Van Reiver gagged, seeing the blackened hole snaking smoky tendrils towards him on one of his pendulous swings. He saw Kandra tumbling like a demented acrobat through the smoke over the corpse, a blast flowering in her wake. She used all her cat-like grace to survive another detonation, and a third as the cyclopta scoured for every elf, sending plumes of violent heat streaking past Van Reiver. It would be the humans next, then the avalanche would descend. He gulped, and in desperation swung his legs the opposite way to the behemoth. He attempted to tear the wound wider and make the fucker bleed. Distract it and hope Dagmar had another miracle.
He looked the other way and saw the glint of a spear being thrust. Not at the leg, but at him. Him! Fuck! He jerked his legs aside, and the haft scuffed across his thigh as the tip encountered air. An inch to the left and he'd bleed out. An inch higher and it would've been in his balls. Fuck, could he be any more vulnerable to a madman, or the cyclopta?
"Stop, man. Are you mad?" He screamed shrilly. In answer, the thin man roared, pulled the spear back and thrust again. Harder, faster, this time the long point aimed straight at Van Reiver's groin. At the last second, he swung to the side, praying his hands would hold. Using the momentum and swinging his weight, he pushed the steel deeper, gripping tighter as blood flowed over the blade and hilt. Snaky hips and a firm grip were what his survival depended upon. His fingers slipped with the blood and he clamped tighter, breath tight, panting like a dog in desperation. He took his eye off the spear for the merest of moments and the blade flashed through his legs and thumped against his breastplate. The leather held as steel grated. Van Reiver looked down to meet death's maddened gaze, and the pressure increased against his chest.
"Die!" Hadly screeched, savoured the moment. Revelling in his petty revenge and damn the consequences.
"Fuck you, Hadly!" Hatch's roar eviscerated the quartermaster's madness and Van Reiver's panic. From the shingle Hatch grabbed the thin man's foot with a meaty hand and tugged him back from Van Reiver. Hadly stumbled as Hatch rolled further, his free hand darting for a still-smoking elven blade. Thick fingers ripped the twisted sword free from a hand in the sand and rammed it into Hadly's ankle. Hadly staggered, armour and boot rebuffing the steel as the blade snapped his ankle at an insane angle. Hatch dropped the hilt, clamped the foot in a death-grip and pulled it to his chest. Hugging it close, as though it was prized treasure, he twisted Hadly away. Van Reiver gaped, and kicked out at Hadly's wildly swinging spear, punting it clear of him.
"No!" Hadly screamed and windmilled for balance. Whether in anger, frustration, or pain, it was irrelevant now, but the drama drew witnesses. The foiled murderer howled as he flailed his spear around and slammed the blunt end into Hatch's exposed head. Once, twice to break the grip as Van Reiver hung powerless. Mission, or his men? Fuck. Van Reiver couldn't decide. Hadly tore his foot free, staggered and lashed the spear at a man rushing him. He spared Van Reiver a glare and Hadly stepped over Hatch and hobbled towards the forest. The shattered ankle drawing a snaking pattern as he leaned on the spear.
Van Reiver's grip on the hilt snapped, ending his indecision. The navigator cartwheeled head over heels, the sky and horizon tilting in crazy contrasts until he hit the sea like a rock.
Time slowed as the seas' embrace dragged him down. He shook his head to clear the shock of the impact and only just remembered to clench his mouth shut. Straining to hold his breath in, he willed himself to touch bottom. As soon as his feet felt shingle he thrust up and sweeping his arms up and down bobbed to the surface. His first breath was delicious and beyond compare. Sodden leather and the acidic salty tang did little to impede the ambrosial nature of pure unadulterated air.
Looking around to orientate himself, Van Reiver heard a gut-churning crunch behind him. He splashed around and a wave of water taller than his head slammed into his chest and rolled him under. He tumbled, gagged, gulped and splashed himself high on the next wave. Bubbling water inside his helmet, he flapped his arms weakly to orientate himself, feeling his strength fade. To take everything in and see who lived.
