The Blacktongue Thief

24 The Whale

We were in the first of two boats.

Galva got the oar opposite mine, right up front. We were to row while three harpooners did the bloody work up front by us, Malk, the Coldfoot guard, being the chief of the spear-crew. Just my tossing luck. “Row!… Row!… Row!” he called, practically spitting on me, and it was all I could do to keep up.

“Rudderdam, adjust! Why’s the right side dragging? Oh, I see why, the front oar’s being pulled by a high-nut boy. Pull harder, boy! Pull like it’ll keep you out of the aaarmy!”

Galva shot me a look, but I managed an eye-roll that said, Don’t listen to him. I tangled my oar with that of the woman in front of me, who was actually behind me boat-wise because rowers face backward, and she cursed at me in Untheric. Apparently, I’m something one finds in one’s poo that one does not remember having eaten. They’ve actually got a word for that in Unther.

Tangled oars were soon forgotten as we drew up on the red. I saw a spout then, we were getting that close. The creature was just getting the idea something unpleasant was happening, and I think he was thinking, Dive, or, Fight. Reds often choose fight. He put his fluke up, a great plane of red muscle with water sluicing off of it, warning whatever little kynd-fish were hoping to challenge him to think twice. It worked on me. I thought twice and three times. Now we were wheeling about. I did what I could to hang on to the oar with my weeping blisters—my hands had a bit of callus from the bow and climbing, but not the sort you need to fight an oar for an hour.

“Fothannon Foxfoot, help your child make mischief,” I said under my breath, and I know it’s dangerous to call on old Foxfoot directly—he likes to help as little as possible, then muck about with the results. Looking at uncountable pounds of about-to-be-furious whale, I was prepared to take my chances with him. Mithrenor’s the proper god of the sea, and I hoped I didn’t anger him, but we barely knew each other, so maybe he’d understand.

I could see the whale’s eye now. I didn’t like how smart it was. It seemed to be saying, Don’t let’s do this. We’re all going to hate this. It’s bad business when you have more in common with a fish than your shipmates. It was about to dive, and I hoped it did so quickly.

Now one of the oarmen, some minor Magickers Guild mage, cast a spell at the whale, and it slowly closed its big, black eye. A drowse cantrip, not unlike the one I’d set on the pawnbroker’s fat thug back in Cadoth. Shyte, that red wasn’t going anywhere. It was having a nap and about to wake up in a fight.

A fight it was, too. I couldn’t tell you much about it past the first stroke, which Malk threw, trying to slice behind its flipper and skewer its sheep-sized heart. Whether he did or not, I couldn’t say, they don’t always die quickly, nor did this one. What followed was a thrashing confusion of seawater, tangled oars, spinning boat, a blinding bump on my head, more seawater, an unearthly rage-filled bellow of the beast as it realized, I think, that it couldn’t save its life but might help some later whale by drowning a boatful of whale-killers.

It came at us pig and palisades. It managed to capsize the second boat, sailors bobbing, their faces pink with water and whale blood, and it bit one sad-eyed Molrovan harpooner right off our boat, crushed her legs while she squealed piglike and then went under to die of pain, blood loss, seawater, or all three together. Then, like blowing out a lamp, the beast lost his fight. He went slack and drifted. The fight was over, and I’m not sure the best man won.