Arc 1 Chapter 7

Spume

For a breath, everyone onboard the Tax-Me-Not stares at the distant frothing wave. Sitting at the stern I have an unobstructed view, but the disturbance is too far away to see anything besides a 3 or so metre-wide patch of white turbulence maybe 300 metres away.

The Captain takes another second to observe before coming to a decision, he yells in Graboshen loud enough to be heard across the ship, "[Shckveal! Hard to starboard Sicklemouth! Drummer! Rotrud pace faster!]" I don't understand every word he says, but his meaning is clear enough.

Gordon, who is still at the rudderman's post, pulls hard on the paddle, taking the ship off its Northern course towards the West. 

The Navigator approaches Gordon with his compass and map in hand—presumably to figure out our new course. 

The drummer, sitting facing aft at the ship's prow, rapids his beating, and the oarsmen mechanically follow. The Tax-Me-Not flies West through the gentle sea, leaving the mysterious disturbance behind us.

Even sitting down Gordon's huge frame behind me is blocking my sight from where I stand near my rucksack, I have to lean over the rail to get a better view of the frothing water. It's very hard to judge if the spume is following us or not, it's either stationary or moving slowly—we're leaving it behind anyway. A minute later I can't see it.

"Best be sitting down Silver Pixie, we don't know when it might strike." My oversized husband tells me. The Navigator is crouching beside him, scribbling calculations onto scrap paper while periodically inspecting his map and compass.

I don't sit down. I have no intention of following my husband's advice, unwilling marriage spell or not—I don't think the spell can stop me from being spiteful. "What was 'it'? And what does 'shckveal' mean?" I ask him, defiantly leaning on the portside rail. 

Gordon shakes his head at me and looks like he's going to answer, but the Navigator cuts in first, "We don't know what it is, [shckveal] is the word for an unknown disturbance in the water," the orc explains. He seems content with his work and stashes his map and compass into his cloak-poncho thing. He joins me in ignoring Gordon's advice and leans on the rail, "It means 'white snakes' in Old Ogre, in reference to how froth looks like white snakes wriggling under the surface. It's yelled to warn about any unknown disturbance in the water" He thinks a second, "It also might be a reference to sea serpents found in the other oceans."

Serpents huh, that's another air-breathing species that I only know about from myths.

By now Gordon has finished his smoke, and he begins to refill his ivory pipe with fresh tobacco, using his thumb to stamp the dry leaves. Then, one hand still holding the rudder, he lights it with a match. He draws long before offering it to the Navigator, who gladly accepts. 

"It was a sea beastie I tell ya," interjects Glan'Holligick, one of the nearest oarsmen working the port aftmost bench. It seems he was listening in. The oarsmen sit facing backwards as they row, so despite us being in the back of the ship, many of the men watch us as they work and we didn't speak quietly.

Gordon nods, then while exhaling a white cloud, "It could be anything, a sea-beast probably, but it could be a mainlander submersible, or even an old demon walking across the seafloor. Could even be just an eruption of miasma—although we're still a bit too far from the Crater's centre for that to be likely." The Navigator passes him the pipe back, "Either way it's nothing good, so sit down girlie."

"No." 

As the minutes pass, the lookout—who sits perched in a sling tied to the mizzenmast—announces losing sight of the frothing water. The oarsmen are beginning to tire from their increased work, but the Captain announces he wants to put more distance between us and the mysterious [Shckveal]. 

Gordon and the Navigator continue to chat while sharing a smoke, the Navigator—whose name is Elias I learn—offers the pipe to me, but I've never smoked before and I think Gordon will make fun of me if I try now, so I refuse. Also grandma said smoking is really bad for your health anyway.

Eventually, the Captain has no choice but to slow the pace. The drummer eases up and the men begin to catch their breath.

Gordon's pipe is pocketed as he and the Navigator begin to turn the galley back towards our true Northern course. 

They don't make the full turn.

"[Froth! Aft 300 metres!]" The lookout's call interrupts their efforts.

The Captain, sitting on his high chair opposite me, grimaces. "How much further can we go until we hit the depths, Elias?"

"Another 10 minutes, if we go full pace," the Navigator calls from we're he's scribbling fresh calculations. This time he's using an apparatus I don't recognise, he seems to be using it to measure the angle of the sun. He's got his pocket watch out too.

The Captain mutters something under his breath. Every second he waits, the frothing wave—which I can see now—gets closer. He speaks to the Navigator, "It's definitely following us. Whatever it is we can't let it chase us into deeper water or it'll be the least of our worries." 

The Captain is a fairly large orc, a bit shorter than Gordon, but he has the same wide build. He rubs his curled black beard. "Bearing 22 degrees North-North-East. Get us towards Grabosh." He looks conflicted, and glances at our pursuer—which is now maybe only 250 metres behind. He steels himself and yells loud enough for the prow to hear, "[Rotrud drummer! Dar rowing you bruchduas!]" 

