suddenly felt the tang of fear.
“Do you think we’ll find the monster that the king is looking for?” Cobiah whispered, coiling salt-roughed rope around his elbow and wrist. “Does it live in Orr?”
“I don’t know,” Sethus answered in a somber tone. “But I do know that no ship that sails beyond Malchor’s Fingers”—Sethus gulped, suddenly looking down at his net—“ever comes back.”
T he next morning dawned crisp and cold, wintry enough to drive away the warmth of early autumn they’d known only the day before. Last night at sunset, the slender spines of Malchor’s Fingers had been barely a jagged line against the horizon. In the soft gleam of morning, the spines were much closer, clawing their way up from the depths through rings of thick sea-foam.
“Eyes on the rocks, lads!” Vost shouted from the bow. The ship’s bosun seemed ill at ease, one foot planted atop the bulwark near the Indomitable ’s six-armed figurehead. He kept his bosun’s whistle clenched in one hand, the other holding fast to a mainstay rope as wind buffeted his crisp white shirt. Captain Whiting and his first mate stood on the forecastle with him, staring past the cutting waves at the front of the ship toward the sea ahead where rocky stanchions loomed. The captain fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs as he stared into the wind, but the bosun and the first mate were as still as statues.
Ice-cold water splashed up onto the deck as the galleon made her way bravely forward. She barely rocked at all in the tow of the waves, cresting fluidly over each ripple and valley of the sea. Her topsail was wrapped against thecrossbar; the jibs were lowered, and her long, pointed bowsprit was bare of white muslin sail. Only the two central wind catchers, the foresail to the front and the mainsail at the rear, remained aloft, shivering in the heavy winds that buffeted ocean froth around the tall jagged rocks.
“Were those stones really the top of an ancient church?” Cobiah whispered to one of the other sailors as they folded netting. He tucked the wrapped cords into wooden caskets below the railing of the forecastle.
“Who told you that old chestnut?” Urim scoffed, tightening the knot of a bright red bandanna wrapped about his neck in hopes of warmth. “They’re just salt pillars. A rock somewhere below started breaking the water, and the salt of the sea’s gathered up layer on layer ’til the whole thing sticks up above the waves. S’nothing to be afeared of.”
Tosh snorted mockingly as he walked past, twisting a long skein of rope between his thumb and his elbow. “Church towers? Fell for that one, did you, whey face? I heard it when I was six—and I didn’t believe it even then. You always fall for those toothless jawers’ yapping. You should’ve been a priest, Cobiah. At least then you’d get paid to listen to fools.” Although the jibes were rough, Tosh snorted and moved on without staying to pick a fight. That much, at least, had changed in the last half year.
“Cock of the walk, he is,” Cobiah spat under his breath.
“Tosh’s just ribbing you, as always. Don’t pay him any mind,” Sethus said as he trotted up with a grin. “And Urim’s as glazed as Lyssa’s mirror.” Sethus pointed at the sailor and mimicked taking a swig of brandy. “Just salt rocks? What’s under that salt, I ask you? Orrian church towers. Now c’mon, Coby, and help me shove this heavy lot after that gun.” Sethus grabbed Cobiah’s sleeve anddragged him toward the hatch nearby. Below, they could see four sailors dragging one of the ship’s big guns to its firing post. The captain had given orders that the cannons as well as the smoothbore carronades were to be kept loaded and ready at all times. The top-deck carronades were bolted to the frame of the ship and were always in place, with firepower and shot nearby, but the cannons on the lower deck were too large to shot-pack without need. It was the first time that Cobiah had seen
“Do you think we’ll find the monster that the king is looking for?” Cobiah whispered, coiling salt-roughed rope around his elbow and wrist. “Does it live in Orr?”
“I don’t know,” Sethus answered in a somber tone. “But I do know that no ship that sails beyond Malchor’s Fingers”—Sethus gulped, suddenly looking down at his net—“ever comes back.”
T he next morning dawned crisp and cold, wintry enough to drive away the warmth of early autumn they’d known only the day before. Last night at sunset, the slender spines of Malchor’s Fingers had been barely a jagged line against the horizon. In the soft gleam of morning, the spines were much closer, clawing their way up from the depths through rings of thick sea-foam.
“Eyes on the rocks, lads!” Vost shouted from the bow. The ship’s bosun seemed ill at ease, one foot planted atop the bulwark near the Indomitable ’s six-armed figurehead. He kept his bosun’s whistle clenched in one hand, the other holding fast to a mainstay rope as wind buffeted his crisp white shirt. Captain Whiting and his first mate stood on the forecastle with him, staring past the cutting waves at the front of the ship toward the sea ahead where rocky stanchions loomed. The captain fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs as he stared into the wind, but the bosun and the first mate were as still as statues.
Ice-cold water splashed up onto the deck as the galleon made her way bravely forward. She barely rocked at all in the tow of the waves, cresting fluidly over each ripple and valley of the sea. Her topsail was wrapped against thecrossbar; the jibs were lowered, and her long, pointed bowsprit was bare of white muslin sail. Only the two central wind catchers, the foresail to the front and the mainsail at the rear, remained aloft, shivering in the heavy winds that buffeted ocean froth around the tall jagged rocks.
“Were those stones really the top of an ancient church?” Cobiah whispered to one of the other sailors as they folded netting. He tucked the wrapped cords into wooden caskets below the railing of the forecastle.
“Who told you that old chestnut?” Urim scoffed, tightening the knot of a bright red bandanna wrapped about his neck in hopes of warmth. “They’re just salt pillars. A rock somewhere below started breaking the water, and the salt of the sea’s gathered up layer on layer ’til the whole thing sticks up above the waves. S’nothing to be afeared of.”
Tosh snorted mockingly as he walked past, twisting a long skein of rope between his thumb and his elbow. “Church towers? Fell for that one, did you, whey face? I heard it when I was six—and I didn’t believe it even then. You always fall for those toothless jawers’ yapping. You should’ve been a priest, Cobiah. At least then you’d get paid to listen to fools.” Although the jibes were rough, Tosh snorted and moved on without staying to pick a fight. That much, at least, had changed in the last half year.
“Cock of the walk, he is,” Cobiah spat under his breath.
“Tosh’s just ribbing you, as always. Don’t pay him any mind,” Sethus said as he trotted up with a grin. “And Urim’s as glazed as Lyssa’s mirror.” Sethus pointed at the sailor and mimicked taking a swig of brandy. “Just salt rocks? What’s under that salt, I ask you? Orrian church towers. Now c’mon, Coby, and help me shove this heavy lot after that gun.” Sethus grabbed Cobiah’s sleeve anddragged him toward the hatch nearby. Below, they could see four sailors dragging one of the ship’s big guns to its firing post. The captain had given orders that the cannons as well as the smoothbore carronades were to be kept loaded and ready at all times. The top-deck carronades were bolted to the frame of the ship and were always in place, with firepower and shot nearby, but the cannons on the lower deck were too large to shot-pack without need. It was the first time that Cobiah had seen
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