If Francesca wasn’t in the caves, she must be on the galley. I needed the vacchette in that case. So I slipped past the waves and waded until I sank out of sight. Then I curved back toward where the vacchette headed. Fortunately, it was a cloudless night with a bright moon, and the splash of oars guided me. I pushed against the water and grabbed at wavy kelp. I hurried to get to the right spot. The bottom of the vacchette neared-I jumped and caught an oar. From above there came a muffled shout. I dragged myself up.
As I surfaced, sailors stared in horror. There were ten of them in the vacchette, eight rowers, a helmsman and a steersman. The helmsman held the lantern-and I saw his hands. It was the tip of a tentacle curled around the handle. The nearest rowers had hard faces and rubbery tentacles instead of arms. It was a sick marriage of octopus and human. More altered men!
With a heave of strength, I dragged along the oar and latched my hands onto the gunwale.
“What are you?” the helmsman bellowed, as if he should ask?
“Gig it!” screamed a sailor. “Gig it! It’s trying to get aboard!”
I heaved up into them. The top of my head smashed against an octo-man’s chin. He slumped. The hook of a gaff thudded into my back, with two tentacles twisted around its handle. I lashed out. The hook tore out of my flesh. That was raw agony. Then my knife was in my hands. I slashed. Octo-men screamed. The hook came down again and I twisted. It thudded into wood. That was their last chance. I had my feet under me now. I stabbed with brutal precision, fast. The rocking vacchette was too sluggish to affect my balance. One by one, they toppled overboard and sank under the waves. Apparently, their tentacles didn’t supply them with greater ability in the waters.
I tested my shoulder, the one where the gaff had hooked me. It hurt to move, but now I owned the vacchette. Unfortunately, the waves slued the boat so it went sideways toward shore. The leather-clad man stood there. He held his club two-handed, and he craned his head as if to see what happened here in the vacchette. It told me he couldn’t see in the dark as well as me.
Since I couldn’t control the vacchette single-handed, not until I had time to study it, I slipped over the gunwale farthest from him and rolled into the sea. The salt water stung my wound.
I wondered briefly if the moon’s constant healing was making me clumsy. The cuts and bruises hurt as much as ever. But a man’s reactions were different when he knew everything could be healed.
I eased my eyes above water. The large, leather-clad man shouted at the vacchette. Was he blind to some of the octo-men floating nearby?
I rose slowly. Waves rolled against my back and pushed me. The near giant-my head almost reached the height of his shoulders-shouted louder. The vacchette scraped against sand, and the sea turned it over.
Now shouts floated from the galley. Lanterns appeared, but it was too far for them to see at night. Did they have another vacchette? I froze then, for I spied a girl on the galley deck. She was half the size of the altered man beside her. That made her much taller than I remembered. Just how long had I slept in the swamp?
From higher on shore, the near giant raised his club. “Who are you?” he shouted.
I waded out of the water with the moon at my back. I waded with a feeling of floating, with exquisite rage roaring in my ears.
Underneath his leathers, he appeared to have lumpy muscles. He appeared to be strong, likely inhumanly so.
“You!” he shouted. “Are you from the boat?”
“I am,” I said, and my voice sounded strange.
He cocked his head. The package was between his booted feet. “Why did the vacchette tip over?” he shouted. “I thought I heard fighting.”
“Did the screaming give it away?”
“Mock me at your peril, O man. I am Anaximander. And I come from the Forgotten Ones.”
“Does that make you an Old One?”
He stepped toward me, squinting. Then he jerked back. “Bodies float in the water. What happened, man? Why did you fight among yourselves?”
There were more shouts from the galley. Sailors heaved in time to a sea-chantey as they pulled up the anchors. Others lit lanterns and hung them on the sides. It seemed as if the captain had decided to bring the galley closer to shore. He must not have owned a second vacchette. The little girl had disappeared or someone had taken her away.
Anaximander took a wide stance and gripped his club with both hands.
“You never did tell if you’re an Old One or not,” I said, drawing my knife.
His face tightened. “You’re the Darkling,” he whispered.
My cloak flapped as I leaped. He swung. It was powerful. I heard it swish. But in relation to me, the club was ponderously slow. I cut, and the blade barely scratched his skin. I almost stopped in shock. The club swung back. I barely jumped away in time.
“What are you?” I asked.
“Elated that I can gain my reward so soon,” he said with a laugh. “Why do you think the Lord of Night begged for my aid? Mortals fear your blade, but not me.”
I darted in again like a wolf. This time I hacked at his arm. It was like hacking at a tree. He used his knees like battering rams. He swung his club in short, chopping arcs. I ducked, sidestepped and hacked three more times. This could go on all night.
“One of these times my club will connect,” he panted.
“Why is my daughter on the galley?”
“Others fear your deathblade. But long ago, Old Father Night dipped me six times in the River Styx. I have the skin of a pine and the strength of a behemoth. Come, little man, end this charade, or I shall only knock you senseless and then drag you down to the Forgotten Ones.”
He charged. I darted out of the way and chopped as hard as I could. Black stuff oozed from him, although it quickly hardened.
Octo-men bellowed from the approaching galley. Giant oars dipped in time to a booming kettledrum, and like a ginger beast, the galley creaked closer. Tentacle-limbed crossbowmen wound their weapons. A slotted lantern swept the shore with light.
I sheathed my knife and lifted a heavy rock. Anaximander charged with his club held high. He may have been strong and his skin was tree tough, but he was slow and fought clumsily. I heaved. The rock smashed against his chest. He toppled back and hit the sand with a thud. I sprang like a leopard, rolled him onto his belly and grabbed a fistful of hair. I yanked back hard, arched his neck. Then I hacked at his neck, once, twice, thrice.
Anaximander roared and put his hands on the sand. He heaved up. I hacked three more times. Black fluid gushed from his neck. I made ready to saw off his head.
Crossbows twanged. Several stubby bolts hissed past me and kicked up sand. Two smashed into my back and almost hurled me off Anaximander. One bounced off him. I hacked at the remaining shreds of flesh and parted Anaximander’s head from his torso.
Black stuff oozed from the stump of his neck, but his body refused to wilt. It still pushed up, twisted and the wide hands grabbed for me.
I darted aside, astonished and sickened.
“Oh, that was foully done,” the detached head said as it lay on its side.
The lumpy muscled body lumbered to the head. It reached down and grasped the long hair. It lifted the head, swiveled around and aimed the face at me as if it were a lantern. The flow of black blood had stopped, and the mouth made odd gasping noises.
How could he speak without air from his lungs?
“I will never forgive this indignity,” Anaximander rasped. “I vow before Old Father Night that I shall drag you into the underworld. You shall serve me ten thousand years, crying out in agony every minute.”
I shuffled back from this creature and finally felt the two crossbow bolts protruding from me. One was stuck between my shoulder blades while the other might have hit a kidney. They hurt and made it difficult to concentrate.