Below deck, once they were out of sight of the crew, Maeda whirled on Errol. “You’ll see to the rest, Mako? You expect us to swim, held above the waves by your giant ego?”

“I expect you all to do your jobs,” Errol said gravely.

Maeda surprised him by laughing in his face. “And what do you suppose that looks like, little shark?”

Errol stiffened. “It might mean swimming, yes. If it comes to it, you’ll lead the charge, as expected from a Hammerhead.”

“Nifty trick, turning that back on me. Hope you can outswim the sea monsters.”

They fell silent, staring at each other for a moment. Errol shouldered past her into the main galley, where the others already clustered around a tiny table, listening to Gruvrik spin a tale—it sounded like he’d single-handled fought off a pack of pirates on the high seas.

Taras nudged Gruvrik. “I didn’t take you for the seafaring type.”

“Bah! Hate the water, and that’s the truth,” Gruvrik spat back. “I’d hoped Indara’s mages would just teleport us over.”

Taras shook his head. “Can’t. The interference is too strong.”

“What’s the plan, Errol?” Maeda prompted him with a far-too-pleased upturn of her lips. “If we can’t teleport, and the ship can’t make it to the Bridge, what do we do?”

The ship listed to the side just then, tossing Rhae out of her seat. She blushed, the pink rising into her horns in embarrassment. Errol helped her to her feet, fussing over her more than was necessary, trying to draw their attention away from the problem at hand.

A half hour of relative calm had lulled Errol into a state of confidence, but as they drew nearer to the stormwall surrounding the Bridge, the seas kicked up around them. The Djullanar leaped and bucked, crashing through the swells. Errol clamped down with an iron will on his stomach’s urge to expel his breakfast. He didn’t expect anything less than a rough welcome, but the storm was only going to get worse the farther they pushed onward. Swimming might not work.

Shiori barged into the galley before the questions could start up again. "Storm's picking up.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Gruvrik grumbled, clutching the side of the table for support. His old, gnarled face looked a bit paler than usual.

Shiori ignored him. “We should turn back, but since I imagine it will take a few more big waves to change your minds, you should all retire to your cabin. You’ll be safer than out here in the open galley.”

Single-file due to the ship’s tight passageway, the team shuffled to their bunks, arms out to brace on either side when the ship rolled or pitched under their feet. They squished into the narrow room together, close enough that the sour, rancid smell of someone’s unwashed body assaulted Errol’s nostrils. Maybe swimming wasn’t a bad idea, if only to drown the odor in salt water.

Above them, an ominous cracking sound cut through the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves.

Rhae whimpered and clutched Jarkoda’s arm. “Was that the mast breaking? I don’t want to drown!”

“Sing for us,” Maeda suggested, sparing a motherly glance at the young Qeren.

Well that was unexpected. Errol considered revising his opinion of the usually-dour Hammerhead. Maybe she was actually nice; maybe she just didn’t like him.

Rhae had just struck up a soothing song when shouting filtered through the cabin walls, rising above the dull roar of the outside storm. A scream was cut short, followed by something solid thudding into the door, shaking the sturdy portal in its frame.

“We’re turning around, or you’re going overboard!” a rough voice yelled.

Errol locked eyes with his team, then yelled back, “You’ll honor the contract if I have to hold you to it at knifepoint!”

Heavy blows rained on the door. Soon, it splintered and slammed open. Two burly sailors stood outside, cutlasses at the ready, while a third squeezed through the broken door and grabbed the nearest adventurer: Errol. The scowling sailor dragged him out into the passageway and threw him on his knees.

The larger of the two armed men, bare-chested and covered with tattoos, drew a long knife with his off hand. He jammed the tip up under Errol’s chin and glared. “I’m the one with the knife here, son, so cut the big talk. This is madness. We’re honest folk; if you tell the captain to turn around, we’ll let you go.”

Errol flashed the man a lopsided grin. “Nothing says honesty like threatening to gut your passengers and toss them overboard.”

Pressure on the blade’s point drew a bead of blood. Errol swallowed, trying to figure out his course of action. Appealing to their good will to honor the contract didn’t seem like an option, and he didn’t have enough money for bribery.

Errol sighed and released his voltage stream, pouring just enough force into the attack to make the man yelp and leap back. He jumped to his feet and flourished his own dagger, daring the other sailors to attack.

A faint scent of sizzling flesh lingered in the air. Eyes wide, they backed off, wary that he might be a dangerous target.

Twirling the knife casually in his hand, Errol stared them down. “Care to test yourself against a full fledged Eel?”

