[Meetings 06] - The Companions

by Tina Daniell - (ebook by Undead)

  The captain ordered some of his crew to the oars on the port side and others to raise the smallest sail. Shouting orders and encouragement, Nugetre and his sailors somehow managed to wrestle the Castor back to the Outer Reach.

  Raistlin reappeared on deck at midday. Obviously still fatigued, his face wan, Raistlin still gave off an aura of excitement. I could see that his strength and determination had been renewed. How long, I asked him, do we have to endure this?

  "My guess is that we have gone some hundred and fifty miles," answered the young mage, "That means we have another hundred and fifty to go before we try to break free of the Outer Reach and come out in the Northern Blood Sea."

  "Another night and day," estimated Kirsig, who had come up behind the Majere twin.

  "Where's Flint?" I asked her.

  "Over there." The female half-ogre pointed proudly to one of the masts, where Flint sat, drenched with water, his face glum but resolute as he held tight to one of the ropes that restrained the rudders.

  FIFTH DAY: EVENING

  A night that took us to the limits of our endurance. The wind shrieked as it turned the seascape into a black haze of blinding spray. Thunder boomed without interruption, and at one point, volleys of lightning hit the deck, toppling a secondary mast and crushing the neck of the unfortunate sailor beneath it. We had to tie ourselves to pegs and poles in order to avoid being washed into the churning waters. No one slept. Even momentary rest was made impossible by brutal interruptions—a lightning flash, the peal of thunder, stinging rain, or something hard flung into our faces by the incessant wind.

  Still Captain Nugetre and Yuril clung to the tiller.

  SIXTH DAY

  Two of the crew have been lost in the struggle with the Blood Sea. The rest of us, facing the prospect of a never-ending tempest, almost long for surrender to the wrathful Maelstrom.

  Raistlin stayed in his cabin for most of the day, exhausted. Flint, his eyes pouchy and his eyebrows sodden, was sent below by Yuril, who noticed his dazed behavior.

  At midday, the storm entered a brief lull, the type we knew would bring a fearful escalation in its aftermath.

  In the relative quiet, we heard moaning, screaming, and cackling borne on the wind. The ship began to spin crazily with a frightening speed that was worse than anything we had experienced thus far.

  The crew members, nearly hysterical, stood and pointed at the churning waters. I could see nothing, but they babbled about horrors—grinning faces, clawed hands, and wicked horns—pushing at the ship, causing it to pitch and spin.

  Yuril shouted at them to return to their posts. Captain Nugetre himself looked stricken with horror, but his was not imaginary.

  "We've gone too far! We're into the Tightening Ring, approaching the Nightmare Sea!" he cried, his face twisted with apprehension. "Man the oars! Throw the anchor! Make ready—"

  His voice was almost drowned out by the rising clamor. A red mist swirled up from the sea, flowing onto the deck and through the portholes. Small red impkins, with leathery, batlike wings, barbed tails, and twisted horns, formed out of the vapors and swarmed up the masts, pulling on the rigging and loosening ropes. Like the Blood Sea itself, their skin was dark red, their jagged teeth a gleaming white.

  Giggling, screaming, and ranting, they unleashed panic on the ship.

  Some of the men rushed to grapple with the imps, but the captain screamed at them. "You fools, they are illusions!"

  Illusions they may have been, but in the next instant, I saw two of them grab one of the sailors and heave him overboard.

  I spotted Raistlin standing on the steps that led to our cabins. He bent his head, moved his hands, and uttered some incantation. To my astonishment, the impkins vanished, although the red mist lingered. In the next instant, the young mage sank back out of sight. Few had noticed what he had done.

  In the meantime, the storm resumed its fury.

  Flint fought his way over to me, looking as frightened as I had ever seen him. "What should we do?" he shouted.

  For a moment, I was uncertain. "There!" I cried. We saw Yuril and a couple other sailors struggling to unloose the heavy, claw-shaped anchor, a task made all the more difficult by the fierce wind and rain. We dashed over and found ourselves next to Kirsig, who forced a grin as she threw her bulk into the task.

