THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  "Ha! Thanks, I never thought you are a critic." Van Reiver stared in suspicion at the phial, his eyes becoming cross-eyed for a moment as he tried to focus on the red glass. His groan made Carla wince as she imagined his head pounding. The thunder of a galloping mount of destiny. Silly words to recount from a popular court poem and utterly pointless. "Ouch!" he complained pathetically, holding the top of his skull as though it might erupt. She resisted saying 'good', only by clenching her hands until they almost bled.

  "One of those worked wonders on Bullsen, now get it down you. I need to put a few stitches in your ear before it kicks in, so no screaming in front of the lady." Robsin instructed.

  "I need sustenance, and I was ordered." Van Reiver gave a plaintive whine, his voice trailing away as Robsin used his needle.

  Carla hid her face in her hands as her rage faded, and fresh shouts and screams echoed overhead. Each clatter from the passageway made her jump and looking around only added to her helplessness. Robsin delivered a brimming brandy glass with a neutral expression as Van Reiver glanced from her to Carla's father. The old man's breathing was barely noticeable in the candlelight. Robsin gave her an enquiring glance, and she shook her head. She'd never keep the brandy down.

  "You've been practising," Van Reiver admired, taking a long sip and clamping his teeth into his lip from the pain of Robsin 'tidying' his ear.

  Carla looked away as her stomach lurched. Gods, what a time to lose her first hearty meal in a week. Swallowing, she saw Van Reiver looking at her as he savoured the spirit with an odd expression, as though it etched his stomach like acid across steel. Perhaps a reminder of his missed meal. The thought and smell of the spirit almost made her retch, and she felt a cold sweat burst from every pore in the stifling heat from the candelabras. It proved her right in turning the glass down.

  "In all likelihood, we would have sailed into this, Lady. Whether we may have avoided things in the fog, I cannot say."

  "It is irrelevant, Edouard. They have been through enough," Robsin interjected. Carla could hug the dignified old man if she knew she could control her stomach around the blood of the two men in the chairs. Van Reiver's tone was unfamiliar, and she felt herself stiffen. She still wanted to scream, only her resolve kept her from throwing aside decorum at each savage yell from the deck above. Some rescue, she thought again. Was her voyage cursed? Damn the man and her father!

  "You believe I omitted something?" Carla felt her eyes fill, but willed her anger towards the mythical serenity of calmness.

  "I don't know. Should I?" Van Reiver was glacial. He grimaced, as though he was aware he was being harsh. "I'm sorry, but watching someone's brains come out when talking to them is a poor substitute for second guessing people." Robsin shook his head, and for a moment Carla thought he would cuff the navigator for his tactlessness.

  Van Reiver took a resigned breath as Jimi returned, placing a rectangular satchel at Robsin's feet. Carla saw Van Reiver clenching his teeth until his cheek muscles twitched, as though the self-inflicted pain could keep his anger and his mental images in check. He turned to the doctor, dismissing her for a moment. Robsin returned his look, calm and unperturbed as he concentrated on his needlework. Shoulders slumping, Van Reiver asked, "How's Dag? I feared they'd blown him up."

  "Like you, Edouard, your mischievous friend was too close to something that went boom." He pointed to a purpling egg-sized lump Carla could see from where she sat over Dagmar's right eye. She could also see several cuts, some of which still contained jagged splinters of timber. "I had a quick look on my way up top. I think he's bounced off a few walls and hit something solid with his noggin."

  Van Reiver smiled at the doctor's colourful phrasing. Unlike the other officers, she thought he was being deliberate in avoiding nautical terminology. "Bumps and bruises from the stairs; probable concussion and maybe a few broken bones. I'll leave Jimi to pick the pieces out as his small fingers will be a boon. It's best to let him wake by himself, and I have others in worse shape to help." Robsin inclined his head at the door, rose and departed. Van Reiver blinked. Carla assumed witnessing Robsin move so quickly was unique, as it seemed out of character for the man.

  Voices murmured outside, and they heard his footsteps pausing in the passageway, as Carla imagined Robsin checking rows of injured. Someone moaned, while others she presumed suffered in private, or sat in shock at grievous injuries to their flesh. Fortunately for Carla, none screamed hysterically.

