“Thetis? How?”
Nashon shrugged and sat at his desk. He struck a flint stone over his pipe bowl and drew deeply. Once the contents smoldered, he gave Alhena a perplexed look, and turned to pick up a quill to carry on with the notes he had been working on. He apparently had nothing else he wished to say on the matter.
Debacle Lurch
Sometime after the light of day had switched on to dispel the darkness, men and women gathered upon the ship’s prow, gazing up at a blue-grey cliff rising out of the murky waters over three hundred feet high. Gnarly trees twisted out of hidden crevices along the imposing rock wall. Below the cliffs, stretches of water-pocked stone rose like sentinels along the shoreline, awash in ocean spray. Attempting a landing was out of the question. According to Thetis, they had arrived at the Under Realm.
Unfamiliar black birds swirled along the daunting cliff face, following Gerrymander’s progress, as if watching them.
To their right, the cliffs went on for leagues before bending out of sight. On their left, however, the cliff face shot out toward them like a barrier, sheltering what appeared to be the inlet of a wide fjord.
Captain Thorr stood at the forefront of the conglomeration, laced with conflicting emotions. He was proud of his crew. They had safely delivered the quest to the shores of a place no one had believed even existed—albeit, not entirely without harm. He sighed, thinking of the sailors they lost at the portal.
Thetis had provided him with no further input as to which way to sail from here. He studied the imposing shoreline before informing the crew to sail left, around the promontory, and into the fjord. With a little luck, the inlet might lead to a river mouth. With a bit more luck, that river might take them to the Soul Forge. He nodded hopefully and ordered the sails to remain furled, preferring to propel the ship by oar this close to land in the unchartered waters.
Shortly after entering the fjord, they were pelted by rain.
Around midafternoon, according to the helmsman’s reckoning, Gerrymander was well into the channel. Through the constant rain, the captain observed the opposite shorelines were gradually converging.
Rounding a bend in the channel, a distant rumble sounded from beyond a wall of roiling mist. The ship’s pace slowed as the oarsmen battled to move Gerrymander along in the face of a strengthening current.
Captain Thorr consulted his time pieces and gave the order to drop anchor. Whatever lay beyond the strange mist, it was prudent to keep the ship back from the bank of swirling fog when night fell. The fjord walls, the mist, and the swift current told him they sailed toward the base of a sizable waterfall but given the peculiar weather trends and celestial absences in the Under Realm, he wasn’t taking a chance on which way the waterfall actually flowed. There is no way in hell, he smiled at the irony, I am going to allow Gerrymander to sail over the brink of an unseen waterfall.
When the light disappeared, thankfully, so did the rain.
Captain Thorr ordered a ten-man watch to ward the decks, and dispatched an unusual sailor known as Blindsight to the main crow’s nest. Blindsight’s vision rivaled that of a cat, but in the absolute darkness, even his sight was insufficient to see very far.
Gerrymander strained at her fetters in the strong current. To many aboard, the high cliffs, unseen in the darkness, felt like they closed in on them. More than one sailor clung to the deck rail like his life depended on it.
Satisfied that the ship was as secure as possible, Thorr and Olmar wearily entered the galley to break their fast. Olmar ducked low to avoid cracking his head, squeezing his girth through the door frame. They joined Alhena, Pollard, Sadyra, Avarick and a few others already sitting about the central table.
Halfway through their meal, Nashon entered the galley with Silurian in tow.
Everybody aboard Gerrymander suffered from a lack of sleep, but with Silurian’s arrival, those seated at the central table passed away the dark hours partaking of the ship’s dwindling wine stores.
Late the next morning, three skiffs paddled into the turbulent waters toward the wall of mist.
Something about the ethereal shroud gave the captain a cause for alarm. No matter how thick, they should be able to glimpse the falls behind the mist. For a waterfall to create that much moisture, it had to fall from an enormous height, but from where he stood against the stern’s port rail, the only things visible beneath the ghastly pale heavens were the water, the encroaching cliffs, and the mist itself.
