Keeping one foot braced against the cabin wall, Sturm leaned over to grab his friend. Although the deck was slick from the rain, it would be difficult to budge Caramon's bulk. It was then that Sturm noticed that Caramon's weapons were missing. Before he could contemplate this odd fact, he heard a scuffling sound. Sturm looked up, but it was too late. The young Solamnic felt a thump on the side of his head, followed by the sensation of falling down a deep, dark, bottomless hole, with the wind shrieking in his ears.
* * * * *
Tasslehoff had been absorbed in finishing his letter to Raistlin. When the ship's increasingly turbulent motion caused the oil lamp to slide off the writing desk and shatter, the cabin was plunged into darkness. Tas looked up expectantly, just in time to grab the magic message bottle before it rolled off the desk.
"Oh . . . the storm. I forgot," the kender muttered to himself. Quickly he rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into the bottle. He pinched off a piece of the cork and crumbled it inside, then watched as the letter took on a golden glow before it vanished. Following the instructions he recalled, he swiftly corked the bottle and held it up. It appeared to be empty.
Standing on his tiptoes, Tas pressed his face against the porthole. In the dim light, he could make out little except that this was certainly a fine storm. He rugged the porthole open, and with a mighty effort, hurled the bottle into the churning sea.
As he stepped back from the porthole, the cabin tilted at a crazy angle, and the chair Tas had been sitting on crashed into his shins. Flashes of lightning filled the porthole with brilliant white light, extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. Loud cracks of thunder followed. In between two thunderclaps, Tas heard something else up on deck.
Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his throbbing shins, Tas began hopping around the cabin, gathering up the rest of his pouches and shoving them into his rucksack. He had no intention of leaving any of his treasures behind. "No telling what might happen in a storm like this," Tas mused aloud. "Sounds like it’s even more exciting up on deck. Sturm and Caramon must be having a great time up there. I bet they can't wait for me to join them." He took a moment to strap his hoopak, the fighting weapon prized by kender, to his back.
Tas paused at the door to the cabin, casting a quick glance behind him. Another flash of lightning at the porthole momentarily blinded him.
"I wonder if it's okay to use the magic message bottle during a storm," he reflected. "Oh, well. Too late now." He turned and bounded through the narrow passageway leading to the cabin, then up the stairway to the deck.
Prepared for a warm greeting from his friends, Tas was disappointed when he didn't see anyone. There was no sign of Sturm or Caramon, or even Captain Murloch. With typical kender agility, Tas managed to keep his footing on the rolling deck as he looked around. The mainmast appeared to have broken and toppled into the sea. The sails left attached to the stub of the mast whipped around wildly. The Venora careened dizzily. Where were Sturm and Caramon, not to mention everybody else?
Sensing some movement behind him, Tas whirled around and came face to face with Captain Murloch . . . old Walrus Face, The captain grinned at the kender, his yellowed teeth sticking out over his lower jaw. Swell, thought Tas. Despite his ship's dire predicament, the captain was managing to keep in good humor.
"Hi, Captain Murloch," Tas shouted into the wind and rain that lashed his face. "Quite a squall we're having. I bet it's going to give the ship a bit of trouble. I'll stay by your side and help you out. I've been on many ships in such circumstances . . .well, not too many, actually. Seven or nine, not counting this one. But Sturm and Caramon can be a big help, too. Do you know where they are? Good thing our friend Flint isn't along, because . . ."
Tas took a few steps closer to Captain Murloch, to make sure he was being heard. Somehow nothing seemed to be registering on the captain's grinning face. Perplexed and distracted, Tas failed to see the captain's arm swing up or notice the club arcing toward his head until it was too late.
"Damnable kender! They'd talk your ears off in the middle of a hurricane," Captain Murloch muttered to himself. But the captain's club had put a stop to the kender's chatter. Tas lay unconscious at Murloch's feet. The captain seized him by his topknot and dragged him toward what was left of the main mast. Beneath the shredded sails lay the unconscious forms of Sturm and Caramon.
