Chapter 36

Day 130-140:

The Islanders of Sweetwater Port refused to allow anyone off the boat when they anchored. A swarm of canoes launched from shore a short while later.

“No dock?” John asked.

Vasin shook his head. “No, and the ground underneath the water is quite shallow near the shore as well. The natives consider it part of their protection.”

One Islander, obviously the leader climbed up onto deck first, followed by a small, well-armed entourage.

“You are a Raider vessel.” The Islander declared. “Why have you come here?”

Vasin stepped forward, bowing. “We seek only to trade for water and supplies. We pose you no threat.”

The Islander’s eyes widened when he saw Vasin’s amulet. “You imprison a member of Kyet’sol’s Boon?” He hissed.

Vasin shook his head vigorously. “Not at all. I travel with them of my own free will. And, they are not all Raiders either.”

The healer spun a slightly exaggerated recounting of their adventures to date. “ ... so we hid at a deserted skerry before coming here for water.”

The leader picked his jaw up off the deck after a few minute’s thought.

“We do not normally allow foreigners into the city. But if what you say is true, and they are freed slaves, I’ll not condemn them to face the Calm if they wish to come with us.”

Six men (of the eighteen) stepped forward at John’s signal.

“These are the ones who wish to debark.” Vasin declared. “Show him your marks.”

Each man held out his bare forearms, which still bore the now-healed scarring from long-term manacle use. The Islander leader nodded.

“We will take them.”

He moved to the gunwale, shouting down for an additional, empty canoe to be brought.

“What have you to trade?” He asked, after making sure his instructions were understood.

They exchanged a large load of fish and other captured sea-life for water and a few other supplies, mostly local fruit found only on larger islands in the Bay. The six freed men departed as soon as their transport arrived. None even looked back as they rowed ashore.

It took most of the day to unload the food and hoist up the barrels of water. The Islander leader stayed aboard with his guards the entire time. At no point did he give them his name, and he never asked any of their own. He did interrogate Vasin intently, both for the healer’s own story and for further details regarding Nefiume and the danger that the undead represented.

“I will share this information with any who pass by.” He promised, once they admitted that they didn’t know anything more.

They weighed anchor at dusk, with John occupying his spot in the lookout and Vasin helping chart their course. They skirted the Channel for two more days, sailing southwest but keeping an island or two, or the shallows around them between their hull and the deeper, more dangerous, faster-flowing water.

Day 133:

Mid-morning on the third day out of Sweetwater, they left the protection of the island ring. Their ship shot out of a narrow gap, right at the southern exit where the Channel emptied into the Calm itself. A southwesterly wind, aided by the fast moving current gave them a boost as Svend swung the tiller to orient their course on the massive, nearly-black cloud formation towering above the center of the Bay.

“Now we must hope the Widower keeps to his normal waters, and the other monsters are occupied elsewhere.” Vasin remarked as the two men descended to the deck.

John opened his mouth to chastise the healer for tempting fate when the lookout who’d replaced them shouted.

“Sail ho!”

Their eyes shot up, then out to sea in the indicated direction. Even at a couple miles distance, John recognized their unrelenting foe. The undead-captained ship was unmistakable with its distinctive bowsprit and wave-surfing. Its sails bulged with a full tailwind as the boat tracked directly towards them from the Calm-ward side of the last island they’d passed.

“He was waiting for us.” John remarked when he and Vasin reached the poop deck.

“Aye, that he was.” Svend shot Vasin a suspicious glance.

“I know not why the Mad Emperor would wish to follow us!” The healer protested, waving his hands. “If the Lore I recall is correct, my power is based on Life itself, and should damage the undead. A little at least. Nefiume is powerful, so perhaps it doesn’t matter but there is no reason he should want me!”

Svend shrugged. “Well, whatever the reason, I think our only hope is to stay ahead of him until we reach the Landing. Typhon will not permit him to hurt us there.”

“No?” John asked, surprised.

“No.” Svend confirmed. “The dragon permits no fighting on her island. Any interference, is dealt with harshly, even if you’ve completed the Challenge. Any!”

“How far to the Landing?” John inquired.

“Nearly a week’s hard sail.” Svend replied grimly.

“Well, shit.” John muttered.

“Aye.” Svend agreed.

They were out of options then. There were no islands in the Calm. Not even a shallow patch. Svend claimed no one knew how deep the water was, only that it was deep enough for the Denizens to approach sailing ships without being detected. And because of those monsters, they couldn’t afford to sail any direction except straight for the Landing while praying not to be noticed.

When John was a boy, pirate movies were popular for a while. He’d been young enough that pretending to sail around and fight duels occupied an entire summer before his interest cooled. At no point did he ever actually learn about ships or sailing for real. Still, the image in his mind of ships closing, hooks being thrown and men swinging across to storm the enemy’s vessel was a hard one to shake.

The next two days looked nothing like that. For some reason Nefiume slowed at night, which allowed John’s crew to make up a little distance. It was inevitable though, by the second morning’s dawn on the Calm their pursuer’s boat was close enough that they could’ve shot an arrow and hit it easily.

