“How many days until we arrive?” Adacon asked Remtall, sitting across from him puffing on his pipe.
“Three weeks, I suppose, at this rate,” Remtall replied.
“Who would know an ocean was this big?” Erguile chimed in, lighting his own pipe; it was filled with the last remnants of Krem’s tobacco.
“The Kalm is greatest of all the oceans, and surely the sweetest to her patrons, save for the Fang Shoals,” said Remtall.
“How many oceans are there?” Erguile asked.
“Four that are known; legend tells of uncharted seas deep in the West, beyond Arkenshyr. No one can know for sure, as the Carnalfages hold too strong a patrol on the western rim of the Angelyn peninsula. Not even Grelion dares trade upon those waters.”
“Carnalfages—did you see any on the Point?” asked Erguile.
“Unfortunately—I had to lay several to rest during my stay,” Remtall chuckled.
“Our captain boasts, and drinks too much,” Slowin laughed.
“Boast?” Remtall said; he quieted in seriousness, unsheathing his dagger: the once smooth edge of his blade had a serial lining of nicks running its entire length, the serrated signature of teeth bites. “I wish I had utility to boast on a journey such as this, silver golem. But I can’t wholly blame you for doubting me, seeing how much a gnome’s stature belies his valor in combat.” Remtall gulped from his fresh-filled flagon of pirate rum, apparently offended by Slowin’s sarcasm. “We’ll face our share soon, I think.”
“What do you mean by that?” Adacon asked.
“I mean, don’t be fooled into thinking this trip will be all glorious fun, because where we purpose to go holds a greater danger than any of you yet realize,” Remtall foreboded.
“The Fang Shoals?” Adacon asked anxiously. Flaer shook his head, tired of hearing Remtall’s rants.
“Yes, the Fang Shoals. But much worse is Karabden, the black tidal kraken who calls the Fang Shoals her home,” Remtall warned.
“Kraken?” Erguile questioned. “You mean, the great whirlpool monsters?”
“Quite learned for a slave, aren’t you boy?” Remtall replied. Slowin lay back against the rail, and quick to follow was Flaer; they both closed their eyes as Remtall began tales of sea monsters that lasted deep into the night. Both slaves hung on his every word, constantly inquiring about the frightening lore their captain spun, until finally Slowin advised that they should all get some sleep. As Flaer retired to his portion of the cabin floor, followed by Erguile, Slowin turned to Remtall, who continued to drink from his flask and puff on his pipe.
“Don’t you think you should get some sleep, Captain? You haven’t slept since coming aboard,” Slowin urged.
“Never mind sleep—not for a gnome. The need for sleep does not burden a gnome as it does a man, or a silver golem for that matter,” Remtall snickered. Slowin smiled, and decided not to press Remtall further, although he felt troubled by the gnome’s vigilance. Slowin walked to a part of the deck near the starboard bow where he kept a rug. Adacon trailed him, asking another question before the golem lay down for the night:
“Slowin…”
“Yes, Adacon, what is it?”
“Krem—is there anything you haven’t told us? Do you know any more about what he’s doing or where he is?”
“Ummph” Slowin sighed. “He was very vague with me that day in the forest. He only told me that a great evil had returned to strength, and he was off to halt it before it might strengthen further.”
“When do you think we might see him again?” Adacon asked.
“I cannot say, Adacon, but rest assured: Krem will return, just as I will return home to my forest.”
“You’re not going to keep traveling with us once he comes back?”
“Once I have fulfilled my favor to Krem, I intend to return to the peace I have ever enjoyed in seclusion,” Slowin replied, emotionless.
“But how can you do that? You know what is at stake for the world,” Adacon gasped.
“There will be a great council of Vapours in Erol Drunne, perhaps we will learn more of Krem’s actions there. Perhaps—perhaps he will be there. For now, however, it is good night,” Slowin answered. The hulking silver mass lumbered away leaving Adacon rabid with more questions. Slowin lay down on his mat to sleep. Adacon surveyed that everyone had gone to bed except Remtall, who had drifted up to the stern. Saddened by Slowin’s desire to leave them as soon as he could, Adacon trudged to his own spot of cabin floor, wishing Krem were back.
