by Tina Daniel
Near the cargo hold is a one-room brig, which has been empty of occupants since we left Ogrebond, and a small mate’s cabin where Yuril sleeps—if and when she sleeps. She seems to stalk the deck at all hours. When the captain himself sleeps, she is his eyes and ears.
Fortunately, four small cabins serve for passengers—one each for Raistlin, Flint, Kirsig, and myself. They are spare, with a hammock, bench, window chest, and table in each.
By choice, Raistlin has been spending much of his time in his cabin alone. I suspect young Majere is collecting his strength for the ordeal ahead. The few times that I have seen him on deck he has seemed preoccupied. Surely he is worried about Caramon’s well-being.
Flint has spent most of the first three days in his cabin as well, but not by choice, for he is somewhat immobilized by his bad leg. I’m not sure, what with his dislike of bodies of water, that he isn’t happy to be so restrained, but it is hard to tell with Flint. Even in the happiest of states, he is perpetually grumbling.
Kirsig has cared well for Flint’s leg. The swelling has gone down, the discoloration faded. It turns out that she does know some useful healing skills. I think my friend will be walking again by the time we reach the Outer Reach of the Maelstrom.
Kirsig refuses to leave Flint’s side, doting on him shamelessly. She strokes his hair and beard, calling him her “pretty dwarf.” The more firmly he tries to cast her off, the more tightly she clings to him.
Others on board are not so harsh in their attitude toward the half-ogre. Yesterday (day two) one of the sailors fell from a high turret and opened a nasty wound. Blood gushed from his side. Kirsig was summoned on deck, and she went to work with naught but a stitching needle, neatly closing the wound. Up till then, I’d say that Yuril had regarded the female half-ogre with amused indifference. Now I notice that she goes out of her way to greet Kirsig in the morning, addressing her with respect.
FOURTH DAY
The water has turned as foreboding as the skies. Dark blood-red is its color here in the Outer Reach of the Blood Sea. The waves heave in great swells.
Raistlin explained that the color of the water stems from the reddish soils of the fertile fields that once surrounded the city of Istar. Since Istar was destroyed in the Cataclysm, the Maelstrom that flows in its place constantly churns up those soils, coloring the water red, giving the Blood Sea its name, and reminding all of the fate of the fabled city entombed beneath it.
Overhearing him, Captain Nugetre scoffed and said the color of the sea came from the blood of the thousands trapped and drowned when the gods wreaked their will on the city of Istar.
Flint is up and hobbling about now; his leg is getting stronger. He joined us on deck at midday when a commotion spread over the ship. Sailors stood in clusters, pointing excitedly, arguing about the omens of the sea and sky.
One of the crew, a stout, manly veteran, insisted that dragons have been spotted in the skies over the Blood Sea in this vicinity. Challenged by his fellows, he admitted that he never sailed this close to the Outer Reach before and that these were stories he heard in taverns in Bloodwatch.
The others jeered at his admission, but I noticed that Raistlin had listened to him carefully, a thoughtful expression on his tense face. “Dragons!” snorted Flint. “Next we’ll be hearing about genies who grant three wishes!”
By midafternoon, we found ourselves in the grip of a strong current that pulled us northwesterly. Captain Nugetre’s instructions were to lay off any drag, take the sails down, and glide with the current. The first shift of crew took positions along the rails, in small groups assigned to one of the anchors or the oars or the extra rudders. But they were under orders to do nothing for the time being, to let the ship be sucked along the Outer Reach.
The Castor was swept along in a gradually accelerating curve. The skies above had darkened so that it was difficult to say whether it was night or day, based on the evidence of our eyes. Thunder exploded in the air, lightning flashed, and a stinging rain attacked us intermittently.
Captain Nugetre manned the helm of the ship. We all watched him as he stood in the aft castle, tossing the wheel back and forth violently, trying to correct the movement of the ship and keep it from being drawn into the Tightening Ring. Whatever else the crew was supposed to be doing, we all stole glances at the captain, knowing that beyond the Tightening Ring lay the Nightmare Sea and the place where Istar slept beneath the vengeful Blood Sea, the Heart of Darkness. No seafarer is known ever to have ventured beyond the Tightening Ring and made it back to tell his story.
