"Did it work, Aeligon?” Pux asked urgently. “Did we break it?"
"What do you think?” The voice was not that of his master, but of Hrathis.
Aeligon and Pux laughed, and the wizard happily embraced the king. Hearing the commotion, Aerinas, Foran, and Timothy quickly moved the bookcase out of the way. Timothy started jumping around, wild with happiness and relief, when he saw the king, and forgot his own ailments. The king was alive and unspoiled! This was great cause for celebration. It was then they heard the screaming from below.
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Chapter 11—Demons of the Sea
Silently, Mortwar stepped from shadow to shadow amidst the falling drops of hard rain plaguing Drameda that night. The confrontation at the tavern was over, though far from closure. He watched the drunken Callaway closely as he stumbled through the thick blanket of fog along the edge of the seaport. Only the faint light from the lampposts could be seen through the thick mat of rain; the moon was barely able to cling to its illuminating power. The natural cover aided Mortwar's pursuit of his unwitting adversary. Questions tumbled over in the tracker's mind. How had this fool stolen the Elfstone from Lünathar? Who helped him do it? Did he really do it alone? Mortwar knew that he must find the answers soon, or all could be lost. Without the Elfstone, the balance of power would vanish, and the world of the Nether would be opened.
Callaway cursed and stumbled again into the mud of the street, rising to his feet hurriedly. He paused for a moment underneath the light of a street lamp. He peered into the night, gazing about the surroundings for any hint of a spy. Mortwar had ducked into the shadows immediately after Callaway rose to his feet under the lamp. He suspected the fool would look around to see if anyone had seen his clumsiness. The man pulled his coat collar around him tightly, and made off into the night once again. Mortwar slipped from the shadows of the alleyway and pressed on, hoping that Callaway was not just heading to another tavern to drink or make trouble.
Fortunately, Callaway was not in the mood to drink more. The fleeing man stumbled through the misty streets to the looming hulk of a large, dark ship. Docked in the bay, the ship was the largest one in port. Her curves and lines were sleek, the masts tall and thick; fifteen panel doors lined both sides, one for each of the thirty iron cannons. She was a warship, a doom vessel, a creature in and of herself, built for speed, for war and for destruction. The crew that manned her were disreputable scoundrels. Drameda was the only seaport where she was permitted sanctuary. A port like Drameda housed the worst of the sea demons.
Mortwar paused and gazed at the ship, which creaked and groaned with the motion of the moonlit waves. He saw a lone light emanating from the cabin window and heard laughter coming from within. Cautiously he approached, having lost his quarry momentarily from gazing at the vessel. Just then, Mortwar caught sight of Callaway as he walked up the gangplank and boarded the ship. Mortwar hid behind an array of crates and barrels that lined the dock, hoping to take a survey of the deck before climbing aboard himself. Surprisingly, he saw no sign of a sentry posted on the deck or outside the cabin door. Mortwar scanned the tip of the mast in search of a stray crew member repairing the sails or keeping watch from above. Again, nothing.
He emerged from his hiding place, and quickly darted across the planks of the dock and up the loading ramp to the ship. Finding shadows was Mortwar's strongest skill, learned from many years aboard ships and traveling to treacherous places. He watched closely as Callaway was let into the cabin. Peering eyes took stock of the deck before the door was shut, but remained oblivious to Mortwar's presence.
Mortwar crept to the window that shot a beam of light across the deck. He made certain not to interrupt the stream to keep from rendering his own shadow. Ever so carefully, curiously, he stuck the rim of his eyes over the sill and looked inside.
Shadows moved by him, and men paced across the floor. Rash motions were made by pointing fingers; shouting disrupted the quiet of the night air. Still the ship leisurely rocked, ignoring the arguing pirates inside her belly. It was soothing to Mortwar, who much preferred to be sailing the open seas with her than challenging her wretched crew. The thought of Callaway's accomplice frightened Mortwar, whose thoughts turned once again to the group through the dirty windowpane.