Honestly, I hadn't even noticed he had been talking to the Navigator in Picklish before, right until he switched to Graboshen for the rest of the crew. It's kind of them to keep me in the loop, I doubt they'd speak in Picklish if I wasn't here.

Until today, the Tax-Me-Not was following an undersea mountain range running North, with deeper water east and west of us. The hundred tallest peaks of this mountain range poke above the waterline making the string of islands we call the Southern Archipelago, including Perrifare. The Crater Sea is like a huge wheel, with Grabosh being the hub and various mountain chains being like spokes connecting Grabosh to the Crater's Rim. The shallower water between the mountains are the primary shipping lanes used by all sailors in the Crater Sea—by following them you can avoid sailing over the Beasts' Depths.

I understand wanting to avoid deep water—grandma has told plenty of stories about ships getting lost—but turning while we're being chased seems like a bad idea, so I decide to interject, "If we turn 90-degrees now, won't the froth cut us off?" 

The Captain sits in his high-chair, watching aft over his shoulder, he doesn't sound confident as he answers in Picklish, "I don't think so. It was travelling a short distance behind us, I suspect it's faster than us and is purposefully matching our pace. It's probably waiting until we tire before it'll strike. But it underestimates orcish stamina, it should give up in an hour or two—it has easier prey than us." The Captain looks away from the froth and aims his black beard towards me, "Sorry lass, I might ask you to help out. At this pace we'll need more drink than what the waterboy can serve on his own. Would you mind?"

 I nod. I was bored earlier anyway, and of course I want to pull my weight on this voyage. Also if I need help escaping Gordon later, I want these orcs to like me.

"Good lass. [Hrajann! Here! Come!]"

The young waterboy stops carrying water down the aisle and approaches. He glances at me before standing at attention infront of the Captain. "[Yes cap'n?]" 

"[Cro terr the lass vempba wine and water, grav she'll you.]"

The green-skinned orcling nods, and I follow him down the stern hatch into the hold. He gives me an empty flask and shows me where the wine and water is stored, he demonstrates in his own flask the correct ratio to dilute. A few times he ogles me when he thinks I won't notice. I think the poor boy has a crush on me.

The Waterboy, or Hrajann I suppose his name is, is only a few centimetres taller than me. Originally I thought he was much younger than me, but getting a closer look now I'm not actually sure if that's true. The problem with guessing an orc's age, is that they age at a very different rate from goblins. We have about the same lifespan, but orcs reach maturity slower. Worse, the rate they grow is highly dependent on the amount of ogre blood they have. I think the Waterboy might actually be almost my age, he's just nearly pure ogre and so he's growing slow. I also didn't realise before that his tusks have in fact begun to emerge, they just haven't passed his lips yet and are only visible when he opens his mouth.

He doesn't say anything to me, I think we both know we won't understand each other, and I think he's too awkward to try and talk in front of me.

Once my flask is full I follow him back up deckside and begin passing drink out to the perspiring orcs. Each man takes the flask in one hand while rowing with the other, they drink heartily then push the flask to their bench-mate, who drinks their fill and then tosses back to me. I can only carry enough for five or so orcs, then run back down to the hold to refill—that's not because the flask is small, it's must be 15kg, large enough that carrying two of them would be cumbersome for me and Hrajann. Bull-orcs just drink a lot.

I've been running water for almost an hour now, and I really do mean running. With close to a hundred orcish oarsmen at the benches, keeping up with their thirst is hard work—I'm sweating almost more than they are.

The men have been singing, and not the merry limericks of fine weather. They are singing a slow and steady labourers song, each deep note punctuated by a boom of the drum. The lyrics are simple and repetitive enough that I've learnt their words—if not their meaning—but I'm panting too much to join their ensemble.

Twice the Captain has slowed enough for the lookout to confirm that our tail is still there. The crew's morale is low, some men have even stopped singing to save their breath. 

The farm-girl physique I'm so proud of is the only thing keeping me going. I have to stop every few minutes to catch my breath and take a good swig from my own flask, but I don't think me or the crew will be able to keep up this pace for much longer.

The captain must realise this also, he orders for the sleeping men to be woken, and sets up a 20 minute rotation. 

Rudaran is amongst the roused crew, with dreary eyes he replaces Gordon on the rudderman's post. My husband takes a turn at a rollock as he was originally scheduled to do.

Thankfully a few men take pity on the Waterboy and I, and give us a 20-minute rest as well.

I collapse onto my rucksack, I don't remember the last time I've run so much. Once I've caught my breath I pull myself up and look backwards towards our mysterious pursuer, barely visible to me in the distance. 

I think it's going to be a long day.