Winds of the Wild Sea

by Jeff Mariotte

  If the boy had been seasick before, he would be truly unhappy under these circumstances, Kral supposed. He was feeling a little queasy himself.

  When they reached the cabin, Donial’s head was out the porthole. He heard them enter and glanced at them, his skin ashen, his hair soaked and plastered to his wet face. “I’m sick,” he moaned.

  “No shame in that,” Kral told him. “Seas like this will do it to anyone.” He didn’t know that for sure, but he guessed it was probably true. And if it could make Donial feel better about his condition, it was a harmless lie.

  Alanya crossed to her brother and stroked his back while he leaned out again. Water splashed in through the port, but Alanya paid it no mind. “The captain says we have hit a sudden squall,” she explained. “I doubt it will stay like this for very long.”

  “It’s already too long for me,” Donial said, bringing his head inside again. He shut the porthole. “I’m empty.”

  One small blessing, Kral thought. “Alanya’s right,” he said. “This cannot last very long. And I heard a sailor say that if it looks like it will, the ship will make for shore and tie down until it passes.”

  “Which would cost us valuable time,” Alanya observed.

  “Perhaps. But in this storm, we run the risk of losing ground instead of gaining. Better to play it safe than capsize out here.” The ship wasn’t running very far out anyway—just away from hidden reefs and shallow water, but Captain Ferrin had said the coastline would be visible for the whole trip to Stygia. “So the others, the mercenaries, they are also headed for Stygia?” Kral had asked the captain.

  Ferrin had ignored the question. Which answered it, as far as Kral was concerned. Answered it in the affirmative.

  Why a crew of mercenaries would be going to Stygia, he had no idea.

  But they bore watching, just the same. He had done his best to keep an eye on them since the voyage began.

  A wave crashed against the ship, shoving it to starboard with such force that Alanya’s feet went out from under her. She crashed into Donial, who still stood by the bulkhead. Even Kral lost his balance, dropping to hands and knees on the deck. The ship righted, then rocked to port, but less violently.

  “That was bad,” Donial said, when his sister had disentangled herself.

  “Yes,” Kral agreed. “We are best off in our bunks, I think. And holding on to something.”

  He took his own suggestion, and the others followed suit. They could hear water pounding against the hull. The ship pitched and yawed sickeningly. It felt to Kral like being inside a cloud during the worst kind of thunderstorm. In their bunks, at least they were dry, and they could clutch the bunk poles to keep them from being thrown about. Occasionally, when the wind died momentarily, or the ship caught on the crest of a wave, they could hear furious shouts and running feet out on the deck. The oarsmen’s drummer was hard at work, picking out a fast and steady rhythm. Kral doubted that the oars were helping much, although with the sails struck, they were all that propelled the ship besides the waves themselves.

  Part of him wanted to go topside and watch the sailors battle the storm. It would be dramatic, he knew. He pictured them, rain-lashed, windblown, tugging on lines and pulling on oars, fighting nature with every ounce of their strength, as a Pict would fight an enemy. Their faces would be set, jaws firm, teeth clenched. The muscles would stand out on their arms, corded with steely sinew, as they worked.

  But he thought his presence in the cabin soothed Alanya. And on deck, he might be in the way. He didn’t know a jib sail from a mizzenmast, and he would hate to become an obstacle instead of a help.

  So he stayed where he was, trying to ignore the continuous thunder of water assaulting the ship and the uncertain lurching of its progress. After what seemed like an hour, he risked going to the porthole to look out. The incessant rain was almost impenetrable, but he was sure he could see land, not far away.

  “We’re almost to shore,” he told the others. “The captain’s probably just looking for a sheltered spot to anchor.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Donial answered weakly. “I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.”

  “It will not be long now,” Kral declared. Sheer speculation, but he hoped it was true. “I am certain of it.”

