Jatu relayed the orders to Rico, and with a series of piping signals, the bo’s’n oversaw the setting of lines, Men running this way and that, unbelaying ropes and haling on them, all to a purpose—the turning of the yardarms to bring the sails around—the spanker alone slowly swinging the ship about, tethered as she was on her anchor chain.
The junk was hauled astern, Dwarves tugging her aft. Bokar and another boarded her and splashed oil on her decks, then scrambled up a rope ladder and back to the Elvenship. Torches were lighted and cast o’er the taffrail and down onto the pirate vessel, and as the flames exploded upward the ship was cast loose, the breeze carrying her away from the Eroean, her battened sails afire, her decking aflame.
Aravan glanced at her but once, then looked away, for it was a ship that burned, and somehow he felt as if a wrong were being done. Even so, he would not tow her as salvage, for she would merely slow his own ship down. And he could not leave her in these waters, else she would once again be used as a raider. And so he had her burned but did not watch, feeling all the while vaguely guilty of some indeterminate unspecified crime.
And as the Eroean haled about and started to surge forward—“Up anchor,” the Elf commanded.
Rico piped the anchor aboard, and sailors in the bow cranked the windlass deosil, the great bronze grapnel breaking free of the bottom and riding the chain upward, and the Elvenship ran unfettered at last.
Her bow quartered to the wind, a short haul they coursed and then came about and entered in among the crags jutting up from the sea, tacking along a safe channel through the sharp-toothed Dragon’s Fangs. Then they swung once more onto a larboard tack, to slip past the last of the jagged rocks. And now the water was clear before them, the strait widening out. And with her face to the breeze the Eroean put her shoulder to the sea, cleaving the waves, running westward, sails set and billowing, dawnlight illuminating the white wake behind.
And far abaft beyond the rocks a ship burned, orange flames lighting the sky.
The Elvenship cleared the Straits of Alacca ere noon of that first day, yet westerly she continued to fare, tacking west nor’west and west sou’west, close hauled to the east-running wind. She ran this way for a night and a day before turning on a sou’western course, the wind now starboard abeam and growing in strength, the Eroean swift-cutting through the indigo waters of the deep, wide Sindhu Sea.
Aiming for the southern latitudes, down where the winds blow strong, sou’westerly she drove, her hull dark blue above the waterline, the color of the sea, her sails the color of the sky. And when the wind heeled her over, her silver bottom showed, a bottom no barnacle could cling to, a bottom where no weed could grow. But the wind was not strong enough to challenge her outright, and so southward she drove running upright, slicing through the waves, her colors making her all but invisible to other ships afar.
It would be a long run to the south, faring through the shifting monsoons and then the equatorial doldrums lying just ahead, beyond which they would at last come to the southern winds, first the trades and then the polars, a set of calms between. As to whither the Elvenship was bound, ‘round the cape she was headed, down where the wild gales rage, that goal yet some five thousand miles distant as the albatross flies—longer as the ship tacks. Then back to the north she would ply through the waters of the Weston Ocean, aiming for the Avagon Sea. For it was to Arbalin Isle she was bound, bearing her precious cargo—nutmeg and cinnamon and porcelain ware—where it would fetch a premium.
Then it was back to adventure for this crew, seeking out legend and fable. It mattered not whether the legends were true, for the seeking was the sum of the game. Had they wanted nothing but wealth, then merchants of the seas they would have become, for with but a few trips of the Elvenship they could each make their fortune many times over.
Yet comfort and riches suited not Aravan, and neither did it satisfy his well-chosen crew. And so only occasionally did the Eroean bear merchandise for market, and that but to fund their quests, setting a little aside for the times after, when they would leave the sea and settle down to a more staid existence. But that was for later and not for now, and not for the times immediately ahead, for legend and fable yet called to this crew, sweet voices singing in their hearts, in their spirits, and luring them on. And so they hied across the sea, the Elvenship’s holds laden to the hatches.
And when bearing cargo for sale, speed was of the essence, for the sooner sold, the sooner free, free to return to their prime mission—the pursuit of derring-do.
