His eyelids grew heavy. He sensed he was on the verge of lying down again. With a determined effort, he garnered enough wherewithal to shake his head but the pervasive song—yes, that’s what the voices were, a song—dominated his thoughts. Tendrils of mist massaged his body. His tongue ran across his lips.
Alarms cried out from the deepest recesses of his mind.
The ocean had stopped rolling. Gerrymander had stopped moving.
The enchanting melody soothed away the last traces of his wit. Sweat soaked his clothing, and yet, his body shivered profusely. He fought to remain lucid but he couldn’t stop himself from slipping further into the trance intent on claiming him. He had to stop this. He had to stop the portal from latching onto his soul.
Without warning, the song stopped. The mist no longer tasted sweet. The fog ceased to massage his weary body. He jumped to his feet and unsheathed the Sacred Sword Voil. Holding it with both hands, turning first one way and then the other, he had no idea how he was going to battle mist with his sword.
Seeing nothing but an opaque, orange haze, he blinked his eyes several times to rid his lashes of the moisture that had settled upon them. He wasn’t prepared for what stood before him when he blinked the last time.
The imposing form of Seafarer loomed over him. The reptilian creature faced him from atop a large slab of granite that they both stood upon. All signs of the Gerrymander were gone.
Silurian closed his eyes and shook his head. The mist was playing tricks on him. Daring to open his eyes again, fearful of what he would see, the creature’s burning red eyes glared back at him.
“Seafarer?”
The creature didn’t answer.
The runes etched into the Sacred Sword Voil sword emitted a light blue glow. He must be dreaming. He’d had this dream before.
Seafarer started toward him.
Silurian stepped back. “Seafarer. It’s me, Silurian.”
When the first crimson blasts shot forth from Seafarer’s eyes, he deflected them with his sword.
“Seafarer. What are you doing?” He parried another blast.
Seafarer stopped his advance. For no discernable reason, his massive head twisted and began to melt.
Silurian wanted to scream but the shock of what he was seeing prevented him from doing so. What kind of devilry was this?
Green flesh and twisted bone fell to the rock platform they hovered upon, sizzling and disappearing in a puff of smoke. As disgusting as the vision was, he wasn’t prepared for what stared back at him.
Buried deep within the gore that had been Seafarer’s head, Silurian detected a piece of broken glass. Long, bloodied hair grew from the carnage.
Silurian looked on in horror. He dropped his sword with a clang. “No,” he managed to whimper.
Seafarer’s head transformed into the last image Silurian had of his beautiful wife, Siaph—the base of a broken vase driven into her ruined face. To either side of the vase, her terrified eyes beseeched him to help her.
Silurian dropped to his knees, the strength sapped from him. His chest convulsed with wracking sobs. He had to help her. He reached out to grab his suffering wife.
The revolting thing before him emitted a hideous laugh.
Recoiling, he retrieved his sword—the bluish glow gone.
Bloody hands reached for him. A gruesome gurgle escaped his wife’s throat, her broken jaw attempting to close on the broken vase.
“No!” His anguished scream hurt his throat. Adrenaline he hadn’t experienced in many years gripped him. He hefted his sword above his head.
Long claws reached out and clutched him by the front of the woollen sweater Tara had given him, pulling him into its grasp.
He stepped backward to break the creature’s hold. Shredded pieces of the grey sweater Tara had given him were held within the abomination’s ghoulish grasp. He drove his sword into the middle of the gory vision.
The air ignited in a blinding flash, shattering the platform. The concussion lifted him from his feet and hurtled him through the ethereal orange mist.
If not for the bulk of the central mast, Silurian would have been thrown overboard. His body broke upon the unyielding pole.
Hell’s Stew
Gerrymander carved through light seas of her own accord, the air cool upon the rolling waters. Her sails strained against their ropes, propelling the ship with considerable speed, though peculiarly, without the aid of a discernable wind. It had been three days since the eye of the portal had abruptly released her.
