Good, I thought. Fight them.
Then the other boat let fly their harpoons. The first went wide and splashed harmlessly in the water. The second lodged in the sea whip’s hide.
It bucked, tail whipping back and forth, then reared up like a snake, hurling its body out of the water. For a moment, it hung suspended in the air: translucent winglike fins, gleaming scales, and wrathful red eyes. Beads of water flew from its mane and its massive jaws opened, revealing a pink tongue and rows of gleaming teeth. It came down on the nearest boat with a loud crash of splintering wood. The slender craft split in two, and men poured into the sea. The dragon’s maw snapped closed over a sailor’s legs and he vanished, screaming, beneath the waves. With furious strokes, the rest of the crewmen swam through the bloodstained water, making for the remaining longboat, where they were hauled over the side.
I glanced back up to the whaler’s rigging. The tops of the masts were shrouded in mist now, but I could still make out the light of Tamar’s lantern burning steadily atop the main royal.
Another harpoon found its target and the sea whip began to sing, a sound more lovely than anything I’d ever heard, a choir of voices lifted in a plaintive, wordless song. No, I realized, not a song. The sea whip was crying out, writhing and rolling in the waves as the longboats gave chase, struggling to shake the hooked tips of the harpoons free. Fight, I pleaded silently. Once he has you, he’ll never let you go.
But I could already see the dragon slowing, its movements growing sluggish as its cries wavered, mournful now, their music bleak and fading.
Part of me wished the Darkling would just end it. Why didn’t he? Why not use the Cut on the sea whip and bind me to him as he had done with the stag?
“Nets!” shouted Sturmhond. But the mist had grown so thick that I couldn’t quite tell where his voice was coming from. I heard a series of thunks from somewhere near the starboard rail.
“Clear the mist,” ordered the Darkling. “We’re losing the longboat.”
I heard the Grisha calling to one another and then felt the billow of Squaller winds tugging at the hem of my coat.
The mist lifted, and my jaw dropped. The Darkling and his Grisha still stood on the starboard side, attention focused on the longboat that now seemed to be rowing away from the whaler. But on the port side, another ship had appeared as if from nowhere, a sleek schooner with gleaming masts and colors flying: a red dog on a teal field—and below it, in pale blue and gold, the Ravkan double eagle.
I heard another series of thunks and saw steel claws studding the whaler’s portside rail. Grappling hooks, I realized.
And then everything seemed to happen at once. A howl went up from somewhere, like a wolf baying at the moon. Men swarmed over the rail onto the whaler’s deck, pistols strapped to their chests, cutlasses in their hands, yowling and barking like a pack of wild dogs. I saw the Darkling turn, confusion and rage on his face.
“What the hell is going on?” Mal said, stepping in front of me as we edged toward the meager protection of the mizzenmast.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Something very good or something very, very bad.”
We stood back-to-back, my hands still trapped in irons, his still bound, powerless to defend ourselves as the deck erupted into fighting. Pistol shots rang out. The air came alive with Inferni fire. “To me, hounds!” Sturmhond shouted, and plunged into the action, a saber in his hands.
Barking, yipping, snarling men were descending on the Darkling’s Grisha from all sides—not just from the railing of the schooner but from the rigging of the whaler as well. Sturmhond’s men. Sturmhond was turning against the Darkling.
The privateer had clearly lost his mind. Yes, the Grisha were outnumbered, but numbers didn’t matter in a fight with the Darkling.
“Look!” Mal shouted.
Down in the water, the men in the remaining longboat had the struggling sea whip in tow. They had raised a sail, and a brisk wind was driving them, not toward the whaler but directly toward the schooner instead. The stiff breeze that carried them seemed to come from nowhere. I looked closer. A crewman was standing in the longboat, arms raised. There was no mistaking it: Sturmhond had a Squaller working for him.
Suddenly, an arm seized me around the waist and I was lifted off my feet. The world seemed to upend itself, and I shrieked as I was thrown over a huge shoulder.
I lifted my head, struggling against the arm that held me like a steel band, and saw Tamar rushing toward Mal, a knife gleaming in her hands. “No!” I screamed. “Mal!”
He put up his hands to defend himself, but all she did was slice through his bonds. “Go!” she shouted, tossing him the knife and drawing a sword from the scabbard at her hip.
Tolya clutched me tighter as he sprinted over the deck. Tamar and Mal were close behind.