oak-root arm trailing in the water.
“We ... we can’t do that,” Lafayette gasped. “He’s unconscious; he’d drown.” He took the oar from her, groped his way to the rover’s bench, thrust Clutch’s elephantine leg aside, dipped in, and pulled—
The oar snapped with a sharp report, sending Lafayette in a forward dive into the scuppers.
“I guess I swung it too hard,” Swinehild said regretfully. “It’s all that skillet-work done it.”
Lafayette scrabbled back to the bench, ignoring the shooting pains in his head, neck, eyeballs, and elsewhere. “I’ll have to scull with one oar,” he panted. “Which direction?”
“Dunno,” Swinehild said. “But I guess it don’t matter much. Look.”
O’Leary followed her pointing finger. A ghostly white patch, roughly triangular in shape, loomed off the port bow, rushing toward them out of the dense fog.
“It’s a sailboat,” Lafayette gasped as the pursuer hove into full view, cleaving the mist. He could see half a dozen men crouched on the deck of the vessel. They raised a shout as they saw the drifting rowboat, changed course to sweep up alongside. Lafayette shattered the remaining oar over the head of the first of the boarders to leap the rail, before an iceberg he had failed to notice until that moment fell on him, burying him under a hundred tons of boulders and frozen mammoth bones ...
O’Leary regained consciousness standing on his face in half an inch of iced cabbage broth with a temple gong echoing in his skull. The floor under him was rising up and up and over in a never-ending loop-the-loop, but when he attempted to clutch for support he discovered that both arms had been lopped off at the shoulder. He worked his legs, succeeded in driving his face farther into the bilge, which sloshed and gurgled merrily down between his collar and his neck before draining away with the next tilt of the deck. He threshed harder, flopped over on his back, and blinked his eyes clear. He was lying, it appeared, in the cockpit of the small sailing craft. His arms had not been amputated after all, he discovered as fiery pains lanced out from his tightly bound wrists.
“Hey, Fancy-pants is awake,” a cheery voice called. “O.K. if I step on his mush a couple times?”
“Wait until we get through drawing straws fer the wench.”
O’Leary shook his head, sending a whole new lexicon of aches swirling through it, but clearing his vision slightly. Half a dozen pairs of burly rubber-booted legs were grouped around the binnacle light, matching the burly bodies looming above them. Swinehild, standing by with her arms held behind her by a pock-marked man with a notched ear, drove a sudden kick into a handy shin. The recipient of the attention leaped and swore, while his fellows guffawed in hearty good fellowship.
“She’s a lively ‘un,” a toothless fellow with greasy, shoulder-length hair stated. “Who’s got the straws?”
“Ain’t no straws aboard,” another stated. “We’ll have to use fish.”
“I dunno,” demurred a short, wide fellow with a blue-black beard which all but enveloped his eyes. “Never heard of drawing fish for a wench. We want to do this right, according to the rules and all.”
“Skip the seafood, boys,” Swinehild suggested. “I kind of got a habit of picking my own boyfriends. Now you, good-looking ...” She gave a saucy glance to the biggest of the crew, a lantern-jawed chap with a sheaf of stiff wheat-colored hair and a porridgy complexion. “You’re more my style. You going to let these rag-pickers come between us?”
The one thus singled out gaped, grinned, flexed massive, crooked shoulders, and threw out his chest.
“Well, boys, I guess that settles that—”
A marlinspike wielded by an unidentified hand described a short arc ending alongside the lantern jaw, the owner of which did a half-spin and sank out of sight.
“None o’ that, wench,” a gruff voice commanded. “Don’t go trying to stir up
“We ... we can’t do that,” Lafayette gasped. “He’s unconscious; he’d drown.” He took the oar from her, groped his way to the rover’s bench, thrust Clutch’s elephantine leg aside, dipped in, and pulled—
The oar snapped with a sharp report, sending Lafayette in a forward dive into the scuppers.
“I guess I swung it too hard,” Swinehild said regretfully. “It’s all that skillet-work done it.”
Lafayette scrabbled back to the bench, ignoring the shooting pains in his head, neck, eyeballs, and elsewhere. “I’ll have to scull with one oar,” he panted. “Which direction?”
“Dunno,” Swinehild said. “But I guess it don’t matter much. Look.”
O’Leary followed her pointing finger. A ghostly white patch, roughly triangular in shape, loomed off the port bow, rushing toward them out of the dense fog.
“It’s a sailboat,” Lafayette gasped as the pursuer hove into full view, cleaving the mist. He could see half a dozen men crouched on the deck of the vessel. They raised a shout as they saw the drifting rowboat, changed course to sweep up alongside. Lafayette shattered the remaining oar over the head of the first of the boarders to leap the rail, before an iceberg he had failed to notice until that moment fell on him, burying him under a hundred tons of boulders and frozen mammoth bones ...
O’Leary regained consciousness standing on his face in half an inch of iced cabbage broth with a temple gong echoing in his skull. The floor under him was rising up and up and over in a never-ending loop-the-loop, but when he attempted to clutch for support he discovered that both arms had been lopped off at the shoulder. He worked his legs, succeeded in driving his face farther into the bilge, which sloshed and gurgled merrily down between his collar and his neck before draining away with the next tilt of the deck. He threshed harder, flopped over on his back, and blinked his eyes clear. He was lying, it appeared, in the cockpit of the small sailing craft. His arms had not been amputated after all, he discovered as fiery pains lanced out from his tightly bound wrists.
“Hey, Fancy-pants is awake,” a cheery voice called. “O.K. if I step on his mush a couple times?”
“Wait until we get through drawing straws fer the wench.”
O’Leary shook his head, sending a whole new lexicon of aches swirling through it, but clearing his vision slightly. Half a dozen pairs of burly rubber-booted legs were grouped around the binnacle light, matching the burly bodies looming above them. Swinehild, standing by with her arms held behind her by a pock-marked man with a notched ear, drove a sudden kick into a handy shin. The recipient of the attention leaped and swore, while his fellows guffawed in hearty good fellowship.
“She’s a lively ‘un,” a toothless fellow with greasy, shoulder-length hair stated. “Who’s got the straws?”
“Ain’t no straws aboard,” another stated. “We’ll have to use fish.”
“I dunno,” demurred a short, wide fellow with a blue-black beard which all but enveloped his eyes. “Never heard of drawing fish for a wench. We want to do this right, according to the rules and all.”
“Skip the seafood, boys,” Swinehild suggested. “I kind of got a habit of picking my own boyfriends. Now you, good-looking ...” She gave a saucy glance to the biggest of the crew, a lantern-jawed chap with a sheaf of stiff wheat-colored hair and a porridgy complexion. “You’re more my style. You going to let these rag-pickers come between us?”
The one thus singled out gaped, grinned, flexed massive, crooked shoulders, and threw out his chest.
“Well, boys, I guess that settles that—”
A marlinspike wielded by an unidentified hand described a short arc ending alongside the lantern jaw, the owner of which did a half-spin and sank out of sight.
“None o’ that, wench,” a gruff voice commanded. “Don’t go trying to stir up
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