Chapter 7

Tashara’s cry had resounded from one end of the ship to the other. As the crew poured on deck, there were shouted orders, and for a moment Ayshe felt lost amid the clamoring confusion.

He saw, however, that what seemed aimless and anarchic was actually a carefully executed series of maneuvers, carried out with the efficiency that speaks of long, patient drilling.

Much of the crew grouped themselves in threes. Backs to each other, they stood facing outward, blades at the ready. Behind them stood a line of archers strung across the deck, and behind them, Malshaunt struck a pose, ready to hurl spells on command.

Meanwhile, a wave of the creatures slithered over the sides of the ship to group on the foredeck. Roughly humanoid in shape, the creatures stood about six feet and were covered in green and brown scales, with a tail lashing the deck behind each of them, ending in orange flukes. They were armed with barbed tridents, and unlike the tridents the dwarf and Samustalen had fought with in the Meet, their weapons appeared to be fashioned of steel or some harder metal.

The invading party moved slowly down the deck. A foul smell arose from them, like rotten fish.

“Loose!”

On Harfang’s command, a volley of arrows flew through the air. Some few struck home, but most rebounded from the creatures’ scales.

The beasts took that as a sign to attack and charged. From his position aft, Ayshe watched the fighters of Dragonsbane in action. Each triad moved as one, turning and pressing the invaders, blades slashing out, parrying the tridents’ thrusts. The archers had drawn daggers as soon as the melee became general and stood ready to battle any of the creatures that broke through the line.

Malshaunt moved his hand in ad complicated gesture. Three shafts of light appeared and darted from the mage’s hands, slamming into the head and torso of one of the sea creatures. It grunted, gave a high, keening wail, and fell over.

“Again!” Harfang roared. Malshaunt sent him an irritated look and readied another spell. He shouted a command, and a burst of green fire came from his hand, catching one of the creatures. The sea beast’s skin dripped with some caustic liquid, and it screamed in agony. It clawed at its flesh, trying to clean itself; failing that, it hurled itself over the side and splashed down into the sea. Meanwhile, the mage sent another flight of magical shafts at the beasts, but the creatures managed to dodge most of them. One hurled his trident at the mage, who flipped a hand. The weapon clanged off an invisible shield that had sprung into being before the mage.

“Forward!”

The triads began to move across the deck, rotating as they did so, each elf protecting the others in his or her group. Ayshe, watching, was reminded of a piece of gnomish machinery he had seen in his youth in which huge cogs and gears moved ceaselessly, grinding anything that was caught in them.

Tashara stood motionless beside Ayshe, her face turned to the battle, her blind eyes seemingly following every move. One of the creatures turned toward her, extended his neck, and breathed out.

Fire shot from his lips. With bare effort, the captain of the Starfinder moved to one side, and the cone of flame passed between her and Ayshe to shoot harmlessly out over the sea. A second later, Feystalen’s sword came down on the creature’s neck, and its head dropped to the deck.

The mage, meanwhile, had forsaken spells for the use of his whip. The leather cracked in the direction of a creature, who dodged to one side. Just as swiftly, the tip of the leather twisted with it and struck it on the cheek. The invader gave a horrid and dropped to the ground, clutching at where the whip had struck it. Its skin began to slough away from its hands and skull. A few seconds later, its skeleton clattered to the deck.

A creature moved toward Ayshe, waving its trident menacingly. The dwarf silently cursed his lack of a weapon. From now on, he thought, I carry my axe at all times.

The creature lunged, and Ayshe barely dodged it. With no alternative and little room to maneuver, he flung himself forward at the creature and grabbed its trident. The two strove for possession of the weapon, rocking back and forth until at last the dwarf lashed out with a foot and hit the creature’s knee—or at least where its knee should have been. The beast’s leg gave way, and it loosed its hold on the trident.

Ayshe yanked the weapon free and with no hesitation drove it down. The blades plunged into scale-covered flesh, and the beast gave a high-pitched, whining cry. It wriggled horribly for a moment on the end of the trident; then a burst of green blood spat from its mouth and it was still.

The dwarf pulled the weapon free and looked to find another foe. In the few moments his fight had taken, the battle had progressed rapidly.

The archers had divided into two groups and, to the dwarf’s astonishment, disappeared over the sides of the ship. Meanwhile, Malshaunt’s whip had destroyed another of the invaders, and others had fallen to elven blades, but most were still on their feet, though some were bleeding.

