THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1)

by S. D. Howarth

  With great care, and breathing shallow in the foul air, he set down the one-hundred-foot coil of the slow fuse he'd lugged along. Uncoiling it back to the stairs, he wrapped it around the lowest handrail bracket. Double-checking his knot with a tug, he retraced his steps to the nearest barrel. Wiping the sweat from his head, Grimm pulled a mallet from his belt and placed a cloth over it. He gulped a tense breath and slammed the tool into the lid, splintering it in a single crushing blow.

  Crouching, he grasped the barrel around the leather band, strained and lurched to send a third of the reeking acrid contents sloshing across the deck. He stepped back, expelling the breath he held, muscles whimpering, as the stream of naphtha pooled across the deck timbers to the next butt, before seeping an insidious passage into the bilges.

  The stench made his eyes water, forcing him to breathe even shallower to avoid burning his lungs. Grimm repeated the process three further times with even greater care before retracing his steps. He retrieved the fuse and, ensuring the end was drenched in naphtha, pinned it under the closest butt to the stairs. Rubbing at the stabbing ache in his ribs with burning fingertips, he bent to secure the fuse at the top of the lower flight of steps. It saved his life. A notched black blade whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the bulkhead before shattering into shadowy fragments.

  Jumping forward with an oath, he saw a thin, filthy, soot-stained figure withdraw a second wicked-looking obsidian dagger. With a snarl of yellowy teeth in a smoke-stained blue feathered mask, the demonic attacker thrust low with the serrated blade. He looked ragged, all speed and ferocity, snarling something incomprehensible as he lashed at Grimm's face. The cox'n tugged to free the stout wooden-headed mallet from his belt and awkwardly danced a pace back to avoid the blow, a mere inch from tumbling down the stairs to the hold. Lacking space to manoeuvre, Grimm ricocheted off the bulkhead, jarring his back as the haft snagged on his belt. Fuck!

  The assailant seized the opportunity and stabbed low, blade slicing above Grimm's hip as the attacker crashed into him. Grimm used his shoulder to slam down on the jaw of the mask, sending the slighter man reeling. Freeing the mallet in his callused hand and with no time to spare, he rolled his shoulder and swung at the shorter man's head. Missed. The man swayed aside, freeing his blade, and slashed at the back of Grimm's arm. Grimm felt the sting of warm blood flowing as his skin parted.

  Instinct sensed a reverse cut incoming, Grimm sprang, feeling ten years younger as he crested a tide of adrenaline. He slammed the smaller man into the opposite bulkhead and blocked a weak slash with his bloodied arm. The slipperiness added to the confusion as they grappled, grunting and sweat-slick. Jerking his head back at the unsavoury coupling, and using his superior bulk, he butted the man. Grimm heard a satisfying crunch! He mashed down a second and a third time, flattening the mask into the hull curve, shattering the assailant's nose. Blood spurted under the mask and ran thickly over the torso. Crack, breathe, crack, breathe, gag on acrid fumes. Grimm rasped for air as the man honked under the concussive slamming, blood frothing and bubbling under the hammering repetition.

  Unable to free the dagger and blinded by hot tears, the injured man writhed like a cornered eel, raking the mask across Grimm's cheek. Thud! The cox'n took a knee in the groin. Grimm stumbled, breath gone, his apples barely avoiding a second blow which hammered into his inner thigh. The cox'n flicked the mallet into the man's kneecap, smashing it with a sickly crunch of splintering bone that reverberated off the timber bulkheads.

  The man gave a hoarse gasp and folded with a keening moan against the bulkhead as his shattered leg buckled. He tried to fend off Grimm's next swipe, which crashed past a feebly upraised arm to slam the mask into the man's skull, thudding it off the bulkhead. The knife dropped as the man slid to the deck, limp legs going out from under him—and to blessed fortune missing Grimm's own, as the cox'n wobbled for balance.

  Grimm seethed, rubbing his crotch until the aching eased. He smacked the man's head a second time, then a third, anvil-shattering blow for surety, savouring the crack of breaking skull until the mallet finally hurtled from blood-slick fingers. It thudded to the deck, rocking for a heart-stopping second, then bounced down the steps to the floor of the hold.

  He winced, closing his eyes as his ears recorded each deafening thud. He grimaced for several eternal seconds, knowing there was naphtha everywhere. When no fireball blew Tryphon apart, he opened one eye in the greatest display of caution he'd ever undertaken, then both. Smiling, he resumed breathing, gagging at each acrid breath and the pain of stab wounds and abused testicles.

