Riverkeep (25 page)

“
He
tried to kill you an' all?” said Tillinghast. “You's havin' some Wednesday.”

Wull retrieved the key from Pent's pocket and led them through the corridors and out the back door, through the
long grasses and broken glass of the yard and into the cobbled lane to the rear of the market.

Tillinghast was heavy on his shoulder, almost incapable of carrying his own weight, and Wull felt the bones of his back popping under the strain as they moved slowly down the hill toward Mrs. Vihv's.

“Wait here,” he said.

“No trouble,” said Tillinghast, slumped like compost on the ground. “But if a decent bit o' skirt comes by, I'm chasin' it.”

“What happened to you?” said Mrs. Vihv as he entered. “Where's your shoes?”

“Nothin'. I'm fine. How's Pappa?”

Mrs. Vihv pulled her lips tight. “He's not good,” she said, then she whispered,
“It's takin' him,”
and touched Wull's face. “That's not nothin', my boy—you've blood in your hair. Din't you get on the ship?”

“Yes, no . . . I was on it, an' I had to leave. I'm takin' my boat. It's the only way I know how to do this.”

“I said I wouldn't let—”

“I have to!” said Wull. “Pappa's dyin' in front o' my eyes. An' I can do this—I know I can! This is my river!”

Mrs. Vihv stepped back from him, met his eyes, then threw up her hands.

“So be it,” she said. “You know your own mind!”

Wull knelt down in front of Pappa. “Pappa, we're goin'
now,” he said, shaking the slumbering form. “I'm goin' to fix you, an' then we can go home.”

Pappa's eyes, slower than ever and milked into blindness, slipped open. “It that speaks?” he said.

“I'm here, Pappa. Are you hungry?”

“Sleep,” said Pappa.

“Soon. Come on with me now. We'll make you better.”

He pulled the skinny body to its feet, trying not to hurt him, trying to press Pappa's weight against his shoulder without hauling at his tender joints.

“See that you're careful,” said Mrs. Vihv, holding the door for them.

“Thank you,” said Wull. “We'll see you soon.”

“An' how's the old man today?” said Tillinghast as they emerged.

“He's dying,” said Wull. “We need to get out there.”

“You're takin' me? What am I for? Ballast?”

“There might be some gland in this thing that'll help you an' all, Till. Jus' come on.”

Wull, keeping Pappa on his left side, leaned down and scooped Tillinghast up with his right arm, their two weights balanced on his shoulders.

“Look at you, strong man,” said Tillinghast.

“Jus' help me,” said Wull through his teeth.

They inched along, step by heavy step. Tillinghast fell, spraying his messy limbs over the cobbles as Wull leaned
down to catch him, Pappa grunting painfully in his grip.

Wull placed himself somewhere else, a hidden part of his mind he'd never been to before, away from the pain and the squeal of his body, the ache of his shoulders and his wrist and his face dissolving as he thought himself into the space of the river and felt the press of Pappa's weight at his side.

They came to the shore where the bäta sat, its eyes—to Wull, always hard, unsympathetic, and locked in with judgment—now seeming determined and ready.

He peered through the sun glare to see the
Hellsong
, its ringing cries of war now irregular thumps, still fighting the mormorach and down to its last sail, graygulls swirling around it like flies at a dying animal. She had moved back into the water of the port inside the protection of the breakwater, and so, he saw as it thudded through the
Hellsong
's keel, had the beast.

He laid Tillinghast on the beach as he helped Pappa into the bäta, running his hand over the gunwale as he did so. He all but lifted Tillinghast into the stern after him, the big body little more than a pile of damp straw in his hands.

Wull dribbled the last of the water into his burning mouth, head spinning, then tossed the pouch onto the bottom boards.

“Let's go,” he whispered to the boat as he heaved it into the sea, wading after it and scrambling onto the center thwart.

He rowed through the waves, pushing through their punches and away from the coast, out into the water of the port.

The noise of the gongs grew louder as he approached, matched almost by the frenzy of the waves and the splashing of lost crew. As the mormorach surfaced again, it roared, smashing through the bone-trussed ribs of the ship and sending more men and women into the water.