Thorr stood before the chart table with Rook and Alhena with a look of frustration. “These charts are useless. We have no idea where we are, if we’ve gone anywhere. Nor do we know where we’re headed.”
Rook didn’t know what to say. There was no sign of land anywhere but they must have gone somewhere. He followed the bleary-eyed captain’s gaze to the horizon ahead of them. The most peculiar part of the whole experience since being released by the portal was the absence of the sun, the moon, and the stars. Above the Gerrymander, the unblemished sky seemed no different than any other, except for the fact that it lacked a sun.
The days consisted of regular intervals of daylight and darkness, but where the light came from, no one had any idea. When the night did fall, it did so without warning. One moment it was light, the next it was pitch black. No moon or stars illuminated the night sky.
The captain lifted his hat and combed his hair with his fingers. “I can’t believe we lost three men during the transition through the portal. Where’d they go?”
If the question wasn’t rhetorical, nobody answered.
Rook glanced up at Olmar’s sad face as the helmsman kept the wheel steady. How did he know where to steer?
Seeing the worry on Alhena’s face, he placed his hands on his shoulders. “Fear not, my friend. Silurian will recover from his hurts.”
Alhena shrugged free of his grasp. “Hell damn you, Bowman! Where were you when the portal hit?”
Everyone around them gave a start.
Undeterred, Alhena persisted, “You cannot possibly know if Silurian will recover. What if he does not? The only one capable of warding Silurian properly is you.”
They had been over this ground before, but Alhena wouldn’t let it go. Rook patiently allowed him to vent.
“Three men lost their lives. Had the main mast not interrupted Silurian’s flight, it might have been four. Where would we be then?”
Rook couldn’t look Alhena in the eye. “I figured he was well taken care of.”
“Is that so? Well…” Alhena was beside himself. “The success of this mission depends on the two of you—not one, two. If we lose one of you,” he motioned for Rook to look around. “We will have sailed to this godforsaken place for nothing. Hellfire, we do not even know if we can get back. According to what Seafarer told us, our chances are not good. If Silurian had died while you were putting your…” Alhena’s face shook. “Everyone will have put their lives on the line for what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Absolutely nothing, that is what.”
“You’re right.”
“Right? Of course, I am right. We have been over this before. He should mean more to you than that woman. More to you than all of Zephyr combined. How do you fail to see that?”
Rook shrugged.
“Thetis is a beautiful woman, without a doubt, and critical to our cause, but without your total devotion to Silurian, our quest is meaningless.”
Rook’s cheeks burned. He didn’t know how to explain his deep-rooted emotions, both for Silurian and Thetis.
Alhena threw his hands up in disgust and stormed from the helm’s deck.
Rook thought he heard him mutter as he descended the stairs, “We may as well lay down our arms and save Helleden the bother.”
“I care not for this place.” Captain Thorr said to no one in particular. The sails hung slack the morning after Alhena’s confrontation with Rook.
The captain stood in his usual spot behind the chart table. O
lmar manned the helm, his great bulk making the large wheel seem like a child’s toy in his grasp. Alhena had joined them at daybreak.
“Cap’n?” Olmar asked.
The captain stared over the port rail, his distracted response barely audible, “No sun. No moon. No stars. No clouds, nor wind.” He studied the unfathomable water skimming past the gunwale. “Who knows what unearthly creatures lie in wait below.”
Neither man disagreed with his misgivings.
Thorr scanned the horizon for any sign of land.
Olmar did likewise. “I ‘ope blondie made a proper choice o’ course. I’m thinkin’ she ain’t rightly sure ‘erself where this Under Realm lies.”
“If these waters aren’t the Under Realm itself,” Alhena mumbled.
Thorr wrested his gaze from the peculiar sky. “You think so?”
Alhena shrugged. “No, not really. I hope not anyway. Not many of us have been gifted with gills.”
Thorr squinted at Alhena for a moment and then smiled for the first time in days.
