Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  All eyes scanned the dark, night sea…finding nothing.

  “Wot’r we looking for, Cap’n?” asked Tink, the lad jittering about in the wintry wind.

  “I don’t know, Tink—something untoward…large or small I cannot say.”

  Tink’s eyes scanned the horizon. “Lor, no matter if it’s as big as a house, in all this vastness it’ll be like searching for a needle in a haycock.”

  Bokar growled, “Or a cork bobbing about on the sea.”

  “I see nothing here,” said Jatu. “Where now, Captain?”

  Aravan glanced overhead at the stars. “We will sail the line drawn on the map. Guide on the third star up in the Serpent’s Tail.”

  “Aye, Captain. —Reydeau, pipe the sails. Boder, follow that star.”

  Sailing this course they ran for an hour and then another, faring along the uncertain boundary between the icy waters of the Northern Sea and the milder Weston Ocean.

  Still nothing did they find.

  In the third hour on this track, overhead the glimmerings of the northern lights began. And Jinnarin and Aylis and Alamar remained on deck to watch for plumes.

  “Captain,” said Jatu, “by my reckoning we are now over forty leagues from Rwn, one hundred twenty miles.”

  Aravan glanced at the stars again. “Aye, Jatu, thou art fair exact. Bring her about. We will run the line opposite, but tack larboard and starboard a league or so each way.” Aravan turned and pointed to a constellation southeasterly. “Guide on the Shepherd’s Crook.”

  Alamar harrumphed. “I say, Aravan, what if we are zigging when we should have zagged?”

  “Then, Alamar, we shall have missed whatever there is to miss. E’en so, we saw nought when we ran a straight course, and so if something lies a league left or rightward, then if Fortune smiles upon us, we will come across it; otherwise we will not.”

  Reydeau piped the sails about, reversing the Eroean’s course, the ship now tacking back along the southeasterly line.

  Another hour passed, the night deepening, and of a sudden Jinnarin shrieked, “There’s another one! Another plume!”

  Both Alamar and Aylis muttered Visus, and looked to where Jinnarin pointed. A great long stream detached itself from the aurora and flowed down toward the eastern horizon, disappearing beyond.

  “Line it up,” barked Alamar. “Pick out a star where the plume disappeared.”

  “The red one on the horizon,” said Aylis.

  “I agree,” responded Alamar. “Axtaris, it’s called.”

  By this time Aravan had reached their side. “In line with Axtaris, Aravan,” said Alamar, “that’s where it went down.”

  “Due east, Jatu,” called Aravan. “Due east we sail, Reydeau.”

  As the ship was heeled over to sail easterly, Aravan turned to Alamar. “Hast thou any estimate as to how far?”

  “Less than two hundred miles, I would say. Perhaps no more than a hundred fifty.”

  Alamar turned to Aylis. She shrugged. “Beyond the horizon, Father, that is all I can say.”

  Jinnarin nodded in agreement.

  And with a stiff winter wind off the starboard stern quarter, eastward ran the Eroean.

  The Sun had not set late in the day when they came to the waters off the northern coast of Rwn. The lookouts aloft had seen nothing unusual as the Elvenship cruised easterly, the Men relieving one another often because of the cold, cold air out upon the open sea. Another shift was just changing when Aravan came to the wheelhouse, where the officer of the deck and the steersman now stood out of the blow.

  “Anything at all, Frizian?”

  “Nay, Captain.”

  Boder at the wheel spoke up. “Where to next, Cap’n? I mean, what be the course?”

  “East, Boder, east. We’ll run at least until dark.”

  “Then what, Cap’n?”

  “Then we’ll see, Boder. More I cannot say.”

  Aravan held an officers’ meeting just after sunset, the Eroean yet running east.

  Gathered ‘round the map table were Jatu, Bokar, Frizian, Reydeau, Rico, and Fager. There as well were Jinnarin, Aylis, and Alamar. Aravan spread a chart upon the board. Two places were marked thereon: one where Alamar had judged the first plume had fallen, the other at his less-certain placement of the second.

  Aravan looked up from the map. “Though we have seen two plumes and have followed them to their landings, we have found nought but waves in the water.”