  ON DECK, CAPTAIN Ferrin could scarcely believe the luck. He had made this journey many times, ferrying goods and occasional passengers between the desert kingdom of Stygia and the civilized one of Aquilonia. He knew every inch of the coastline, having sailed it in good seas and in bad.

  But never had he encountered a storm like this one, so swift in its attack, so fierce in its determination to sink his ship. The wind seemed to change direction every minute, so that he never knew from where it would blow next. The waves were like living, malevolent beings, picking the absolute worst moments to push up beneath the Restless Heart’s hull, then to fall away, dropping her twenty feet or more to slam against their hard surface below. The deck was flooded; he stood knee deep in cold, swirling water.

  His oarsmen did their best, and in this one instance the storm seemed to cooperate, pushing them unceasingly toward the shore. That was where he wanted to be. There was a protected inlet, he was positive, not far from here. He couldn’t see it through wind and water, but he knew it well. If he could coax the Heart in there, he could save her.

  It was not to be, though. When he heard the splintering of wood, he realized it was too late for that. They wouldn’t make the inlet or any other destination. A wave lifted the ship off whatever they’d struck, and he was grateful for that. But the tilt of the deck, the sight of water running off it to port, told him the damage had already been done.

  “We’ve run aground!” he screamed. “Hole in the port side, astern! Man the boats! Prepare to abandon ship!”

  The Restless Heart carried a crew of forty sailors. Twenty-three passengers, among both groups, and himself, made sixty-four.

  There was space on the lifeboats for thirty.

  They weren’t too far from shore. Most could swim it. At least, in normal seas, they could have.

  In these seas, it was anyone’s guess how many would make it alive.

  “ABANDON SHIP?” ALANYA echoed. “That sounds bad.”

  “Hush,” Kral urged. He opened the porthole a crack so he could hear better. Even as he did, he knew from the listing of the ship that Alanya had heard correctly. He could tell that she was terrified. Much as he didn’t like to admit it, he, too, felt dizzy—from the chaotic motion of the ship, and from the fear rising inside him. All this effort, all this distance, just to have a seemingly solid vessel fall apart beneath their feet, dumping them into the ocean’s trackless depths? “Yes,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

  “But . . . does this ship have boats?” Donial asked. “Or must we swim for it?”

  Kral pointed to port, or north, from there. “Land is not too far that way,” he said. “If we have to swim, we stay together. If the ship breaks up, there will be wood we can use to help us float.”

  “You’re serious,” Alanya said, incredulous. “Swimming to shore? Where are we?”

  “That must be Shem over there,” Donial said. “Where in Shem, I have no idea.”

  “I have never been to Shem,” Alanya admitted. She tried to put on a brave front, Kral knew, but her voice trembled, as did her hand when she scooped up her mirror and tucked it into a pouch hidden under her skirts. “Or wanted to. But it looks like we will end up there anyway.”

  “Better that than staying on this while it sinks,” Kral agreed. “Let’s go.”

  He helped them to the ladder, then up and onto the deck. Captain Ferrin was busy supervising the launching of lifeboats—only two of them, Kral noted, and too small to carry more than a fraction of those on board. Ferrin’s floppy hat was gone, his long dark hair glued to his head. If he looked as ridiculously stiltlike as ever, he also looked like a man who knew what he was doing. He barked orders with authority, and his gaze swept the deck, keeping
an eye on changing conditions at all times. Spotting Alanya and Donial on deck, he gestured them over.

  “Them first!” he commanded. “The girl and the boy!”

  “We need not—” Alanya began.

  Her brother interrupted her. “It is tradition,” he said. “Women and children first. I am no child, and I’ll take my own chances. But you need to get on that boat, or no one else will.”

  Kral could tell that she was hesitant, not wanting to be separated from Donial or him. He did not want her separated either, but he knew that Donial was right. The sailors would put her on the first boat if they had to pick her up and throw her on board.

  “You are no child,” he whispered to Donial. “But take advantage of the chance to go with her. She might need you.”

