Magician (79 page)

With a slight smile Arutha said, “And
when Gardan and Algon return from patrol, instruct them to take care
of you.”

Fannon’s eyes blazed as he shot
back. “Insolent pup! I can best any man of the castle, save
your father. Step down from the gangway and draw your sword, and I’ll
show you why I still wear the badge of Swordmaster.”

Arutha held his hands up in mock
supplication. “Fannon, it is good to see such sparks again.
Crydee is well protected by her Swordmaster.”

Fannon stepped forward and placed his
hand upon Arutha’s shoulder. “Take care, Arutha. You were
always my best student I should hate to lose you.”

Arutha smiled fondly at his old
teacher. “My thanks, Fannon.” Then his manner turned wry.
“I would hate to lose me, also I’ll be back. And I’ll
have Erland’s soldiers with me.”

Arutha and Roland sprang up the
gangway, while those on the dock waved good-bye. Martin Longbow
waited at the rail, watching as the gangway was removed and the men
upon the quay cast off lines. Amos Trask shouted orders, and sails
were lowered from the yards Slowly the ship moved away from the
quayside into the harbor. Arutha watched silently, with Roland and
Martin beside, as the docks fell behind.

Roland said, “I was glad the
Princess chose not to come. One more good-bye would be more than I
could manage.”

“I understand,” said
Arutha. “She cares for you greatly, Squire, though I can’t
see why.” Roland looked to see if the Prince was joking and
found Arutha smiling faintly. “I’ve not spoken of it,”
the Prince continued. “But since we may not see each other for
some time after you leave us in Tulan, you should know that when the
opportunity comes for you to speak to Father, you’ll have my
word on your behalf.”

“Thank you, Arutha.”

The town slipped by in darkness,
replaced by the causeway to the lighthouse. The false dawn pierced
the gloom slightly, casting everything into greys and blacks. Then
after some time the large upthrust form of the Guardian Rocks
appeared off the starboard quarter.

Amos ordered the helm put over, and
they turned southwestward, more sails set to bring them full before
the wind. The ship picked up speed, and Arutha could hear gulls
crying overhead. Suddenly he was struck with the knowledge they were
now out of Crydee. He felt chilled and gathered his cloak tightly
around him.

Arutha stood on the quarterdeck, sword
held ready, Martin to one side notching an arrow to his bowstring.
Amos Trask and his first mate, Vasco, also had weapons drawn. Six
angry-looking seamen were assembled upon the deck below, while the
rest of the crew watched the confrontation.

One sailor shouted from the deck,
“You’ve lied to us, Captain. You’ve not put back
north for Crydee as you said in Tulan. Unless you mean for us to sail
on to Keshian Elarial, there’s nothing south save the straits.
Do you mean to pass the Straits of Darkness?”

Amos roared, “Damn you, man. Do
you question my orders?”

“Aye, Captain. Tradition holds
there’s no valid compact between captain and crew to sail the
straits in winter, save by agreement. You lied to us, and we’re
not obliged to sail with you.”

Arutha heard Amos mutter, “A
bloody sea-lawyer.” To the sailor he said, “Very well,”
and handed his cutlass to Vasco. Descending the ladder to the main
deck, he approached the seaman with a friendly smile upon his face.

“Look, lads,” he began as
he reached the six recalcitrant sailors, all holding belaying pins or
marhnespikes. “I’ll be honest with you. The Prince must
reach Krondor, or there’ll be hell to pay come spring. The
Tsurani gather a large force, which may come against Crydee.”
He placed his hand upon the shoulder of the sailors’ spokesman
and said, “So what it comes down to is this: we must sail to
Krondor.” With a sudden motion Amos had his arm around the
man’s neck. He ran to the side of the ship and heaved the
helpless sailor over. “If you don’t wish to come along,”
he shouted, “you can swim back to Tulan!”

Another sailor started to move toward
Amos when an arrow struck the deck at his feet. He looked up and saw
Martin taking a bead upon him. The Huntmaster said, “I
wouldn’t.”

The man dropped his marhnespike and
stepped back. Amos turned to face the sailors. “By the time I
reach the quarterdeck, you had better be in the rigging—or over
the side, it makes no difference to me. Any man not working will be
hanged for the mutinous dog he is.”

