The Severed Empire Collection

Chapter 8

Mykal’s grandfather rested in his chair on the front porch, his blanket still draped over his lap, his hands folded on top.

Mykal perched on the step in front. Silence filled the space between them for several moments.

“It’s going to rain,” his grandfather said.

“Was a pretty good storm over the sea last night. Thought for sure it would have made land. Don’t think it even reached the beach. The thunder and lightning kept me awake, so I watched the sky from my room. Wasn’t going to sleep, so figured, why not? It was an angry storm. One of the worst I’d seen in a while.” Mykal looked at the sky. “But not again today, I don’t think.”

“Another storm is coming.”

Mykal knew the old man’s leg was better at predicting weather than changes in pressure in the air, but sometimes he still opted to disagree. He stood up and clapped his hands on his thighs to pat the dust off his clothing. “There’s not one cloud. In fact, I’m going down to the sea to do some fishing. Catch us some dinner.”

“You be careful.” His grandfather nodded. “Oh, and Mykal, the names?”

Mykal sat back down. “They were men from the Cicade Forest.”

“Their names?” Grandfather said, his tone sharp.

Mykal closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured the king reciting the names. It refreshed his memory. “Gary Slocum, Louis Styman, Haddly Wonderfraust, and Thomas Blacksmith. Those were the men the king hung today. Their deaths were horrible. One died fast. The others refused to let go for as long as they could. I wasn’t sure they’d ever pass. It wasn’t anything I’d ever care to witness again. Grandfather?”

Grandfather didn’t seem to be listening. His mouth worked like a man chewing rough steak carefully before swallowing. “Catch us a few fish. I am feeling hungry.”

“Are you okay?”

The old man smiled. “I’m fine, Mykal.”

Mykal stood and went into their house. He scooped water out of a bucket and drank from the ladle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his tunic. His fishing gear stood in the corner. He gathered his bow and tackle box and, before going back outside, snatched a green apple out of the wooden bowl on the center of the kitchen table.

Outside he set his things down and knelt beside his grandfather. “Why do you always want to know the names of the men put to death?”

“They deserve to be remembered.” Grandfather stared absently toward town.

“The king said they were caught trying to climb the castle walls. He believes they were going to steal, r**e, and kill his people. How is that deserving of a memorial, Grandfather?”

“Did the men confess this to the king as their plan?”

Mykal shook his head. “The king said the men refused to talk.”

“It is possible then that the men from the forest were trying to enter Grey Ashland for another reason entirely.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It is possible, though. Isn’t it, Mykal?”

He shrugged. “I suppose, but—”

“If it is possible, then it can also be likely. Neither of us were present when the men were caught. Do we know for a fact that they were captured trying to sneak in? Were we there when they were questioned? We don’t know what was asked, nor do we know what answers were given. Repeating, and perhaps remembering the names of those hung is not such an extraordinary memorial then, is it?”

Mykal shook his head. He was missing something. His grandfather had other reasons for wanting the names of men executed. He simply couldn’t figure it out. The old man was suspicious like that at times, mysterious. He thought about telling his grandfather about the young woman with the king, the way she kept staring at him. He then thought better of it as doing so might worry the old man. He was apprehensive enough about the encounter himself. There was no need for both of them to be preoccupied with something that would likely prove to be nothing. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, lifted the tackle box and slung the fishing bow over his shoulder.

“Be back before the storm,” Grandfather said.

Mykal was tempted to scoff, but, sensing the old man’s mood, refrained. “Yes, sir.”

Salty sea air mingled with the flavor of sweet apple as he hiked to the Isthmian. After splashing around in the shallows to cool off, he dressed and then sat perched on the end of a jutting, natural pier of flat rocks. Mykal pulled the bowstring back until the knuckle of his thumb rested against his cheek, and concentrated on the water; the thought of a hearty dinner sharpening his focus. With one eye closed, he lined up his shot, and waited.

