across his knee. Frank and Paddy were stretching like athletes and practicing sword strokes, both of them looking unusually serious. Hal sat cross-legged on the deck, his eyes closed, building up his concentration for spells. The smugglers’ magician sat with him, a thin human wearing a dirty old coat. Newton twirled his staff in the air, effortlessly turning it into a buzzing blur, flicking it from hand to hand. Seeing the watchmen, Grubb felt a little less afraid. He lifted the short hand ax that Paddy had given him, testing its weight and trying to imagine what it would feel like to use in battle.
“Listen, everybody,” said Newton, raising a hand. Silence fell at once.
“Here’s the plan. We don’t have any cannon, but we don’t have time to get into a firefight, anyway. So we’ll head straight for them, let fly with a volley of small arms, and then board.
“Now, we don’t know how many men they’ve got on that ship. We don’t know if they’re just sailors, or militiamen armed to the teeth. But either way, I don’t give a flea’s spit. You might not all know Fayt like I do. But if we fail, a whole town could be destroyed—men, women, children, and old folk alike. This is our chance to save their lives. Understand?”
There was a low murmur.
“Then Thalin protect you. Make ready!”
There was a cheer. Not a deafening one, but a cheer nonetheless.
“Battle stations!” shouted Captain Clagg.
“Going to need a lot more than blinking Thalin protecting us, if you ask me,” Grubb heard one smuggler mutter.
The wind was stronger now. It howled over the water, throwing up flecks of foam and tossing the dinghy to and fro. Tabitha felt a spot of rain on her face, then another, and moments later the sea was dimpled with the falling drops. The witch’s voice rose with the wind, mingling with it, growing ever louder. She crushed powders in the mortar bowl, rubbed them into the wood of the machinery, and cast liquids into the sea, reciting from the book as she did so.
To her astonishment, Tabitha noticed that the metal rod was changing color, shimmering faintly as if steam was passing over it. It began to glow with a dull, dark, throbbing light. Arabella Wyrmwood turned a winch and the arm jerked down, dipping into the water, deeper and deeper, until it was fully submerged.
The spots of rain turned to spatters.
Cannonballs thundered into the Sharkbane’s hull, sending up explosions of splinters. Grubb threw himself flat on the deck, paralyzed with terror.
“My ship!” screeched Clagg. “You filthy, wretched, stinking … Gaaaargh!”
“Stay down,” came Newton’s voice, astonishingly calm.
There was a volley of shots from the Cockatrice vessel, but the smugglers and the watchmen were crouched down low, and the musket balls and bolts just ricocheted off the side of the ship and tore through the sails.
The wind was up now, and the Sharkbane was moving fast with it, closing on the Incorruptible. They were so close that Grubb could hear the voices of the enemy.
“Reload,” someone was saying. “Quickly!”
“I’ve changed me mind,” howled Clagg. “I want to go back to port!”
But it was too late for that. With a juddering, rending, earsplitting crash, the smugglers’ vessel plowed into the frigate.
“Attack!” yelled Newton. “Attaaaaaack!”
Grappling hooks arced above, falling on the deck of the Incorruptible. Grubb roared as loudly as he could. He couldn’t tell if it scared the enemy, but it made him feel better. He rose up, one foot on the prow, and leaped onto the witch’s vessel.
There was a mass of blackcoats on board, most of them still reloading, but at the sight of the attackers they dropped their guns and drew sabers, letting out their own war cries. There were shots, screams, thuds, and the clatter of steel on steel. Grubb could hardly tell what was happening. He flailed his ax around, desperate to keep the militiamen at bay, desperate to live.
He must have been moving forward, because in a moment he was free, beyond the fighting. Glancing back, he saw the smugglers still attacking, breaking on the blackcoats like waves on a beach. Heart pounding, he crouched behind the foremast, out of view of the battle, and took in the witch’s ship. Tabitha and Arabella were nowhere to be seen. But the ship’s dinghy was missing. He looked out to sea, and there, not far away, he saw it. It was laden with strange machinery, and a white hooded figure, and a girl with blue hair …
There was only one thing for it. He raced to the side of the ship, hopped up onto the gunwale, and dived.
It was only when he was halfway to the water that it hit him how incredibly stupid he was being. Then the icy water hit him, twice as hard.
He surfaced, spluttering and rubbing salt water from his eyes. What in all the wide blue sea was he doing? Did he think he was some sort of hero, like Captain Newton? Of course he wasn’t. He was just a tavern boy with a head full of bad ideas. The Maw. Somewhere below him was the Maw. The water was so cold it burned. He looked back at the sheer hull of the ship. There was no way back up.
He gulped in air and began to swim toward the witch’s dinghy.
Newton laid two men low with a couple of deft movements of the Banshee. One went out cold, the other howled and clutched his nose, blood spitting through his fingers. The captain of the Demon’s Watch paused for a second, assessing the battle.
Most of the smugglers were easy prey for the trained militiamen and their deadly sabers. But others were putting tavern brawling skills to good use. Meanwhile, Paddy and Frank were carving a twin path through the enemy. Hal and the smugglers’ magician fought back-to-back, hurling waves of magical force at their opponents and knocking them off their feet. Old Jon cracked two sailors’ heads together and left them in a heap on the deck.