The faint cries for help of the man in
the water could be heard as Amos returned to the quarterdeck. To
Vasco he said, “Toss that fool a rope, and if he doesn’t
relent, pitch him overboard again.” Amos shouted, “Set
all sails! Make for the Straits of Darkness.”

Arutha blinked seawater out of his eyes
and held on to the guide rope with all the strength he possessed.
Another wave crashed over the side of the ship, and he was blinded
once more. Strong hands grabbed him from behind, and in the darkness
he heard Martin’s voice. “Are you all right?”

Spitting water, he shouted, “Yes,”
and continued to make his way toward the quarterdeck, Martin close
behind. The Wind of Dawn pitched and rolled beneath his feet, and he
slipped twice before he reached the ladder. The entire ship had been
rigged with safety lines, for in the rough sea it was impossible to
keep a footing without something to hang on to.

Arutha pulled himself up the ladder to
the quarterdeck and stumbled as much as walked to Amos Trask. The
captain waited beside the helmsman, lending his weight to the large
tiller when needed. He stood as if rooted to the wood of the deck,
feet wide apart, weight shifting with each move of the ship, his eyes
peering into the gloom above. He watched, listened, each sense tuned
to the ship’s rhythm. Arutha knew he had not slept for two days
and a night, and most of this night as well.

“How much longer?” Arutha
shouted.

“One, two days, who can say?”
A snap from above sounded like cracking spring ice upon the river
Crydee. “Hard aport!” Amos shouted, leaning heavily into
the tiller. When the ship heeled, he shouted to Arutha, “Another
day of these gods-cursed winds buffeting this ship, and we’ll
be lucky if we can turn and run back to Tulan.”

They were nine days out of Tulan, the
last three spent in the storm. The ship had been relentlessly pounded
by waves and wind, and Amos had been in the hold three times,
inspecting the repairs to the keelson. Amos judged them due west of
the straits, but couldn’t be sure until the storm passed.
Another wave struck the ship, and it shuddered.

“Weather break!” came the
shout from above.

“Where away?” cried Amos.

“Dead starboard!”

“Come about!” ordered Amos,
and the helmsman leaned against the tiller.

Arutha strained his eyes against the
stinging salt spray and saw a faint glow seem to swing about until it
stood off the bow. Then it grew larger as they drove for the thinning
weather. As if walking out of a dark room, they moved from gloom to
light. The heavens seemed to open above them, and they could see grey
skies. The waves still ran high, but Arutha sensed the weather had
turned at last. He looked over his shoulder and saw the black mass of
the storm as it moved away from them.

Moment by moment the combers subsided,
and after the raging clamor of the storm, the sea seemed suddenly
silent. The sky was quickly brightening, and Amos said, “It’s
morning. I must have lost track of time. I thought it still night.”

Arutha watched the receding storm and
could see it clearly outlined, a churning mass of darkness against
the lighter grey of the sky above. The grey quickly turned to slate,
then blue-grey as the morning sun broke through the storm. For the
better part of an hour. Arutha watched the spectacle, while Amos
ordered his men about their tasks, sending the night watch below and
the day watch above.

The storm raced eastward, leaving a
choppy sea behind Time seemed frozen as Arutha stood in awe of the
scene on the horizon. A portion of the storm seemed to have stopped,
between distant fingers of land. Great spouts of water spun between
the boundaries of the narrow passage in the distance. It looked as if
a mass of dark, boiling clouds had been trapped within that area by a
supernatural force.

“The Straits of Darkness,”
said Amos Trask at his shoulder.

“When do we put through them?”
Arutha asked quietly.

“Now,” answered Amos. The
captain turned and shouted, “Day watch aloft! Midwatch turn to
and stand ready! Helmsman, set course due east!”

Men scrambled into the rigging, while
others came from below, still haggard and showing little benefit from
the few hours’ sleep since they last stood watch. Arutha pulled
back the hood of his cloak and felt the cold sting of the wind
against his wet scalp. Amos gripped him by the arm and said, “We
could wait for weeks and not have the wind favorable again. That
storm was a blessing in disguise, for it will give us a bold start
through.”