  Donial frowned at him. “But I—”

  “No one is calling you a little boy,” Kral said. “But you are the youngest on board. If they want to consider you a child for this purpose, then it is to our benefit. We do not want to leave Alanya alone with them.”

  “Very well,” Donial said. “She is my sister, after all. I will look after her.” His acceptance was grudging, but he took Alanya’s hand, and together they went to the boat, which had already splashed down into the sea and was crashing against the ship’s hull with every wave.

  As surely as he knew getting Donial on the lifeboat had been the right thing to do, Kral knew that he would never get on it. He was nothing but a savage to these people. Little better than an animal. He would be the absolute last person allowed on a boat, and it was already clear that there were not enough spaces for everyone. Sailors lowered Alanya and Donial to the little rowboat, then took their own places on it, breaking out oars and pushing away from the Restless Heart. The next boat filled up fast as well, mostly with the mercenaries who were Captain Ferrin’s paying passengers.

  When both boats had pushed off and struck for shore, the remaining sailors waited for Captain Ferrin’s order. Once given, they dove into the churning sea and began to swim.

  And then there were only two on the swamped deck. Kral, and the captain. “What are you waiting for, lad?” Ferrin demanded. “Swim for it.”

  “What about you?” Kral asked.

  “There is a maritime custom,” Captain Ferrin replied, “that the captain goes down with his ship.”

  “That sounds stupid,” Kral noted.

  “It is,” Ferrin said. “Like some other customs I could name. And like those, it is really a matter of personal choice. I have only waited this long to be sure everyone else got away safely. You included, Pict. So get into the water, because I cannot until you do!”

  The captain might have looked absurd, but his stock rose in Kral’s estimation when he spoke. With no reason to tarry, Kral sucked in a huge breath, held it, and dove into the sea. He swam beneath the surface until he could stand it no longer, then came out and gasped for air.

  As soon as his head broke the water, he saw the captain’s splash, close behind. Together, matching stroke for stroke, they made for the shore.

  12

  THE LITTLE BOAT was no great improvement over drowning, as far as Donial was concerned.

  The waves sloshed into it at will, leaving the people inside soaked, bailing for their lives with pails, helmets, and hands. Tossed by the waves, the boat bucked and bounced even more than the ship had. Donial was sick again, and this time he wasn’t alone. Even seasoned sailors were green-faced and retching.

  Enough remained unaffected to row the boat, however. They pulled for the shore, invisible through the downpour except as a low, dark mass in the distance. Alanya gripped his hand so hard it hurt, but he was glad for the contact.

  After a while, the combination of terror, water, cold, and the inability to see beyond the confines of the small craft started to get to him, and he felt drowsy. It would be easy, he thought, to drift off to sleep. So easy . . .

  He shook himself awake, even going so far as to pinch his own leg. Sleeping now was not an option, he realized. Too much likelihood that he would fall right out of the boat, possibly even dragging his sister along. He had to stay alert, no matter what.

  Realizing that Alanya was staring at him, he offered her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “It will not be long now,” he said.

  “I hope not.”

  In the next few minutes, Donial began to take heart himself. The sea seemed marginally more calm. The waves pushed the boat in only one direction—the same way the oarsmen rowed—instead of toward what seemed like every compass point at once. The shoreline came into sharper relief.

  Since Donial had been hoisted into the boat, he had not seen Kral. A few times, he had caught glimpses of the second lifeboat, not too far behind his. But he had no idea if the Pict was in that boat or somewhere out at sea.

  More minutes passed, during which the shore became clearly delineated. Waves crashed against a series of boulders jutting up from the surface. Beyond those, the water was calm. It lapped against a sandy beach that angled up toward what looked like a vast stretch of unbroken grassland. Donial had half expected ziggurats rising whitely from the land, or desert chieftains on camelback grinning at the shipwreck survivors with sharp scimitars in their hands. But there were no buildings here, no towns in sight, or people of any description. Just empty coast as far as he could see. A white stretch of sand, then grass—not desert, after all—beyond.

