We were tossed like the toy of a titan, flung with the casual disregard of an angry child so that the ship lay broken upon treacherous, surf-pounded rocks. But the gods were not done with us yet! Out of the predawn sky flew three winged devils, singing a sweet melody of death. Harpies, determined to lead those few who survived to a watery grave. As I stepped onto the deck, I met the lovely eyes of Mirian Raas, emerging from a hatch at the prow, and we nodded at one another in resolve. We would slay the harpies and save the sailors, or die in the trying!
—From The Daughter of the Mist
Ivrian was tossed bodily from the bunk into the hull below the porthole. For a long moment, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was or what had happened, and the lack of motion and the frantic calls of the crew only prolonged his disorientation.
He only fully awoke to what was happening when some of the words penetrated his consciousness. The men and women outside shouted about boats, and abandoning ship, and some called out for aid from Desna or Gozreh, or pleaded with Pharasma not to take them. What had happened? Was the ship sinking?
He climbed to his feet on the listing deck, astonished he wasn’t more badly hurt. Only his back was a little sore. “Mother?” He reached out to the lower bunk, but his mother wasn’t there. In fact, the sheets were undisturbed.
The ship slanted more on creaking timbers, and he heard the rush of water. Not just from somewhere outside, but in his very cabin. “I’m not going to drown,” he said. “Definitely.” He fought down the panic, bent down, and dragged out his chest. It was wedged tightly against his mother’s, and he realized instantly that the moment he pulled it clear it would slide into him. Yet he had no other choice if he wanted his air bottle. He got the chest free, bracing it against his own body as he keyed the lock and pushed open the lid.
He ignored the cool ocean water creeping up his toes and felt around inside the chest, fumbling past his shoes. First he came to his sword belt and sword, which he grabbed, but of greater import even than the pack with all his writing materials was the enchanted air bottle, which might be all that lay between him and drowning. The blessed thing lay jammed protectively at the bottom, snug in a padded leather case. He grabbed it and slid it onto his sword belt.
The water had risen to his ankles now, and he cursed. Where was his mother? He was going to have to grab her gear for her.
He slung his pack over his shoulder, then slammed the chest shut. He was getting ready to manhandle it into place when the ship shifted again and he lost his footing. He slipped into the water and the chest slid after. He hit the hull with his rump and heard an alarming smashing sound from the leather case with the air bottle. Then the chest rumbled toward him. It struck the water with a splash and crashed into his knees.
Cursing in pain, Ivrian pushed free, climbed over, then fought his mother’s chest clear even as the water climbed calf-high. He wrestled with his mother’s lock, grateful the same key opened both chests. He felt inside for agonizing moments before finally realizing that neither his mother’s weapon, pack, nor air bottle was within. At some point in the night she must have come in and removed them.
Cursing once more, Ivrian stepped past his mother’s chest and let it slide into the water after his own. He dropped his broken air bottle after it. So much for breathing underwater. He’d have to find a boat.
The cabin was filling fast. He was waist-deep in cool water as he pulled himself along the bunk for the door. The cursed thing naturally opened inward, falling open with such speed that it banged one knee. But then he was through and into the passageway. There was no mistaking the pound of the surf rolling the ship, or the crack of further timbers. He started up the tilted gangway toward a patch of lighter blackness and fresh, salty air.
Ivrian reached the threshold in time to see Akimba cutting at the rope that tied him to the wheel.
And then he heard a warbling from somewhere above. It was strange, beguiling, enchanting. Gods, he thought, it was like a gift from Shelyn. Surely she had sent some angel down to perform for them. Smiling, Ivrian looked skyward. Nearby, the captain dropped the knife, and it went skittering down the deck. His haggard face widened in a beatific smile.
Ivrian found the source of the melody in the three winged forms hovering above the ship. He just had to get closer to them. But how? The mainmast was broken and pointed the wrong way, but it suddenly came to him that there were stairs behind the quarterdeck that led to the stern deck. He started toward them.
His mother grabbed his arm and shook him. “Snap out of it, Ivrian! Those are harpies! They’re playing with their food!”
It was the pain that broke the spell, and Ivrian rubbed at the stubble on his face. He heard a horrible scream and whirled around to see that one of the harpies had dropped on the captain, planting one taloned foot on his face as the other tore his jugular. Blood fountained.
“Gods,” Ivrian whispered again.
His mother whipped a knife from under her billowing blouse and tossed it in one fluid motion. It drove into the creature’s back, dead between the spot where its wings met.
“Nice shot!” Ivrian cried.
The creature screeched in pain and rose in a sweep of beating wings that sent a fetid stench wafting over them. In that dawn light, he saw only her outline, but there was no missing the widening of the creature’s jaw as she swooped down toward his mother.
Ivrian dashed up the ladder he’d been eyeing. Halfway up he twisted and struck at the harpy, slicing deep through one of her wings. The creature turned, lashing at Ivrian with a whip.
It missed the hand he gripped the ladder with; he gritted his teeth and leapt out, slicing. He connected with the creature’s thigh, the injury spraying blood.
But the harpy wasn’t finished with him. He felt the sting of her whip as he dropped away.
He struck the rain-slick timber, his feet going out from under him. He bumped past the captain lying limply in his remaining ropes and slid on toward the submerged rail visible through the steel-gray water.
Ivrian released his sword and scrabbled for purchase on the deck, and the weapon clattered beside him so that he now had two further fears: breaking himself on the rail, and cutting himself on the length of his own sword.
But the sword bounced on and plunged into the water. He braced himself for impact, feet first.
Shelyn finally smiled, for as he struck the water his feet didn’t drop between the rail posts but on them. He had a surface to support himself. And as he caught his breath he perceived an overturned boat drifting nearby. A trio of sailors clung desperately to it.
One looked past him and pointed. Ivrian couldn’t make out the woman’s words over the pounding and warbling and screaming, but the expression on her face was clear enough.
Ivrian turned in time to see the harpy drop toward his face.