Thankfully, neither Graves nor his crew—who were of another generation and only knew him as Thatch—were those he planned to kill.
In a moment, the giant vanished from his sight. It was easy to lose him in the darkness, despite his size. Skharr had a way of moving that addled the mind.
Graves turned to the helm and laughter bubbled from his chest as he grasped the wheel.
"Fight harder, you worthless scum!" he roared and tried to wrestle control of the ship from the beast. "You'll not see the inside of a sea monster's belly this night!"
Of course, once it was defeated, he would have to come to terms with having the Barbarian Scourge of the Waters on his vessel, but priorities needed to be attended to first.
Chapter Eighteen
Certain rules governed the process of killing a monster like this. Or, failing that, driving it off the ship and into the depths.
Skharr recalled the last few times when he’d been forced to act. He'd been a younger man then but everything still applied. The creature was looking for food. Wounds would attract other, larger beasts so they would pull away if the risks outweighed the benefits.
First things first, then, was to relieve it of its tentacles. There were a few civilizations that prized the meat of such mighty creatures. He had tried it once, mostly out of curiosity, and found the bitter taste and rubbery consistency of the meat unpalatable. It would do in a situation where he had no other options but was not something he wanted to eat every day. As far as he could remember, it had required a week and many bottles of rum to wash the taste from his mouth.
But he had learned a great deal more about monsters with tentacles rising from the depths. Memories of the beast in the lake and the undergod in the temple reminded him that all might not be well with a creature like this. He pulled the sword from his back, unsheathed it smoothly, and felt a hint of warmth from having the light blade in his hands.
If this monster had anything magical to it, he had a feeling it would not like the bite of his blade. He needed a name for the sword. It possibly had one once but it had been lost to time when it had rotted away in the damn tower for centuries. He would have to find a new name—a fitting name.
"God-Slayer does have a fine ring to it," he muttered, vaulted over the railing that separated the helm from the rest of the deck, and landed on his feet. He tried to keep track of what was now almost a dozen tentacles that slithered across the deck, looking for victims to drag away.
It wasn't long before one found its prey and he moved as quickly as he could to intercept it. He had been on land too long and finding his sea legs again proved to be something of a problem, but even on the deck slick with rain, he moved faster than the mercenaries.
The tentacle flicked around, almost like it had a mind of its own and it tried to pull away from the deck and into the water while still wound around one of the sailors, who called desperately for help.
A few of his comrades attempted to hack at it with axes and one even tried with a spear, but none were successful until Skharr rushed in and skidded over the slippery wooden planks as he slashed his sword upward.
The blade sliced through the flesh like it was nothing. The part that was still connected to the beast below whipped like it hadn't realized that a whole chunk of itself was missing. The part that was wrapped around the man's leg seemed to tighten, but its strength faded quickly and the sailor yanked it off in disgust, leaving large, sucker-shaped bruises on his legs.
There was no time to stop, of course. Skharr had a feeling that the beast had more of those coming. His instincts proved correct and while the smaller tentacles continued to move around, larger ones snaked over the hull of the ship, large enough to see even in the darkness, through the rain, and with the flickering lightning all around them.
The barbarian hefted his sword and adjusted his hold. The lack of any smoke rising from the limb he had severed said there was no connection between the creatures he killed in the past and this one, but the blade would still do damage when it bit into the creature's flesh. It was about all he could ask for as he fought to move to the other side of the ship where two of the appendages had caught the same sailor.
One snatched him initially and dragged him into the path of another that wound around him and began to pull in another direction like they didn't realize they had caught the same prey. It made sense if the monster still couldn't see what was happening.
He rushed forward and his blade gleamed in another flicker of lightning as he hacked into the closest fleshy appendage and sliced a chunk off almost without effort when he drove through it hard. The second one, suddenly not in competition with one of its fellows, had begun to drag him the other way, this time considerably faster.
"Son of a godsbedammed goblin-fucking whore!" Skharr yelled, vaulted over the railing the tentacle had needed to go around, and without a thought, flung his weapon into its path.
It was a mistake. He knew that almost as soon as he released the weapon. If he missed, there was every chance in the world that the blade would slide over the side and be gone from him forever. Or he might have struck the sailor instead.
But the blade flew true and sank into the pink rubbery flesh and even deeper to bury itself in the wooden deck.
The appendage writhed and tried to fight against the blade, but it was in too deep and all it was able to do was tear into its own flesh. He yanked out the ax hanging from his belt and hacked into one side before he drew the sword. Only a tiny sliver of flesh connected the chunk that was wound around the sailor, which wasn't strong enough to continue pulling him, even though it tried.
Skharr growled in disgust and severed it with his ax before he hooked the weapon into his belt and searched for more of them. He would need to attend to the larger ones that had begun to wrap around the ship as he could hear the creaking of wood under pressure.
"You!"
He whirled and looked at the man he'd rescued, who had already dragged the tentacle from his leg.
It was suddenly clear that he was not one of the sailors. The way he struggled to stay on his feet and the fact that his clothes were of slightly better quality should have warned him already, but he had been more distracted with the tentacle wrapped around him. The darkness and the rain had similarly kept the man from being identified immediately.
"Yes," he answered with a broad grin. "Me, you goat-fucking spawn of Janus’ slimy scrotum."
The man reached for the blade at his hip, but Skharr lunged across the short distance between them with his sword in hand and thrust decisively. It was a short fight as the mercenary wasn't even able to draw his sword before he buried his into his chest.
It cut through the padded armor almost effortlessly and drove out the other side before the warrior even thought to draw it back.
And in that moment, he thought of a better purpose for the godsbedammed bastard.
"It might not be a god," he muttered with a grim smile, "but I’d wager it appreciates a sacrifice nevertheless." He heaved the dying mercenary at his feet onto his shoulder and carried him to the edge of the deck.
He hurled him overboard and watched him plummet toward the water, but something caught him before he could splash in. A writhing mass of the tentacles dragged the man to the back, where more of the larger, heavier tentacles had begun to slither higher onto the ship.