The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [34]
Then his cutlass moved, pulling his hand with it. The blade flashed in the rain and there was a shiver of impact. The paw splashed into the mud, detached from its owner.
The creature shrieked and flailed backward in clumsy retreat, the remains of its forelimb tucked against its shaggy chest. Blood spewed from the severed stump as it turned and fled.
And then Frey was alone in the forest. Soaked, covered in mud and blood. He stood there, breathing in and out, just because he could.
“Not bad,” he said to himself. “Not bad.”
Distantly, he heard his crew calling his name. “I’m here!” he called. “I’m okay!” Then his eyes fell on the monstrous paw lying next to him, and he grinned. “Better than that,” he said to himself. “I’m a bloody hero!”
FREY DUMPED THE PAW in front of his amazed audience and then sat down by the fire, feigning nonchalance. They gathered beneath the tarpaulin, out of the rain. Grist was working on a fresh cigar. Hodd was wide-eyed with awe.
“That,” said Grist, “is a big paw.”
“You …” Hodd gaped. “You … That’s tremendous!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Malvery, eyeing the paw. “It would have been tremendous if he killed the rest of it.”
“Ah, clam it, Malvery,” said Jez, beaming. “The Cap’n just slayed his first monster!”
“It’s probably not even dead!” Malvery protested, but nobody listened.
“How’s your man?” Frey asked Grist.
“He’ll live. Flesh wound. Bled a lot, but no real harm.”
“That’s good news, at least,” he said. He got to his feet. “Speaking of crew, I’d better go see to mine.”
“He’s over here,” said Jez. She led him to the far side of the shelter; Malvery and Silo came trailing after. Hidden among the packs, trussed up in a sleeping bag, was Crake. Snoring. No one had seen him in the confusion.
Frey leaned close. The stink of rum was on Crake’s breath. He pulled open the neck of the bag and saw that Crake was clutching an empty bottle.
“He slept through the whole thing,” said Jez.
Frey harrumphed and scratched the back of his neck. It should have been a relief to see Crake unhurt, but somehow it wasn’t. Not like this.
“Can you talk to him, Jez?” he said.
“I’ll talk to him,” she promised.
“Me too,” said Malvery. He thumbed at Jez. “After all, what does she know about being an alcoholic?”
“Alright,” said Frey. “I’ll leave it to you two. Fix him, or something.” He waved a hand vaguely. “You’re all better at this stuff than I am.”
“Will do, Cap’n,” said Jez. Frey saw her exchange a glance with Silo. The Murthian nodded gravely at her.
Something meaningful there? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what half his crew were thinking. Talking about feelings—real feelings—had never been something he was comfortable with.
His hand fell to the hilt of his cutlass. Even blind drunk, the daemonist had saved his life. He desperately wanted the old Crake back, but he didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe Jez and Malvery did.
They’re looking out for each other, Frey thought to himself. By damn, my crew are actually looking out for each other. Could you have ever imagined it a year ago? I must be doing something right.
Well, perhaps and perhaps not. He was just glad that no one had died. But there was still a good distance to go before they could count themselves safe again.
Some things are worth riskin’ everythin’ for, Grist had said to him. After the close shave they’d had, Frey was beginning to wonder if this expedition was really one of them.
HARKINS ON THE HUNT—A FUNERAL—THE EXPEDITION FINDS A VILLAGE—JEZ’S CORRECTION
ere, kitty. Nice kitty.”
The Ketty Jay’s cargo hold was always gloomy. The electric lighting was pitiful, and at least fifty percent of the bulbs had burned out and never been replaced. Harkins wasn’t a fan of dark places at the best of times, but tonight he was particularly on edge. Tonight, he was hunting.
In one hand was a small wooden packing crate, open at one end. In the other was a thick blanket. He stalked through the maze of boxes and junk machinery that had occupied the back of the hold