Chapter Six: The Beast & The Woven Sea

In a normal battle, there might have been a deep pause before the eruption. One last chance to contemplate your fate before it’s too late to turn back. Epics of the Wayward Dragoon, Charles’ favorite story from Grandfather, built tension with such a pause at its most famous scene, when the ragtag band of mounted cavalry led by its protagonist—the lost heir of a shattered nation—charged into certain death as a last noble effort to give nearby villages a chance to evacuate. The mad writer and historian, Otto of Erita, described a similar standoff between an arrogant warlord and an all-powerful deity in his unpublished odyssey, Visions of the Winged Men. Dramatic pauses were part of all the best stories of bold deeds and warfare, of heroism and clashing kingdoms, and from a logical perspective, it only made sense. When else would hope and regret feel more vivid than right at the crucial hour? Charles could only imagine all that weighed on a real warrior’s mind in the moments before they rushed towards what could be life’s final chapter. In a normal battle, the first moments might have played out differently. But the Spears of Mercy lived with few, if any, of ordinary mens’ reservations, and the unfeeling beasts of nature have none.

The first spark lit when a red plunged his spear into the greater of the two boa’s tails. A solid hit. The blade sank deep. Deep enough to finish a lesser opponent, perhaps, but this one was barely fazed. The man paid for his choice almost instantly when the serpent seized him in its jaws and flung him against a jagged cliffside as a child might skip a pebble. From his viewpoint a hundred yards away and a good fifty below, Charles watched the body limply plummet to the grassy slope. He did not bother waiting to see if it would move again. His legs trembled. They had not stopped trembling since the snakes first burst free from their hiding place under the ancient cairns. How could any living thing be that strong? It was unreal. Was it any wonder men of the past branded them gods?

With that exchange, the opening blows had been struck. It was like a bolt of lightning signaling the start of the storm. Spear and serpent flew at each other. What followed was sheer carnage. Dozens of spearpoints flashed. Fangs buried themselves in armor, and the hiss-like roars echoed across the fog-laden hills. Gargantuan tails writhed and whipped, smashing anything too slow to get out of their way. At one point, a pair of raiders met their end crushed between the snake’s massive bodies as they slid past one another in the frenzy. Magnus, Charles and Luet stood rooted in their boots, terrified to be so close, but too terrified to turn away, either. All they could do was observe in stunned silence, waiting for a clear opening to make their escape. Luet wasn’t faring well. He looked like he might lose his breakfast any second, his tangled brown locks plastered firmly against a pale forehead. Even the Galley’s red-haired chef, by his own admission a veteran of harsh voyages and giant beasts, did not last long before he broke and shut his eyes to the grotesque display. Charles wanted to do the same, but found himself completely absorbed. Not just because, like an upturned carriage or collapsed bridge, it was difficult to tear yourself away, but because what he was seeing did not make sense to him.

“This can’t be...,” he thought aloud. Magnus’ green eyes flicked open. Luet absently turned and faced him. He seemed grateful for any excuse not to have to look straight ahead. “....Those boas. They shouldn’t be able to fight back so hard,” Charles continued. “They shouldn’t be so...,” He waved his hand, grasping for the right phrase.

“Full of piss and vinegar,” Magnus finished for him.

“Yes!” Charles said, snapping his fingers. That was it. Disgusting, but apt. “They’ve been in a state called brumation since autumn. That’s why they were under the cairns. It should be slowing them, but the way they’re acting, you’d never guess they just spent all those weeks underground.” Something was amiss. It was true that brumation was not quite the same as hibernation. It was more deep meditation than sleep. But even if it didn’t stop a creatures’ mobility completely, it did hinder mobility, or at least...it was supposed to. A handful of species of snakes and lizards used it to endure long periods of cold, usually while hiding away in some crack or crevice. A clever adaptation, but the cost was that it would leave them helpless if they were discovered before it wore off. Had that not been the case here? In theory, stirring from a long rest in icy temperatures should have been making the boa’s groggy, their long, muscled frames weak and lethargic. Anyone is easier to handle when you catch them half-stuck in a nap. In reality, they were serving the Spears of Mercy all they could handle, then piling on another helping for good measure. Those muscles weren’t looking lethargic in the least. How could this be? Winter was at its peak. Spring another four weeks off, at least. For these monstrosities to have stirred at all should have taken a sudden, drastic change in weather. An usual spell of hot days to warm their bodies and recover their full strength. Some kind of heat sour-

Smoke stung Charles’ eyes. He rubbed them with his sleeve, but even after several attempts one felt as though a bit of debris was still stuck in it. Without much thought, he stole a quick glance over his shoulder to see where the trail of smoke was coming from and if he might need to move out of its way, but when the sprawling sea of tents filled his view, suddenly he understood. Camp had been seated in the midst of the cairns, but even at the darkest point of the night, when the fog crept in low and made every path a twin to the others, it was still easy to find your own tent. Getting around was no trouble at all. Not with the countless flames that lit the way like a second set of stars. His stomach lurched.