  Jimi re-entered and sorted away items usually cleared before a battle. Humming as though to distract himself, the boy set out buckets of water, spread sand on the deck and arranged rolls of extra bandages, and was unrolling Robsin's surgical tools just as the doctor returned with a steward, dragging in an unconscious deckhand.

  Carla looked at the thickening plumes of smoke sidling in behind them. Words failed her when tatters of men arrived at the table for Robsin. These were the ones with a chance? They all left crimson streaks staining the sand, like fresh meat on a butcher's block. Moving in a prelude to death's indifferent artistry. Angrily she wiped her eyes.

  "Is this obsidian, Doc'?" Van Reiver proffered a needle-sharp shard from inside his collar, ignoring a prick of blood it raised from his thumb. Robsin turned away from a cleaved arm and peered closer. He squinted in the candlelight, as though short-sighted, then nodded.

  "Looks it. Uncommon if I recall my geology, is that what caused the ear?" His gaze travelled to the navigator and took in the imperceptible nod before he returned to his work.

  Van Reiver looked thoughtfully into the candle. Carla saw him study her father as he gulped his drink, and turned to Jimi, busy cleaning the dirt and blood off Dagmar's battered face with a scrap of bandage.

  "If we can't repel boarders, Jimi," he said, "there is something important to do." Carla turned at his tone. Her eyes felt red, gritty. She wiped them, shocked to realise she had been crying. "We should have our boats and Lady Carla's at the stern." He gave a sympathetic smile as she winced. "I want you, Jimi—you may also need to assist, Lady Carla—take Dag and your father to a boat. If you see crewmen jumping, pick them up and get as far away as you can. Run, avoid fighting, and warn our authorities of what has transpired." Carla and Jimi nodded, their reality surreal and their lives threatened without direct involvement. "On my bunk is my map satchel, and my navigation tools are in the brown leather case above the table. Make sure they go with you and scrounge any food you see."

  "I'll see to it, sir," The boy's face paled, but to his credit his voice resisted trembling. Carla wished her courage was as robust and took solace in his resolve.

  "Keep your head down and be careful. We've lost enough, and the night isn't over. If you excuse me, I need to find my sword." Jimi nodded and hunched back over the sunjammer.

  As Van Reiver stood to leave, Carla rose shakily to her feet and stepped over to him. It was a shock to her as much as him when she raised herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before touching his arm. The touch seemed more electrifying to her than the zephyr-like kiss she breathed against his chin. He swayed on unsteady legs as though mortified.

  "For luck. Thank you for everything. Please be careful. I am so very sorry."

  He gave her a look. A more puzzled than ever look. That almost made her laugh until she remembered broken bodies surrounded her and the ship burned. She wanted to say more, apologise for what she omitted, but he departed without looking back. He became a wraith as motes furled, passing over the litters of the wounded and those about to die.

  Carla looked at her chair and the sunjammer the boy fussed over as her mind churned. With a sigh, as though deciding the fate of the world, she lit more candles and passed them to Jimi. Knowing what would come, and clenching her stomach, she took a deep breath and crouched by Dagmar. Using fingernails the boy lacked, Carla extracted splinters, becoming indifferent to the blood painting her fingers.

  "Jimi, see to those instructions. We need to go soon." Carla said and looked again at her father's c
ase. Whatever it was in there had better be worth the lives it cost. Guilt and the unknown itched like a disease, and Carla's skin crawled.

  Jimi recovered from her help, and his mouth gaped like a cave entrance as she spoke to him direct. The boy looked to her in awe, shock, then fear, and then glanced to Robsin. The doctor never looked up but must have felt the youthful gaze.

  "Do as told, boy."

  10

  Harcux and Trevir caught up with Van Reiver as he tottered onto the main deck. He felt amazing for such a brief passage of time and flung the vicious shard of obsidian into the amber. Whatever Robsin had given him was working its magic. His head and ear tingled in a way not unpleasant or painful. He could almost feel the magic smooth away his injuries. It embraced his pain, but to his disappointment, none of his worries. It healed, but failed to calm him.

  "Both pinnaces are aft, along with the lady's boat, sir. I have double painters on each, to ensure they don't drift off, or act as pontoons for the fuckers." Harcux rumbled, his eyes flickering to the diminishing flames from the sunjammer dome where they peeled back the fog from the aft castle.

