Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Out came his sword. "You won't have to. I'll cut all the stays on the lowest sails. They'll blow away, and that should do it." He went to the cabin door.

  "Wait," she said. She found a painter line in the captain's locker and brought it over. "Hold your arms up." He did, and Kitiara reached around his chest and tied the line.

  "Don't do any swimming while you're gone," she said.

  He lowered his arms. "I'll try not to."

  Sturm threw open the door and received the storm's full blast. He staggered to the mainmast and slashed the lines to the mainsail. The torn canvas flopped like a live thing, crackling out from the main yard. He ducked under it and pushed on to the foremast, likewise hacking away the stays there. With only topsails and spritsail set, the going was eas ier. Sturm made it back to the sterncastle.

  "It is steadier," Kitiara said.

  "What do we do now'!" asked Sturm as water dripped from his clothes and hair.

  "Let's explore below," Kit suggested.

  "Have you forgotten the curse?"

  Her amusement evaporated. "I haven't forgotten. But if this is a sample of what's on board, I'm not much worried."

  She patted the captain's kerchief-covered skull. The head toppled off the neck bones and hit the table with a thump. It lay, eyes up, staring at the mortal intruders on its ship.

  Chapter 33

  The Wizard's Seal

  A narrow hatch covered a ladder that led down into the caravel's dark bowels. Kitiara lay flat on her belly and poked the candle into the hole. Warm stagnant air waft ed out, but no obvious danger loomed. She climbed down and Sturm followed, hand on the pommel of his sword.

  They'd entered nothing more interesting than the ship's rope locker. It contained only rope, sailcloth, and chain.

  Kitiara poked around, looking for more treasure. All she found were dead rats. Like everything else dead on the ship, the rats were a mere jumble of bones.

  "Isn't it strange," Sturm whispered, "that all we ever find are bones?"

  They passed through a light wooden partition into a larg er space, a cargo area. Here Kitiara's candle shone on some thing more sinister than rope and cloth. They had found an armory, replete with swords, spears, shields, bronze breast plates, shirts of mail, lances, bows, blocks of lead for sling pellets — enough to equip a small army.

  "These are dwarf-forged shields," Sturm said, pushing a round buckler aside with his toe. "See, they have the mark of the Thorbardin Armorers' Guild. That breastplate bears the mark of the Thanes of Zhaman." He picked up the breastplate. The cold iron was polished to a finish like mir rored silver, and though fully a third of an inch thick, it was remarkably light.

  "These are first-quality arms. Why would pirates need so many weapons?" he said.

  "Maybe they are captured stocks."

  "Maybe, but space is precious aboard a ship. They might keep good items for their own use, but not this many."

  "What's through there?" Kitiara hissed, pointing forward.

  "Forecastle. Where the crew sleeps."

  They stepped over the door sill and beheld a terrible sight.

  The forecastle was full of skeletons.

  Row upon row of clean white bones lay huddled on either side of the ship. Some were stretched out, others knotted with the agony they had borne until death. Not all the bones were human. Some, by their shape and size, belonged to dwarves. Others, smaller bones, may have been kender or gnomes. There was one thing the skeletons had in common:

  They were all chained together at the ankles.

  "I don't like this. There has been great evil here," Sturm hissed. "Come." He backed out.

  "What's up front of that room?" Kitiara wondered.

  "The bury of the bowsprit. Where the anchors are kept."

  In the center of the armory was a large square hatch, which Sturm said led to the hold. Removing the hatch was not easy. Someone had secured it to the deck with a dozen large iron bolts. Sturm tried to figure out the best way to remove them, but Kitiara simply took a battle axe from the cache of weapons and bashed the heads off several bolts.

  "Stop!" he demanded. "Did you ever think that hatch might be fastened down to keep something in?"

  She paused in midswing. "No," she said and brought the axe down on the next bolt. — Some txt — , those poor dev ils died of plague or something. You and I are the first living souls on board in months, maybe, so what we find is ours by right of salvage." She decapitated the last bolt. "If you want a share, you'd better help me."