He coughed, and to his terror saw the huge shadow turn towards him, and the low sun glinted off the enormous orb. Fuck, he was helpless, exposed and spent. He snorted, it had come to this, and the remaining men couldn't save him, as they had failed to save Tryphon. In the end, defiance was his only recourse as it stared back at him. "You are one ugly—"
Everyone standing charged the beast. Van Reiver couldn't believe it and couldn't believe his eyes. A bloody mass of fury and steel crunched into the cyclopta's bloody foot so hard he felt as much as heard it. The ankle fractured a heartbeat after the colossal head spun in shock. His gifted sword embedded in the ankle snapped like a twig. The cyclopta stumbled away from the men as though drunk. The other huge leg wobbled like a mast in a storm under full sail and wavered. The giant plunged away from Van Reiver onto all fours. Snarling, it threw an arm out, clawing for anything within reach. His men scattered as the sea roiled and the land heaved. Van Reiver's legs became heavy as the next wave rolled across the shallows. Towering over him, it blotted out the fading sun in a roar of foaming water.
.*.*.
The cyclopta raised its head to ululate its despair and frustration, deafening Grimm as Kandra finally escaped its wrath by throwing herself into the sea. Grimm followed and scoured the sea for the elf and Van Reiver. He couldn't see them in the swirling swell, and saw just water and bubbles. He looked for support and saw Carla propping up a ghastly looking Dagmar, her eyes wide in warning. Grimm swung back at looked into an outstretched claw rushing at him. He could see every detail: the broken arrows, gashes and slices and the coating of soil, blood and sand. He knew it would be his last image, a sight for eternity—only for a jagged bar of white-tipped aqua lightning to lance through the palm and exploded within the exposed bestial eye.
Grimm blinked through the magic-induced blindness as the blast flipped the massive humanoid from its three-limbed crouch, flat onto its back where Mathyss bobbed, spread-eagled behind the beast. The tide-line heaved under the crushing impact of several tonnes of flesh and bone. Despite the cushioning effect of the water, the air seethed with manic electric energies that stunned those closest. Everyone in the melee stumbled, blinded by the flash and the ghostly afterimages flickering across their vision from the magus's unexpected, but decisive assault.
"Fuck!" Grimm cursed. His wobbly legs dropped him onto his arse as the ground bucked. He tried to rise, but rolled backwards instead, his legs twitching in the air like a drunk having put away several too many. Cursing the cyclopta and his age, he scrabbled up, leaning on his spear until it bent. Grimm pawed at his eyes to clear them. Salt stung, and he tasted the coppery tang of blood. He tore at his helmet strap and hurled it aside, spitting and pawing his face with the back of his gauntlet to clear his sight. When he looked back, Petty Officer Cephill, also helmet-less and bleeding from a gash across his scalp, was the sole individual advancing on the creature. Limping from the spear to his apples, Cephill wheezed onto the mountainous creatures' belt and climbed it, step by step, as though it was a stair to the heaving chest. He made a keening sound to make many a foaling cow seem quiet.
"Finish it!" Grimm hollered. The other man seemed to ignore him, and Grimm ground his teeth in frustration and staggered after him. "Deaf fucker," he muttered, and dragged the nearest groaning man beside him up to help—to keep him upright. It was Harcux. They goggled at each other, struggled for balance, and turned to watch Cephill. With steely deliberation, the fat man limped across the chest, trampling the arrows and bolts embedded there. In a world of his own, ignoring the steam that hissed from the semi-submerged head, he half vanished into the neck.
When he reappeared, trudged tortuously up the neck, Harcux stumbled away from Grimm. Swaying, the sailor staggered a steadying step and tossed his spear up to Cephill. Grimm lurched after Harcux, throwing out a steadying hand. He missed. He was no-where near when the big man collapsed. Shit, Grimm wanted to join him. He'd neve
r felt so drained in all his life, and it took all his strength to turn and watch. Cephill weaved in exhaustion, but the hand snatching the spear close was rock solid. Kneeling by the vast bloody mouth, he pried it wider with the butt end and rammed his spear through the charred maw, deep into the brain. Cephill snarled, twisting the shaft from side to side, grinding flesh and brains like a ditch digger breaking up a blockage. Wood and tooth echoed a macabre symphony until the spear haft vanished beyond the bloodstained tombstone teeth. Exhausted, Cephill rocked back and crumpled to the chest.
