Page 80 of The Cradle of Ice
“They call them orksos,” Herl said behind him, confirming their existence.
Perde acknowledged the same. “Ugly beasts.”
The dark-haired stranger, bare-chested and wearing snug breeches, scowled back. His blue eyes flashed icily. “Watch your tongue. Noorish or not, I’ll dump you back on that island. I don’t care if you might be long-lost relations. Maybe you’d rather have another go with those pickkyns again.”
Rhaif let the mysteries fall aside. Especially as he remembered a greater concern. He stared down at his leg. His thigh still throbbed and burned.
Shiya must have noticed the worried set to his lips. “Fear not. Shoalman Hess had a remedy to counter the pickkyn’s poison.”
The boatman heard her. “You don’t travel these waters without it, not with those long-necked beasts prowlin’ about. Regular skorpans of the sea.” He frowned back at Rhaif. “Your mates made a right mess of your leg digging out that spine.”
Rhaif parted a flap of his makeshift blanket, enough to reveal a leafy bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. It wafted a sulfuric scent that curled his nose, but he was not about to complain.
“Such foolishness,” Hess said. “Just gotta piss on that bastard, a good stream, and the spine will release its hooks. Then she slides out smooth as shite out an orkso’s tail.”
Rhaif flashed to that torturous extraction and glared at Glace.
Hyck shrugged. “I told ya we shoulda waited.”
Hess waved back. “All that trouble on the island, and you left a mountain of meat rotting on that sand. The flanks of pickkyns make good steaks. ’Specially with eel gravy.”
Rhaif tried to picture such a meal. It was a mistake. He clutched his belly as the world tipped sideways. Oh, no … He rolled to the boat’s rail and emptied his stomach into the sea, heaving hard, the sour smell reminding him of his last imbibement.
Herl sniffed it out, too. “All that ale wasted.”
* * *
AFTER A LONG spell, Rhaif squinted as a shoreline came into view through the fog. The village of Iskar glowed with torches, as if welcoming them to its bosom. But the slow ring of bells, mournful and solemn, echoed over the waves.
He lay in Shiya’s arms. He still occasionally shivered with chills, but the heat of her bronze kept him warm. He shifted his buttocks as the shoalman Hess blew a curled horn, announcing his homecoming through the mists.
Shiya had already related all that transpired. The attack, the deaths, even the loss of Bashaliia. He could no longer whine about his own struggles. Especially as the aftermath came clearer into view.
Boats lay broken along the beach. Rubble and debris had washed deep into the village. Huge bonfires burned winged shapes, casting up flumes of oily smoke. But worst of all, a long row of draped bodies lined an open square. People knelt beside them, rocking in place or leaning on one another.
Rhaif had to look away.
On the far side of the village, the Sparrowhawk had been hauled to shore—maybe by the same horned beasts that pulled the skiff. It lay crooked in the shallows, its bow nosed deep into the sand. The necessity was obvious. Water continued to slosh into and out of the huge rent in its hull.
But it hadn’t sunk.
Not that it made much difference. Above the ship, only a fraction of its great balloon still fluttered; the rest lay draped over rails and deck. According to Shiya, its flashburn tanks were nearly empty.
Figures scurried about the beached ship, inspecting damage, unloading the hold, stacking crates on the sand. Another craft floated above it all. It was the other sailraft, drifting and occasionally flashing fire from its forges. Its gasbag remained perk and taut.
Rhaif pointed it out to Glace. “Looks like your sister managed not to crash her raft.”
Glace scowled. “Sard off.”
He only meant to tease the woman, but from all the grim expressions, no one was in the mood for any amusement.
They all knew the truth.
We’re trapped here.
Rhaif sighed loudly. He gazed up at the mists overhead, brightening with every breath, as if marking a new day—the first of the rest of their lives down here.
He shook his head, resigned to this fate, knowing they’d failed in their mission. He pictured the Crown, a home they’d never see again.