  "Bastard! Sneaky fuckin' bastard son-of-a-bitch! Right in my fuckin' apples!" Grimm fumed, collecting his mallet, and the discarded knife which he used to pin the fuse. Glancing at the blade, he recognised the razor-sharp notches of obsidian, inset in a hardwood hilt carved into a skeleton. He checked his side under his waistcoat and saw he'd been lucky. The dagger had sliced his shirt above his wide leather belt and tore a four-inch gash in the fleshy part of his side. Blood ran freely, but it didn't look serious.

  He limped to the corpse, still holding his balls, and snatched off the bloodstained mask to stare at the pulped skull. The man had still-recognisable angular features and darker skin and hair compared to his own—somewhere between his own sea tan and the dark of the Nubian caste in Babylonia and gladiators in Atlantis—bigger fuckers 'n' Merizus. Equally odd and unusual. Something covered the face with hundreds of tiny black dots, with three small red stone cylinders through each eyebrow. Two above the left eye were fragmented deep in the flesh and oozing blood. "That must have hurt," Grimm observed, releasing his crotch and prodding a finger at the face. He glanced at his fingertip and frowned. Not paint, tattoos—must've really fuckin' hurt.

  Spinning on his heel, he headed back, pulling himself up by his good arm on the railing. He'd never seen the like in all his years travelling around the Kingdom of the Twin Spires, spread across three principalities over two continents. Who the hell were they? By the gods, they'd fuckin' pay, he swore. He could feel Bullsen's agony and sympathise, as his pride and joy died under unknown feet from wanton fire. He tried to keep himself together for Bullsen—to not think about Wittmann. It was likely he was one of the few remaining warrant officers the way things had gone.

  .*.*.

  Grimm bumped into Harcux when he stepped into the fiery night under the quarterdeck. Strapping his brace of daggers around his waist, he wished he'd had them earlier. Both were a foot long, with a triangular shaped blade, thick spine and filigree inserts to bone handles. The thick-spined blade narrowed to a short point, with plain sickle-shaped guards.

  "Fuck—how many boats did you get?"

  "Both ships boats with fifty feet of cable. I've let them drift off, to stop any bugger firin' them with all the shit flyin' about." Harcux stared at him, expression bleak. "You look like shit. I'm impressed, yer standing," he said, looking the coxswain up and down. For a moment Grimm like a child pinned under his mother's inspection—bloodstains, scratches, the makeshift bandage, with a piss-poor knot. Harcux took the cox'n's arm with surprising gentleness. He straightened the bandage and tightened it. Grimm grunted, the sudden pain bringing tears to his eyes.

  "Good thinkin'. Have you lost your pet wabler?" Grimm formed a lopsided grin, sending a fresh trickle of blood running from his cheek.

  "Nah, mighty Marine Trevir is leading the cap'ns barge to the other side on his short-arsed legs and checkin' the lady's boat remains afloat. I mock, but he's a hard little bastard. We chucked it over that side on the off chance it floated, but it got smacked around by glass 'n' stuff."

  "Fair enough. Think the pair of you can get them under the aft ballista? Some platform should remain to tie off on."

  "I guess we can manhandle them around the quarterdeck. We'll need to use boat hooks in a couple of places." The big sailor pondered the route and nodded affirmative with practical certainty.

  "Do it." Instructed Grimm, grimacing as he felt his arm stiffening.


  "We leavin'?" Harcux asked, giving a weary Trevir a grim smile as he joined them. The marine huffed, the side of his face now a nasty purple and yellow bruise from the explosion.

  "Soon, I think. Keep it to yerself, but I've rigged the aft hold to blow. If anythin' happens to Bullsen, or me, that fuse needs lit. It's all prepared. Throw the lantern, run like buggery and jump before the bang!"

  Trevir's eyes bulged at the thought of self-immolation, but Harcux grunted, unflappable. "If that's the way of it. Our crispy second mate ordered us to get the passengers to the boats, but I'll see what I can do after that."

  "Good man, if you can manage it, have someone chuck extra food in the boats. Rufus maybe, or see if the duck-fucker is spare. Just make sure someone guards them when we fall back. If Jimi is with the passengers, set him on it and put him in the boat, he should know how to use the ballista, unless we have any walking wounded with a score to settle."

