Chapter 15 Monster Slayer
Centurism's truth shines bright; a beacon in the dark. Reject the old gods' call, and ignite the divine spark of life, for Ireus and Trine know the path, and the path knows you.
“Ireus favors us.”
Salty air assaults my senses as I reach the top of the ladder that leads up through the propped latticed door.
I look to the sound of the gruff voice, just as the fog splits and a ray of light slips through gray clouds.
My puzzled expression makes the older man on deck grin before approaching.
His tanned, calloused hand scratches at his short black beard that's peppered with strands of gray.
Then he uses that hand to hoist me up out of the hole onto the dark wooden planks of the main deck.
“So, you're the monster slayer, eh?” He appraises me. “Thought you'd be taller.”
“I'm not sure where you got that idea.“ My eyes scan the ship deck, something marvelous to see in the light of day, despite the streaks of dark kepra blood splattered everywhere, mixed with a brighter red that must be mine.
The sight blossoms the strangest thought within me—I've bled into the wood.
Irrevocably connected myself to this creaking, glorious beast of a ship.
“Looking for your friend, I take it?” he asks after I manage my sealegs, leaning into one of several barrels lined against the wall that makes up the forecastle.
I nod. “I was told by a sailor below that she's up here.”
My gaze travels around the ship, and then to the horizon and the striking blue water. If it weren’t for the lasting effects of the laudenum Mattias gave me for pain, I’d be a wreck beneath such an open sky and stretch of endless sea.
No land. No escape. I remember the icy waves that swallowed the Shadow Weaver and my heart begins to slam in my chest so hard it hurts.
“Hmpf. Well, name’s Tobias. I’m the helmsman of the Nightingale.
Your friend is up by the bowstrip helping Sabre assess the damage from last night.
Captain said you'd be hunting for her the moment you woke, no regard to yourself. You should eat.” The man’s sunspotted hand has a slight tremor to it when he scoops up and offers out a bowl of sludgy porridge.
I suspect the shake is some sort of tic or affliction, and accept the offering.
The Nightingale? I think back to the ship that exploded in the Red Cove, a serpent carved as its figurehead.
The way it lacked luster compared to swirling rumors ashore that promised its magnificence.
My thoughts shift to the gambling den in the city we stopped through, the way the red sea captain Searle had accused the young pirate of cheating at cards to take his ship, the Serpent’s Breath.
If it weren't for my racing heart I might grin at the revelation.
Rhyland Crow had been strides ahead of the Black brothers.
Not only did he manage to live as a guard in their ranks, but he'd orchestrated so many ways to fuck them and the Magistrate’s efforts to capture him and his crew.
They'd brought the Serpent's Breath into the cove, only ten of them aboard her.
The others had scaled the cliffs with their rifles, ready to surround those below.
Some sort of explosives were rigged to go off.
Maybe even triggered by the royal officer who boarded the ship.
There’d never been any treasure to offer in the chests they lugged to shore, just another way to weaken Black and his men. To make them pay for the betrayal.
I want to marvel at the genius of it, but find myself frowning. It won't be a simple task to outthink a man like that. Or the crew that follows him.
I cautiously eye the gooey slop in my bowl before asking, “What did you mean ‘Ireus favors us?’”
His expression morphs into something conspiring.
“He’s sent the sunlight to keep the monsters at bay.
We get a day’s rest without worrying about an attack from above or below.
Pity though, that the mists around Elaris can only be passed through in the night.
We’ll anchor the ship right near the entrance and cross quickly in the darkness, before any more creatures of the Shadowed Sea decide to pay us a visit. ”
I shiver to think of coming face to face with another kepra.
And can’t even bring myself to imagine what facing the móri might be like.
The dead who can’t die. How brave one must be to stand alone in the night, waiting for them to board and claim their offering.
Knowing they'd sooner make you their supper.
Tobias catches the look on my face and grins, revealing a missing tooth. “Well, best get to it.” He dips his head once and then shouts something at a group of men further down the deck so loudly that I flinch.
In the light of day, everything seems larger and longer. The ship is as beautiful as the stories foretold. Her wood gleams, dark obsidian. The rails and banisters look as though they've been carved by the tragic artists of old, whose fingers brought beauty to everything they touched.
The mast is another beast, smooth wood now splintered and ruined in the spots the kepra hooked it, chasing me up.
I shiver at the memory and blink away, force myself to move a step forward.
Then another. But it's like pulling teeth; every step away from the latticed door is one closer to the banisters where sea waves lap against the sleek black hull.
Taunting in a way that nothing else could be.
I focus on the short set of stairs that line either side of the forecastle, up to where Tobias said Rowan would be.
My knees shake as I move past bustling pirates clad in weathered leather and sun-bleached cotton, their eyes fixed on me.
Their footsteps echo against the wooden planks in harmony with the creaking of the ship, but their faces are all a blur.
A tightness takes root in my chest and an ache throbs through my rolled ankle in spite of the laudenum.
Memories try to push their way through to the surface—flashes of the night the Shadow Weaver went down.
The way my móeir screamed when the brig started filling with unforgiving seawater.
How she yanked at her irons until her bones cracked and wrists bled raw trying to get to me.
“Vale!” Rowan's call is a breath of air. I gasp, realizing I'm motionless on the stairs, clinging to the rail as though I'll die if I don’t.
Rowan rushes to me, pulls me up the rest of the way.
Her long auburn hair is barely contained in a braid that spills over her shoulder, but her head’s covered by a deep green kerchief as though she must maintain some semblance of modesty, lest the triple goddess strike her dead.
Smears of dark paint stain her hands, a trail of it across her rosy cheek that's dimpled with a smile as she looks me over.
And then her arms are a vice. I bite down on a yelp of pain when she crushes me against her, a boney arm digging into my freshly stitched wound.
