Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Sturm asked Sighter just how this worked, but the astrono mer mumbled something about "density of matter in rela tion to air" and left it at that. Sighter plainly didn't understand the effect himself.

  Nevertheless, the blue face of Krynn moved from over their heads to under their feet. The closer they got to their home world, the livelier the winds grew, and the faster they flew.

  "We can't land too soon for me," Kitiara commented. "If I have to eat pink spears and drink water much longer, toad stools will sprout from my ears!"

  – Some txt missing -

  The air grew warmer and wetter. While the warmth was appreciated, the denser, moister air proved a hardship for them all after being used to Lunitari's thin air. The weighti ness oppressed them. For a time, it was hard to do anything strenuous.

  "By the gods," Sturm remarked, panting as he helped Cut wood and Flash trim the port sails, "I haven't been this winded since Flint and I had to flee the forest dwarves, after

  Tasslehoff 'borrowed' some of their silver."

  Day and night fell into a more even rhythm again, and

  Sturm found himself sleeping longer and more soundly as the days slipped by. Sighter recorded that the Cloudmaster had been airborne for nineteen days and estimated that it would make landfall in two more days.

  The sky changed from black to blue, and the horizon filled with clouds. Through puffy gaps they could see for ests, fields, mountains, and seas below. They were still high, but at least they had a sense of solid ground beneath them again.

  The morning of what was to be their last day aloft dawned sultry and wet. The sails hung from their spars, and dew stood in puddles on deck. A clinging mist held to the flying ship, and nothing was visible ten feet beyond the rail.

  "Halloo!" Wingover shouted. "Halloo!"

  "Can't see a thing," Kitiara reported, squinting hard.

  "I can't even tell how high we are," Sturm said. The

  Cloudmaster seemed to be adrift in a box of wet fleece.

  Stutts appeared with the rope and grapnel.

  "We should d-drop this over the side," he advised. "It m may hook a tree and d-drag us to a stop."

  He lowered the grapnel from the bowsprit and tied it off.

  When he returned amidships Kitiara asked him when they ought to open the bag and release the ethereal air.

  "Only when w-we're certain we're about, to l-land."

  She stared at the wallowing bag overhead. The dirty can vas sack had shrunk steadily as it got warmer. Now it hung against the rope netting, rolling about furtively like a caged beast trying to escape. Kitiara fingered the hilt of her bent dagger, No more nonsense, she thought. When conditions look good, I'll open the bag myself!

  Wingover, still entwined in the rigging, pointed off the starboard bow. "Fire!" he cried.

  Sighter clicked open his telescope and swung it toward the orange glow far off in the mist. His mouth dropped open for a second, then he lowered his glass and shut it.

  "You dolt!" he said to Wingover. "Haven't you ever seen a sunrise before?"

  "What?"

  "Sunrise?" said Kitiara, A sunrise could only mean they were low enough to the ground for the sun to appear as the ball of fire they remembered, and not as the yellow disk it looked like from between the red moon and Krynn.

  The sun waxed hotter and brighter, and the fog dispersed.

  A thousand feet below lay only ocean — as far as every eye could see, nothing but oily green sea. The salty smell rose to greet them as the sun heated up the water.

  A north wind pushed them along at an idle six knots. As the day wore on, the humidity rose and all the furs and cold weather gear came off. The gnomes stripped down to sus penders and trousers. The deck thumped with nine pairs of bare pink feet. As protection from sunburn, Fitter made them all bandannas from their shirts and soon the gnomes looked like a band of pirates shrunk to half size.

  Kitiara joyously discarded her heavy clothes, keeping only her riding breeches and a leather vest. Sturm alone refused to shed his long-sleeved tunic and boots. Kitiara noted the dark sweat stains on his chest and arms. Dignity, she decided, could be an uncomfortable burden.

  By angling the sails, they were able to drive the ship down closer to the sea. The grapnel dipped and leaped from wave crest to wave crest, slinging back from the impacts.

  Sighter worked hard with his astrolabe to determine their location. Without a compass and accurate charts, he could make only a rough estimate, but he tried. The deck, from the door of the wheelhouse aft to the stern post, was cov ered with his figures. Sweat collected in his bushy brows and dripped annoyingly from the tip of his nose.