“What you goin' to do?” Tillinghast said weakly. “You can't kill that thing. . . . 'S big as a castle.”

Wull hefted a harpoon in both hands and stood on the tossing bäta.

“I can stick it,” he said. “Pappa said these are good iron. If I stick it it'll bleed, an' if it bleeds it'll die.”

“You can't stab this thing! Look at it! Look at you!”

“What else am I to do?” shouted Wull as the mormorach streamed past them and into the air. It smashed through the
Hellsong
's remaining mast, sending it toppling like a felled oak to the water. The crew began to abandon ship, diving from the lurching decks into the water around the bäta.

“Untie the arms!” said Pappa.

Wull launched the harpoon. It hissed invisibly through the chopping surface, vanishing in an instant.

“See?” said Tillinghast. “You have to go back!”

“Is that you, cut-squirt?” shouted Murdagh from the
Hellsong
's deck. “You back to face me?”

“I'm back to kill it!” shouted Wull. “You've had your chance—now it's my turn!”

He heaved another harpoon in his hands, saw the flash of gray below, and threw it as hard as he could. It sailed through the air, tipping as it reached the bulbous swell of the mormorach's back before bouncing off like a raindrop. The bäta rocked as the creature's trunk grazed its hull, a fissure appearing in the thin planking, a rib splitting with a sharp crack.

“Turn back!” shouted Tillinghast, water washing over him in white swoops of foam.

“I've got one left,” said Wull, raising the last harpoon to his shoulder and sighting the mormorach approaching. “I've got one left. I can do it.”

“Ye're not takin' my prize, demon!” shouted Murdagh, leaping down into the bäta on a length of rope, his sword swinging. “Gilt's been fishin' game on the seas since before you was a teat-suckin' babe, an' ye're not takin' this damn thing from me!”

He slashed wildly, sticking the blade in the gunwale and stumbling on his bone leg. Wull pushed him over and leaped back as Murdagh grabbed at his collar.

“Ye think to challenge me, boy? Is that it? This is
my
sea!” said Murdagh, licking his teeth.

“UNTIE THE ARMS!” shouted Pappa.

“I jus' want to save him!” said Wull, standing between
Murdagh and Pappa. “You can have the rest of it, I jus' need one tiny part!”

The mormorach streamed from the water beside them, twirling through the
Hellsong
's falling sails and smashing apart the exposed keel in a hail of splinters.

“It's mine!” shouted Murdagh. “This thing is mine! This is my sea an' this is my beast an' I've not hunted for it these years to let it slip into the pink hands o' some cut-squirt
Riverkeep
!”

Wull roared, charging across the bucking bäta and barreling into Murdagh's chest, knocking them both to the floor. They wrestled, the wire of Murdagh's teak-strong frame getting the better of Wull too quickly, pressing him to the bottom boards and wrapping his rough hands around his neck.

“I'll kill you!” shouted Murdagh. “I'll kill you, and then I'll kill your damn pappa!”

“You'll not touch him!” shouted Wull.

“Wull . . .” said Tillinghast, his voice drowned by the crash of water.

Wull kicked the old sailor in the guts and rolled under the center thwart, ducking his head from Murdagh's slashing blade.

He grabbed the last harpoon and stood, swiping at Murdagh's stomach and jabbing him back to the bäta's stern. The mormorach swept around the bäta, its fast bulk rising and dropping the boat into the chopping waves and taking their
balance, the tip of the tail swiping a chunk from its side.

Murdagh grinned at him.

“You think you's got what it takes to kill a man, cut-squirt?” he said. “Gilt's killed men, men who got in his way, men who tried to take what was his. Some o' them was fine sailors, good men, men o' the sea. I think o' them when I walk in their footsteps, but you, a bloody nuisance, a nothin'—you'll be no more thought of than a crushed bug.”

“I'm the Riverkeep!” shouted Wull, his pulse throbbing in his ears. He slashed and stabbed at Murdagh, who parried and ducked, his balance momentarily failing him. “This isn't the sea—it's the Danék and it's mine! It's mine! I am
not
nothing—I'm the Riverkeep!
I
keep the river!
I
keep it!”

