He tugged at the bow painter to make sure it was still secured to the window. He let go of the extra line, and the boat retreated to trail obediently in the ship’s wake. He needed something to lower his pack into the boat. Searching the cabin, he offered a mental apology to Captain Lauter for the intrusion, but would the captain ever see his ship again? In a drawer he found a dressing gown with a long tie. He stripped the cord from the robe and tied it to one of the pack’s shoulder straps. Back at the window, he hauled the boat close again. Dax lowered his pack into the boat, and in a matter of moments, it was safely aboard. Relieved, he sighed silently.
Next were his boots—he would need those. He found them on floor and knotted the ties together. At the window, he pulled the longboat close again. More confident this time, he dropped the boots, and they landed safely. Now all he had to do was get himself down into the boat.
Dax pulled himself up onto the windowsill and looked down. He sat on the ledge and watched the small boat skip and dance on the ocean below. Where was his confidence? “Don’t be silly. Just do it,” he muttered half aloud, hoping that hearing encouragement would give him courage. He pictured a troop of acrobats he had once seen at the castle. They had used ropes like this one almost as easily as a stairway, going up and down at will. Dax had climbed ropes for Orin Herne in training. But this rope was thinner than a practice rope. And wetter. Water rushed below his feet.
Pulling the longboat as close as he could, he tied off the extra line to the window latch. Gripping the rope with both hands, he eased himself forward on the windowsill. Slowly he put more and more weight on his grip on the rope. Finally the last inch was there, and he slid off the windowsill. He dangled above the waves and boat for a moment. Water rushed by under his feet—closer now. He eased his grip with his right hand and slid it downward. As he moved his right hand, his left hand slipped on the rope. Dax frantically tried to grip the rope with both hands again, but his sudden effort wrenched him around. His motion jerked the rope, and it snapped the window latch from its mount. He plummeted toward the water until the slack payed out. The jolt pulled the rope out of his hands. He fell into the water.
The water was shockingly cold. He thrashed for the surface. The boat! The rope! His head broke out of the water. He flailed wildly. Suddenly, something struck his head hard. He saw a flash of light behind his eyes. Dax hardly felt the pain in the welcome flood of angry alertness that followed. He had found the boat! Flailing wildly, his hand banged into the side of the boat as it rushed past. Desperate, he reached up for the gunwale and gripped it fiercely. The longboat dragged him along through the water, but his dogged hold never slacked—it was his life. The pressure of the water on his body pinned his other hand between him and the boat, but he worked it free. Once he had a grip on the boat with both hands, he pulled himself on board.
Soaked and cold, he could not rest. He was not free as long as the longboat followed the Wings of Wind. He found his boots and pulled out his knife. He sawed at the towline. The knife was small, and now the rope seemed over-generously thick. He worked with desperate haste. He had a bigger knife, but it was buried in his pack. His boot knife was small, but it was exquisitely sharp. Herne had impressed upon him time and again how important it was to care for his weapons. Now it paid off. The small knife cut the fibers easily, though only a few at a time.
At last the rope parted. The motion of the longboat eased immediately, and within moments it floated motionless on the dark sea. Dax watched the dim lights of the Wings of Wind as she plowed on through the night without him. Soon the ship was out of sight, and even the froth of its wake disappeared. He had ignored the pain in his head while he concentrated on his escape, but now the boat floated quietly on the water. The throbbing inside his skull breached his defenses. He bent over and rested his head against the hard wood of the seat in front. It was some time before he could even think.
#
The night was long and cold. Thankfully the pain in his head gradually diminished, and eventually he could think about his situation. His clothes were soaked with water, and Dax shivered in the cold. Looking for dry clothes, he recovered his pack from the bottom of the boat. There was water in the bilges of the longboat, and the bottom half of his pack had been in the water. Everything inside was somewhere between damp and wet. He found a semidry undershirt and jerkin and put them on.
His wet britches were another matter. The spare pair in his pack was soaked. He took off the ones he had on. Would it be warmer without the cold, wet cloth clinging to his skin? It did not take long to decide the answer was emphatically no. He did the best he could to wring water out of the fabric, but then he had to wrestle to get the clinging, rumpled cloth back over his legs. It was almost as if he had tied knots in the legs. Once dressed, he took the wettest clothes out of his pack, wrung out what water he could, and spread them to dry on the rowing benches, careful to arrange them so none of the material trailed back into the bilge water.
Dax had sloshed a fair amount of water into the boat when he had scrambled over the side. Once he had gotten himself as dry as he could, he tried bailing water out with his hands. He got only a spoonful or two of water over the side with each attempt, but he had nothing better to do. The night air was cold. Bailing, along with tending to his clothes, wringing them out and turning them over, kept him busy enough he only thought about the cold every other minute.
#
His damp clothes were almost dry when Dax noticed a faint glow on the horizon. He carefully looked away for a time, then looked back. Yes, it was noticeably brighter. Dawn was coming. Before long, he could make out some detail in the longboat. Plenty of water was still in the boat, but now he saw a small pottery bowl tucked under the bench at the stern. The bowl was a much better tool than his hands, and he soon had the water level in the boat well down from where it had been. Clouds near the horizon above the sun turned pink, then an orange yellow. The dark-gray clouds overhead had developed a pink fringe when he noticed the first beam of light, a red sliver of sun peeking above the horizon.