  Beneath us, I could feel the oars begin to pull, but I also heard several of them snap against the force of the current and the waves.

  The ship pitched wildly, rocking back and forth, throwing several of us, myself included, to the deck.

  "Now!" shouted Captain Nugetre.

  Finding our footing, we managed to heft the anchor over the side. The thick rope unspooled so rapidly that one of the sailors tossed a bucket of water on it so that it wouldn't burn. For several minutes, it dropped through blood-red water, coming almost to the end of the reel before finally reaching bottom.

  Yuril uttered a cry of astonishment. "Never have I heard of such depths!" she exclaimed.

  As Captain Nugetre had expected, the anchor temporarily stabilized the ship. But because of the wind and storm, the Castor tore at the anchor rope, threatening to break free.

  Flint stood by, one of his stout hatchets at the ready. When Captain Nugetre shouted "Now!" the dwarf slashed downward, cutting the anchor rope in one clean blow. The pent-up momentum of the ship was such that it practically leaped several hundred feet through the air, breaking the grip of the suction.

  At the same time, Yuril and I had made our way to the sailors in the aft section who had the extra rudders at the ready. Just as the ship splashed down, before it was caught in the current again, we released the makeshift rudders. Looking over the side, I could see them fall into the water, forming flippers at the rear of the boat.

  "Now!" Captain Nugetre shouted again over the din of the storm.

  I could feel the oar crew pull in unison, and this time the boat, with a momentum of its own, surged in a northeasterly direction. Working the oars with every available sailor, the crew held the Castor to its northeasterly course, propelling it farther and farther from the dangerous core of the Blood Sea.

  SEVENTH AND EIGHTH DAYS

  The worst was over. Now our course lay across Firewater toward Mithas and Karthay. The sailors celebrated their victory over the Maelstrom, looking strangely wild, with salt caked on their lips and wreaths of seaweed in their hair.

  Captain Nugetre gave orders to break out a ration of brandy for each of us by way of reward.

  Damage to the ship was surprisingly slight, considering the battering we had taken. One mast and a number of oars had been broken. Debris tossed about by the storm had rent some of the sails, even though they had been rolled up. Kirsig was useful at stitchery, and I happen to know a little needlework myself. Together we worked at mending the sails. The men gladly tore the shirts off their backs to provide crude patches.

  A few of the sailors roamed the deck, taking care of the gashes in the vessel, none of which were major.

  Flint set his mind to fashioning a new makeshift anchor, which would have to serve until the next time the Castor made port. Gathering pieces of lead and other soft metal from around the ship, he melted everything down over a huge pot and was able to hammer out a mottled sinker that Yuril pronounced satisfactory. The new anchor was set in place of the old.

  The waves continued high and choppy. The water had cleared only slightly; it was still that unsettling rust color. Though fixing up the Castor and keeping it on track demanded hard and constant work, all of us felt great relief.

  A fair wind blew at our backs. A sun that grew hotter each day shone overhead. A haze formed in the sky and refused to go away.

  EIGHTH DAY: EVENING

  Raistlin has been staying in his cabin during the day and pacing the decks at night. Flint and I both realized that he hadn't told us everything that occupied his thoughts.

  This night, a black, starless night that held no cheer, I found him on the foredeck, standing and staring out
over the choppy waters. Hearing me behind him, he turned and offered a slight smile—small encouragement, but enough to embolden me to interrupt his reverie.

  "You must be very worried about Caramon," I ventured mildly.

  To my surprise, the young mage raised an eyebrow, as if this was the furthest thing from his thoughts. "Caramon," he said to me with his usual brusqueness, "can take care of himself. If he didn't die back in the Straits of Schallsea, I feel quite certain that we shall find him somewhere in this forsaken part of Krynn. He is more likely to rescue us than it would be for us to rescue him."

  "But I thought," I began, "that we came all this way because you believe that he was taken prisoner by minotaurs."

  "Yes . . . partly," said Raistlin. He started to say something else, then paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts, perhaps simply to pull his cloak about himself more tightly to ward off the chill in the air. "Yet," he continued after a moment, "there are more important things to consider, apart from the fate of my happy-go-lucky brother. There is the reason why he was taken and the use of the rare herb, jalopwort." His tone was very solemn. In the darkness, I couldn't gauge his expression.