Arutha watched in fascination as they
headed for the straits. Some freak of weather and current had created
the conditions that held the straits in water-shrouded gloom all
winter. In fair weather the straits were a difficult passage, for
though they appeared wide at most points, dangerous rocks were hidden
just below the water in many critical places. In foul weather they
were considered impossible for most captains to negotiate. Sheets of
water or flurries of snow blown down from the southernmost peaks of
the Grey Towers tried to fall, only to be caught by blasts of wind
and tossed back upward again, to try to fall once more. Waterspouts
suddenly erupted upward to spin madly for minutes, then dissolve into
blinding cascades. Ragged bolts of lightning cracked and were
followed by booming thunder as all the fury of colliding weather
fronts was unleashed.

“The sea’s running high,”
yelled Amos. “That’s good. We’ll have more room to
clear the rocks, and we’ll be through or dashed to pieces in
short order. If the wind holds, we’ll be through before the day
is done.”

“What if the winds change?”

“That is not something to dwell
on!”

They raced forward, attacking the edge
of the swirling weather inside the straits. The ship shuddered as if
reluctant once again to face foul weather. Arutha gripped the rail
tightly as the ship began to buck and lurch. Amos picked his way
along, avoiding the sudden wayward gusts, keeping the ship in the
westerly trail of the passed storm.

All light disappeared. The ship was
illuminated only by the dancing light of the storm lanterns, casting
flickering yellow darts into murk. The distant booming of waves upon
rocks reverberated from all quarters, confusing the senses. Amos
shouted to Arutha, “We’ll keep to the center of the
passage; if we slip to one side or the other, or get turned, we’ll
stave in the hull on rocks.” Arutha nodded, as the captain
shouted instructions to his crew.

Arutha fought his way to the forward
rail of the quarterdeck and shouted Martin’s name. The
Huntmaster answered from the main deck below that he was well, though
waterlogged Arutha held tight to the rail as the ship dipped low into
a trough and then started to rise as it met a crest. For what seemed
minutes the ship strained upward, climbing and climbing, then
suddenly water swept over the bow and they were heading downward
again. The rail became his only contact with a solid world amid a
cold, wet chaos. Arutha’s hands ached from the effort of
hanging on.

Hours passed in cacophonous fury, while
Amos commanded his crew to answer every challenge of wind and tide.
Occasionally the darkness was punctuated by a blinding flash of
lightning, bringing every detail into sharp focus, leaving dazzling
afterimages in the darkness.

In a sudden lurch, the ship seemed to
slip sideways, and Arutha felt his feet go out from under him as the
ship heeled over. He held to the rail with all his strength, his ears
deafened by a monstrous grinding. The ship righted itself, and Arutha
pulled himself around to see, in the flickering glow of the storm
lanterns, the tiller swinging wildly back and forth and the helmsman
slumped down upon the deck, his face darkened by blood flowing from
his open mouth. Amos was desperately scrambling upright, reaching for
the lashing tiller. Risking broken ribs as he seized it, he fought
desperately to hang on and bring the ship back under control.

Arutha half stumbled to the tiller and
threw his weight against it. A long, low grinding sound came from the
starboard side, and the ship shuddered.

“Turn, you motherless bitch!”
cried Amos as he heaved against the tiller, marshaling what strength
he had left. Arutha felt his muscles protesting in pain as he
strained against the seemingly immobile tiller. Slowly it moved,
first an inch, then another. The grinding rose in volume, until
Arutha’s ears rang from the sound of it.

Suddenly the tiller swung free once
more. Arutha overbalanced and went flying across the deck. He struck
the hard wood and slid along the wet surface until he crashed into
the bulwark, gasping as wind exploded from his lungs. A wave drenched
him and he spluttered, spitting out a lungful of seawater. Groggily
he pulled himself up and staggered back to the tiller.

In the faint light Amos’s face
was white from exertion, but it was set in a wide-eyed, manic
expression as he laughed. “Thought you’d gone over the
side for a moment.”

Arutha leaned into the tiller, and
together they forced it to move once more. Amos’s mad laughter
rang out, and Arutha said, “What’s so damn funny?”

“Look!”

Panting, Arutha looked where Amos
indicated. In the darkness he saw huge forms rearing up alongside the
ship, blacker shapes against the blackness. Amos yelled, “We’re
clearing the Great South Rocks Pull, Prince of Crydee! Pull if you
wish to ever see dry land again!”