The captain forbade the original quest members from taking part in the reconnaissance foray. It was his ship and until they were on solid ground, he insisted it was his call.
Pollard was noticeably unhappy about being left out, Avarick somewhat less so. Both were responsible for Rook and Silurian, and there was no way Silurian was going to be given leave.
Rook thought about tagging along, but Thetis had privately advised him not to.
Ithaman and Ithnan each piloted a skiff with two other sailors as they followed in the wake of a third boat. The two oarsmen in each craft struggled to hold their course steady in the strong current. Traversing the fjord at an angle, and cutting back again, the skiffs made their way into the roiling mist.
Everyone aboard Gerrymander watched the launches flounder against the current and then abruptly disappear through the wall of mist. The boats weren’t heard from again that day.
At supper, Olmar lobbied vehemently to launch another craft to go after them, but the captain wouldn’t hear of it. When darkness blinked out the light, all thought of pursuit was quashed. Before retiring to his cabin, the captain ordered Gerrymander on high alert, and the night dragged on.
By Captain Thorr’s reckoning, midday approached, when, against his better judgment, he organized another crew to take to the water in search of the lost boats. If his worst fears were realized, the original vessels had gone over the brink of a waterfall.
Before the boat hit the water, an excited shout reached him from high up in the rigging.
“There! Boat to starboard!”
All heads snapped to where the right cliff face emerged from behind the veil. A skiff rowed vigorously toward them.
The ashen faces of the harried sailors in the boat made the hair on the back of the captain’s neck stand on end.
Almost as soon as they sighted the first boat, another one popped out of the mist, near the middle of the river. The men in the second boat propelled their craft away from the mist at a frantic pace.
“Anchors aweigh!” Captain Thorr barked. “Man the ballista! Hold our position!”
Gerrymander became a maelstrom of activity. Two teams of brawny sailors furiously cranked up the heavy anchors. The vessel lurched in the current, but her drift was prevented when the oar banks shipped out of the wash-strake and slapped the water.
Anxious eyes sought out the third boat. It wasn’t until the first two were safely aboard that the lookout in the foremast brought everyone’s attention to the wall of mist. The last skiff slipped free of the haze, swirling in the current, drifting toward their position. Empty.
The captain stared at the slowly spinning boat floating past and heading out to sea. He immediately thought the craft had capsized in the turbulent water, but as it drifted by, it became apparent that all the gear lay dry and untouched in the bottom of the boat.
“Captain, permission to launch an’ find them?” Olmar shouted. He stood alongside Tara, who had already grabbed the davit to lower a launch.
“Negative. Make all haste to retrieve the third boat.” The captain shouted.
Olmar stood gaping in disbelief.
When the oarsmen hadn’t spun Gerrymander about fast enough, the captain yelled, “Now!”
The men manning the ballista swivelled it around to remain fixed on the wall of mist as Gerrymander manoeuvred into position to snag the empty skiff. As soon as the boat was on deck, the captain ordered the sails raised.
Olmar scrambled to assume his place at the helm, while Tara made her way into the rigging.
Gerrymander sped down the fjord toward Hell’s Stew.
‘Ware the Sentinel!
Upon hearing about the events concerning the boats within the mist, Alhena sought out Thetis for an explanation.
The sailors who made it back reported that as soon as they had entered the mist, the turbulent current they fought against had changed direction and spirited them forward. Enshrouded by mist, they could barely see the water beside them.
Against everything that made sense, they believed they were being pulled toward the brink of an enormous drop. They immediately began to row against the reversed current, but no amount of effort was able to stop their forward momentum.
They prepared to abandon the skiffs at the first sign of a waterfall’s edge, only to be stunned when they broke free of the thick mists. Looming high overhead, cascaded the largest waterfall any of them had ever seen. Not nearly as high as Splendoor Falls, but much wider, its far ends lost to sight as the fjord walls opened up into a wide basin.