  Reluctantly, Sturm got his fingers under the hatch's flange, and together they lifted it off. The stout lid of oak and copper fell aside, landing on a pile of armor. The ringing boom echoed through the caravel.

  Kitiara thrust her candle into the opening. A cold draft flowed out, so she shielded the flame with her hand. The weak amber globe of light fell over the open hold.

  It was empty.

  A wide set of plank steps led down. Kitiara lowered a foot to the first step.

  "Don't," warned Sturm.

  "What's the matter with you? A few skulls and bones, and suddenly you're afraid of your own shadow. Where's your curiosity? Where's your knightly valor?"

  "Alive and well, thank you."

  She dropped down a few more steps. "Coming, then?"

  Sturm held up one finger and went to the pile of shields. He found a buckler of good dwarven make and slipped it over his arm. Thus reinforced, he followed Kitiara into the hold.

  "It's very black in here," she said. A post at the foot of the steps proved to be coated with a greasy black powder.

  "Soot?" she said.

  "Hmm, yes." Sturm went down on one knee. The deck was charred. "There was a fire down here." He brushed off his fingertips. "This ship's lucky to be afloat." Fire at sea was one of the worst fates a ship could face.

  "Is there anything below this floor?" Kitiara asked.

  "Just the bilge." Something caught the candlelight. Sturm waved her to him. "Bring the light here," he whispered.

  "What is it?" On the deck a few feet to the right of the steps were four long scratches, so deep that they scored through the charred wood's surface to the lighter, unburned wood beneath. The scratches were three inches apart and almost a foot long.

  "What do you make of that?" Sturm asked.

  Kitiara drew her sword. "Claw marks," she said grimly.

  Toward the bow, a massive half cylinder descending from the ceiling divided the bulkhead in two. This was the lower end of the mainmast. On each side of the mast were doors.

  Both had been hastily but solidly blocked with boards. The barricade on the right of the mast was intact; the one on the left was burst asunder — from the other side.

  "Whatever it was, it came through here," said Kitiara.

  "It?"

  She didn't answer, but stepped carefully through the shat tered barrier into the forward hold. Sturm couldn't fit through the hole, so he broke out a few more boards. The charred planks split loudly.

  The forward hold was even colder than the aft one. It was not sooted by fire. They found more bones, broken swords and cutlasses, and smashed helmets — the remnants of a fierce fight. Kitiara almost tripped over another form, this one still clad in a moldering brown robe. Where she had dis turbed the robe there was a glint of gold.

  "This was a cleric," Sturm said. "The robe, the amulets, are the kind a holy man would wear." He groped in the folds of the robe and pulled out a necklace wrought in copper. He held it to the candle. "A rose. The symbol of Majere. At least he served a good god." He laid the necklace down rev erently on the dusky cloth.

  Kitiara moved on to the facing wall. A ladder was set in the wall, going up to the forecastle. Halfway up, someone had sawed the rungs off. The stout base of the foremast intruded into the hold here, too, and beside it was another boarded-up door. This one was intact.

  "Sturm, come here!" He stepped over the cleric's skeleton.

  Kitiara thrust her candle to the battened door. Scarl
et threads were woven back and forth across the rough barrier and gathered in a knot in the center of the door. A blob of sealing wax held the threads together, and in the wax was the impression of a ring seal.

  "Can you read it?" she asked.

  Sturm squinted at the image. "'Majere protect us' and

  'Obey the will of Novantumus'." He looked back at the cler ic's remains. "He must have been Novantumus."

  Kitiara put the point of her sword to the wax seal. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

  "There's something valuable on the other side of this door," she said. "I want to see what it is."

  "It could be what killed all these men!"

  She rapped on the door. "Hello, any monsters in there?"

  The only sounds were the steady, muffled roar of the storm outside and the creaking of the ship's timbers. "See, no danger."

  Sturm pulled her roughly away. "I won't let you tamper with it!"

  "You won't — !" She snatched her arm free of his grasp.

  "Since when do you give me orders, Sturm Brightblade?"

  "I won't let you break that seal. It could mean our deaths."

