Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(72)

Despite its broken masts, it was sailing toward Nubrevna on Tidewitched waves—and with no witches of his own, it was Merik who would be left behind to pay the price.





TWENTY-FIVE

Iseult came hazily into consciousness wondering why the world stank of dead fish, why the ceiling had turned to cloudy, purple skies, and why her arm was on fire.

A whimper crawled from her throat. She opened her eyes—and instantly screamed.

A man bowed over her, his curly beard so massive it fell on her stomach. His hands rested on her wounded arm, and whatever he did, it hurt like the hell-gates.

Iseult yelped again and tried to wriggle free.

“Hush,” Safi whispered, her hands firmly gripping Iseult’s shoulder. “He’s healing you.”

“The muscle is repairing,” murmured Evrane from Iseult’s other side. “And it will only get worse before it gets better.”

With a tight swallow—her throat was so dry—Iseult looked back at the bearded healer. His Threads were a concentrated green, though they shivered with annoyed shades of red.

He was healing her, but he wasn’t pleased about it.

That was when Iseult noticed the ropes around his wrists—they were almost hidden beneath his voluminous sleeves. He was a prisoner. And yes, now that she focused beyond the healer, she saw other Threads spinning with annoyance and the occasional furious crimson. Beneath the Threads were men in rows, their uniforms the same as the healer’s.

She angled back to Safi. “Is this the Prince’s ship?”

“No. It’s his sister’s ship, actually—”

A boom exploded in the distance.

“What was that?” Iseult croaked.

Safi’s Threads flashed with guilty rust. “We’re, uh, under attack by a Marstoki naval fleet.”

“Apparently,” Evrane said in a steely tone, “your friend is betrothed to the Emperor of Cartorra, so now the Marstoks are after her.”

Another thunderous boom echoed into Iseult’s ears. Safi threw a frantic glance toward the ocean. “They’re approaching fast.” She switched to Marstoki, angling back to the healer. “Hurry, or you will taste a Carawen sword—”

“He most certainly will not,” Evrane inserted.

“—and a Carawen stiletto.”

“He will not feel that either, but”—Evrane shifted into the Marstoki language too—“we will all drown if you do not finish quickly.”

The man sneered. “I can only work so fast. This wretched Nomatsi has the flesh of demon-spawn.”

In a move too quick to prevent, Safi ripped a knife from Evrane’s baldric and thrust it against the man’s neck. “Say that again, and you die.”

The man’s glare deepened—but he also put new effort into his work. More cannon fire sounded, but it seemed a thousand miles away. As did the stink of dead fish and the tickling of the healer’s beard.

At last, Safi’s voice cut through Iseult’s pain: “You’re finished? The wound is healed?”

“Yes, though she will need time to recover.”

“But she will not die?”

“No. Unfortunately. ’Matsi filth—” The man’s voice choked off, replaced by a howl, and the feel of his beard vanished from Iseult’s stomach.

Just as Iseult’s vision started to sharpen and clear, Safi shoved the healer toward the other sailors. “Damn you,” she spat after him. “Son of a Voidwitch. May you tumble through the hell-gates forever—”

“That’s enough,” Iseult said.

She tried to stand. Evrane crouched low, offering her a hand—no, offering her something in her hand. A short cord with a tiny Painstone.

“This will numb you until the healer’s magic is finished.” She slipped the cord over Iseult’s right wrist. The stone flared to life—and the pain washed back. Fresh energy coursed through her, and she even managed a smile for Evrane as she stood.

The instant Iseult reached her feet, though, a sharp light filled her eyes.

She couldn’t see a thing for the silver radiance of it, vibrating and swirling. Flashing with lines of purple hunger and black death …

Threads, Iseult realized, fear and awe mingling together. The largest Threads she had ever seen—at least half the length of the boat. And oddest of all, they seemed to come from beneath the hull. Underwater.

“Something’s coming,” she whispered. “Something massive and … hungry.”

Evrane stiffened. Then she grabbed Iseult’s shoulder. “Can you see animal Threads?”

“No.” The silver and black were so bright, so fast. “But what else would be under the boat?

“Noden save us,” Evrane breathed. “The sea foxes are he—”

The last of Evrane’s words were lost in an explosion of water and sound. The warship tipped back as something huge—something monstrous—crashed up from the sea.

Water rained down, and the bound Marstoks shouted their terror.

But Iseult barely noticed the sailors—all she saw was the creature before her. A serpent as wide as the ship’s mast snaked from the waves toward the starboard prow. Rather than scales, it wore thick silver fur, and its head was shaped like a fox’s—though ten times … twenty times larger than any normal fox.