The Tower of Living and Dying. Anna Smith Spark

wet wood of the deck, almost fell, got his balance back, killed someone.

      The ships looked like wrestlers tussling together. It looked like a tavern brawl, these vast dark shapes gripping, moving, shoving, giving way, coming together again. Cheers and screams one against the other. Impossible to tell who was winning or losing, except that Tobias had a strong sudden feeling that they were losing on this one ship. Brand seemed to be fighting with the wrong hand and his right hand was a mass of blood. Maerlk had drowned lifetimes ago. Lots of other soldiers with them fighting but there seemed to be a lot more trying to fight them off. A bloke called Janis went over the side, one of the enemy’s lot went down too, another two came at Tobias together seeing him as a good dangerous threat. Definitely seemed to be more of them.

      This was hard. Getting really fucking hard. He was getting tired, the voyage wearing on him. Hacked and parried and the men he was up against were just better than he was. Maybe not on a good day. Maybe certainly not on a good day, rested and ready on dry land with the confidence of what he was doing at his back. But not after everything else. Not like this here.

      Wasn’t thinking all this, not really, not thinking anything except trying to stay alive and to kill the men trying to kill him, but it was squirming around burrowing at the back of his mind, some new kind of release and wondering. Why? Why? Why? Why am I here and why did I want Marith to be king, and why am I doing this? Echoing out to the rhythm of sword strokes, the creak of the ships, the hammer of iron on bronze. A sword got into his arm, bruised him and ripped his armour apart at the elbow, blunting the enemy’s blade but now he was vulnerable in the sword arm that was weaker already from Sorlost. His leg was aching too, giving under the constant movement of the ship that made him slip and work. Not good. Not good. He lashed out, hit one bloke in the shoulder, the bloke went back with a groan looking hurt but the other came again at him seeing his damaged armour and the grey sweat on his face. Not good. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck. I don’t want to die, Tobias thought. I really don’t want to die.

      Wasn’t anywhere else to go that wasn’t either into a sword blade or into the sea.

      Jumped.

      Cold water tasting in his mouth like blood. Oh gods he couldn’t see anything just churning dead water, salt and froth and waves, his eyes stinging, the cuts on his body stinging, the weight of his armour pulling him down, cold vile metal shifting against his skin in the water, wet leather dragging on his shoulders, arms and legs thrashing to keep afloat, fingers dancing around his ankles, images of great curving teeth closing, thrashing wildly, down under the surface where it was so dark and the water wormed at his mouth. He pulled his head back above into the air spluttering with salt burn, spitting, his eyes stinging, tugging at his legs and the weight of the armour carrying him down, the things with teeth fuck he could see them circling, the water’s a maelstrom, patches of burning fire stinking, hissing, snow beating on the surface, where it lands on the fire it boils off into steam. He sank down again into the dark and pulled himself up again choking, kicked at something he maybe felt reaching for him, fuck I’m going to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, oh fuck. It was so dark beneath the surface like a fucking tomb, not just dying but being buried alive. I should have let them stab me. I’d rather die of a stab wound quick and bright with red blood. The bulk of a ship moved near him huge like a black wall curving outwards the red eyes staring at him, and it’s more alive than anything he’s ever seen and the water was in his mouth again worming through his lips and his clenched teeth and he felt something reaching pulling at his legs and long cold fingers curling at his arms.

      Half an oar bobbed past him, smouldering at one end. It’s on fire, he thought, then grabbed hold of it anyway desperate with a glorious wonderful feeling of victory. Kicked his legs a little and he could even move. Still very low, his head half underwater, the sea slashing at his mouth and nose, not really moving in any one direction to speak of and yeah, the thing he was holding on to was definitely on fire, but no longer actually drowned.

      Someone’s arm bobbed past him, blood spiralling out of the cut off end. Then a bit of planking, also on fire. Then a bit of something that could have been pretty much anything, red and black and white and pulpy-looking. Someone’s head? Then another broken-off oar. A bit of rigging. Tobias looked up. Another of the ships was sinking, its prow and mast burning, a ragged great hole in its side that looked like a torn mouth. The red eyes still stared, hopeless. Men were scrabbling up the burning mast, clinging to the burning prow. It made a sucking noise like an old man drinking as it went down. The sea boiled. Still burning. Light flickered up from underwater. Bubbles of air, then nothing. Men floating clutching bits of wood. Another ship came towards them, the men shouted and waved and then arrows loosed and one of the men sank and disappeared, and the ship rowed over the men floating on straight towards a third ship, moving fast, the men on the third ship shouted and Tobias realized it was going to ram them. The crash made the water rush up in waves, slapping him in the face. He was spun round blinded and choking, clutching his burning oar. When he could see again the rammed ship was sinking and burning.

      The swirls of the water pulled him round, caught in spiralling eddies of moving ships and sinking ships. The strength of the water astonished him. The snow still getting heavier, a wind getting up, whipping up the waves. White foam. Laughter in the water, long arms, long hair, long teeth. A ship sank in the water with the men on board screaming and the white horses rode over them and pounded them down to the depths where the other things waited for them. Two other ships charged each other, smashing planks and oars. Men fighting across decks slippery with blood and snow and banefire. The sky getting dark with the yellow and grey of a bruise.

      If Tiothlyn wins, it occurred to Tobias, he may not be entirely magnanimous in victory.

      If Tiothlyn wins, it occurred to Tobias, I’m probably pretty much entirely fucked.

      If Marith wins, it occurred to Tobias, I’m also probably pretty much entirely fucked.

      Seeing as I sold the boy out to Landra Relast and all.

      Why the fuck am I fighting for him? I wanted to kill him. He almost certainly wants to kill me. I almost certainly would.

      He’d say the thought hit him like a bucket of cold water, but given his current position that would be too much like a nasty joke.

      That fucking poison bastard Marith. That sick, vile, diseased, degenerate fucking bastard. His head felt odd, like a weight lifting from it, like a cloud moving off and the air changing from cold to hot.

      I wanted to kill him. I wanted him dead.

      What am I doing fighting for him?

      Began to kick in the water, trying to move himself along in one clear direction. Preferably the direction of something resembling land. Preferably not the town. Preferably not anywhere with the battle between it and him. Which kind of left as the only option some jagged black rocks on the headland cradling the bay, very sharp and very nasty looking and really, again, you couldn’t help thinking about teeth. Like some huge fucking thing had sat down there and opened its mouth. Dragon rocks.

      The thing about rocks, though, the thing about rocks, right, is that they’re dry land. People very seldom drown on rocks. If they can get onto the rocks. If he could get onto the rocks. He kicked and thrashed about with his burning bit of wood sinking further under the water still glowing with fire. His armour was so, so heavy. Felt sick in his stomach from the salt water he’d swallowed. Getting cold, too. Cold as ice, the water. Where it wasn’t boiling hot. The wind freezing on his wet hair. His teeth were beginning to chatter, a numb cold pain was jabbing at his legs. Squeezing his chest. His arm hurt. His leg hurt.

      Shouts of triumph from a ship to his left, presumably captured by a boarding crew. Half Tiothlyn’s men were on Marith’s ships. Half Marith’s men were on Tiothlyn’s ships. Just somewhat unlucky perhaps that the other half were drowned. The shouts turned to yells as another ship bore down on it, drumming to get the oars going fast to ram. Splinter of wood as the two collided. The ramming ship moved to pull back but was stuck somehow, her prow locked into the shattered wound in her victim’s side. Desperate voices, figures running and pushing, the crew of the stricken ship clambering over with swords. The wounded ship was sinking, pulling the other down with her. Hugging and refusing to let go.