“Master Alhena!” Pollard’s voice reached them. “Master Alhena!” The large man strode with purpose across the lower deck.
Alhena raised his eyebrows at his two companions and hurried to the top of the steps.
“Master Alhena, Silurian has come to.”
Reaching the healer’s cabin, Pollard opened the creaky door wide, allowing Alhena to enter first. The room was cloaked in a thick pall of pipe smoke.
Nashon Oakes, the ship’s healer, sat huddled over a small desk, scribbling notes on a worn parchment. He clutched a crudely carved wooden pipe between a set of imperfect, yellowed teeth.
A bed dominated the cabin’s back wall with Silurian sprawled beneath a lump of woollen blankets. Sporadic, rasping breaths escaped his lips. As his head turned slowly to regard his visitors, his gaze focused on Alhena. He smiled ever so slightly, before slipping back into unconsciousness—his wheezing exhalations eased noticeably.
Alhena couldn’t see. Tears of thankfulness dripped into the wisps of his grey beard. The trials that Silurian had continuously endured in order to save the people of Zephyr from Helleden overwhelmed him.
The healer checked his pipe’s contents before placing it in the only adornment in the room that didn’t appear ratty—a finely carved pipe holder depicting a mermaid lounging upon a bed of rocks. He rose from his desk. “That is the first time he has focused on anything…A good sign.”
Alhena rubbed at his eyes. “How are his injuries?”
“’Tis hard to say. He shan’t die from them.”
“But?”
“Time will tell. He isn’t young anymore.” The healer retrieved his pipe and lifted it to his lips, his tone making it obvious he had left something unsaid.
Pollard went to stand by Silurian, concern written on his face.
Mulling over Nashon’s statement Alhena prompted, “Go on.”
Nashon ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “I’m concerned with his mental state. He mutters incoherently, speaking disjointed words like, Guardian, Melody, Sye-af? I believe that’s the word he uses.”
“That would be his deceased wife, Siaph.”
“Ah.”
“Does he eat?”
“Aye, and drink, when we put it to his lips.”
Silence fell over the cabin.
The healer resumed his seat and glanced over his notes. When his deep voice broke the serenity, Alhena jumped. “Something poisons his thoughts, of that I am certain.”
Pollard looked up at that, a great sadness on his face.
“Your presence seems to have brought him a measure of peace,” Nashon said solemnly. “Perhaps he will be alright after all.”
Alhena felt nauseous.
“Fret not, my friend,” Captain Thorr’s voice sounded behind him. “You’ve said he’s a stubborn man. From what I know of him, he won’t give up easily. He’s just gathering his strength to deal with what lies ahead.”
Alhena turned to acknowledge the captain, but Thetis’ sudden entrance caught him off guard.
She stopped in her tracks and frowned at him.
Alhena pushed past her in disgust and left the cabin.
“What’s with the old man?” Thetis asked no one in particular.
Pollard eyed her with disdain.
“We should reach the Under Realm within a couple of days,” she said, ignoring the look. She spun on Nashon. “How does he fare? We’ll need him shortly.”
Nashon gave her a cold stare. “I wouldn’t count on him doing anything anytime soon, unless you plan on killing him.”
She stared at the healer, frowning, and then paced to the bedside, almost bowling Pollard out of the way. She bent low over Silurian’s face.
Pollard glared at her, but she either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
He restrained the urge to wrap his hands about her thin waist and throw her from the room.
Thetis gathered Silurian’s limp hands in her own and whispered into his ear. Her incoherent words sounded like a soft chant.
Without a word, she let Silurian’s hands fall limp to the bed and spun about, walking quickly from the room.
Pollard exchanged puzzled looks with the men left in the room. He glanced back at Silurian, shocked to discover him totally at ease. No sound escaped his lips. In fact, he didn’t appear to be breathing at all.
The next two days passed strangely. Rain fell from a barren sky while Gerrymander moved along at incredible speeds in the absence of a discernable wind. Day suddenly became night, and night day.
