Darkin: A Journey East (21 page)

Looking at the lightning bolt once more, it seemed to be growing wider at a faster rate—it had sprouted branching rays from its stem, and before being blinded Adacon took hold of a sight that disturbed him most deeply—though he couldn’t be completely sure, he thought he was seeing ice rocks; giant chunks of white bobbing in the water near the spot where the bolt funneled into the ocean. Adacon momentarily forgot his pursuit of Erguile as he stood in shock, watching a floor of ship-sized mats of ice spread rapidly in every direction away from the lightning, covering the sea underneath. The tendrils that forked out from the main bolt began to grow erratic and far-reaching; it seemed that it would not be long before a league-long tentacle would reach out and scorch the tiny schooner where it fought the violent swells. Adacon remembered his urgency and looked to Erguile, who was still trying with all his power to keep Weakhoof from jumping into the sea.

Speech was useless against the piercing thunder, so he didn’t try to communicate once he reached them; he only gripped the horse’s mane to keep it from going overboard. Both slaves were losing strength, and Weakhoof readied to finally break free; the pain of the noise had strengthened such that it was too much to bear. The horse stopped struggling. Adacon and Erguile both looked at him, wondering why he no longer fought: Weakhoof was looking calmly at the lightning bolt, as if he had suddenly been petrified by it. Adacon traced the horse’s stare and saw what had transfixed it—there in the distance where the ice-floor spread toward them, undulating from its pulsating center, a great wall of ocean rose, tall as half the height of the lightning. Adacon froze, realizing that the ice was in fact no wall; it was a wave, driving toward them, devouring the grey of the horizon. The great mountain wave powered on toward the helpless Blockade Runner; it grew higher with each passing second, taking more of the sky for its own. Adacon could no longer see the bolt of lightning, only the rolling wave that drove to cover the whole horizon in white bergs. Adacon and Erguile looked at each other, farewell in their eyes, then back again to their final vision. The schooner rocked and rolled, somehow remaining afloat; it was a surprise of luck that the ship had not yet flipped from the turbulence, or had a lightning tendril reach out and take it.

In a final moment of acceptance, as ice crystals showered his face from the sky-destroying wave overhead, Adacon looked about the ship; time was dilated by some strange force, and he took it as a chance to be comforted by the sight of his friends one last time before they shared in death. Flaer and Slowin had not moved in the slightest since last he saw them; they stood helplessly staring, the same as Weakhoof, awestruck by the fury that had so suddenly thwarted their quest. The next moment came, the wave finally ready to overtake them, and Adacon caught a most startling image—Remtall stood against the starboard rail, calmly smoking his pipe, shielding his tobacco from the downpouring ice crystals, smiling; then the gnome winked at him. Adacon decided the sight an illusion, and being filled with powerlessness he turned at last to meet his fate. The mountain-high wave of icebergs crashed, drowning everything in white, and the numbing chill of death forsook the crew of the Blockade Runner.

*                  *                 *

Adacon opened his eyes and began to rub his head. An awful pain coursed through his temples.

“Terrible dream,” he said to himself. He recalled a terrifying storm where a lightning bolt had stayed in the sky, thunder had roared unwaning, and a wave of ice and light destroyed the Blockade Runner. Slowly he rose, his senses unclouding, and he looked around: he was no longer on the Blockade Runner; all about was endless ocean and a scorching sun, half-risen in the center of the sky. Adacon realized himself to be in some kind of translucent boat; in shock he saw the ocean through the floor where he lay. Frantically he rubbed his eyes to be sure of what he saw. The sight remained the same, and around him hugged the rim of a tiny vessel that he could see through. At the opposite end sat Remtall, looking away toward the eastern horizon.

“Remtall!” Adacon squealed, forsaking his grogginess.

“Morning,” Remtall replied. The gnome turned to face Adacon, pipe in hand, lighting his tobacco.

“Where are we?” Adacon said, standing up to survey their surroundings, looking at the half-invisible boat that was separating him and the gnome from the depths of the sea.

“I expect we are fifteen leagues from the Fang Shoals, dear boy.”

“What happened? The storm from my dream was real?”

“But of course. I’d just as soon have stayed on the schooner had it not been sundered by that damned magic.” Remtall spoke without apprehension, as if it had happened long ago.

