“Or maybe not.” Robbert was not certain how much longer he could bear this grousing. He peered out through the window, the horizon shifting violently up and down. Sometimes he could see only the sky, then the ship would lurch suddenly the other way, and he would be looking right down into the ocean depths. For a moment he could have sworn he saw something down there, a shimmer of something - a fin or dorsal spine - breaking the surface, then moving down beneath them. He reached to grip the godsteel dagger he kept at his hip, enhancing his sight.
“What?” Lothar shifted up from the corner he was bracing in. “Did you see something?”
Robbert was still peering out, but the ship was swinging the other way now, the window showing only black sky. By the time the waters came back into view the shadow was gone. “I…I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably nothing.”
“It’s probably something. I heard the captain earlier. The seas are teeming, he said.” Lothar stood on long, spindly legs, stepping over to join him, but the ship gave another sudden jerk and at once Sir Lothar the Looming was tumbling to the floor, keeling sideways in a tangle of limbs. There was a wet slap as he landed right where Bernie’s bucket of spew had overturned.
Robbert laughed aloud. “Serves you right for all your moaning.”
Sir Lothar was like a newborn deer trying to stand on ice, all arms and legs, slipping, sliding, scrambling about in the sick. Even Bernie was laughing now. “How’s my breakfast taste?” he said. “Robb, look, it’s got in his mouth!”
“Shut up Bernie! It’s not funny!” Lothar spat out, trying to stand once more, but the ship moved again and he slipped, returning to the sea of vomit spread out upon the planks. “Damn it! Damn you, Bern!”
“Not my fault you’re so clumsy.”
“I’m not clumsy. It’s the ocean, you dolt!”
“Dolt? Call me a dolt again, I’ll press your face down into my porridge!”
Sir Lothar was on all fours. He looked over at the big man. “Dolt. You’re witless as a worm, Bernie, everyone knows it.”
Bernie Westermont surged to his feet. “I warned you, Lank! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He took a firm pace forward, swaying with the ship. Lothar was climbing back up to stand, slick with sick, wiping his mouth and face. The two men faced off against one another across the cabin, planting their legs wide, arms out for balance. It looked like they were both waiting for the right moment, for the ship to calm for just long enough so that they could rush forward at one another. Frankly, they looked ridiculous.
And Robbert had seen enough. “Sit down,” he said. “No brawling. I’ve had it up to here with the both of…”
A thump sounded beneath them, trembling up through the bottom of the ship.
Robbert looked down at the floor, frowning.
“What was that?” Lothar said.
Bernie Westermont had felt it as well. “Rocks,” he offered. “Must be rocks, down there.”
Lothar shook his head. “The coast’s miles away. There are no rocks out here, it’s too deep.”
Robbert looked out of the window again, wondering. “We might be near the Telleshi Isles by now,” he suggested. Running aground on some hidden shoal and gutting the hull would not serve, but if they could drop anchor near a beach or protected cove, they might be able to wait out the storm unharmed. He searched through the falling rains, hoping for some sight of land, but saw nothing but wild waves and black skies, the occasional flash of lighting.
“Do you see anything?” Bernie asked him.
Robb could only shake his head. “Nothing but sea.”
“The other side, maybe?” Bern offered. Their cabin showed a view to port only. They had no sight of the ship’s starboard side from here.
Lothar didn’t think so. “That boy Finn Rivers would have said if we were near land. It’s not land, no way, unless…”
Another thump, louder this time, striking hard from beneath. It was too clean to be a sandbank or rocky shoal. That would cause a grinding sound. That was more like a heavy hammer, striking at the hull.
“There’s something down there,” Bernie said, shuddering. “Some creature. It’s right below us.”
Robbert thought of the flash of movement he’d seen. The shadow, sliding beneath the ship. He had not seen it for long enough to discern its shape, though it looked big. “I’m stepping out,” he said, moving from the window seat. “Stay here, both of you.”
