“It’s under us,” Bloodhound muttered. “This one’s persistent.” Even as he spoke, Robbert felt the tremor rising up through the galleon, the great crack of those enormous tusks striking at the thick wooden hull.
“Will it sink us?” the prince asked, voice a shudder. He looked about, a slow terror climbing up his spine, filling his blood. There was no land about them, no shadowed islands in the distance. Only waves, great monstrous waves dwarfing them, cast like cliffs and mountains beneath a bellowing, dreaded sky. A flash of lightning lit the world, and for a moment he saw ships, faint and fogged in the mist, battling through the storm. Then the light faded and they were gone. “Will those tusks break through the hull?”
Bloodhound Burton gave him a hard look. “Enough questions. I need to focus, Prince Robbert. Go back below where it’s safe.”
He turned away from him, squinting out to sea, reading the patterns of the waves. When he saw another break in the swells, he bellowed the order to brace, and then swung the wheel once more. The harpoons and mounted crossbows moved on their swivels, searching, the men standing at the gunwales, holding to the rail with one hand, pikes clasped in their other, elbows cocked and ready.
“At the forecastle!” a spotter shouted up the ship. “Shadow in the water! Twenty metres to starboard!”
The weapons aimed and fired, slicing down into the waves. Robbert heard the twangs as the mechanisms were released, heard the grunts of the men as they heaved and threw, listened to the calls of ‘miss’ and ‘miss’ and ‘miss’ again. Not a single man had hit their target this time.
“Damn,” the captain cursed. “He went too deep.”
“Moving under us again, Cap’n!”
There was another shaking tremor a moment later, and another, and another. Robbert could see the fixed tension on Burton’s face, the strain in his eyes, as he tussled this ancient beast. He squinted out into the seas. Another thump beneath them. Another.
“We have to move, Captain!” someone shrieked. “It’ll crack the hull and sink us!”
Burton gave no answer. Ahead, the waves were rolling forth in a relentless swell, big enough to capsize them should they turn. We have no choice but to wait, Robbert realised. Then was another blow, another.
“Brace,” roared the captain’s first mate, a man called Bill Humbert.
The waves crashed into them, smashing hard into the bulwarks and running across the decks, the ship tossed about like a children’s toy. Men cursed as their legs were swept from under them, reaching for rigging and ropes, sliding from one side of the ship to the other. Some were swept right over, Robbert saw, disappearing into the depths.
“Men overboard,” came a call.
Burton’s mouth twisted, but there was nothing he could do for them. The prince could see the figures bobbing in the water, waving their arms, hear the sound of their screaming at the edge of his hearing. They looked tiny out there against the waves, specs on moving mountains, already drifting away, thirty metres, fifty, a hundred…then they were gone.
A man came rushing up from belowdecks, panting. “Captain, there’s a leak,” he gasped. “Water coming up into the hold.”
“Seal it,” Burton shouted at him. “I’m not losing this ship.”
The man dashed away. Another shout sounded. “Sighting to starboard! Fore of the ship!”
Burton snarled like a wolf. “Ready on the port side! Ready the harpoons!” The bolts and lances were loaded, tips gleaming, misting. “Brace,” Burton roared. “Hard to starboard!”
The ship swung right, wood groaning, the world a maelstrom of noise. Robbert could see the thick dark shadow coming toward them, black blood still leaking from its wounds. It was shaped almost like a tadpole, he saw, the head much larger than the body. From an extended lower mandible, the two great tusks rose up, greyish white, pitted and cracked, breaking the surface. The left tusk was chipped, he saw, a full foot shorter than the right, which was less sharp than he’d have supposed, more blunt and rounded for battering.
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.