* * *
Adacon awoke the next morning with greetings of furious wind and rain, accompanied by the loud whinnying of Weakhoof. It was barely midmorning, and already the sky was blackened with thunderclouds. Adacon slowly stood to his feet; he saw Erguile huddled under Weakhoof’s tarp and sprinted under to find shelter with them.
“Good morning Addy,” Erguile grunted, trying to keep Weakhoof calm. Rain pelted heavily upon the tarp in rhythmic waves. A cold chill whipped underneath the weather shield.
“Morning—this is unbelievable—what weather; I thought the Kalm got its name for being a calm ocean,” Adacon replied.
“So did I. It’s been like this for nearly ten minutes. I don’t know how you managed to stay asleep,” Erguile said.
“It was strange—I was in a dream talking to Krem, and he was telling me about my true quest: our true quest,” Adacon recalled. “He was telling me that from Erol Drunne we must again return to the West to meet our final destiny, and that before the end a great tragedy will come to pass.”
“Strange indeed, but I don’t heed silly dreams—nor should you pay it much mind. For all we know Krem is dead, just as the dark stranger told us,” Erguile coldly replied.
“Don’t say that! Even Slowin says he lied!” Adacon replied defensively. He sulked in quiet for several moments pondering Krem’s fate. “What of this storm? Have you talked with Remtall?”
“When I first woke I did. He thinks the storm will only worsen as the day goes on.”
“I’ll go and speak to him. Do you need help with Weakhoof?” Adacon asked before walking across the deck and into the rain again.
“He’ll be alright. He’s been very brave through all this. I don’t think she much approves of sailing though,” he chuckled. Erguile returned his attention to Weakhoof as Adacon struck out into the rain toward the cabin where Slowin, Flaer, and Remtall were standing.
“Good morning Adacon, and a fine one at that, eh?” Remtall greeted. The others turned to say hello.
“This weather is awful, and Erguile said we should expect it to last?” Adacon probed.
“As sure as I am a gnome we should expect more. And I think we will be delayed a day or two if these winds stay easterly,” answered the captain. Though the gnome had not slept in the past few days he seemed oddly rejuvenated, and Adacon marveled at his vigor. Flaer returned to the sea-chart he had been poring over, examining their course. Slowin asked how Erguile was dealing with the waves.
“Surprisingly well I’ll say, compared to the other day. What’s more surprising is how well Weakhoof is handling the weather,” Adacon answered.
“There is more to that steed than meets the eye,” Slowin replied. “Help yourself to some tea, and there’s something to eat over there.”
“Thanks.”
Remtall and Slowin joined Flaer in his study of the chart. Adacon surveyed the horizon in all directions, seeing nothing but thick grey clouds and occasional flashes of lightning. The rain had lightened since he first woke, but it seemed colder, and Adacon longed for a place that was warm and dry. The steady pour of drops increased again while Adacon fetched his cup of tea, and got a second for Erguile. Returning to Weakhoof’s tarp, Erguile thanked him heartily for the hot brew.
“Should do me well, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” said Erguile.
“Maybe you’ll get rest this afternoon if the weather breaks and the air warms.”
“Perhaps. I am weary though. Much like your drea
m with Krem I had a dream, but with a darker note—mind you I pay dreams no mind, but they linger when dark: the phantom ship had come back, and it sieged our vessel. And just as death came I envisioned Karabden rising from the sea, coming to swallow us all in its thousand-teethed mouth.” Erguile trembled as he relayed his nightmare.
“I’d tell you your own advice again—as you pay my dream no mind, do the same for yours. We truly are safe as long as Remtall keeps his wits.”
“That’s another thing—sometimes I doubt that little man’s composure. He’s always drinking liquor at the oddest hours of the day, never sleeping. I wonder how long he can keep it up.”
“I guess we can’t worry about it until the time comes, can we?”
