smashed back onto the water and twisted into a huge wave, its bow slicing keenly through into the pitch black of the sea. Ice-cold water flew over the deck and the
Flying Fox
was sucked into the deep. Towers of bubbles rose up around the hull and shot off in trails behind the ship. Every sailor’s lungs soon reached bursting point, but they held on, and the sea started to lift them. The ship was being forced up and up by the air trapped in the hull, the pressure becoming almost unbearable until finally it was catapulted clear into the air.
The
Flying Fox
landed back on the sea like a skimming stone, skipping twice before coming to rest on calmer waters. Drewshank gasped for air, just as every other sailor did. He found his footing and stood up uneasily. He surveyed the black waters ahead but could see no sign of the Grak or the whirlpool.
“Water’s breakin’ in below!” shouted Fenwick, who was drenched to the core.
Drewshank looked around at the wreck that had become his ship. Water sloshed back and forth over the deck, and crates and splintered wood lay strewn everywhere. Torn sails snapped in the wind.
“Fix the leaks, men,” ordered Drewshank. “Assess the damage and get the cannons ready again.”
He looked into the distance and his heart dropped. The Grak was spiraling out of the sea once more and it was coming at them.
“That monster’s not done yet!” he shouted.
The crew braced themselves for another onslaught. Screaming loudly, the monster dropped and shot straight at them like a torpedo, sending water and snorts of steam blasting out into the air. The cannons fired out, but the Grak’s huge form lifted into the air and continued to rise until its scaly body was directly above them.
But it didn’t attack. The air was immediately filled with more ear-piercing cries. Drewshank turned to follow its course and witnessed a second awesome Grak rise out of the sea a few hundred meters behind them.
“Of all the luck in the world . . . ,” gasped the captain. “We’re done for!”
The two monsters veered upward to where they clashed high above the masts. Their jaws crunched into each other’s skulls, and they twisted away together, tumbling downward just clear of the ship, until they punched into the water in a writhing mess.
As the two Graks submerged, a wave swelled, caught hold of the
Flying Fox,
and drove it high up and far out across the sea. Drewshank’s sailor’s legs were trusty, and had served him well in the past, but that was the last straw. His chest convulsed and he was sick on the floor.
Drewshank righted himself and wiped his mouth sheepishly.
“Find some sails!” he shouted queasily to what remained of his crew. “There must be something left hanging from those masts! Get us out of here!”
Tired sailors unhooked themselves from their posts and surveyed the damage.
“Captain!”
Drewshank heard a shout. It was Scratcher, his face blackened with soot and tears. He was holding a taut thin rope over the side of the ship — it was the remainder of the rigging from a broken mast, and something was attached to its end, dragging in the water.
Drewshank and Fenwick ran over. During the battle they’d forgotten entirely about Emiline. They looked desperately to the dark sea and saw the battered remains of the crow’s nest floating along at the end of Scratcher’s rope. Fenwick took hold of it, and the two of them pulled as hard as they could against the waves. As the crow’s nest neared, they could just make out a body drifting behind. Emiline’s small mouse was sitting on her chest, and Chervil was paddling frantically behind.
Lord Battersby watched the storm from his apartment window. Standing stock upright in his light-gray navy uniform, he rubbed his hands against one another with worry. The port of Hamlyn was taking a battering.
In charge of the Old Town Guard’s navy, Battersby was a man of great power. He was tall and broad, and had a strikingly strong and
Flying Fox
was sucked into the deep. Towers of bubbles rose up around the hull and shot off in trails behind the ship. Every sailor’s lungs soon reached bursting point, but they held on, and the sea started to lift them. The ship was being forced up and up by the air trapped in the hull, the pressure becoming almost unbearable until finally it was catapulted clear into the air.
The
Flying Fox
landed back on the sea like a skimming stone, skipping twice before coming to rest on calmer waters. Drewshank gasped for air, just as every other sailor did. He found his footing and stood up uneasily. He surveyed the black waters ahead but could see no sign of the Grak or the whirlpool.
“Water’s breakin’ in below!” shouted Fenwick, who was drenched to the core.
Drewshank looked around at the wreck that had become his ship. Water sloshed back and forth over the deck, and crates and splintered wood lay strewn everywhere. Torn sails snapped in the wind.
“Fix the leaks, men,” ordered Drewshank. “Assess the damage and get the cannons ready again.”
He looked into the distance and his heart dropped. The Grak was spiraling out of the sea once more and it was coming at them.
“That monster’s not done yet!” he shouted.
The crew braced themselves for another onslaught. Screaming loudly, the monster dropped and shot straight at them like a torpedo, sending water and snorts of steam blasting out into the air. The cannons fired out, but the Grak’s huge form lifted into the air and continued to rise until its scaly body was directly above them.
But it didn’t attack. The air was immediately filled with more ear-piercing cries. Drewshank turned to follow its course and witnessed a second awesome Grak rise out of the sea a few hundred meters behind them.
“Of all the luck in the world . . . ,” gasped the captain. “We’re done for!”
The two monsters veered upward to where they clashed high above the masts. Their jaws crunched into each other’s skulls, and they twisted away together, tumbling downward just clear of the ship, until they punched into the water in a writhing mess.
As the two Graks submerged, a wave swelled, caught hold of the
Flying Fox,
and drove it high up and far out across the sea. Drewshank’s sailor’s legs were trusty, and had served him well in the past, but that was the last straw. His chest convulsed and he was sick on the floor.
Drewshank righted himself and wiped his mouth sheepishly.
“Find some sails!” he shouted queasily to what remained of his crew. “There must be something left hanging from those masts! Get us out of here!”
Tired sailors unhooked themselves from their posts and surveyed the damage.
“Captain!”
Drewshank heard a shout. It was Scratcher, his face blackened with soot and tears. He was holding a taut thin rope over the side of the ship — it was the remainder of the rigging from a broken mast, and something was attached to its end, dragging in the water.
Drewshank and Fenwick ran over. During the battle they’d forgotten entirely about Emiline. They looked desperately to the dark sea and saw the battered remains of the crow’s nest floating along at the end of Scratcher’s rope. Fenwick took hold of it, and the two of them pulled as hard as they could against the waves. As the crow’s nest neared, they could just make out a body drifting behind. Emiline’s small mouse was sitting on her chest, and Chervil was paddling frantically behind.
Lord Battersby watched the storm from his apartment window. Standing stock upright in his light-gray navy uniform, he rubbed his hands against one another with worry. The port of Hamlyn was taking a battering.
In charge of the Old Town Guard’s navy, Battersby was a man of great power. He was tall and broad, and had a strikingly strong and
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