The campfires. We’ve been slow-cooking them out of brumation for nearly a week.

He turned to explain what he’d just learned to Magnus and Luet, but neither was listening. After what seemed an hour, but could well have been less than a minute, it looked as though their golden opportunity was about to arrive. The madness was settling to a standoff. The Spears, far from being cowed by the boas’ awesome displays of might, had been giving just as ferociously as they got, determined to see blood for blood. That determination had finally tilted the table in their favor. Two-score of the emperor’s raiders had managed to form a rough ring around both serpents, sealing them inside. Now they harassed their foes from all sides with a constant barrage of jabs. Shallow and quick, so as not to leave themselves too exposed. The fangs still came. The tails still smashed. But lessons had been learned quickly from their fallen brothers. Every time a boa made to close its jaws around a raider or crush him with its tail, that man retreated and let the others attack from a blind spot on the opposite side. A single stab to the body only seemed to enrage them, but many upon many took their toll. Dark red flowed between both sets of silver scales. The smaller snake—the one who had emerged first—had taken the worst of it. It was actively retreating from the wall of blades now. Hissing with fury, making petty feints towards its attackers, but never getting too close for a spearpoint to end it. When backed against the greater snake, it hid its head like a child taking refuge under the body of its father. Charles’ legs weren’t trembling so badly. He felt less afraid now. Instead he felt ill. To him, the bloodied, frightened boa didn’t seem a tenth as threatening as it had mere minutes ago. It just looked desperate and defeated. Almost pathetic. As the red raiders advanced, its writhing lashes became more and more erratic. It was disturbing to know that even an animal can see its own chances of survival dwindling down to nothing.

Charles let go of a breath he had not realized he was holding. They have it, he thought. Against all odds, they had it. His bad leg was especially relieved. It had been tightening up on him in anticipation of being put through a strenuous getaway sprint. Luckily, that didn’t seem like it was going to be necessary, after all. It had been the most brutal learning curve imaginable, but the Spears had adapted like the wind shifting direction. With one of the boas out of the picture, the battle would go from tilted to all but one-sided. The daylight at the mouth of the cavern was in sight. Charles sighed again. Aside from having made it through alive and unscathed, he was grateful for another thing. He would not have to witness any more death today.

A firm grip seized his shoulder. “Come,” Magnus said suddenly. “We’re leaving. Right now.” His tone surprised the eleve. It was...rattled. Perhaps the closest to afraid Charles had heard it. “They’re well-occupied. This is as good as we’ll get. Let’s fall back to a safer distance, both of you. That’s not a request. Move now.”

“Right. As you say, Chef,” Charles said. He stomped, trying to shake off what was left of the trembling. “Sorry, but I’ll have to ease into it a bit. My leg’s acting up.”

“Just hurry,” Magnus snapped. He jabbed at Luet. “That means you, too, Captain Crème Brûlée.”

Luet seethed at the nickname. “Not that I’m eager to stick around, but aren’t we safe at this point?” he said. “It looked dicey for a second there, but it’s basically over. The imperials have them cornered.”

This only seemed to agitate Magnus. “Spoken like an oaf who’s never seen a cornered kraken,” he said under his breath. He shoved Charles forward. “Move! Faster now! A thing isn’t over until it’s over!” They made to leave. Charles opened his mouth. He was about to ask exactly what Magnus meant with his comment when the table tilted once more.

The smaller boa lunged. It was a pathetic, desperate, out-of-nowhere lunge that caught the line of Spears completely off-guard. It bit hard onto the helm of the center man, producing a sickening sound as it crushed his skull. Then, in a tangle of speed and slithering, it bowled straight over his corpse, darting past that crucial point where even a longspear’s full range could no longer reach. All before the first word could pass Charles’ lips.

It was out of the ring.

