A TRIP UPRIVER (c)
River Sea 3057.7.22
Angren wandered forward to the bows. He was pleased to see the seals racing and skipping ahead of the boat, but apart from the seals, and occasionally a few birds, nothing could be seen on the hazy waters. Settling himself on folded canvasses he took out his sword and a stone and began the daily ritual of keeping his weapons in good order. He was put in such a good humour by the sun and the seals and the task in hand that it was hard for him to believe in any of Seama's dark warnings. Surely their enemy was miles away on the other side of Gothery. At least, Seama had yet to tell him any different. "Angren," he had said, "how would you like to help me put down a gang of villains?" And, after some negotiation about recompense, Angren decided that, probably, it would be safer to tag along with Seama than to stay in Riverport. Seama had been vague about what Anparas and Temor were doing but briefed him on the problems Mador anticipated in Gothery. Seeing as whatever the two Lords were up to was a long way from where he was headed he decided to let it pass. He was not incurious, but Seama seemed reluctant to disclose anything more than the army's destination and Angren did not presume to press him. Where on Ea’ was Greteth anyway?
It was Angren who first noticed the fog bank rolling towards them. He had finished his task and, with a cool breeze making him shiver, he stood alone in the bows. The seals had gone! Unaware though he was of sailors' lore, he realized immediately that something was wrong. He looked down at the rolling current. Nothing broke the surface of the fast flowing waters, but as his eyes lifted to look ahead an advancing wall of whiteness drew his sight. There were slow seconds before he had an inkling of what the wall might mean and before he could find the word the ship's lookout cried:
"Ware! Ware! Fog blows ahead. Fog Cap'n. Fog ahead!"
The Captain had gone to speak with Seama. Just as Angren reached the bridge he was saying: "This is a mighty strange fog, sir. I've sailed the River for twenty years and fog I've seen plenty out on the open water, but never anything like that. It's too thick. Sort of fog you generally see near land. Now, far as I remember, there's no island in this part of the sea: nearest is twenty mile north of here, unless my bearings are out completely. I'll tell you now, I hope they aren't 'cause that bit of land would be Tumboll, the prisoners' keep. No one has sailed within ten mile of the place in three hundred years. Leastway, none has been able to tell that they have."
"What's so bad about this... erm.. Timbol, or whatever you called it?"
"Really Angren," said Seama, "Didn’t your mother tell you about Tumboll when you were a boy. No? I am surprised: it's a tale used to frighten bad children into being good – I suppose it makes sense you haven't heard of it. Let's go and have a look at this fog and maybe when we've decided what's to be done I'll give you the full story: you never know, it may still do the trick."
By the time they had reached the bows, the fog was nearly on them. The Captain looked worried.
"If we were on the open sea I'd be happier, trouble is we're on the River. There're just too many great lumps of rock in this water, and besides I reckon there's land not far away, and we can't see it. Can you not make the fog go away, sir wizard?"
Seama laughed. "Do you know, I think I could. But it would cost me too much. We'll find another way of getting round this problem. If there is land ahead, your navigation has gone wrong, right?"
"Well, I'd have to say yes, but I don't see how I could have gone wrong. Though I know some don't trust ‘em, I always use a Karrel Clock, and it's never let me down yet."*
"Maybe so, nevertheless we're not where we should be. Either your compass has been tampered with or there is some Power working against us. I must know what that Power is before I make a move. Let's wait and see what happens. Meanwhile I'll help you navigate. The fog is on us, gentlemen."
They all looked up to catch the last rays of proper sunlight before they were enveloped. Suddenly everything was hushed: the waters in quiet flow and the deckhands motionless, apprehensive. All trace of a breeze vanished and the sails hung lank and useless. The fog was so thick you could not see half the length of the ship, and it was deathly cold. The Captain gave the order for men to take up oars and, grumbling, they went to it.
"I suppose," said Seama, "we'd better make a start. Come and stand next to me, Captain Farber, and you can instruct the men."
Bibron nodded an aye but, before he could comply, the boat was shaken by a sudden impact.
"Gods a’plenty, we're aground already!" Yelling out orders, and blaspheming by turn, the Captain threw himself across the rolling deck, making for the helm. But he did not reach it.
A bone jarring roar rent the air, a huge head ripped through the gloom and terror thrilled through every man and woman aboard. The pangalorum was of monstrous size. Its serpent coils encircled the ship in seconds, crushing men, horses and timbers alike; the scales rasping against the hull. Its mighty head lunged at the crewmen as they scattered in horror. The frantic horses, unable to run away, not even able to kick because of the hobbles, were an easier target.