  I leaned closer, thinking to draw the mystery out of him. "What is it then, Raistlin?" I asked. "What spell have we been pursuing across these thousands of miles?"

  He turned toward me, peering at me intently. Seeming to consider my question, he took a moment before replying. "The spell that I came across can be cast only by a high cleric of the minotaurs. It is a spell that would open a portal and invite into the world the god of the bull-men, Sargonnas, servant of Takhisis."

  Now it was my turn to be silent, to consider. As an initiate magic-user, Raistlin believed in the gods of Good, the gods of Neutrality, and the gods of Evil, of whom Takhisis was supreme. While I had seen both good and evil in my life, about the gods I was not as certain as the young mage. Sargonnas was a god of whom I knew little.

  Perhaps sensing my reserve, Raistlin turned away with a sigh. "That is not the aid of it," he said. "This spell can only be triggered during certain conjunctions of the moon and stars. The effort required to arrange it is extraordinary. It can only mean that the bull-men have a goal important enough to require the aid of Sargonnas. Morath thinks—and I concur—that this must be a plan to conquer all of Ansalon."

  "But the minotaurs could never do it alone no matter how many they are or how well organized," I objected.

  "True," said Raistlin, "but what if they forged alliances with unlikely allies—the evil races of the sea or the ogres, for example?"

  "They are an arrogant race," I protested, "one that would never forge alliances."

  "That may not be true," said Kirsig, stepping out from the shadows. The half-ogre had a way of creeping up on people, but Raistlin held an odd liking for her and did not seem perturbed by her presence, nor by the obvious fact that she had been listening to us from the shadows.

  "That may explain something odd that has been happening at Ogrebond for the last several months," Kirsig went on.

  "What?" asked Raistlin with interest.

  "Delegations—galleys—of minotaurs have been visiting in order to parley with the different ogre tribes. It is most unusual. Before then, I never heard of any friendship between the ogres and minotaurs. Usually, in fact, it was quite the opposite: deadly enmity."

  "Do you see what I mean?" Raistlin said to me, turning and clasping his hands over a rail, staring at the dark water and even blacker sky. "Caramon's fate is the least of my worries!"

  NINTH DAY

  In the early morning, one of the sailors thought he spotted something moving under the water alongside the ship. Everybody sharpened his guard, knowing that in these strange waters, it could be anything.

  At noon, the creature was spotted again—a huge, gray, slithery shape that seemed to be following the Castor. Our progress lagged in the hot, hazy weather, and the creature mimicked our speed, seeming almost lazy in its sinuous movements. The creature remained so far below the surface that we could distinguish very little about it except that it was every bit as large and long as the ship itself.

  By late afternoon, the curious creature had been pursuing us for a dozen miles without surfacing. This lack of action lulled us into complacency. Some of the Castor's sailors were belowdecks while others dozed at their posts when suddenly the thing reared its head and attacked.

  I was amidships when I looked up to see a long, bulging, serpentine body bearing down on us.

  Instantly I knew what it was: a nudibranch, or giant aquatic slug, rare in these parts. I fell back behind a storage box just in time, for the slug crashed its gaping maw into the stern and simultaneously spewed out a thick stream of corrosive saliva.

  The Castor jolted backward. Everybody standing was flung to the deck, everybody sleeping stunned awake. One of the sailors had had no time to dodge the acidic spittle. She screamed and rolled on the deck, burning in pain. Another failed to see the nudibranch fast enough and was swallowed whole.

  Those who witnessed the attack yelled for help, and their comrades came running, bearing weapons that seemed puny in comparison to the nudibranch's immense bulk. Captain Nugetre raced up from below, shouting orders. Yuril had been at the tiller.

  Now she crouched next to me, gazing in horror at the rampaging thing.

  As we watched, the giant slug lifted its ugly, tentacled head so high that we could see its dead white underbelly, then smashed downward into the deck, using its body like a battering ram. Wood and splinters flew in every direction. The nudibranch was half on the deck, half in the sea. The ship listed dangerously.