Captain Murloch dragged the limp bodies closer to the mast and began to rope them to it as he had been instructed. He worked as quickly as he could in the fury of the storm. Finally, when he was finished, he stood for a moment to survey his handiwork. Heavy, purple-black clouds blotted out the sky overhead. The Venora's timbers creaked loudly.
Captain Murloch had kept his part of the bargain. The generous payment he had received meant he would be well compensated for the loss of the Venora and the risk to his own life. Like many old sea hands, Murloch loved his ship and regretted losing it. He would almost rather have lost his life.
"Well old girl, we had a good run," the captain murmured, licking his lips.
Murloch bent down and pulled a thick ring of cork from a hatch near the mast. He slipped it over his head and secured it with a rope at his waist. Looking back at the three unconscious bodies, then down toward the dark, turbulent waters, he climbed over the rail and plummeted toward the sea below.
He had managed to thrash his way through the high waves and swim several hundred feet away from the ship by the time the angry cloud that hovered above the Venora lowered itself upon the ship, spitting fierce blasts of lightning and hail.
Then, with a fearful, rushing clamor, the cloud began to rise slowly, carrying the Venora with it. From his distant vantage, Murloch could barely make out the ship's bow and stern as the Venora spun around like a top and was sucked up into the vortex.
* * * * *
Half a day later, the treacherous Captain Murloch, drifting with the tide, spied the distant shore of Abanasinia. He was nearly home free.
Tired and hungry, he was nonetheless comforted by the prospect of being a rich man for the rest of his life.
His cork preserver fitted snugly around his middle, Captain Murloch reached out and stroked the water, paddling in the direction of the coastline.
An odd sound drew his attention skyward. The sun was so bright and hot that he had to shade his eyes. Specks appeared to be dancing in the air.
Suddenly Captain Murloch stopped paddling and stared in shock. What appeared to be specks was actually a cone-like swarm of flying insects. As he watched in terror, he realized that they were hovering above him, moving along with him. At that moment, the swarm dipped and came diving downward.
They were giant bees—hundreds, thousands of them, swirling, buzzing, stinging. Captain Murloch reached up futilely with one arm, trying to bat them away. His arm was quickly covered with the savage creatures.
The scream that issued from Captain Murloch's mouth was a cry of utter helplessness. The giant bees swarmed into his mouth, covered his face, went for his ears and his eyes. They formed a living carpet over Captain Murloch, twitching and bristling as they went about their deadly business.
Within seconds, his heart ceased beating, and the bees flew up and into the sun.
Below, the captain's face was a mask of red welts. His tongue hung out, black and swollen to five times its normal size. His arms hung limp and useless in the water.
Captain Jhani Murloch drifted toward shore.
* * * * *
Thousands of miles away, in a rugged and desolate place—a salt-encrusted land parched by the sun, scoured by the wind, and surrounded by an inhospitable sea—a hulking figure bent over to read the signs of the shiny objects he had carefully arranged on the high table of a mountain plateau.
It had taken half a day's climb from his camp on the dry, ravaged lowland to get here. Nevertheless, twice a week he made the trek in order to commune with the gods—one god in particular.
The looming figure tilted his head upward, observing the manner in which
the light of noonday was refracted in the colored glass, prisms and crystals, and silver shards of mirror.
Some distance away, grouped in a triad, stood his three most trusted and highly-attuned disciples, known simply as the High Three. Once the figure they watched had been one of the High Three. Now he was their unquestioned leader. It was inevitable that someday one of them would succeed him and carry on the sacred duties.
Beyond the High Three, ringed around them, behind turreted rocks and craggy formations, stood dozens of lesser acolytes, their features monstrous and contorted, their weapons brutal and deadly, glinting in the sun. Their animalistic faces betrayed no emotion; their huge, round eyes stared, dull and trancelike.
Beyond the acolytes were arrayed dozens of others, these mere guards and soldiers, but equally loyal and fearsome, waiting for but a signal from their leader.
Whatever was asked of them, they would do. They lived only to serve the Nightmaster.