They were winning—except for one thing. Colonel Cyrus Derringer’s slender blade danced around him faster than a fairy, dispatching the smugglers with contemptuous ease. He moved with a speed and agility only an elf could attain, fighting with one arm held behind his back, the way they taught in the fencing schools of the Old World. His blade was deadly, but it was his face that bore the mark of a true professional. It was expressionless, icy calm even in the heat of battle.
He had to be stopped.
“Cyrus Derringer! Want a real fight?”
The elf parried a goblin girl’s cutlass and kicked her in the stomach, sending her spinning away with a shocked look on her face.
“Mr. Newton. Is this rabble all you’ve got?” He flicked blood from his blade.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re betraying your home.”
“I’m obeying my governor,” snapped Derringer. But Newton thought he saw doubt cloud his face for just a moment. “And I’ll send you all to the bottom of the ocean if I have to.”
“Come on then,” snarled Newton. “For Port Fayt.”
Grubb’s arms and legs ached, his chest burned, and his fingers and toes were frozen. However fast he swam, it seemed like he was getting no closer. He rose and fell with the waves, gulping in air whenever he could, catching a glimpse every now and then of Tabitha, her hands tied behind her back, her blue hair sodden and clinging to her face. And he saw the witch too, heard her terrible voice carrying out across the sea, strange, feral words tumbling out, calling
on the Maw.
Arabella Wyrmwood’s eyes were swelling and swirling, black as the night, and her voice was inhuman, the roar of a wild animal. Her body quivered as she channeled magical energy through herself, into the machinery, and down into the depths.
And, with a sound so low, so deep that it was felt and not heard, the dinghy moved. It wasn’t the wind or the waves or the rain. Tabitha was sure of it. Far below, beneath the ocean, something had shifted.
The rain became a torrent.
Cyrus Derringer tossed his sword from hand to hand, flicking it easily in circles, while Newton stood waiting, his staff motionless. The deck was slick with rainwater and blood. The fighting, the killing, and the screams surged around them.
Newton sized up his opponent. The elf was fast, and his blade was faster still. But on the other hand, he was arrogant, too sure of his own success. Maybe, just maybe, it would be his undoing.
Derringer smoothed back his damp hair and skipped in at an angle, his blade curving round.
Newton sidestepped, the sword glancing off the Banshee. Almost without thinking, he brought the other end of the staff swinging round, just as Tori the hobgoblin had taught him long ago. But it wasn’t good enough. Derringer was already well out of range, his blade still spinning in his hand. The elf’s speed made Newton feel clumsy, weighed down, as if he was moving through water.
The elf smiled, and his sword became a blur. In a moment he was up close, driving his opponent back, hacking and slicing in every direction at once. Newton parried desperately, evading blow after blow.
And then there was pain in his leg, and he fell heavily forward onto one knee. Triumphant, Derringer raised his sword …
Too cocky. The end of the Banshee jabbed hard into the elf’s throat.
Derringer’s eyes went comically wide with shock. The sword fell, and he clutched at his throat, choking, staggering backward, and slipped over on the wet deck. Newton was up in an instant, his weight on his one good leg. Derringer fumbled for the sword, and Newton kicked it away. Looking down, he felt a jolt of anger to see his thigh covered in blood. He shoved the elf down with the Banshee.
“Your governor,” he growled, “told us to stop that witch, before he died.” He watched confusion and mistrust fight for control of Derringer’s face. “She might have been his mother, but she’s with the League of the Light. Don’t you get it? She’s the enemy.”
“But the governor said—”
“Forget the governor. What do you think she’s doing now? Calling a demon to destroy Port Fayt, that’s what. And we have to stop her. Together.”
“Together?” Derringer repeated, in a daze.
The witch threw back her hood, and Tabitha winced at the sight. Her gray skin was stretched taut over her skull. A few strands of gray-white hair flew out in the wind, and her black eyes whirled and danced. She opened her mouth wide and let out a howl that rolled across the ocean and shook the ships with its power.
“RISE! RISE! RISE!”
All at once the wind dropped and the sea calmed.
There was a low rumble, and Grubb felt the water vibrate below him.
The rumble became a roar.
On board the Incorruptible, the fighting stopped. Everyone watched the ocean, dizzy with horror. Some knew what was going to happen but could barely believe it. Others sensed something in the air and were filled with a fear they couldn’t explain.
Arabella Wyrmwood drew the wooden spoon from her sleeve and raised it high above her head in triumph.
It was coming. The Maw. It was coming.
The sea was torn in two.
Grubb might have screamed, but if so, he didn’t notice. His body convulsed, and he was flung aside in a torrent of water, like a doll tossed away by a petulant child.
Newton saw it all.
A shadow fell across the ocean. While militiamen and smugglers threw themselves flat down in terror, hid their faces from the world, and grasped hold of anything they could find, he stood, transfixed, and watched.
The Maw made a sound—a warbling, bellowing scream that seemed to stop his heart mid-beat.