And it was this ship, this marvelous ship, which allowed them to follow their will, a ship conceived by Elven mind but fabricated by Red Hills Dwarves. Never before had the world seen such, and likely never again, its secrets locked in the hearts of those who made her, long ago in the mists of time. Nearly three millennia had she plied the seas, captained by the Elf who first envisioned her, the Elf named Aravan.
Three-masted she was with a cloud of sails, three-masted and swift. Her bow was narrow and as sharp as a knife to cut through the waters, the shape smoothly flaring back to a wall-sided hull running for most of her length, the hull finally tapering up to a rounded aft. Two hundred and twelve feet she measured from stem to stern, her masts raked back at an angle. No stern castle did she bear, no fo’c’sle on her bow. Instead her shape was low and slender, for her beam measured but thirty-six feet at the widest, and she drew but thirty feet of water fully laded. Her mainmast rose one hundred forty-six feet above her deck, and her main yard was seventy-eight feet from tip to tip. As to the mizzen and fore masts, they were but slightly shorter and their yards a bit less wide.
These were the things that other captains, other sailors, could readily see, and they wondered why the ship did not simply founder and sink, cleaving into the waves as she did. Why, with that cutting prow a high sea alone should sink the vessel, and that’s why it was foolish to have aught but a rounded bow: everyone knew that a good ship was designed to ride up and over the waves…“cod’s head and mackerel tail” was the wisdom of the ship builders—the round cod’s head smacked and battered into the waves, riding up over each crest, and the narrow stern left a clean wake with hardly any turbulence, all safe and sane. But the Elvenship was different, her design foolish, mad: prow sword sharp and stern club blunt—built absolutely backwards! And with that much sail, come a sudden gust, all her masts would splinter into flinders, or so it was surmised. Why, many claimed that it was a pure wonder then that the Eroean had managed to survive the sea, slicing right through each and every billow, water rolling over her decks. A wet ship, that one, and someday in heavy wind and wave she’d plow under never to return, or so some said.
But there were others who claimed that she’d never sink, her with her mad design, for there was magic bound into her hull and that was what was holding her up, saving her from a dreadful death below the rolling waves, and as long as the magic held, well, she would never founder, never be sucked adown. And that’s why no one ever attempted to build another ship like her, for ‘twas magic alone that kept her afloat, and none else knew how to cast the same spells.
But her peculiar design wasn’t the only topic bandied about, for as well there was her crew, and what a strange mix they were—forty Men and forty Dwarves. Why, it was common knowledge that Dwarves never went to sea, though they were Hèl on foot as fighters. And then, too, it was said by some that this Captain Aravan often took on Wee Folk, too, them what call themselves Warrows; as to what these little’ns might be good for, well, that was anybody’s guess.
And so the rumors persisted, for three millennia or more.
And still the Elvenship defied all the predictions of doom.
And still no one else was mad enough or wise enough to attempt another one like her.
Two more days she ran, the winds gradually shifting about, changeable in this season, now blowing southwesterly, the Eroean running before a following wind. But on the third day…
First Officer Jatu held a small sandglass. �
��Ready the log line,” he called.
“Ready, sir,” responded Artus, the sailor holding the reel.
“Cast the log.”
Rico heaved the wood over the taffrail, the billet splashing into the wake. Unreeling the line to the first knot, Artus payed out a length and then stopped the spool, the log now a hundred feet astern.
“All set, sir,” barked Artus.
“Ready?” called Jatu.
“Ready!” responded Artus. “Ready!” said Rico, too.
“Then loose!” cried Jatu, turning the sandglass over.
Artus released the spool, his eye on its spinning, making certain that it ran free on the greased axle. Rico watched as the cord reeled out, counting the knots as they sped past: “Un. Dis. Tis…” The Tugalian counting in his native language, though ordinarily he spoke the shipboard speech—the Common Tongue.
Moments later—“Belay!” cried Jatu, the top glass empty, the sand run through, Artus jamming shut the reel brake, halting the line.
“Ancé nutos—eleven knots—and some,” said Rico.
“Pah!” spat Jatu. “As I thought: the winds are dying. Midline Irons ahead.”
