by Stuart Hill
Sharley felt a cold touch of fear as the first breath reached the ship, carrying with it a scent of rain and ozone. The sails rattled thickly as the wind filled the canvases, and orders were shouted to furl them before the wind could smash the masts. Sailors swarmed up the rigging, and soon the spars and ladders were filled with men hanging like oddly animated fruit as they hauled and heaved at the heavy sails.
Sharley dragged his eyes away from the tiny figures to look out at the other ships of the fleet. Already they were rearing and rolling on the storm surge, their lights bucking crazily as they plummeted down a watery slope or rose up to climb a towering peak. Feeling even more helpless and hopeless than usual, he fought his way over the pitching deck and fell down the steps to the cabins. Dragging himself to his feet he stumbled along the corridor until he burst through the door of Maggie’s cabin.
The Royal Adviser was calmly securing his books in a large chest that was bolted to the floor. “Ah, Charlemagne! I do believe the weather’s becoming lively.”
“Lively? It looks like the sea’s boiling out there, and the storm’s not even hit us yet.”
Maggie gathered up every last inch of the enormous drooping Primplepuss and poured her into a large secure basket with a lid. “I’m afraid we may lose some of the fleet. At best, it’ll be scattered to the four winds. But the storm will run its course, no matter what we do. I’m afraid the vagaries of the weather are quite beyond us.”
“You sound almost happy about it!” Sharley squeaked.
“No, not happy, more resigned.” Maggie waved Charlemagne towards a chair that stood with another, and a small table, against one of the walls. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make you safe.”
The young Prince noticed that all the furniture was bolted securely to the decking. Obviously the ship was a veteran of many storms. Maggie fussed about him, fastening a strap around his waist, then sat down on the other chair and strapped himself in.
Long years of childhood had made Sharley automatically accept his tutor’s orders, but he suddenly remembered his new status as Regent to the Exiles and he unfastened the buckle. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. There’s a storm coming! I’ll be needed!”
“To do what, exactly?” Maggie enquired gently as he settled the strap about his own waist. “Do you actually have any experience of foul weather at sea?”
“Well, no . . . but I shouldn’t just skulk below decks while the sailors battle the storm. My mother would be with them, giving encouragement and . . . well, just being there. And surely that’s right. Surely it would be better for the . . . for the senior figure of authority to be with them giving moral support.”
“And precisely how is that going to help them save the ship, pray tell?” the old scholar asked pedantically. “The crew will have enough to worry about, without being distracted by the fact that the Prince Regent’s on deck and likely to get washed overboard.”
“I wouldn’t be washed overboard. I’ll tie myself to the mast.”
“From where you’ll no doubt call out stirring words of encouragement to the brave jack tars valiantly doing battle with the elements.”
“Yes . . . no . . . it wouldn’t be like that. Look, Maggie, I want to help!” he almost wailed.
The old man relented, and smiled. “I know, Sharley. But really the best thing you can do is to keep out of the crew’s way. They’ve got enough to cope with without worrying about you as well.” He looked at the young boy’s earnestly frowning face, and understood perfectly that he needed to prove himself. Wisely, he added, “And there’s one vitally important thing you’re forgetting.”
“What’s that?” Sharley asked moodily.
“You are the Prince Regent, effectively the King of the population in exile. If you die in some pointless attempt to be useful, there’ll be no one to lead them. It’s your duty to survive, and to fulfil your appointed task as shepherd of the people.”
Sharley calmed himself, and considered Maggiore’s logic. Reluctantly, he nodded. “All right. But I’m going on deck as soon as the storm passes. I don’t want you trying to keep me down here just because there’s dangerous debris lying about the decks.”
“Agreed,” said Maggie, opening a box that was secured to the table. He took out two mugs and a bottle, poured out careful measures of wine and replaced the bottle in its compartment. “We might as well be prepared. I do believe the ride’s going to be rough.”
Almost on cue, a huge explosion of wind hit the ship and it rolled alarmingly. Sharley hung almost horizontally over the opposite wall of the cabin, and only mind-numbing terror stopped him screaming. He turned in rising panic to Maggie as the wall then climbed above them. Despite everything, he stared in fascination as the old scholar carefully kept his mug of wine upright.
