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Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 2 - Requiem for the Bastards: Dregs of the Culver Waste, #2
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereValutazioni:
Valutazione: 4 stelle su 54/5 (1 recensione)
Lunghezza: 465 pagine4 ore
- Editore:
- Chris R. Sendrowski
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 29, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781393011217
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
A horrifying world of magic and chaos. A race across a deadly sea of acid. Join Michael Carter and his ragtag group of scrappers as they attempt to save the world of Retrac Daor from an alien invader lurking beyond the stars.
After fleeing the Culver Waste aboard the notorious whaling vessel, Baleard's Bastard, Michael Carter and his companions continue their search for Menutee's priceless cache of meridium.
But first they must cross the vast and deadly Acid, a sea devastated by elemental magic and war. And they are not the only ones joining in the chase. Pirates, princes and magic men all seek the mineral now. And they will do whatever it takes to obtain it.
For the prize they seek could either unite the scattered realms of Retrac Daor, or call out to beings long since lost to the black void of space and time.
Requiem for the Bastards is a fast paced thrill ride filled with detailed world building and a cast of ragtag scoundrels, heroes and magic men. If you love new fantasy worlds populated with deep, relatable characters, you'll love this action packed conclusion to the Dregs of the Culver Waste duology. Grab your copy today and hold onto your seat... it's going to be one hell of a ride!
Informazioni sul libro
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 2 - Requiem for the Bastards: Dregs of the Culver Waste, #2
Valutazioni:
Valutazione: 4 stelle su 54/5 (1 recensione)
Lunghezza: 465 pagine4 ore
Descrizione
A horrifying world of magic and chaos. A race across a deadly sea of acid. Join Michael Carter and his ragtag group of scrappers as they attempt to save the world of Retrac Daor from an alien invader lurking beyond the stars.
After fleeing the Culver Waste aboard the notorious whaling vessel, Baleard's Bastard, Michael Carter and his companions continue their search for Menutee's priceless cache of meridium.
But first they must cross the vast and deadly Acid, a sea devastated by elemental magic and war. And they are not the only ones joining in the chase. Pirates, princes and magic men all seek the mineral now. And they will do whatever it takes to obtain it.
For the prize they seek could either unite the scattered realms of Retrac Daor, or call out to beings long since lost to the black void of space and time.
Requiem for the Bastards is a fast paced thrill ride filled with detailed world building and a cast of ragtag scoundrels, heroes and magic men. If you love new fantasy worlds populated with deep, relatable characters, you'll love this action packed conclusion to the Dregs of the Culver Waste duology. Grab your copy today and hold onto your seat... it's going to be one hell of a ride!
- Editore:
- Chris R. Sendrowski
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 29, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781393011217
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Chris Sendrowski is a writer of dark fantasy and works as a cinematographer and editor in his hometown of Oakland, New Jersey. When he's not juggling time between his two professions, he's either out photographing and exploring abandoned psychiatric hospitals and prisons, or playing video games with his two little boys.
Make sure to visit www.chrissendrowski.com to learn more about his upcoming work and free offers.
And if you're interested in seeing some of his photo or video work, check out the links below: https://m.flickr.com/#/photos/sendro/sets/72157624076232916/.
https://vimeo.com/home/myvideos
Correlati a Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 2 - Requiem for the Bastards
Anteprima del libro
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 2 - Requiem for the Bastards - Chris R. Sendrowski
1
Hold positions!
a voice shouted above the storm.
Lasasha dropped her blubber pad and hooked her claws into the Bastard’s deck.
Hold!
The great whaling vessel raced up the hundred footfall wave, its steel-shielded bow cutting through the foaming crest before plunging back into the wave’s roiling trough.
Three men tumbled across the deck. One became impaled on a rack of harpoons. The other two vanished over the Bastard’s side.
Lasasha swallowed as the waves devoured the pair. Even if they properly sealed their suits, the sharkskin would only last a few minutes in the open sea.
Lightning streaked across the sky, neon fingers tickling the belly of a bloated elemental cloud, as the Bastard smashed through another wave. Men shouted orders and ran across the deck. A wild, yet disciplined dance as the storm raged around them.
Back to work!
a voice shouted. This is but a trickle compared to what’s to come.