The gulls remembered him. They circled, squawking and chawwwking their insistent chatter overhead. Though he usually struck true, occasionally the arrow would only wound a little swimmer and the gulls would swoop in and snag the injured as a reward for their attentiveness. In order to retrieve a fish cleanly, the arrow needed to pass through the meaty part of the body. That way, when reeling the arrow in on his roll of string, he wouldn’t need to worry about it tearing free from the flesh. He needed to be quick about it, as the gulls had no issues with stealing his catch.

chawwwkingWaves crashed on the rocks around him; their white caps formed like massive fingers curling into fists before striking. The spray soaked his tunic, refreshing against his once-again heated and sweaty skin.

When he saw a large fish between waves, Mykal relaxed his fingers and loosed the arrow. It flew through air and pierced water. The string was coiled beside him, one end tied around his ankle. He fit the bow over his shoulder and pulled in the slack quickly, hand over hand, until the arrow popped up out of the water without his potential prize. The shaft, made from wood of the wayfaring tree, floated despite its steel broadhead. He knocked the arrow, pulled back the bowstring, and waited for another target.

There was a good chance his last arrow made skittish fish scatter. He practiced patience. They’d return. With brains the size of a pebble, their memories must be swept clean every few seconds.

He kept his eyes on the water and ignored the cloudless blue sky and the sun’s blinding rays. Grandfather would be wrong today. There was no chance it would rain, much less storm.

When another fish stopped to graze on seaweed and plankton just below the surface, Mykal aimed, thumb by his cheek; the feathers from the fletching tickled skin. As he released, and the arrow launched, he gasped in surprise.

Something quite large gobbled the fish that had been his targets. The arrow pierced the creature and it was gone. Mykal quickly looked at the coiled string. Before he had a moment to react, the string was pulled taut and completely disappeared into the water. Mykal was yanked from his feet. He thought he might strike his head on a rock, but was shockingly pulled through the air, over a cresting wave, and into the sea.

Mykal sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold before being dragged under. His thoughts went wild. He conjured up childhood images of grisly monsters from bedtime tales; frightening stories told of creatures that swum the murky depths of the Isthmian Sea.

Always discounted as legend, Mykal found himself forced to face facts. The head of this thing resembled nothing he had ever before seen. He had not seen its full shape, nor could he gauge the length or bulk of the body, the head alone was enough to scare him. It was triangular, like a snake’s head, but much bigger —like it would fit the body of a cow. The eyes were large and black like coal. He’d seen enormous teeth, like fangs, on either side of the mouth when it had consumed his intended dinner. The large scales were purple and green, and iridescent when sun rays struck them.

With his knife safely with his things on the rocks, Mykal had no way of cutting the string around his ankle. The speed with which the creature swam made it impossible to reach his leg. He was being dragged too fast through the sea. He was too disoriented and surprised to even think to reach for the knife at his belt. Bubbles intermittently blinded him. They surrounded him, exploding as he passed through them. The sea water stung his eyes. He could not tell if they were diving deep, or if they remained near the surface. His lungs burned. His heartbeat hammered like heavy knocks on a wood door behind his ribs, and pulsed at his temples.

And, all at once, movement stopped. He felt suspended in midair. Somewhat overcoming his confusion, he looked for the direction of bubbles rising.

Mykal brought his knee up, his fingers fumbling with the knot at his ankle. Using both hands, he pulled at the loop. The string was strong like wire. He had previously wheeled in fighting, twenty-pound fish without the string snapping. Unfortunately, the knot was now pulled far too tight from the strength at with the creature had dragged him through the sea. He refused to give up, though.

His lungs felt like they might explode. He desperately needed air.

He managed to wedge a finger between the string and his leg, creating a small gap, and began untying the knot. Once finally, blessedly free, he followed the bubbles toward the surface. Kicking, and sweeping his arms down, he swam as hard, and as fast as he ever had. Above he saw the clear wavy veil of the surface. The water resembled moving glass. He saw through the water, though; and in the distorted view of the once-clear blue sky, saw a lone dark cloud.

His head broke through the surface, and unmuffled sound filled his ears. Waves crashed on rocks to his left as he pulled air into his lungs. That familiar chatter of the gulls came from overhead, and a new terror gripped him. He feared the gulls remembered the beast better than they did him.

un He did not want to wind up scraps for the birds to feed on.