“I suppose you’re right…”
As the two slaves finished their conversation, the loudest clap of thunder either had ever heard sounded. Adacon looked upon the eastern sky for the source to the noise; there he witnessed a sight that shocked him more deeply than anything he’d so far seen on their journey: cutting down from the heavens, a league in front of the Blockade Runner, was an enormous lightning bolt, impossibly thick and bright—and rather than dissipating in a flash, the bolt drilled down into the ocean ceaselessly. Through the grey and rain it was perfectly visible; the two slaves stood as if paralyzed, witnessing the writhing light that seemed to thicken. Just then a clap of thunder came again; the noise did not fade but lasted, growing louder, just as the bolt of lightning that lit the sky in the distance. The slaves covered their ears in response to pain, as the thunderous note sustained, unwaning, increasing. With his ears covered, Adacon felt pain vibrating deep into his skull. The thunder loudened in furious spats. Erguile saw Weakhoof begin to panic; he frantically tried to calm the wild horse, but the noise was too much for the old stallion to bear. He broke from his post and began to gallop wildly about the deck in panic. Erguile gave chase, releasing his hands from his ears and allowing the pain of the thunderous noise to throb deep into his brain.
“Erguile don’t!” Adacon tried to yell, but his shout was useless amidst the terrible volume. He turned his glance to the cabin and saw Flaer and Slowin both covering their ears, staring out at the terrible apparition in the sky; they stood motionless, awestruck by the force of light and sound. Adacon suddenly jerked into action, seeing Erguile struggling with Weakhoof, who was attempting to throw himself from the portside bow.
Looking at the lightning bolt once more, it seemed to be growing wider at a faster rate—it had sprouted branching rays from its stem, and before being blinded Adacon took hold of a sight that disturbed him most deeply—though he couldn’t be completely sure, he thought he was seeing ice rocks; giant chunks of white bobbing in the water near the spot where the bolt funneled into the ocean. Adacon momentarily forgot his pursuit of Erguile as he stood in shock, watching a floor of ship-sized mats of ice spread rapidly in every direction away from the lightning, covering the sea underneath. The tendrils that forked out from the main bolt began to grow erratic and far-reaching; it seemed that it would not be long before a league-long tentacle would reach out and scorch the tiny schooner where it fought the violent swells. Adacon remembered his urgency and looked to Erguile, who was still trying with all his power to keep Weakhoof from jumping into the sea.
Speech was useless against the piercing thunder, so he didn’t try to communicate once he reached them; he only gripped the horse’s mane to keep it from going overboard. Both slaves were losing strength, and Weakhoof readied to finally break free; the pain of the noise had strengthened such that it was too much to bear. The horse stopped struggling. Adacon and Erguile both looked at him, wondering why he no longer fought: Weakhoof was looking calmly at the lightning bolt, as if he had suddenly been petrified by it. Adacon traced the horse’s stare and saw what had transfixed it—there in the distance where the ice-floor spread toward them, undulating from its pulsating center, a great wall of ocean rose, tall as half the height of the lightning. Adacon froze, realizing that the ice was in fact no wall; it was a wave, driving toward them, devouring the grey of the horizon. The great mountain wave powered on toward the helpless Blockade Runner; it grew higher with each passing second, taking more of the sky for its own. Adacon could no longer see the bolt of lightning, only the rolling wave that drove to cover the whole horizon in white bergs. Adacon and Erguile looked at each other, farewell in their eyes, then back again to their final vision. The schooner rocked and rolled, somehow remaining afloat; it was a surprise of luck that the ship had not yet flipped from the turbulence, or had a lightning tendril reach out and take it.
In a final moment of acceptance, as ice crystals showered his face from the sky-destroying wave overhead, Adacon looked about the ship; time was dilated by some strange force, and he took it as a chance to be comforted by the sight of his friends one last time before they shared in death. Flaer and Slowin had not moved in the slightest since last he saw them; they stood helplessly staring, the same as Weakhoof, awestruck by the fury that had so suddenly thwarted their quest. The next moment came, the wave finally ready to overtake them, and Adacon caught a most startling image—Remtall stood against the starboard rail, calmly smoking his pipe, shielding his tobacco from the downpouring ice crystals, smiling; then the gnome winked at him. Adacon decided the sight an illusion, and being filled with powerlessness he turned at last to meet his fate. The mountain-high wave of icebergs crashed, drowning everything in white, and the numbing chill of death forsook the crew of the Blockade Runner.