Lasasha picked up her blubber pad and continued scrubbing. Even in a storm, the deck had to be constantly treated with laptane grease to prevent corrosion. It was one of the worst jobs on the Bastard, second only to lookout duty in the whaler’s three, teetering crow’s-nests.
Lasasha looked up at the main nest, where Michael and Waypman’s silhouettes loomed against the sky. May the gods watch over you two, she prayed.
Behind her, the largest of the Bastard’s three masts creaked and groaned as its sails swelled with storm wind. The ancient timber had cracked near the base two calls earlier, crippling the vessel in fifty footfall high waters. And now just a few wood braces and tar coated rope stand between us and death, she thought as she stared at the haphazard repair.
Keep scrubbing, Mutie,
the decklord shouted from atop the forecastle. A vein of lightning flashed behind him, casting him in silhouette. Unlike you she can’t lick herself clean.
Several crewmen chuckled.
Lasasha ignored them. Two weeks at sea had hardened her to their lazy jibes. And I’ve endured far worse, she thought. Her home, gone. Her friends and family, dead, slaughtered at the hands of the Circle’s mercenary army. And now she was crossing a sea of acid with no means of transporting the atuan back to the Culver.
Far, far worse.
There was another problem, too. She was a passenger aboard Baleard’s Bastard, the most notorious whaler in the eastern sea. Every pirate and rogue Rider from Alg to Razor Reef wished to get a hold of its oil-filled holds. And here we are, chasing after the atuan aboard the very same vessel.
Kraken Ro’s vessel.
The name sent a chill down her spine. Rumor had it the blind captain had killed enough whales during his time upon the sea to fuel the hearths and lanterns of a dozen kingdoms. But for all his notoriety and legend, Lasasha had only seen him once since departing Ix. And that had just been a glimpse as he ducked back into his cabin.
The Bastard’s crew was an entirely different problem. They were a miasma of thieves and rogues, many indentured to the Kraken for one crime or another. Rapists, cannibals, cutpurses, murderers; the list of sins went on and on. But for all their bluster, they cowered beneath the captain’s legend, whispering his name as if he were an omnipresent ghost lurking in the Bastard’s every plank and nail. Always watching. Always listening. Always preparing.
But for what, Lasasha didn’t know.
I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, Mutie?
Lasasha turned. A gap toothed man loomed inches beside her. Starks, she thought. A pederast Kraken had purchased in Ix for two barrels of laxore oil.
Yeah,
the man crooned. A brothel bunny… out of Cumlety.
He dropped his blubber pad and leaned close to her ear. Perhaps one of these days we could reacquaint ourselves, eh?
Lasasha’s stomach turned. His breath stank of decay and used adreena weed and his bloodshot eyes lingered on her like those of a hungry laptane shark.
She continued scrubbing. Keep working, she thought. He just wants a reason to fight.
The deck bell tolled three times, signaling a shift change.
Lasasha sighed as a line of haggard souls marched across the deck.
Find your cots, ladies,
the decklord barked. A storm is brewing, and we’ll be needing all your sweat come morning.
Starks grabbed Lasasha’s arm. I’ll be seeing ya soon, Kitty, eh?
Lasasha pushed his hand away and filed in behind the others.
You best stay clear of that one,
a man whispered behind her. His name is known in dark circles.
She glanced over her shoulder. The crewman’s name was Mirkel, an aging Ixian thief who had cheated the decklord at a game of cards last time they were in port. Now he was a prisoner aboard the Bastard, damned to scrub the deck boards until either a rogue wave swept him overboard or an elemental cooked him into ash.
Lasasha hesitantly nodded. What about that one?
She pointed at the decklord.
For fuck’s sake, put your finger down,
he whispered. He’s tossed men overboard for less.
Lasasha tightened her laptane hood. The captain puts a lot of trust in him.
"The decklord was one of his father’s shipmates aboard the Baleard, Mirkel said.
Saved Kraken when Mircala took down the ship. Rumor has it he was wearing that same suit when it happened."
Lasasha stole another glance at the man. His laptane suit was faded and gray, its once orange sheen all but stripped clean by acid exposure.
The bell rang three more times, signaling the start of the new shift.
Exhausted, Lasasha glanced up at Dead Man’s Perch. She could just make out Waypman peering through a monocular at the horizon. But there was no sign of Michael. Her heart sank. Both men had been trapped up there since the Bastard left port, a cruel joke the crew readily delighted in.