“What about the boat—the others?”

“Calm down some, boy. We are three days from land.”

“Three days?”

“Yes, and you have slept two long months as we drifted across the Kalm. Give yourself time to settle into the waking life once more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s alright to not understand, boy. It was a terrible thing—that cursed bolt. Only thrice have I seen worse things come upon a ship at sea.”

“Are the others dead?”

“I cannot know for sure, but we are truly lucky to have been saved,” Remtall said, puffing continuously. He was sitting near a small store of food and drink, piled by the front of the boat. “Vesleathren must have come to know of our quest, for I know no other conjurer capable of such a spell. Lucky for us, the phantom ship had been trailing us—in fact, it trails us still…” he explained. Adacon glanced behind but saw nothing but blue sky and gentle water; then suddenly a flicker of color appeared, the outline of a hulking ship of old, grand next to their own small boat. As soon as Adacon saw its outline, the phantom ship disappeared, and there was again nothing there.

“I can’t believe it—and what about this boat, it appears to be made of air,” Adacon said, staring at their transparent floor, flickering in and out of existence, at times seeming like nothing was keeping Remtall and Adacon afloat.

“After the wave came down, they preserved us in a net of magic—phantom magic—but they could not protect the others, or our poor ship, for the storm came too quickly,” Remtall told. “There is some hope that they survived, though my heart warns me against such romantic thoughts; you see, a month ago, as you slept, Yarnhoot paid us a visit. In his beak he held a parchment—from Krem the Vapour.”

“Krem!” Adacon gasped.

“The same who first journeyed with Erguile and you from the Solun Desert into the Vashnod Plains. Here—read for yourself and find what hope may be afforded by it,” Remtall said. He fetched a yellowed scroll from one of the bags at his side, unrolled it and handed it to Adacon. He read the handwritten ink on the parchment:

‘Dear travelers,

I must write vaguely, for as much as I trust Yarnhoot’s hardihood, recent news has made it clear that this letter may never reach you, and I must account for the chance it will fall into their hands.

Know that the hermit of Molto’s Keep lives, and goes about aiding you in ways unseen. Sorry I am for the abrupt departure, A. and E., but a severe matter darkened our world—such that it grew blacker than I could have foreseen. You know this now, I am sure.

Know also that phantoms trail you, keeping watch for your safety. They repay a favor of old. Be not saddened either, for my magic is with the rest. Press on, brave journeyers, and seek your destination still. Farewell.

Sincerely,

~Solun Hermit’

“I must be the abbreviated A, and Erguile the E,” Adacon realized, regaining spirit.

“When he writes
be not saddened
, I take him to mean the loss of Slowin, Flaer, and Erguile,” Remtall responded.

“Yes, it must be,” Adacon replied, overjoyed. “And Weakhoof as well, let’s hope.”

“It won’t be long before we pass through the Fang Shoals and reach Erol Drunne. In the meantime, we must think of some great thanks to pay the phantoms for keeping us alive.”

“Have they been with us since the storm?”

“They have,” Remtall answered, taking a drink from his flask. “Since the moment they set us to sea in this boat, they have watched us, keeping us with food from the wrecked schooner.”

“Then I will attempt to repay them in what way I can once we arrive.”

“Try as we might, part of me thinks they will disappear as soon as they have guided us as far as Krem asked them to,” Remtall guessed.

“Either way, we remain in their debt,” Adacon said, and he turned to the phantom ship behind them but saw nothing; he waved with glee at the blank sky.

“It is perhaps through some magic of theirs that you were sustained through your sleep,” Remtall said. “For as I tried to force feed you, you would never take what I gave, save for some rum I managed to drizzle past your teeth.” He cracked a wry smile.

“The debt I owe for being kept alive—be it to Krem, the phantoms, or Gaigas—I will try to repay somehow,” Adacon proclaimed. Remtall ignored him and set about making a small meal of stale bread and dried meat.

The two sat under the hot sun, drifting atop the half-invisible floor, eating and discussing their fate.

“Should we still fear the Fang Shoals with the phantoms aiding us?” Adacon asked in between bites.

“We do not need to fear the shoals themselves, as this dinghy seems to glide above the water. We might take her into the surf and onto the sand if we needed to. But Karabden is a different story,” Remtall muttered.

