The weapons fired, men hurling.

“Miss,” shouted a man, and, “Miss,” another bellowed, but then the hits came in. “Hit to the left flank,” shouted one in triumph. “Hit to the head,” said another.

The creature thrashed as the spears bit down into its flesh. Robbert saw the body twist, contorting, then it thrust forward with great speed, its enormous, flattened tail propelling it into the ship’s keel.

“It’s going for the rudder!” Burton shouted. “Brace! Hard to port!” He swung the wheel, turning the ship, but the manator crashed into them anyway, sending the entire ship shuddering. Men were thrown from their feet, more going over and into the water. Around them the waves were growing again, the ship lost in a range of towering black peaks. Robbert could hear the sound of desperate shouting ahead. There was a horrid ripping sound and one of the sails tore free of the foremast, flapping wildly away into the sky. A man came rushing back. “We’ve lost the fore-topsail, Cap’n!”

“I know, damn it! I saw!”

“We’ve got to lower the others,” said Bill Humbert. “There’s a crack in the foremast, it won’t last much longer.”

“We lower the sails and we’ll be at Iulla’s mercy. That manator will smash us to bits.” Burton looked up, saw a great wall of water rising before them, casting them all in its shadow. He had barely enough time to call for the crew to brace before the wave surged over them, cascading across the decks, sweeping more men to their doom. It reached the quarterdeck, flooding past, and for a moment Robbert thought that was it, the ship would founder, but suddenly the waters were receding, rushing away over the walls and through the scuppers, and the men were standing again, spluttering, returning to their stations.

“We can’t take much more of this, Captain,” called George Buckley, the ship’s bosun. “We’re taking on too much drink.”

Bloodhound Burton scowled at him. “Are the men manning the pumps?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Then what else can we do? Unless you want to get down there with a bucket?”

“Sighting to port!” came a shout. “It’s coming back!”

Burton snapped his eyes that way, scanned the seas, judging them in an instant in a way that Robbert Lukar could never hope to match. He barked his orders for the starboard weapons to be readied.

Robbert looked down, saw one harpoon unmanned. Its operators must have gone overboard. Without thinking, he ran for the stairs, leapt down to the main deck, speeding for the bulwark. He’d never fired one before, though they were much alike to castle crossbows, and he’d been shown how they worked during the early days of their first voyage from the north, a lifetime ago that felt, when the fleet had first sailed to siege the Perch. He went for the rack, fetched a godsteel-tipped bolt, six feet long, and fixed it into place. The captain was shouting his commands - “brace, hard to port,” - as Robbert pulled back, cocking the mechanism, grabbed the handles and turned the swivel. The ship swung, as it had a hundred times, lurching wildly. Robbert saw the world turn, saw the shadow approaching beneath the waves, the tips of tusks slicing through the water. He aimed, steadying, unsure where best to fire, heard a great loud crack fill the air, glimpsed the foremast come crashing down, and pulled the trigger.

The godsteel-tipped harpoon went flying into the sea, taking the manator somewhere in its left flank, mid-body. The creature twisted, thrashing, and gave out some deep otherworld bellow that seemed to shake the very air. “Hit,” Robbert shouted at once, breathless, and for a moment jubilant.“Hit to the left flank, Captain!”

Other shouts rang out, of hit and miss, the manator diving, slithering back beneath the rough wild waters. Robbert leaned forward, seeing the shadow darken and fade away, moving beneath the ship, felt a scraping, as though the creature was brushing against the hull, moving from port to starboard. He spun, rushing across to the other side of the ship, shouting, “It’s coming this way. Ready to fire!” He saw the shadow reemerge, heard the sounds of the weapons discharging, saw several savage bolts strike true. Blood burst and bubbled to the surface. Some men shouted in triumph, “Hit!”

Another man roared out, “Wave!”

Robbert turned, and saw it. The wall of water right before him, tumbling and crashing over them. He had no time to react before it smacked him hard in the chest, knocking him back and off his feet, dragging him across the ship to smash into the port side wall. For five or six heartbeats he couldn’t breathe, his whole body submerged, before the water passed over. He gasped, moving up onto his knees, saw white water rushing at him again, another wave coming. He had barely enough time to snatch a breath into his lungs before it drowned him anew, tossing him into something hard. He felt a crack, a hard crack in his ribs, and coughed, losing precious air. Then he gulped a measure of seawater, scrambled back up, broke the surface, spluttering, retching.

Another wave. This one from the other side. It knocked him hard from behind, pushing him forward, bullying him across the deck. He felt himself rolling, reaching out for something to hold onto, felt the hard coarse touch of hempen rope, and clung on. The waves kept coming, rolling one after another after another, crashing in from all sides, stinging his eyes and blinding him. We’re going down, Robbert thought. This is it. We’re going down.