Count yourself lucky it ain’t you up there,
Mirkel said, noticing her gaze. The last two greenhorns the Kraken sent there were never seen again.
Below deck the air was humid and dim. Dozens of sweat stained hammocks swayed in the shadows like ghostly cocoons, their occupants snoring and farting like musicians in some macabre orchestra.
How can they live this way? Lasasha thought as she searched for an empty hammock. Three men had already died of exhaustion since leaving port. And five more including the pirate, Kitle, lay on their deathbeds, tucked far enough out of sight so as to not disturb the rest of the superstitious crew. Lasasha visited the pirate when he first fell ill with barnite plague. The belligerent man she had met while fleeing her homeland was all but gone now, replaced by an emaciated, jaundiced wraith with eyes sunken deep into his skull. Piss off, Mutie,
he had coughed at her through cracked and bloody lips. Before you end up lying beside me.
That was the last she had seen of him. Rumor had it he and the other afflicted crewmen were now quarantined in the bilge, only calls from death.
It’s the damn oars, she thought as she wove between the hammocks. For the last three days, half the crew had been forced to work them. A grueling task normally reserved for slaves and prisoners. And a breeding ground for death and disease, she thought.
Ya best take a good long look,
a voice whispered behind her.
Lasasha turned.
Starks stood a few footfalls away, his bloodshot eyes leering at her.
If ya don’t please old Starky tonight, maybe you’ll find yourself rowing beside those poor bastards come first call.
Lasasha instinctively reached for her blade, only to remember it was locked away in the ship’s armory.
Starks grinned. Missing something, Kitty?
His bloodshot eyes rolled up and down her body. Come, come. One twirl. Just one… quick… twirl and I’ll leave you be.
He lunged forward and tackled her to the floor.
Get off of me,
Lasasha hissed.
The man straddled her, pinning her arms to the deck with his knees. It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman.
Drool dripped from the corner of his acid-scarred mouth, touching down on her chest. A mutie will do just fine, though.
Lasasha tried to twist free, but Stark’s weight held her down. Desperate, she arched her back and drove a knee up into his spine.
Starks doubled over, groaning. Before he could recover, Lasasha grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the floor.
I’ll kill you, Mutie!
he gasped. Before we hit sand, I’ll see your blood!
Lasasha squeezed his neck, her nails pricking his flesh. Come near me again and I’ll tear out your throat! Understand?
Starks clawed at her hands, his eyes bulging as he ran out of air.
Understand?
He nodded frantically.
Lasasha slammed his head down again as she climbed off him. Without a word, Starks scrambled back into the shadows.
It will be a long voyage for you,
a voice said behind her.
Lasasha turned.
A man lay in the folds of a hammock, his face bathed in shadow. He struck a match, revealing twin chains tattooed across his bald, acid-scarred scalp.
A Rider’s mark, Lasasha thought as the man touched the flame to an adreena stick. Outcasts and rogues who roamed the sea atop the backs of laptane sharks. They were said to live far to the north beyond Razor Reef, deep in the Silent Waters above Northern Alg. But no man outside of the clans knew exactly where, or how many existed.
The man extinguished the match and exhaled a cloud of green smoke. I’ve been watching you, you know. You and me… we’re not all that different. Two outcasts… adrift on the tides. Separated from our people. Our calling.
He pulled a dagger from the folds of his hammock and extended it to her. You would do well to keep this close.
Lasasha looked at the blade. What’s this for?
Protection. You’ll need it before the journey’s through.
But why give it to me?
she asked.
You could say I have a place in my heart for your people.
Lasasha huffed. And how do you know my people?
My first tratoten, or what you would call a wife, was from the Waste. We met in Ix and rode the Acid for nigh on twenty turns before the currents called her back to the Black Halls.
Lasasha glanced at the weapon. It was little more than a laptane fang embedded in a leather-bound wood handle. But it was light. And razor-sharp.
She gestured to his tattoo. Your clan’s crest?
The Rider grinned. Black Gill. The strongest to ride the tides.
Lasasha took a seat in the hammock opposite him. So why take up with this Kraken? You’re a free man.
