The Eclipse of the Zon - First Tremors (The New Eartha Chronicles Book 2)

by R. M. Burgess

  Suspended at this great height, Greghar’s eyes bugged out of his head with fear. His whole body was rigid with panic.

  “I…I…I…” he tried to speak, but his terror made his tongue heavy.

  “I am waiting,” said Lothar harshly.

  “I…don’t…know,” Greghar managed to bring out.

  Lothar looked at his captain dourly and nodded. The captain in turn jerked his thumb at his men-at-arms. Two of them put a pike in one of the links of the chain and moved it back and forth. Greghar began to swing from side to side in ever growing arcs. His rigid control gave way, and he began to throw up, spewing into the air and all over himself. Lothar let his men-at-arms swing him and watched him retch for a considerable time before snapping his fingers. They used their pikes to steady Greghar so that he was suspended immobile again.

  “Please kill me, Sire!” cried Greghar. His face was streaked with traces of his retching. “My life is yours to take. But do not torture me thus!”

  “Tell me what I want to know,” said Lothar relentlessly.

  “I have told you all I know,” said Greghar wildly. “Now I only pray for death.”

  Lothar waited a long moment. Greghar expected no mercy and looked at Pinnar and Bradar, sending them a silent look of farewell. Finally he looked to bid goodbye to Nitya. She was staring at him, but her look was not sorrowful or frightened. She had her feral look again, her cat’s eyes glowing brightly. She had a very faint bluish halo, but everyone’s eyes were on Greghar, so no one else noticed her.

  “Drop him,” said Lothar through his teeth.

  “Don’t!” screamed Greghar. It seemed like he was begging for mercy, but Nitya knew he was screaming at her to spare his uncle.

  The men-at-arms reached up with their pikes and undid the hinge on the ring set in the ceiling. Freed from its anchor, the chain rattled out and Greghar began to fall. After the terror of the suspension and swinging, it was almost a relief to know that death was coming and he relaxed. Unseen by anyone, Nitya made a small movement with her right hand. The falling chain whipped back and miraculously, one of its links caught on the bolt knob of the open trapdoor. Greghar found himself jerked to a stop and suspended again, but much less securely. He hung there, swaying gently in the breeze. He heard Nitya’s calming voice in his head and with her words, his terror drained out of him.

  “Climb up the chain,” her voice said. “Breathe deeply. Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

  He obeyed. Once calm, his great strength made the climb a fairly easy one. He reached the trapdoor and then used its reinforcing slats to climb up to the edge of the chasm in the floor. He pulled himself up and lay on the floor of the Overhang Galleries, panting. He did not look up, for he expected them to stab him with their pikes and drive him over the edge again.

  His uncle’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Return them to the state in which they arrived,” he said mechanically. Now Greghar looked up in surprise. Lothar had a strange look in his eyes, as though he was in a daze.

  “Take the Yengar wench with you and leave Utrea,” he said, mechanically.

  GREGHAR STOOD BY the fore starboard rail of the caravel Darling Thoma, secure on his sea legs. Nitya stood beside him, her hair streaming behind her in the fresh breeze. She held on the rail with both hands, looking down at the foaming bow wave, a look of happiness on her face. Every now and then a droplet of spray struck her face and her smile stretched wider.

  “I can see why you love the sea, Greghar,” she said. “I could sail like this forever.”

  They had bought a passage on a merchantman bound for Tirut and were now a couple of weeks out of Nordberg. The captain, a taciturn Brigon called Martius, had not been keen on taking passengers. But when Greghar offered him a gold talent in advance, with another promised on their safe arrival, he grew much more accommodating. They were now ensconced in Martius’s own cabin at the stern. The cook was a one-eyed, ebony-skinned giant of a man that everyone called Tar, and Nitya charmed him into letting her help him. By the second day, she was effectively the cook, with him working as her assistant. The dramatic improvements in their meals so cheered the crew that she soon had them all literally eating out of her hand.