  Kitiara and Sturm surveyed the vast calculations, and finally Kit asked, "Well?"

  "We're on Krynn," said Sighter. Kitiara counted to twen ty, silently. "My best guess is, we're somewhere in the Sir rion Sea, either four hundred, eight hundred, or twelve hundred miles from Sancrist."

  "Four, eight, or twelve hundred?" Sturm said.

  "Lacking a compass, it's very hard to be precise." Sighter flicked off a drop of sweat that had stubbornly clung to his nose. I'm certain it's one of those multiples of four hundred."

  Kitiara threw up her hands. "Wonderful! We may cruise into Thalan Bay in four days, or we may starve to death try ing to reach an island a thousand miles away."

  "I don't think we'll starve," said Wingover.

  "Oh? What makes you so certain?"

  "There's a ship," he said quietly, pointing out to sea.

  Sighter's precious figures were trampled in the rush to the rail. Off the port they saw bow masts and snowy sails pok ing above the horizon. Out came the telescope. Kitiara plucked it from Sighter's grasp.

  "What!" he said, but she already had the glass to her eye.

  The ship was a two-masted caravel of uncertain origin.

  There was no figurehead or name scribed on the forecastle.

  The mastheads were bare of pennants or flags, though the deck was clean and the brightwork shined.

  Can you make out where she's from?" asked Sturm.

  "No," Kitiara said. "Can't see any crew."

  "Try in the rigging. They're running with the wind, so there's bound to be somebody aloft."

  "I looked. There's nobody to be seen."

  The Cloudmaster slowed as it entered a lower stratum of air. The direction changed, and the patchwork sails luffed and flapped impotently. While Sturm and four gnomes saw to resetting them, Kitiara studied the unidentified ship.

  "Pirate, maybe? Or smuggler?" she mused. There were plenty of reasons to hide a ship's name, few legitimate.

  "Sturm? Sturm?" she called.

  "What is it?"

  "Could we catch that ship and board it?"

  He came to the edge of the deckhouse and shaded his eyes to look down at her. "Why?"

  "They might have food and fresh water."

  It was a powerful argument. Sturm was as sick of beans and Lunitarian fungi as the rest of them. "I suppose we could," he said. "The grappling hook is still out. We'll have to be careful not to snarl their rigging or rip their sails."

  The unknown ship drove on with all sails set. There was no one on deck, and as the Cloudmaster flew around to the ship's port beam, Kitiara could see that the caravel's wheel was lashed. The sterncastle lights were shuttered, and all the hull ports were closed. On a hot, still day like this, the

  'tween decks must be stifling, she thought.

  "Let them out now," Sturm said. Birdcall and Roperig let the sails unfurl, and the flying ship spurted ahead. The swinging grapnel snagged the chain stays of the mainmast, and the Cloudmaster jerked to a stop. They pivoted with the drag and found themselves flying tail-first into the wind, towed by the far heavier caravel.

  "Now what?" said Wingover, leaning over the side.

  "Someone has to go down and tie us off," suggested

  Sturm. "I would go, but the grapnel rope is too thin for me."

  "Don't look my way," Kitiara said. "I've had
all the rope climbing I care for on this trip."

  Fitter agreed to go, since he was small and nimble. He shinnied down the rope to the masthead. Standing on the crosstree, he waved up to his friends.

  "Find a heavier line and tie us off!" Sturm bawled. Fitter nodded and slipped down the rigging to the ship's deck. A fat hawser line lay coiled behind the foremast. Fitter shoul dered this burden and climbed back to the Cloudmaster.

  "That's my apprentice," said Roperig proudly.

  "Did you see any signs of life down there?" asked Kitiara.

  Fitter dumped the hawser off his shoulder. "No, ma'am.

  Everything's neat as can be, but there isn't a soul around."

  Sturm went down into the deckhouse and returned with his sword. He draped the belt over his shoulder and threw one leg over the rail. "I'd better be first to look around."

  "I'll come behind you," said Kitiara.

  "Me, too," volunteered Fitter. The other gnomes chimed in in quick succession.

  "Someone has to stay on board," Sturm said. "You gnomes work it out, but don't all of you come."

