Free Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 by The Way Beneath (v1.1) Page B

seemed possessed of their own life. It rose up and up,
the net trailing like a shroud, until it hung above the foundered Volalle, seeming for a moment to be
suspended in the air, then crashing down to shatter the craft with its bulk.
                 Water
swirled, a whirlpool forming as the thing submerged, then the head appeared
again and Festyn Lewal screamed once as the cruel teeth fastened about his
waist and he went under. Derwen felt his stomach chum as half the man bobbed
back to the surface, then was gone into the ghastly
maw. He began to swim in the direction of Drisse, but saw that the monster lay
between him and the shore and turned his course just as the creature’s head
swung round, the weirdly glowing eyes fixing on Gille Oman , seeming to bathe the unfortunate man in
rubescent light. Oman held a knife in his right hand, and he raised it against the thing as
the great head descended. He might as well have struck a pin against a rock,
for the jaws gaped and took him in whole, the fangs grinding against his
yielding flesh, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. The bile that had risen
in Derwen’s stomach found its way to his mouth as he saw his friend swallowed
and he flailed helplessly in the water, choking and spitting.
                 The
leviathan snaked its serpentine neck in his direction and the massive bulk
flowed effortlessly beneath the churning waves, the wedge of the skull building
a foam crest that cut arrow-straight toward Derwen. Briefly he saw the silver
of that crest incarnadined, the blood of his crew darkening the Idre’s surface.
Then all he saw were the rows of teeth and the pulsing pink throat behind them,
the tendrils that stretched out, slimy and gray as putrescent flesh, and the
glowing, awful eyes.
                 The
teeth closed and Derwen Pars was gone, the Verrana smashed to matchwood as the monster carried the man down, leaving behind
only wreckage and oily slicks of blood that drifted south, wavering memories of
three lives.
                 All
about was confusion, Derwen’s fellow fishermen sculling their craft in close to
see what had happened. None were sure, for none had been near, their attention caught only by the screaming, and by the time they arrived
there was only floating timber left. Their own catches went forgotten as they
quartered the river, lanterns lit and voices hailing the survivors they never
found. Finally, as dawn paled the sky and the eastern horizon grew pink, they
gave up the search and turned back to Drisse, congregating in their usual
waterside tavern to debate who should carry word to
the missing men’s widows. When that was decided, and all had compared their
stories, delegations went to each household with the tragic news. After that
they went to the chapel to seek enlightenment of the Sisters there, but as all
they were able to tell the Sisters was that they had heard screams and found
the wreckage of two boats, no men either live or drowned, the Sisters could
shed little light on the strange incident. They recorded it, as was their wont,
and prayed for the souls of the dead, but in Drisse it remained a mystery.
                 Brannoc
turned back the sleeve of his leaf green shirt with a! dramatic flourish and shook the dice in
the cup of his dark- skinned hand. They rolled across the polished oak of the
table and stuttered to a halt with threes showing on both cubes. White teeth
flashed as the dark man grinned, reaching to scoop up the small pile of coins
that lay beside a pewter flagon of pale yellow wine.
                 Tepshen
Lahl’s face remained enigmatic as he took the dice and threw five, reaching
into the pouch on his belt to extract another coin that he tossed toward his
companion. Brannoc caught it in midair, his grin becoming wider still, until it
seemed it must split his face.
                 “Enough?”
he enquired mildly. “Or do you remain bent on rendering