“Oh really, Sharley! Now we’ll have to share!” he said in annoyance.
Sharley took several seconds to realise Maggie was referring to the fact that he’d dropped his mug. “Sorry!” he screamed in a hideously high voice as the ship began to plummet towards the seabed. It then reared upwards as though heading for the stars Sharley had been contemplating only a few minutes earlier. The young Prince couldn’t believe the amazing change in the weather. Where had the storm come from? And how could it be happening at such an unseasonable time of the year?
Up on deck Captain Sigurdson was wondering the same thing, but he didn’t have time to devote much energy to such questions. He was fighting to save his ship, and it was proving to be one of the hardest battles he’d fought in more than thirty years at sea. His sailors had managed to furl the canvases in time, leaving only one small topsail to cup its hand against the raging power of the storm. But he was sure he’d seen at least two sailors fall into the sea. He’d lashed himself to the wheel and fought now to keep the ship on some sort of course. But any chance of navigating by the stars was lost to the deadly black clouds that spewed out a torrent of rain and lashed the air and sea alike with strike after strike of lightning. In front of him parties of crew members fought to keep waterproof canvases over the hatchways; if even one of the hatches gave way, the ship would be lost in a matter of minutes as gallons of water would cascade down from the deck and swamp the vessel. But the wind continually ripped the lashings away and the sailors were nearing exhaustion. More than five members of the deck-crew had already been washed overboard as mountainous waves crashed down on to the planking and shook the ship like a rat in a terrier’s mouth.
Suddenly a huge explosion knocked the sailors flat, as searing, crackling bolts of lightning struck the ship, fore, aft and centre. The topsail erupted into a ball of fire, and was ripped away and thrown far, far into the raging night. The rainsoaked superstructure of the ship sent out great gouts and plumes of steam as the wood was rapidly and massively heated by the strike, but the cascading seas and lashing rain saved it from fire. On the deck, the dead rolled and slithered, until the seas washed over them and dragged them down into the waters. But the survivors climbed to their feet and fought on to keep the hatchways secure.
The storm raged for more than eight hours and Sigurdson still clung to the wheel, feeling his way across the heaving seas and heading more for a sense of place than any geographical point. Then at last, as a mighty burst of lightning lit up the ravaged world, a mass of rock gleamed starkly on the horizon and the Captain shouted aloud in triumph.
* * *
Down in the cabin Maggie rode out the foulest of foul weather in a pleasant haze of alcohol, but Charlemagne ached to go up on deck and do something. He couldn’t deny the logic of what Maggie had said earlier, but that didn’t make his inaction any easier to bear. All he could do was literally sit tight. The old scholar had then started to sing sea shanties from the vast store of his memory, howling almost as loudly as the wind in a multitude of languages. Sharley had always enjoyed a good tune and and didn’t mind Maggie’s howling too much. But nothing could distract him from the horrifying power of the storm, and he spent most of his time waiti
ng for the ship to break up and sink to the bottom of the sea. But as Maggie drunkenly pointed out, anyone who wasn’t afraid in this raging tempest would have to be a raving nutter – if, that is, they weren’t as “drunk as a badger’s bladder”, as the odd saying went.
Maggiore Totus, Royal Adviser and tutor to the monarch’s offspring, belched loudly and grinned in delight at the way the sound echoed from the walls. “Another small snifter is in order, I think,” he said and took a long swig from the bottle.
All about them the cabin was in the wildest motion; anything and everything that Maggie had not secured was now tumbling about the compact space, slowly being reduced to useless debris by its passage around the walls, floor and even ceiling.
Oddly, despite the horrendous noise and the terrible pitching and bucking of the ship, Sharley began to feel tired. Terror finally seemed to have exhausted him and he slipped away into a gentle peace while Maggie held his fingers to his lips and shushed dramatically. “Quiet, quiet, the Prince Regent is sleeping, let all commoners hold their damn noise!” He hiccupped, burped and then suddenly sank into an alcoholic stupor, his snores echoing around the walls like a discordant lullaby.
