As Iron Falls

by Bryce O'Connor

  “Come on,” he told Syrah, turning and making for the aft steps that led first up to the quarter-deck and the captain’s quarters, then the top of the stern. As they hurried up the stairs, Argoan and Lysa appeared once again, standing along the banister at the very rear of the ship. The first mate had the spyglass now, and was peering into the distance as the boat swayed beneath them. Beside her, the captain was leaning against the railing with both hands, shoulders tense. As Raz and Syrah came up to stand behind them, Lysa brought the glass down from her face.

  “Looks to be a nasty one,” she was saying gravely, handing the instrument back to the captain. “And definitely chasing us south.”

  “Explains this fortune we’ve had with the wind,” Argoan responded, bringing the glass up to his own eye and squinting through it. “Should have guessed our luck wouldn’t hold.”

  “What’s wrong?” Syrah asked uneasily, looking between the man and woman.

  The Amreht grimaced in response, then handed the instrument to her. “See for yourself.”

  It took a moment for Syrah to figure out how the spyglass worked, lifting it to her good eye and shifting the collapsing tubes into focus. When she managed it, her mouth dropped open in tentative awe. For several seconds she swept the instrument slowly across the northern horizon, then pulled it away and made to hand it to Raz, but he refused it with a shake of his head.

  He didn’t need help to see what it was they were all observing.

  Far, far in the distance, little more than a growing dark line over the edge of the sea, smoky clouds billowed in a solid sheet across the sky. Even as he took them in through narrowed eyes the wind picked up around them, bringing with it the cool scent of rain from miles away. There was a flash—imperceptible to the others, likely—momentarily lightening up a patch of the writhing grey as a shivering line of light struck down at the water.

  A storm, he knew. And coming right for us.

  “Should we make for port again, sir?” Lysa asked, turning to Argoan. “We’re barely a day from Weary’s Rest.”

  The captain shook his head. “Weary would have us sailing into the storm.” He pointed northwest, back toward the port they had left the morning before. “We’d never make it. And I don’t want to be caught near the shore if we can’t find harbor. Anchor won’t hold in Southern sand. Too thin. We’ll be beached for sure.”

  Lysa took a shaking breath, but didn’t argue. “We’ll weather it, then?”

  Argoan looked none-too-pleased, but grunted in confirmation. “Aye, we’ll weather it. There’s no outrunning a beast like that.” He looked around at his first mate. “Tell the crew to raise and bind the sails. Don’t want any masts splintering. Double-check all cargo is secure, above and below deck, and have the men on standby in the rowing galley. Full seats.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Lysa snapped to attention once, then hurried down to the main ship again, shouting orders even as she took the steps two at a time. Behind them, Raz heard the boat come alive, sailors rushing about to secure the Sylgid, some thundering down into the hull, others shouting to one another as they clambered up the main lines to lift and secure the sails.

  “What can we do?” Syrah asked hurriedly, stepping forward. “How can we help?”

  Argoan turned to look at them. His expression was tired, the face of a captain who knew well the gauntlet they were about to brave.

  “We’ve three sets of gods aboard this ship right now,” he said darkly. “Maybe that’s fortunate. Maybe if we pray to them all, someone will get us through this in one piece.”

  It was evening before the storm caught up to them in truth.

  For the remainder of the day it had gathered around the Sylgid like a growing fury, first darkening the Sun as the leading clouds began to creep across the sky, then pattering the frigate with steadily building rain. Raz and Syrah did what they could to assist the crew, she rushing back and forth to help clear the main deck of anything that might be tossed around or overboard as the ship began to rock on growing waves, he clambering up among the masts and booms with spare line and canvas that would have taken any other man twice as long to lug. By the time the light failed them, night creeping across the clouds above like a black tide through grey glass, the Dramion churned and boiled around them, lifting and dropping the ship five, then ten, then twenty feet at a time. Argoan kept to the helm, roaring curses up at the storm in his guttural native tongue and laughing as the water began to cap and break to thud against the hull. Lysa was constantly on the move, still shouting her orders as she clung to ropes and railings and anything that was tied down. The planks of the deck were slick, the rain pounding down about their heads, and more than once someone slipped and slid several feet before finding something to catch hold of as the Sylgid listed and groaned beneath them.

  Midnight must have come and gone before there was nothing else they could do, and at the shouted order of the captain every spare hand—including Raz and Syrah—took shelter below on either end of the rowing galley. Syrah moved about the space, using her magic to warm and refresh as many as she could, careful not to fall into the rows of seated men heaving at their oars and trying to keep the ship moving forward through the gale. For an hour or two they stayed like that, huddled in the limited light of a couple of oil lanterns shifting back and forth from their hooks in the rafters. Few bothered trying to sleep, preferring instead to do their best to converse in an attempt to drown out the roar of the wind and the boom of thunder as lightning lit up the oar-holes. Salt sprayed into the chamber with every thump of waves against them. The world rocked, sending individuals who had the misfortune of choosing that moment to stand tumbling sideways.