As comforting as it was to be able to see and have the promise of warmth, the sun’s light also revealed to Dax how alone he was on the ocean. There was nothing but water in all directions. Where was he? Zodas had said he was sailing north to Blackguard Harbor, but where was that? Dax had studied the geography of West Landly, but he had never heard of Blackguard Harbor. It was probably a name used by pirates and outlaws, but where had Zodas been headed? Had he taken them outside Deadman’s Finger, or had he sailed into Great Haven Bay on the inside?
Dax studied the western horizon opposite to the rising sun. The horizon looked dark. Was it land or just a lingering shadow of night? Dax busied himself with another turning of his drying clothing. A few minutes later he looked up. Yes, it was definitely darker to the west. He was in Great Haven Bay inside Deadman’s Finger. Being inside Deadman’s Finger made sense because most trade routes were outside; it would be harder to hide there. The western coast of Great Haven Bay along Deadman’s Finger had large stretches of empty land. That part of the Finger had a bad reputation for smugglers, scavengers, pirates, and other criminals. Zodas could operate freely there.
Now that Dax could see land, he had a destination. He unshipped a pair of oars and hefted the heavy blades into the oarlocks. They were like small trees. Rowing had looked simple enough when the sailors did it, but the size and weight of the oars was more than he had imagined. Carefully he tried a stroke. Difficult, but doable. He pushed and pulled with the oars until the longboat was headed north of west. Captain Lauter had commented about the fierce, wind-driven currents that ran south down the inside of the long, narrow cape from north to south.
Dax desperately wanted to get to land. To make sure, he gave a generous allowance for the current. He had to get to land. The small package of dried meat, the only emergency provisions in his pack, was his only food. Worse, he had no water. In his frantic haste to get off the Wings of Wind, he had only taken his pack. He
had to get to shore, find water, then locate a source of food. He flexed his shoulders. Time to use the oars.
The oars were big, heavy, and awkward. Dax had never rowed a boat, and with no one to teach him, the only way to learn was by trial and error—lots and lots of clumsy errors. The blades of the oars had to be perpendicular to the water to have any effect, and the angles of the blades had to match pretty closely. Several times an oar with too shallow an angle twisted in his grip, suddenly releasing the pressure of the water and dumping him backward off the rowing bench. The fourth time this happened, his left hand lost its hold on the oar, and the oar tipped over the side, caught the water, and slipped out of the oarlock.
Dax watched helplessly as the boat floated away from the oar. At least the boat had been moving in the direction he wanted to go. He sighed. There had been only four oars in the boat. He could not afford to lose one this early. It took forever for him to unship another oar, row to the lost oar, and bring it back on board.
He started rowing for shore again. The more he rowed, the more his arms ached with effort. He took a break and looked back toward where he was headed. Nothing had changed. The horizon was a bit darker to the south of the direction he had been heading. Maybe the land there was closer? Current or no, he had to get to shore. The sooner the better.
#
By midday, the palms of his hands were raw. Water had softened them, and rowing had rubbed them. He had wrapped his hands in strips of cloth ripped from his spare shirt, but it had not helped enough. He had torn layers of skin off his palms. The sensitive dark-pink flesh underneath burned from the salt water and the friction of rowing.
He tried to pace himself by taking frequent breaks. This was no race back to the harbor like he had seen the other day. No, this was a long, slow, laborious slog. During his rest breaks, he pulled the oars back into the boat and laid them side to side across in front of him. He rested his arms on them. Then he rested his head on his arms. The sun was hot, and it stung his face where the fallenfairy powder had burned him.
#
He looked up, his eyes crusty with sleep. It was no longer midday. The sun had dropped far down in the western sky. He sat up and winced. A zing of sensation on the exposed skin of his neck and arms signaled a sunburn that would be painful when it fully developed. He had not meant to sleep. That was the worst thing he could have done. He looked around and saw he was closer to land than he had been. He could even see a glimpse of hills in the distance as the waves lifted the longboat to the top of a crest. He frowned. The land was not where it was supposed to be. The current was dragging him south as well as west.
Desperate, he took to the oars again with a determined stroke. His hands hurt, but he dared not be swept out to sea. Soon, he had to stop. He had drunk no water since last night, and his mouth was cotton dry. The current carried him along noticeably now. His view changed as the flow moved him briskly along . . . past but not toward the land. Thirsty and exhausted, he could not fight against its flow.
Helplessly he watched the hills recede toward the northern horizon, with nothing but sea visible to the west. Was this the end of Deadman’s Finger, or was it the southern tip of one of the large islands farther south along the archipelago? From his viewpoint in the boat, he could not tell. At least the current was heading south. Rather than pushing him west and out to sea, a southerly current might carry him past another island where he could find refuge. But the sun was going down.