Then the ship bobbed up, bursting back above the surface, and Robbert gasped for air. The sound of the winds and waves returned, and shouting of the men, the trumpeting of the storm. Robbert was at the mainmast, he realised, clinging to a rope dangling down from the rigging. He managed to get to his feet; others did the same about him. There was a sharp pain in his side from where he’d hit the wall. He coughed, bringing up more seawater, then dared to look around.

He wished he hadn’t done so.

Ahead, he saw a cliff of water, rising so high it seemed to kiss the very clouds.

Oh, Prince Robbert Lukar thought.

Then he closed his eyes and prayed.

15

He peered into the trees, narrow-eyed, listening.

“Quiet,” he said. The word was a whisper, but the men behind him heard. At once both of them stopped in their tread, freezing. No crackle of leaves and twigs underfoot. No sound of squelching mud. Even their breathing seemed to still, and grow silent. And in the silence, Jonik heard. The rumbling of breath, the stalking movement, the unknown creature, closing.

He turned sharply to his men, standing with their horses. The woods were thick about them, the branches deeply knotted and tangled. A hundred years of humus had formed underfoot, softening their tread, and all else too. “Something stalks us,” Jonik mouthed, quiet as a crypt.

“Where?” Gerrin mouthed back.

“There.” Jonik raised a finger and pointed, away to the right of the way they had come. He had sensed something lurking in this old wood, some fell creature, though had refused to go around it. That would have only added precious time, and time they did not have. Months, he thought. A year at best. That was how long the world might last before it fell to unrecoverable ruin, he deemed.

The trunks were tightly packed, the canopy dense. Roots as thick as Jonik’s thigh wrestled for room beneath the earth, snarls and juts poking out from the undergrowth. This was no place to stand and fight. “We go, on my command,” he whispered. He had sighted a clearing ahead, where the trees seemed to thin out a little bit, forming a glade. “Follow me. Draw swords. We leave the horses here.”

Harden frowned. “We need our horses,” he hissed.

“We’ll draw the beast away from them,” Jonik said. Thus far the horses hadn’t so much as raised their eyes, or turned their heads. They were munching as the men spoke, unaware of the threat. This creature is silent, Jonik thought.

He pulled his bastard sword from its sheath, a weapon taken from the refuge, a pristine blade of Tyrith’s forging, made with the Hammer of Tukor. Double-fullered, double-edged, with a long, two-hand grip and wide, thick cross guard, it was not the Nightblade, no Blade of Vandar, but he would deal death with it just as well. Mother’s Mercy, he had decided to name it. He had taken it the day Cecilia died.

The others had taken blades of their own that day, both basket-hilt broadswords, honed and fierce. They scratched out into the still air, misting.

Jonik shared a look with his men, as he opened his spare hand, releasing the lead rope. The others did the same, untethering their horses.

“Ready?” Jonik asked.

Two nods.

“Go,” he said.

And they ran.

They did not care to mask their tread now, did not care to creep. Jonik took the lead, the others following, dashing through the trees to where the daylight shone down. At once there was a loud, deep roaring, splitting the air, carrying far. He could hear trees crashing behind them, branches snapping, claws tearing at the ground.

“Deadfall,” Jonik shouted, spying a fallen tree. He leapt right over it, a great high bound, landed and kept on going. The clearing was just ahead. He burst through into the open, the ground softening at once underfoot. Pools glistened beneath the sunlight, frogs croaking, hopping through mounds of sedge. Damn it. “It’s a marsh!”

The others came crashing through behind him, their heavy armour sinking, boots sucking at the mud. Jonik spun. Fighting in a swamp was folly, he knew, but they had no option now. The creature was approaching, a large shadow in the gloom of the forest. He swished his cloak over his shoulder, so it wouldn’t get in his way, taking a two-hand grip of his long bastard sword. Harden was struggling to pull a boot from the mud, Gerrin helping to free him. “Hurry up! It’s coming!”

“What is it?” Gerrin shouted.

Jonik studied their foe, glimpsed in flashes through the trees. A powerful upper body. Long hairy arms with retractible, ten-inch claws. Shorter legs, squat and strong. Its face was bear-like, though the snout was longer and thinner, and from its rear whipped a long, hairless, rat-like tail, all muscle. Thick fur covered the rest of its body, a dense protective coat. By then, Jonik knew.

“Drovava!” he yelled.

The creature crashed into the glade, upper body slung low, ursine face swinging side to side on a thick, muscular neck. A lather foamed at its mouth and its eyes, a glowing jet black, shark-like, were glistening with the promise of meat. Jonik stood before it, ten metres away, the others behind. “Are you free of the mud yet, Harden?” he called.

“Was. Now my other foot’s stuck. Who thought it was a good idea to fight in a bog?”

Jonik breathed out. “Gerrin, go left. Get behind it. It’s weaker at the rear. I’ll try to keep its attention.”