Storms of Victory (Witch World: The Turning)

by Andre Norton

  That grim prediction proved to be all too accurate. The merchantman limped toward the bay, toward the unguessed peril of the submerged spit.

  Her captain was wise in the ways of coastlines, or else he sensed something amiss, for he strove to bring his vessel farther out and did, indeed, clear the spit itself. The threatened ship passed into the very heart of the miniature islets and rocks surrounding the landmass, however, and within minutes of doing so, the inevitable occurred. She grounded with a crash rendered inaudible by the roar of wind, and waves and a jolt which rent the very souls of the watchers.

  She was ripped completely open. Scarcely had the shock of striking left her than her bow rose into the air, and she settled stern first into the furious ocean.

  The very rock which had doomed their ship gave added moments of life to those of the crew fortunate enough to have been on deck and somewhat forward at the moment of impact. It remained within the tear it had made and so wedged itself that it held the prow a little above the level of the water. To this clung some fifteen hapless sailors.

  Theirs was not a comfortable refuge or a secure one. The prow was no great distance above the ocean at its highest point, and every few minutes a huge sea would wash over it, completely covering it for the instant of its passing. Only the fact that, compelling though they were, these were still rollers and not yet full breakers, preserved the castaways at least temporarily, but at best their respite would be short. Hands bruised and numbed by cold and strain would gradually weaken, and their hold on the slippery, steeply inclined wreck must eventually break.

  It took time, longer than might have been expected but that the mariners realized they were very near to tower and cottages and hoped against the stark witness of the tempest that help would somehow reach them. An hour passed without visible change, then a massive wave covered the prow, and when it was once more clear to view, three of them had vanished. An hour's quarter later, another five were taken.

  Tarlach turned away from the window.

  “They are not physically so very far from land. If a rope were carried to them, they should be able to climb along it to safety.”

  “Aye,” responded Rorick, “but how is it to reach them? The distance is too great for us to throw it out even if the wind were not against us.”

  “A properly directed dive from the cliff would take a man beyond the white water. He would have to be a strong swimmer, but granting that, he should be able to make the wreck.”

  Una paled at the suggestion.

  “That part of the sea is filled with obstacles. No one would dive into it from there even in the calmest weather when the ocean herself presented little danger. A would-be rescuer stands nearly as much chance of being broken against some submerged rock …”

  “It is the risk of one life against the certain loss of many, Lady,” Tarlach replied quietly.

  Una nodded, although she knew who the swimmer would have to be.

  “Tell us your plan, Captain.”

  “It is simple enough. You are right in stating that only by purest chance could anyone survive a leap from the crest of the cliff, and even more difficult, more impossible, would be a successful climb back up to it along a rope by already exhausted men, yet only thus can escape from the wreck be accomplished.

  “See that ledge there, the broad one about a third of the distance from the water? There is a fairly easy ascent to it from the fields above the beach, and men could be stationed there to assist the survivors.”

  His companions nodded.

  “I shall make my jump from the smaller one immediately above it. The rope can be fastened to some point there so that the castaways need but drop into your peoples’ arms once they are over land and not be forced to attempt any scaling of a final rocky lip.”

  “It is as good a scheme as can be devised,” Brennan agreed reluctantly, “yet I would not have you be the one to make the attempt.”

  “The plan is mine, and I am the strongest of our company in the water.” He glanced at the Holdruler. “It is nearly certain that none of your folk could be considered, Lady. The most are yet too young, their adult powers undeveloped.”

  To that, she was forced to yield, though it tore her to the depth of her soul to do so. She lacked the strength of muscle to take this on herself, and she knew that Tarlach's reading of her people was accurate. Indeed, there were few of them who might have made the attempt even had that not been the case. In accordance with the superstition shared almost universally by fisherfolk, most of Seakeep's inhabitants were unable to swim. As for his taking the task upon himself, since his own comrades accepted this as Tarlach's role, she could not gainsay him.

  12

  Each moment might bring disaster to some or all of the desperate mariners still clinging to the prow, and the captain made no delay. Leaving his mount at the base of the cliff, he ascended the rough but easily negotiable natural path to the ledge below that from which he would soon leap and from there clambered the ten remaining feet to the one above.

  This last was not an easy climb, and he was breathing heavily by the time he reached his goal.

  He did not pause, that notwithstanding, but cast off his cloak as soon as he had gained the level place. He retained the single, tightly fitting garment he wore beneath it. Fashioned in one piece of supple leather and covering all his body, it would keep the cold from him and should provide some protection as well from the tearing of the obstacles with which he would inevitably meet.

  The Falconer made fast the light, strong rope he had carried with him to a tall pinnacle of stone so perfect in shape and width that he might have imagined it had been formed specifically for this purpose had its surface been less rough. As it was, he was forced to tie his line carefully so that it would not rub and fray against a sharp ridge running nearly its full length.

  The free end he bound about his waist, fastening it with a knot that would resist pressure but would rip easily when he willed that it do so.