Even to John’s untrained eye, the other boat looked much worse for wear. The hull and gunwales bore the scars and bloodstains of other recent engagements, and only a few of the moving statues remained to occupy the deck. Unfortunately, it looked as though the undead emperor had managed to recruit a group of Mer-men to round out his crew. These carried the unmistakable unkempt, disheveled appearance reminiscent of low-life thugs everywhere. None had a spear-gun like John’s looted one, and the weapons they did carry were of the same poor quality as their clothing and hygiene habits.

Over the course of the morning, Nefiume eased up alongside them with about twenty yards separating the hulls. The wave picked their own stern up, and the wind did the same with their sails. The two ships sailed side by side, nearly flying across the water surface for a short while without either side doing anything. The Mer-men spat curses and epithets at them in very broken Trade while the Raider crew members shouted their own right back. Sygraid took advantage of the lull to organize their crewmen, making a shield rank at the railing as they prepared to fight.

Then Nefiume himself appeared at the gunwale. The undead man’s appearance was a shock. A layer of dried, but not flaking blood still coated the mostly-naked monster. Now that he was close enough, John could tell why he looked so human. Kort’s bearded face stared at them from under the crown’s rim. It was stretched and distorted, but recognizable. His pupils were blood red with black, overly large irises. His beard was a filthy, matted mess. The rest of his oversized, three-armed body was a patchwork of parts from what John guessed were multiple victims.

“Traitors!” The monster screamed at them, pointing his trident. “Did you think I would permit your crimes to go unpunished?”

John exchanged glances with Vasin and Svend.

“Is that Kort talking, or Nefiume?” He wondered.

Svend shook his head mutely.

“Both, perhaps?” Vasin guessed.

“What crime are you talking about?” John shouted back.

“You swore fealty to me!” The undead snarled. “I am your emperor! Did you think you could desert the master of Athlantyis without taking your leave? I am the lord of wind and wave!”

“Definitely both.” Vasin confirmed.

“I might’ve sworn to the man you inhabit now, but never to you!” John denied.

“Bah! The excuses of traitors and deserters have no interest for me.” Nefiume scoffed. “I shall unleash my wrath upon you, if you do not return to my service.”

“He doesn’t understand the difference between who he once was, and what he is now.” Vasin remarked.

“No.” John agreed.

“Serve you, never!” He shouted.

“Then taste my power!” The former king threatened.

The undead tossed his trident from his two left hands to the gauntleted right. The pearl set into its head glowed brightly with blue-green light. As did the pearl set into the center of the crown, and a third mounted just behind the knuckles on the arm-covering armor. He pointed the weapon at their ship.

The wave they were riding began curving, with the flanks moving ahead of the center. The hulls shifted towards each other, slowly at first, then more quickly until they crashed together with a bone-rattling impact. The undead’s head spun around, revealing Skyald’s face on the backside.

“Kill any who resist!” The monster commanded as he leaped across to their own poop deck.

The Mer-men shock troops followed, plowing into the crew rank with reckless abandon. They were followed by the few animated statues, who climbed across rather than jumping. After that, John lost track as Nefiume’s strikes occupied his complete attention.

The former soldier quickly found out how useful that third arm was in controlling the weapon pole. The three-tined head shot out like lightning. It knocked aside John’s weapons and he had to dive away to avoid the follow up strike. Without a pause, the trident flickered to Svend’s face. The Raider slipped aside, nimbly side-stepping to circle away from where John struggled back to his feet. The navigator held up a shield to keep their enemy at bay.

Do not throw me! The Tooth shouted in his head.

Okay. John acknowledged. At all?

He has wind power, and we are at sea.

So, he might knock you into the water. John realized. Got it.

He circled with Svend, keeping their foe between the two of them. It was less effective than against a non-two-faced opponent, but still kept Nefiume from unleashing on their navigator. John found he had to time his movements with the ship’s motion or he would find himself off balance when trying to attack.

He darted in to plant the Tooth in the giant’s back, and had to swerve aside when the spiked butt end of the trident poked at him. Svend was quick, thrusting out with his sword to take advantage of their foe’s distraction, but couldn’t close the distance before the trident head parried his strike.

The deck below was a swirling melee with Sygraid man-handling the crew into a makeshift shield wall. Two men knocked Mer-men aside so the Shield-maiden could dart out and poke her spear at one of the animated statues who was harrying the crew. The blade rebounded off the figure’s metal exterior, but it was enough to get her within grasping range of the thing’s body. Like a football player rushing she bulled through, lifting it up and charging for the gunwale. She succeeded in dumping the thing over the side, but then two of the Mer-thugs turned to bracket her.

John caught a spike to the thigh for his distraction and missed the rest of her fight. He groaned and tried to retreat, limping. Svend unleashed a flurry of wild strikes while Vasin jumped down from where he’d retreated into the rigging. He pulled John back, yelling for assistance.