“Stand down!” Shiori roared, stalking down the passageway. The sailors scurried off in the other direction, covering their faces as though they could hide their identity against possible disciplinary actions.

She stopped in front of the cabin, hands on her hips, feet shoulder-width apart, one foot in front of the other and slightly off to the side to maintain her balance as the ship heaved and rolled. “I said I’d take you to the Bridge, but I don’t blame my crew. They’re right. Djullanar can’t take much more.”

“We sail for the Bridge,” Errol insisted.

Shiori shrugged. “Can’t pay me enough for that.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “If it’s gold you want, I’ll pay any sum. I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how generous the Chancellor can be—name your price, but stay the course.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I’ll give you ten more minutes.”

“Will we reach the docks that soon?” Maeda asked, a hint of skepticism in her tone.

“No, but I’ll give you a skiff. Final offer,” Shirori said. More shouting rose above the din. She whirled to run back above deck. “I’ve got a mutiny to stop.”

After the captain left earshot, Taras crossed his arms and addressed the team. “We may want to heed her words. She’s risking her entire livelihood to take us to the Bridge. There must be another way.”

Errol grunted. If he gave in now, he was tacitly admitting that Taras should have been in charge from the beginning. “She gave her word. We push on for the Bridge.” He glared around the room, daring them to argue.

No one said a word, but he sensed their uneasiness as the ship groaned and threatened to break apart. They passed another several minutes in silence, everyone avoiding eye contact. Errol’s skin crawled with the uncomfortable tension.

The boat juddered, throwing them sideways against the bulkhead.

“Rough seas! Tie yourselves down,” Maeda shouted, her sailing experience kicking in immediately. Errol was glad to defer to her lead for once. He may be Shark Clan, but he rarely ventured out on the waves, and he fought to keep his nausea under control. He’d thought the earlier waves were bad, but apparently they were just a warning.

Shiori burst into the cabin then, wide-eyed in horror. “Get off my boat!”

Errol cut the bindings, not bothering to try to undo the knot, and scrambled to his feet. He roared for the hunters to follow Shiori. His knees buckled as he tried to step after her. His hands slammed into the deck, jamming his wrists with a flash of pain. He grunted, but crawled after the captain. The rest would follow. Or not.

Salt spray stung his eyes and pricked his cheeks as soon as he lifted his head above deck. Waves rose above the masts. Thunder boomed, shivering the air around him, unnaturally twisted and somehow malicious. On the far edges of his mind, a foreign entity brushed his consciousness, vast and seething with murderous intent.

Shiori beckoned them onward, pointing toward a little boat. “Get in! We’re turning around in two minutes, whether you’re boarded or not!”

Errol nodded and staggered across the deck, toward her crew while she turned the ship around, bearing back toward Laurentum. The sailors struggled to keep their footing on the tilted deck, tossed about by the massive waves as they wrestled with the ropes holding the landing skiff in place.

A blinding sheet of lightning split the skies, forking into a thousand glittering lances and striking the ship’s deck. The skiff ripped in half in an explosion of splinters, scattering sailors over the edge of the ship and flinging Errol to the deck.

Scrabbling backward on all fours, Errol pulled his team back below deck. They huddled around the tiny table in the galley, Taras praying for their survival, and lashed themselves back down. They had no choice now but to ride out the storm and hope for the best.

“I’m sorry I failed you,” Errol said, barely managing to keep the self-pity out of his voice.

“The dwarf could get us there,” the hooded girl suddenly announced.

All eyes turned toward her. “And what about you?” Gruvrik asked. “What are you going to contribute to this adventure? We don’t even know who you are.”

“I will tell you everything when we reach the Bridge. For now, know that Indara selected me by hand and sent me with her . . . blessing.” A note of humor crept into her voice.

Errol filed it away for future reference. He’d push for answers when they weren’t about to die. In the meantime: “Gruvrik, what exactly does she mean? How can you help us—I thought you hated water.”

“I do!” Gruvrik bellowed. He scrunched up one eye and scowled at the hooded hunter. “Swore I’d never touch the sea again.”

“The last time was an honorable action,” the hooded girl said. “And so is this time.”

Gruvrik hunched his shoulders and flopped down on the floor. “Bah! Enough talking, little girl. Don’t know how you weaseled that story out of Indara, anyway. Hmph. I’ll do it, because it has to be done, but I ain’t happy about it.”

“Rum,” Gruvrik hollered.

Errol pointed to the lashing around his midsection and shook his head.

The hooded girl had already loosened the safety bonds holding her in place against the low bunk and ducked out of the galley. She somehow managed to look graceful as she kept her balance amidst the swaying and sudden drops whenever the ship crashed through a wave in the choppy seas.

