Asunder: A Gathering of Chaos by Cameron Hopkin (electronic book reader .txt) 📗

and a commensurate measure of his balance and rigidity into the bones of his legs from hip to ankle. Five men Kest’s size could not have moved him.

Kest’s shoulder caught him mid-thigh and his forward momentum abruptly ceased to exist. A sickly snap filled Gamarron’s ears, and the boy cried out in pain, falling to the deck, clutching at his right shoulder with his left hand, right arm suddenly limp. The collarbone. A clean break, from the sound of it. The warrior monk sighed inside, suddenly feeling old and unkind. He restored his body to its usual conformation and reached down to give the lad aid.

He was surprised for the first time since leaving the Black Isle when, instead of taking hold of the boy’ arm, Kest dodged, pulling on Gamarron’s hand with his good arm, putting a foot in his midsection, and heaving him toward the ship’s edge. Gamarron’s back hit the balusters of the stern railing, and the pain was a good one – the pleasure of finding an unexpectedly capable foe. He rolled to his feet and could not contain a smile. Kest was back up, too, right arm held in close, but he was not smiling. They started for each other.

“STOP!” came a roaring cry from the forecastle, breaking through Gamarron’s growing battle deafness. He pulled up short, and Kest also turned, confused. I did not think the Seafarers would interfere unless we broke something. The squat, three-armed captain was looking over his sailors in a red-faced rage as they all started guiltily from where they had stopped to observe the brawl. The captain’s easygoing nature had disappeared. “Stations! Use your ears, you worthless slugs! STATIONS!”

Dumbfounded, the two combatants watched as the ship exploded into activity. Some sailors ran belowdecks while others boiled out onto the decks, faces painted with purpose. The rows of fearsome barbs as long as his hand that Gamarron had seen stowed in nets at the bases of the starboard and port railings were being taken from their resting places and secured along with gunwales pointing outward. One wiry Seafarer was attaching the largest thorn launcher the monk had ever seen to his bare shoulder. The Weaver-made weapon sent tendrils through his skin and flesh as soon as it touched him, making him cry out in pain. It would not come off until the carnivorous plant died. Weapons made by Gaia’s Hands were not for the faint of heart or those who wished to remain comely. On the other hand, the barky protrusion atop the man’s shoulder could lance out finger-long thorns with enough force to pierce a whale’s hide, and they were likely tipped with poison. A launcher of that size could probably send out twenty bolts before it was exhausted, and the thorns regrew within just a day or two, bolstered by nutrients stolen from the wearer’s blood.

Others were pulling tarps away from crates stowed both fore and aft. Gamarron had taken them for lifeboat containers, but the wooden exteriors were quickly broken down to reveal enormous cauldrons brimming with a reddish liquid. The monk did not fail to notice that all those tasked to those cauldrons had donned jellyskin masks. The vats were pushed to the railings at regular intervals amidships, and at each one, two sailors inserted long wooden poles with great care. Green tendrils immediately lashed up out of the red broth and twined themselves around the lengths of wood. Long fleshy tubes as tall as a man pulled themselves up out of the murk on those vines, and the Seafarers used the poles to position the tube’s open mouths out over the railings. Spore cannons. Stars above us. This crew was formidably equipped. He wished he knew what they were preparing for.

Kest held his arm and stared at it all in mixed anger and wonder. Gamarron was certain the callow youth had never seen such things. “What’s going on?” he muttered. He was not quite addressing the older man. He was young enough to have difficulty discarding a battle rage, especially when their conflict had been forestalled without completion. He looked to the sky and all around at the horizon. “Is it pirates? There’s certainly no storm coming.”

Gamarron opened his mouth to give a non-committal answer and suddenly stopped with a flash of understanding. Am I going to die before my task is done? It seemed quite likely at the moment. He let his breath out in a controlled manner, facing the lad. “I am sorry, Kest, but our discussion from earlier will have to wait until another day. Or possibly for eternity. We should get below, right now.”

Pain and annoyance warred on the young man’s face. “I’m not going anywhere. What is happening?”

Gravely, he held a finger up to his own lips. “Listen.” And there it was, quiet but unmistakable. Warbling tones, eerie and beautiful, sad and strong, rising from beneath the waves. Now it grew louder, closer, and the sound took on a ragged edge, and the beauty disappeared into sharpness – into screams. Kest’s mouth dropped open, and he went pale.

A sea serpent was hunting them.

Kest bolted for the ladder, descending from the relative quiet of the poop deck into the chaos of the main deck, missing rungs as he went, stumbling and catching himself with his good arm. Gamarron followed after him with a little more care, wondering if he should have stopped the boy. His feet flexed and gripped with the movements of the ship, keeping him upright and on course, but Kest hadn’t gained his sea legs nearly so well, and he veered drunkenly back and forth as he pushed toward the forecastle, bumping into sailors and earning curses on his way. Gamarron weaved between them until the second mate gripped him hard by the elbow, demanding attention. “Get that stupid puke below before he gets someone killed! And you go too!” The angry sailor pushed him in the right direction, and he allowed it, calling an apology over his