  "All right, I get it, boss. Keep yer bald head down, tripod." Harcux grinned and headed aft. Who'd told the big sod about that moniker? Grimm frowned, annoyed with himself. He rushed back to the quarterdeck, heart hammering and breath tight in his throat to see if anyone still lived.

  .*.*.

  Bullsen was the first person Grimm saw when he wheezed up to the quarterdeck clutching bruised apples. The captain held a bloodied longsword and coughed into a kerchief. Bitter smoke swirled around the ship, obscuring the area clear of fog moments before. He grasped Grimm's shoulder and rasped into his ear before the cox'n could draw breath to report.

  "Is it set?"

  "Aye, sir. The hold's awash, and I've pinned the fuse in the passage. There's a shuttered lantern near it. One of them was down there, sooted up. He just missed havin' me—I was lucky I had my mallet."

  "I see, good, good." Bullsen hacked into his hand, looking to Grimm as though he had aged a decade. "Boats?"

  "The second mate had Harcux sort 'em already. I've asked the big man to move them under the aft ballista platform, or what's left of it. We can jump from the stern lights and the balcony doorway if we have to. Maybe we can pinch some of theirs if they are up here trashin' the big T?"

  "Good thinking, very good in fact. I'm glad someone has their head together." Bullsen winced as Harcux stepped into view, leading two painters in his enormous hands. "Use the lookouts' to send word for everyone to fall back as fast as they can disengage, then follow your orders." Bullsen stood more erect. Portly in statuesque dignity than a despairing old man. "Marines, cover the evacuation and then follow Coxswain Grimm's instructions. May the will of the divine seven be with you and have better fortune than that today."

  "Err, Captain… What're you plannin' to do?" Grimm hesitated. He'd never heard Bullsen call upon all seven of their deities, not once in all his years of service with the man.

  "Get my crew to safety, and I will light the fuse. If anyone is scuttling the girl, it will be by my hand. Mine alone. I require someone reliable to cover our backs and prevent a rout. That man is you, Coxswain." Grimm wanted to object, but with Bullsen imposing on loyalty over duty, the old man cut his legs from under him. He sensed that and took Grimm's bloody hand in his own. "Do your best, it's been a pleasure to serve with you and I'm sorry it came to this."

  "You too, sir." Grimm croaked, failing to find words. Ignoring his gashed arm, Grimm gave Bullsen a formal salute as the sounds of battle swirled in raucous cacophony for a moment, then became muffled by the mist.

  Bullsen returned it, then departed at a steady, measured pace down the larboard gangway. More flames crawled up the steerboard hull to begin a sinuous, sadistic crawl onto the quarterdeck. Grimm looked around; his breath tight with pain. Shit—was Bullsen leaving his plan a little late? For the deck hands and few marines observing with wide eyes, the only brightness in their future was the ship burning under their feet.

  "I'll help Trevir," Harcux volunteered, tapping Grimm's shoulder twice to get his attention. This time there was no humour to the big man. Grimm nodded, not envying the marine so close to the inferno. Was there anyone alive to save? Shit! What did Bullsen expect him to do? What could he do? What could any of them do?

  14

  Van Reiver had seven seamen remaining from his original party who'd reached Comace. Five with him and the rest behind with the few surviving topmen, with Onvice clearing the path for their retreat. Everyone was alike, rank irrelevant, covered in gore, burns, soot and cuts that bled. Fuck! It was never-ending. Everything seemed crimson, scarlet, carmine. The death goddess's careening whirl. Never-ending gouts of rusty blood and demonic leaves of fire. Cavorting incarnadine tips, orange fingers and black blades seeking flesh. Dead or alive made no difference to the battle beast. Men yearned to live. Stabbed for it, bled, bit and gouged for it, in a bestial embrace to defy the sanity of any normal man.

  He parried a thrust to his midriff, his eyes missed by pure luck, stone chips caressing his hand as he kicked the man in the shin. An explosive gasp—hah! Sandal straps being fuck all protection. Van Reiver seized the advantage and stabbed the man low, feeling the blade thunk, the cock soft padding for his hand. He jerked back in disgust as hot sticky fluids splashed. A thrown knife snatched his collar, missing by the width of an eyelash.

