“Right,” Haskeer grated. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for a bomb.
Another wave hit the ship, sending a fierce tremor through it. The roll that followed was the most acute yet. Much of the clutter that was unsecured had already shifted to the port side. This bigger blow shifted some of the heavier objects, including the brazier Jup and Haskeer were standing beside. It toppled, spilling its red hot coals. As the deck was wet that wouldn’t have mattered. Except that the jolt caused Haskeer to drop the bomb he was about to light. The pot shattered and its content instantly burst into flames. Leaping back, they were lucky to avoid being splashed by liquid as tenacious as a limpet and as scathing as acid. But they were confronted by a spreading wall of fire. They set about beating at it, Haskeer using his jerkin, Jup a piece of sacking.
Several of the grunts had been given the additional task of firewatcher. For Standeven it was his only job, and one it was thought even he couldn’t make a mess of. As the nearest firewatcher he had to respond, and arrived clutching two buckets, one slopping water, the other filled with sand.
He took one look at the fire and froze.
Jup and Haskeer were on the other side of it, feeling the heat and unable to get to him. They had to content themselves with shouting curses. Standeven was oblivious.
Then Dallog was there with Wheam and Pirrak, and Spurral bringing up the rear. The buckets were snatched from Standeven and he was pushed aside, roughly enough that he went down and sprawled on the deck. They attacked the flames, thrashing it with clothing and sacks. Water was no good; pails of sand had to be chained over, until at last they were able to trample what remained of the fire and kill it.
Standeven was still on the deck, propped on his elbow, staring dazedly at the scene.
Haskeer dashed to him, grabbed him by the scruff and drew back his fist. “You bloody useless little-”
Stryke arrived, panting. “ Leave it.”
“This stupid bastard would’ve let us burn,” Haskeer protested.
“We’ve more important things to worry about. Get to your station.”
“But-”
“Do it!”
Haskeer gave Standeven a murderous glare, then let him go. The cowering, ashen-faced human slumped. Haskeer returned to the fight.
Casting Standeven a disgusted look of his own, Stryke ordered everyone back to their duties. He also had the spears brought into play.
The bombardment of the Krake carried on. What was left of the band’s hoard of arrows continued soaring its way. The bombs exploded incessantly, joined by a cloud of blazing spears.
The creature was on fire. Not in patches, as before, but totally. A fetid smell of charred flesh hung in the air. Punctured by numerous spears and arrows, the Krake slowed its advance, and stopped.
To cheers from the band it began to sink below the waves. When it was completely submerged the fire could still be seen, permeating the water with a ghostly glow.
Stryke raced up to the bridge. Dynahla was still there, surveying the scene.
“Is it finished?” Coilla asked.
“Don’t know,” Stryke replied, glancing at the turbulent water where the Krake had gone down. “But we’re not sticking around to find out.” He turned to Pepperdyne. “It’s up to you now, human. Get us out of here.”
Pepperdyne nodded and spun the wheel.
They headed west.
15
Not every landmass in the world of islands was populated. But one such, nondescript like so many others, was hosting surreptitious visitors.
Jennesta didn’t want for comforts, whatever her followers had to cope with. While they bivouacked as best they could, her tented quarters offered a haven, and even a measure of luxury. But it was the privacy that she valued most when undertaking certain magical practices, as now.
She stood by a small table. On it sat a representation of the Krake; a miniature, crudely fashioned model. It was on fire. Flames played across its entire surface, but they would never harm the Receptive Matter Jennesta had used to fashion the creature’s likeness.
For a moment she was spellbound, literally. She willed the enchantment to unravel, until the link between her mock-up and the real beast was broken, and her control gone. She had been gazing at the flames. With a slight movement of her hand she extinguished them.
She didn’t see the encounter between the Wolverines and the sea creature as a defeat. She had harassed the orcs, as she had with the fauns, which caused them trouble and delay. It was an agreeable pastime. A satisfaction.
The Receptive Matter cooled instantly. If it had ever been hot. She picked it up, squeezed it in her palm and returned it to its usual shapeless, colourless state. It was displeasing to her touch, but had a sweet odour that was almost heady. She returned it to her precious stockpile, in its plain silver casket, then put the casket out of sight.
The effort of maintaining the spell had tired her. There would have to be sustenance soon. Preferably fresh, warm and still beating. But that would have to wait.
She wasn’t alone, although she could have been for all the awareness her captive had. Thirzarr was seated at the far end of the quarters. She was stiffly motionless, her gaze vacant.
Jennesta moved to the tent’s entrance, stopped just short of it and clapped twice, sharply. Shortly after, there was a scrabbling at the canvas flaps. A pair of her undead menials came through awkwardly, and awaited her pleasure, their expressions as vacuous as Thirzarr’s.
“Take her back to the others in their cage,?? Jennesta ordered, pointing at the orc.
One of the zombies obeyed, and began to shuffle in Thirzarr’s direction. The other was Hacher, who remained immobile. Sluggishly, he turned his head towards Jennesta and fixed her with a dull but even stare. She repeated the order, more firmly, but still Hacher hesitated.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jennesta snapped. “Do as you’re told!”
He slowly moved. Not towards Thirzarr, but Jennesta. She flicked a jolt of energy at him, as a herdsman might chastise livestock with a whip. The impact half spun Hacher, and he would have fallen if some buried instinct hadn’t surfaced and made him reach out to the table for support. His hand came down hard on its edge, causing one of his desiccated fingers to snap off. It dropped to the heavily carpeted floor.
Jennesta laughed scornfully. “Not much of an iron hand now, are you, General?” Her expression returned to harsh and she added coldly, “Obey my order.”
Hacher had been staring dumbly at his disfigurement. He looked up when she spoke, and after a moment’s wavering began to shamble in Thirzarr’s direction.
Jennesta told Thirzarr to rise. In her almost catatonic state she meekly complied, and flanked by Hacher and the other undead was escorted from the tent, the trio moving at a languid pace.
Almost immediately a human officer entered, bowed his head and begged Jennesta’s pardon for intruding.
“What is it?”
“Your… guest has arrived, my lady. Along with something of a retinue.”
“Send him in. Alone.”
“Ma’am.”
“And take that with you.” She indicated Hacher’s severed finger.
Doing his best to hide his distaste, the officer gingerly picked it up with his thumb and forefinger. He left holding it out in front of him, as though he were a nervous scullery maid ordered to dispose of a drowned rat found in a pot of soup.
Jennesta didn’t have long to wait for her next visitor. He strode in, his black bow slung over one bony shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his hip.
“I am Gleaton-Rouk,” the goblin declared sibilantly.
“Welcome,” Jennesta replied, a syrupy, artificial sincerity in her tone. “I’m obliged to you for accepting my invitation.”