  Bokar growled, “Aye, Captain Aravan, nothing but waves. But that is not all, for we pursue something that I cannot even see—another ‘nothing’ to my way of thinking. Kruk! I feel as if we are chasing an invisible will-o’-the-wisp!”

  Alamar bristled. “Well I can see it, Dwarf. And I tell you that it is a something and not a nothing we pursue.”

  “Father,” said Aylis, “Bokar is not doubting our word. It’s just that it is difficult for a warrior to grapple with something he cannot see.”

  Bokar nodded vigorously. “You have the right of it, Lady Aylis. Give me a foe I can see and I will soon put him down. But invisible will-o’-the-wisps are not at all to my taste.”

  Jinnarin sat down on the map, pondering. “What we need is a way of being at the place where a plume comes down at the time it comes down.”

  Jatu slammed a fist into palm. “Exactly so, Lady Jinnarin. In pursuit, perhaps we will never find out what is happening. But let one come to us, and, well, mayhap things will change.”

  Aravan smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Frizian looked back at the map. “What do you propose, Captain.”

  Aravan drew a line between the two marks, then extended it on eastward another hundred and fifty miles, and there he put a third X. “I say we sail on another fifty leagues to this point and wait. Should a plume come down after we arrive, then surely it will strike nearby.”

  Jatu grunted. “That assumes, Captain Aravan, that the next one—the third plume—will be eastward by the same distance that the second one was from the first.”

  “Aye,” replied Aravan. “Same distance, same direction.”

  Alamar cleared his throat. “Hem! But, Aravan, I am not at all certain that the second one was fifty leagues away from the first.”

  Frizian looked at the Mage. “But, Mage Alamar, you were dead certain about the location of the first, e’en though that was more than two hundred miles away.”

  “Right!” exclaimed Alamar. “But I was sighting out across Rwn. And gauging the likely size of the plume, and given the scale of the island, I could better judge where it landed. This time, though, we were on open water, and”—Alamar’s jaw jutted out defiantly—“I’d like to see you try to size something up when you’ve got no reference. Fifty leagues, sixty, seventy—I doubt you’d come even that close!”

  Aravan turned up his palms. “Nevertheless, Alamar, thine is the best estimate we have. Hence, I suggest we sail easterly to this mark.” Aravan’s finger stabbed down on the third X.

  Jinnarin looked up at the others ‘round the table. “Seems as good a chance as any.”

  “By damn, third time, she be charm, Miss Jinnarin,” said Rico with a grin.

  Aravan also looked about at the others. “Any additions, amendments, alternatives?” Silence answered him. “Then set sail, Rico, all she will bear. Run due east another fifty leagues and hope that we are in position before the next plume falls.”

  “Aye, Kapitan,” replied the bo’s’n, and he turned on his heel and left.

  Aravan turned to the second officer. “Frizian, run her hard and true, for I would catch this will-o’-the-wisp.”

  Frizian saluted. “Aye, Captain. Be there more?”

  Aravan shook his head negatively, and the officers returned to their duties or to rest, each frowning, as if secretly fearing that the chase would be long and hard.

  When they were gone, Jinnarin sat alone in the center of the table, her head down in reflection. Aravan reached for the map, clearing his throat, for the Pysk sat i
n its center. When Jinnarin looked up, Aravan said, “Thou art troubled, Lady?”

  “Oh, Aravan, I was just thinking of something that Rico said.”

  “And that was…?”

  “Well, he said, third time’s the charm.”

  Aravan raised an eyebrow.

  Jinnarin added, “I am reminded that the fourth time’s the harm.”

  They had sailed some thirty-five leagues—mid of night drawing nigh, the boreal lights writhing above—when in the remote distance ahead another plume streamed down from above and toward the ocean beyond the horizon afar.

  “Where away, Alamar?”

  “Close, Aravan. No more than fifty or sixty miles ahead.”

  “Twenty leagues.” Aravan turned and called aft, “Rico, what be our speed?”

  “Fourteen knots, Kapitan” came the reply.

  “Four hours,” gritted Aravan. “Again we are late.”

  “But on the right course,” said Jinnarin, pointing easterly. “It was nearly straight ahead.”