It was nothing like the statue in Thalin Square.
Grubb surfaced, gasping and spluttering out seawater. There was the boat, and beyond it … beyond it …
Don’t look. Focus. Focus on the boat. Focus on getting to Tabitha before … before anything more could happen. He struck out desperately, fighting his way toward her.
Arabella Wyrmwood was chanting. Tabitha opened her eyes just a fraction, in case she caught sight of the nightmare that loomed above. The witch was standing, gripping the spoon, her eyes closed as she channeled all her energy, fighting to worm her way into the mind of the beast.
Tabitha wriggled, trying to free her hands and feet, but it was no good. They were stuck fast. And then a strange image came into her head. She remembered Joseph, in the Pickled Dragon, throwing himself at the big militiaman and falling on his backside. So brave, and so stupid.
Two could play at that game.
She wobbled to her feet and hopped backward, just managing not to overbalance. Then she bent her knees and launched herself across the dinghy, as hard as she could.
Half a second too late, Arabella noticed what was happening. She lowered the wooden spoon, her eyes narrowed with rage … and then Tabitha crashed into her. They tumbled outward, pressed together, Arabella spitting and snarling. Tabitha felt her hands and feet come unglued as the witch’s concentration broke.
For a moment she caught a glimpse of something beyond Arabella’s shoulder, among the waves—the mottled face of a mongrel boy, rising and falling with the sea—before the pair of them smacked into the water like twin sacks of ducats.
Grubb saw the dinghy rock, saw the splash, saw Tabitha emerge a moment later, no more than twenty feet away, blue hair plastered to her head. She cast about, spotted him, waved at him.
“Hold this for a minute,” she yelled, and something came curving through the air toward him, droplets falling away from it.
Grubb pushed himself up as high as he could go and caught the wooden spoon.
“Go,” shouted Tabitha. “Back to the ship.”
Grubb bobbed in the waves, panting, hesitating. He couldn’t go back without her. Not this time.
Beyond, the demon let out another hideous scream. It rippled the water, turning his blood to ice. He didn’t dare look at it, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that it was moving. Oh, Thalin. It was moving toward the ships.
“What are you waiting for?” shrieked Tabitha. “We don’t have much—”
And then something surged up out of the water behind her, seizing her collar and lifting her out of the sea, upward and upward.
Tabitha choked, clutching at her neck, trying to tear away the cold hands that gripped her from behind. Arabella Wyrmwood’s hands.
She looked down and saw the dinghy ten feet below, saw Grubb looking up, eyes as big as cannonballs, still holding the spoon. Her feet kicked uselessly in the air. She caught a glimpse of the witch’s white robes.
White, like a seraph.
“That wand belongs to me,” roared the witch. “Give it to me, mongrel. Give it to me, or she will die.”
Tabitha tried to tell him to go, swim, get away. But all that came out was a strangled squawk. She watched him decide.
What would his father do? Or Captain Newton, or Thalin the Navigator? They would be strong enough to do the right thing, of course. To make the hard decision. To save a town, not just a single girl. But Grubb couldn’t think about them, couldn’t focus at all. There was only Tabitha, struggling, but too weak to get away. Tabitha, her face going red, then purple. Tabitha, who was kicking less and less now, as the witch gripped her tighter and tighter …
He pulled back his arm and threw the spoon.
And then the witch was swooping over the water like a great seagull, with Tabitha in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other. Toward the demon.
They had lost, Grubb re
alized, and it was all because of him.
He kept treading water, but he felt as if his insides were turning to stone. What else could he have expected? Arabella Wyrmwood was stronger, so much stronger than he was. All that way for this. There was nothing more he could have done, and no other way it could have ended.
He had never been strong enough, and now they were all going to die for it.
Finally, in despair, he looked up at the Maw.
The first thing he saw was the way the sky shimmered and distorted around it. The leak of demon magic, smudging reality wherever it moved.
The next thing was its size, how it rose above the ships as if they were toys floating in its bath. He would have laughed, if he could.
Next, how the Maw waded like a human—but as if the water was no obstacle at all, as though the demon and the ocean existed in two entirely separate senses. Its body was dark, the color of seaweed, and every inch of it was writhing with violence. It was impossible to tell how deep below the surf that terrible body extended. Its back was curved and covered in spines, and its limbs were like spiders’ legs, long, slender, and pointed, sending great gouts of spray into the air wherever they struck the ocean.
The head was the worst thing of all. The Maw had no use for ears, nose, or mouth. But its eyes were vast, like those of a fish ten thousand times magnified. They were the color of a stormy sea, somehow at once emotionless yet smoldering with malevolence.
A demon. A monster. A nightmare.
It had almost reached the ships.
Grubb hauled himself into the abandoned dinghy, shivering. The Maw filled his mind, blocking out everything else so much that he almost felt calm. He gripped the oars and began to row, turning the boat toward the demon. Running couldn’t save him. He would go down with his friends, with Newton and Tabitha. With Frank and Paddy, Hal and Old Jon. With Captain Clagg. He almost laughed to think of what he was doing. Maybe he’d gone mad. But it seemed as if there wasn’t much point being sane anymore.