There were six of them that Mortwar could see from where he spied. Four were seated and two were standing, one of them Callaway. Mortwar guessed who was the captain of the ship. In the center of the room, he sat behind a thick wooden table littered with candles, mugs of ale, and plates of partially eaten food. The captain wore a napkin around his neck that was stained with food particles. Mortwar strained to listen, his eyes wide with anticipation as Callaway withdrew from his pocket the coveted Elfstone.
"Ah!” the captain exclaimed with glee, rising to his feet and throwing his napkin down on the table. “You've stolen it, eh? Good fer ya', Callaway. Now what do ya plan ta do with it, hmmm?"
"I reckon it's about time I give it to the person who hired me to get it, wouldn't ya think?” Callaway sneered. He quickly hid the stone in his pocket.
Far too powerful a stone to be tossing around with such impunity, scoundrel, thought Mortwar to himself; he clenched his fists together in anger that Sheevos was in the hands of an imbecile like Callaway. He quieted his thoughts once more to concentrate on the conversation.
"Do ya’ know of Sheevos, Callaway? Your buyer knows what he seeks out with that Elfstone, does he?” The captain rounded the table while another stood up and crossed his arms. “I tell ya', lad, what you carry there is nuttin’ I would brag about ‘round here. Ya’ could get yer throat cut. That rock there is a balance stone, meant to keep the world of the Nether in check, or so it is said. But, to unlock the power inside, one must be gifted with the right ... err ... umm ... magic?"
The other pirates chuckled and sneered under their breath.
"I don't care what it takes or what gifts my buyer has. I'm in it fer the money and nuttin’ else. And you should be in it fer the same.” Callaway then reached into his tattered coat.
Two of the pirates suddenly rose from their chairs and drew their knives. The other one standing backed into a corner where Mortwar could no longer see him.
"Easy lads,” Callaway said, as he slowly opened his coat. “Ya’ wouldn't want ta’ be slicin’ the hand that feeds ya’ now.” He continued his search, finally drew a leather sack from an inner pocket, and tossed it to the captain. The captain eyed it momentarily while he squeezed the pouch with his hands. He smiled as he tossed it to one of his mates and laughed.
"So, ya think ya can buy yer way outta here? What's givin’ ya the impression that we are such gold-hungry fools?"
"I've heard as much, Captain. And I've also heard that yer the most feared crew sailing the northern seas. I don't want no company, understand?"
"Where do ya want ta go?” The captain put his arms behind his back after waving his crew's knives down.
"I need ta’ go north along the coast until we round the corner of Caran, where I can then travel west all the way to Dunandor. That's where I was instructed ta go. It's much safer, and easier than travelin’ by land. Besides, there's bound to be news of this rock's disappearance, and I don't want no run-ins with bounty hunters! Now, if that'll be all that you'll be needin', shall we get underway in the mornin'?” Callaway was hoping he appealed to the wallet of this well-known, money-hungry pirate.
The captain creased his brows, then raised one, staring long at the scoundrel. How easy would it be to kill him and take the stone myself? Humor struck him at the thought of the precarious situation that Callaway was in. Six against one, I like the odds.
"And if yer thinkin’ of killin’ me and takin’ the stone, know this: my buyer can see everythin'. He told me to warn anyone who would try stealin’ this rock that death would be upon them swift."
The captain was dumbfounded at Callaway's sudden clairvoyance, and stammered to recover his thoughts. Then he laughed. The other pirates
joined him.
"Oh really,” laughed the captain some more, “and how does he plan on doing that when no one's here but you?"
One of the others raised his knife again, and advanced on Callaway. Callaway turned to the door to run away, showing his lack of faith in his statement. The pirate laid his hand on Callaway's jacket to spin him around; his body lurched like it was struck by a bolt of lightning. The captain and the others were thrown back by the force that dismembered the man. Callaway screamed, and fell to the floor in a pool of the other's blood. Mortwar was petrified, and silently thanked the gods for not allowing Callaway the chance to touch him. But there was something that puzzled him. Why was I allowed to slice his hand off? Maybe it was because I struck him in self-defense. That must be why I wasn't ripped to shreds. Mortwar became even more frightened than he already was, and was about to just leave without pursuing Callaway further. Someone else can get involved in this, he thought. But something inside him was calling him to stay, almost forcing him. He took one look at the ring he had taken from Callaway's hand. The ring of his family, the ring of his father, gave him new strength to continue on his mission and find out what was going on.