  "Bastards!" Van Reiver bared his teeth and punched the falling man back into his compatriots, ignoring the shriek of protest from his bruised knuckles. He dodged a high slash, and another man with jagged facial scars ran straight into his sword. With a harsh sucking sound, the man ripped free. Clutching the gaping wound, he forced intestines back inside with a soundless scream. Van Reiver barged the gutted man backwards, buying a precious second of space.

  "Bastards!" He growled, wasting his breath, feeling muscles tire, and forced a snarl at the next attacker. Then the next.

  "They're behind us! At least a dozen!" Hatch panicked.

  "Front rank, on my command, charge, then disengage! Onvice and rear, charge, now!" Van Reiver ordered, his voice cracking. "Go!" With a heave, Van Reiver and the seamen slammed into their attackers' shields, unbalancing the assault on the blood splattered decking. One attacker cartwheeled across fallen bodies, his flailing limbs and one-hander adding to the disorganisation. A second kicked the man aside, and slashed one of Van Reiver's men across the face, leaving the skin flapping in a spray of misty blood.

  Beside the navigator, a bearded seaman crunched a hatchet into the warrior's neck and tore it out with a rippling twist of his wrist. Another limping sailor slipped in a snake of entrails as his eyes watched weapons and not his footing. As he writhed, a stocky fighter with legs like tree trunks hacked at his back with an obsidian-tipped pronged club, foul-smelling shit exploding between thrashing legs. A top man angled to flee, but a spear burst through his shoulder blades, finishing him with an inhuman moan of despair. Looking uneasy, his remaining men backed from the glittering weapons towards Onvice, ignoring Hatch's curses. Shit—they were breaking. Stamina and resolution had limits, and they'd exceeded them long ago.

  "Disengage! Run!" Van Reiver yelled, shoved, turned, then sprinted three sliding paces to where Onvice and his seamen were chopping at warriors in flame orange masks, glowing molten crimson in the fires.

  Within a heartbeat, Van Reiver lost another seaman, stabbed seven times by at least three opponents. The last two wounds bulged his spine into unnatural forms, as though possessed. Orange masks hadn't expected Van Reiver's rash move. One burly seaman sent a masked head clean over the Tryphon's side and with a swift return of his cutlass cut another from crotch to shoulder blade, his padded armour useless.

  Hatch moved to Van Reiver until they almost touched. Van Reiver knew his exposed back was well-covered when a disembowelled man was flung away with a fiendish low blow. The pile of entrails spilt into a tangled pile, oozing across the deck, reeking and oily.

  "Disengage!" Van Reiver repeated, barrelling through the gap. He killed another attacker with a wild slash to the neck and saw the last one skidding on the steaming entrails Hatch
had flicked away, stabbed by the seaman with the ruined face. "How far?" Van Reiver croaked, unable to spare the time or breath to twist his head. Make it close. Please be close. There was now nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

  "Thirty feet." Onvice cried as the seamen jostled attackers into each other and hacked away, spraying body parts over their feet. If they couldn't kill a man, they cut at weapons and hands. Anything for an advantage. "Twenty!" How much blood would flow for those few feet covered in a few seconds? Van Reiver saw the teenage cadet goggle in stricken fascination when an even younger boy-seaman burned about the face raise an arm in futile protection as a notched axe sliced the wrist and cleaved deep into a beardless neck. Blood fountained, shocking amounts for such a youthful body. So small and fated to die.

  Onvice gagged, hot vomit burst from his nose. Hatch grabbed the retching youth by the neck and rammed him bodily towards the stern through the barest of gaps in the fighting. It was almost his undoing as he moved half a stride in front. A spear scraped Van Reiver's scabbard and crunched into Hatch's side, to grate nauseatingly off the top of his pelvis. The petty officer ejected a wheezing grunt, staggering in agony, and propelled Onvice towards the blackness of the companionway below as Van Reiver spun and lashed out.

  Van Reiver saw Vaska's grizzled face appear in the doorway ahead over the now headless spearman, the light of fires glinting from the hook on his left arm like the boatman of the Styx. He slung Onvice into safety, as though he were a sack of vegetables, before catching Hatch.

  As they staggered the last few feet, a scorching blast of air slapped Van Reiver in the face. A second oil-filled lantern sizzled into their pursuers. Oil splashed, a rainbow coating tanned flesh, bloody rags and padded armour. With a crump, inaudible over the shouting and crackle of flames, the main deck whooshed ablaze, chest high across its full blood-soaked width.