And Hal was there. The Cambion jumped over the tiller, his rapier extending to pierce their enemy’s flesh. It was the first blow any of them successfully struck, but the Mad Emperor didn’t even appear to notice. His trident twirled, knocking the rapier blade aside (which tore it loose from his flesh) before returning to press the navigator.

Then Vasin clamped his hands around John’s leg and heat pooled in his quadricep muscle. The fire grew until it was nearly unbearable, but when the healer finally let him go, he was whole. His skin was sunburn red, but he could rejoin the fight.

Now with three surrounding him, Nefiume started having difficulty. John suggested that Hal aim for the eyes, or try to knock the crown loose. The metal spike squirting at his face like a snake was distracting the undead enough that John was able to land a clean hit on their foe’s back. Blue-white flame lit the skin briefly before pale red water bubbled from the wound to quench the burn.

Still, the wound itself didn’t close, and a stream of bloody water drained down the giant’s ‘tail.’ John spared a quick glance at the lower deck again to see the crew now forcing what remained of the undead’s troops, a handful of Mer-men back to where the two ships’ gunwales met. Sygraid was right in the center of the line, shoving with her shield and stomping a cadence.

Sensing victory, John moved to strike again when a shrill, bone-piercing shriek erupted above and behind them. He tried to backpedal, neck craning to find the source but fell on his ass. This time the trident spike found his gut, pinning him to the deck like a bug.

It hurt like hell, but he’d felt worse. Angrily he chopped at the haft, and the Tooth probably would’ve broken it had not that blue-green light flared with every hit. She did mar one of the designs though, and Nefiume withdrew the weapon with a snarl. Vasin grabbed him again, dragging him away to the far gunwale.

That was when John caught a glimpse of the giant beast flying, or perhaps gliding down from above them. Its body was scaly but sleek with fins instead of legs, and an additional pair of thick, wide flap-like ‘wings’ extending from the top of what would the thing’s shoulders all the way back to where its long, shark-like tail sprouted. It looked to John like a dragon mated with a manta-ray. A cluster of heads, each one set at the end of a differing-length neck darted about seeking targets. Those heads too were sleek with a long snout and wide, side-mounted eyes.

One of those heads spat a stream of water like a fire-hose at Sygraid and the crew. The water pressure must have been enormous, because the men sprawled back like bowling pins as the Mer-thugs dove the other way, back into their original ship.

Their retreat turned out to be a mistake. Three more heads snapped that ship’s main sail loose and the tail struck the primary mast as the Hydra soared by. A loud crack was shortly followed by the wood pole toppling over, fouling the entire rigging and dragging into the sea over the far side.

The other ship began turning away. As the gap between the hulls widened, the Mer-men scrambled to jump back to John’s more seaworthy vessel. Only two made it, but Sygraid was merciless. She chopped at both their hands until they fell to the sea below. Their enemy’s ship veered farther, increasing the gap and falling behind the wave that they were surfing. The last they saw of it was a final pass by the Hydra as it skimmed just above the wave crests. The boat practically disintegrated under the assault: sails, masts and hull wood all scattering across the water.

While he was watching, John felt Vasin explore his wound with gentle fingertips.

“This is a bad wound. It will take some time to heal you.” The Islander warned.

John gritted his teeth. “Do what you have to.”

Hal made to hit the undead monster while it was distracted by the ship falling aside.

“Hal!” John coughed. “No!”

The Cambion paused, mid-swing. He shot John a questioning glance.

With a trembling finger, John pointed skyward.

“Wind. Knock. Down.” He gasped out.

The Cambion stepped back while Svend circled around to John’s side. By now even Nefiume had paused and was looking at John.

“What do you propose, traitor?” The undead emperor boomed.

“It. Gliding.” John panted, still pointing.

Everyone looked, watching as the Hydra bobbled towards the sea as it passed through the area where the giant’s wind funneled into their sails. While John was no expert in aviation, one of the schools he’d been to before getting injured was the High Altitude, Low Opening (HALO) course down in Arizona. Part of that curriculum included an explanation of how the ‘wing’ parachute, called a ram-air worked.

Because the man hanging underneath provided no horizontal thrust, ram-air parachutes have a different descent angle depending upon whether they’re flying into or with the prevailing wind. It’s a mark of pride for very experienced skydivers in the civilian world to utilize this knowledge, positioning themselves directly above the landing zone (LZ) when they reached just under a thousand feet above the ground. Then, they swing out and away on the downwind side, falling straight down, parallel with the parachute before flaring into the wind using the front risers. If done correctly, the skydiver ‘swoops’ along the ground, transferring the speed generated vertically into momentum and partial lift horizontally, stretching out the landing to glide along just above the surface. John and his fellow classmates were warned in the strongest possible terms against attempting this maneuver, because if done incorrectly, the parachutist plows into the ground at high speed, with the canopy providing negligible assistance. As John and his classmates were novice skydivers, the instructors asserted that they were virtually guaranteed to experience the latter rather than the former. If any tried while in the school, they would be immediately dropped from the course.