  Then they were there. Sailors jumped from the boat and splashed ashore, grabbing its gunwales and dragging it through a break in the boulders and onto the beach. Rain continued to patter down around them, but they had made landfall, dry or not.

  As soon as the craft was beached, Donial jumped out, then extended a hand to help Alanya. She climbed out of the boat and stood there in the surf. Waves washed up to her knees as she stared out at the dark sea.

  Looking for Kral, Donial knew.

  Looking for the one who was the reason they were here in the first place. Shipwrecked, maybe marooned in the middle of nowhere.

  And still, to her, the most important person in the world.

  Donial mentally cursed himself for thinking that, as soon as he did. He knew that he was Alanya’s first priority, as she was his. They were family, and nothing could ever change that.

  Of course, a niggling thought at the back of his mind reminded him, Uncle Lupinius and Father were siblings, too. And look what had happened there. He still did not know, of course, if Lupinius had actually killed his father. But Lupinius had watched it happen, by his own admission. And if it hadn’t happened exactly as he had described—which seemed very unlikely—then he was still guilty. It had been his idea, after all, to attack the Pictish village, using Kral as an excuse.

  Nothing like that could ever happen between him and Alanya, though. They argued sometimes, they resented one another—that was natural, and he was sure it was the same with all siblings. And now that they had business interests together—now that they would have to run their father’s estate—it was entirely possible that they would clash more, rather than less. But mostly, they loved and watched out for each other. For his part, he would rather have stayed home in Tarantia than gone on this foolhardy expedition, chasing around the world looking for the Pictish crown. Alanya, however, would not have stayed behind, so here Donial was, too.

  Family did that for family.

  THERE WERE MOMENTS when Kral thought he might not make it.

  The waves never let up, never stopped fighting him. He pulled and pulled until it felt like his arms would tear off at the shoulders. His lungs ached. He had swallowed so much foul, salty seawater he thought he would sink. Every time he brought his head above the surface there was so much rain and spray he could barely tell if he was above water or not. And the waves bashed and threw him around so much he was afraid he had lost track of which direction he was supposed to be swimming.

  But giving up was not the Pictish way. He redoubled his efforts, pawing at the water with cupped hands, kicking with powerful l
egs. He sliced through the waves like a sharp knife through the tender flesh of a young deer.

  Soon enough, he saw results. The distant coastline swam into focus, and shortly after that he could even see the boats up on the shore. They had made it, he thought with satisfaction. Alanya and Donial were safe. The knowledge gave him renewed strength.

  Sometime later, he gained the beach and stumbled onto the sand, exhausted. He heard his name called, assumed that it was Alanya, but collapsed facedown onto the wet ground anyway. He felt hands on his back, his ribs, turning him over. He blinked seawater from his eyes, looked up, and started to laugh.

  “Kral?” Alanya said, concerned. “What are you laughing at? What is so amusing?”

  Kral managed to control himself long enough to answer. Alanya was still as beautiful as always, despite the fact that her golden hair was matted to her skull, caked with sand, and tangled with seaweed, her face was crusted with salt, and her clothing was soaked and shredded. “When I first saw you I thought you were a goddess,” he said, allowing himself another chuckle. “And perhaps you are. But now, I think probably a goddess of the sea.”

  She regarded him for a long moment—probably trying, he guessed, to determine if he had been knocked on the head or swallowed so much seawater that he had gone mad. But then she smiled, too, and started to laugh along with him. “I imagine I am a sight,” she said. “But then, you look no better yourself right now.”

  “You are probably right,” Kral said. He knew she had the mirror with her; knew, also, that she would not want to reveal it to the men around them. “I started out less lovely than you, though.”

  Alanya laughed again, and punched him playfully on the arm. “Maybe you should have just drowned,” she said teasingly. Then, as if realizing what she had said, she threw her arms about him and embraced him tightly. “I did not mean that!”