Oarsmen were constantly on standby. The billowing sails would suddenly hang slack and then, just as quickly, fill with air again.
Olmar manned the helm more often than he didn’t, always accompanied by Captain Thorr.
Alhena, Avarick and Pollard took to rotating watches at Silurian’s bedside.
Rook seldom appeared above deck, except for the occasional foray aft to check on the ship’s progress, or to stand with Thetis on the bow.
Alhena watched her appear above deck with mixed feelings. Gerrymander had already lost a few good people to something they had no control over. Judging by the bizarre environment they now sailed in, things weren’t about to improve any time soon. Where had she taken the ship? He was still mulling this over when Rook appeared on deck.
The bowman approached the helm, pulling his weatherproof cloak tightly around himself as rain suddenly lashed the deck, though not a cloud dotted the sky. The ship’s spars creaked under the strain of the billowing sails. He nodded to those assembled around the wheel, making a point to avoid Alhena’s scrutiny.
The always cheery Olmar smiled. “Greet’n Master Bowman. Why so glum?”
“Ah, nothing…just tired.”
Alhena bit back the bitter words on the tip of his tongue, pretending to study the map pinned on the chart table. Three sand dials sat upon the blank map, filtering time at various rates. Olmar had made a crude inscription upon the chart, representing the body of water they sailed upon, and labelled it, ‘Hell’s Stew.’
Pollard elbowed Alhena and pointed with his chin.
Thetis appeared on the afterdeck. She stopped beside Rook and without so much as a greeting said, “Mintaka fares much better this day.”
When no one responded, she added, “Must be comforting news to the quest.”
Alhena scrutinized the odd woman. There was something not quite right with her.
“Now the quest can pick up where it left off,” her sweet lilt washed over the assembled men. “If my instincts hold true, the Under Realm lies just over the horizon. If the sails continue to hold wind, we should make anchor this afternoon.”
All eyes widened at that. If what she said was true, the quest would soon be leaving Gerrymander’s relative safety and setting foot on foreign soil. Not just any alien land, but the Under Realm itself, in search of the Soul Forge.
Before anyone responded, Thetis grabbed Rook’s hand and pulled him toward the stairs.
>
“Land ho!” came the cry from the mainmast crow’s nest later that afternoon. All hands not required elsewhere made their way to the prow. With the ship skimming the low rolls at great speed, those assembled along the bow rail were mesmerized as the dark blur upon the horizon grew into bluish-purple crags.
The captain ordered the mainsails furled to slow Gerrymander’s approach. The last thing they needed was to break upon an unseen reef. He stood aft with Olmar, checking the sand dials’ progress. Ever since their first day upon Hell’s Stew, when it became apparent that the light abruptly winked out and left them floundering in absolute darkness, Olmar had set up the sand dials. With the aid of his three-different time measuring devices, he had discovered that the time between daylight and darkness remained constant.
Captain Thorr lifted the middle hourglass, its grains almost spent. He gave the order to unweigh the anchor.
Shortly after the great anchor broke the water’s surface, the light simply vanished.
By following the acrid smoke, anyone could find their way to the healer’s cabin blindfolded. Squealing hinges announced Alhena’s entrance into the hazy, ill-lit room.
Nashon sat at his desk, two flickering tapers spilling wax onto the tabletop. Placing his pipe within the mermaid’s embrace, he stood and shook Alhena’s hand.
“How does he fare?”
The healer nodded several times, as they observed Silurian sleeping. “Well…quite well, actually.”
“You sound surprised.”
Nashon kept nodding, biting at his bottom lip. “He’s doing better than he should be.”
Alhena frowned.
Nashon shook his head. “I knew he would recover from his physical ailments, but not this fast.”
Alhena squinted through the pipe smoke haze at his resting friend.
“And yet, by some miracle, he is pretty much healed.”
“And that is unusual?”
“I’d say. Very much so.” The healer lowered his voice, “If you ask me, I think that Thetis woman had something to do with it.”
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