I noticed that Kirsig ran to assist Yuril, whose job it was to move from post to post, calming the sailors. The half-ogre bounced alongside the taller, more muscular and handsome woman, making for an odd contrast. She amused the sailors with her half-comical presence yet did as much as Yuril to maintain discipline.
Flint and I dashed to vacant oar ports, ready to lend our muscle if the need arose. I have to say that Flint has bravely swallowed his fear of the sea and, although his face turned white in this instance, he stood ready to help in whatever way he could.
Raistlin clung to a center mast, buffeted by the growing winds but determined to stay and watch whatever developed.
FOURTH DAY: EVENING
A deepening of the darkness let us know night had fallen, and with it came the full horror. The skies erupted with thunder, the sea seemed afire with bolts of lightning, and the heavens poured icy, slanting rain. The waves rose to a towering height, then dashed violently over the decks. At one point we heard screams, and later we learned that one unlucky sailor had been swept overboard.
The ship listed crazily, and in the blackness of the night, there was no sure way to steer the Castor’s course. The wind howled behind us, in front of us, all around us, impossible to reckon with. Yuril had relieved the captain and was at the helm when the worst began. She was soon joined by Nugetre; the two of them strained to keep the wheel from spinning dizzily. They shouted and cursed at each other and at the elements, linking arms around the wheel, desperate to steady the ship.
The continuous gusts of wind drove icy sprays into the ship fore and aft. Some bailing was necessary. The worst of it was that with the storm, the bailing, and the uncertainty, no real rest or food was possible all night. Both shifts worked alongside one another, weary, chilled to the bone, and filled with dread.
I argued with Raistlin, insisting that our goal would be better served if he were safe below deck. He refused to listen. However, in the early morning, when the storm abated somewhat and several of us hurried to catch some sleep, I saw that he was slumped at his post.
Kirsig hastened to help the young mage to his cabin below. Flint and I followed not long after, shivering in the wind and spray. From my cabin, I could hear Raistlin muttering and tossing in a restless sleep.
We all slept fitfully, cognizant of the ship’s erratic movement and our own building fear.
FIFTH DAY
Day and night the weather worsens, and our peril increases. After a brief respite, the storm returned in full fury. Huge waves crashed into the ship, and violent rain soaked us to the skin. We were deluged by water. We had to shout into each other’s ears in order to be heard over the deafening thunder. Though Nugetre remained at the helm, I couldn’t imagine his efforts had any effect. The Castor seemed lifted and flung like a cork in the surf. We lurched drunkenly from the attack of the Blood Sea.
The seething chaos did not let up. In the late afternoon, Captain Nugetre, his red-rimmed eyes burning, announced that we had crossed over into the Tightening Ring. Now, he said, it was mandatory that we break the grip of the current and somehow lead the Castor east and north, back to the Outer Reach.
Otherwise we would be sucked into the Maelstrom.
Nugetre banished Yuril from the deck, sending her below to get some rest. Until then, she had refused to let anyone spell her in her duties. Alone, he held the tiller until full evening. I shall always remember how, while he was steering that day, he sang out some lusty
sailor’s song that I had never heard out of anyone else’s mouth. His brazen confidence as he struggled with the ship seemed to infect the other sailors, who didn’t flinch from their posts despite the brutal elements.
The captain ordered some of his crew to the oars on the port side and others to raise the smallest sail. Shouting orders and encouragement, Nugetre and his sailors somehow managed to wrestle the Castor back to the Outer Reach.
Raistlin reappeared on deck at midday. Obviously still fatigued, his face wan, Raistlin still gave off an aura of excitement. I could see that his strength and determination had been renewed. How long, I asked him, do we have to endure this?
“My guess is that we have gone some hundred and fifty miles,” answered the young mage, “That means we have another hundred and fifty to go before we try to break free of the Outer Reach and come out in the Northern Blood Sea.”