  "Good. I hope we won't need them." The two subordinates exchanged an unfathomable, knowing look with identical blank expressions. It signified what they thought better than words. "I know," Van Reiver conceded with an inward cringe. "It's better to be ready when we're caught napping."

  Both men nodded, and he knew he made sense. "I've asked Jimi to move Sunjammer Dagmar and the passengers into a boat if we run afoul of further trouble. Can you assist him in the wardroom? There's other injured too, I am thinking." Trevir nodded, face impassive. Following orders unquestioned came easily to the marine.

  "By Krauag's giant hairy knackers! I want to rip the bastards apart!" Harcux objected, looking down at the marine and clenching giant hands, which cracked like stones under a laden cart.

  "I know, but the best chance of someone getting the warning out is if our sunjammer is alive. The word needs to get out, Harcux. Your strength is better served doing that than battering heads. More than anything, and these fuckers deserve a long, lingering death."

  "Aye, all right, we'll get it done." Harcux inclined his head over the rail at the fresh threat giving in. As emerging shapes appeared from the fog, voices yelled in alarm, warning the deck crew from the lookout in the masthead. "Guests are coming," he grinned, his head lifting wolfishly as though scenting blood like a hound after a fox.

  "See if the captain's barge is usable." Van Reiver threw at them as he trudged his way up the soot-stained rail to the quarterdeck, where the remaining marines scurried with ankhbows to repel boarders, their steel breastplates and chain coats gleaming in the fires.

  .*.*.

  Serjeant Merizus handed Van Reiver his sabre and beamed at his surprise. He gave an indulgent smile, showing even rows of exceptionally white teeth in a dark unshaven face. A face the colour of powder-dry loam. "One of my boys found it in the scuppers jammed up against the rail," he confessed. "Our officer said to send it here from wherever he's buggered off to forrard with the first mate. You're lucky, sir. The lad's from Traffle. You know what they're like; they'll steal anythin' that's not nailed down and take a prybar to snaffle the rest."

  "Please thank him, Serjeant. I appreciate it, and not just because I might need it."

  "Well, they have to get through us first. It's what we're paid for, and badly." The serjeant bellowed past Van Reiver. "Get ready! No one is to fire without my permission, unless you over-sized apes want my shiny boot up yer arse! We're here, my lovelies, to rip their gods damn balls off and feed them back to the buggers. One tiny nutmeg at a time!"

  "Aye, we know how clod-footed you are too, Sarge," muttered a gravelly voiced marine.

  "I heard that, Mansan," Merizus growled, then switched character to sound syrupy. "We'll chat later, about when you should open that great, fat mummer of yours, turd-tick." No-one else replied; a few snickered to a scowling Mansan, but the good-natured ribbing was a positive sign. Knowing Merizus did not want him underfoot, Van Reiver crossed a quarterdeck now cleared of bodies and most of the wreckage.

  "Your orders, sir?" Van Reiver asked a pacing Bullsen and strapped on his sword. The captain fidgeted in the lull, directing the remaining crew to clear fires and take the wounded below.

  "Kill the buggers with all the icy fury Krauag can muster and keep them off the fire crew." Bullsen fumed, his expression frosty in contrast. His rare invocation to the God of War, a popular wish to Van Reiver's ears. The rippling of the captain's jaw hinted at the tension simmering within the man. Bullsen hissed in a breath to quench his incandescent fury.

  "They can repair her." Van Reiver ventured, trying to calm the older man as more flaming rigging drizzled down. The expression on the captain's face was a worry, and glancing at Grimm only added an affirming nod. They needed Bullsen, and it was a relief to Van Reiver that he wasn't alone in his concern at the captain's mood.

  "They can, but not my crew. Claus Wittmann was, without question, the most diligent bosun I've had serve. It was a pleasure having the man aboard. His department was top drawer by anyone's standard, on any ocean, in any navy. As an Eastlander was no Spires man, but a thoroughgoing professional. A fine, fine, good man. Irreplaceable!" Bullsen looked around, grinding his teeth. "It will cost a minor fortune to repair the damage. Gods, the prince will retire to a temple with his warship out of service for half a year. What a mess, I should have been more ready."