The captain rose after the horror of the moment passed. The others rose as well. Even Callaway worked up the nerve to stand up and look about the blood-sprayed room.
"It seems ta me that yer tellin’ the truth, Callaway. If yer offerin’ gold as yer prize for takin’ ya where this being wants ya ta go, then I'll take ya there without any further questions.” The captain, with stooped shoulders and a disheartened look about him, shuffled past Callaway toward the door.
Mortwar quickly dove over the edge, and plunged into the cold water below. It was not the best decision he had ever made, but safer than trying to scramble around on an unfamiliar ship to find a place to hide. As he pulled himself up onto another dock in the bay, he turned around to see a cabin boy carry a bucket of water and a mop into the cabin. Mortwar shuddered at the thought of having to clean up that mess.
"I will find out what you are up to, Callaway,” he said aloud to himself. All that night, Mortwar devised a plan to follow the black ship, which was nicknamed Demon of the Sea by the locals, Demoron officially. Mortwar had his own ship. Though smaller, lighter, and not able to fight or carry large loads, she was nevertheless resilient to the sea's relentless ability to swallow ships and crews whole. He and his small crew had put hours of time and labor into making her what she was, and the efforts paid off. The craft had only one mast compared with the three of the Demoron, but the small size would enable Mortwar to remain unseen by the crooked crew of the other, and outrun Demoron in a sprint if need be. Tomorrow they would shove off. They had to be ready.
* * * *
Mortwar and his crew of six worked all through the night preparing his own ship, Arünir, named after the light that dawned upon Lünathar. As Mortwar readied supplies and secured the sails of the ship, his mind worked in silent deliberation. His thoughts turned to his family again, who seemed so far away. What fate had brought for them could not be seen with any clarity, and that made him angry. The ring that he wore had only served to be a reminder of their possible demise. New questions surged in his brain, causing the veins on the side of his head to throb. The pressure mounted in his heart over not knowing what had possibly happened to them. The ring had traveled far and wide to meet up with him in that small tavern. How did he come into possession of my father's ring? he kept asking to himself over and over again, until it consumed him with rage. Several times he just dropped crates hard on the deck, sending shudders through its creaking boards, and made some of the crew jump. They said nothing to him, taking great care to steer clear of him as they sensed anger on his weathered face.
All morning he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Callaway walking the docks. Mortwar knew that Callaway would avoid him, but their encounter would not go unresolved if the fool got the chance to redeem himself. Callaway neither was smart enough to realize that Mortwar was preparing to follow him into the sea, nor would he have a clue that Mortwar eavesdropped on him and his comrades the night before. The bright sun tried in vain to warm the brisk sea air that coiled off the bay's waves. The crew hustled to fill the ship with supplies for the long voyage. None of them had slept, so Mortwar ordered them below to catch some sleep until Callaway and his hired thugs set sail.
Mortwar stayed above decks. Sleepless spells were the norm for him. Many trips around Vaalüna called for him to remain on watch, since he was sometimes the only man with fighting skills on his journeys. He had finally learned to take along others skilled in tracking and combat.
The life of an escort scout was lonely. Mortwar's was no different. Though his childhood was blessed with many fond memories of his immediate family, the many years of solitude had all but washed them away. His father, Milon, was a farmer near the borders of Caran and Salanthanon. There, he raised a family that consisted of a wife and eight children: five boys and three girls. Mortwar was the eldest. They led a simple life, and the bond between them was stronger than any magic could produce.