“Another night and day,” estimated Kirsig, who had come up behind the Majere twin.
“Where’s Flint?” I asked her.
“Over there.” The female half-ogre pointed proudly to one of the masts, where Flint sat, drenched with water, his face glum but resolute as he held tight to one of the ropes that restrained the rudders.
FIFTH DAY: EVENING
A night that took us to the limits of our endurance. The wind shrieked as it turned the seascape into a black haze of blinding spray. Thunder boomed without interruption, and at one point, volleys of lightning hit the deck, toppling a secondary mast and crushing the neck of the unfortunate sailor beneath it. We had to tie ourselves to pegs and poles in order to avoid being washed into the churning waters. No one slept. Even momentary rest was made impossible by brutal interruptions—a lightning flash, the peal of thunder, stinging rain, or something hard flung into our faces by the incessant wind.
Still Captain Nugetre and Yuril clung to the tiller.
SIXTH DAY
Two of the crew have been lost in the struggle with the Blood Sea. The rest of us, facing the prospect of a never-ending tempest, almost long for surrender to the wrathful Maelstrom.
Raistlin stayed in his cabin for most of the day, exhausted. Flint, his eyes pouchy and his eyebrows sodden, was sent below by Yuril, who noticed his dazed behavior.
At midday, the storm entered a brief lull, the type we knew would bring a fearful escalation in its aftermath.
In the relative quiet, we heard moaning, screaming, and cackling borne on the wind. The ship began to spin crazily with a frightening speed that was worse than anything we had experienced thus far.
The crew members, nearly hysterical, stood and pointed at the churning waters. I could see nothing, but they babbled about horrors—grinning faces, clawed hands, and wicked horns—pushing at the ship, causing it to pitch and spin.
Yuril shouted at them to return to their posts. Captain Nugetre himself looked stricken with horror, but his was not imaginary.
“We’ve gone too far! We’re into the Tightening Ring, approaching the Nightmare Sea!” he cried, his face twisted with apprehension. “Man the oars! Throw the anchor! Make ready—”
His voice was almost drowned out by the rising clamor. A red mist swirled up from the sea, flowing onto the deck and through the portholes. Small red impkins, with leathery, batlike wings, barbed tails, and twisted horns, formed out of the vapors and swarmed up the masts, pulling on the rigging and loosening ropes. Like the Blood Sea itself, their skin was dark red, their jagged teeth a gleaming white.
Giggling, screaming, and ranting, they unleashed panic on the ship.
Some of the men rushed to grapple with the imps, but the captain screamed at them. “You fools, they are illusions!”
Illusions they may have been, but in the next instant, I saw two of them grab one of the sailors and heave him overboard.
I spotted Raistlin standing on the steps that led to our cabins. He bent his head, moved his hands, and uttered some incantation. To my astonishment, the impkins vanished, although the red mist lingered. In the next instant, the young mage sank back out of sight. Few had noticed what he had done.
In the meantime, the storm resumed its fury.
Flint fought his way over to me, looking as frightened as I had ever seen him. “What should we do?” he shouted.
For a moment, I was uncertain. “There!” I cried. We saw Yuril and a couple other sailors struggling to unloose the heavy, claw-shaped anchor, a task made all the more difficult by the fierce wind and rain. We dashed over and found ourselves next to Kirsig, who forced a grin as she threw her bulk into the task.
Beneath us, I could feel the oars begin to pull, but I also heard several of them snap against the force of the current and the waves.
The ship pitched wildly, rocking back and forth, throwing several of us, myself included, to the deck.
“Now!” shouted Captain Nugetre.
Finding our footing, we managed to heft the anchor over the side. The thick rope unspooled so rapidly that one of the sailors tossed a bucket of water on it so that it wouldn’t burn. For several minutes, it dropped through blood-red water, coming almost to the end of the reel before finally reaching bottom.
Yuril uttered a cry of astonishment. “Never have I heard of such depths!” she exclaimed.
