by C A Oliver
So, do not pronounce any ill words against our guests, Siw! They are our friends.
Be patient, as one day they will honour us. Roquen Dol Lewin’s word is not to be taken lightly,” concluded Feïwal.
Gradually, the sea turned blue as the sun climbed the sky. The white sails of the ship billowed in the light wind. After the hail and storms of the Sea of Cyclones, their enemy was now the calms of these warm tropical seas that paralyzed the ship. The sailors had a name for these waters; the ‘shade islands’, large stains below the surface, darker than the surrounding waves, spreading several miles across. Marine spirits haunted these still waters and absorbed all air currents, ensnaring vessels in the calms. Only the toil of rowers could free ships from such traps. Everyone's attention was now fixed on this danger, and whenever the sails began to wave, a profound shudder rippled through the crew. The long journey had exhausted the sailors. All onboard were acutely aware of the diminishing food and water supplies. Speed was now the major preoccupation.
*
When noon had passed, the breeze picked up significantly, driving the last thin clouds from the sky. The ocean flow, like the unseen hand of the God of the Seas, drew the ship southwards at a high speed. Feïwal set about taking several measurements, with an hourglass and a long rope that strung together runes at regular intervals. He was amazed at the sheer power of this driving force, which neither sail nor oar could fight. The Alwïryan and the elements were not so much opponents as partners in a dance. Feiwal again calculated their position by examining the horizon through an azure gemstone, which he claimed could make the stars visible even in radiant sunlight.
For most of the time during the day, Feïwal stood on the aftcastle, next to Nelwiri who was at the helm. He had set up a table and secured to its surface a large map which he annotated with comments and precious details as they journeyed onwards.
When the evening came, a dark cloud rose from the southeast. Feïwal frowned. Crossing the Sea of Cyclones had damaged the ship, and he did not feel equipped to deal with another new storm, or the hits and knocks that would accompany it. He gave a few brief orders. Mounting the rigging, some sailors carefully checked the long ropes that ran along the yards which allowed for movement. Additional efforts were required. They lowered the thin and flexible sails designed for fair weather, and hoisted instead a thicker, more resistant material that was etched with silver runes. Ropes were stretched across the deck for support and safety. Hatches were covered, and a large piece of cloth was secured around the helm to protect the pilot from the waves.
All night long, the wind struck in short, capricious jerks. Several times, the great ship listed to the point where the water began to brush the leeward rail. Nelwiri took the first watch. All was quiet on board, except for the hissing water at the ship’s stem. The sail-bearing masts cast their lunar shadows across the deck. A silvery glow emanated from the wind runes, illuminating the face of the pilot and adorning him with a flickering mask. Taking his position by the few stars still visible, Nelwiri confirmed their course with his precious instrument, whose curved rune tended towards an elusive point, the object of all their hopes: the infinite South.
He heard febrile incantations a few steps behind him. Turning around, he saw, on the edge of the aftcastle, Feïwal’s silhouette which looked like a fleeting shadow against a threatening sky. Solitary, taking refuge in his invocations, he seemed more alone than ever, preferring to suffer in silence out of his companions’ sight, knowing that their friendship and support could not alleviate the doubts that haunted him.
*
The next day, when morning came, the sea breeze was still rising, and the crew lowered the yard of the mainmast to half-height. Nelwiri was managing to escape the tight lows of the swell and to ride on the shifting domes of the high waves. The southeast wind was now hot and cutting, the main sail so rounded that it unbalanced the ship. Water whistled along the hull. The large, heavy vessel jumped from wave to wave, thrusting its bow into the watery blue blades, throwing up flakes of foam. The rain now flowed like silver hair.
Feïwal was afraid, as he always was before major storms. The fear chilled his back and gripped his heart. He was filled with doubt. He was too experienced, though, not to recognize that it was Gweïwal Uleydon alone who held their lives in his hands. But the most difficult task was to conceal his apprehension from those around him. What they needed to see in their captain was that wintry blankness, even as his blood boiled in his veins and his heart pounded with suffering. That sacrifice, that aching loneliness, was what he owed to his crew. If they ever were to doubt him, the battle that was about to take place would be doomed to failure. He stood alone at the stern, motionless, frozen like the statue of an ancient guide of the clan. From his elevated position, he surveyed the entire ship, offering his silhouette to the eyes of all his sailors. The wind lifted his light robes and his long hair of dark sapphire. His gaze was fixed on the horizon. He appeared absent.
