The Other on the rope ladder was having a hard time getting down. The rope twisted and—
It snapped!
The Other and the rope ladder went crashing toward the waves.
Keenir, not to be deterred, leapt over the railing, diving down toward the water.
The Other below was flailing about, trying to make it to the orange boat.
Keenir sliced into the water. Toroca, gripping the railing, hoped that the impact would be enough to break the old mariner out of dagamant, but soon he was on the surface again, his muscular tail propelling him through the waves. Within moments he was upon the swimming Other, jaws digging into the Other’s neck, tearing it open. The water turned red.
Toroca pivoted and saw Biltog, his muzzle covered in blood, still bobbing up and down. The sailor began running toward Toroca, toeclaws splintering the wooden deck.
Biltog was substantially older than Toroca, much too strong for Toroca to fight. Toroca looked left and right, but he was trapped against the railing; Biltog could alter his course to intercept him no matter which way he decided to run. But suddenly Biltog was airborne, a giant leap pushing him up off the deck. It turned out that he wasn’t after Toroca, but rather had decided to join his captain. Biltog sailed over the edge of the ship, his red cap flying off, the tip of his tail slapping into Toroca’s head as it passed him. Toroca swung around. Biltog was in the water now, swimming toward the orange boat, which was trying to escape, the three remaining Others aboard it rowing with all their might.
Biltog chomped through an oar and then, grabbing the little boat’s side and pulling hard, he capsized the ship, tossing its occupants into the water.
Suddenly a large red stain began spreading across the waves. Keenir was out of sight; he must have come up on one of the Others from underneath, jaws tearing into its body. Biltog had another’s tail in his mouth. His jaws worked, muscles bulging, and the tail sheared off.
Pounding on the deck behind him.
Toroca swung around—
A ball of limbs and tails, some green, some yellow, locked in mortal combat. More Quintaglios had come up from below.
Toroca watched, helpless to intervene. Sounds of splitting bone and smashing teeth filled the air, punctuated by screams from both Others and Quintaglios.
He thought again of the story of the Galadoreter, blown aimlessly by the wind, its decks covered with the dead… “Toroca!”
Deep, gravelly—Keenir’s voice, from over the side. Toroca looked over the edge. “Are you all right, Captain?”
Keenir was moving up and down, but with the bobbing of the waves, not in territorial display. “They’re all dead down here,” he called, his tone aghast.
Biltog was floating next to him in the red water. And next to the two of them, five yellow carcasses bobbed up and down, in death returning the challenge.
“Stay down there!” Toroca shouted. “It’ll be safer!”
Behind him, the battle raged on, the planks of the deck slick with blood.
Looking over the gunwale, Toroca saw the second orange boat, off in the distance. Only two of its crew were still aboard, but they were already a good part of the way back to their island, where doubtless they’d report that their eight comrades had been torn limb from limb by the strange green visitors.
Toroca wondered if the Others had a word for war.
*14*
An endless beach of sand, spreading to every horizon. No waves were visible, but their pounding against the shore formed a constant background, a steady, rhythmic pulse like the beating of many hearts.
Lying on the sand were several large broken eggshells. Each egg had opened and was cracked roughly in half. The halves were all sitting in the sand, rounded ends down, like beige bowls. Afsan walked over to the nearest shell half and looked inside. The edge was clearly visible, with a fringe of shell fragments still adhering to a tough white membrane. He couldn’t quite make out what was inside, though. He tipped forward from the waist, his tail lifting from the ground, and picked up the egg, cradling it in both hands. It was surprisingly heavy.
He tipped back, letting his weight rest on his tail, and looked down into the egg.
It was full of thick, dark liquid, bowing upward slightly into a meniscus. He rocked the egg gently back and forth, watching the liquid move inside the shell.
And then it hit him.
Blood.
The liquid was blood.
Afsan’s claws leapt out in alarm, piercing the eggshell in ten places.
Blood flowed onto Afsan’s hands.
He should have thrown the shell aside, but somehow he couldn’t, not until the dark red liquid had completely drained through the holes. He felt it begin to crust along the edges of his fingers, along the backs of his hands.
At last the egg was empty. He put the fragment back down on the sand.
He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to. He moved a few paces over, found the next egg half, prodded it with his middle toeclaw. The egg tipped over, blood pouring out onto the ground.
Afsan’s heart was racing. He hurried over to another bowl-shaped egg half. It, too, was filled with crimson blood. He ran across the sands to a fourth egg-bowl. This one was so full that the vibrations caused by Afsan’s movement made blood slosh over the ragged edges.
Afsan spun around, terrified, and in so doing, his tail swept through a large arc, knocking over a trio of blood-filled eggshells, the dark fluid soaking the sands.
Everywhere he looked there were eggshells filled with blood sticking out of the sand, balanced precariously on their rounded ends. Afsan spun around again, his tail knocking over more of the shells, more blood pouring out.
The beach beneath him was saturated now. As he moved, his toeclaws sucked out of the wet sand, sounding like a dying gasp or like meat sliding down a gullet. Another step, another gasp.
Blood was pouring in from everywhere now. The upended eggshells had become bottomless cups, an endless torrent of red liquid flowing out of them onto the sands, sands that were rapidly turning into a bloody quicksand. Afsan tried to run, tried to get away, but with each step his body sank deeper and deeper into the sodden ground. Soon only his head and neck were above the surface, and then just his head, his long green jaw resting briefly on the sand.
Overhead, a giant wingfinger circled, its vast purple wings swirling about its body.
As he slipped below the surface, his last sight, brought to eye level as he continued to descend, was the broken eggshells, now empty, lying on their sides, scattered across the surface of the bloodied sands.
Afsan was growing progressively more annoyed with Mokleb. “Why don’t you say something?” he snapped.
“What would you like me to say?” said MokJeb her voice calm, reasonable.
“Anything. That you’re happy with my progress. That you’re unhappy with my progress. Anything at all.”
“I don’t pass judgments,” said Mokleb gently.
“Oh, yes you do,” Afsan said with a sneer. “You sit there day in and day out, and you judge me. You hear the intimate details of my life, and you judge them. I used to like you, Mokleb but I m getting sick of you. Sick to death.”
Silence.
“No response, Mokleb? Surely that merits a reply.”
“Why is it important that I reply to you?”
Afsan’s tone was quarrelsome. “It’s just good manners that’s all.”