Angren had never seen a pangalorum before. Faced with the unknown and with almost certain death he decided attack was the best policy. He grabbed a harpoon. Other brave men struggled with their swords, trying to defend the horses, but the pangalorum was too fast and caught at one of them with snapping jaws. The screams were terrible as he was dragged off his feet, but silenced when the monster tipped back its head, working its throat, and swallowed him whole like a heron taking in a fish. Now was the moment: Angren swarmed up some of the rigging to give him height, launched himself at the pangalorum’s head and stabbed ferociously at an eye. The eye burst sending a jet of blood and humour into the air and Angren fell to the deck. The creature bellowed, in shock spewed out the half mangled sailor over the backs of the shying horses, but then with intent stooped to seek out its attacker. Even half blind the pangalorum found him easily: Angren’s fall had knocked the breath out of him, and knocked him sick, and there he lay in full view, spread-eagled upon the deck, incapable of movement, waiting for the end. The grisly, ravaged head reared above him and blood from the pangalorum’s wounds rained down, spattering his face. He gasped in disgust, he rolled, he grasped at his harpoon and made one last effort to attack. The monster was unimpressed: a casual nudge from its snout flipped Angren onto his back once again and all the fight went out of him. It stooped now to tear at his belly but in that instant a dazzling, sparking white bolt, like lightning, shot from the bows of the ship and hit the pangalorum between gaping jaws.
It was a mortal blow. The monster began to writhe, smashing through mast and rigging in its agony.
Coughing and retching Angren struggled to his feet and staggered away. He could hardly believe he was still alive. Garaid caught up with him.
“Angren! Angren! You okay?”
Angren spat out a quart of bile. “Grand thanks,” he said. The deck lurched and they both fell over as the pangalorum, still clutching the Cottle in iron coils rolled back into the river, its dying cries splitting the air around them.
“It’ll have us over,” Garaid yelled at him, “We have to get it off.”
He wasn’t wrong: the Cottle started to tip and roll. Angren vomited again but Garaid grabbed him by an arm.
“No time for that,” he said, “Get your sword out.”
Without waiting for Angren to understand what he was about Garaid laid into the nearest section of the pangalorum, hacking like fury. It was no easy task: the pangalorum was at least five feet thick. Others, seeing the same danger, followed his lead and soon the deck and the air above it was full of blood and flesh. Slabs and gobbets of dark meat slithered away into the river but there seemed no end to the creature. The ship continued to quiver and roll and the stern began to dip beneath the surface. It was hopeless.
There was nothing for it. Bibron shouted the order to abandon ship and his sailors ran to free the stays on the boats. There were only two, inadequate for the sixty aboard but at least some of them might survive. Angren, still sick as a dog, doubted he would be one of them. He sat back on the steps to the quarterdeck and put his head between his knees.
And then another terrifying roar shook the air.
The mate of the first monster, even greater than he, had come to take her revenge. Through a clearing in the fog the sailors could see her vast body charging through foamy waves: she would crush the ship in one mighty blow. What could they do? In thirty seconds they would all be as good as dead. Angren looked up to see but it made him feel too dizzy and so he dipped his head once more. It was odd, he thought, and perhaps his vision was blurred, but the planks between his feet looked wrong. And then he realized they were smouldering, and then, in only a few seconds more, burning. Leaping up he saw the flames roll out and spread rapidly across the deck. Before he had chance even to contemplate jumping ship he was engulfed. There was no smell, no heat, no pain. It was all illusion, and the purpose clear. The second pangalorum veered sharply away unnerved by the flames and then began to circle the Cottle, enraged and frustrated. Unfortunately not only the pangalorum was fooled. Fear of those flames proved too much for one of Bibron’s sailors: gibbering in his confusion and pushing past hands that sought to hold him back, he threw himself over the rail and plunged deep into the dangerous waters.
Those nearest, still desperate to keep their feet and stay on deck, looked down at the man floundering. This conflict with terrifying monsters and now the devilment of the cold flames must have turned his mind: he was screaming as his head broke the surface. Angren, clinging to the ratlines as the deck yawed, suddenly found himself not five feet from joining him. The water all about was churning in a curious fashion. Suddenly Angren understood that the underwater commotion was nothing to do with the sailor kicking and struggling to stay afloat. A glittering shoal of tiny, silver fish swirled around him. The water turned red.
Voices cried out in terror: "Schiff, the schiff. Gods help us!" and efforts to free the lifeboats became frantic. The barque rolled again and as one of the boats was released it slid across the bloody deck, crushing one man against the main mast and bowling others overboard. Angren ducked in behind the galley house to save himself as the boat flipped over the side to land keel up in the water. Just then Seama emerged in a rush from the galley hatch carrying a large ball of what seemed to be white lard.
“Out of the way,” he yelled.
With agony written in his face he stumbled over to the portside and dropped his burden over the rail. The illusion of the flames onboard died as the wizard drew himself up, squeezing his hands into fists as though the palms pained him. Angren, close behind now, saw the ball sink into the waves.
“Anabo!” the wizard roared.
Angren had no idea what the word meant but down in the water an incredible, bright blue fire bloomed and swelled. Impossibly, these new flames were real. They burned fiercely, beneath the tide, consuming both men and schiff indiscriminately.
Angren saw no more of Seama in this battle. As the fish burned black the second pangalorum resumed its attack and the ship received one final, destroying blow. Angren was flung clear, still clutching a piece of handrail. The ship was wrecked. Men and horses were cast into the sea. All was lost. He fought to climb onto a shattered piece of decking but a falling spar struck him a blow to the head and he lost consciousness.
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Wilf Kelleher Jones
wkj fantasy
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