Over the course of the next few days, the ship slowed and slowed and slowed even more, the wind gradually becoming but a faint stir of air. And even with all sails set, still the doldrums clutched at the Eroean as honey traps the fly. They crossed the equator with the gigs unshipped and the crew rowing, towing the slack-sailed Elvenship southerly, Men and Dwarves alike taking turns at the oars. And the Sun beat down unmercifully in the torrid, summer days, its searing rays slashing through the stifling mute air, reflecting back from the copper-colored, molten brine.
Yet by burning day and hot still night the crew rowed onward, the Men singing chanteys, the Dwarves canting warrior chants.
Four days they rowed, Aravan sighting on the heavens, gauging the Eroean’s position; not only was he captain of this vessel, he was the pilot as well…for like all Elves he had the gift of knowing the skies, aware at all times precisely where stood the heavenly bodies—Sun, Moon, and stars—and thus as navigator he was unsurpassed.
“The southern boundary draws nigh,” he said on the fourth night to Rico. “On the morrow we should find the wind.”
“Aye, Kapitan,” replied the bo’s’n, mopping his brow. “¡Diantre! I be glad when wind she come, stuck on midline as we be. I never t’ought I say this, but I going to welcome polars, blow and chill and everyt’ing. But to find wind in these lats, bah, at this time of year south equatorial she be as fickle as north. Still we be ready. Sou’easters or sou’westers or any bearing, we be ready.”
The very next day, the sails of the Elvenship belled slightly as the rowers towing the craft finally came into a faint sou’westerly breeze. Swiftly the gigs were shipped back aboard as the bo’s’n set the sails for a southerly run, and into the capricious monsoons the Eroean fared.
Due south she ran for three days, the wind shifting about, and on the eve of the third day the Elvenship came at last unto the southeasterly trades. And with the wind abeam on the larboard side, southwest she turned, running for the Cape of Storms, the wind gaining in strength the farther south she fared.
One hundred leagues a day she sailed, three hundred miles from Sun to Sun, over the course of five days, but then she came to the Doldrums of the Goat, there in the southern latitudes. Even so, gentle breezes blew, though fitfully quartering first this way then that, and the crew was hard-pressed to manage the sails in the shifting airs, yet after three days and a half the ship came into the prevailing westerlies beyond the southern calms. And south and west continued the Eroean, aiming now for the polar realm in which lay the Cape of Storms.
Steadily the winds increased, the farther south she fared, and the lengthening nights grew cold and colder, and chill grew the shorter days as well. The speed of the ship increased, and she ran sixteen and seventeen knots at times, logging more than three hundred fifty miles a day on three days running. And the weather became foul, rain and sleet off and on lashing against the ship, while large breaking waves raced o’er the southern Sindhu Sea, the Eroean cleaving through the waters, her decks awash in the cold brine.
In the swaying light of the salon’s lanterns, Aravan looked across the table at Jatu and at Frizian, third in command, the small Gelender’s white face in stark contrast with that of the black Tchangan’s. Spread out before them was Aravan’s precious charts, marking winds and currents throughout the oceans of the world. Back in the shadows stood Tink, one of the cabin boys on this voyage, the flaxen-haired lad from far Rian. A knock sounded on the aft quarters door, and Tink sprang down the short passageway to open it, and in through wind and spray came Rico and Bokar, followed closely by Reydeau, second bo’s’n of the Eroean, all three wearing their weather gear, boots and slickers and cowls.
Tink took the dripping coats from them, hanging them on wall pegs in a corner. And all gathered ‘round the chart table, including the cabin boy.
Aravan’s finger stabbed down on the map. “In a day or three we will reach the waters of the Cape, and I would have ye all remind the crew what it is we face.”
“Storms,” breathed Tink, and then gasped at his own boldness, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence it.
Aravan smiled at the lad. “Aye, Tink, storms indeed. Summer storms at that.”
Bokar growled. “Stupid southern seasons. Just backwards! Here winter is the warm season and summer is the cold.”
Jatu laughed. “Ah, Bokar, backward or not, the polar realm is always frigid, though the Sun may ride the sky throughout the day.”