“Does it lurk in the waters we head toward?” Fear trickled into the back of Adacon’s consciousness.

“I have been told as much by all the captains of the sea I ever knew. I know that if maneuvered right, the whirlpool of Karabden can be wholly avoided. I have also heard that the maneuvering needed to avoid her is a tremendous feat, even for a sea-gnome,” Remtall explained.

“But it’s the phantoms who move our ship, isn’t it?”

“It is boy; this vessel has no sails, as you know, nor any oars or rudders,” Remtall replied. “Relax—you think too much already, and you’ve only just got up. Enjoy the peace of the Kalm, for we are upon the shoals in two days time.”

“You want me to rest after I’ve been resting for two months? You’re right though, there’s nothing I can do. Why did I sleep so long?”

“As I remember it, a great brick of ice clipped your head, just before that net of the phantoms formed. Lucky you survived at all, I think.” They had their fill of bread and meat, and then the gnome and human stretched out to find as much comfort as possible on the tiny boat floor. Remtall erected a tarp he had made from one of their food sacks, shielding them from the scorching rays of sun.

“And Remtall,” Adacon said.

“Yes?”

“You looked so calm, I remember, just before the wave hit us. You were even smoking your pipe still…”

“As I said before boy, I have thrice seen worser things come upon my ship at sea, and thrice have I survived. A gnome knows his end when it nears, and I knew that wasn’t it. Enough about that forsaken storm—let us talk of women, boy, and the ones you’ll soon meet when we come ashore,” Remtall said, changing the topic. Adacon laughed, sighed, and lay down under the makeshift canopy. Remtall began a long treatise on how to properly treat, and seduce, a lady. 

The next two days passed slowly, and the waters of the Kalm Ocean remained friendly to the phantom dinghy. Adacon and Remtall talked much, and when they weren’t talking about women the conversation would turn to Remtall’s son. Adacon relayed all that he could remember about his friend, and considering that Remtall, the son, had taken action against the tyranny of Grelion first, Adacon credited him as the true starter of the rebellion. Remtall drank and listened, smoking occasionally, and when Adacon’s turn for story ended, the gnome told endless tales of the great gnomen fleet he once commanded. He detailed the service he had rendered to Commander Grelion Rakewinter in times before the name bore ill omens. It had been more than a half century since the Five Country War came to pass, and Remtall spoke of it as if it had happened yesterday; he told of great naval battles, and of the final blast that ended the war. He offered a shocking new truth about the Five Country War—Flaer Ironhand himself had commanded an army, alongside a great king of the south, and in the final hours before the end of the war, Flaer himself had dueled against Vesleathren. 

“Flaer dueled with Vesleathren?” Adacon repeated in surprise.

“Sure as I drink ale, boy, he did—and that is how he came to possess the Brigun Autilus,” Remtall replied.

“The Brigun Autilus was Vesleathren’s sword?”“Yes—you might see his traces when it glows, speaks, or conjures other sources of devilry unknown to me,” attested Remtall.

“I wonder why there was so little protection over the sword—Slowin took it from the tower so easily; he didn’t break a sweat.”

“Hahaugh!” Remtall laughed heartily. “A metal golem sweating!” He violently coughed at the image, choked some, then finally resettled. “I cannot say why Grelion took so little care in keeping it safe; I daresay he did not know the full power of that sword, nor its origins.”

“How old is Flaer?”

“Much older than me, young boy. And
I
am much older than any ordinary man could hope to live,” Remtall replied. “A great and ancient enchantment courses through his veins, though he will not speak of it. It keeps him young and fertile—but it is a curse, for he is doomed to live longer than even elves.”

“Elves? Tell me about them,” Adacon begged.

“Now is not the time,” he replied, turning his head sharply to watch the crash of a soft wave against the transparent hull. In the distance ahead, waves churned in a circular motion. Though they foamed violently, they were still far off. Adacon could make out the frothy lips of the rough water, crashing on top of itself as it spun in a wide circumference.

“Is that…”

“Karabden.”

Remtall shot a glance back at the phantom ship that trailed them, but he saw nothing flicker or appear. He returned his gaze to the whirlpool that already drew them steadily toward its center.