High with battle fury, those crewmen with breath to spare cheered or staggered away as the gargantuan cyclopta's legs gave a single convulsive twitch. With a final, ragged wheeze escaping the tusks, its arm rose and splashed into the sea. As the chest stilled, a foul stench of excrement spread across the beach, like uncovering a latrine used by plague victims.
Relieved and revolted, Grimm gagged as Kandra splashed over to check on Mathyss. The cox'n meandered around the corpse in a slow trudge, expecting to see the elf commander pulped. Grimm gaped. He stood for several second slack-jawed like a yokel. Mathyss was a tough bugger alright. Somehow the man was trapped and not pulped.
Kendra's stood pale-faced, cajoling several men to extract the Commander. Grimm followed those not involved in moving to fresher air. His progress was gruelling: crunch the spear into the shingle, drag his feet, repeat. Repeat, until he could lift the wood no longer and his helm clunked to the ground. Leaning on the weapon, he glanced around to take everything in.
It seemed surreal to Grimm—the silence was earth shattering. The cox'n snorted. He wasn't making to himself. Seamen looked to Kandra as they weaved towards the boulders and cave as though unsure where to go. To the illusion of safety, Grimm thought. Each man stared—he included himself—at the trails of tears silvering her ageless cheeks until it looked like she was crying fire in the sunset. In stories Grimm had heard as a boy, the tears of an elf were legend. He studied her as she cradled a broken arm, only now seeming to notice the extent of her injury.
They had lived a nightmare and was this the end? Would they see the light? So few who set out from Tregallon remained. Those who had would create a fable of their own, he would see to it in the inns and taverns of the docks. Tell their story over a few ales. Maybe retire and run one of his own. He would lose the sea underfoot, but it would be better for his soul than enduring any more voyages like this one.
Seeing her gaze reach across and study him in return, Grimm unclenched his fingers from the spear and raised his hand. Kandra, to his surprise, cracked a smile. It was a twist to her scar, but the warmest expression he had seen from the hard woman. She let the broken limb hang as she wiped her face and lifted her good hand in response, raised a humanlike thumbs up. Grimm smiled, feeling a change, and repeated the mannerism. He turned away, satisfied they had accomplished something worthwhile. Worth the death and misery. Bending to retrieve his helm, he felt the rise of every ache as battle-shakes set in. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the scrawny man limping towards the trees and his fury erupted.
"Hadly! You motherfucker—you're a dead man!"
.*.*.
Dagmar sagged against Carla, who struggled to keep him upright. In the end, she clasped the sunjammer around his torso and used her head as a prop as her spine squealed in protest. Drained from his casting, Dagmar slid through her arms to the rock-encrusted sand before she could react. Carla rocked on her feet, feeling as spent as the man at her feet. Dagmar's hand opened, and the scroll fell, then faded to ash, and became nothing.
"I'm done, I have nothing left. Help them as best you can," Dagmar said, his voice going distant as he closed his eyes. "Go on, see to the wounded. Then go to him. You will need each other to organise our return."
"Dagmar, what the hell is a kurchizzle?" she asked, her mouth twisting in puzzlement as she belatedly absorbed his battle-cry. She bent and felt for a pulse. For a second she almost panicked, feeling nothing after his will faded. Then she felt a flutter. His exhaustion was as great a relief as escaping the cave. Hearing a noise, she looked up to see a crippled seaman approaching, dragging his leg in a long furrow from the huge male corpse. Behind him, she saw Grimm and Trevor point and sprint as though wading in treacle.
"It's junior Citadel talk, for blowing shit up." Dagmar's eyes remained closed, but his lips quirked. "Big time…"
It nearly raised a smile from her. Instead, she reached inside the half-empty backpack she couldn't remember picking up and yelled for Ephraim. Carla looked around for somewhere new to organise the injured, now polluting the beach with blood and groans. She stopped, as a blazing thought seared her mind like a dread premonition. It was not joy in their triumph, not relief in surviving, or even the agony of a wound. It was a foul thought, one of frustration and maddened, unbridled despair. She looked again at the man it was coming from—Hadly—and a sickening realisation rose from the pit of her stomach.
"It was you. You killed him, you bastard. You finished off my father."