A murmur was heard among the High Elves who were at work on deck. All were astonished that no order had been given, and they began to wonder about the dangerous passivity of the captain.
The Irawenti sailors around them were long-accustomed to their master’s ways. They curtly reminded them simply to follow orders if they wanted to survive what was coming. The tension was palpable.
Suddenly, Feïwal’s voice could be heard, clear and thunderous from the stern. Usually so calm and melodious, it suddenly seemed authoritarian and implacable. Orders came rapidly and without pause. The sailors ran in every direction, each fully aware of what task they had to perform. The ship changed its course, making a quick and masterful jibe. Skilfully working with the currents and gusts of wind, it adjusted to a more favourable position that allowed it to reach its maximum speed. It bowed graciously, amplifying the circle of foam that its hull was pushing forward, like a racehorse suddenly feeling the spur of its master. Instead of trying to flee the danger, Feïwal chose to challenge it.
“Hoist the mainsail, stay the course!” shouted Nelwiri, standing beside his brother. His voice, affected by anxiety, froze the crew.
Nervousness spread to all those aboard as if by contagion.
“There’s a problem attaching the main sail’s yard!” shouted Gyenwë, the boatswain.
Sailors hurried to his side to help solve the issue. Feïwal left the aftcastle to join the deck. He did not seem affected by the eyes that stared anxiously at him. Arwela came and stood by him.
“All is dark and stormy. Gweïwal Uleydon wildly works up chaos,” she murmured. Anxiety marked her face that was usually so smooth. Her intense azure eyes were fixed upon the waves.
“The Lost Islands are somewhere in front of us. It cannot be otherwise. I can feel it. The breath of the wind, growing stronger by the hour, is speaking to me,” replied Feïwal, excitedly.
“The mast moves and the hull groans with each new fall. Will the sails hold? Will our pentacles resist the forces attempting to crush us?” Arwela exclaimed.
But the sea’s mysteries could not allow Feïwal to reassure her. Suddenly, a roll came from behind, lifting the ship up high before rushing it downwards. The vessel then struck a wave with the same violence as a crash into a hard embankment. The hull shook, vibrated and crashed again. A wave swept across the deck, throwing a sailor overboard; several others avoided the same fate just in time by grasping hold of the rope running along the rail. A cry of panic, a call in the wind, rang out from the back of the ship.
“Sailor... Sailor overboard!”
No reaction followed, no order was given. The victim’s companions looked on with horror at the empty space where the missing rope should have been hooked. All eyes turned to Feïwal, who remained motionless, his clothes soaked and his hands frozen blue, not making a single gesture. All understood that nothing could be done, nor would be done, to save him. Amid huge, twenty-foot waves, with a deck flooded by rushing salt water, and sails beginning to tear under the force of the wind, Feïwal w
ould not risk the lives of other sailors to save the lone Elf about to be engulfed.
A huge dark shadow, mottled with pale specks, stretched out across the marine horizon. Long, thin clouds, like torn-up strips of paper, preceded it, foretelling heavy showers. Already the vessel struggled. It plunged into the collapsing sea, its long yard occasionally making contact with the water. Then, it was lifted so high that the oars and ropes were detached from their anchor. The rain began again.
The Alwïryan continued its wild journey. Such was the law of the ocean. Such was the ruthless trial of Gweïwal Uleydon.
*
For several hours, they sailed in a thick dark veil, with a strong breeze throughout, under a warm rain that soaked their clothes and dripped from their faces. For some time, they stopped manoeuvring, frozen as if petrified by the ordeal which awaited them. Feïwal was leaning on the railing, his thoughts lost in the vastness of the ocean when a distinct clatter caught his attention. It was a threatening sound, rising above the murmur of the sea, the groaning of the hull and the creaking of the sails.
“Siw! Did you hear that? Is there something hidden in the rain?” asked Arwela, standing beside Feïwal.