  There was a movement below, and he bent to help Una over the edge and onto the ledge.

  She rose to her feet with his assistance and drew the hood of her short cape over her hair although she was well soaked. He recalled absently how she disliked the feel of rain running down the back of her neck.

  He saw with some concern that she had Storm Challenger with her, huddled beneath the cape and grasping her left arm tightly lest the wind sweep him despite the protection she was affording him. Although most of the mercenary company had gathered to watch their commander's attempt, their falcons had remained within the tower, away from the frigid rain and the violence of the gale, which still had more than enough power in its higher gusts to fling one of the birds against the cliff or outward and down into the ocean.

  He realized in the same moment that the Daleswoman fully appreciated the danger and had his comrade well secured, and his worry eased. Una of Seakeep could be trusted to see that no harm befell the winged warrior.

  “You should not have come here,” he chided. “You’ would both have better shelter below.”

  “We wanted to wish you fortune's blessing,’’ she said simply.

  She also wanted to be with him as he went into what might well be his death, but that one could not say to a man such as this.

  Perhaps she might not be able to speak what lay in her heart, but Tarlach was glad of her presence. The Lady of Seakeep realized this and knew she had done rightly in coming to him.

  He closed her marvelously tiny hand in his and held it a moment while he studied the foaming madness below.

  It was so far, he thought, so desperately far to the quieter water beyond. His daring plan did not seem very feasible now, when he looked over his proposed route from this high vantage that was to be its beginning.

  Feasible or nay, he must start, or none of those poor devils out there would see the sun rise on the morrow. Rise? They would not be alive to watch it go down.

  He was frightened, aye, but his fear was neither unnatural
nor excessive, and he made no attempt to disown it within himself. No reasoning man could put his life in peril unmoved, and it was not any sword that he faced but all the might of an enraged ocean.

  Tarlach straightened. She was a worthy foe, and it was a worthy death he would meet if that was to be his fate.

  He looked swiftly upon the woman beside him, and a pang of loss tore him as even his fear could not.

  He released her hand, and, turning from her, he made his leap into the maelstrom below.

  For all its suddenness, the dive was excellently executed, and the man cut the water cleanly in the place where he had intended to put himself.

  He went deep before braking his descent and leveling off. The seas were rough and very strong even out here beyond the white line of the breakers, and he thought it best to remain as much as possible beneath them. He had another reason, too, for keeping well below the surface. Tarlach had guessed that the water beating against the cliffs with such awesome fury must retain some of its power in its return to the outer body of the ocean. By catching that undertow, availing himself of its strength, he should be able to counter in a great part the forces seeking to drive him back against the shore.

  So it proved, and he rode the submerged current as long as possible, leaving it to face the madness on the surface only when his lungs’ demand for air became too incessant.

  The Falconer took care not to penetrate the backwash too deeply, however. There were places where such hidden streams were so strong that a man becoming trapped within one could neither rise nor descend out of its grasp; he was unwilling to chance that it might be thus here.

  He was a good swimmer both on the surface and under water, but this was no light task he had taken upon himself, and his progress was slow and painfully won.

  Although the rain had lessened considerably, the storm clouds from which it fell allowed precious little light through to pierce the troubled waters, and visibility was poor, almost nonexistent. Only the sightings he was able to take when surfacing to breathe gave him any real warning of close obstacles, and it was the brief glimpses he managed to catch of his goal during those moments coupled with a highly developed sense of direction which kept him on course.

  The rope he carried weighed upon him and increased the drag of the water, and it was in constant danger of snarling. He had foreseen this peril and bore the slowly unwinding coil strapped to his chest rather than on his back to keep better control over its release, but there was little he could do to protect the ever-lengthening line trailing behind him. He tried to regulate the speed at which he loosed it, but beyond that he could only pray that it did not become entangled before it lifted out of the sea.

  His exertions were such that the chill of the water did not affect him very greatly, but he was tiring rapidly, and the injuries he had already taken made him wary in his swimming, slowing him still further.

  Whatever his care, Tarlach could not avoid all of the jagged rocks littering this section of water. His slow pace helped, for he was able to alter his course fairly readily in the few seconds given him after sighting each fist of stone, enabling him to avoid sustaining serious damage, but, despite that mobility and the considerable protection afforded him by his leather clothing, his near blindness while submerged and the strong and sometimes strange action of the sea caused him to hit hard several times, and soon his body, particularly his shoulders and arms, was heavily bruised and bloodied.

  The mercenary ignored his injuries. They were not significant individually or in total. It was exhaustion that he had to fear.

  The wreck was still a goodly distance away, and he was well-nigh spent. There was a very real danger that he would grow so weary with battling storm and water that his battered limbs would cease to obey his will.

  Time passed. The wreck was near now, perceptibly nearer than it had been when he had last surfaced. That fact gave him new courage, but the increased confidence it provided, or, perhaps, a weariness past full control—he himself would never know which—rendered him careless. His course altered unknown to him during his next dive, and he rose to find himself in the white water fringing the outmost face of a minute island.