Eventually, the stark rocks on the horizon began to resolve into a fully-fledged island. Captain Sigurdson even thought he could make out lights from villages and towns on the slopes of a central mountain that rose high into the storm, defiantly absorbing rain, wind and lightning. The sea and murderous winds were steadily driving the ship on towards the island and Sigurdson was ready to seize the opportunity of shelter as soon as it presented itself. But he was nearing total exhaustion, and all he could do now was pray that the ship would reach the sheltered side of the island before he collapsed.
They drew level with the island’s coast, and even in the black of the storm it was possible to see the livid white surf crashing against the shore. A high-pitched, ear-bursting crack suddenly erupted above them, and lightning struck the mizzenmast. With a boom like a cannon shot, the entire mast burst apart, and ripped open the deck. The sea poured into the holds. Under the direction of the First Officer, sailors were scrambling around, fighting to secure a sail over the gaping hole. But it was a losing battle – the ship would soon be swamped. Sigurdson assessed the situation in a split second, and hauling mightily on the wheel he turned broadside to the storm as he risked all on a dash to shore. Better to beach the ship than sink in open sea.
Immediately, the wind seized the superstructure and it heeled over at a vicious angle, but then slowly, incredibly, the ship righted herself and cascaded down towards the shore. Sigurdson noticed a gap in the raging white of the surf. It could mean only one thing: an inlet!
“Well, be it deep, or be it shallow, that’s our berth, my lads!” the Captain roared into the wind.
The shore rushed to meet them and as they entered the shallows the waves grew even higher, crashing down on the decks and heaving the ship skywards as though it was a piece of cork. Now the roar of the surf was added to the howling and screeching of the wind. Sigurdson offered a prayer to the gods and goddesses of the oceans as he tried to steer the vessel towards the dark gap where safety lay. To port and starboard, raging white water erupted and boiled about them, the ship heaved and pitched, rolled and slewed in every direction, and for the first time in his long battle with the storm, the Captain lost his grip on the wheel as it spun crazily from his hands.
The vessel’s prow climbed impossibly skywards, until it was standing vertical in the water, and they must surely crash over backwards. But slowly, slowly, like a falling tree, it dropped forward, gathering speed as it went and smashed down into the raging sea.
Sigurdson grabbed the wheel again and glared ahead through the flying spray. They were now pouring and surging down a mountainous wall of sea like a rock down a glacier. They hit the trough at the bottom, the ocean boiled up beneath them and they crashed back down again . . . into an impossible calm.
They’d made it! They’d reached the inlet, a small natural harbour surrounded by high walls of rock that kept the storm at bay. Sigurdson slumped against the wheel, his eyes closed for a moment or two before he looked out over his ship to assess the damage. The mizzenmast was gone, leaving a gaping hole in the main deck, the foremast had been snapped cleanly in half, and all of the yardarms had been torn from the mainmast. The gunnels had been smashed at several points and everything was buried under a tangle of ropes and fallen ladders. Added to this, the entire ship was listing heavily to starboard and he couldn’t begin to guess at how many crew members and passengers had been killed or lost at sea.
“Not too bad then, considering,” he murmured, and fell asleep where he stood.
Down in Maggie’s cabin, the Chief Royal Adviser eventually registered the fact that the ship was now stationary and gently rolling on a relatively calm swell. He looked about him, checking for damage and injuries. Charlemagne still slept peacefully, and apart from the debris left by the few items Maggie hadn’t secured, everything seemed fine.
He undid the strap that had kept him in his chair and slowly stood up. He staggered over to the bed and opened Primplepuss’s basket. The old cat uncurled, raised a sleepy face and began to wash, meowing as she did so.
Maggie laughed quietly. “I doubt you even noticed the storm, Madame Pussycat. And now of course, you want feeding.”
Primplepuss meowed in agreement and confirmed it by letting off a horrible fishy stench that made Maggie clamp the lid back on her basket and hurriedly tie it shut. There were times when he was almost happy they would be leaving her, with the rest of the refugees, in Venezzia!