One of the oddest aspects of the fight, Ayshe thought, was that the combatants moved in silence. The creatures, except for the occasional snarl or guttural command from their leader, concentrated their fury on the elves. The members of Dragonsbane seemed to need little or no encouragement or direction to fight as a disciplined unit.

A shout came from the foredeck, and the archers climbed back over the rails. Ayshe could see what the plan had been now: the archers had scrambled along the hull, even as the ship bore on through the waves, and were poised to take the invasion from the rear. Daggers at the ready, they advanced while the triads pushed back from the opposite direction. Caught between the two forces, the creatures gave way.

The triads, as if at a prearranged signal, split apart and in a smooth, unbroken motion formed a steel-edged line that spanned the width of the ship. Steadily it advanced. Three more of the creatures fell; then another went down. Ayshe, pushing his way into the line, thrust with his trident, catching the weapon of one of the creatures as it was driving the blades down at him. He twisted and pulled, and the barbs on the ends of the blade caught his opponent’s tines and jerked the weapon from the creature’s claws. Ayshe threw it over his shoulder and drove his trident deep into the foe’s body.

The other elves were slashing and thrusting, moving steadily forward along the deck. The attackers realized the battle was lost. One, evidently the leader, gave a wordless shriek. At the signal, his followers dived over the sides. In a moment the ship was clear of them, and Ayshe, looking back in the ship’s wake, saw a glinting trident brandish above the waves and disappear. The elves remained in formation a moment longer to ensure it was not some trick of the enemy. Then, at a signal from Harfang, they broke apart, laughing, slapping one another on the back.

Harfang came up to Tashara and saluted. “We’re free of ’em, ma’am,” he said. “Eight of ’em dead. Not bad.”

The captain nodded then, without another word, disappeared into her cabin, followed a few minutes later by Malshaunt.

“What were they?” Ayshe asked the mate.

“Seaspawn.” Harfang spat over the rail. “The first ones were created by Brine, the sea dragon overlord, a decade ago. When he was slam, some thought we’d seen an end to them, but Tempest, another sea dragon, seems to know how to create them as well.”

“They’re not dragons?”

“Nay. They were once men. Some of ’em, at any rate.” The mate spat again, and Ayshe sensed an unease about him, previously absent.

“A dragon can take a man, an elf… or a dwarf, for that matter. He fuses the humanoid with the shard of a draconian, and we get spawn.”

The two walked to where the crew had piled the bodies of the spawn. Harfang drew his sword and with a single blow struck off the head of one of the corpses. He repeated that until a row of eight spawn heads lay before him. At his nod, the elves tossed the headless bodies over the side to splash in the rushing waves.

The heads, much to Ayshe’s astonishment, the elves took to the taffrail and spiked there, so their sightless eyes looked back along the path the Starfinder cut through the waves.

The dwarf shook his head. He had heard of the savagery of battle, but that action went beyond it. There was something cold blooded—almost barbaric—about the sailors’ actions. Blood from the severed heads dripped slowly from them, staining the deck. Ayshe noticed other, older stains beneath.

Harfang saw the dwarf’s expression of disgust but said nothing. He returned to his bunk, and the other elves scattered to their various tasks.

Malshaunt came on deck an hour or so after the battle. He inspected the spiked heads carefully and collected some of the blood that dripped from them in a vial. Harfang watched him in silence.

The mage turned to the mate at last and gave him a mirthless enjoy this sort of thing?” he asked.

Harfang did not answer.

“I dare say it gratifies some urge humans have,” the mage continued. “The need to see other beings bleed. An impulse to kill anything you don’t understand.”

“I didn’t see you hesitate during the fight,” the mate growled.

Malshaunt shrugged. “No. I’m perfectly willing to defend myself. But I don’t wallow in my opponent’s blood afterwards. This”—he gestured at the heads—“this is something I doubt most elves would do if left to themselves.”

Harfang came close to the mage. His voice was low and furious. “Are you not willing, Malshaunt, to use the blood of others to further your own ends? Would you prefer to stand back away from the fighting and let others die to protect you?”

The mage did not back away. His voice was pitched equally low. “I’m a faithful servant of the captain, Master Mate. I serve her above all others on this ship. I’ve served her longer than anyone else, and she trusts and relies on me. You’d do well to remember that ere you speak to me like that again.”

He turned on his heel and walked away.

Next morning, as Ayshe was putting the finishing polish on an armored breastplate, he heard a shout from above decks.

“Ship ho!”

Again there was the clatter of feet along passageways and up ladders. Ayshe emerged to find the ship swathed in a thick, cold fog, whose fingers pried beneath his garments. The elves poured onto the deck, staring at the sea, seeking the vessel.