Both concentrated for a while. The mysterious sound echoed again, this time very clearly and from the same direction as before: directly in front of them. It resounded again and again until it became overwhelming. The whole crew had now gathered on the ship’s deck. The horrible noise in the dark intensified. A wall of rain surrounded them completely. They could not bear the melancholy howl which invaded their ears. Feïwal shook his head and uttered sacred incantations. He grasped at the small piece of rope tied around his neck, marked with runes, from which hung a silver pendant. He kissed and kissed it again, continuing to do so obsessively, until the horrible sound finally exploded to an end.
“I never heard such a thing... We have entered... something,” Feïwal managed to say after the shock had waned.
Panic had spread across the great ship’s deck; those fierce Elves who feared neither deadly enemy nor ravaging storm began to shake with terror as their imaginations were driven into the shadows. They looked around them, with pallid faces and haggard eyes, as though a terrifying event was beginning.
A violent gust of wind suddenly cleared the clouds and the rain appeared to stop. For a moment, the vast ocean revealed itself. Towards the south, they could decipher the towering foam of enormous waves, which appeared higher than vessels. These waves formed a formidable fleet driving forward at great speed. A bright halo in the air preceded them. This mighty vision lasted but a few moments before the terrifying view vanished. The crew had been shaken to their core. There was a moment of silence. It soon ended with cries, desperate prayers and panicked shouts.
Feïwal’s orders could no longer be heard by the crew. Commands were also being given by the other dyn of the Filweni to restore discipline, but none would obey. Finally, Luwir’s horn sounded several times; the sailors began to regain their composure and focus on the instructions given by their captain. Feïwal’s voice could be heard once again, loud and clear, as though the guide of the Filweni had been delivered from all anxiety now that the end was imminent. Sailors rushed across the deck to obey his commands. Anchors were brought back and tied around the main mast with thick, heavy ropes, four fathoms long. The task was dangerous and required twenty sailors to execute it. Another dozen Elves, agile as squirrels, clambered onto the rigging, using ropes, halyards and shrouds to maintain their balance whilst adjusting the ship’s yaw. Nelwiri was roaring orders from the deck. His howling was scattered by the wind. The sails soon came down. It then did not take long to remove the foremast; the sailors worked in decisive and instinctive gestures.
“We need to maintain our speed! Luwir! Gather the rowers and make haste! We need power to steer the Alwïryan! Urgently!” ordered Feïwal.
In the meantime, Nelwiri was screaming instructions to the crew masters.
“Myem! Lenpi! Osso! Nety! Clear these fools from the deck and take your positions.”
He urged all others to find some shelter.
“Cil Cim Cir! Get out of here, all of you! This is no place for you! Get out!” Nelwiri roared.
The crew hastened into the holds of the vessel until the deck was finally cleared. Luwir was the last to reach the deck hatch. He closed it behind him. His deep voice reverberated as he yelled orders at the crew to organize the rowers’ benches. Soon, the beating of the drums resounded, coordinating their efforts.
Meanwhile, Roquen hoisted the colours of House Dol Lewin to the top of the main mast. No one offered so much as a word or gesture to dissuade him from putting himself in such a dangerous position. His expression was as hard as ivory. This cold, reckless resolve made Roquen completely unreachable. His piercing eyes had the coldness of steel blades. The white war unicorn against a field of purple, now fully unfurled, proudly faced the air like a sublime challenge to the elements. The Alwïryan, sails and rods down, was naked but for this proud standard. It was ready for battle.
Nelwiri went back to the aftcastle and clung firmly to the helm. He was working with a heavily reduced sail to control the Alwïryan in the wind. The shell, bilge and keel creaked ominously. The Alwïryan was now bouncing between mountains of water. Waterspouts corkscrewed down from a cascading sky ripped apart by lightning. It was pitching and rolling like a frail piece of bark adrift. Nelwiri kept adjusting the ship’s course in a continuous effort to escape doom. But the exercise was becoming increasingly difficult; the pilot of the ship was blinded by the growing darkness, surging rain and flashes of lightning. He struggled desperately against the raging ocean. Feïwal was quick to join him. He applied five and then ten degrees of starboard helm to stay on their chosen course. The helm shook violently. Every time a wave came rushing against the ship and buried it under a mass of foam, he trembled with pain, his own flesh suffering from the blows that were hitting the Alwïryan. The two brothers kept only four of their best sailors on deck to help handle the ship. Suddenly, a monstrous swirling water column rose up on the horizon. It advanced at the speed of a galloping horse towards the vessel.
