by James Lowder
Quiracus clamped a hand over the mage's mouth. "My apologies, Sir Hydel, but you're crew now. If the captain hears you mutter that kind of mutinous talk, there'll be nothing in this world that'll save you from her wrath." He let Pontifax go, then smiled. "Besides, we'll be under sail in an hour, so the only way back to the harbor is to swim for it."
Artus walked stiffly to the mainmast, where the sailors had dumped their gear. "We'll have to make the best of it," he growled, pounding the sturdy wood with a fist. He tossed one of the packs to the mage, then hefted the other two himself. "I'm sorry about this, Pontifax."
The withering look he got in return told Artus it would take more than a simple apology to assuage his old friend's wounded pride.
"Cimber, need I teach ya the proper way to tie off the topsail halyards again?"
Artus jumped at the sound of Nelock's voice. The boatswain had taken a special interest in harassing him, pointing out his most inconsequential mistakes and meting out ridiculous extra duties for any transgression. "No, Master Nelock," he said, biting back his anger and frustration. It would do him little good to pique the apelike petty officer.
"Well ya done this all wrong," came the expected response. After a moment's pause, the boatswain barked, "Into the rigging, Cimber. I thought I heard a sail tear on the mainmast, so ya better check it for me."
"Yes, sir," Artus managed to reply.
The explorer dreaded the long, unsteady climb into the rigging. Luckily, much of the ice had melted away from the ropes after the first tenday at sea, so they weren't as slick as they had been. The weather, in fact, was fast becoming balmy. Still, the brisk wind hissing into the sailcloth and the not-so-gentle roll of the ship made the duty quite dangerous for someone as inexperienced as Artus. Moreover, he knew the sail to be perfectly sound; unless the cloth had torn from top to bottom, the boatswain couldn't possibly have heard it over the cry of the gulls, the creaking of wood and rope, and the roar of the Narwhal cutting through the waters of the Sea of Swords.
Tentatively, Artus climbed into the shrouds. The tar-soaked ropes were sticky on his bare feet, but he'd learned on his first day aboard the ship that his boots were not made for nautical feats. As he went, he scanned the huge sails of the mainmast-at least, he made a show of looking them over for tears. His mind was actually drifting in languid turns over the events of the last few tendays. First the cursed medallion, then Theron Silvermace's news of the ring and the flight from Suzail. Now he was paying for the privilege of being a slave aboard a galleon. He'd been right about the ship being a pirate vessel, but he never could have guessed the rest of its past.
Artus had been told of the Narwhal's short, but astounding history his first night aboard ship. The costly vessel had once flown the flag of Cormyr's navy, but Captain Bawr had gathered a fleet of pirate ships together in the Inner Sea and taken her by force. Next she cut a deal with the villainous masters of Zhentil Keep, who provided her with the services of a group of stupid but extremely brawny giants. The monstrously strong creatures carried the Narwhal across the bulk of Faerun, from the land-locked Inner Sea to the wide-open Sword Coast. Now Bawr alternated between outright piracy and high-paying cargo runs for the Refuge Bay Trading Company, carrying supplies to their outposts in the jungles and returning with the ship's holds full of near-priceless Chultan teak and ivory.
Of Captain Bawr herself he could learn little. The crew spoke of her in hushed tones, but always in glowing terms. They were loyal, but fearful, too. They'd all seen her transform at various times, though no one dared venture a guess as to her true nature. The only thing Artus discovered was she never came on deck during the day; when the sun shone, Master Quiracus and the other officers ran the Narwhal.
Artus shook his head. The contrast between the sweet young woman and the creature she became… He shuddered. It was horrifying to think on the matter too closely.
All thoughts of the captain fled his mind in that instant, driven away by sudden panic. Lost in his musings, he'd taken a wrong step. For a moment, the realization he was going to fall overwhelmed Artus. Then he toppled head over heels down the shroud. The net of ropes burned his arms and legs as he slid. He reached out, but discovered painfully he was moving too fast to stop his fall. It seemed he was going to either roll right down the shrouds and over the side, or slip from them and plummet to the deck.
Fortunately, Skuld was not about to let his master break his neck on the quarterdeck or drop into the sea like so much shark bait. A glowing silver hand shot from the medallion and clamped down on the shroud. Artus gasped, then choked as the chain pulled tight. His momentum gone, he slipped limply between the ropes. The explorer hung below the shroud for an instant, the medallion's chain and the silver arm suspending him like a hangman's noose. Then he was falling again, this time like an autumn leaf drifting slowly to earth.
When the chain had loosened its chokehold and the blood ceased to throb in his temples, Artus tried to sit up. The silver arm was gone, but it was clear everyone near the mainmast had seen his unearthly rescue.
"What's this all about?" Nelock shouted. He stood over the dazed explorer, his hands on his hips. "No sailor's allowed to use magic without the officers knowing about it. The captain will want you-"
"Sent to the surgeon to see about his wounds," interrupted Master Quiracus. The first mate was at the boatswain's side. When Artus looked up, a halo from the sun ringed the blond man's bead. "Go on, Cimber. Have Pontifax see to those cuts."
