A strange sort of pressure brushed against him then and he turned. Lady Orosenn had her arms out, as if pushing. Jute glanced about: the mist was rolling backwards as though in a stiff wind. Though no true wind ruffled any of them. It lashed and whipped on all sides yet was driven back — if only a short distance.
Two great bellows of rage sounded from the obscuring banks of fog. Jute’s head sank once again. Do these foreign gods never tire of their jokes? Two enormous shadowed silhouettes came lumbering down the slope.
As if this new threat were the key, the bows of the Dawn lurched backwards. The sailors followed, heaving. Water kicked up about them as they pushed into the weak surf. The hull lifted free of the flats. Jute could’ve kissed every one of the damned crew as those few left on board now reached down to help lift them up and in. He clung to the top rail, his feet dangling in the surf, and peered back. Lady Orosenn still had her arms outstretched yet even from this distance Jute could see them shuddering with effort. All about, in a clear semicircle around the ships, whips and tatters of fog lashed and writhed.
We are clear — but what of her? Jute wondered, horrified. How will she …
As he watched, the sorceress took one shaky step backwards into the launch then tumbled the rest of the way as if thrown. The stiff upright oarsmen started rowing; the launch surged out into the surf. The scarves of mist came unravelling down the slope just as the brothers, Anger and Wrath, emerged like two fiends out of myth. The brothers stopped on the shore and shook their fists, bellowing their rage. The mist, however, did not halt. It came on, brushing sinuously over the waves like a horde of sea-snakes, straight for him — or so it seemed.
‘Pull me up, damn you all!’ he roared.
Hands yanked at him, heaved him up. On deck he straightened to peer at everyone gaping at the shore, then turned as something crashed into the waves just short of the bow. It sent up a towering burst of spray that splashed everyone.
On shore, Anger stooped for another boulder.
Jute turned to his astonished crew. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Man the sweeps!’
The spell of fascination was broken; the crew scrambled for the oars.
Jute returned to studying the shore. Anger had a boulder raised over his head that wouldn’t shame any siege onager. This he heaved at the Dawn in a mighty throw. The rock came whistling down to splash to the port side. Spray from the impact doused the oarsmen.
A distant crash of timber snatched Jute’s attention to the Resolute. A boulder thrown by Wrath had struck the tall bow-stem, snapping it off. Their oarsmen kept heaving and the vessel kept its headway so Jute surmised the keel remained true.
As for Lady Orosenn; her silent crew pulled her out to the waiting Supplicant with breathtaking speed. They climbed rope ladders up the side.
All along the receding shore, the bank of fog thickened to a near opaque wall. It was as if Mist were sealing off her realm in an impenetrable barrier of cloud. Only the giant brothers remained: blurred twin shadows, roaring their namesake ire and heaving rocks that now fell short in tall towers of spray and haze.
Jute went to the stern. ‘Swing us round,’ he ordered Lurjen.
‘Heading?’ the man enquired, his gaze fixed on the rippling fist-waving shadows.
‘East. There’s a channel there or I’m a Letherii philanthropist.’
‘Hit it off with the locals?’ Ieleen enquired dryly, her hands resting on her walking stick and her chin atop them.
‘The usual miscommunication, dearest.’
‘The channel may be impassable,’ she pointed out.
‘We’ll take our time.’
‘We’re too low on supplies.’
‘Then we’ll send out launches to fish or hunt — there may be seals.’
‘You’re determined, then,’ she sighed.
Jute turned to her. ‘Why, of course. After all this?’
She pensively tapped her stick to the decking. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps we’ve gone about as far as we should. All things considered …’
He squatted next to her. Sensing his nearness, she gave him a smile, but it was a wistful one. ‘I’m worried, luv,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve about pushed our luck as far as we ought.’
‘We’re about,’ Lurjen said.
‘Ahead slow,’ he answered without turning from his wife. ‘Find open water.’
‘Aye, aye. Ahead slow, Buen,’ Lurjen shouted.
‘Aye,’ the first mate answered. ‘Get a man up that mast! Two at the bows! With poles!’
‘We’ve a sorceress with us, lass,’ Jute said. ‘And a mercenary army.’
She shook her head. ‘Leave it to them. Who are we? Just common people. We don’t belong in this land of ogres and powers. It’ll be the end of us. I feel it.’ He pressed a hand to her shoulder and she took it, squeezing tightly. ‘Not much farther, yes?’
‘All right, lass. I swear. If it looks too rough. Not much farther.
‘Too rough!’ She laughed. ‘Luv — what is it now, pray tell?’
‘We escaped.’
‘You may not the next time.’
‘I’ll be careful, love.’
‘See that you are,’ she snapped, then sighed and gave his hand a squeeze.
‘Ice ahead, captain,’ Buen called from amidships.
Jute straightened. ‘Very well.’ He faced the bows, squinted ahead where the light held a bluish glow from the thickening flow of great ice slabs. ‘More men on poles. And let’s have a touch more sail.’
‘Aye, aye.’
*
Neither Storval nor any of the hired swordsmen would admit it, but Reuth’s navigation saw the Lady’s Luck south through the Wreckers’ Coast. Only his uncle offered any acknowledgement of the feat, and this with mere cuffs across Reuth’s shoulder. Meagre fare, but more affection than the coarse, bluff fellow generally granted.
Reuth kept apart from the band of fighters Storval had gathered about himself: the sneering Stormguard and other disaffected swordsman from Fist. The Mare sailors generally avoided the fighting men as well, siding now with his uncle in any discussion regarding strategy or ship’s business.
It was, he knew, a very dangerous situation for the future of their venture — and for the future of his uncle, for that matter. Not to mention himself, he slowly began to understand. Navigator or no, the swordsmen in no way hid their contempt and dislike of him.
Again he wished Whiteblade were still with them. He would’ve sided with his uncle, he was certain. But then, who knew? Had the champion revealed himself these Stormguard might have attacked him immediately, as they had every reason to loathe and hate him for the loss of their Lady.
In any case, there was no way to know now.
Under Reuth’s constant guidance, the Lady’s Luck successfully rounded the tip of the Bone Peninsula and reached the mouth of the narrows. Here they found a great flotilla of vessels from seafaring cities and states from all four corners of the world. All at anchor while their pilots and steersmen studied the maze of jagged spars and stone teeth that were the Guardian Rocks.
Tulan ordered them to drop anchor here as well, and the Lady’s Luck joined the informal queue of vessels all awaiting some change in the currents, or a fellow navigator’s brash attempt to dare the rocks. Reuth had no doubt that everyone carefully watched how well these ventures fared: what course to follow, what turns to avoid.
For the rest of that day and the next he watched as well. They witnessed two attempts to thread the maze, both at high tide. One in the evening and one at the next dawn. Four ships set out in the evening. None survived the twisting, foaming course, though one nimble galley nearly made it through.
The wreckage of broken timbers and tangled rigging came washing out to pass between the anchored vessels. Few of the sailors waving their arms and begging amid the flotsam were picked up; most coursed onward past the flotilla to bob out into the grey waters of the Sea of Hate, where, Reuth was certain, all would eventually drown or be consumed by sharks.