  They took her everywhere in the ship, showing off their knowledge to her. Much to Greghar’s chagrin, they even took her high up into the rigging and had her perched precariously in the crosstrees, taking delight in her expressions of wonderment. While she was as agile as a monkey, the men were quite careful with her. There were always two or three on hand to steady her in case she slipped or fell.

  They began by calling her “my lady”, but she checked them saying, “I am no great lady, I am just a simple girl like your daughters or sisters. Please call me Nitya.”

  However, this they would not do. They compromised by calling her “Miss Nitya,” often winking broadly at one another behind her back as they did so.

  So now Greghar smiled at her professed love of sailing.

  “I have heard the hands talking,” he said to her. “They think you are a baroness or at least a chevalina. ‘Of course, she is a noblewoman traveling thus to avoid pirates,’ they say. ‘Her manners and accent are unmistakable.’”

  Nitya looked at him sadly.

  “Perhaps I can unlearn all that your aunt taught me,” she said. “And my father before her. Then I would fit in with people of my class.”

  Greghar watched a gull dive and snatch a fish from just below the surface before responding.

  “And what class is that?” he asked.

  “Why, I am a servant, a beggar,” she said. “Your uncle said so himself.”

  “He was angry at the time, I am sure he did not mean it.”

  “And what of you, Greghar? What do you think?”

  Greghar did not speak for a time but concentrated on the jib telltales that streamed true.

  “You know what I think,” he said. He changed the subject. “Martius is a fine seaman. He is squeezing every last bit of speed out of this wind.”

  Martius was also a cautious seaman. He steered by the coast, rarely venturing out of sight of land. The Fire Mountains were on their starboard bow and Greghar looked at the snow-capped peaks, recognizing the profile of the land.

  “Simrania is just behind that peak right there,” he said, pointing.

  Nitya followed the line of his finger.

  “There seem to be thick clouds over them,” she said.

  “It is not cloud,” said Greghar. “It is ash spewing out of the volcanoes.”

  “Yes!” said Nitya. “I remember Mount Brimstone was constantly discharging smoke and ash.”

  “There are some here, closer to the sea, that make Mount Brimstone tiny by comparison. This high mountain that you see on the shoreline has been known to erupt and send torrents of lava and ash into the water, causing the sea to boil.”

  Nitya shivered deliciously.

  “What a sight it must be! Have you ever seen it?”

  “No,” said Greghar. “One of my father’s old sea captains grew up around here and told me about it.”

  AS THEY SAILED steadily south, it became a bit warmer and the seabirds grew more plentiful. However, the winds grew less favorable and they advanced more slowly, tack by tack. Then the weather began to deteriorate: heavy swells gave way to foaming whitecaps.

  “Things are going to get worse,” said Greghar to Martius.

  “Yes, it is going to be bad,” said Martius, nodding. “It looks like there is a severe gale brewing.”

  He summoned his first mate, Nexius.

  “Get the topmen up there,” he said. “Reef down to bare poles. Break out the storm jib.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Nexius. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

  The winds continued to rise by the hour and the wave troughs grew deeper. Even with the tiny spread of storm sail she now carried, the Darling Thoma was driven into the rising seas. They lost their view of land and all they could see around them w
ere the immense waves with their foaming heads. All hands worked hard to secure the ship: battening down the hatches, checking the sheets and strapping down moveable items, especially the heavier ones. The howling winds made verbal commands virtually impossible, so every man was guided by crude hand signals, the observations of the seas and the actions of his mates.

  Nitya insisted on staying on deck as well, getting soaked to the skin. Greghar tried to get her to go below, but she demurred, saying, “If we sink, I would rather know firsthand.” He relented but insisted on lashing her to a stanchion by the mainmast to keep her from being washed overboard. As they plowed through the moving mountains of water, colossal waves often broke over their bow and the deck disappeared beneath the frothy water before it drained out of the scuppers as they rose on the next swell. Nitya was sometimes waist-deep in swirling eddies of green seawater. She committed everything in the wild scene to memory.

  Then there was a sudden bolt of lightning and an almost instantaneous burst of thunder. Sheets of icy rain followed, accompanied by powerful wind gusts that seemed to change direction from moment to moment.