  A gauntlet of wind lashed him, and with it came a wave as angry and crushing as was possible in a sea not yet a true breaker.

  Before Tarlach could move to avert his peril, he was lifted high and slammed against the stone wall with a force that drove the breath from him.

  He must have lost consciousness momentarily, for when he was next aware of himself, he was under water and choking on the bitter liquid he had begun to swallow and draw into his lungs.

  Struggling against the blackness still threatening to engulf his mind, the mercenary fought his way to the surface, in the end literally pulling himself up the face of the rock.

  Dazed as he was and despite the burning agony in his chest, he forced himself to move diagonally instead of directly upward so that, when he broke through at last, it was on the lee of the islet that he found himself. The shelter there was poor enough, but it was something, and the jagged stone gave him a place to which he could cling for a short while until he was again able to swim, or else until he could ready himself to die.

  He pressed tightly against the wet surface, not caring that the viciously sharp barnacles further ripped his already rent garment and cut into his tormented flesh, with each rise and fall of the sea around him.

  It was his left arm that held him in place. The right dangled uselessly by his side. He did not know whether it was shattered or merely numbed by the shock of the impact. As of yet, he felt no pain, although he could see that he was bleeding heavily from a deep tear in the shoulder.

  If that or the arm beneath it was broken, he thought, he was slain. He would not be able to reach the wreck as he now was, much less make the crossing back to the cliff. Even with the lesser injuries he could now perceive, he doubted he would be able to do so.

  That made no difference for the immediate moment. He was too dazed to do more than cling to his place and hope that his senses would soon right themselves.

  He shook his head violently in an effort to clear away some of the blood pouring from a scalp wound just above the temple, then closed his eyes. He had succeeded only in increasing its flow and had made himself desperately ill besides.

  Gradually, the sharpness returned to his mind, and the crippling sickness passed from him He gingerly tried the damaged arm and found that he could use it again.

  Tarlach impatiently wiped some of the blood from his face and away from his eyes. It was still coming, but only in a trickle now, and he did not think the injury would give him further trouble. Such cuts always bled freely, even the most superficial of them.

  The Falconer looked for and located the wreck. It was very near. He knew that he should not have to dive more than a couple or three more times before reaching it.

  The rope was his most immediate concern. It had saved him by catching on this rock in such a manner as to prevent his sinking while stunned or being carried back in the direction from which he had come, but if it were too badly entangled or if it were frayed, he might yet be lost and those he sought to save with him.

  Thought of them drove the last clouds from Tarlach's mind. He released his hold and, diving, began working his way back along the line.

  Fortune had been kind. The rope had embraced the rock in one clean loop, which he easily freed.

  That done, the man made for his goal. The brief pause—only a few minutes had actually passed since the accident—had served him well. It was not sufficient to restore him completely, of course, but the distance he still had to cross was short, and the rest he had taken was enough to carry him over it. He dove twice and on rising the second time found himself within an arm's length of the dead vessel.

  He reached the prow, tried to clamber upon it, but the wet, slippery wood and steep incline defeated him, and he could not have scaled it without the aid of those already clinging there.

  T
arlach had barely reached their side when a shout warned him to take hold. Almost in that moment, a huge swell rolled over the wreck. He felt the wrenching force of it and shuddered, realizing what the battered sailors around him had endured this day.

  Incredibly, no more of them had been taken since the eight had been swept, but, then, he had not actually been long in coming to them, and hope had renewed the strength and holding power of the survivors, two of whom, he saw with a numbed sense of shock, were females. They had seen him and knew no man would make such an effort unless he bore with him the means of their salvation.

  They had no time to cast away, however, and he described his plan even as he made fast the rope, shouting to make himself heard by all.

  The mariners were grim-faced when he finished speaking, for the road he proposed would have daunted men rested and full in strength, but these were Sulcar, bred to the demands of the sea. This was their only hope of safety, and so they steeled themselves to take it. When the mercenary refused their offer to let him go before them, the first woman grasped the suddenly fragile-looking line and began moving hand-over-hand along it.

  13

  Una watched Tarlach's progress in an agony of suspense, never taking her eyes from him when he was visible above the waves, following his progress when he was not by watching the strand of rope ever rising out of the water behind him.

  Because he was submerged when they occurred, she was spared the sight and the knowledge of most of the accidents which befell him, but the last she witnessed in all its terror.

  The Falconer himself was stunned by the impact and was unaware of much that was happening to him in that instant, but she who saw the manner in which he was cast against the stone fang thought that his body must be utterly shattered. When he slipped beneath the water, she believed to the depths of her heart that it was never to rise again.

  The woman could scarcely credit the evidence of her eyes when he clawed his way to the surface, but even her joy could not blind her to the fact that he was hurt, perhaps seriously hurt. He was holding to that rock in a way which told that he was incapable of doing more to help himself.