  A hundred feet is a long way to climb down a rope. The heat was so bad that Sturm got dizzy halfway along and had to stop to mop the sweat from his eyes. How will I ever climb back up?he wondered. It was a relief when the dark, varnished oak of the yardarm touched his feet. Kitiara wrapped her bare legs around the hawser and started down.

  Deck level was just as Fitter had described: tidy and ship shape. Sturm had a bad feeling about it. Sailors did not abandon a well-founded vessel without good reason.

  Kitiara dropped down to the deck. Sturm whirled, sword coming out with a whisk of steel.

  "Easy!" she said. "I'm on your side, remember?

  "Sorry. This ship has me spooked. Go up the starboard side to the bow. 111 take port."

  They met at the bow, finding nothing amiss except the complete lack of visible crew. There was a hatch behind the bowsprit. Kitiara suggested they go below deck.

  "Not yet," said Sturm. "Let's chec aft."

  Sighter and Stutts arrived on deck. Sighter carried a car penter's square and Stutts a hammer. These were the only

  'weapons' they could find. More than ever they resembled diminutive pirates, boarding an unlucky ship from above.

  "F-find anything?" said Stutts.

  "Nothing."

  The ship's wheel was firmly tied. It creaked an inch or two left and right as the wind and waves fought against the rud der. Sturm was trying to tell how long the wheel had been fixed when Kitiara drew in her breath sharply.

  "Look here," she said.

  Nailed to the wall of the sterncastle was a crow. A stuffed, dead crow with its tail and wings spread.

  "I've seen these before. Someone has cast a spell over this ship, and to ward off the evil magic someone put this crow here," said Kitiara. "We've got to get out of here."

  "Take it easy," Sturm said quietly. "We've seen no signs of magic at work. Let's go inside and see if we can at least iden tify this vessel."

  The louvered door creaked back on bright brass hinges.

  Within the sterncastle it was hot and dim. Slivers of light cast weird shadows across the room.

  "Stutts, open the shutters, will you?" The gnome made for the row of shades on his right. There was a rustle as he wrestled with the latch. The shutters fell open, flooding the cabin with light.

  "So, here's the captain," said Kitiara grimly.

  The master of the caravel still sat at his table, gazing sight lessly through ivory eye sockets. His skull was clean and dry, and the skeletal fingers lying on the tabletop were still joined together. The captain wore a richly made coat of blue brocade, embellished with gold tassels and braid. A final macabre touch was the skeleton of his last meal still on the plate before him. Stutts poked through the tiny bones.

  "Chicken," he announced. "A h-hen, I should say."

  Sturm sniffed the pewter goblet by the dead man's right hand. There was no obvious trace of poison in the empty cup. He put it down and noticed a slim silver ring around one of the bony fingers. Gently he lifted the skeleton's hand.

  Despite his care, the bones fell apart at his touch. Sturm held the ring up to the light, trying to find an inscription or maker's mark. It was a simple, beaded silver band, slightly grimy. It could have been made anywhere by anyone.

  Kitiara looked under the table. "Ho!" she said. "What's this?" She stood up with a second skull in her hands. "This was between Captain Bones's feet." She flipped the skull around. "Someone chopped this fellow's head off. You can see the axe mark, there." She set the gruesome relic on the table and bent over again. "Nice boots," she reported. "Sil ver buckles, deerskin tops. He was a dandy."

  "I wonder who he was," Sturm said.

  "M-my!" Stutts was over near the stern lights. He'd found a large leather-bound chest and sprung the simple lock.

  Inside were gold coins and scattered jewels. Kitiara whistled and fished out an especially fine emerald.

  "Now I understand," she said. "This must be a pirate ship."

  "Are you so certain?" said Sighter.

  "You don't lay in swag like this trading fish and dry goods!" She threw open a second chest. It was filled to the brim with small wooden boxes. She pried the lid off one and leaned in to see what treasure it contained. Kitiara screwed up her face and gave a mighty sneeze.

  "M-mercy!" said Stutts. "What is it?"

  "Spice — pepper!" she wheezed, snapping the lid back on.

  Sturm peered over her shoulder.

  "Spices are rarer than gold," he said. "This chest is proba bly more valuable than the other."