  “It is a squall!” Greghar shouted to Martius. “We must take in the storm jib! It will catch the gusts and drag our bows away from the oncoming seas.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, but I will need some men to give me a hand.”

  “Go now! I will send men to join you in the bows.”

  Greghar made his way forward from the quarterdeck, passing the stanchion where Nitya was lashed on the way. Tar stood by her, working with the deck crew, and put his knuckle to his forehead in salute as Greghar passed. No sooner did Greghar reach the bows than Nexius appeared with a seaman by his side.

  “I will need your help on the jib sheet,” said Greghar without waiting for Nexius to speak. “Once we release it, it will take all our strength to fight the wind gusts and bring the storm sail back on to deck.”

  Nexius and the seaman nodded. Greghar released the anchoring knot, but the storm sail stayed stubbornly taut.

  “The sheet is tangled in a jib boom pulley!” Nexius cried, pointing.

  Before Greghar could respond, Nexius leaped on to the bowsprit and made his way out on to the jib boom to free the sheet. As he did so, the bows began to rise on an upswell. As the bows continued to climb, everyone on the Darling Thoma looked forward and realized that the wave before them was a monster, rising so high that it seemed to blot out the sky. Greghar and the seaman grabbed the rails to avoid sliding down the deck. Nexius threw himself down and wrapped his arms around the pole of the jib boom.

  After what seemed an age, the ship crested the foam-streaked wall of water and teetered atop it for a moment before beginning her plunge into the incredibly deep trough. The wind carried away the voices of all those who screamed. The Darling Thoma hit the bottom of the trough with an immense groaning of tortured timber and then buried her bowsprit in the shoulder of the following wave. There was a cracking sound that was loud enough to be heard above the din of the storm and when they rose again, it became clear that the jib boom had broken. It canted down at a crazy angle, dragging the storm jib into the water.

  Every seaman aboard knew that the sagging sail in the water would soon lay the Darling Thoma on her beam-ends, making it impossible for her to survive in these seas. Martius came to the bows with a hand axe and raised it above the bowsprit, his intent clear.

  “Wait!” said Greghar. “I think I see Nexius. He is still on the jib boom. We cannot cut him loose.”

  “There is no choice,” said Martius. “It is him or the ship.”

  “Give me a chance to get Nexius and cut the jib boom loose. Get me two bowlines.”

  Martius passed the word and in less than a minute another seaman appeared with two long bowlines, each a lifeline with an adjustable loop at the end. Greghar fastened one around his chest.

  Martius cupped his hands over his mouth to be heard over the storm.

  “Nexius’s life is in your hands, Greghar,” he said.

  “And my life is in yours,” replied Greghar, handing him the ends of the two bowlines. “Pull Nexius back aboard as soon as I get the loop around him. I’ll raise my arm to give you the signal.”

  “When do you want us to pull you back?”

  “Not till I finish chopping off the jib boom.”

  “It may drag you under.”

  “Perhaps,” said Greghar. “Then you must hack off the whole bowsprit and send me to my maker.”

  He turned and dived into the churning maelstrom. Greghar was a powerful swimmer, but it still took everything he had to make the twenty meters to where the splintered jib boom trawled in the waves. He grabbed a trailing jib stay and rapidly pulled himself to where Nexius hung on at the very tip. The first mate was half drowned and frozen. Ironically, the cold stiffened his grip on the jib boom and kept him from being washed away.

  Greghar fastened the loop around his torso, pried his fingers loose from the wood and raised his arm, giving the seamen on the bows the signal. They rapidly pulled Nexius back toward the ship and hauled him aboard, barely conscious, but alive.

  Greghar did not wait to see the result of his action. He drew Martius’s hand axe from his belt and chopped off the restraining stays before beginning to hack on the splintered wood. It was slow going, for he could only get in two or three strokes before being submerged in each trough. The crew watched from the listing deck, each one praying for him to succeed.