* * *
Adacon opened his eyes and began to rub his head. An awful pain coursed through his temples.
“Terrible dream,” he said to himself. He recalled a terrifying storm where a lightning bolt had stayed in the sky, thunder had roared unwaning, and a wave of ice and light destroyed the Blockade Runner. Slowly he rose, his senses unclouding, and he looked around: he was no longer on the Blockade Runner; all about was endless ocean and a scorching sun, half-risen in the center of the sky. Adacon realized himself to be in some kind of translucent boat; in shock he saw the ocean through the floor where he lay. Frantically he rubbed his eyes to be sure of what he saw. The sight remained the same, and around him hugged the rim of a tiny vessel that he could see through. At the opposite end sat Remtall, looking away toward the eastern horizon.
“Remtall!” Adacon squealed, forsaking his grogginess.
“Morning,” Remtall replied. The gnome turned to face Adacon, pipe in hand, lighting his tobacco.
“Where are we?” Adacon said, standing up to survey their surroundings, looking at the half-invisible boat that was separating him and the gnome from the depths of the sea.
“I expect we are fifteen leagues from the Fang Shoals, dear boy.”
“What happened? The storm from my dream was real?”
“But of course. I’d just as soon have stayed on the schooner had it not been sundered by that damned magic.” Remtall spoke without apprehension, as if it had happened long ago.
“What about the boat—the others?”
“Calm down some, boy. We are three days from land.”
“Three days?”
“Yes, and you have slept two long months as we drifted across the Kalm. Give yourself time to settle into the waking life once more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s alright to not understand, boy. It was a terrible thing—that cursed bolt. Only thrice have I seen worse things come upon a ship at sea.”
“Are the others dead?”
“I cannot know for sure, but we are truly lucky to have been saved,” Remtall said, puffing continuously. He was sitting near a small store of food and drink, piled by the front of the boat. “Vesleathren must have come to know of our quest, for I know no other conjurer capable of such a spell. Lucky for us, the phantom ship had been trailing us—in fact, it trails us still…” he explained. Adacon glanced behind but saw nothing but blue sky and gentle water; then suddenly a flicker of color appeared, the outline of a hul
king ship of old, grand next to their own small boat. As soon as Adacon saw its outline, the phantom ship disappeared, and there was again nothing there.
“I can’t believe it—and what about this boat, it appears to be made of air,” Adacon said, staring at their transparent floor, flickering in and out of existence, at times seeming like nothing was keeping Remtall and Adacon afloat.
“After the wave came down, they preserved us in a net of magic—phantom magic—but they could not protect the others, or our poor ship, for the storm came too quickly,” Remtall told. “There is some hope that they survived, though my heart warns me against such romantic thoughts; you see, a month ago, as you slept, Yarnhoot paid us a visit. In his beak he held a parchment—from Krem the Vapour.”
“Krem!” Adacon gasped.
“The same who first journeyed with Erguile and you from the Solun Desert into the Vashnod Plains. Here—read for yourself and find what hope may be afforded by it,” Remtall said. He fetched a yellowed scroll from one of the bags at his side, unrolled it and handed it to Adacon. He read the handwritten ink on the parchment:
‘Dear travelers,
I must write vaguely, for as much as I trust Yarnhoot’s hardihood, recent news has made it clear that this letter may never reach you, and I must account for the chance it will fall into their hands.
Know that the hermit of Molto’s Keep lives, and goes about aiding you in ways unseen. Sorry I am for the abrupt departure, A. and E., but a severe matter darkened our world—such that it grew blacker than I could have foreseen. You know this now, I am sure.
Know also that phantoms trail you, keeping watch for your safety. They repay a favor of old. Be not saddened either, for my magic is with the rest. Press on, brave journeyers, and seek your destination still. Farewell.
Darkin: A Journey East Page 16
