Dozens of skylights were open in the long, high roof of the dock building, though it was still largely dark inside. The dim light revealed about two dozen humans, adults and children alike, working on what I thought at first was a broad, nearly flat ship’s hull turned over. My eyes adjusted rapidly to the illumination, and I walked to the edge of the dry dock to get a better look at the object of the workers’ attention.
I looked at the object for a long time. The wild enthusiasm I had felt last night was rapidly dispelled. When the shock had worn off, I went to find Dromel. He was talking with old Fenshal himself, each man holding one side of a large sheet of ship’s construction plans. Dromel gave me a broad grin and a wave as I walked up.
“You are mad,” I growled at him. “You are madder than mad.”
“Red Horn!” said Dromel happily. “Berin Fenshal, this is my new first mate, Red Horn. He’s-”
“Have you ever tested such a thing as this?” I could not control my tongue. “Do you have even the vaguest idea of the difficulties involved in underwater travel? Is this some kind of secret suicide plot you’ve cooked up for us?”
“So you like it, then?” Dromel said in a hopeful tone, looking past me to the bizarre ship in the dry dock. “Sort of like a dragon turtle shell, isn’t it? I actually got the idea from thinking about dragon turtles a year ago. You know how they cruise along just below the water’s surface so you can barely see them, with that nice, huge, protective turtle shell all around. That sort of thing.”
Old Fenshal rolled his eyes as Dromel spoke. I snorted and walked off halfway through his patter, going back to the dry dock. The other Fenshals, working on the craft in the dry dock, tried to ignore me as they quietly went on with their work.
“I call it a deepswimmer,” Dromel called out. “That big X-shaped thing at the stern, that’s the propeller. It rotates when you turn a crank on the insi-”
“This is a monstrosity1.” I roared. All work instantly ceased. “It’s a nightmare! You want us to travel all the way to. .” With terrible effort, I bit off my words. I rubbed my eyes and snout vigorously with my hands, shutting out the world. Then I sighed and stared again at the ship, the deepswimmer. I had forgotten about this part of his plan after he had showed the dragon-lance to me.
Work slowly resumed as I looked on. Dromel’s undersea craft was not very large, certainly smaller than a merchantman. It had no masts or sails, just a smooth wooden surface over which a thin, gray substance, probably a waterproofing sealant, was being painted by a boy with a broad brush. Flat wooden panels like fish fins came out from the sides in several places, pointing in every direction. Strange objects poked up from the vessel’s top. I guessed there would be enough room inside for not more than a half dozen men, but it would be a cramped journey.
As I looked on, my harsh attitude softened. The design of the deepswimmer was not unreasonable, if it were to accomplish the task Dromel had set for it. It was as well crafted as anything Fenshal amp; Sons had ever made. Small portholes around the sides of the craft allowed for clear if limited vision. Piloting the craft would be a challenge, however. The things like fish fins must be steering rudders, I thought, but the vessel would surely be clumsy and slow to respond. There was the obvious problem of getting fresh air into the craft. Then, too, it might take weeks for it to get to Enstar, if that propeller was its only propulsion.
“We’ll have it towed,” said Dromel, as if reading my mind. He was just behind me, his voice barely audible. “That’s what the bow ring is for, right there. We’ll cut loose from the tow ship after we cross Thunder Bay, then we’ll move on to the island. The ship will wait for our return off Southern Ergoth. It’ll be fast and safe, and best of all, nobody will spot us. Not even,” he whispered, “shadow wights.”
“Air,” I said. “We’ll need fresh air.”
“That round thing toward the stern, on top there, that’s a floating air vent. We’ve created a flexible tube to go from the deepswimmer to the surface, to that. We’ll release that floating intake, eject any water that gets into the tube, then pump pure air into the cabin anytime we want. We’ll be only twenty feet under the surface at most. Storms won’t be able to touch us.”