Their protests fell on deaf ears. Robbert marched straight across the cabin and moved out through the door. He could hear the commotion outside at once, the frantic shouts and calls above him. Some soldiers were stepping out of their own rooms, rushing up from belowdecks. Robbert joined them, climbing the stairs and out into the falling rains. Above him the skies were black and menacing, swollen stormclouds filling the air, lightning flashing, thunder bellowing. Faintly he could see the glow of the moon, hidden behind that great sodden swamp. A full moon, he thought. It wasn’t always a good omen for seamen.
The captain was still at the helm, barking out his orders in a frenzy. Robbert could see men rushing to man the mounted harpoons and scorpions, fixed to the bulwarks along the main deck, and up on the forecastle too. Each had beside it a rack containing long steel bolts, to be fixed into the mechanisms and fired. Some were godsteel tipped, lifted into place by specially trained marines with Bladeborn blood. Other men snatched up hand-held pikes and harpoons, opening chests and passing them out. They lined up along the gunwales, ready, as Robbert marched up the stair to the quarterdeck, holding tight to the rail so he didn’t fall. The ship was still lurching wildly, waves crashing into the walls and rushing across the decks, tripping men as they worked, who cursed and got straight back to their feet. The storm-song of the seamen had gone silent. No one was singing now.
The prince staggered to the captain, reaching to steady himself against the helm. “What’s happening?” he called. “What’s down there?”
“Manator,” Bloodhound said. “Big one.”
Manator. The creature was another of which Robbert was only vaguely familiar. “The giant eel?”
“Aye, an eel. Though a hundred feet long, all thick twisting muscle, with tusks as tall as the mizzen mast thrusting up from its lower jaws.” He threw a hand back at the ship’s rearmost mast, rising up from the poop deck behind them.
Robbert couldn’t believe that. “That mast’s got to be twenty-five feet.” There was no way the manator’s tusks could be that long. “How do we fight it, Burton? It’s directly below us.”
“We outmanoeuvre it.” Bloodhound Burton filled his lungs, and at the top of his voice, bellowed, “BRACE! HARD TO PORT!” His officers echoed the call at once, spreading it down the decks, giving only a few moments’ warning before he swung the wheel. The ship turned, hard, to the left, timed with the rising of the waves. Robbert held on for dear life, clutching at the rail at the fore of the quarterdeck, blinking through the lashing rain. He could hear spotters shouting from the crow’s nest, saw the men on the right of the ship swing their harpoons and pikes and take aim, firing and throwing down into the sea all at once and in unison. “Miss,” one shouted. “Miss,” another said. Three others said the same, then a sixth called out - “Hit! Good hit in the tail, Captain!” - and other shouts came in as well. Misses mostly, a few good hits. Robbert sped to the side in a crouch, clutching his dagger to strengthen his stride, and looked over the edge. He had just enough time to see the great shape of the manator sliding away beneath them, trails of blood, black in the water, oozing in its wake.
He went back to the captain. “Is that it? Did we get it?”
Burton looked over at him. “Takes more than that to kill a manator, lad.”
He spun the wheel again, righting them against the waves, before a fierce swell bore down upon them. He did so just in time; a few moments later a large wave came crashing from the prow, bursting up in a great explosion of water, showering down upon the men on the forecastle. Close, Robbert thought, as the ship rocked and trembled. Had that wave hit them to starboard it might have turned them over. His heart had never beat so fast, and his bowels were turning to water. I could let them empty right here and who would know?
The men were scrambling to reload the mounted weapons and pass out more throwing harpoons. A short silence seemed to take root, a tension thickening, the spotters in the crow’s nest and up in the rigging turning their eyes out, searching. The world went queerly quiet for a moment, as though the world was taking a breath.
“A sighting!” Bloodhound Burton bellowed. “Give me a damn sighting!”
A call came from the starboard gunwale. “Nothing, Captain.” And the port. “Not here either, Cap’n!” From the crow’s nest the same was said.