  Kitiara cut at the door. Sturm flung the shield out and deflected the blow. Kitiara uttered an angry snort. She set the candle down and assumed fighting stance. "Out of my way!" she declared.

  "Will you think what you're doing? Do you want to fight, just to open that door? Look around, Kit. Do you think plague smashed up these armed men?"

  "So they killed each other fighting over the treasure. Out of the way!"

  Sturm started to reply, but Kitiara lunged at him. He backed away, unwilling to use his own sword. Sturm kept the shield up, fending off her cuts. This went on until Kitiara grew frustrated. She aimed a wild overhand slash at his head. Her blade hit the shield a glancing blow and skidded off. The arc of her cut ended against the door and shattered the brittle wax seal.

  "Now you've done it," he said, panting.

  Kitiara flung herself, sword and all, at the door. Sturm stared in amazement as she pressed herself against the wood. "At last," she said. "At last!"

  There was a split second of silence, then a tremendous crash. Kitiara's sword was knocked from her hand as she flew backward and landed with a clatter among the bones.

  The center board was bowed outward and cracked. Sturm tossed the shield aside and went to help Kitiara stand. From inside there came another crash, and the board above the first one flexed out.

  "What is it?" Kitiara cried.

  "I don't know, but it's coming out of there. Let's go!"

  They fled in such haste that they forgot the candle.

  Through the sooty midnight of the aft hold they ran and stumbled up the stairs to the armory. Kitiara made for the rope locker. Sturm called her back. "Help me with the hatch," he said.

  They wrestled the heavy hatch into place and dropped it.

  Then it was through the rope locker and up the ladder to the captain's cabin. Kitiara dragged some heavy chests over to block the ladder well. Rain drummed on the poop deck above them, and wind whistled around the louvered shut ters. They stood close together in the dark, breathing hard and listening.

  The deck trembled beneath their feet and they heard wood breaking. The thing, whatever it was, was smashing its way out.

  "I lost my sword," she said, deeply ashamed. She, a sea soned warrior, had lost her only weapon when she fell among the skeletons.

  "It doesn't matter," Sturm said. "Swords didn't save the crew of this ship."

  "Thanks," she said wryly. "- Some txt missing-"

  Metal rang and rattled. 'It' was in the armory. Sturm flexed his damp hand around the handle of his sword. The uproar below got worse as the thing expended its anger on the store of weapons. From the crash and clang, it sounded like every item in the cache was being battered, twisted, and crushed. Then, abruptly, all the noise ceased.

  Sturm and Kitiara, by some common impulse, drew clos er together. Their arms touched in the dark.

  "Can you hear anything?" he whispered.

  "Just you. Shh." They strained to catch any stray sound.

  The cabin door blew open with a bang. Rain poured in.

  Sturm struggled to close the door against the press of wind.

  By the greenish gray light that filtered in through the cyclone, he saw that the main hatch cover, forward of the mainmast, was blasted off.

  "It's gone out on deck!" he shouted above the wind. "It could be anywhere!"

  "We'll have to close that hatch," she said. "Or the ship will flood, yes?" He nodded. Sturm felt exhausted. At that moment, he wondered what silliness the gnomes were up to, and fervently wished he was with them to see it.

  "Ready?" said Kitiara. She threw the bolt back, and they plunged out onto the storm-swept deck.

  They were soaked with sea water before they took two steps. The heel of the ship with the waves was more notice able on deck. Mountains of green water rose and fell and the horizon swung from below eye level to nearly the masthead.

  Holding hands, Sturm and Kitiara staggered to the main mast. The hatch cover was not just thrown open; gaping rents were torn in it. Sturm lost his footing twice as foaming sea swept over him. Finally, on their knees, they managed to get the hatch back over its coaming.

  High above the rumble of the churning sea, a shrill cackle reached them. Sturm looked left and right for the source of the sound; Kitiara looked up and down. She spied the thing clinging to the rigging high over their heads.

  — s' It was a horrid-looking thing, ghastly white and gaunt.

  Except for its abnormal size, it might have been a man, starved and sallow. But this creature was seven feet tall. Its protruding eyes were like red burning coals, and its hands were clawed with silver nails two inches long. The head was round and hairless, the ears tall and pointed. The creature threw back its head and howled, showing long yellow fangs and a pointed black tongue.

