EPILOGUE
The Southern Sea
Bryan
She slipped beneath the water, her silvery body lithe.
Bryan smiled as he crumpled the napkin he carried, a few sticky crumbs of corn cake all that was left of the treat.
The seal’s head burst from the waves again, keeping up with the ship’s prow with ease.
He’d first noticed her on their second day at sea, riding along in the ship’s wake.
The way she spun in the current, round body teasing the surface of the water and racing alongside the ship—it seemed as though she was doing it for fun.
Bryan had never seen a seal behave in such a way, with such curiosity.
One day, he had brought some smoked kippers to the deck, and sure enough she was there, swimming alongside the ship.
He tossed out a fish, and she leapt from the water to catch it in her jaws.
Bryan laughed, delighted.
The seal swam with her head above the water, watching him intently.
He threw out another fish, and another, and she caught each one.
Her whiskers twitched adorably as she ate. Every day after, Bryan brought a treat to the deck.
She wasn’t a picky eater, chomping at bits of fried squid, cucumber, and roast pheasant.
But her favorite was corn cakes.
“Don’t know why you’d waste good food on a beast,”
grumbled the ship’s quartermaster one evening.
“You’ll never be rid of it, and it will forget how to hunt.”
“I doubt table scraps will override its instincts,”
said Bryan, but he felt a twinge of guilt. And so he stopped giving her treats for a while, but she still followed the ship.
Her round, gray eyes were imploring, and he would say.
“I’m sorry, old girl. Can’t have you growing dependent.”
The seal gave a short chuff and slipped under the water.
This evening Bryan had brought a corn cake, reasoning that if he fed her randomly, she would not forget how to feed herself. Bryan had met many strange and interesting people on this tour, but this was the first animal that he’d befriended.
He leaned his elbows on the wooden rail, willing the horizon to remain smooth and land-less. They’d spent a month at sea, stopping only once to refill their supplies. Another month before his year-long tour would come to a close, and then he would make the journey back to court.
His stomach clenched at the thought, as it always did when he thought of home. He had hoped that a year away from the palace would bring him purpose and a sense of duty; the sense of duty that had eluded him for all his life. Bryan gritted his teeth, the old guilt making him clench his jaw. If anything, his time away had shown him that he would rather be anywhere else. He was the king, but only in name.
He glanced over his shoulder at a group of sailors nearby, laughing uproariously over a game of cards. Another sailor walked briskly past with a sheaf of parchment and a quill, taking inventory of the mead and fresh water.
How he envied them, forever taking journeys and risking life and limb. Seeing new lands, with no great destiny resting on their shoulders.
Bryan closed his eyes and bowed his head. This had been the best year of his life, and he felt that it was ending all too soon. He should be savoring what remained of his freedom, but any new adventures were sure to be tainted by his melancholy.
The air was heavy and humid, and the hairs stood up on his arm. Without warning, it felt as though he’d missed a step going down, though he stood still on the deck, clutching the rail. The pressure had dropped, and Bryan shook his head, trying to dispel the vertigo. Thick, fast moving clouds churned overhead while a roll of thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Nasty one coming upon us,”
said Hibbert, coming to stand at his side. He lit his pipe, the tobacco glowing bright.
“Shall we take down the sails?”
asked Bryan.
“Better now than in the rain,”
said Hibbert, scratching his rough gray beard.
Bryan went to the mast where his men had gathered, and he took up the ropes. In little time they had the sails down, and some men began stringing up the storm sails.
Bryan was just tying down the last bit of rigging when a voice shouted from the crow’s nest.
“Vessel on the horizon!”
Bryan strained his eyes, looking towards where the sailor pointed. The storm clouds made it difficult to judge distance, but a dark speck was just visible where sea met sky.
“Friendly?”
he asked Miles, who straightened from securing the ropes. Merchant ships passed through the Southern Sea, but where there were merchant ships, there were pirates.
“Can’t tell,”
said Miles.
“Looks like it’s missing sails.”
The ship was nearer now, and it was, as Miles said, free of sails. The ship was made of metal, and clouds of smoke streamed from two great smokestacks. It was the largest moving object Bryan had ever seen, at least double the length of their schooner. Bryan had heard of steamships, but he’d never seen one in person. No pirate would use such a vessel. It would require a full crew simply to fuel it.
Why was it coming directly towards them? Did they require aid?
Rain began to spit from the sky, and the wind picked up. The mast creaked, but the storm sails seemed to be countering the weight as the ship listed slightly to the side.
The steamship was now less than a league away, and gaining on them fast. They flew no flag, but there was no mistaking its origin. Only Montag produced these ships, and Bryan knew that Lenwen did not have any in their navy.
“Could it be from Norwen?”
he asked Hibbert quietly, not wishing to spook the men.
“Couldn’t be. They don’t have any steamships,”
said Hibbert.
“Besides, it’s a ceasefire. They wouldn’t dare stage an attack.”