It was then Artus realized his shirt collar was heavy with blood. The chain had dug into his neck, but only enough to draw a ring of crimson. When he moved to lever himself to his feet, he found his hands gouged and bloody, too.
"It looks worse than it is," Quiracus noted calmly. "Still, better to clean out the wounds before they become infected. Don't you agree, Master Nelock?"
The boatswain muttered his agreement, then turned to the crowd of sailors who had paused in their work. "Awright, back to yer duties, ya bilge rats."
As Nelock looked around, he saw men and women pulling lines out of synch, and midshipmen caught in idle speculation about the strange magic that had saved Artus's life. The crew had been working at top form, like the well-tended engine they were trained to be. Now they were at odds, slowing the ship and making their own tasks harder by working against each other.
In his deep, growling voice, Nelock began to sing. The chanty was an old one and had a hundred variations all along the Sword Coast. The crew soon picked up the song. Its rhythm became the pulse of the ship, and the crew began to once again work in harmony.
My love was a lass from Shadowdale,
A beauty with hair of silver.
A pirate from Presper stole her away.
The sea take all pirates from Presper, brave boys,
The sea take the pirates of Presper.
My love was a lass from Marsember,
And we were to wed last Mirtul.
A whaler from Westgate stole her away.
The sea take all whalers from Westgate, brave boys,
The sea take the whalers of Westgate.
"Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job," the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain's side.
Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. "What I'd like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them-especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya've hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain't good to undercut me with the men around."
The first mate smiled. "There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren't privy to them." He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. "You should consider yourself lucky."
The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain's cabin and the maproom. "Something ain't right about this," Nelock muttered to himself. "But I ain't stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either."
The boatswain
started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.
Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn't lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock's, but then he'd never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.
"How've you been, Pontifax?" he asked somewhat sheepishly.
"Fine. Now be a good soldier and sit on the table," was the somewhat chilly reply. "Take your shirt off so I can get a look at the wounds on your neck."
The mage bustled about the large room, only a small part of which was lit. Two magical globes of light floated at Pontifax's shoulders, but they did little to help dispel the gloom from the place. "I've spent the last tenday setting broken limbs, bandaging gashes received in mindless brawls, and ministering to petty officers with hangovers," he offered as he grabbed a handful of cotton wrapping. "Same sorts of silly injuries I worked on when I served with the Army of the Alliance-until the fighting started, of course. The barbarians dealt in more ghastly wounds. In fact, I spent most of my time on the crusade making men comfortable until they died…"
Artus dropped his bloodied shirt to the floor. Whenever Pontifax was disgusted with things, he talked about King Azoun's crusade against the barbarous Tuigan tribesmen. He had served as a surgeon during the entire campaign and had even fought alongside the royal War Wizards in the final battles. There were few things Pontifax prided himself upon more than this.
Pontifax sighed. "Did you know there are passengers aboard who don't have to work?"
"What?" Artus leaped to his feet, spilling a bottle of strong-smelling liquid. It splattered on his scraped hands, stinging like a thousand wasp bites. "Gods' blasted…"
"Serves you right," the mage said. He righted the bottle, mopping up the spilled liquid with Artus's shirt. "Now sit down before you really hurt yourself."
"But if there're paying passengers aboard who don't have to-"
"These privileged passengers have taken over the captain's cabin," the mage warned, "so don't go making a fuss just yet. Bawr's sleeping in the maproom to make space for them." He glanced at the long slice in Artus's neck, then dabbed the blood away. "They're important ambassadors on their way to Samarach on a secret trade mission. Quiracus told me about them one night after dinner. They paid ten times what we did."
"But I haven't seen anyone who even vaguely resembles a government-type strolling the decks."
"They're more secretive than the captain." Pontifax began to clean the scrapes on Artus's hands, dousing them with more of the stinging liquid. "Besides, you should be glad they haven't seen you. They're from Tantras."
Artus groaned-both from the pain in his hands and the dread in his heart. Government officials from Tantras! Both he and Pontifax were wanted men in that city, for murder and a dozen other charges, all stemming from a battle they'd had with Kaverin Ebonhand three years past. If the ambassador heard they were aboard the Narwhal, he might try to take them into custody or even worse, try them on the spot for their crimes.
"There." Pontifax stood back to study his work. "I can't do anything about the cut on your neck. The chain's in the way. The wrap on your hands will keep you away from hard duty for a couple of days, anyway." He shook his head. "Despite our fears, Skuld has been a gift from the gods so far. Maybe this unfortunate voyage will all turn out for the best, too."
"Just so long as we get to Chult," Artus said. "That's the only way I can keep taking the mindless abuse Nelock dishes out on deck-keep thinking about the ring."
Pontifax turned serious eyes on the explorer. "What would you do to get the ring, Artus? I've had a lot of time to think down here, and I've been wondering about that."
"Anything," the explorer replied without hesitation.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that." Pontifax went back to stowing medical supplies. "I really don't want to believe you, you know, but a little part of me does. I'm frightened for you, my boy."
Artus stood and headed for the ladder to the upper decks. "Don't worry, Pontifax, I wouldn't murder children or do the sorts of despicable things Kaverin Ebonhand would do to possess the ring."