With no land in sight, Dax decided to save his energy. If the current took him near some piece of land, he might have enough strength left to get to shore if he rested now. After a day in the sun, his extra clothes were dry, and he returned them to his pack. He stashed the pack under the longboat’s raised bow, which provided a little shelter. For a long time he stared at his pack, wanting to undo the ties and reach inside and touch his dragon’s egg. Finally he decided it was safer to keep everything securely tied just as it was. He tucked the pack away, leaned against it, and tried to relax.
He thought about his actions since Zodas had confronted him in the cabin. The list of things he should have done differently was long. He could have taken time to find provisions—at least a waterskin or something. Yet the delay might have allowed the other pirates to discover him. However, he needed water, and he needed it now. It might have been worth the chance.
His throat was parched, his lips were cracked, and the raw skin on his palms burned where the salt water touched them. He was helpless and hopeless. What would his father have done? What would General Herne do? They probably never would have gotten into this mess in the first place. He was finally able to summon a bit of determination. It was a grim determination without an edge of anger. The stars started to show as the sky darkened. As long as he was alive, he would fight on. If he gave up, Mathilde would win.
#
At some point during the night, despite his pain and active mind, Dax fell asleep. He awoke in the dim light before dawn to a repeated pounding roar of sound. He struggled up to look over the side of the longboat. Surf broke just ahead, and a shoreline loomed beyond. Dax made a desperate grab for the oars to control the boat, but it was too late. The boat grounded hard and lurched to a stop. A moment later, it lifted up as the next wave flung it shoreward. The longboat crashed heavily on the bottom, and the wave broke over the stern. Dax gasped from a face full of water and grabbed for the side of the boat. Another wave thundered onto and into the boat, swinging it broadside to the surf. The next wave clearly would roll the boat over. He had to get out. When the swirl of water passed, Dax grabbed his pack and splashed out of the boat.
He came to his feet in water up to his waist, but the next wave immediately knocked him down. It rolled him over, and he lost his grip on his pack. He struggled to find his footing. The wave receded, and he had a chance for a breath of air. He managed another step toward land, but the next wave pushed him off his feet. Time after time, the waves knocked him down. He dug his fingers and toes into the sand as the backwash tried to roll him out to sea. Wave after wave, Dax fought to get closer to shore and safety. Finally a wave came that did not tumble him over. He kept his feet and staggered toward shore. Moments later he lay gasping on dry sand.
Once he had recovered his wits, he looked around. Surf pounded on the beach. Sand stretched away on either side. A shadowy forest rose from the edge of the sand. A headland jutted out to the right—the north? He looked for the glow of the rising sun. Yes, north. He must be on an island in the archipelago off the end of Deadman’s Finger. He looked out into the water. The longboat lay upside down, not moving as each wave crashed over the top. As heavy as the boat was, there was no way Dax would be able to get it upright again.
Beyond the beach, the island’s outline was barely visible against a still-dark sky. A black shape rested on the beach nearby. It was his pack lying at the edge of the waves. He stumbled to his feet and retrieved it. It was intact. Inside, the contents were soaked through again, but nothing was missing; he had his egg. He almost sobbed with relief as he caressed it and savored its warm reassurance.
Dax slung the pack over his shoulder and ignored the dribble of cold sea water that ran down his already-wet back. There was no sign of his boots. He headed south down the beach in the direction opposite to the headland. He had had enough trouble walking the beach below Adok, and he wanted no part of any challenge getting around that obstacle. Besides, the high, dark interior of the island looked lower to the south.
He had nothing on his feet, but on the soft sand, it did not matter. A little way down the beach he found one of his boots washing in and out with the waves. He had tied them together. How had they come undone? What good was one boot? He looked at it a moment, then picked it up. It was still a boot. Maybe he would find its mate, or maybe there would be some other use for it.
What he really needed was water. Farther down the beach, he came across a little rivulet of water flowing across a layer of rounded pebbles onto the beach. Thirst that had ached at
the back of his throat flamed into an unbearable craving for water. Desperately he followed the path of water up the beach to a small pool at the fringe of the forest. He lay down on his stomach and scooped a small taste of water from the pool into his mouth. The water was sweet, and he could no longer restrain himself. He drank deeply.
Once his immediate thirst was satisfied, he turned to his hands. His skin had blistered, broken, and blistered again from the oars. Many of the broken blisters were bloody, and his raw skin throbbed with salted pain. He eased his hands into the freshwater. His wounds stung. His eyes burned from the pain, but no tears came. He kept his hands in the water, swishing them back and forth to wash off the salt. The cool water gradually eased his agony. Once his hands felt better, he washed the areas on his body where sand had abraded his skin when he had tumbled in the surf.
With a sigh he sat back, exhausted. Low above the horizon, the sun’s morning light glinted and sparkled bright on the water. His eyes hurt. Whatever sleep he had gotten during the night had not refreshed him. The forest flowed down to the beach from the steep bluffs of the interior of the island. There was water here and cover under the trees, but there was no protection from the elements. He thought about trying to fashion some bit of shelter, but it was still morning. Now that he had slaked his thirst, he decided to eat before he pushed on down the beach. The dried meat in his pack had been soaked in sea water, and it did not look appetizing. Maybe he could find something edible down the beach.
King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1 Page 24