Bryan nodded, his heartbeat slowing. It was only the ripping wind and the white caps forming on top of the waves that made him so nervous.
“You secure the cargo, I’ll get some pickles,”
Bryan said.
“Want to get ahead of the sea-sickness this time, eh, Hibbert?”
“Go on,”
grumbled the old man, embarrassed that he was the only one of the crew that had a tender stomach.
Bryan grinned and turned towards the galley steps.
BOOM!
Bryan flew off of his feet, landing crumpled against the ship’s railing.
The deck heaved with the swells, and he was so dazed that he could not find his feet. He clung to the nearest thing he could find, a rope securing a barrel nearby. Men were shouting, and the rain pounded. It blew in his face, and he flicked water out of his eyes. Then he realized that he was sliding sideways, and anything that wasn’t secured was sliding with him.
Bryan grasped at the railing, pulling himself up to peer over the edge.
Splintered boards floated on the sea, and smoke rose from a hole the size of a doorway in the side of the ship. Water poured into the breach, pulling the ship into an awkward tilt. The men were screaming now. Some had the sense to run to the lifeboat, tugging at the ropes and trying to lift it over the side.
BOOM!
A second explosion sent the men careening over the edge, and the lifeboat shattered into a thousand burning bits. Men were in the water, smoke thickened the air, and Bryan tried to swallow his panic.
The steamship was closer now, and he could see the sides. They were not painted with the blue of Norwen, but with purple—Montag’s colors. Some sort of cannon was on the deck of the steamship, the black insides of the barrel pointed directly at them.
The ship creaked, and a horrid sucking sound rose over the cacophony of the rain and waves. Water began to spill over the railing, and with a shout, Bryan realized that the deck was almost level with the surface of the water. The waves thrashed against the sinking ship, and he watched in terror as the swell of one reared up and curled over the railing where he stood.
His hands were ripped from the wood as it dragged him into the sea. He flailed in the water, unsure which way was up or down. With furious kicks, he felt in the water for a rope, a board, anything solid.
He collided with something hard, and the little air he’d managed to gulp was punched from his chest.
Lungs searing, begging for air, he kicked and swam blindly, his clothes like weights hanging from his limbs. When he opened his eyes they burned with salt, and all he could see was a chaotic swarm of bubbles, as thick and blinding as a snowstorm.
Then he felt something smooth and large under his hands. It buoyed him to the surface, dragging him, helpless, through the water.
His head burst into the air, and he took a gasping breath. Rain peppered him in stinging drops, and he could see nothing through the deluge.
Before he could take another breath, an enormous wave slapped his face, and he was tumbling backward into the depths again. The smooth shape was under him in a moment, pushing him to the surface.
He tried to grasp it, but his hands only met with a sleek, somewhat oily hide. It was some creature that carried him, and this time when Bryan surfaced, he caught sight of a spotted gray body.
The seal pushed him upward, and he was able to rise above the waves for a few precious seconds, enough to get several lungfuls of air. He kicked and thrashed, trying to kick free his boots, which felt as heavy as boulders. Finally his feet were free, and he began to look about for some debris. A piece of the mast floated nearby, as thick as a tree, and Bryan swam towards it. He clung to it, adjusting his grip as it began to roll.
When it was stable, Bryan looked around frantically. There had to be some survivors, some other members of the crew floating nearby.
“Hibbert!”
he yelled, his voice rough and water-choked.
“Miles! Wilburton! Anyone!”
The wind snatched at his voice; he may as well have been screaming into a cushion. He shouted until his voice gave out, but there was no answer. It was as though the ship had never been.
The mast fragment rode the waves steadily, and Bryan rested his cheek against it, trying to will reality to disappear.
This could not be happening. This was only a dream.
The only sounds were the wind and the rain. No screams, no crackle of fire.
The steamship.
Bryan opened his bleary eyes, suddenly alert, but the steamship was already a speck in the distance, barely visible under the cover of the storm. It had gone as quickly as it came.
Why? Why would Montag target them?
Bryan couldn’t think. He clutched the broken mast and let it carry him. Minutes or hours could have passed. All that existed was the rain and the rise and fall of the sea.
He felt heavy.
After several moments, he realized it was because he was no longer floating. He was lying on something. No, he was being dragged.
With effort, he cracked open his eyes and saw bare feet before him, sinking into the sand with each step. Whoever it was had a hold of his wet shirt, and was hauling him out of the water, letting out soft grunts of effort. A woman’s grunts.
All at once he was still, resting heavily on dry sand.
Soft breaths puffed above him, circled him, and Bryan’s sore eyes fluttered open again. Every muscle stung, as though saltwater had replaced his blood. He let out an involuntary groan.
Bare legs ran toward the water, and he heard a splash.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw gentle waves lapping at the sandy shore.
And in the distance, just visible among the waves, he saw the seal.
Watching him.
THE END
Thank you so much for reading and supporting indie books!