As he raised the harpoon to drive at Murdagh, the sword appeared from nowhere and knocked it aside, clattering the metal from his hands and into the waves. Murdagh stepped forward smartly and placed the sword's point on Wull's chest, just above his pounding heart.

Wull felt his skin break on it, felt the hot trickle of blood on his frozen skin.

“An' so into history,” said Murdagh, smiling. “Good-bye, cut-squirt.”

Wull met his eyes as the blade was drawn back, and reached out his hand to take hold of Pappa's shoulder. Murdagh drove the sword forward.

It sank into Tillinghast's body, the loose bundle of straw and skin appearing in front of Wull, taking the blade and drawing Murdagh toward him with arms that were little more than loose shapes.

“No!” shouted Murdagh. “No, get off me! Get back!”

Tillinghast, eyes closed in concentration, stretched his body around Murdagh's wiry frame, the bunches of straw wrapping wriggling arms and legs in a tight grip, pulling him so close that they seemed to be one man.

The great homunculus toppled slowly, exhaustedly, into the lashing waves, taking Murdagh with him in a howling scream.

“Till!” cried Wull.

“No! My sea!” shouted Murdagh before they vanished into silence.

“Tillinghast!” said Wull, running to the edge and pushing his face into the water. Through the freezing sting he saw their wriggling mass sinking slowly, saw the moment Murdagh's body emptied, his mouth left shouting at the surface in mute protest, watched as Tillinghast's last fragments of energy gave out and he burst apart, his limbs and muscles and straw drifting from Murdagh's corpse like a blossom from a tree, heading to the bottom in a slow, graceful spiral.

“Untie the arms, it that speaks,” said Pappa softly. He
was piled on the floor of the bäta, spent and empty.

“Pappa,” said Wull, kneeling with him in a tight hug, face pressed to the greasy, wet hair, tears at the corners of his eyes. “I can't do it, Pappa. That was the last harpoon. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't do it.”

“Untie the arms,” said Pappa again.

“I can't,” said Wull.

He half stood, saw the waters around them filled with the frantic splashing of the
Hellsong
's surviving crew.

“We need to save these people,” he said. “There'll be room in the bäta. . . .”

Then he saw the mormorach, white razors slicing from its dorsal fins as it bore down on him with impossible speed, its silver bulk rising through the waves like the spear of a god.

“Oh, Pappa,” he said, his strength giving out and his knees buckling. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—it's coming and I can't stop it! I couldn't save you! I'm sorry!”

He looked into Pappa's clouded eyes and sensed the bohdan inside looking back at him, felt his eyes connecting with the creature—then felt it look away.

“Wulliam,” said Pappa, brown eyed again and with the faintest whisper of his old voice. “Untie my arms, my boy.”

Wull felt his eyes fill, water tumbling down his cheeks, his chest crushed by the memories of the brown eyes' patience as they watched him learn his knots, cast his line
after breamcod, the voice that told him stories, taught him to read—told him he was loved.

“Pappa,” he said, “you
are
still with me.”

“Just enough,” whispered Pappa.

Wull loosed the bonds at Pappa's wrists and held the thin body to him, the mormorach's wash tilting the bäta as it drew closer. The mormorach roared.

And Wull knew then what it was. It was death; it was the power of the earth and the sky and the sea, the power of everything he couldn't control or fight. He hugged Pappa closer and shut his eyes.

Pappa's body emptied in his arms, what bulk remained vanishing under his hands like a cut sack as the mormorach broke the surface, crying out with a screech that split the sky. Wull drew back, watching helplessly as Pappa's empty skin fell into the waves' hissing white, and turned to find the mormorach stopped as it had jumped, its gigantic head lashing in pain as the bohdan took it from within. It fell back, gnashing, its mouth wider than Wull could have imagined; then its milky, clouded eyes opened, looked right into his before they snapped shut, and the enormous beast vanished with a thunderclap, drenching him and knocking the bäta on its beams.

Wull dived overboard, following Pappa, kicking down through water that was busy with the frantic legs of the
Hellsong
's survivors scrambling to the little boat. He
glimpsed Pappa's head and sank farther, his adrenaline already making a breathless panic inside him.

He swam down into void and the huge silence of deeper water, Pappa twirling away into the beyond.