“Dromel, how did you think of all this?” I turned to face him in amazement. “You told me once that you didn’t even know which side of a ship was starboard, but now you’ve. . I don’t see how you could. .” My voice trailed off as I swept my hand in the direction of the strange vessel.
A muffled cough came from behind Dromel. He spun around. “Ah, Pate!” he cried, and he hurried over to a short, bearded figure standing nervously behind old Fenshal. “Red, I want you to meet the real designer of the deepswimmer, the genius who came up with every nut and bolt in it after I gave him the idea. This is Pate. He’ll be the chief engineer on our voyage!”
I stared down at Pate, and my worst fears came to life. I understood in a flash how Dromel, who did not know port from starboard, now owned such a monstrosity of a ship. My disbelief gave way to rage, and I glared hard at the bald, bearded, diminutive genius Dromel introduced.
A tinker gnome, the lost gods save me. Pate stared back at me with fear-stricken eyes magnified by his thick gold-rimmed spectacles. He clutched a trembling armload of ship plans, sweating like a fountain-as disconcerted to lay eyes on me, no doubt, as I was to see him. I could tell he was only moments from fainting.
“Say hello, Red!” called Dromel happily.
“No,” I said with a disgusted snort and left the building.
Day 2, evening
“Are you deaf?” I shouted. “No! Get out of here!”
“Red!” Dromel was literally on his knees on the filthy warehouse floor, blocking my doorway. “Red, you’ve got to go! I really need you for this! We’ve got to have someone who knows the sea, someone with real navigational skills, someone fearless, someone-
“Someone stupid enough to ride in a boat made by a genuine tinker gnome!”
“Berin Fenshal himself went over the plans!” Dromel cried. “He went over everything that Pate designed! Berin said it would work! You can go ask him, Red!”
I glared down at Dromel with narrow eyes, resisting an urge to strangle him. “This little runt-Pate, you call him-you said he’s going with us, right?”
Dromel was in agony. “He has to go! He designed the thing from my general specifications! He’s a real shipwright and engineer. He apprenticed under Fenshal himself, and at the Sea Kings’ shipyard under Wallers and Goss. Pate’s not like a real tinker gnome, Red, he’s a genuine troubleshooter, and he’s got-”
“Who else is on the crew? Or are we it? Get up, you look like a fool.”
Dromel swallowed and stiffly got up from his knees, dusting off his pants. “We. . we needed an outdoors sort. I found a Kagonesti, a good hunter and tracker. That’s even his name, Hunter, just plain Hunter, or so he tells me. You know the Kagonesti, don’t you, those tattooed half-naked guys, the wildlands elves? He’s really a fine fellow even if he’s not very sociable, but none of them are, I know. You’ll like him anyway.”
“Elves are dogs.” I started to close the door.
“He’s not like a real elf!” Dromel shouted in panic. “He’s good at what he does, he’s not stuck up, and he can get food for us on shore because we can’t store all that we need in the Mock Dragon Turtle! If we get lost, he can get us off the island! He’s good with all sorts of weapons! He’s a master of blades! You’ll like him!”
“Where did you get that?”
“Hunter? He was in the marketplace a week ago, and-”
“No, that name. The Mock Dragon Turtle, is that what you call the deepswimmer?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s the ship. You like the name? So, about Hunter-”
“Elves are dogs until there’s a war, and then they’re a pack of whining, floor-wetting mongrel pups.”
“Yes, I know, but no, not this one! Hunter’s head and shoulders above the rest! Everyone says so! He’s not like a real elf!
”
“And what in blazes am I?” I roared. “Do you tell everyone I’m not like a real minotaur?”
It took a terrible effort to get control of myself. Finally, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This argument was giving me a headache. Getting rid of Dromel was worse than getting rid of a giant tick.
“Is anyone else going along?” I asked.
