Chapter Thirty-Three Finlyr
chapter thirty-three
finlyr
We’ve been white-knuckling since setting sail, but I feel my chest expand as we make our way into more open water.
My crew are salty and sweat-crusted and I know I have to say something.
It’s a storm brewing in a confined space, which never ends well.
We’re short-handed, even with Sinigang now awake.
He’s still too weak to help, and he sits in Biba’s arms and she strokes him as if in a trance.
‘I’m just trying to keep you all safe. Look, I’ve taken a . . . sojourn . . . from sailing. I’m getting my sea legs back under me, as are all of you.’
There’s an agonising silence. We’re drifting past the Winter Isle, the Temple of Aistra just visible through the mists.
Weak sunlight pierces through the fog, and the stonework reaches out to us, tall and imposing like a creature in the shadows waiting to strike.
The towers its claws, the stained-glass windows its teeth.
Sinigang hisses, and Biba clutches him tightly to her. Even I shiver in the rapidly cooling air, the unsettling quiet.
‘This is the place, isn’t it?’ Biba asks, staring at Ris.
Her mother nods, grim-faced. ‘This is where they train them.’
Biba moves across the deck, barely noticing as Sinigang wriggles in her arms. She is entranced by some silent song.
Something else emerges from the mist. Bleached woven reed sails. Gold trim on the masts. Seamaiden figurehead on the prow. An official Seaguardian patrol.
‘What should we do?’ Isagani asks, as rocks form in the pit of my stomach.
‘Should I bite them?’ Sinigang asks, swishing his tail. ‘It’s venomous if I sink my teeth in far enough.’
‘We know,’ Ris says, giving the otter-cat a sour look.
He’s got some of his fiendish energy back. I can’t help but wonder if our proximity to the Winter Isle has something to do with that.
I recoil. ‘That won’t be necessary. We don’t know that they’ve been alerted to a stolen ship yet. As far as they know we are a legitimate quest vessel. But Biba get below, just to be safe.’
Biba nods and makes her way to the living quarters.
We all try to act natural as the Seaguardians approach slowly.
The dazzling white of those pristine uniforms makes me sick.
They motion for us to steer into the wind and throw lines across to tether our crafts together.
Gangway planks slap down as they board, a couple of lackeys setting it down and coming to land on our deck.
I watch the person I deduce must be their captain. They eye the royal sigil on Saltswept’s prow. ‘What’s all this then?’
‘We are on a quest for Her Royal Highness,’ I say, bowing with a flourish. ‘Blessed be.’
‘You’ll have some proof of that then, won’t you?’ the captain smirks, picking at their nail beds with a knife.
We all look at one another. Ris has a pallid sheen on her face that tells me this isn’t her first run-in with them.
She composes herself and steps forward. ‘Certainly,’ Ris says, lowering her voice: a deep, honeyed resonance, commanding and broaching no argument.
Ris proffers a hand casually at me, without looking my way.
I scrabble in my shirt for the map and hand it to her; she unfolds the yellowed paper with attentive care.
The moment stretches out between both crews, and I dare not breathe.
Ris hands it carefully to one of the lackeys who unfolds it and holds it up to the sunlight.
It takes a moment for the mist and clouds to clear enough for the light to penetrate the paper.
Then we can all see it glowing like a fire ember: the royal seal.
A sun with whirling beams, shining blindingly in the corner of the map.
I avert my eyes and notice the outline of the seal hitting the deck.
I try to swallow the gasp slipping from between my lips.
A faint rattle emanates from the lodgings below, and I hold my breath. Be quiet, Biba.
The captain nods begrudgingly. ‘Another skeleton crew,’ they signal to their crew. ‘Disembark.’
The flunkeys begin their retreat, tossing the map back at Ris. ‘Fair seas,’ one of them says, his tone spitting a curse.
Once they are safely out of earshot, we all turn to Ris.
‘How did you know it would do that?’ Isagani asks, handling the map like it might explode.
‘Morna showed me,’ Ris says, tentatively.
‘Why did they call us a skeleton crew?’ Isagani asks.
‘It’s because they don’t expect us to come back,’ Ris responds sourly, a grim line set across her face.