Instead of being relieved, the sailors panicked. They discovered, to their horror, that their skiffs were being dragged toward a massive whirlpool at the base of the falls. It took everything they had in them to break free of its pull.
After recovering their collective breath, they ventured along the base of the waterfall, hounded by its natural mists and the terrific wind the cascading water generated. Their progress proved slow as they traversed first one end of the fjord beyond the falls and then the other, all the while cognizant of the sucking vortex tugging at their boats. At no time were they able to find a way to the land above.
Exhausted, they started back to the Gerrymander, keeping close to the northern wall. Entering the unnatural wall of mist, they were buffeted by crosscurrents and pulled away from the cliffs. Not long afterward, the daylight vanished, leaving them floundering with no sense of direction.
Ithnan and Ithaman kept their boats together, but they lost contact with the last boat. Unsure of their direction, the vortex became their biggest fear, until, out of nowhere, muffled voices spoke to them from within the fog.
They had no idea where the voices came from, but they were certain they hadn’t originated from the lost skiff. Disembodied, mournful sounds whispered to them, sounding like they were pleading for something. Snatches of words were almost intelligible—the same guttural grunting uttered over and over again.
When the tortuous darkness lifted, the voices became silent. The beleaguered skiffs that had stayed together found themselves twirling aimlessly within the safety of a small shoreline cavern.
It took them the entire morning to make their way safely around the vortex and into the mist.
Thetis had no explanation.
By midafternoon, according to the helm’s deck, Gerrymander broke free of the fjord under full sail.
After conferring with Thetis and Olmar, Captain Thorr ordered Gerrymander to veer portside and follow the left shoreline.
When night fell, Gerrymander unweighed anchor. Everyone not required to man the ship retired to their berths. Few had trouble sleeping, excepting the captain, Olmar and those unfortunate enough to have ventured beyond the mist.
Rook had just lain down with Thetis when a strange sensation turned his stomach. Something wasn’t right. He laid in the dark, listening. Beside him, Thetis slept undisturbed. Curious, he slipped from their berth and padded softly from the cabin.
The ship’s interior was quiet, save for the occasional snore and the creaking of the wooden ship as it pulled at its anchors.
The soft roll of the waves gave him a little trouble navigating the faintly lit passageway. The greasy smell of burning lantern oil made his nostrils twitch.
He set out for the deck, but passing the healer’s quarters, he paused at the open doorway and peered in. Nashon snored unevenly, his head sprawled at an awkward angle upon folded arms, amongst the clutter of his desk. The aroma of stale pipe smoke permeated the cabin. The sound of Pollard, slumped at the foot of Silurian’s berth, grunting awake, startled him.
The large man got to his feet, bending low to avoid bashing his head on the low ceiling, and joined Rook in the passageway. Without a word, he pulled the bowman along the corridor so as not to disturb Silurian.
“How does he fare?” Rook said in a hushed voice.
Pollard attempted to lower his voice but he may as well have spared himself. His hushed, throaty voice was louder than his normal speaking voice. “Nashon says he’s doing better than he has a right to.”
“How come he still sleeps in the healer’s cabin?”
Pollard shrugged, an awkward movement as hunched over as he was. “Dunno. Precaution, maybe. Seems he and Nashon get along.”
Rook thought he heard something unspoken in the big man’s voice. He swallowed. It should be him that Silurian got along with.
Two women appeared at the far end of the passageway, refueling the lanterns that were mounted infrequently along the walls. The dirty faced women made their way toward them, nodding as they passed by.
After the women disappeared around the next corner, Pollard asked, “What brings you to walk the ship this late?”
Rook thought of telling Pollard about his unease but decided not to. “Just restless, I guess. I can’t help wondering what happened to those sailors at the falls,” he partially lied.
“Aye. A strange business, that.”
