Chapter Five: Blood and Salt — The First Chase
The sea should've warned them.
There was no wind. No gulls. Not even a wave.
Just silence thick enough to drown in.
Nyra stood at the skiff's bow, her fingers tracing the rim of her map scroll with tense, silent precision. Her star-sight flickered faintly across the inked symbols. Something unseen stirred beneath the water.
Flint stretched one rubber arm lazily overhead. "You ever notice how peaceful it gets right before the universe tries to kill you?"
Nyra's eyes narrowed.
Then the ocean exploded.
A geyser of black water erupted twenty meters off the port side. Out of it rose a harpoon shard the size of a mast, trailing soul-fire and chainlight. It slammed into the sea beast they'd hitched their skiff to—and split it clean in half.
The carcass sank instantly.
The skiff bucked.
And out of the foam came the Iron Leviathan.
It didn't sail. It crushed. The hull churned with endless machinery—cannons rotated with clicking clockwork, anchor-spikes rattled against steel teeth, and on the prow stood Mourne, his red optics scanning for targets.
"Target: confirmed," he said flatly. "Commence suppression."
Cannonfire rained from the clouds.
Flint yanked the sail rope with both arms, bouncing the skiff out of range of the first volley. Explosions shredded the sea behind them. Water hissed as shrapnel rained from the sky.
"We are so screwed!" he shouted, laughing as he dodged a falling chain-spear.
Nyra gritted her teeth. "Head south! There's a tide trench—three kilometers wide. If we can thread it, they won't follow!"
"They're a warship, Nyra! They can thread a continent!"
"Do it anyway!"
Flint grabbed the rudder. His rubber limbs stretched into the ropes, weaving them tighter, twisting the sail for speed. The skiff lurched forward, boosted by a makeshift windtrap he hadn't even fully built yet.
He looked up—and saw a squad of Forged Men descending from the Leviathan's skyhooks.
One landed on the skiff.
The deck cracked under its weight. Its face was a mask of rusted iron, one eye a dull blue light, the other a lens that focused directly on Flint.
"Objective: extract Ocean Soul fragment," it droned.
"No thanks!" Flint shouted, and launched a stretched-leg kick directly into its chest.
The Forged staggered but didn't fall.
Then it punched.
Flint's body flung backward across the deck, slammed into the mast, and bent around it like a noodle. He groaned, half-laughing, half-choking.
"Okay. That hurt. A lot. Cool. Noted."
Nyra, meanwhile, drew a shard-dagger from her boot and slashed at the Forged's back, targeting the exposed gear seams.
Sparks flew. It turned. She rolled under its swing and shouted, "Get UP, Flint!"
Flint snapped his spine straight with a rubber recoil twist, launched himself back onto his feet, and caught the Forged in a grappling twist—wrapping his arms and legs around the construct like a tangle of cables.
He shouted, "I don't know if this will work, but if it does... IT'S GOING TO BE AWESOME!"
With a full-body flex, he compressed himself like a spring—then launched the Forged Man straight into the sky.
It disappeared into the clouds with a fading scream.
There was silence.
Then a distant BOOM as it collided with one of the Leviathan's hovering ballast cannons.
Mourne watched through his scope. His mouth twitched.
"Captain Wrake will not be amused."
The skiff dove into the trench.
Rocks rose on either side—jagged, sharp, death waiting in every crack. The tide howled around them like a beast's breath. The Leviathan slowed at the edge of the gorge, unable to follow without grounding itself.
Flint and Nyra vanished into the gorge like ghosts, battered but not broken.
Onboard the Leviathan
Wrake stood in silence, watching the storm-churned trench.
The Forged squad behind him knelt in shame.
He did not speak. He simply held out his hand.
One of the Forged placed a hunk of wreckage into his palm—part of the skiff's railing. Wrake crushed it without a word. Melted it to slag.
Vorn cleared her throat carefully.
"Shall we hunt him, my lord?"
Wrake didn't look away.
"We don't chase rats," he said. "We smoke them out."
He turned, cloak hissing behind him like a guillotine's drop.
"Send word to the other Warlords. Tell them a map-bearer's loose."
Back in the Trench
Flint slumped at the tiller, chest heaving, face lit by post-fight adrenaline.
Nyra sat beside him, brushing hair out of her eyes, breathing hard.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Then Nyra muttered, "You're insane."
Flint just grinned.
"Yeah," he said. "But I'm still afloat."
END OF CHAPTER FIVE