“No, no, that’s about it.” Dromel fidgeted. He looked very uncomfortable. “Almost, anyway. We need one more hand, someone to help with things in case of emergency, someone without fear. We can fit one more aboard without losing any comfort. We might need just that one more. Maybe. I’ll know by tomorrow.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Red,” Dromel pleaded, “I’m going to do it with or without you. If you don’t go, I’ll find someone else. This is the chance of a lifetime, the chance of ten lifetimes. I mortgaged my entire inheritance, all the lands my father left me, to build that deepswimmer and find those dragonlances. We can find out what happened over there on Enstar, find out where those islanders went during the Chaos War, and we can make ourselves richer than the ancient Kingpriest of Istar when we get to the lord’s manor I found on the maps I took from the naval library. It’s going to work, and I want you to be in on it.”
I mulled it over. There was always a chance he was right, and I’d hate myself if it really was the chance of a lifetime. I was defeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll talk then.”
Dromel nearly collapsed in relief. “By the old gods, Red, I knew I could count on you. You’re a-”
I shut the door.
Day 3, late morning
I awoke at dawn and once more went to Fenshal amp; Sons’ shipyard. I found Dromel inside the dry dock building. Beside him was someone I knew instantly and instinctively was our new and final crew member.
“Oh! R-Red!” cried Dromel. His voice shook with ill-concealed terror. “Red, th-this is our-”
“No!” I roared, and left the building.
“Hey, you big cow!” shrieked a feminine voice behind me. “You got something against kender?”
Day 11, night
My cracked phosphor-globe has gone out at last, so I write this using Pate’s globe. Our deepswimmer rests on the sea bottom now; I have no idea how close to shore we are, though Dromel guesses about a quarter-mile. All is blackness through the small portholes around us. We go ashore tomorrow.
It is very late, but Twig is awake as always, too excited to sleep. She looks endlessly through her myriad pockets. She hums to herself only two feet from my right elbow. Twig is a born talker. At least she no longer asks to read my journal. I refuse to let her see it, which infuriates her.
Dromel is awake, too. He plays with a phosphor-globe across from Twig, the pale green light leaking through his thin ringers. I cannot imagine what is whirling through his mind now that he’s so close to the land of his big plans and dreams. He has been very quiet today, his false bravado gone. Oil-stained Pate snores faintly under his filthy blankets at the rear of our cramped cabin. He sometimes mumbles in his sleep exactly as he mumbles when awake. I have no idea how he can sleep at all; after four days under the waves, we stink so offensively as to trouble the dead. I had heard that gnomes have a marvelous sense of smell, thanks to their large noses, but perhaps Pate is an exception. Hunter huddles in a ball at the bow window. I cannot tell if he sleeps or not. He calls his sleep “reverie,” like a half-conscious daydream. He cannot explain how it is different, but it does not matter. He is just an elf, as conceited as any other, but he doesn’t talk much, a blessing on a voyage where we have no privacy for anything at all, and every slight is magnified a thousand times.
We will be so busy tomorrow, however, that we will forget our petty thoughts. As soon as we see light through the portholes, Pate and Dromel will work the propeller crank as I steer with the fins, and our deepswimmer will rise and move toward the island’s shore. Our little adventure will finally begin.
What will happen then and what we will see not even the new magic users, the mystics, could tell us. If we survive, we might be famous, wildly famous, and possibly rich beyond imagining.
Yet I wonder if this is likely. This voyage was a fool’s gamble from the start. Dromel knows it better than I do, I believe, but he always spouts childish optimism, plainly hiding his true fears. We might find nothing here but death. We might have only a few heartbeats left to us after we reach the shore. We might not even have the time to scream.
I wonder what that will be like, to have never existed.
Time for sleep. More cheerful notes later.
‘Sit”
Day 12, morning
Twig awoke us at dawn. I moved my stiff legs and grunted from the pain that ran through them. I cannot bear to be cramped in this mobile tomb any longer. The air is foul, even with the air tube, and I fear I would kill to escape confinement. Today must be the day we leave, no matter what awaits us.