"Oh yes. It was over all too soon. In the dark, who could see? All this is because of you. All our misery. All this death. You ruined everything, bitch. My ship. My life. Even my future." Hadly gulped, working himself into a greater fury. She could easily imagine his twisted smirk hidden within his helm. "Now you have no—" He moved faster than she could interpret and threw himself at her, lunging the elven steel towards her heart.
Carla screamed, anger bursting through surprise, and she flung her backpack at him. Hadly barrelled past the distraction, but the fraction of a second was enough for her to move into his lunge and ram it aside. She almost avoided him, but he slid and bent her arm back. She slammed into him and rebounded as Hadly staggered sideways. Sobbing, snarling, with utter disregard for his injury, he tried to sidestep and swing at her neck. Risking everything, she ducked. Not far enough. The chill of razor-sharp steel kissed her neck through her hair and tugged the leather band of her collar. Disregarding his grunt of satisfaction, she threw herself forward, arms wide to tackle him. Her weight drove the pair of them to their knees, Hadly buckling and squealing as her knee wrenched his ankle.
The spear skittered behind her, but she had no time to look. Hadly sought to roll her over, tried to tip her with a feverish desperation. His breath whistled in brief grunts as they grappled. He was heavier, she was faster. Angrier. His helm fell as they grappled, and she wished for the leather and not the crimson laced frenzy of contorted malice. Carla countered with a left hook to his stomach. Ignoring his gasp, she hit him again, harder, lower. Ignoring shouts and crunch of feet, she hit him a third time in the groin with everything she had. He rolled out of her reach with a keening moan and she snatched a breath. Think! Carla twisted around and clawed for her knife. Snarling unintelligibly, he took advantage, and he threw himself back at her, snatching at her arm. She jerked aside and shouldered him back. Flicked her elbow to keep him away. More through luck, she kneed his foot and her elbow clipped his nose. Hadly convulsed over Dagmar with a high-pitched shriek. Whimpering, he glanced behind her and began crawling for the treeline, blood streaming down his chin.
"Bastard son of a traitor," she snarled. Carla could taste his fear on her tongue and dived after him. His whimpers became more frantic as he threw a desperate glance and redoubled his efforts to flee. His boot painted crimson streaks as an invitation for her to follow. It might have been spite, but she waited until his ankle was in reach and grabbed for it. The whimpering became another screech as he sawed his leg to free it. It died into a gurgle when she thrust, once, twice, deep into his back, twisting the blade to channel her fear and failure into ending him. To coat her hands in death, like the sailors on the beach. Then suddenly, firm hands were grabbing her and dragging her away. So unexpected were they, that the blade was torn from her grasp. Carla screamed again.
"Fuck, Lady." Trevir gasped. "Getting you out of trouble is a full-time job for us little ol' tinheads. Your yelling really chafes my nipples," Trevir exclaime
d, glaring at her, then past her at the man holding her. He staggered a step, still keeping hold of Carla, and kicked at the knife hilt protruding from Hadly's back. Seeing no response, the marine coughed and released her. He knelt and looked once at the bulging eyes wide open mouth and rammed the corpse's thin face into the shingle for a last scream into sand granules slick with his traitorous blood.
"Aye, saves us a job." Grimm wheezed from the run. The cox'n turned Carla around and looked her up and down. "Sorry," he apologised, looking down, shame faced. Trevir gave her a sideways glance as though to test her calmness, then gently tapped her arm. She looked at him and he returned her knife. She took the hilt, surprised by the clean blade, and felt the shivers rise at the sting of cuts and the ache of abused flesh and bone. Trevir patted her arm and sidled in front of her to obscure the corpse. She calmed her breathing as Ephraim skidded to a halt. Carla saw shells scattering over the corpse as Trevir made room by taking a knee.
"Fuck, you could've waited, I ain't got to stab any fucker yet," he scowled, throwing his helm to the ground. Colour drained from his face, and he tugged loose an almost blood-free dressing and stumbled to her.
The shakes, as though biding their opportunity, punched Carla in the guts. Grimm had to sheath her knife for her as she shook. Ephraim unbuckled her collar and lifted her hair with surprising gentleness. He rolled up the bandage in his hand and pressed it against her neck. She winced; that touch lacked gentleness.
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 43