“Siw! It is heading towards us! We are lost,” shouted Nelwiri, terrified.
Desperately, he made a full about-turn to port, trying to avoid the huge whirlwind that was now digging a chasm into the ocean surface. Screaming in anger at his helplessness, he failed to avoid the impact. A frightful mountain of water broke onto the Alwïryan, sweeping across the deck, spraying rope attachments in all directions and ripping everything else up into the air. The mainmast could not hold. Already almost broken at its base, this latest onslaught completely broke the wood, and the mast fell to port with a horrendous crash, very nearly crushing Roquen. The standard of the Dol Lewin, that white war unicorn against the field of purple, disappeared into the sea. The helpless Roquen was catapulted against the gunwale. The Alwïryan careered about dangerously due to the broken rigging, still attached by ropes, pulling downwards at the side of the ship and acting like an anchor in the swirling sea. It was taking on huge amounts of water. Roquen escaped drowning and managed to stay aboard thanks to the side ropes. Galvanized by terror, with an intense determination, he summoned all his strength to reach the shelter of the deck by pulling himself along the fallen mast.
The whirlwind disappeared a few hundred feet astern of the vessel, whirling up into the mass of cloud above. Spiralling deeper and deeper in ever narrowing circles, the Alwïryan heeled more perilously than ever. An imposing silence followed, as though a mysterious force had muzzled the storm, paralyzing its monstrous pack of waves before the next assault. This unexpected lull surprised Feïwal; it was as if the wrath of the elements had suddenly been diverted by an occult power, now that all was lost. He seized the opportunity and breathed more freely, surveying the scene for a few moments. Nelwiri, just at his side, was still strapped to the helm, unconscious, apparently stunned by the shock. Feïwal made sure he was still alive by quickly checking his pulse. Bel
ow, the deck of the ship was in chaos. His best sailors, his friends, were all lost. They had been blown away by the storm and swallowed by the Austral Ocean. Their cords were still hooked to the railing, but irremediably cut further down. No immediate help could be expected from those who had taken refuge in the hold. The hatch was blocked by an array of debris.
Only Roquen remained to be of any assistance. He was standing on the deck, wounded. Like some mythical image, the tall Elf knelt, motionless. His sword, struck into the wood, maintained his balance though he looked vulnerable to the ravages of the ocean and the ship’s dangerous pitching. Powerlessly tied to the plight of the vessel, he was out of reach.
In the blink of an eye, Feïwal decided to act. A strong gust of wind suddenly swept the ship's deck from stern to bow. The navigator extended his arms to spread out his robes in full. The savage wind forcefully buffeted the folds of his cloak, propelling him from the aftcastle to the deck. Feïwal landed with great dexterity and rolled a few yards from the broken mast. With a rapid movement, he tied himself to the ropes, thus preventing any further downfall. He now stood beside Roquen.
“What can we do?” yelled Roquen through the storm.
“Cut the mast! We need to cut the mast loose!” shouted Feïwal as the ship was about to fully tip over onto the sea.
In an instant, with the sort of strength and courage that inspires renewed hope, Roquen stood. His sword sprang from its sheath. Feïwal started shouting words of power in the ancient language of the Irawenti guides. His face was severe, strained by the energy he was unleashing.
“Yagliw wary[13]!!!”
The words he pronounced suddenly began to drown out the noise made by the elements. Reverberating from those incantations, the long gleaming blade of Roquen’s sword began to glow, as if possessed by some unnatural fire. The valiant lord struck a first blow at the mast with all the force of his despair, causing a crash. A second strike, then a third, followed the first. The wood was pulverized. Yards, stays, cables, indeed everything, was pulled into the sea by the weight of the sinking mainmast. The Alwïryan rose up, carried by a mighty wave, before its own weight and the violence of the storm sent it crashing back down. The vessel then rose again, finding its balance on the sea. The force of those impacts had shattered the railing of the aftcastle. A crash rent the air. Roquen, senseless, was thrown to the ground with extraordinary violence. The railing of the aftcastle now lay contorted on the deck.