That’s a terrible deal. That’s such a bad deal even Sablecoil would know better than to take it.
“Yes, yes!” Oak says cheerily. “I look forward to discussing this Cirien-Cròin’s wooing of Nicasia. I might have some insights to share. My half-brother seduced her, you know.”
A nearby sailor makes a startled noise. None of them would speak of her that way while they crossed her waters.
The merrow commander, still on his shark, smiles, showing thin teeth, like those of some deepwater fish. The six merrows on the deck split up, four heading toward Wren and two toward the prince. They don’t expect Oak to be difficult to subdue, even if he resists.
As the merrows get closer, he feels a momentary spike of panic.
Most of the people on this boat don’t expect him to be hard to subdue, either, or anything other than a fool. That’s the reputation he’s painstakingly built. A reputation he’s about to throw away.
He tries to push that out of his mind, to concentrate on sinking into the moment. The merrows are perhaps five feet from him and seven feet from Wren when he attacks.
He slashes the throat of the first, spraying the deck with thin, greenish blood. Twisting around, he sinks the edge of the cutlass into the second merrow’s thigh, slicing open the vein. More blood. So much blood. The deck is slippery with it.
Arrows fly. The massive harpoons fire.
Oak runs across the deck toward the four bearing down on Wren. A pair of her falcons match blades with one merrow. A lone falcon flies up in bird form and lands behind another, transforming in time to stab a knife into his back. Wren herself has thrown a knife at one fleeing across the deck. Oak gets there in time to dispatch the last by cleaving his head clean from his shoulders.
There are a lot of screams.
From the top of the mast, Bogdana descends on black wings. Oak glances toward Wren.
In that moment of inattention, he is knocked off his hooves by a sinuous tentacle that wraps around his calf. He tries to pull free, but it yanks him across the deck fast enough that his head slams against the wooden boards.
He kicks out with a hoof at the same time he stabs the blade of his cutlass deep into Sablecoil’s rubbery flesh, pinning the tentacle to the deck. Writhing, it drops the prince. He stumbles to his hooves.
Tiernan hacks at the tentacle, trying to sever it from the body of the monster.
With a shudder, it rips free from the deck. The cutlass is still stuck in it when it wraps around Tiernan. Then it hauls him backward into the sea.
“Tiernan!” Oak runs to the gunwale of the ship, but Tiernan has disappeared beneath the waves.
“Where is he?” Hyacinthe shouts. There’s black blood smeared across his face and a bow in his hand.
Before Oak can get any words out, Hyacinthe has dropped the bow and jumped off the side. The ocean swallows him whole.
No, no, no. Oak is wild with panic. He can swim, but certainly not well enough to haul both of them out.
All around him, there’s fighting. The fleeing merrow is cut down. The Ghost slashes at another enormous tentacle, battling to save one of the fallen falcons. Three more tentacles curl around the prow. From everywhere, there are cries. From some places, screams.
Oak wants to scream, too. If Tiernan dies, it will be because of Oak.
This is why he never wanted a bodyguard. This is why he should never have been given one.
The prince loosens a rope from a cleat, wrapping one end around his waist and knotting it there. Once tied, the prince gives a hard tug to test whether it can bear his weight.
He looks into the waves. This close, he can see shapes moving in the deep.
He sucks in a breath and prepares to join them when a crack of lightning draws his attention back to the deck. Fog is rolling toward the ship, along with higher swells.
Bogdana has brought a storm.
Well, that seems completely unhelpful.
Taking another breath, Oak drops himself down, rappelling off the side of the boat. As his hoof hits the water, Hyacinthe surfaces, Tiernan limp in his arms. Oak reaches for him automatically, afraid it’s too late.
“Highness,” Hyacinthe says, relief in his voice. Tiernan’s head lolls against his shoulder.
Waves splash Oak’s face as he grabs hold of his bodyguard. The sky overhead has darkened. He hears a crack of thunder behind him and sees another bright streak of lightning reflecting in Hyacinthe’s eyes.
Tiernan’s body is heavy in his arms. He tries to find a way to hold him securely enough that he won’t slip, tries to find a way to haul them all back up onto the deck.
He lifts himself upward, one-handed. He gets a few inches higher, but it’s slow and he’s not sure his strength will hold.