Medea collapsed against the back of her chair and drew a long, shuddering breath. She was exhausted. It had taken every ounce of her skill as a Weather Witch to control the storm over such a vast distance, and she still didn’t know if she’d succeeded in drowning her limping, whining runt of a brother. After a few minutes’ rest, she tried applying her Eye and groped far out over the ocean again. But the fleet was on the very periphery of her power and the details were unclear. The fleet was scattered, and she guessed that at least two or three of the refugee ships had foundered, but she couldn’t be sure which ones. Eventually, she gave up. If nothing else, her first attempt to murder her brother had been a very useful strengthening exercise. Sharley was either dead or beyond her range and rage, for now. But if he ever returned to the Icemark he would find a powerful and malevolent sorceress waiting for him. She was surprised, and darkly delighted, at her power and the pleasure it gave her.
Outside in the cold, star-sparkled night, Oskan stood staring up at the lit window in the high tower. Recent events had distracted him from his ever-growing concern for his youngest daughter. There were unresolved issues there that he really must address, but with the mounting worries of the coming war, time was against him. His increasingly Dark-minded daughter was weaving some magical web of intrigue and he could only hope her intent was more mischievous than dangerous. Before they made their choice Gifted children needed privacy, time to find their true selves, but Oskan had the feeling that Medea’s self was something to fear. And worryingly, though he tried to make connections with her, her mind was becoming impenetrable, even to him. It was now obvious to anyone with even the tiniest spark of Magical Ability that Medea was drawn to the Dark, the most evil and dangerous of all the seven circles of the Spirit Realm. Few who entered that circle in their search for power survived. There his daughter might suffer unending torture and a horrible death at the hands of the demons who lived in its frozen wastes. But Oskan also knew that if Medea survived those terrible torments she could become a danger to her family and her country. Mysterious and unfathomable, his daughter stood on the threshold of the biggest decision of her life, but she was scarcely aware of it.
CHAPTER 9
Eodred and Cerdic were spending an evening cleaning their arms and armour. They never allowed anyone else to do this, as a badly maintained piece of equipment or armour could quite literally cost them thei
r lives. It took them hours to clean the swords and daggers, mail coats, helmets and shields and the countless number of belts, straps and buckles that held everything together. As they scrubbed away at the buckling of their sword belts, the repetitious nature of the task actually lulled them into a pleasant sense of peace. But at the back of Eodred’s mind a troubling thought kept nagging. “I never thought I’d miss the snotling so much.”
Cerdic looked up, startled. “What?”
“The snotling . . . Sharley. I never thought I’d miss him.”
“Oh. No, me neither. He was all right, Sharley, in a way.” Eodred snorted. “You’re talking about him as though he’s dead or as if we’ll never see him again. Dad said he’ll be back, one day, with something or other in his hand.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right,” Cerdic agreed, and worked on in silence for a while. “Odd, him getting the Ring of State. That means he could order us about if he was here.”
“Yeah. He wouldn’t though. Sharley’s all right really. I miss the daft things he says. Could always make me laugh, could Sharley, even if I’d done something really stupid like fallen off my horse or allowed my shield wall to be broken in weapons practice.”
“You know, he once rounded on Captain Blood-fang when I really lost it against his regiment of White Pelts,” said Cerdic admiringly. “They’d completely routed my housecarles in the big practice ring and I’d all but lost the war game for that day. Old Blood-fang was calling me all the names under the Blessed Moon, when Sharley popped up from nowhere and called him an ‘eater of vegetables’ and a ‘drinker of diluted blood’. I’ll never forget it. The look on his hairy face was a picture. Then he complimented Sharley on his perfect wolfspeak accent and pulled back to re-form his regiment. Sharley then told me to strengthen my centre and use my wings to take him in the flank. I did exactly as he said, we broke the Wolf-folk’s phalanx, and it was me calling old Blood-fang names then. Until Sharley told me to shut up, that is, and pointed out that Blood-fang was still four two up on me in the victory roster. Only fair really, I suppose.”