The Nightmaster circled the shiny glass objects, stooping and peering at each of them, fascinated by the glimmers and swirls of light. Shading his massive brow, he gazed up at the sun and the hot white sky, assessing what he had observed and what he had learned.
Feathers and fur dangled from his great horned head. Bells jingled when he moved. In his huge hands, he carried a long, thin stick of incense, which trailed smoke and a sickeningly sweet scent. From object to object he stepped, pondering the signs.
Certain precautions had yet to be taken, certain preparations carried out. Renegades and interlopers had to be dealt with. Resources had to be marshaled. Nothing must interfere with the casting of the spell.
Sargonnas waited.
The Nightmaster looked deep into the patterns of light in the colored glass and knew that soon it would be time.
Chapter 2
Message In A Bottle
"Twenty to five," said Tanis glumly, scratching a new figure into a table in Flint's workshed. The grizzled dwarf, with evident cheerfulness, rolled a smooth, round black stone into the center of a circle marked in chalk on the floor of the shed. The circle held a clutch of smaller, multicolored pebbles. The instant the larger stone made contact, Flint skipped over with surprising nimbleness and snatched up as many of the pebbles as he could as they scattered outside the circle.
'Twenty-eight," Flint pronounced with satisfaction, once he had counted the stones he held in his hand. "But we don't have to keep track, my boy. After all, it's only a silly game." He tried hard to tamp down the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
'Twenty-eight to five," said Tanis, scratching out the old figure and marking in the new one.
Although it was the middle of a workday, Flint was semi-retired and opened his shop only when he cared to deal with bothersome customers. He kept his tools clean and well sharpened, but some of them hadn't been taken down from their pegs in weeks. No longer did the grizzled dwarf have the passion for metalsmithing that had driven him to become a master of the craft, so skilled and inventive that even the elven race prized his work. It was the metalsmithing trade, in fact, that had first brought Flint and Tanis together years earlier, when the half-elf was a mere boy in Qualinesti.
Today Flint had proposed a little game of roosterball to prod Tanis out of his sulking mood. It wasn't succeeding. All Tanis could think about was Kitiara, who had left Solace a few months back without telling the half-elf where she was going. Flint, on the other hand, was in a whistling mood lately, because that irrepressible kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had also been away, on a journey with Caramon and Sturm, for weeks now.
It was so peaceful when Tas wasn't around, Flint thought to himself at least once a day.
Tanis stood and walked over to the chalk circle, arranging the pebbles in the center. Then he paced back the required distance before turning to face the target. His tall, slender form seemed almost to contract with concentration as he swung the black stone forward and released it with a distinctive flick of the wrist. Despite his admirable technique, the stone rolled wide of its mark, glancing off the clutch of pebbles. Tanis hastened to the circle, but none of the pebbles managed to roll beyond the perimeter.
"Aw, too bad," said Flint, bringing his thick white eyebrows together in a semblance of a frown. Amusement danced in his eyes, however, and Tanis was not deceived.
"I cede the win to you," the half-elf said with irritation, his face wearing a sour expression. "There's no point in continuing with you so far ahead."
"Fine, fine," soothed Flint, walking over and picking up the stones, which he placed carefully in a wooden cup. Clearly pleased with himself over his margin of victory, the old dwarf nonetheless cast a sympathetic look at his young friend. "All this fretting over a woman!" he muttered, loud enough, he hoped, for Tanis to overhear. He took the cup and put it back in its place on one of the many neatly ordered shelves that lined his metalworking shop. "In more than one hundred years, I've never seen you carry on so. I've seen you fight and defeat ogres and brigands. I never thought you would be bested by a woman . . . ."
He stole a glance at Tanis, searching for a reaction. But the half-elf remained lost in thought, brooding, with his arms folded across his chest as he sat on one of Flint's high stools.
Flint turned back to the half-elf gruffly. "You owe me a copper all the same," he said pointedly.
That got Tanis's attention. "But we didn't finish the game," he protested.
"All the more reason," declared Flint huffily. "You said yourself that you ceded the win. Serves you right, grumping around about a woman so much you can't even finish a game of roosterball."