I was,
the Rider replied. "Lost my beast to shark poachers near Ix and was plucked from the sea by the Bastard."
So why stay?
The man laughed. If I had a choice in the matter I wouldn’t. But unfortunately, my men and I were trying to sink the very whaler we now dwell upon.
Lasasha tensed. In the name of the gods, why?
"The Bastard hunts laptane pods just as often as laxore, he replied.
And that is something my clan cannot abide. He extended the blade to her again.
We are both prisoners now, friend. Whether you know it or not. But things change. Like the tides, they always change. And when the time comes it will help to have friends."
Lasasha cautiously accepted the weapon. The razor-sharp fang was six inches long and black as coal, with naturally serrated edges running down either side of it.
Your name?
she asked.
The Rider sat up and bowed. Tradum Bloodfin.
She nodded. I am Lasasha.
He smiled. You and your brood chase after something quite special, yes?
Lasasha tensed. Already the vultures circle.
Come, come,
he went on. We’ve all heard whispers. Meridium, yes? More than any charger has seen since the war.
Lasasha felt her chest tighten. How quickly secrets ride the Culver winds.
My people may be nothing more than faded legend,
Tradum said, but bands are reforming, clans reuniting. And they gather for one purpose and one purpose only.
And that is?
Lasasha asked.
The man’s smile widened as he swept his hand before the sea. To reclaim that which is ours.
Footfalls thudded down the stairwell. Next shift, third turn!
a voice cried.
The Rider stood and sealed his laptane suit. The winds are changing. You have but to choose a side. When you do, come find me.
And with that said, he climbed the stairs and filed in behind the new shift.
Lasasha lay back in the hammock, the blade tucked at her side. With the Rider’s words still fresh in her head, she closed her eyes. What did he mean by reclaim
the sea? And why offer her help? Was he just another Starks waiting for her to lower her guard? Or was there truth to his words? Were the clans actually preparing some kind of uprising against the Circle?
She tossed and turned as thunder rumbled above deck. She had so many questions now. Too many. And there would be no sleep until she found some answers.
The next day was the same as the previous. At dawn Lasasha’s shift scrubbed and treated the deck, breaking at noon to wipe down tattered sails with laptane grease and make repairs wherever necessary. When that was complete, they hauled waste buckets fore and aft, dumping their stinking contents into the sea.
But through it all, she saw no sign of the Rider. And when she asked some of the crew about him, the men either laughed or spat at her feet in disgust.
A shark rider my arse,
an elderly oarsman named Ud bellowed. He’s nothing but a thief the Kraken plucked from the water after a failed raid.
He’s got the right of it,
a man named Qwan added as he spooned moldy porridge into his toothless maw. The lout and his brethren tried to take us off guard. But that witch-woman cast one of her elementals and boiled everyone of them except for him.
The sun slowly arched across the cloudy, colorless sky, casting Dead Man’s Perch in silhouette. May the gods watch over you, Lasasha prayed as she brushed grease across a patched section of tanned laptane sail.
I hear we’re going after that damn laxore, Mircala,
a man mumbled beside her.
Lasasha dropped her brush. They’ve spotted it?
Not yet. But I heard Artan blabbing about it with the decklord.
That’s just great,
another man spat. That beast is ten times the size of a normal laxore. With that much weight at our bow, we’ll be dragged under, bladders or not.
That ain’t the worst of it,
one of the slaves cut in. I hear we’re skirting the Shelf.
Lasasha’s fur prickled. The Shelf was the edge of the known sea, the last charted zone before they sailed off the map.
In the name of the gods, why?
one of the men asked. There’s nothing there but fire coral and acid plumes.
He’s obsessed,
the man beside Lasasha replied. You all heard him screaming the beast’s name above the storm last night.
A chill danced down Lasasha’s spine. She had heard. Even the witch-woman, Tria, had confined herself atop the aft nest as her lover lamented at the bow.
A cold breeze gusted across the deck, bringing with it snowflakes that drifted down like spectral flies atop the sail.
An elemental, Lasasha thought as thunder grumbled in the west. And it was close. The crimson colored cloud slithered across the western horizon, bands of yellow and tan curling through it like rivers of vomit.
Frost trap, she thought. Another remnant from the Meridium War. Manufactured by Menutee’s chargers to protect the Culver shores from Circle armies during the rebellion. But after turns of abandonment, they now roamed the Acid like feral animals.