“I was so worried,” she murmurs into my hair.
I feel myself tense at the contact, taken aback by her lightness.
The healthy aura that radiates from her.
The last time we spoke she was terrified, gaunt, and fixated on getting back to the Sisterhood so she could spend the rest of her days silent, paying reverence to the one true god and goddess Centurism foretells.
I pull back from the crushing embrace and try for a smile. The look instantly ignites worry in her soft brown eyes.
“You look terrible, Vale. Even more bone thin than in Helgate. And exhausted. What are you doing up here?”
“Yes, what are you doing up here?” Sabre's voice is a purr as she approaches from behind Rowan.
A ring of sunlight obscures her for a moment, but then she comes into focus—all cornsilk hair and tanned skin.
Her white blouse is loose and billowing at the sleeves but over top is a thick, leather vest tucked into form fitting trousers.
Those dark brown straps squeeze around her thighs to hold a place for two pistols and a small dagger, and her boots rise up just below her knees.
“I didn't realize I wasn’t allowed.”
“Isn't it implied after the mess you made last night?” She pushes thick strands of hair back from the dark patch covering her left eye.
Rowan frowns. “What did happen last night? I've heard mixed accounts.”
“I—”
“The only account that matters is the captain’s.
And if Talon says this scrawny creature helped him fight and kill three kepra, then that's what happened. My only disappointment is that you two threw the carcasses overboard before I got my dagger into ‘em. Monster parts sell for a pretty fortune in the underground. Could’ve made a retirement off their livers alone.”
An awful, squeamish feeling roots around my stomach as I try to imagine what anyone would want with so much as a toenail from one of those beasts.
I also can't help but wonder why Rhyland Crow would lie.
I'm all for taking credit where it's due but I'd be kidding myself to believe I did much more than run scared and almost get myself ripped in two. So what is Crow playing at?
The warning look that flashes in Sabre’s eye is more telling than any words could be. Keep quiet. Speak and I'll gut you like I wanted to do that monster.
I blink away from her and gaze around at the ship, feeling my knees shake.
The forecastle is raised high off the main deck, a perfect view of the mists before us that billow out in both directions like a wall of smoke.
A flash of color catches my eye, the carved figurehead.
From this angle, I see brilliantly stretched wings that hum with vibrant hues. A nightingale, no doubt.
Tentatively, Rowan's touch finds my hand and squeezes. “You're freezing and pale. You should go back below deck.”
“I can help—”
“You helped enough last night,” Sabre interjects, although the tone of her voice doesn't reflect the sentiment. “This one’s right, you look awful. Go back down to the surgery and rest and eat that slop in your hands.”
My fingers twitch around Rowan's. “What about you?”
“She'll be fine. I'll send her down after we're finished here.”
Rowan nods and she pulls me in for one more painful hug before shooing me back toward the stairs. I resign to stare at my feet as I go this time, if only to keep from shaking and freezing up again.
This time through, I feel less eyes on me. No one offers me any help to lift the heavy door and though it makes my back scream in agony to do it alone, I'm grateful not to have to answer anymore questions about last night.
Mattias' surgery is cool and quiet, a place I've already become accustomed to.
I'm not sure if I should find that idea disturbing or a comfort.
The air is rich with the scent of eucalyptus and lavender, and a hint of some earthy spice—capsaicin maybe.
I remember the Sisters used to grind the peppers into dust and make pastes from them that relieved pain.
Rhyland is nowhere in sight. Good, I try to tell myself. The less I see of him, the better. But I can't help but think of the way he looked when I left him earlier; bone tired, pained.
He's an adequate healer, I remind myself. And a god. He's fine.
“Vale?” The sound of Mattias' soft, even cadence surprises me. He peeks from behind a dark curtain that’d been blocking light from an oil lantern and covering a desk full of scattered papers. He steps out and quickly pulls the curtain back into place. “Is everything alright?”
I think there's something wrong with the captain, I want to say but instead nod. “They told me to come back here and rest.”
“By all means.” He gestures at the padded table. I'd give my very soul for a bed, but at the rate my leg’s shaking from the effort of holding me up, anything will do. I set the food I can't stomach aside. I crawl onto it, fall back onto the stack of pillows.
Lying there with my eyes closed, I listen to the gentle, rhythmic sound of Mattias working. The clink of glass vials. Crushing of dried herbs within the pestle and mortar.
“Mattias?” I whisper.
“Hm?” He glances away from his work, spectacles flickering with lantern light.
“Why did Crow adopt the name Rhyland? Why do those closest to him insist on using his godly name, Talon?”
“Ah,” Mattias chuckles softly and wipes his hands off before turning to me.
“Talon didn't choose his new title. Rhyland, it means ‘land razer.’ A perfect translation. The people of Hlódyn thrust the name on him after he destroyed their lands and homes. It carries a great terror with it, striking fear in the hearts of his enemies. I believe he carries it as a way to separate himself from life before. But sometimes he needs reminding by his chosen few.”
“Chosen few?”
Mattias nods. “The sea-forged. Briggs, Reave, Sabre, Cyprian, Aizen and Archer. I dare say you might include me among them. The little family he’s made for himself.”
Sea-forged. Hm. I don’t I hate it, but now I know who to be most weary of.
The words settle in heavy, mixing with the drowsiness I feel. After a moment of careful silence, Mattias goes back to his work.
My head throbs. The ship rocks gently beneath me—I'm reminded of childhood, of nights spent curled in my móeir’s arms, feeling the warmth of the fire that crackled in the center of our home.
The flame my sisters were born from, its heat incomparable.
She used to rock me back and forth before it each night, whispering words in my ear long forgotten now.
I think, for a moment, just before the room around me dims, that I hear one of them.
A warning.
A promise.
A truth.