Not knowing what else to say, Rook bade Pollard goodnight and watched the big man disappear into the healer’s cabin. Standing within the relative silence of the flickering passageway, he tried to put a name to his unease, but whatever had bothered him was gone. With a resigned sigh, he returned to the cabin he shared with Thetis.
The following morning, he bumped into Alhena on his way up to the mess hall. A chill crept into his feet and sent shivers up his spine, confirming the absurd rumour circulating the cabins of ice encrusting the ship’s decks.
Before locating a table, they opened the rear door of the mess hall to satisfy their curiosity, much to the dismay of everyone huddled over their breakfast. The deck was covered by a thin layer of snow—the shrouds visible to them, laden with ice. A brisk wind blew swirling snow into their faces.
Angry snarls sounded from around the mess hall.
Rook pushed against the howling wind, slamming the door shut to a chorus of sarcastic cheers. Stunned, he followed Alhena to a spot on the end of one of the tables while the scowling faces around them returned to their porridge.
The next two and a half days passed with no change to the cliffs on their left, and Hell’s Stew’s boundless vista everywhere else. They passed many rocky crags in the waters between themselves and the shoreline, but none of them appeared remotely inhabitable, let alone reachable without fear of wrecking.
Other than a brief rite for the lost sailors, nothing broke the tension and monotony of the voyage.
Around the middle of the third day since fleeing the fjord, the cliff wall veered west, following a gradual southwest tack. The coast, however, remained too dangerous to consider launching a landing craft. The bizarre cold snap had stuck around for the remainder of that first day but had since been replaced by an oppressive heat.
A lookout spotted the estuary of a great river tumbling its way down the broken heights of an imposing cliff. All aboard wondered whether they were looking at the river they searched for, but short of flying, there was no way to reach it.
The following morning, the coast dropped away southward around the head of a great peninsula.
Olmar guided the ship into the relative calm of a large bay southwest of the promontory.
Captain Thorr took stock of the rugged shoreline and gave the order to drop anchor. Given the coastline they had encountered up to this point, this might be the only spot on the forsaken mainland to put ashore. As the anchors unweighed, he ordered everyone not required to run the ship to meet within the mess hall.
Thorr sat between Alhena and Olmar at the head of the central table. Rook, Si
lurian and Sadyra sat beside the messenger. Pollard opted to stand behind Silurian with muscled forearms folded across his chest. Avarick stood at the far end of the table, his dour glare dissuading any bold enough to catch his eye.
Thorr addressed the crowd, “We were tasked with delivering Rook Bowman and Silurian Mintaka to a mythical land known only in legend as the Under Realm. I am not ashamed to admit that when the prospect was first presented to me by Thetis, I balked at the notion of such an absurd undertaking.”
He paused, scanning the crowd. Thetis wasn’t present.
“She convinced me Zephyr’s fate hung in the balance, so we were honour bound to assist two of Zephyr’s greatest heroes. I must add that the stipend provided by Baron Lychman helped persuade me as well.”
That garnered a few laughs from his crew.
“Even so, I never once dreamt I would actually be standing before you, off the shore of what many consider Hell itself, discussing preparations for a landing party. As crazy as all that sounds, here we are.”
He purposely looked each of his crew in the eyes, proud of their unwavering loyalty.
“Under Baron Lychman’s accord, our duty is now done.” He took a drink from a wooden mug. “What I’m about to ask goes beyond what’s expected of my crew. Should you rather not participate, I ask that you remain aboard Gerrymander, keeping her safe and prepared for our return.”
Murmurs shot through the crowd.
Thorr held up his hands. “That duty is paramount to our success. The time draws nigh that our paths shall part. Alhena and I have worked extensively the last few days putting together a formidable landing party.”
He could sense the tension in the room grow.
“I cannot, in good conscience, allow Rook and Silurian to march unprotected into the Under Realm. I cannot.”
He nodded toward Pollard, Avarick and Sadyra. “Aye, they are well guarded, but there is greater strength in numbers.
Soul Forge Page 27
