In ship’s center the tightly bunched steeds squealed in panic, shoving against the closely spaced oaken penning poles, rearing up and crashing down upon one another, biting and kicking, forelegs climbing upon the strakes and wales in their fear, the roaring Maelstrom more than they could bear. Some fell to the deck and were trampled to death, two ponies among these. Yet, not a Man could help them, for all the Men were busy stroking the oars.
Nay! Not all! For Elgo looked up with his one eye to see Ruric at the Dracongield, hurling treasure overboard, wordlessly shouting.
The Prince reached Ruric just as the Armsmaster scooped up a small silver horn to fling into the sea, and Elgo’s fist crashed into Ruric’s jaw, dropping him like a felled steer, the horn blanging down to the deck beside the unconscious Man.
And the wall of the hurricane strode ever closer. And the funnel of the Maelstrom pitched ever steeper, the boats sliding down the steadily increasing slope of the spinning black throat.
And great suckered tentacles, malignantly glowing with a ghastly phosphorescence, came looping out of the churn, grasping at the sides of the Dragonboats. Men yelled and drew back, and some hammered at the hideous tendrils, using whatever came to hand. A huge slimy arm wrapped about steersman Njal, and he was wrenched overboard, his screams lost in the thunder of the whirl. And behind, monstrous tentacles, burning with the cold daemonfire of the deeps, reached up and grasped a ship, and Wavestrider was crushed and pulled under, Men, horses, treasure, all dragged to a spinning watery doom.
And the Moon disappeared in the howling black wall of the storm as the edge of the eye passed over the Maelstrom, the whelming wind and hurtling rain catching up to the Dragonboats once more.
“Bend sail, by damn, bend sail!” cried Arik, shoving Men toward the mast, as the last glimmer of Foamelk’s storm-lanterns disappeared down into the raging abyss below, the sistership swallowed by the bellowing doom.
And in the twisting churn, the square-cut sail of the last of the Dragonboats was set into the teeth of the hurricane, the slender whisker pole guided to catch the elemental violence.
“Hold, damn ’ee, hold,” Arik gritted through clenched teeth, now haling the steerboard hard over as scourging rain hurtled through the blackness to lash upon them all, the raider Captain cursing and praying at one and the same time for both mast and canvas to bear the shriek, that neither timber shiver nor cloth rend in the blast.
And riding the wild winds of a savage hurricane, up and out of the ravening maw of the whirling Maelstrom came the Longwyrm, pulling free of the roaring suck, pulling up and out from a churning mouth that ne’er before had been cheated of its intended victim, cheated by a raw rage shrieking o’er the waves. Up and out came the ship and over the twisting rim, hurled by an elemental fury into the wrath beyond.
And driven before a howling wind, the benumbed survivors fled onward through a vast darkness across a storm-tossed sea, bearing the remains of a great treasure trove, a hoard of Dracongield.
CHAPTER 17
Winter, Spring, Summer, Early Fall, 3E1601
[Last Year]
Snow scrutching under her feet, Elyn made her way across the assembly grounds toward the main hall of the garrison. Overhead the auroral lights bled bloody red again, as they had done off and on since Year’s Long Night, fueling talk of ill omens and dire fortunes. Around her, wooden palisades stood starkly in the darkness, their sharpened ends jutting upwards, clawing at the scarlet light above. To fore, side, and rear, long low buildings squatted blackly, log sided and sod roofed: barracks, stables and smithy, store-houses, and such. Straight ahead, yellow lamplight streamed through the oiled skins covering the windows of the common building, her goal. As she stepped inside, shutting the heavy wooden door behind, Men turned, their voices falling silent. The Princess made her way toward the head table, joining Brude, commander of this outpost along the Kathian border. Slowly the conversation resumed as she threaded among the warriors, finally coming to her place. Brude, a stocky, muscular Man in his forties, glanced up as she seated herself, his look wary. The commander had been troubled at the thought of a Woman joining the ranks of his garrison, a Princess at that. She had come in the late fall, just ere the snows had flown, a Warrior Maiden, she had said-all had heard of her training, and of her exploits ’gainst the Naudron-to learn more of her craft, she had said. Uneasily Brude had accepted her-in truth he had no choice, for Aranor himself had sent her. But she had proved to be a true Warrior Maid, quick of mind and of arms, her skills equal to or better than that of his best. Even so, still it was hard to accept that a female shared duty along this restless marge, no matter what her lineage or skills might be.
As she sat and was served a meal by the kitchen crew, from out of the hum of conversation she could pick a phrase or two, and she noted that once again the talk turned to the blood-red werelights in the sky above:
An ill omen for someone. .
Perhaps for the King. .
Nay, not just the King; ’tis an ill omen for the whole of Jord. .
Aye, it means killing and Death and War. .
“I see that disaster strikes again tonight,” Elyn said to Brude, breaking a piece of bread from the loaf.
“Mock not the high winter light, Princess, for at times it does indeed foretell what is to come.” The commander took a mouthful of stew, his eyes losing focus as his mind turned inward upon his memories as he chewed and swallowed. “There was the red warning three years apast when Tamar attacked. And many is the bard’s tale of hidden messages written in the lights for Man to puzzle out.”
“Perhaps so, Commander Brude,” responded the Princess, “yet I have not the skill to read such arcane writings, and neither do I think has any man jack among us.”
“Many nights, now, the sky has dripped red,” growled Brude, still lost in his thoughts. “Each night I have set an extra watch along the walls, expecting an attack. Yet none has come, no matter what say the lights above.”
“If they do be omens, Commander,” mused Elyn, “perhaps their secrets could be delved if only we knew for whom the messages are intended.”
Brude had no response, and they ate awhile in silence, conversation abuzz all about them. At last the commander cleared his throat. “Spring will be here soon, Princess-another thirty days or so. Another shift of troops will come in with the flowering of the blooms. I would ask you to wait a fortnight beyond their arrival, then would I have you take charge of those returning through these wild lands to the main garrison.”
Elyn’s heart leapt to her mouth. He expects me, a Warrior Maiden, to lead the Men home! My own command! A far cry from being a courier, a scout. Ah, but my own command. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Brude. “Commander, I accept; and I am gratified by your trust.”
That night, Elyn and Brude pored over maps of the region as well as maps of the lands between the outpost and Jordkeep:
“This route is straightest, Princess, yet you would have to pass through Render’s Col, and a better place for an ambush has ne’er been seen. Now by this way”-Brude’s stubby finger traced a course across the chart-“there are no easy places for ambushes to lie, yet there is the Little Grey, and in springtime its waters roar along the banks faster than a horse can run, they say, though I misdoubt it.”
“What about the way I came?” asked Elyn, her own finger moving across the map.
“You came in the fall, my Lady,” answered Brude, “but in the snowmelt and spring rains, these cliffs become laden with water, and mud slides roar down the slopes.”