Heads down,
one of the deckhands whispered.
Kraken appeared atop the forecastle deck, the witch-woman, Tria, nestled at his side.
Lasasha stared at him. His face was concealed beneath a long, brown beard, but his dull, gray eyes were clearly visible, drinking in their surroundings even though he was completely blind.
Tria noticed her and smiled. But there was no warmth in it. It felt more like pity.
Black ways lurk behind that woman’s eyes, Lasasha thought as thunder shook the Bastard’s planks.
Lets go! Let’s go!
the decklord barked. Shift end isn’t for ten calls.
Lasasha turned back to her work. That woman will see us to the abyss before this is through, she thought as she leaned over the sail and smeared fresh laptane grease across it. The hidden dagger rubbed against her waist as she worked. It felt good, comforting. If it comes to it, I can deal with the woman. But there was still Kraken and the decklord to consider.
And Starks.
Maybe I best deal with that one before I kick the hornet’s nest, she thought. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But the man had tombstones in his eyes whenever he looked at her.
Patch and scrub, scrub and patch,
the decklord shouted. It may be the last thing you do before the Black Halls call you home.
Lasasha continued greasing the sail. But not before glancing one last time at Tria and her beloved Kraken. Death hung over the two like a black cloud. A curse that would eventually swallow the entire crew unless something was done.
But not now, Lasasha thought. For the time being she would just have to lay low and work like the rest of the crew. But if and when the time came to act, she would be right there to throw them both from the bow.
Kraken leaned against the forecastle railing, his blind eyes scanning the angry sea. Tria nestled into his side beneath a laptane blanket, her silver and black hair tickling the breeze.
It grows worse,
she whispered. Her voice sounded horse and cracked.
Drained, Kraken thought.
He took in a deep breath. She was right. He could smell storms brewing on the easterly winds.
How many?
At least two ice storms starboard and aft,
Tria replied. And a fire cloud forming to port.
Kraken turned his face skyward. He could feel the fire elemental’s distant flames pulsing against his sensitive flesh. We run dark, yes?
Tria smiled. "The Bastard is as black as your eyes, my fish lord."
Kraken nodded. He had ordered all lamps and torches snuffed at dusk. There were other whalers skirting the Shelf, Algian and Garfax hunters who would think nothing of stealing another vessel’s prey.
A fog approaches, too,
Tria said. But it will aid us in the coming calls.
Kraken nodded. Tonight we end this.
Indeed.
Tria curled into his arms. The sea shall ripple red with our vengeance.
Kraken ran a hand across her face. What had once been smooth and dimpled flesh was now covered in waxen scar tissue and wrinkles.
My love, he thought. You breathe beside me, yet I lost you so long ago.
Have the decklord beat to quarters at first sight of the beast.
Very well, my lord,
she replied.
Kraken touched the nail hanging from his necklace. It was all that remained from his father’s ship, the Baleard. Tonight we shall meet again, Mircala,
he whispered. And then I will avenge you, Father.
He took a deep breath. The Acid vapors burned his throat and sinuses. But he no longer cared.
Soon we will be done with this, Father, he thought.
And then you will know peace.
Lasasha awoke to the clang of the deck bell.
Second shift to posts!
Men grumbled and coughed as they rolled out of their hammocks.
Lasasha sighed. Her shift didn’t begin for two more calls, but she was wide awake now.
She stared at a flickering lamp as footfalls drummed above deck. She could see her dead friends in the flame: the baker she bought her bread from; the boy who brought goats’ milk to her every week; her neighbor, Jonas, an old, crotchety blowhard who had complained constantly about her two pet wolves.
Did any of you survive? she wondered. She could still smell the pepper smoke as it flooded the tunnels, choking off their escape routes and herding her people toward certain death. Every friend she had ever known and loved, dead or scattered to the Waste. Her heart ached at the thought.
Yet I am responsible, she told herself. She had vouched for Michael, ignorant to the secret he held. And now I must make amends.
She climbed out of her hammock and headed above deck.
It was surprisingly cold out; a deep frost coated every inch of the Bastard’s hull and her breath blasted forth in thick, misty clouds. She welcomed it. Compared to the cramped and stinking crew quarters it was bliss.