The words are barely out of her mouth before the ship judders and groans, a beast awakening from a slumber. A hammering comes from the doors to the living quarters. It’s slow and rhythmic, almost drumming.
‘What in Paranish is that?’ I ask.
We look around, confirming the Seaguardian ship is still leaving us, its silhouette in the distance.
Sinigang’s fur stands on end, hackles rising. ‘I don’t like this,’ he says, growling.
‘Well, we don’t allow stowaways,’ I say, cautiously taking the steps down to the doorway. My hand is on my scabbard, and I unsheathe my weapon as I open the door.
At first there’s only the dark hallway beyond, and then the putrid smell of death.
‘Stop!’ Biba yells, emerging from the dark. She runs out onto the deck and tries to shut the door behind her, but I’m blocking it.
‘What? What is it?’ I try to ask her, but she’s frantic.
I see the silhouette of a huge man in the shadows and drive my blade into soft flesh. I meet resistance, and then I’m being pushed back, and as we reach the light, I find what’s on the end of my weapon.
They walk out in all their viscera, bloated from their time underwater, bones visible, clothing mottled.
I pull my blade from the body I speared, but the thing keeps on walking.
This one is tall, with a tattered hat on their head.
Another with decaying puckered skin makes their way over to the capstan and gets to work.
More swab the deck, gripping the mops with gnarled and swollen fingers.
They keep coming until they outnumber us and then some, getting to work as if we aren’t there.
Biba screams, backing herself up against the taffrail. Ris and Isagani have their fists up, ready to throw hands. Sinigang hisses, shaking himself like his fur is wet.
‘What are those things?’ Ris asks, veering out of the path of one of them who shuffles by humming.
‘They look dead,’ I say, staring at them with morbid fascination.
‘Why aren’t you stabbing them, Fin?’ Ris asks, panicked.
‘It didn’t seem to do much!’ I counter, laughing nervously.
‘Are they . . . helping us?’ Isagani asks, eyes following a corpse ascending the rigging.
‘Looks like it,’ Sinigang says, bristling.
Isagani follows behind a corpse, and with a deft movement they filch a box from the undead, sliding it right off their belt loop.
They quickly work at the puzzle of the box, sliding the pieces into place so the picture on the outside is complete.
It clicks open, and out pours seawater and grime.
All that’s left is a freshwater pearl and a rusted sextant.
‘A sailor?’ I ask, examining the treasures over Isagani’s shoulder. ‘They move like they’re acting on instinct.’
A great cacophony under the hull, like an explosion beneath the water.
It ripples outwards and back towards the Paranishian mainland.
Saltswept bucks and roils, and we find something to hold, although the skeleton crew are unfazed.
Akin to Sinigang whipping us up a breeze, a strange wind catches in our sails, and the undead continue their labour with organisation and fervour.
‘This didn’t happen to you the last time, did it?’ Ris asks.
I shake my head. ‘This is new. I would’ve remembered a crew of undead sailors rising up.’
‘What nonsense,’ Ris admonishes me. ‘Everyone who passes is ushered into the Tree of Life.’
‘Tell that to them,’ Isagani says warily.
‘A temporary waking from their eternal slumber,’ Sinigang says, slinking around Biba’s feet. ‘It reeks of unholy magic.’
Biba slowly unpeels herself from the taffrail and approaches the sailor who swabs the deck. She touches their skeletal hand and jumps back, as though burned. ‘Restless souls,’ she says, her voice strong and words like an incantation. ‘Sailors who died for the crown.’
‘Plenty more of them since I last did this voyage,’ I say, checking Biba’s hand for a wound. She looks fine, if shaken.
‘Do you think the royal seal summoned them?’ Ris asks, looking pale.
I nod grimly. ‘Looks like it. I’m not ungrateful for the help; we need all hands on deck.’
‘It’s an abomination,’ Ris snaps and then claps a hand over her mouth.
‘Life and Death must be respected,’ Biba echoes, staring at her mother.
The tension is as thick as the fog we just left behind, and I try to suss out what is unspoken between them.
‘There is nothing good about this. It’s disgusting,’ Ris insists, heading towards the balustrade.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask. ‘Aren’t you going to help me navigate?’
‘Why don’t you ask one of your new crewmates?’ she snaps, slamming the door to the rooms below.