Mortwar grew and continued to learn the art, as his father would call it, of farming. Mortwar did not particularly enjoy it, but respected his father enough to do his chores without complaint. During those periods of prolonged labor, the young boy learned that he had a gift for tracking, and a wild imagination. He would spend hours tracking all sorts of woodland creatures that graced the forests and fields surrounding the farmhouse. Like a cat, Mortwar would be able to read their signs all around. They flooded into his senses from all angles as if he were reading them from the pages of a book. He pretended that he was on some sort of mission, or quest, to rid the world of the vermin infestation that plagued all farmers. He would not take to killing any of the creatures he followed, since Milon had taught them all a profound respect for the land and its inhabitants. Milon would watch him from afar, and chuckle to himself, at the son who was transforming into the man he knew he would one day become.
Mortwar reflected back on his childhood and his family, his rough face becoming limp with long-suffering emotion. The chill wind whipped his long hair, and caused his eyes to water. He wrapped himself tightly in the blanket. He continued to cast his thoughts to his family, whose whereabouts and fates no longer could be seen with any certainty. His jaw tightly clenched, tears welled in his eyes at the thought of what may have happened to them all. He pulled his hand close to his lips, resting his chin on his hand before kissing the ring in remembrance.
Once the emotion was dealt with the blanket followed suit; Mortwar rose to go sleep in the belly of his vessel, which casually rocked up and down with the flow of the calm waves of the bay. Every so often the ship would bang lightly against her dock, the ever-present reminder that she was unhappy to be penned up. She held her crew safely below decks in their bunks, seven strong including a captain who caught the easiest night's rest that he had had in the past few weeks.
* * * *
The next morning came quickly for the crew, who woke before the sun poured its liquid light to break the precious concealment of the wandering night. Cold winds poured into the bay, stirring waves larger than the day before. If the crew had not been seasoned enough, they surely would not have been prepared for the day's rocky start.
Mortwar emerged from below decks. He wore a floppy leather hat that covered his long hair, a brown leather coat thrown over the white shirt beneath, and leather pants that were complete with black boots sporting silvery buckles. Hidden beneath his coat was the weapon of modern descent. Mortwar liked it that way. The weapon gave him an edge that few would ever know, or would ever want to know. He would sit at night when he was certain that his crew were below decks and out of sight and run his hands over the polished steel plates, which held the bonds between the pieces of smooth wood that bore engravings of the world beyond the ocean. It was a world that few in his day ever saw, or would have the chance to see. He remembered how he had come into possession of the
weapon by way of a lucky hand at shankra, a game of chance that was played with paper pieces with strange symbols inked onto their surfaces. He had bet his entire savings on one hand, when he thought that all luck had run out, and emerged the winner. This piece was with the spoils, and was thought by Mortwar to be the greatest icon of luck in his life. He had never used it before, and never had the chance or the need. Still, he felt safe with it in his presence. If Callaway had the cunning to do me harm, he began to think, when his thought was interrupted.
"Sir, we're ready to cast off,” one member of his crew, Buck, informed him.
Mortwar simply nodded his head and Buck was off in a hurry, shouting orders and pulling on lengths of rope.
He took his place behind the large, wooden helm near the rear of the ship. The bridge was not elevated, a choice made by Mortwar himself when he built her, so as to not draw unneeded attention to the captain in the event of a battle, or in this case, stealthy pursuit.
The weather was brisk, but the sun bright and full; Arünir eased into the sea, stretching her legs as she went. Mortwar took a quick glance behind him in the direction of Demoron and could see her crew scurrying about at the behest of their captain. It was Mortwar's plan to leave before Callaway so as to draw as much attention away from any hint of a following, at all costs. Besides, he knew of a place where they could hide until Demoron passed them, where they could keep an eye on which direction she was headed, and plot a course accordingly. Mortwar's blood boiled beneath his skin at the thought of Callaway's theft of the Elfstone. Should I risk sending word to Gudred? Mortwar knew of the resolve of King Hrathis, and did not understand how there had been no apparent word sent to him of the happenings. It was obvious that Callaway had help. Mortwar did not yet know what danger awaited, or what had been done to cause all of this. Over and over in his head, he mulled over the events he had discovered so quickly and what end he would meet now that he shadowed evil men. He made a list in his mind.
Chronicles of the Planeswalkers Page 22