Mykal tried to stop gasping for air. He wanted to breathe as normally as possible. Panicking was the last thing he needed to do. Swimming was the first.

Five dorsal fins appeared. Twenty, thirty yards out. Like a winding snake, the fins made their way toward him. Slowly at first. Then picking up speed. Was it one creature, or five? He had no idea.

The dorsal fins disappeared. The creature had gone below the surface.

Mykal took a deep breath, held it, and sank under. With his eyes open, ignoring searing pain from the stinging salt, he saw it.

One saving grace was immediately apparent. The arrow had impaled the creature’s mouth, forcing it mostly closed. The thing opened its mouth a bit, but clearly not as wide as it could. Regardless, row upon row of jagged teeth were visible and just as sharp and deadly looking as the fangs that lined the sides of its mouth.

Mykal braced for the attack—knowing that there was no time to escape. He’d seen how fast it had snatched up the fish he’d targeted. The creature possessed lightning speed.

The idea, good or bad, was to wrangle the head. Maybe he could use the arrow as a handhold. He’d never make it to shore. He wasn’t that strong of a swimmer.

Wrangle the head. That was the idea.

Instead, just before the thing was close enough to bite him in two—if not for the arrow—it dove, the last fin slicing through his tunic, cutting his chest. The water turned a milky red around him.

Bleeding in the water was not going to help the situation, not at all.

Mykal understood exactly what was happening, and thought he felt his heart skip a beat in fear.

The wounded creature could not eat him, but it could dice him up like chum. The blood, no doubt, was like a ringing triangle that signaled meal time to other vicious sea creatures.

His situation seemed hopeless. Looking down, his lungs beginning to burn again, he saw the creature coming up at him. Fast. In the darkness of the deeper water, he saw the swishing back and forth of its body which efficiently powered and propelled the creature toward him.

Then it rotated 180 degrees, so that the hooked, triangular dorsals lined up with Mykal. The five fins were on the length of the one serpent. Each fin was the size of both of his hands put together.

The tail swished propelling the body of the beast.

Yes, it meant to flay him; slice him up into people fillets and steaks.

As the first dorsal cut into his thigh, Mykal kicked out with his left leg trying to move out of the way.

Pushing off of the massive creature, he once again breached the surface, filled his lungs with air, and looked for land. Seeing the sand of the beach, he immediately raced towards the shore – his one chance at surviving this horror.

He kicked his legs, his arms pin-wheeled through the water, and he turned his head from side to side occasionally to take in breaths.

Ahead were groups of more fins above the water, at least twenty. He was swimming directly toward them, and worse, they were headed towards him. The fins were not just from one creature. There were maybe five different monsters in the sea.

His blood had attracted more beasts. These would have no arrows impeding their maws. Nightmare images flooded his mind, keeping him from focusing his little energy left on swimming.

Each kick, each stroke, brought him closer to the beach as he futilely angled away from the creatures ahead.

He was tired, injured, and weak. The salt water fiercely stinging the deep lacerations. He screamed as he swam; screamed from the pain, screamed hoping someone heard, screamed because it was the only thing he could still do other than swim for his life.

There were too many of them. They were too fast. He would never make it.

He felt the rise of a big wave pick him up. The beach suddenly looked obtainable. Survival seemed suddenly possible. The wave white-capped at one end as it rolled faster and faster toward shore. He flattened his body out like a board. It was all he could think to do. He pictured himself as driftwood and hoped he’d ride the top to safety. He did not want the wave to crash over him, force him under, pin him. If that happened, the beasts (now somewhat off to his right and behind him) would have him, and tear at his flesh with their rows and rows of teeth.

Lying on the wave, he floated on top of the water and raced toward shore. As fast as those creatures were, he felt like a seagull flying through the air, like a ship sailing a hundred knots across the sea.

The last thing he remembered, just before the wave broke and rolled, was the barely-heard snapping of teeth just behind his feet and legs, and then everything went black.