  And then, in the earliest hours of the morning, Raz heard something truly terrifying over the wailing of the storm. A snap, followed by another, then another.

  Then, like a hundred whips, the cracking sound of wet, flailing cloth.

  He straightened up from where he and Syrah had been sitting together against the stern-side wall of the rowing galley, surprising her and making her lift her head from his shoulder.

  “What is it?” she asked, watching him apprehensively as Raz stared up at the deck above.

  He was about to answer that he wasn’t sure, that he only thought he had an idea, when there was the slam of a door being thrown open and a clamber of footsteps down the stairs to their right. Two seconds later a sailor appeared—a Southerner Raz was pretty sure was called Perro—so thoroughly soaked he looked like he’d been dunked in the sea. He stood at the base of the stairs, shaking in what might have been cold, except that his voice was filled with fear as he shouted.

  “THE SAIL!” he howled, pale as a ghost. “THE MAIN SAIL IS LOOSE! WE’RE GOING TO LOSE THE MAST!”

  All around them the sailors came alive with panicked energy. Some shouted and yelled, screaming after Perro as the man turned and hurried back up toward the top-deck, but all moved. In a rush, every spare body was hurrying for the stairs, not a few among them tripping and falling into the cursing oar-men as the ship swept some thirty degrees portside. Without more than a quick look at each other, Raz and Syrah pulled themselves up and joined the crew, scrambling up to the deck.

  The world that greeted them was a more awesome scene, more terrifying and enthralling, than Raz had ever witnessed.

  He was grateful, in that moment, that he could make out the sea swelling around them in mountainous waves better than the others. If they’d witnessed the true power of the elements they were battling against, he wondered if their sailors’ bravery would hold out. In every direction the water rose and fell fifty feet at a time, giving the impression that some colossal creature was writhing and roaring just beneath the surface, its great limbs pushing and dragging the black sea up and down as it flailed. Rain still hammered them in an endless torrent. The wind screamed, shrieking against them, chilly despite the heat of the summer morning they’d had less than twelve hours before.

  Then lightning flashed, thunder ripping over th
eir ears, and Raz made out the sight above with a thrill of horror.

  The center sail had come loose of its ties, falling down to hang from its primary boom. It was still attached—though tattered along the bottom where it had ripped loose of its tethers—but the storm was pressing it against the main mast, folding over the pole until it hung like two wings spread wide against the storm. Even as he watched there was a creaking shriek, and Raz knew the wood wouldn’t hold out to the abuse of the wind against the canvas. They might be able to do with two of their three sails, but if the main went it would likely crash down onto the foremast.

  Even if they survived the storm, they would be largely stranded.

  “Syrah!” Raz howled even as he bolted forward. “Lights! Lights!”

  He didn’t know if the woman had heard or understood him, but there was no time to wait and find out. With four steps and a massive lunge he lanced past the aft-mast, vaulted atop a covered cargo crate in the waist of the ship, then launched himself into the air with a massive leap, extending his wings. The wind did exactly what he’d hoped for, catching him and propelling him forward. He almost missed the jump, almost lost to the storm and would have been thrown out to sea, but he managed to tangle himself in the rigging, earning an ample opportunity to grab hold of several of the lines lashing about behind him. Steadying himself as the rain and wind continued to batter his body, Raz started to climb with quick, efficient heaves.

  He’d just reached the top of the primary boom, pulling himself up to hug the mast with one arm, when the ship below him was suddenly lit in a blaze of brilliant light.

  Raz blinked and looked down, allowing his eyes to adjust. Far beneath him, a number of glowing orbs about the size of a man’s head were scattered about, floating some ten feet above the deck. They bathed everything in a gold-white glow, blinding him to the ocean beyond them, for which he was grateful.

  Thank the Sun for that woman.

  Under him, Raz noticed the outline of a dozen men and women clambering toward him. Wiping rain from his eyes, he realized he’d reached the top of the mast before anyone else had gotten even a third of the way up.

  “WHAT DO I DO?” he bellowed against the roar of the ocean, cupping his free hand over his mouth.

  At his shout, the leading figure looked up, blinking at him in surprise. He recognized the woman’s scarred face.

  Lysa.

  “CUT THE SAIL FREE!” she hollered back, making a chopping motion with one hand as others overtook her.

  Raz looked around. There was so much line, looped and tied and knotted in a thousand intricate ways about his feet in either direction. He had no idea where to start.

  “HOW?” he screamed back even as a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky to the west, striking the heaving sea with a flash and crash of thunder.

  Lysa was just about to yell out an answer, looping one leg into the netting to cup both hands around her mouth, when there was another crack.

  Off to her left, one of the lower booms, caught in the soaked embrace of the flapping canvas, broke loose and spun away into the black water.

  “CUT IT ALL!” Lysa’s answer came, shrill with desperation. “CUT EVERYTHING!”

  Raz didn’t hesitate.