“There!” Samustalen pointed to starboard. The silhouette of a boat was outlined against the fog.

Feystalen snapped orders. Archers concealed themselves behind the blindage—removable screens that lined the sides of the foredeck that would be dropped down when battle with another ship was joined. Other elves picked up long grapples with which to bind the two ships together in the event of a fight. Everyone loosened their swords and waited as the Starfinder cautiously approached the ship.

Harfang joined Feystalen at the wheel. “Hail them,” he instructed his junior.

“Ahoy!” Feystalen shouted through cupped hands. “Ship ahoy!”

There was no answer. The Starfinder was close enough to see that the other boat was much smaller. Nets hanging by her side proclaimed her a fishing vessel. They drew closer still, and Ayshe could see drops of dew glistening on the strange ship’s ropes.

“Unship the craft!”

The longboat was swung out over the water and lowered—on the opposite side of the Starfinder from the mystery ship to avoid possible arrows.

Feystalen called out names. “Jeannara, Lannlathsar, Ayshe, Omarro, Alyssaran, Samath-nyar. Archers, arrows on string. Let’s go.”

The crew members named descended the ship’s side and took their places. Two took up oars; the rest held weapons alert and ready for battle.

They crossed the space between the ships with a few sure strokes and with no sign from the fishing boat. Ayshe began to breathe more calmly. Possibly the crew had abandoned ship for some reason, leaving her to drift in the fog.

The mist seemed to thicken as they boarded the boat. Ayshe could barely see the forms of his companions as they made their way across the deck, which was covered with salt-crusted fishing tackle. There was an odd smell in the air—tangy, yet sickeningly sweet. The fog was so dense, Feystalen ordered them to light torches to guide their way.

Toward the front of the boat, a small cabin door stood closed. Feystalen halted before it and stared at the planking under his feet. His shout, muffled by the fog, brought the others running. He pointed, wordless.

From beneath the closed door of the cabin, a rivulet of blood curled. It had dried into a thick, viscous pool, and its surface gleamed in the light of Feystalen’s torch.

Jeannara and Ayshe put their shoulders to the door. It gave way with little effort. Ayshe looked within and staggered back, retching. He clawed his way to the rail and vomited his breakfast into the indifferent sea.

Several of the elves seemed queasy as well, but they suppressed it. Ayshe was alone at the rail, his stomach cramped, his eyes burning from that first horrific sight.

After a few minutes he felt well enough to rejoin his companions as they stood in the open doorway.

The crew of the ship—a dozen of them, as best could be guessed—were piled inside the cabin. Several had been decapitated. Others had been mutilated in various ways: arms cut off, eyes gouged out, noses removed. One man had been entirely stripped of his skin and was no more than a horrid caricature outlined in bone and muscle. All the expressions that could be deciphered on their faces were of great pain.

The wounds on the body were various, but most seemed inflicted by sharp, pointed blades. Ayshe’s eyes went to a man whose naked back showed three deadly piercings, and his mind leaped back to the tridents borne by the seaspawn that had attacked the Starfinder.

“Yes,” Feystalen said, echoing Ayshe’s thought. “This was spawn.” He looked around in disgust. “I can smell their foul stink here still. The same band that attacked us, I should guess.”

A cry from Jeannara drew them forward. She was kneeling over an elongated body covered with green and brown scales. The spawn lay with the sword that had slain it still thrust through its chest.

Swiftly they completed their investigation. Several barrels and boxes of food lay untouched below deck, and the elves loaded them into the longboat for transport to the Starfinder. Samath-nyar took oil from the fishing boat and splashed it over the deck and the bodies in the cabin. He wrapped a rag around a spar, soaked it in oil, and nodded to Feystalen. “Everything ready, sir.”

“All hands to the boat! Stay sharp!”

The elves and Ayshe clambered into the longboat and pushed off. Feystalen held the unlit torch’s end out to Ayshe. “Smith?”

Ayshe fumbled in his pouch for the tinderbox he always carried. The damp mist made it hard to strike a spark. At last the oil-soaked torch caught and flared.

Standing, Feystalen threw the torch at the fishing boat. Its wavering flame arced up then disappeared in the fog. A few heartbeats later, a greater light sprang up, and the crackle of spreading flames reached their ears.

The mist smelled of burning wood and something else to which Ayshe resolutely closed his mind. The elves pulled steadily for the Starfinder, leaving behind a lonely pyre on an empty sea.