“How can you drink at a time like this?” Taras yelled above the wind, which had risen to a shrieking cacophony that threatened to split Errol’s eardrums.

“Ain’t no better time to drink than when you’re spitting in death’s face!” Gruvrik said. “But I’ll need rum to fuel the transformation.”

The ship trembled then, as though the storm spirit had seized the craft and rung it like a gong. Vibrations ran through the vessel until the timbers quivered and split. A terrible, keening sound forced Errol to jam his hands over his eras. The harmonic oscillations grew more violent, shaking them in the throes of the ship’s death.

“All the time is a good time to drink, now that I think about it,” Gruvrik said cheerfully. “No bad times, as long as we’ve got rum.”

“No rum yet,” Maeda snapped.

Just then, the hooded hunter dashed back into the room, falling sideways with the ship’s roll to land on the wall, where she crouched as if she sat on the floor. A cask hung from her back, strapped in place with a net Errol recognized with a shock. How had the hunter managed to take the net away from Maeda on her way out? He couldn’t recall seeing anyone able to pickpocket a Hammerhead. Who was she?

Gruvrik stomped over to the hooded girl, tottering a bit on his short legs. He bit into the rim of the cask with his bare teeth, spitting out splinters and sloshing rum across the deck. With a loud growl of satisfaction, he lifted the keg above his head and poured the rum straight down his throat, chugging like his life depended on it. Errol suspected it just might.

“Go back above deck,” Gruvrik ordered. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Slipping and sliding in the boat-turned-deathtrap, Errol clambered back outside. A few harrowing moments later, the rest of the hunters emerged topside, all except for Gruvrik. Errol grabbed Jarkoda by the cloak. “You were the last one out! Where is the little drunk?”

Jarkoda leaned close and screamed to be heard above the howling gale. “Stupid dwarf dove through a porthole! He’s dead, sure as we are if we don’t get out of this storm.”

Errol struggled to process the words. The dwarf hated water, but he didn’t seem suicidal. What had he said about a transformation? Rum fueled it, Gruvrik claimed.

Rhae was crying. “I don’t want to die, too! We shouldn’t have left him alone.”

A massive tentacle slammed down on the deck next to him, splintering wood. Errol fell in his haste to scramble away from the massive suction-cup covered limb, but another limb snaked out and caught him by the ankle, flinging him twenty feet up into the air and catching him upside down, where hung suspended in the midst of the storm. Below, the deck strained and buckled under the force of the waves and wind. Figures rolled in all directions, flung about by the chaos.

More tentacles flashed through the splattering rain, catching up each of the hunters with unerring accuracy. The creature rose up out of the water, its bulk dwarfing the ship, wrapping its limbs around the vessel. A mighty heave launched the ship away from the tendrils of darkstorm swirling around the Bridge, sending the craft flying back toward smooth seas and clear skies. Errol could just make out a line where the cauldron ended; the waves and winds preternaturally stopped as soon as they hit the boundary.

Djullanar eclipsed the boundary and the rigging went still. Shiori had enough foresight to bind the sails tight, and now the sailors scrambled into position, unfurling the sails and tacking into the wind to flee from the malevolence of whatever malady afflicted the Bridge.

A whoosh of air brought Errol back to the terror at hand. The colossal beast beneath him quivered and contracted its muscles, launching up from the water with its awesome power. Its tentacles and fins stroked the water like a warship under full oars. They skimmed the surface of the whitecaps, speeding toward the Bridge more quickly than Errol had believed possible. He squeezed his eyes shut against the biting pain of the wind. The air rippled his cheeks with its force. His skin flapped until he thought his lips would peel away.

As abruptly as it had begun, they slammed to a halt. The oppressive darkness lifted, just a little, and Errol could make out the silhouette of a jagged shoreline if he squinted in the gloom. Several broken jetties looked like mangled fingers reaching into the ocean—the final crippled grasp of an ancient, dying giant. Man-made pillars jutted up into the sky, swallowed up by the clouds. Each was at least two or three times as thick as the length of Shiori’s ship. Above, the outlines of a monstrous, city ringed in lighting, stretched away into the darkness, disappearing past the reach of his eyes.

They’d arrived at the Bridge at last.

The behemoth creature set them down on a half-collapsed quay, then pulled itself up on the edge, deflating and twisting in spumes of smoke until it evaporated into the still, small form of Gruvrik the dwarf. He coughed and sat up. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more rum, eh? Fellow works up a powerful thirst, taking in that much salt water.”