"But you'd let yourself be made a slave aboard a stolen ship," the mage said, his sapphire eyes clouded by sadness. "That's rather telling, I think, since you say you want to use the ring to preserve freedom." He balled Artus's bloody shirt and tossed it into a bucket. "And if you're willing to stoop that low, you might just be telling the truth. Maybe you would do anything for the ring."
Four
"And you write every night?" Quiracus asked amicably. He rested his pointed chin in one hand and looked thoughtfully across the table at Artus. "I'm almost afraid to hear what you say about the Narwhal in that journal of yours."
Artus patted the thin book that lay closed before him. "Actually, I'm getting used to life aboard ship. I'm almost sorry we'll be in Refuge Bay in a few days."
The two sat in the ballista deck. Though it was night, the heat hadn't subsided; the place smelted of sweat and unwashed clothes. Wan moonlight leaking in through the ports and the glow from a lantern atop the slightly swaying table gave the scene an eerie, otherworldly feel, but Artus had grown accustomed to the silent blackness of the lower decks at night. In a neat row all along both sides of the ship, men and women slept soundly, lulled by the rush of water along the hull. The tabletop, like Artus's hammock, was suspended from the beams overhead.
Behind the first mate, the weapon Artus had been assigned to tend in case of attack hulked in the near-darkness. It was like most of the engines aboard the ship, a type of giant crossbow meant to hurl bolts the size of a man. The weapon fascinated Artus; its simple, graceful design clashed intriguingly with his knowledge of its destructive potential.
In the past few days, Quiracus had paid Artus many visits, and they'd discussed the ballistae and a dozen other topics. The elf seemed genuinely interested in striking up a friendship, almost as if he were trying to make up for Captain Bawr's strangeness and Master Nelock's outright hostility. Artus welcomed the camaraderie, especially since' the crew tended to stay well clear of him for fear of attracting the boatswain's wrath. The first mate boasted a ready wit and an uncanny knack for avoiding all the right subjects. He'd even given Artus a few fragments of ancient elven tales for his journal, though he was a dreadful storyteller.
"I never tire of life at sea," the first mate offered. He stood and peered around the ballista to get a better look at the water. The breeze blew his golden hair back from his pointed ears. "I mean, just take a look at the moonlight glittering so brilliantly off the water-"
The first mate paused, then pushed his head farther out the port and glanced up at the moon. Cursing, he pulled himself back against the ballista. "Battle stations!" he bellowed. "Man the ballistae! Ready the starboard side for firing!"
The words echoed in the confines of the deck, rattling everyone from their slumber. With amazing speed, the men and women leaped from their hammocks and set about winching back the powerful metal bands that launched the bolts. A few of the younger boys ran along the deck, stowing the hammocks, lighting lanterns, and clearing cups and plates from the tables. Others began to pull the heavy lances from their storage piles, stacking them atop those same tables, which had held the sailors' dinner not so long ago.
"What's going on?" Artus asked as the first mate pushed past, heading for the stairs to the quarter deck.
As if in reply, the Narwhal listed heavily to one side. A lantern smashed, spilling its flaming oil across the deck. Before the fire could spread, two sailors doused it with buckets of sand. The plaintive groan that filled the air could be heard even over the shouted orders, the clatter of metal plates, and the clacking of the ballistae as the crews cranked and loaded them. It was the hull crashing against something large and solid.
Artus, like many of those around him, struggled to his feet. Th
e first mate laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Come with me," the elf said. "I think you'll be of more value to us on the quarter deck."
As be hurried to the stairs, Artus didn't notice the first mate stop to retrieve his journal from where it had fallen to the deck. Quiracus slipped the wyvern hide-bound book into the pocket of his baggy cotton pants. "Wait for the order to fire!" the first mate shouted to no one in particular, then rushed to the stairs himself.
The scene on the quarterdeck was even more chaotic than below. In a half-dozen places, sailors lay in heaps, broken limbs jutting out at ridiculous angles from their bodies. They had obviously fallen from the rigging when the Narwhal listed. Pontifax leaned over one unfortunate woman. Two men held her down as the mage reset her dislocated shoulder. Other sailors scrambled for the pikes strapped to the masts, ready to repel any boarders.
Off the starboard bow, an island had seemingly risen from the sea. The dark, rocky mound was almost half the length of the Narwhal. Gorgeous patterns of silver glittered all along the gentle curve of its sides, broken in places by trailers of seaweed. A sharp ridge ran along the center, leading to another, smaller mound-
Artus gasped. It was a head!
"It's Aremag again," Nelock shouted as he ran past, racing for the poop deck.
"I know," Quiracus snapped. He hurried after the boatswain, Artus in tow. This uncharacteristic anger made the elf look oddly nefarious-his arched eyebrows knit together, his gold eyes flashing.
Captain Bawr stood at the starboard rail, a speaking horn held before her. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and her hair now framed her face in dark ringlets. Artus was struck again with the woman's beauty, though uneasiness at her strange nature overwhelmed any other feelings her appearance stirred.
"We've paid your toll already this month, Aremag," she shouted. "If you've damaged my ship, you'll be the one to pay for her repairs."