Little Pate, mumbling unintelligibly, worked on the reflecting tube as the rest of us ate our miserable breakfast rations. To our astonishment, he managed to un-jam the gearbox, and he carefully ratcheted the long reflecting tube up to the surface, so we could view our surroundings. This gave me some concern, as I thought perhaps that shadow wights, if any were hovering in the air above us, could pass through the tube and enter our deepswim-mer, destroying us easily in our marvelous undersea prison. No such event occurred, a point in Dromel’s favor. Perhaps shadow wights truly do not move about in broad daylight, as he stated. I can only hope his wisdom and our luck hold out.
Pate turned the reflecting tube from side to side, then twisted the lens to enhance the focus. He froze, staring with a wide eye into the tube’s lens.
We said nothing, dreading the news. Pate slowly drew back from the reflecting tube and motioned Dromel to view. Without warning, Twig thrust herself into line first and put her eye to the lens before anyone could say a word. Dromel shouted angrily at her, but she would not be budged.
“I don’t see anyone,” she complained. “They must be off somewhere fishing. We will just have to look inside those ratty little houses to find out when they’re coming home.”
It was a moment more before the impact of her words stuck the rest of us. We surged toward the reflecting tube to see the coast of Enstar for ourselves.
Few written records or spoken tales tell of the folk who once lived on the small, southern island of Enstar or its smaller companion, Nostar. We have excellent maps of them made by sailors over many centuries, and these maps show the usual features: villages and towns, roads and paths, legendary sites, a few small harbors. Most inhabitants were surely humans, but few were at all famous, and the islands merited little attention over the course of many centuries.
No records exist today to tell us what became of these people after the Chaos War, three decades ago. No one is known to have ever gone to Enstar and returned to report. However, mystics and scholars murmur disturbing theories about the possible fate of the island people once the shadow wights arrived. Gone, they say, the people are gone. Not fled, not living on the mainland or other islands under assumed names-just gone. The shadow wights did it, tales say, but of course there is no proof, as Dromel once said.
When I finally looked through the reflecting tube to the surface, I clearly saw the remains of a dock and three stone cottages, minus their roofs, on the not-too-distant shore. A half-collapsed barn stood farther behind them with a crude wooden fence before it. A light wind stirred the wild brown grass around the ruins. The eerie scene strained my nerves.
“That old map was right!” said Dromel. His face was pale, but he was ecstatic. “We found the correct fishing village, and Lord Dwerlen’s manor should be just a couple miles away! We made it! We did it!”
The din from the others was almost unbearable, especially from the shrieking Twig, but thankfully it was brief. I share their excitement, but it would be unseemly to display it. In a short while we will s
et foot on Enstar, the first people since the Chaos War known to do so. At last I will be free of this wretched floating coffin, thanks be to the world.
Dromel is about to hand out the relics that will, with any luck, keep us safe while we explore this lost realm. We each receive one dragonlance head, fastened to a chain necklace. Dromel assures us that if shadow wights are about, the nightmare beings will be kept at a safe distance by the magical radiation from the spearheads. Twig constantly pesters Dromel with questions about our safety, which Dromel states is absolute. She asks about this every day, probably because the subject of the shadow wights distresses him so much and for some perverse reason she likes that. I like to see him so distressed, too, as I had warned him about kender as crew before we left. I will write more from the shore if I am able. If I am not. . it will not matter, and no one will care.
Day 12, midday
I have a few minutes to pass. It is about noon and warm. We are lucky that the sky is clear, though it is windy. We will retreat if clouds come up, as any such darkness would make it easy for shadow wights to travel about. We are in the abandoned village, a few hundred feet in from the shore. All that is left of the place are stone walls and fallen timbers from the roofs. Pate digs for treasure as I write this, using an old shovel we found though he is too short to use it properly. He has found nothing in an hour of digging. He keeps tripping over the dragonlance he is wearing, and he mutters complaints about the length of the chain, how it tangles his feet, and how unnecessary it is with no obvious threat in view. He threatens to take the chain and dragonlance off, though he has been, warned he would be a fool to do so. I have enough reservations to keep my own relic safely around my neck.
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