There was a flicker of movement out of his eye. A sprinting blur from the stern turned into Florence coming belting up onto the rail, her next step vaulting herself high and feline as she brought the harpoon poised down between her feet.
Her strike was true, separating the cartilage at the dead centre of its head, driving it with such force it pierced the other side – studding the wood an inch from Sall’s earlobe. The wyrm slumped over Sall’s legs, drenching them in a gush of warm dark blood.
He looked up at Florence perched atop the corpse. She twisted the haft, ensuring the wyrm was dead. Her shoulders heaved. She saw Sall there and said nothing. She hung her head, panting.
There were more.
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