  With a final heavy stroke, the end of the jib boom suddenly parted and Greghar fell with it into the churning sea. As he disappeared from view, the seamen in the bows immediately began hauling on the bowline he had lashed around his chest. They pulled mightily, but they could not bring it in. Greghar felt himself being borne away with the broken end of the jib boom and realized that he had become enmeshed in one of the trailing stays. Consigning the hand axe to the deep, he frantically ran his hands over his body, searching for what restrained him.

  Nitya screamed as Greghar disappeared below the surface and clutched at Tar’s powerful arm saying, “Save him, Tar, don’t let him die!”

  The black giant needed no urging. He quickly joined the seamen by the bow rail and added his enormous strength to the tugging team. Submerged in the green water, Greghar felt the cord squeezing him as they pulled. As the blackness closed in, he finally located a stay hooked around his ankle. He desperately drew his dagger and managed to get the sharp blade on it. He felt the steel bite as he lost consciousness.

  His last, despairing effort parted the stay. As Greghar floated free, the crew hauling the line got traction. Within minutes, they had him back by the ship’s side and Tar hauled him aboard. The cook got on his knees and put his mouth to Greghar’s mouth. He alternated blowing hard with pumping Greghar’s chest. Finally Greghar coughed and retched, bringing up water. Martius and the hands in the bows heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Get back to work,” Martius barked at Tar and the hands. “The ship will not sail itself.”

  The squall passed, but the storm lasted all day and most of the night. By the time it blew itself out and they sailed into a wan sunrise, the crew were exhausted. Except for a brief respite after his effort, Greghar had been up with Martius the whole time and could barely stand. Nitya had taken a short nap as the storm began to abate and now helped Tar light the galley fires. As they worked, she thanked Tar for saving Greghar.

  “I did nothing, Miss Nitya,” he replied. “Greghar is the brother of Varu, Lord Moksha’s incarnation at sea. The waters cannot kill him.”

  She looked at him sharply and he smiled.

  “We Yengars must watch out for one another,” he whispered, winking his one good eye.

  The hot breakfast that Nitya put together had the crew queuing up for seconds and thirds. As she served them, she praised them warmly for their efforts in the storm and they basked in her smiles.

  Greghar waited for Nitya to finish serving the crew and the officers so he could take his
breakfast with her in the stern cabin. He ate as ravenously as the hands and did not speak till he had cleared a heaping plate.

  “This is a very good,” he said, wiping his lips with a serviette. “The hands were raving about it, and they were right.”

  “They are happy with the food,” she agreed. “But they are moved by how you risked your life to save Nexius.”

  Just as they finished their breakfast, Martius knocked and entered.

  “We will be putting into Goset,” he said. “We’ve got a jury-rigged bowsprit in place, but I’d like to get permanent repairs done in case we run into more foul weather.”

  “I thought as much,” said Greghar, nodding. “How long will we be in port?”

  “Hard to say,” said Martius, scratching his beard. “It could take a few days, it could take a fortnight. It depends on the repair facilities they have there and how willing the shipwrights are.”

  GOSET WAS A small fishing harbor with only a couple of wharves. It took Martius some talking to get a berth in order to bring shipwrights on board and begin repairs. The harbor was sheltered from the open sea by a spit of land that rose to a substantial height. Goset Castle stood on its tip, with sheer cliff faces on three sides and land that dropped away steeply in front of its only major gate.

  The Darling Thoma had scarcely been in port for a day, when a quartet of men appeared at the gangplank asking for the ship’s passengers. Greghar came on deck and leaned over the rail. He recognized the livery they wore as that of the local lord. The leader of the group stepped forward and said, “I am Head Steward to Sous Cheval Hughen va Goset. I wish to speak with the passengers on this vessel, an Utrean lord and lady.”

  “My ward and I are passengers on this vessel,” said Greghar cautiously. “And we are Utrean.”

  Nitya appeared at Greghar’s elbow and added, “We serve King Lothar of Utrea.”

  The Head Steward looked relieved.

  “My master requests the pleasure of your company at a small reception. Would it be convenient for you to be ready by six this evening?”