Gasping as the salt spray rushed up from the prow of the craft to greet him, Lornadir cried for the joy of it. He was in his eighteenth summer, oar-strong and keen for the hunt. In his hand he held a great spear aloft, looped with over half a furlong of rope that tied off to a great loggerhead at the boat’s bow. About him in the shifting waters were five similar boats, moving at a steady pace as they shouted encouragement and insults alike between themselves. At his back eight men roared with each haul of the rope that spurred their craft onward towards their prize. A great Cachalot. An older female. They had been chasing a larger male in the pod, but he had not returned from his dive when their current prey strayed close enough to land a harpoon and almost as if deciding as one, the boats had closed in on her.
Lornadir had not landed the first spear, nor the second, and so would miss on the prize money the ship’s whaler’s captain offered to whichever boat reached and struck the great beast first. But his talent was not in that mad rush, but at the end of the struggle. Dirandil, the previous man to throw harpoons from his boat had fallen a year previously, jarred by a flailing tail, and broken his leg. Lornandir had plucked up his harpoon as they circled the beast again. It had been his throw that was the last, but as they pulled close he had taken the killing blow with his lance, striking deep into the creature until blood mixed with it’s spray. From then Lornadir had taken the harpooner’s place, Dirandil remaining aboard the ship when his leg failed to men straight. And of the last six kills they had made, it was Lornadir who had made three of the killing blows.
And now with a great whooping cry, he tossed his spear, looking to make his fourth.
It was chaos as they hauled the whale alongside the Sadron. Twin masted, it was a large ship that could remain at sea for months at a time, although if hunting was good in the Bay of Belfalas they would only remain at sea for a month before returning with their cargo of oil, meat and bone. The last of the pod they had been following these past three days seemed to be turning south, perhaps to mourn their fallen kin. Even as men dropped upon the beasts back with hooks and knives to begin the butchery, Lornadir clambered up the Sadron’s netting to a chorus of cheers and claps upon his back.
“Here…” A man in a stained apron handed him a cup of steaming soup and a flask of rum. If the boats were out more than a couple of hours it was custom to let them rest themselves for a short while before they too saw to the bloody process of stripping the whale’s carcass. Meat would be salted and packed into barrels, key bones taken and stacked below and the blubber cut into squares, ready to be boiled down for the precious oil that lit lamps from the ports of Harandor to the tiered streets of the White City itself.
“Perhaps it’s greed…” Dirandil spoke as he leaned upon the railing of the ship’s starboard side.
“But it always seems a waste, letting them go like that.”
Lornadir laughed as he blew across the steaming surface of the soup, blinking the salt from his eyes as the sun’s setting shone bright from the sea below.
“Perhaps, although we want them to make more whales, what worries me is if they tell others about us?”
Raising a brow, Dirandil cocked his head.
“Oh?”
“Oh aye, do you think they warn other whales, beware the Sandor, beware their sharp harpoons, beware the bright knives and the sweet song of their oarsmen!”
Dirandil grinned.
“Maybe, although I doubt they’ve much to say about your singing.” He winked as the younger man aimed a soft blow to the back of his head.
“You can throw a spear though lad, I’ll give you that, you can throw a bloody spear.”
Lornadir had been about to compliment the older whaler, telling him that he had learned from the best, but something had caught his eye.
“What…” Was all he could mutter as a cold feeling replaced the rum-given warmth.
In the shimmering sea below, not far from them, was a blast followed by the slap of a tail upon water. A whale. A large whale was diving. The bull whale had not followed the pod however, but had it’s head aimed at them, and it wasn’t until the dark shape sped within throwing distance of their starboard side that Lornadir could act. Dropping his cup he turned, thrusting Dirandil back as he turned, crying out across the decks “Ware below, we’re about to…”
His last words were lost in a cry as the world shifted, and he swore he could hear the groaning roar from below. In his mind it was the beast’s snarl but he knew it was the buckling and breaking of planking. A scream, someone laying on deck having fallen from rigging. Half a dozen people by the portside leaning over. Some had fallen from the whale’s back and were evidently clambering to return. The Sandor began to right herself, but she was still listing a little.
“He’s coming again!”
Lornadir steadied himself this time, another crash from the portside. Not as savage as the first, it felt as if the whale had clipped the stern rather than smashed full force into the side. It was glancing over his side to be sure none had fallen near him that had faced Lornadir with a sight that he knew he would take to his grave.
The whale, a great scarred bull, had surfaced. He turned a little onto his side, slowing. A great dark eye peered up at him. Filled with such alien intelligence that both sickened him to his core and filled him with something akin to shame. Lordnadir knew then the beast would not come for another run, it’s work was done. With a great slapping of it’s vast tail upon the water, it dived.
“All spare hands below!” A voice cried above the rest, bringing Lornadir back to the here and now. “Ready the boats!”
Lornadir lurched forward even as the ship twisted. The Saldor was dying.
A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, Dirandil grimacing as he leaned in close
“A dead whale…” He hissed the old adage before limping toward the throng of whalers as they clambered to save either the ship, or themselves. “Or a stove boat.”
