A muscular arm of green and gray snapped out of the darkness, curling around a sailor’s chest. It was slick and gleaming, reflecting the light like the belly of a slug. The man choked out a wet gasp, the air crushed from his lungs before he went overboard.
Andry blinked.
What an odd dream.
Then the ship heaved, Dom shouted, and another sailor went over the rail, alive enough to scream, his ankles tangled in a meaty, curling vine of wet flesh. The sound of his voice was abruptly cut off the by the slap of the waves as he was pulled under.
Andry tried to stand but was caught in his cloak, his limbs still heavy from sleep. “What is it?” he heard himself rasp.
The lanterns swung with the motion of the ship, out of rhythm with the waves. Something was pushing them, bobbing the galley like a toy.
Corayne blinked, bleary-eyed, as Dom hoisted her to her feet and pressed the Spindleblade into her arms. Her eyes found Andry, the same question on her lips as the ship swayed beneath them.
Her words died with the next member of the crew, a curling tail like a whip wrapping around his throat and yanking him overboard. Andry watched, slack-jawed, as the two-hundred-pound Larsian disappeared into the sea.
“The Spindle,” the squire breathed, feeling terror claw up his throat. Was it here? In the waves beneath them? But there was no telltale brush of lightning, of wrongness. Only the night filling with screams. The Spindle was still far away, but its monsters had spread wide.
Sailors shouted back and forth, springing into action. Pulling ropes, tying off sails. Most grabbed weapons: swords and long, hooked spears better suited to fishing. One shouted into the hold, calling for the captain and the rest of the crew.
Sigil emerged before anyone else could, pushing the fugitive priest along, her face grim. Her ax spun in her free hand.
Andry fought to his feet and rushed to the mast. The Elder backed Corayne against it, his body set broadside to the rail. “I should tie you down,” he said, grimacing at the mainsail.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. “I have a vested interest in not drowning.”
The Elder ignored her, running out a length of rope and looping it around her middle. “You’ll only drown if the ship sinks. And if we sink with a sea serpent, you’re as good as dead anyway.”
Her golden face went pale in the lantern light. She didn’t fight when the rope tightened, backing her to the mast. Instead she glanced at Andry. He expected to see the same terror he felt in his heart. But there was only cold resolve in Corayne an-Amarat.
“My blood is as much saltwater as it is Spindle,” she said, grim.
The squire wished he could say the same. Night pressed in from all sides of the ship, the lanterns a weak defense against the beast curling in the water.
“Sea serpent,” Andry managed to breath.
The ship rails bristled with armed sailors, their hooks and short ship swords brandished like needles. They peered at the water, ready for the next strike.
“Better than a kraken,” Valtik singsonged, dancing over the deck with her dirty bare feet. The full, cleaned skeleton of a fish dangled from her belt. “We are not forsaken.”
Sigil scowled. Her ax flashed. “Does she always do that?”
“Unfortunately,” Sorasa answered, stepping into the light of the mast lantern. Her bronze dagger leered. “Well, Witch. Immortal.” She glanced from Valtik to Dom. “Any suggestions?”
The old woman grinned toothily and tied herself in next to Corayne, looping rope over her wrists.
“Survive,” Dom answered, grave.
The assassin’s eyes rolled. “I don’t know which one of you is more useless.”
“Get some more lanterns lit; keep your eyes open,” Sigil called, her voice commanding. Though Andry knew little of the bounty hunter, her presence was familiar and calming, like one of the knights or instructors training him to the sword. She stalked to the rail as she barked orders, her boots hammering the deck. At the prow, the Larsian captain echoed them, his face gray with fear. “Captain Drageda—” she called in sudden warning.
Only to see the serpent’s great head rise up behind him, yellow eyes slitted, the sheen of sharp, white teeth in its jaws. It struck, devouring the captain headfirst before darting back into the safety of the water. Spears glanced off its scaled hide; hooks failed to find purchase. Only Dom’s sword broke the creature’s skin, drawing black blood that splattered the decks.
It rained, dark as oil, down the length of his steel.
“Run out the oars—we need to make for land!” one of the sailors shouted, his panic rising. A few others agreed, dropping their hooks in haste.