As Captain Nugetre had expected, the anchor temporarily stabilized the ship. But because of the wind and storm, the Castor tore at the anchor rope, threatening to break free.
Flint stood by, one of his stout hatchets at the ready. When Captain Nugretre shouted “Now!” the dwarf slashed downward, cutting the anchor rope in one clean blow. The pent-up momentum of the ship was such that it practically leaped several hundred feet through the air, breaking the grip of the suction.
At the same time, Yuril and I had made our way to the sailors in the aft section who had the extra rudders at the ready. Just as the ship splashed down, before it was caught in the current again, we released the makeshift rudders. Looking over the side, I could see them fall into the water, forming flippers at the rear of the boat.
“Now!” Captain Nugetre shouted again over the din of the storm.
I could feel the oar crew pull in unison, and this time the boat, with a momentum of its own, surged in a northeasterly direction. Working the oars with every available sailor, the crew held the Castor to its northeasterly course, propelling it farther and farther from the dangerous core of the Blood Sea.
SEVENTH AND EIGHTH DAYS
The worst was over. Now our course lay across Firewater toward Mithas and Karthay. The sailors celebrated their victory over the Maelstrom, looking strangely wild, with salt caked on their lips and wreaths of seaweed in their hair.
Captain Nugetre gave orders to break out a ration of brandy for each of us by way of reward.
Damage to the ship was surprisingly slight, considering the battering we had taken. One mast and a number of oars had been broken. Debris tossed about by the storm had rent some of the sails, even though they had been rolled up. Kirsig was useful at stitchery, and I happen to know a little needlework myself. Together we worked at mending the sails. The men gladly tore the shirts off their backs to provide crude patches.
A few of the sailors roamed the deck, taking care of the gashes in the vessel, none of which were major.
Flint set his mind to fashioning a new makeshift anchor, which would have to serve until the next time the Castor made port. Gathering pieces of lead and other soft metal from around the ship, he melted everything down over a huge pot and was able to hammer out a mottled sinker that Yuril pronounced satisfactory. The new anchor was set in place of the old.
The waves continued high and choppy. The water had cleared only slightly; it was still that unsettling rust color. Though fixing up the Castor and keeping it on track demanded hard and constant work, all of us felt great relief.
A fair wind blew at our backs. A sun that grew hotter each day shone overhead. A haze formed in the sky and refused to go away.
EIGHTH DAY: EVENING
Raistlin has b
een staying in his cabin during the day and pacing the decks at night. Flint and I both realized that he hadn’t told us everything that occupied his thoughts.
This night, a black, starless night that held no cheer, I found him on the foredeck, standing and staring out over the choppy waters. Hearing me behind him, he turned and offered a slight smile—small encouragement, but enough to embolden me to interrupt his reverie.
“You must be very worried about Caramon,” I ventured mildly.
To my surprise, the young mage raised an eyebrow, as if this was the furthest thing from his thoughts. “Caramon,” he said to me with his usual brusqueness, “can take care of himself. If he didn’t die back in the Straits of Schallsea, I feel quite certain that we shall find him somewhere in this forsaken part of Krynn. He is more likely to rescue us than it would be for us to rescue him.”
“But I thought,” I began, “that we came all this way because you believe that he was taken prisoner by minotaurs.”
“Yes … partly,” said Raistlin. He started to say something else, then paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts, perhaps simply to pull his cloak about himself more tightly to ward off the chill in the air. “Yet,” he continued after a moment, “there are more important things to consider, apart from the fate of my happy-go-lucky brother. There is the reason why he was taken and the use of the rare herb, jalopwort.” His tone was very solemn. In the darkness, I couldn’t gauge his expression.
I leaned closer, thinking to draw the mystery out of him. “What is it then, Raistlin?” I asked. “What spell have we been pursuing across these thousands of miles?”
He turned toward me, peering at me intently. Seeming to consider my question, he took a moment before replying. “The spell that I came across can be cast only by a high cleric of the minotaurs. It is a spell that would open a portal and invite into the world the god of the bull-men, Sargonnas, servant of Takhisis.”