The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [27]
"What's going on?" Artus asked as the first mate pushed past, heading for the stairs to the quarter deck.
As if in reply, the Narwhal listed heavily to one side. A lantern smashed, spilling its flaming oil across the deck. Before the fire could spread, two sailors doused it with buckets of sand. The plaintive groan that filled the air could be heard even over the shouted orders, the clatter of metal plates, and the clacking of the ballistae as the crews cranked and loaded them. It was the hull crashing against something large and solid.
Artus, like many of those around him, struggled to his feet. The first mate laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Come with me," the elf said. "I think you'll be of more value to us on the quarter deck."
As be hurried to the stairs, Artus didn't notice the first mate stop to retrieve his journal from where it had fallen to the deck. Quiracus slipped the wyvern hide-bound book into the pocket of his baggy cotton pants. "Wait for the order to fire!" the first mate shouted to no one in particular, then rushed to the stairs himself.
The scene on the quarterdeck was even more chaotic than below. In a half-dozen places, sailors lay in heaps, broken limbs jutting out at ridiculous angles from their bodies. They had obviously fallen from the rigging when the Narwhal listed. Pontifax leaned over one unfortunate woman. Two men held her down as the mage reset her dislocated shoulder. Other sailors scrambled for the pikes strapped to the masts, ready to repel any boarders.
Off the starboard bow, an island had seemingly risen from the sea. The dark, rocky mound was almost half the length of the Narwhal. Gorgeous patterns of silver glittered all along the gentle curve of its sides, broken in places by trailers of seaweed. A sharp ridge ran along the center, leading to another, smaller mound-
Artus gasped. It was a head!
"It's Aremag again," Nelock shouted as he ran past, racing for the poop deck.
"I know," Quiracus snapped. He hurried after the boatswain, Artus in tow. This uncharacteristic anger made the elf look oddly nefarious-his arched eyebrows knit together, his gold eyes flashing.
Captain Bawr stood at the starboard rail, a speaking horn held before her. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and her hair now framed her face in dark ringlets. Artus was struck again with the woman's beauty, though uneasiness at her strange nature overwhelmed any other feelings her appearance stirred.
"We've paid your toll already this month, Aremag," she shouted. "If you've damaged my ship, you'll be the one to pay for her repairs."
The monstrous turtle roared and slowly opened its blood-red eyes. The sounds coming from its gaping mouth at first seemed no more than unintelligible groans and rumbles, but as Artus listened, he discerned a pattern, a clear hierarchy of sounds and a rigid structure of word order. He had learned a few languages in his travels, but this was the first time he'd ever heard any of the tongues related to dragon speech.
Clearly the captain understood the dragon turtle's words. When it stopped speaking, she pounded a fist on the rail. "Master Quiracus," she said, tight reins on her anger, "have the ballistae ready to fire."
"Already done, Captain," he replied. When she glanced at him questioningly, he added, "I saw the silver pattern from its shell on the water right before we hit. The moon's not bright enough tonight to make that kind of reflection. I knew we were near the turtle's territory, so-"
"Fine," the captain replied coldly. "That makes my decision easier." Turning to the boatswain, she ordered, "Gather the men who were on watch tonight and put them in the ship's boat. If Master Quiracus saw Aremag coming, they should have noticed him, too."
"Some are wounded, milady," Nelock