Peevishly Tanis reached into his pouch, felt around with his fingers, and came up with a shiny copper piece. Flint grabbed it greedily and inspected it closely, almost suspiciously, before stuffing the coin into his pocket. His little act was almost enough to bring a grin to Tanis's face.
A knock sounded at the door.
Opening it up, Flint saw one of Solace's many ragamuffins, a freckled ten-year-old named Moya, holding out a folded note while rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Message for Flint Fireforge," said Moya importantly, although of course he knew Flint Fireforge, as did most of the citizens of Solace.
Flint took the note, but before he could open and read it, Moya snatched the paper back and said, "That'll be one copper, puh-lease."
"One copper!" Flint fumed. "That’s highway robbery."
"Going rate," declared Moya flatly, stuffing the note into his back pocket beyond Flint's reach.
"One copper!" Flint railed. "I should read it first, and if I like what it says and who it’s from, then maybe I'd pay one copper! But why should I pay a copper for something I might not even want?"
Moya stood firm. Grumbling, Flint reached back into his pouch and gave the young messenger the copper that he had just won from Tanis.
Fuming, Flint slammed the door. He turned back toward Tanis and opened the note, which he already knew from the unique way that it was folded, in crisscrossing triangles, came from Caramon's twin brother.
Tanis read over his shoulder.
Flint,
I have reason to believe that Caramon, Sturm, and Tasslehoff are in great danger. Meet me at the place by Crystalmir Lake. Bring Tanis.
Raistlin
Tanis's brow furrowed with curiosity. He wasn't sure what to make of this missive from Raistlin. With Caramon and the twins' half-sister Kitiara away, Raistlin had withdrawn from the remaining companions, becoming even more aloof than usual. Tanis knew that he rarely had been separated from his twin brother for very long, and the half-elf supposed Caramon's absence put Raistlin in a solitary and perhaps agitated mood. The robust Caramon normally cast a protective shadow over his weaker brother, but when Flint and Tanis had chanced to meet Raistlin at Otik's tavern several days ago, the situation had been reversed. It was the young mage who seemed preoccupied with the welfare of Caramon, whose return to Solace was overdue.
"Caramon said he would be back within a for
tnight," Raistlin had insisted. "This isn't like him to stay away, without sending any word to me."
"It's just like Caramon," Tanis had argued, adding thoughtfully, "but it isn't like Sturm."
"I'll tell you who it's like—Tasslehoff. And Tasslehoff is in charge," stated Flint. He drained his ale, signaled Otik for another, and leaned toward the other two conspiratorially. "He just lets you think you're in charge, but wherever you decide to go, it's him that's leading you by the nose. No, it's probably all Tas's doing, and it's just like that doorknob of a kender to be gallivanting around Southern Ergoth without the slightest thought of his friends back home. I don't see the point of needless worrying. Tas always turns up, and Sturm and Caramon will turn up with him. Enjoy the temporary lull, I say."
That was about as long a speech as the customarily taciturn Flint ever made. The dwarf drank deeply of another tankard of ale, wiping the foam from his lips with his sleeve. Beaming and looking around the place, Flint didn't notice that Raistlin gave no response. The young mage had sat there, keeping them company but saying little. Indeed, as afternoon became evening and the hours wore on, Raistlin took scant appraisal of his friends. After shifting his chair, he stared beyond them, seemingly mesmerized by the pile of wood that Otik had coaxed into flames, the flickering fire reflected in Raistlin's intense hourglass eyes.
Now there was the cryptic message to meet Raistlin at Crystalmir Lake.
"What do you think?" Tanis asked Flint.
Dismay was the answer on the dwarf's craggy face. The message was unwelcome. He regretted even more the copper he had paid to receive it.
Southern Ergoth was only about a month's journey, round trip. Almost three months had passed since the day when Sturm, Caramon, and Tas had departed. "Aw," the dwarf said, waving his hand, "that Raistlin is such a worry-wart. If s probably nothing. But," he added with a sigh, "I suppose we'd better hurry on over to Crystalmir Lake."
[Meetings 06] - The Companions Page 2