The Spears who had been closest recovered quickly. They turned to give chase, but a massive thrash from the larger boa froze them in their tracks. It, too, had abandoned self-preservation and was trying to crash straight through the cage of blades even at the risk of skewering itself to death. One final, crazed burst of energy with nothing left to lose. It was a split-second ultimatum: allow the weaker of two enemies, one who was already grievously wounded, to get away, or risk a more powerful foe breaking out and inflicting even greater damage and death. The raiders turned back. They had chosen to preserve the ring their brothers had been sacrificed to establish. They would deal with the graver threat first, then go after the smaller boa when they were finished. Not an unwise decision for the camp as a whole. A disaster for anyone who happened to be standing closeby. The colossal boa wasted no time deciding what to do with its newfound freedom.

It rushed straight for Charles, Magnus, and Luet.

“Run!” Magnus shouted.

Charles tried. Truly, he did. He ignored the trembling and tightening and made to sprint for his life. The first step went well enough. A little pain, but that was to be expected. The second and third were fine as well, but this was where things grew less certain. At the start of winter, he’d been able to make it four—or, on a good day, five—strides at a full run before his bad leg started to seize up. It always started with an awful spasm. Then many smaller twitches and shakes at random intervals. And once it started seizing, it would keep seizing, sometimes for hours before settling down. But he had been sure it would be different now. After all the steps taken toward recovery, all the slow buildup and routine exercise that had pained him a little less with each passing day, and all the small victories made toward being able to move around like his old self, he had thought with full confidence that a short run would not be too much for it. The fourth and fifth strides passed without incident. Sharper pain now, but nothing too serious. He was holding up well. Very well, even. But that only made sense. After all, what stronger motivation could he possibly have than the one chasing him?

He made it eleven strides before his leg buckled and took him hard to the ground. More than double his record. Spasms shook him. By the time he shakily scrambled to his feet, Magnus and Luet were gone. Both had gotten a much better start; they had been well ahead by the time he fell. Unless one of his fellow chefs had the presence of mind to turn back and check on him, they would have no idea he wasn’t still a few paces behind. The roar-like hiss of the colossal boa came closer. It barged through the waves of the woven sea, leaving a trail of devastation with the low of its belly. Charles started to limp as fast as limping would allow. Each pressure placed on his leg rewarded him with another spasm. Charles cursed. He wasn’t going to be running any distance for a good while.

He tried to think. For the moment, what he really needed was to buy time. He briefly considered trying to slink away into one of the raider’s tents. There was a chance he would go unnoticed. But when he saw the boa casually trample a line of said tents, he changed his mind. Thoughts full of panic, he glanced about, then made for the one structure in the Spears’ camp that might hold up a little longer against a snake the size of a barn.

The standard tent for a Spear of Mercy was black, bland, and built for one. A raider could sleep there and little else. They served their purpose, but Thorne could hardly address his entire battalion in one. The camp needed a place where many reds could gather at once, and for that, it seated a great, white marquee at its heart, where it dwarfed even the Green Galley and towered over the black tents. It was here that Charles sought his respite. He managed to reach the central wooden pillar that held the marquee upright before the boa followed him inside, but he could hear it hiss just as he left through the adjacent exit and unfastened the knot that kept the doorway ajar. From the inside, it would appear a curtain had fallen and the exit had simply vanished. The hissing grew louder and more rageful. Already, a section of the marquee’s roof was crumpling and folding in on itself. Walls of canvas could never hope to hold back such a powerful creature. It would not be long before the boa lost its patience and started rampaging in an effort to free itself.

Charles was counting on it. That supportive pillar was broad and sturdy. Had he been lucky enough to find an ax and tried to break it with his own strength, it might have taken a hundred swings. Armed with its titan oak of a tail, the colossal boa accomplished the same feat with just one, bringing the entirety of the white marquee crashing down on top of itself. Charles watched the enormous outline of its body writhe under the canvas. The hissing was muffled, but now there was a particularly hateful edge to it. Oh grand, he thought. Now it’s even more angry. It took a fang puncturing the surface to startle him out of his blank stare. He’d been given his respite, but it wouldn’t last long. He limped onward just as a second hole pierced the canvas. Through this one, an eye with a purple iris glared daggers.

What could he do? Where could he go? That trick probably wouldn’t work a second time. Even if it could, there was nothing bigger for him to drop on this thing. Charles struggled to keep himself together. Rationality had abandoned him. He was led forward only by the primitive drive to stay alive. He cut through the rows of tents in a criss-cross pattern. Three or four tents forward, then one or two to the side. He hoped it would keep the boa from gaining a direct line of sight. There was a great tearing from the ruins of the marquee, and an unmuffled hiss struck his ears.

The beast was charging.