  "Just the same, when we divvy it up, I'll take my share in gold and jewels," Kitiara said.

  "Divvy? I thought you were concerned about the curse."

  "With enough gold in my pocket, I'll face up to all the curses in the world." Suiting action to her words, she began to fill her pockets with gems and gold.

  The cabin door flew open and they all jumped. It was only Rainspot.

  "I thought I ought to come down and warn you," he said.

  "There's a storm brewing. It feels like a strong cyclone."

  "Just enough time for a little salvage," said Kitiara. She leaned against the treasure chest and tried to shift it toward the door. It squeaked a scant inch out of place. "Don't just stand there, help me!"

  'We don't have time for treasure," Sturm said. "We've got to get back to the Cloudmaster."

  She stopped shoving and stood up. "Do we?" she said.

  "Do we what?"

  "Have to go back to the flying ship. Why can't we stay on board this one?"

  "We don't know anything about it," Sturm protested. "For all we know, it could founder in the first squall we hit."

  "So could the Cloudmaster."

  Stutts fidgeted as the two humans argued. "P-please! I am returning n-now." He hurried out the door.

  Sighter shrugged. "I'd like to explore this vessel some more, but my place is with my colleagues." He bowed and pushed Rainspot out the door ahead of him.

  Alone with Kitiara, Sturm said with annoyance, "Are you going or staying?"

  She crossed her arms stubbornly. "Staying."

  "Then you're staying by yourself." Sturm went out on deck. A cool wind was blowing in from the south, and the caravel was heeled under sail to the north. Purple-black clouds closed to sea level and charged with the wind. In minutes, both ships would be engulfed.

  Sighter and Stutts shinnied up the rope with little trouble.

  By the time Sturm had reached the top of the mainmast, they were climbing over the flying ship's rail. The Cloud master was whipping about like a fish on a hook, and Sturm watched the bouncing rope with trepidation. He took hold.

  Rain, light and warm, puffed ahead of the storm. Sturm shook it out of his face. The gnomes had sheeted in all the

  Cloudmaster's sails, but the air bag itself caught the wind, dragging the flying ship behind it. Sturm hauled himself hand over hand
toward the bobbing craft, trying not to think about the tossing waves eighty feet below.

  The first blow of rain hit like a wall, soaking Sturm to the skin in a second. He continued to inch higher, but the

  Cloudmaster scarcely grew closer the longer he climbed.

  "Halloo, Sturm! Halloo!"

  "Wingover, is that you?" he shouted in reply.

  "Sturm, can you hear me? The rope is wet and stretching under your weight! The strain is too much!" cried the unseen gnome.

  "I'll go back!"

  Sturm could barely see the Cloudmaster's gray outline.

  "We'll try to come back for you!" Then faintly, "May Reorx guard you well!" Wingover cried.

  Sturm all but slid down the hawser to the waving mast.

  The stout oak yard swung into him, hitting him hard in the ribs. His breath rushed out, and he lost his grip on the rope.

  Sturm landed against the sail and clamped on as hard as he could. The powdery soft canvas gave way under his grip, and tore slowly down to the deck. Sturm landed, blind, wet, and breathless, in the caravel's waist.

  The gnomes cut the rope at their end. The Cloudmaster soared into the driving clouds and was lost from sight.

  Kitiara rolled Sturm over. "Can you stand? Can you walk?" she cried above the howling wind. He nodded dumbly. She dragged him to his feet, and together they stag gered aft to the sterncastle. Sturm collapsed on the deck by the captain's table to collect his breath. Kitiara circled the room, closing the shutters and cranking the louvers tight.

  "You all right?" she asked out of the darkness.

  "Yes."

  "Are the gnomes gone?"

  "They — had to cut loose to save the ship." He coughed painfully.

  Kitiara struck sparks from the sea captain's flint and lit a fat candle on the table. The wavering flame threw weird highlights on the dead captain's skull. Sturm wrung out his kerchief and draped it over the skull.

  "He does tend to stare at you, doesn't he?" said Kitiara.

  She put out a hand to steady herself. The deck was rising and falling with the regularity of a water wheel.

  "We'll have to trim the sails," Sturm said. "If the right gust hits us, we'll capsize."

  "I'm not going up any rigging in that blow," she replied.