  "Suffering gods! What is it?"

  "I don't know. Look out!" The creature sprang from the rigging to the stays hanging from the foremast. It swung under the spar and flipped over until its feet were on top of the yard. There it howled at them again.

  They backed cautiously across the wet deck, ignoring the lashing rain and pounding sea. Once inside the cabin, they slammed the door and bolted it.

  Kitiara turned. A strange white glow filled the rear of the cabin. They were no longer alone there, either.

  Chappter 34

  Pyrthis's Tale

  The cold white light collected into a human form six feet tall. Kitiara pointed her sadly bent dagger at the appari tion, but Sturm pushed the weapon down.

  "In the name of Paladine and all the Gods of Good, depart in peace, spirit," he said.

  The cabin filled with a deep, long sigh. "Would that I could depart," said a low voice. "For I am tired beyond mea sure and desire rest."

  "Who are you?" asked Kitiara.

  "In life I was master of this vessel. My name is Pyrthis."

  "He doesn't seem dangerous," Kitiara muttered to Sturm,

  "but let's find a safer spot from that creature outside."

  "The Gharm will not enter this cabin," the ghost said, "as long as I am here." Outside, the hellish thing shrieked, acknowledging the truth of the dead captain's words.

  "What is the Gharm?" asked Sturm.

  The indistinct figure drew closer and became more defined. Its legs did not move, and its arms stayed firmly by its sides. The ghost glided forward until Sturm and Kit could see deep, hollow eyes and a jaw that hung open, as slack as the face of a corpse. The voice issued from the mouth with out the lips moving at all.

  "Once he was my friend, and then a curse laid us all low.

  He became the Gharm, I, a walking spirit, and the crew of the Werival died in torment."

  "Spirits walk for two reasons: to right an unavenged wrong, and to give warning to the living. Which is it, Cap tain? Why do you remain on this mortal plane?" asked

  Sturm.
/>
  Another mournful sigh. "Know, my friends, that I bar gained with the forces of evil and lost." The ghost came clos er still, enough for Kitiara to see its dead white eyes and corpse pallor.

  "I was a merchant captain, bold and enterprising, who never turned down a cargo for money. I plied the Sirrion Sea and traded north and east to the Blood Sea maelstrom. In my time, I carried all goods — from spices to slaves."

  Sturm frowned. "You trafficked in misery," he said flatly.

  "Aye, I did. Thank your gods that you still live and can make amends for any evil deeds you have committed! I am past saving now."

  The poop deck overhead resounded with the tramp of feet. Kitiara listened nervously as the Gharm stamped on the boards. "What is that thing?" she demanded.

  "Once my first mate and friend, Drott, who I trained in all the wily ways I knew. Our coffers grew fat and heavy with gold, and I grew satisfied, as men in their waning years are wont to do. But Drott was young and keen and always searching for the richest commission to be made. It was a fateful day when he fell in with the scaled warriors."

  Sturm had a glimmer of recognition. "Do you mean dra conians'?" he asked.

  "Aye, some have called them thus." Pyrthis's ghost loomed over Sturm. Though seemingly benign, its presence was oppressive, and Sturm began to sweat.

  "The dragonmen had a rich proposition: that we carry a shipment of weapons and money for them from Nordmaar to Coastlund, there to rendezvous with other dragonmen arriving from the northern seas. Drott accepted their com mission and their money, thus damning us all." The ghost made a horrible rasping sound. "I am so weary…" The dead man's left arm came loose from his shoulder and fell silently to the floor. Kitiara flinched at the sight, more from surprise than disgust. She bent to pick up the gently glowing limb, but her hand passed right through it.

  "We loaded sixty hundredweight of arms, and weighed anchor for Coastlund. We had a fair wind and made a swift passage. On the way, Drott schemed and plotted. He drew me into his plan, which was this: Since the dragonmen were barbarians and invaders, why should we not hold them up for as much gold as we could? They would pay doubly or triply for their swords, and we would have nothing to fear.