  For several minutes, the giant slug's head disappeared out of sight below the deck. Gruesome slurping noises and the screams of sailors caught in their quarters signified the creature's bloody feeding frenzy.

  "Flint!" I cried suddenly.

  "Hush!" said the dwarf. "I'm right behind you."

  So he was, and Raistlin and Kirsig, too. All watched with amazement as the giant slug reared its head again and smashed back into the ship. The deck sloped steeply. With each battering from the nudibranch, the Castor listed more dangerously.

  "It's eating its way through the ship," said Raistlin.

  "They will eat anything," said Yuril, "Plants, carrion, garbage—anything."

  As we watched, one of the sailors, a black-skinned woman with short-cropped hair, whooped and leaped on the back of the giant slug, stabbing downward with a sharp sword.

  But the nudibranch had a thick, rubbery hide, and the formidable blade barely caused a wound. The nudibranch paused in its attack on the Castor and, with surprising agility, managed to twist its head around, grab the brave sailor in its mouth, mangle her, then toss her body into the ocean several hundred yards away.

  Without working out a plan, Flint, Kirsig, Yuril, and I rushed the creature and stabbed at it, landing some ineffectual blows. Other sailors joined us. The giant slug twisted and thrashed, knocking down several sailors, covering one of them with burning spittle. All we could do was harry it and do our best to stay out of the creature's reach.

  I saw Raistlin at the far end of the boat, working at something. He turned and called out to Flint.

  The dwarf hastened to him. Together they bent over and began to drag an object toward us and the giant slug. When two other seamen hurried to help them, Raistlin left Flint and ran over to the tiller, where Captain Nugetre was busy trying to keep control of the listing ship. Raistlin conferred briefly with Nugetre, who nodded at what the young mage was saying.

  I could see now that Flint and the sailors were dragging the anchor toward us. Kirsig, Yuril, and I raced over to help them lift it up. Then, at a signal from Flint, we thrust it at the head of the giant slug.

  As Raistlin had hoped, the nudibranch—not known for its intelligence—opened its mouth wide for what we were shoving in its direction. We released the anchor at the last moment and scurried to safety.

  An almost surprised expression crossed the sl
ug's rudimentary face as Captain Nugetre turned the wheel hard away from the creature. The sudden movement caused it to slide backward off the deck into the sea. Flint's anchor took it swiftly down into the murky depths until we could no longer glimpse any evidence of it other than the explosion of bubbles that rose to the surface.

  The attack had left the Castor sorely in need of repair. Three sailors were dead, as we were reminded by the blood staining the deck, and Flint had to take up the task of creating another anchor from scrap metal.

  TENTH DAY

  Captain Nugetre says we are no more than half a day from the coast of Karthay, even at the slow pace we must now maintain. The Castor is a crippled ship. Only round-the-clock bailing shifts keep us afloat, a strain on the crew, which has been halved by our experiences. Flint, Raistlin, Kirsig, and I pitch in.

  Although the journey across the Blood Sea has been as fast as anyone could have hoped, the captain says that he isn't sure that the fee makes up for the damage to his ship and crew.

  "I will not take the chance of making the landing at Karthay," Captain Nugetre announced. "I won't incur any further risks. I will give you a small boat to row to shore. Consider yourselves fortunate at that."

  Despite Kirsig's best entreaties, Captain Nugetre has refused to budge from his position.

  Raistlin paid him his double fee and didn't press him about the landing. The captain has more than kept his part of the bargain, Raistlin said, thanking him.

  Kirsig announced her intention to come with us. Flint tried to talk her out of it—unsuccessfully. She insisted that she wouldn't abandon her "pretty dwarf."

  More of a surprise was that Yuril announced her desire to join us. Captain Nugetre raged at her, but to no effect. The first mate said that she owed us her life—at least twice over—and that she intended to help us fulfill our quest. The captain seemed saddened as well as angry at her decision. Not for the first time did I get the idea that these two at some time had been more than captain and ship's mate to each other.