  Aravan sank into thought. Finally he turned to Jatu and Frizian. “Cut through the position where fell the plume, but maintain our course and sail on past if nought is seen. I deem that we can reach the expanse where the next one will fall ere the Sun sets on the morrow.”

  Aye, Captain, they each replied.

  But a coldness clutched at Jinnarin’s heart, for throughout her mind echoed the bodeful thought, Fourth time is harm…is harm…harm…

  At four in the morning on the twenty-first of December the Eroean sliced through empty chill waters where Alamar had judged the third plume had fallen, and neither lookouts nor deck watch saw aught. And not slowing at all the Elvenship sailed on easterly, running before the steady winter wind. Thirteen knots and fourteen was her speed, and leagues of cold ocean slid under her keel as the day drew on, dawn arriving at last, the low winter Sun rising later and later as Year’s Long Night approached.

  Jinnarin and Aylis and Alamar took to their quarters, for in a bare nine hours the Sun would set, and they needed sleep.

  Jinnarin found Rux curled up in her under-bunk cabin, and she spent some time grooming him and speaking softly, for she felt as if she had neglected him of late, though it was not so. Nevertheless she used a small comb to groom his cheeks and chest and the tip of his tail—in those places where his fur was white. And then she curled up at his side and promptly went to sleep.

  Alamar came into his cabin and fell into his bunk, and shortly his snores filled the chamber. A partially full bottle of brandy sat untouched on the writing desk, the elder completely uninterested in drinking, now that he was engaged in the chasing of plumes.

  Aylis and Aravan lay side by side, the Elf clasping the Lady Mage. And when she slipped into slumber, carefully he disengaged his arm from around her and softly slid from bed. He sat on the floor with his back against a bulkhead, resting his mind in gentle memories, meditating deeply…as Elves are wont to do.

  Yet Aravan had been resting but an hour or so when a loud knocking came on his stateroom door. After a moment and another knock, Aravan roused. He stood and glanced at Aylis, the seeress sound asleep. Stepping to the door, he found Frizian standing outside.

  “Captain, the Sun. ‘Tis being eaten by the Moon.”

  “Ah me, Frizian, I had forgotten. An occultation will come this day. I will speak to the crew.”

  All day the gloom grew as the Moon slowly crept across the Sun, steadily blocking out the light, while in the darkening skies above glimmered faint traces of the aurora. Protecting their eyes, sailors and warriors only occasionally glanced at the spectacle, and then but briefly. And they muttered to one another in low voices and timorous whispers, for no matter the fact that Captain Aravan had spoken to them, and no matter the fact that they knew the cause, still, old tales and superstitions hang on grimly to the hearts of Men and Dwarves alike. And every Man and Châk among them looked upon this occultation as an ill-starred omen.

  Alamar arose just after the noon hour and railed at the sky that no one had thought to awaken him, for his passion was the study of the heavens, and now a full half of the Sun was obscured and he’d missed all to this point. It was Aylis, however, who reminded him that he, too, had forgotten the significance of this date.

  Steadily the eclipse deepened, and was at its fullest less than an hour ere sunset, though still a sliver of the Sun showed. “Were we at my cottage on Rwn, we’d have seen the whole of it for there the Moon has eaten all.”

  But Jinnarin looked at the darkness with disquiet in her heart, for her thoughts kept repeating, Fourth time is harm…Fourth time is harm.

  “Keep her under constant sail, Frizian,” ordered Aravan. “Run her about a tight, closed course. I would have us lose no time and already be in motion when the next plume comes down.”

  Frizian glanced back at the slender limb of the setting Sun, yet obscured by the Moon. “Aye, Captain. We’ll be under all silk when the next plume falls. We may be going the wrong way at that moment, but if we are, we’ll bring her about straightaway and leave wake aft.”

  “We’ll run it down, whatever it be, Captain,” added Hegen. “It’ll not get away from us this time, will-o’-the-wisp or no.”

  The ecliptic penumbra slid into night as the Moon-obscured Sun finally set, and the ship began running a triangular course, cutting through the same waters again and again.

  Hours passed, and still the ship continued orbiting about, the crew haling on the sheets to bring her onto the same repeated headings over and again.