  Van Reiver's mind flashed back to the bosun's death, and his mouth filled with the sour taste of fear. There were enough lookouts to be prepared. He shook his head to clear the unwanted images, and his fears as Bullsen fumed.

  "Excuse me, sir?"

  "Never mind, it's on me, Mister. Our fires are coming under a modicum of control, but we will be short on water for a few days." Van Reiver nodded, guessing their supply had been spent below decks quelling fires. He would add that to his mental to-do list if they survived. The vex powder took several hours to work, so refilling the water butts would be a major evolution when the battle ended.

  "Enemy boats are almost in range, sir," Merizus reported, his voice cool, unworried. The serjeant looked over his shoulder to them, his helm rasping on his shoulder plate as he calmly awaited Bullsen's orders. Like a rock, he ignored the tension and projected an oasis of calm.

  "You may fire, Serjeant Merizus. Hard at them, until you lay them at Lady Ararakta's feet. No mercy! Put them down!"

  Shit. The death goddess was also popular tonight. Van Reiver gawped at the captain like a country yokel. He heard words from the man he couldn't articulate his thoughts around. Bullsen was a professional seaman, not a murderous savage and no temple-going fanatic promoting the Gnositos faith. The thought assailed Van Reiver's preconceptions as much as the shredding blows Tryphon endured—and she was a bigger target.

  "Aye, sir," Merizus acknowledged, flexing his shoulders on his not inconsiderable six-foot-five-inch frame. Unlike Van Reiver, he had no doubts about doing as instructed. Merizus announced in a loud voice, "Right, you horrible lot. You heard our capt'n. No wastin' arrows; wait until you have a solid target and gank the sods. Nothin' clever, and two in any fuckin' casters! Anythin' you stab, make it dead! You all know the drill!"

  This time no-one said anything comical. They kept their jests closeted like haunted caskets in a graveyard. Tense men readied weapons, rechecked them, and fought unwanted nerves. They tried not to glance at each other for reassurance—it wasn't the done thing. There was a short wait for deckhands and marines alike in suppressing both the inhuman tension and the urge to piss. After an age, where each man felt the seasons change, and glaciers gouge landscapes, Merizus bellowed, "Fire at will!"

  Poor Will, Van Reiver thought with irreverence as jingling nerves set his teeth aching.

  Splashes followed cries and thuds, showing the ankhbow impact on the shadowy forms. Low hulls slinked weasel-like across the ocean in sinister silence. There were just more of them, and a f
atter prize for the taking. The faint crunch of oars in sea or the slap of water on shallow hulls carried across to them. The attackers were silent to a man, unusual for war at sea. It made the elements unnatural and loud before being drowned out in the fogbound arena.

  "Down and reload!" Merizus roared, harshness jolting his marines. One corporal yanked down a teenager, too terrified to obey, and thrust a spare quarrel in his face. Becoming more terrified of the corporal's fury, the marine fumbled with shaking hands, then rammed his foot into the stirrup and clawed the bowstring back. With trembling fingers, he rattled the bolt into the runnel. The corporal glanced at Merizus and shook his head.

  More projectiles clattered off the timber panelling that surrounded the quarterdeck or whooshed over the firing platforms into the mist. One sharp cry and whimper from the larboard crenellation suggested the serjeant's precaution was sensible. The marine who'd moved too slow, pitched to the deck. His legs threshed backwards and forwards a dozen times before stilling. Merizus leant into the silence and gently tugged free the ankhbow and quiver and pushed into the dead marines' position. Two seamen at the behest of a tense, ashen-faced cadet moved the corpse from Bullsen's pacing. Their eyes round, whites wide when returning to squat behind the marines. All too soon their eyes returned to the crimson stain, seeking solace in knowing it belonged to someone else.

  A thump, followed by a long low whistle and rattle of equipment, showed the surviving larboard catapults were about their deadly work—just somewhat late. Cries from the edge of the fog followed the whistle of departing arrows. The bushels of arrows hissed apart as they descended like steely rain into the occupants of the shadowy boats. They followed it with a second ragged volley of ankhbow bolts from Tryphon's men, stationed on the main deck and aloft in the rigging and fighting platforms.