She found a quiet place near the aft deck and gazed at the sea. A school of laptane sharks frolicked in the Bastard’s wake, their razor-sharp fins cutting the sea’s surface like a thousand glistening knives.
They sense the storm,
a familiar voice said.
Lasasha turned.
Tradum stood a few footfalls beside her. He was maskless and his suit hung down around his waist revealing his scarred chest.
The elemental power drives them into a frenzy. They will be glad to meet us beneath the tides.
Lasasha frowned. You mark us for ill with such talk.
Perhaps. But I think Kraken and his witch have already taken care of that.
He took in a deep, vaporous breath. The sharks aren’t much different from us you know. They simply seek a reckoning upon the tides.
Lasasha stared at the pod. Several of the beasts swam alongside the hull, their fins scraping against its laptane flesh coating.
They will have their vengeance soon enough. And when it happens most of these men will die.
You don’t have much faith in our captain, do you?
Lasasha said.
The Rider chuckled. The whale we seek… it is the largest ever recorded. What do you think will happen when our captain’s wrath binds this ancient wreck to her blubber?
We will have to kill it,
she replied.
Tradum laughed again. We will all be dragged to the Black Halls before we peel her flesh.
So what do you plan to do?
Tradum zipped up his suit and pulled on his mask. I will leave. When the time is right.
And how do you plan on doing that?
But when she turned the Rider was already gone.
For two days cold winds blew in from the north. An unnatural chill that penetrated the flesh of every man aboard Baleard’s Bastard.
Michael shivered as the icy breeze blasted across his face. The nest’s four footfall high wall provided little protection from the elements, and its tiny, tin-plated roof was more of a jest than a comfort.
He hunkered down as low as he comfortably could and rubbed his hands above the single oil lamp they had been provided. Where do you think we are?
Waypman sat beside him, his teeth chattering. Hells,
he replied. He crawled onto his knees and pressed an eye to the ancient monocular mounted to the nest wall.
Anything?
Michael asked.
Waypman twisted the device’s focal ring. Acid… and more acid.
The two had been confined to the nest for almost fourteen days, swaying against the sky while the crew toiled below. Their meals, if one dared call them that, were nothing more than maggoty laptane blubber and rock hard biscuits hoisted to them in the same filthy buckets they would later use as privies until the next meal arrived.
Have you ever been to Tritan?
Michael asked.
Waypman shook his head.
A powerful gale snapped the mainsail to attention.
Michael tensed as the ship lurched forward. That was a strong one.
It’s no normal wind,
Waypman said.
Black storm clouds blotted out the northern horizon.
The deck bell tolled three times, followed by a succession of frantic tapping.
Waypman leaned over the railing. They’re calling all hands to quarters.
The crew flooded onto the deck as lightning forked across the sky.
Waypman pressed the looking glass back to his eye. Several hundred footfalls to the north, a tiny patch of mist loomed against the darkening horizon.
The Garfaxman blinked as lightning burned a golden vein across his vision. When it cleared, his heart jumped. Laxore to port!
Michael squinted. Where? I don’t see anything!
Waypman twisted the eyepiece. It’s her, all right. And she’s moving fast!
Michael grabbed a hammer and rang the lookout bell.
By the gods,
Waypman shouted. It’s bigger than the ship!
Sixty footfalls beneath Dead Man’s Perch, three crewmen removed a laptane tarp from the Bastard’s massive ballista and dropped a steel harpoon into its wooden birth.
Prepare tension for one hundred tons,
decklord Dro ordered. She’ll go deep here.
The men opened a large barrel of coiled, laptane-greased rope and fastened the end of it to the harpoon.
Dro felt his chest tighten as they slowly turned the ballista’s winches. All the variables were wrong for this hunt: two ice elementals had blown in from the south, accompanied by a fire elemental creeping toward them from the east. Even the Bastard, a seasoned and scarred ship, felt uneasy. Her planks groaned and creaked from the strain of the storm, and the three masts trembled like aging pines in a storm.
We should have outfitted her better before leaving, Dro thought. The ship’s bladders, hull, and sails needed re-fleshing, and the mainmast had suffered a slight fracture near its base. They were running low on fresh water and only a few veterans remained aboard, most of whom were now below decks rowing.
