Hi friends. If you’re new here, this is The 200 Word Novel, where I’m writing a novel roughly 200 words at a time. You can find the start of the adventure (and the story) here. This week, I finally am back home in Seattle! Downside: no more cute Flip pics.
But he didn’t need to.
Gruber sprang up, leaping off of Gilly’s back, hitting the side of the ship with a wet splorch! His webbed palms and feet slid down the rough wood surface a few fraught inches before finding purchase, the ever present thin coat of slime on his skin helping him stick to the side. The sound and spray of Gilly hitting the water behind him washed over Gruber as he scrambled up towards the cannon porthole, freeing one hand to draw a dagger. As Gruber reached parallel to the opening, he dragged the flat of the blade across the back of his arm, coating it in his skin ooze, and waited.
He didn’t need to wait long. A ferret stuck their head out of the porthole, peering down to see what caused the noise. Gruber plunged the dagger towards the ferret’s neck, but to their credit, some well honed instinct lent them a last second twist, the blade cutting but not piercing flesh as they stumbled backwards with a yelp. Gruber grasped the edge of the opening and swung into the porthole, one foot kicking the ferret in the jaw, one hand loosing the dagger at a surprised looking rat manning the cannon. Blade met eye with a sickening squelch, and the rat fell with a squeal of pain.
Gruber drew two fresh daggers as he assessed the situation. Narrow galley. Four cannons. Crates of emberstone next to each cannon station. Eight, now seven crew manning them, the others crying out and drawing swords and using their cannons as cover. …soon to be six, given the ferret at his feet clutching their throat has started foaming at the mouth—a downside of most mammals not having resistance to his natural toxins. (Upside: always having the perfect excuse to never offer a handshake to unwashed clients.)
Six to one. No element of surprise. Gruber ran his tongue across his eyeball, the thick smell of emberstone burning his nostrils as his mind raced through its calculations. There’s bad odds, and then there’s you’re as good as dead odds.
Time to go.
Gruber took his daggers and plunged them into the shoulders of the ferret, eliciting a gurgling scream. He whipped around, pulling the squirming noodle up between him and the room, and drag-hopped back towards the porthole of the cannon. The thud thud of crossbow bolts **hitting the poor ermine validated Gruber’s maneuver. With a grunt, Gruber dove backwards out the opening, landing with his webbed feet perpendicular against the side of the ship, the now twitching ferret half hanging out in the salt sea air.
“Orion! Now! Flames!” Gruber bellowed.
“I am no petty commoner fire mage to be commanded—“ came the booming reply somewhere above.
“Lend me the Moon maiden’s aid!” Gruber corrected.
To Orion’s everlasting credit, a beam of silvery light engulfed the cannon porthole. Small flames licked at the lacquered wood of the ship, not finding real purchase, but the ferret’s clothes and fur quickly ignited, sending their screams into a whole new pitch and tenor.
Gruber grasped the sides of the porthole, braced his legs against the flaming ferret’s back… and kicked him back into the brig.
He lingered, clinging to the side of the ship, just long enough to see the ferret stumble into the nearest crate of emberstone. Just long enough to see the glimpses of recognition flash across the faces of the crew. Just long enough to watch some rush forward towards the now glowing emberstones in a panic, even as others turn to try to run.
Then Gruber sprang off the ship, head turning towards the azure waters as the deafening explosions and bursts of heat bloomed behind him.
By the time Gruber and Gilly returned to the Duskhawk, the fight had already swung decidedly back in the crew’s favor. Nearby, the dark ship burned and slowly sank, any last cries of animals lost under the roar of emberstone fueled flames. Gruber had seen several dark-clad assailants successfully make it on board the Duskhawk, but their numbers were greatly reduced by the unexpected preemptive strike. And while the assailants fought with the terror and fear of having no ship to return to, the Duskhawk crew swung their blades fueled by conviction and the fervor of a herd defending their home den.
That, and their mages didn’t fly while Orion did. How very fortunate.
As Gruber and Gilly clambered back aboard, Gruber watched Ren slash her scimitars across the back of a large hare, carving through his beetle shell breastplate like hot butter. The mammal gave a pained shout and fell to his knees— eyes landing right in front of the muzzle of Basil’s emberstone pistol.
“Call off your pack, or I’ll paint the deck with your face,” Basil hissed.
“Hold!” The hare yelled. “Hold,” he shouted again as Basil shoved the pistol into his nose.
The last remnants of fighting petered out as the assailants caught sight of their commander at pistol point. Swords clattered to the ground, and an eerie almost-quiet overtook the ship as the remaining assailants tossed down their arms in surrender. Gruber watched, crossbow still at the ready, as an otter member of the crew (Odo, if Gruber recalled his name correctly) began rounding and tying up the assailants.
“No insignia nor markers on any of them, Captain.” Ren’s eyes darted from captive to captive, even as her scimitars held steady against the hare’s back.
“Who are you working for, rabbit?” Basil asked.
The hare said nothing.
Basil let out a low whistle. “Awful lot of effort and lives lost just to steal some spices,” she said. “Everden’s rock salts are good, but not that good.” The hare scoffed.
“You know that’s not what we seek,” he snarled.
“Ah, so you admit you seek something,” Basil said. “If not the Everden rock salts, then the [Mountain] saffron? The habanero peppers from the famed Abbey of the Watchful Eye?” Basil pulled back the hammer on her pistol, and the hare failed to suppress a flinch as the weapon resumed its place between his eyes. “Because if it’s none of those things, then you killed half my crew for nothing.”
The hare, to his credit, remained silent, glowering at Basil with a futile fury. Basil leaned in close, tongue flickering next to the hare’s long ears as she pressed the pistol into his forehead. “Got the wrong ship, maybe? Honestly, it’s an easy mistake to make. Just like pulling this trigger would be an awfully easy mistake to make.” With her free hand, she grabbed the hare’s armor by the [collar] and pulled him in close enough to whisper. “Tell me who you work for and maybe I can muster the effort needed to let the council of Vahn dictate your fate, instead of blasting your brains out through the back of your skull and letting the fishes sort out any leftover justice for your little crew.”
I’m gonna be honest: when I started writing this story, I didn’t quite plan for it to be… quite this gruesome or violent. But it’s been fun finding the voice for our weird little hyper-practical murderhobo protagonist, and a big extended fight scene is always a joy and challenge to write.
No big revelations about the writing or process this week. I think we’re just settling into the bread and butter of routine writing. It is nice that this exercise is starting to feel like habit.
I also try my best to start my day writing my 200 words, rather than putting it off. Feeding my own projects first before doing work for corporate entities and freelance clients feels pretty nice.
Lastly, completely unrelated—please enjoy this picture of my favorite piece of art I saw in the Houston Museum of Fine Arts this week. Some local high school photographer really got them to hang their photo of their friend titled “Mr. Aura” as part of an exhibit. F*ckin’ legend, mate.
That’s all for this week! Thanks as always for coming along on the journey. May your week be peak. Bet. 🐸