  “Lor,” said Artus, “I thought it was bad running all day beneath a disappearing Sun, but it’s even worse sailing the same course over and over. Why, I say it’s just like being on a ghost ship sailing to nowhere.”

  “Ooo,” shuddered Lobbie, “don’t say that. It’s bad enough that we’re runnin’ under these ghostly lights in the sky above wi’out you pronouncing a ghostly doom on us all down here as well.”

  Reydeau’s piping broke up their conversation, and they moved to hale on the lines and bring the ship about once more.

  “Argh!” growled Bokar among his armed and armored warriors. “I feel as if we are chasing our own tails.”

  Beside him Dokan nodded and inspected the blunt face of his warhammer. “Just give me something to fight, Armsmaster. Pirates, Grg, even a Madûk—it doesn’t matter which.”

  “Aye,” added Dask. “We’ve been too long without action, chasing will-o’-the-wisps.”

  Bokar nodded and thumbed the edge of his axe. “Mayhap tonight, Châkka. Mayhap tonight.”

  Still the ship ran its tight course, another hour or so, and then Jinnarin called out, “Overhead. Aravan! Overhead! A plume! A great plume! —Oh, Adon, it’s going to hit us!”

  Aravan looked up, the plume plunging down, and even his Elven eyes could see it, it was so close, the luminous streamer flowing toward the Eroean. Huge it was, and palely lucent, pouring down from above, yet roaring as would a vast fire, it hurtled on past them and aft. Even the Men and Dwarves, though they did not see it, knew that something immense raced by, for hair stood on end and the rigging glowed, and witchfire raced along the yardarms and masts, and there was a great bellowing in the sky. Above the ship the streamer arced past, racing aft to strike the ocean just over the near horizon.

  “Bring her about starboard, Reydeau,” called Aravan, but the bo’s’n seemed frozen in awe.

  “Reydeau!” barked Aravan. “I said bring her about.”

  Reydeau shook his head as if regaining awareness. “Aye, Captain,” he said at last, and he raised his pipe to his lips, a series of piercing whistles relaying the commands.

  Even so, still the Men moved cautiously, as if afraid to touch the sheets, for they yet glimmered here and there with the glow of spectral fire. But Bokar raged across the deck, shouting, “Be you a bunch of superstitious poltroons? Take hold those lines and bring her about!”

  Spurred into action by the warrior, at last the Men sprang to the sheets and
haled the yardarms ‘round, bringing the ship to a southerly course, Hegen spinning the wheel hard over. Slowly the Eroean turned deosil, the wind aiding in swinging her from the northerly course through the east and toward the south.

  “Alamar!” called Aravan. “To me!”

  The eld Mage came aft to where Aravan stood. “How far?” asked the Elf.

  “No more than ten miles. Mayhap less.”

  “Even mine eyes saw it this time, Alamar, and I would say thou art right.”

  Aravan turned to Frizian. “Our speed on this course, give me a mark as soon as able.”

  As the Elvenship steadied up on the southerly course, Frizian and Artus let out the knot line, the sand running through the glass. “Eleven knots, just under, Captain,” called Frizian.

  “Damn!” cursed Aravan. “Nearly an hour away.”

  On ran the Eroean, gaining no speed, aiming for where the plume landed. And in the bow stood Jinnarin and Aylis, peering forward through the starlight.

  Southerly they raced, and as they drew nigh—“Look sharp,” called Aravan.

  Jatu rumbled, “Would that there were a full Moon above, then mayhap we could see something.”

  “Fear not,” said Aravan. “Lady Jinnarin stands in the bow. Lady Aylis as well, with her magesight. Mine own eyes are sufficient to see by starlight. And the Drimma see well in the night. Between the lot of us, we should espy whatever there might be.”

  “Aye, Captain, but the Men aboard would like to see as well.”

  “Hola, Captain,” came Bokar’s shout from the bow, “Lady Jinnarin sees something bobbing about in the waters ahead.”

  “Where away, Bokar?”

  “A point or two off the starboard.”

  “Run for it, Hegen.”

  “Aye, Captain,” responded the steersman, turning the wheel a bit.