Lightning arched across the bow, a jagged pitch fork that revealed the Kraken standing beside the ballista.
Bring her six degrees to port,
the captain muttered.
Dro bowed. She’s a league off. And it’s confirmed… it’s Mircala.
Double the oarsmen then. And raise all sails.
The decklord hesitated. Sir, a fire elemental lurks only two leagues to port.
Kraken rounded on him, his milky white eyes wide. Then triple the oarsmen
The closest crewman cast the decklord a wary glance. They’re beginning to doubt him, Dro thought. This will be bad even if we live to see the sun.
The Kraken smiled as the steersman rolled the ship’s massive wheel counter-clockwise, pointing the Bastard directly into the storm.
We run her down,
Kraken proclaimed. To the Black Halls if need be.
The decklord hesitantly nodded. But even he was beginning to doubt the captain. Something will have to be done, he thought as the whale vanished beneath the sea.
But he’s your captain, he reminded himself. You owe your life to him.
Dro still remembered the day Baleard went down as if it happened yesterday. The ship’s hull had snapped in half mid deck, dragged down by the weight of both Mircala and the sea. Like so many others, he had fallen overboard in the chaos, sucked down as the ship sunk beneath the waves. But before the Black Halls could claim him, a hand took hold of his suit—a hand that dragged him aboard a skiff moments before Mircala tried to snatch him into her enormous maw.
The decklord sighed. He still remembered Kraken’s trembling hands peeling off his mask as the rest of the crew vanished beneath the tides. The captain had saved his life that day, even as acid burned away his vision and his birthright. If nothing else, Dro’s loyalty to the man was absolute. But it was just as strong for the men of the Bastard. The same men he was now tasked with keeping alive.
His hand unconsciously drifted to the dagger he wore strapped to his thigh. Its bone pommel felt warm beneath his palm, reassuring. I just pray I don’t need you, he thought as the captain stared across the sea with his blind, dead eyes.
If he did, the needs of the many would outweigh the needs of the few.
Wind howled in every direction, slamming against the Bastard’s hull as ice dented and chipped her ancient planks.
Kraken stood indifferent behind the ship’s twisted octopus figurehead. A fire elemental loomed on the port side. Its heat throbbed against his face.
We keep to the hail clouds until the fire passes, he thought. Better a few concussions than a blaze at sea.
Kraken tightened his laptane suit’s collar. The ancient flesh was patched and faded, a relic handed down from father to son. He smiled as he slid his fingers down its smooth, velvety surface. Unlike the crews’ stiff, utilitarian suits, his was wrought from newborn shark flesh, a priceless material few captains could boast of. A worthy suit to die in, he thought.
The bitch has taken to the deep,
Tria said, hugging Kraken from behind. We’ll be calls behind her now.
Kraken touched the squid’s giant, wooden head. Through it he felt the Bastard’s every movement resonating beneath his palm. She’s pressed to the limit, he thought. But I cannot pass on this hunt.
It had been months since Mircala was last spotted. And that had been in the frigid currents of the Quelvaxian Sea a thousand leagues north of Alg. If she escaped this time it might be turns before he found her again.
His heart pounding, he withdrew a small pouch from his breast pocket and thumbed its leathery folds.
Tria watched it excitedly, her meridium-starved eyes growing wide. Shall I begin?
Kraken sighed. His father had used countless wind conjurers aboard the Baleard. But all of them had been withered old crones and addicts whose only desire was the rock’s electric rush.
And he never fell in love with one of them, Kraken thought. That was his mistake. And my greatest weakness.
But there was nothing to be done for it. If they didn’t quicken their pace, the hunt would fail. And that cannot happen.
Kraken reluctantly extended the pouch to her. Call upon your black winds.
She snatched it into her trembling hands.
Just make sure to bring us in fast,
he said.
Faster than an arrow,
Tria replied. Faster than the gangulen bats of Alg or the spider riders of Lendinlune.
Kraken sighed, his hands still caressing the figurehead. I’ve cursed myself.
But it had to be done. His vengeance was his addiction. His magic rock that was slowly souring his
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Recensioni
grandpahobo
First, this is just as dark and violent as the first book in the series. However, I felt like this one moved along at a much brisker pace. It does get a bit super-heroish at times, but it is a great ride.