Rico nodded, adding, “A bad place, this cape, by damn. Hard on crew no matter season. Snow hammer on rigging, weigh down both sail and rope wit’ ice. In autumn, there be snow or sleet or freeze rain or anyt’ing, and same be true of spring. Even in heart of warm part of year it be not very different, ha! much of the time freeze rain hammer on ship. But in cold season, like now, storm always seem bear snow and ice, and wave run tall—greybeard all—¡Diantre! a hundred feet from crest to trough.”
Aravan gazed down at the chart. “It is ever so in these polar realms, that raging Father Winter seldom looses his grasp.”
Tink, too, stared at the map. “And the winds, Cap’n, wot about the winds? Will they be the same as wot we came through before?”
“Aye, ‘tis the very same air—westerlies, and constantly running at gale force, or nearly so. Seldom do those winds rest, and the Eroean will be faring into the teeth of the blow.” Aravan looked up at the faces about him. “And I would have ye all recall to the crew just what it is that we likely face: thundering wind, ice, freezing rain, short days and long nights fighting our way through. Each jack will have to take utmost care to not be washed over the rails, for like as not, he will be lost. Remind them again that tether ropes are to be hooked at all times aloft…and, Rico, Reydeau, rig the extra deck lifelines for surely they will be needed.”
“The sails, Captain,” said Reydeau, the Gothan’s dark eyes glittering in the lantern light, “is there something spécial you would have me rendré?”
“The studs are already down,” replied Aravan. “Likely we will furl the starscrapers and moonrakers as soon as we round the shoulder of the cape…the gallants and royals as well. I deem that we’ll make our run on stays, jibs, tops, and mains, though likely we’ll reef them down somewhat.”
“And the spanker, too, eh, Cap’n?” put in Tink.
Aravan laughed, as did Jatu and Reydeau. “Aye, Tink,” answered the Elf, reaching out and tousling the towheaded cabin boy’s curls, “and the spanker, too.”
“Kapitan,” said Rico, “I t’ink you might speak to crew about running cape. They no doubt like word straight from you.”
A murmur of agreement rumbled ‘round the table.
“Aye, Rico, I had intended to. Assemble the Men, and thou, Bokar, gather the Drimma as well. Shall we say at the change of the noon watch on the morrow?”
Sleet p
elted down upon the ship, while in the forward quarters below, Aravan stood on a sea chest and spoke to the Eroean’s crew, the weather too harsh to hold an assembly above. And as the hull clove through the rolling waves and brine billowed over the decks, all the Men and Dwarves gathered ‘round their Elven captain, all but three remaining up top—Boder, the wheelman, and Geff and Slane, two aides.
Aravan spoke of the cape and reminded them all of the weather at this time of year, for although each had been through this passage before, it was two years past and in a different season. Too, they had made the transit from west to east, running with the wind, and this time they fared the opposite way, into the teeth of the gale. Aravan spoke of the ice that would form on the ropes, and of the driven snow that would blind them and weigh down the sails. “Yet,” he said, near the last, “we have made this run before. The Eroean is a sturdy ship, and ye are a fine crew. I fear not that we will see the Weston Ocean in but a week or so. Still, I would caution ye to take care, for if any be lost to the waters, we will not be able to wear around the wind in time to save ye in those chill waves, and to do so would put the entire ship at hazard. So, buckle up tightly when up top, for I would see ye all when we’ve passed beyond the horn.
“Be there any questions?”
Men and Dwarves stirred and peered ‘round at one another. At last a seaman raised a hand—Hogar, an aid to Trench the cook, signed on just two years past. At a nod from the Elf, the Man stood, cap in hand. “Cap’n Aravan, sir, why not ‘ead east across th’ South Polar Sea and make for th’ Silver Cape? Wot Oi mean, sir, not t’ question y’r judgement or skills, Oi wos but wonderin’ why run again’ th’ wind when we c’n run wi’ it instead?”
Aravan smiled. “This time of year, Hogar, the Silver Cape is all but impassable, those rocky straits filled with mountainous waves of grinding ice and the air with churning hurricanes. The Cape of Storms is fierce, but the Silver Cape is deadly.”
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 7