  With no knife on him and his gladius likely skittering around the floor of their cabin with the rest of their gear, he resorted to the only tools he had left. Alternating hands to clutch at any hold he could find and using the talons of his feet to great effect, Raz moved along the boom foot by foot, slashing at the ropes. He would have preferred a blade, but his claws made short work of the ties regardless, and within a minute the port side of the sails fell away. Instantly the mast beneath him bent, torqued by the sudden shift in pressure, and Raz nearly lost his footing, barely keeping himself from swinging down on a loose length of rope into open air. By the time he found his balance, several others had reached the main boom, and were working feverishly to hack at the starboard side.

  Moving as quickly as he could, Raz made his way over, swinging himself around the mast to join the effort. His claws slashed again, left and right, and the canvas came free not a moment too soon. There was a snap, and yet another section of the rigging came loose, crashing to the deck this time and sending sailors screaming and throwing themselves out of the way. The soaked sail tumbled down to hang from what was left of the lower boom, where others rushed to lug it free and drag it to the base of the mast where it lay, a wet mass of useless cloth.

  “Good work!”

  Raz looked around, blinking into the onslaught of rain. Lysa was grinning at him, though her face was pale and her eyes showed a lot more fear than she would have ever let her men see. He nodded, then pointed downward.

  “Shall we?” he hollered, and the first mate nodded. Together they dropped with the others, sliding hand over hand down loose rope until they reached the main starboard ratline. Lysa continued to descend from there, but Raz allowed himself to fall, landing on the deck on all fours among a rush of men and women moving about the ship, hauling people to their feet and helping them toward the stairs to the galley as the ship bucked. There were wounded, he saw, several individuals with shards of wood sticking from limbs and torsos from when the booms had failed, as well as one still form who looked like he might have fallen from the mast.

  “ARRO!”

  Raz turned, lifting both hands to shield his eyes from the rain and blinking in the light of the magic orbs. The first thing he saw was Syrah, standing with her hands outstretched before her in the center of the ship, water steaming off her body as the spellwork she was maintaining cast shimmering heat about her form. When he lifted his eyes, he made out the figure of Garht Argoan still manning the helm, outlined by his own sphere of light hovering behind his shoulder.

  The captain was looking right at him.

  “GET EVERYONE BELOW DECK!” Argoan yelled, struggling with the ship’s wheel as the Sylgid listed portside again. “TELL LYSA I WANT THE OAR-MEN ROWING AT DOUBLE-PACE!”

  Raz raised a hand to indicate that he had heard. He turned and bolted, making the starboard railing just as the first mate reached the deck, dropping to the ship floor.

  “Argoan wants everyone back in the rowing galley!” he yelled over the storm. “Told me to tell you the oars need to go at ‘double-pace’!”

  Lysa wiped her sheet of plastered wet hair out of her eyes. “Aye!” she yelled back. “I’ll tell them all fore-side! Can you take the aft?”

  Raz was about to answer, about to tell her that he understood, when another bolt of lightning lit up the blackness beyond the ship’s rail. It was only a moment, only a brief glimpse of the Dramion behind Lysa, but Raz felt his entire body stiffen. What he saw was not the raging swell of the ocean, nor the dips and hills that had been throwing them up and down for the last several hours.

  Instead, what Raz saw was nothing less than a solid wall of water, curved into a true wave, so high he didn’t even have time to find the top in the flash of the storm.

  Without thinking, Raz grabbed Lysa by the arm and hauled her back, ignoring her yell of pain and surprise. He had just enough time to turn, just enough time to make a mad dash for the middle of the ship, when he felt the deck lurch and start to lift beneath his feet. This time it didn’t stop, though, didn’t bob back down and even out. It continued to list, twisting until Raz felt like he was running downhill. He reached Syrah just in time, still pulling the first mate along behind him.

  The Priestess yelped in shock as he collided with her, slamming all three of them to the deck, sliding in a tumble of limbs and bodies over the wet wood until they collided, hard, with the portside railing. Raz had just enough time to loop an arm through the banister, encasing the two women in an iron embrace with his other as they both shouted in confusion, when the wave fell over the ship with a crunch of unfathomable weight.

  Never in his life had Raz ever felt such brute, terrifying power. The water struck and rushed over them with the force of a falling mountain, crushing the
ir forms into the railing. Nothing existed in those ten seconds other than the rush of the ocean over and between their bodies, simultaneously ripping at them and pushing them down against the ship. All the air was forced out of Raz, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to gasp in a lungful of seawater. It didn’t last long but, as the blast of the wave spilled over them to flow back into the ocean, Raz knew he had never been closer to death than in that moment.

  As he felt the ship right itself beneath them, swaying dangerously starboard, Raz finally opened his eyes. The Sylgid seemed to sparkle. Water dripped from everywhere, everything more thoroughly soaked than any amount of rain could ever achieve, glinting in the fading light of the orbs that seemed to be dying as Syrah’s concentration no longer provided for them. In his arms, the Priestess herself coughed and vomited up seawater, joined shortly after by Lysa. They hacked and heaved, Syrah looking up at Raz in mixed relief and terror. The first mate, though, looked upward.

  Her eyes went wide in panic.