They stumbled out of the vegetation and onto the beach, as thousands of tiny insects swarmed over their clothes.
Wincing in pain, Cenhar stumbled and nearly fell, but Harp half-carried him down to the ocean waves where they frantically scrubbed off the creatures, some of which were already burrowing into their skin. Harp yanked off his shirt and scrubbed his face and the back of his neck. As they cleaned off the last of the insects, Cenhar groaned in pain. Harp helped him back ashore, and the old man collapsed on the beach.
“What happened?” Boult asked as he loosened the shoulder straps on Cenhar’s leather chestplate. The warrior took ragged breaths between his gritted teeth. A green vine had wound tightly around his upper arm; hooked burrs curled deep into the inflamed tissue.
“It jumped on him,” Harp said.
“The vine jumped on him?” Boult repeated, “I don’t like that sound of that.”
“How long were we in there?” Harp asked.
“Not very long,” Boult replied. “But we all came out onto the beach in different places.”
Harp pulled his dagger out of his boot and began to slice through the vine, sparking cries of pain from Cenhar.
“Damn,” Harp said, sheathing his dagger. “We have to
get him back to the ship. Help me lift him.”
But when they tried to pick Cenhar up, his body went rigid, and he seemed to stop breathing.
“Poison?” Boult asked.
“His lips are blue,” Harp said. “We have to move.”
Verran laid his hand on Harp’s shoulder. “Let me try,” he said, but he looked terrified.
“Try what?” Harp asked suspiciously. But he moved away so Verran could kneel beside Cenhar.
Verran held his hands over Cenhar’s chest and began to chant under his breath. As his trembling fingers moved through the air, the barbed plant began to twist and writhe around Cenhar’s arm. The warrior cried out, and Harp moved to stop Verran, but Boult stayed Harp with a hand on his shoulder. The dwarf pointed to the vine, which began smoking as if it were burning from the inside out. With a hissing sound, it blackened and dropped to the sand. Small puncture wounds remained in Cenhar’s arm, but the redness vanished, and Cenhar flexed his huge gnarled hand with a look of relief.
Boult helped Cenhar sit up, and both of them stared at Verran, who looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said defensively. “I saved you.”
“Uh, thanks.” Cenhar swayed on his feet, and Harp thought the behemoth of a man was going to faint back onto the sand.
“We didn’t know you were a sorcerer,” Boult said to Verran.
“I’m not. I got rid of the vines, that’s it.” Verran jutted out his chin defiantly.
“You used magic!” Boult said.
“You should have told us,” Harp said.
“I’m not… It doesn’t matter,” Verran said shakily.
“Magic always matters,” Boult insisted.
“It’s complicated,” Verran said, kicking at the sand beneath his boots. “And private.”
“If you want to be on the crew, you have to be honest with us,” Boult continued angrily.
“Really?” Verran said. “Does that just apply to me? The captain can keep whatever secrets he wants?”
“What do you mean?” Harp asked.
“You have a massive secret. Not even a secret. It’s all over you.”
“What do you want to know, Verran?” Harp asked quietly.
“How’d you get the scars?” Verran demanded.
When he saw how the other men reacted to the question, Verran lost his adolescent bravado. “They’re all over your body. I even saw them on your feet. You get those kind of scars from a demon pact.”
“There are ways to get scars like mine,” Harp said quietly, “that make a demon pact look like a stroll down the dock. I’m no warlock.”
“What then?
“It’s a long story I promise to tell you another time,” Harp said, “but now….” Harp stood up and brushed the sand off his knees. He caught Verran’s eye and held it.
Wincing in pain, Cenhar stumbled and nearly fell, but Harp half-carried him down to the ocean waves where they frantically scrubbed off the creatures, some of which were already burrowing into their skin. Harp yanked off his shirt and scrubbed his face and the back of his neck. As they cleaned off the last of the insects, Cenhar groaned in pain. Harp helped him back ashore, and the old man collapsed on the beach.
“What happened?” Boult asked as he loosened the shoulder straps on Cenhar’s leather chestplate. The warrior took ragged breaths between his gritted teeth. A green vine had wound tightly around his upper arm; hooked burrs curled deep into the inflamed tissue.
“It jumped on him,” Harp said.
“The vine jumped on him?” Boult repeated, “I don’t like that sound of that.”
“How long were we in there?” Harp asked.
“Not very long,” Boult replied. “But we all came out onto the beach in different places.”
Harp pulled his dagger out of his boot and began to slice through the vine, sparking cries of pain from Cenhar.
“Damn,” Harp said, sheathing his dagger. “We have to
get him back to the ship. Help me lift him.”
But when they tried to pick Cenhar up, his body went rigid, and he seemed to stop breathing.
“Poison?” Boult asked.
“His lips are blue,” Harp said. “We have to move.”
Verran laid his hand on Harp’s shoulder. “Let me try,” he said, but he looked terrified.
“Try what?” Harp asked suspiciously. But he moved away so Verran could kneel beside Cenhar.
Verran held his hands over Cenhar’s chest and began to chant under his breath. As his trembling fingers moved through the air, the barbed plant began to twist and writhe around Cenhar’s arm. The warrior cried out, and Harp moved to stop Verran, but Boult stayed Harp with a hand on his shoulder. The dwarf pointed to the vine, which began smoking as if it were burning from the inside out. With a hissing sound, it blackened and dropped to the sand. Small puncture wounds remained in Cenhar’s arm, but the redness vanished, and Cenhar flexed his huge gnarled hand with a look of relief.
Boult helped Cenhar sit up, and both of them stared at Verran, who looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said defensively. “I saved you.”
“Uh, thanks.” Cenhar swayed on his feet, and Harp thought the behemoth of a man was going to faint back onto the sand.
“We didn’t know you were a sorcerer,” Boult said to Verran.
“I’m not. I got rid of the vines, that’s it.” Verran jutted out his chin defiantly.
“You used magic!” Boult said.
“You should have told us,” Harp said.
“I’m not… It doesn’t matter,” Verran said shakily.
“Magic always matters,” Boult insisted.
“It’s complicated,” Verran said, kicking at the sand beneath his boots. “And private.”
“If you want to be on the crew, you have to be honest with us,” Boult continued angrily.
“Really?” Verran said. “Does that just apply to me? The captain can keep whatever secrets he wants?”
“What do you mean?” Harp asked.
“You have a massive secret. Not even a secret. It’s all over you.”
“What do you want to know, Verran?” Harp asked quietly.
“How’d you get the scars?” Verran demanded.
When he saw how the other men reacted to the question, Verran lost his adolescent bravado. “They’re all over your body. I even saw them on your feet. You get those kind of scars from a demon pact.”
“There are ways to get scars like mine,” Harp said quietly, “that make a demon pact look like a stroll down the dock. I’m no warlock.”
“What then?
“It’s a long story I promise to tell you another time,” Harp said, “but now….” Harp stood up and brushed the sand off his knees. He caught Verran’s eye and held it.
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