The Dragonstone

CHAPTER 35

As sailors on deck turned toward the sound of the screams, Aiko flung open the door to the aft quarters. In the dimness at the far end of the hallway, she saw a shadowy form scramble down a rear ladder toward the holds below, taking the shrieks with it. To the right, one of the cabin doors swayed to and fro, the tiny quarters empty.

" "Ware!" called Egil, but, gripping her swords, Aiko plunged after, the pommels of the weapons clattering on the rungs as she clambered down. Egil followed, with Arin close after.

They came into the crew's quarters, and men, startled, were looking in the direction the yowling form had fled. Their heads swiveled around as Aiko darted past, then Egil and Arin. "Oi, naow, what's all this-?" called out a crewman, but his words were left behind as down another ladder plunged the trio, chasing after the screamer.

Now they came into a darkened hold, and among the bales of furs they could hear a blubbering and hissing, a voice sissing out in a loud whisper, "The bilge. The bilge. They'll never look there. Never." Then-"Eee! Eee! Trolls! They're coming! They're coming! They're going to get me! Yaaaaa…!" and horrified shrieking filled the air once again.

Egil freed a hanging lantern from its short chain and used the striker to light it. Then holding it high in his left hand, his axe in his right, he followed Aiko toward the screams-which suddenly stopped, to be replaced by a sobbing and scrabbling sound.

They rounded a pile of bales to find a man on all fours scratching at the deck planking and sobbing and babbling to himself, "The bilge, the bilge, get into the bilge." He was a dirt-streaked, disheveled old man, who looked up at them with a blind white eye, his mouth stretched wide in fear, lips pulled back from brown-stained teeth.

It was Alos.

He shrieked and scrambled back from them, his arm outstretched to hold them at bay, all the while howling, "Trolls! Trolls! Eee…!"

As sailors swarmed down the ladder behind, Arin, her long-knife now in hand, snapped, "Aiko, what says thy tiger?"

Aiko shook her head. "Nothing," she growled. "Nothing at all." With a flip of her wrists, Aiko reversed her grips on the pommels and sheathed her swords, then stepped toward Alos.

The old man's eyes flew wide with terror. "Eeee-" he shrilled, then clapped both hands across his mouth to stifle his own screams, and squeaking and sissing he scuttled backward into the shadows and away, seeking refuge in the darkness among the bales.

"What d'ye think she be?"

"I dunno, Cap'n," replied thirty-year-old Alos, helmsman of the Solstrale, a merchant kravel out of the port of Havnstad in Thol. "Ne'er seen a thing like her."

Astern, a dark ship, long and slim and driven by both wind and oars, continued to draw closer, her black hull cleaving the waters and her dusky sails bellyed full.

"She looks to be a two master, Cap'n," added Alos, shading his eyes against the setting sun, bloodred on the horizon. "But her sails, wing-on-wing… huh, they both have the look of our mizzen."

Captain Borkson grunted and nodded. "Lateens, lad, both main and fore… like a ship o' th' southern seas. What a southern ship'd be doing in th' Boreal…"

Alos shook his head. "Southern may be her sails, Cap'n, but her oars, well now, I'd think they be northern-Fjordlander or Jute. D'ye reck' she's one o' them, fitted up with new riggin'?"

"Well, what e'er she be," said Jarl, the Solstrale's first bo's'n, "she be o'ertakin' us. A full eight candlemarks ago she stood on th' rim, and now she be halfway here. I make it she be runnin' near two knots faster than we."

"Aye, that she be," replied Borkson, "an' I nae like th' look o' her. Alos, fall off t' th' larboard, four points. We'll see if she j'st hap's t' be on th' same course or 'stead be tryin' t' o'erhaul us. Jarl, pipe th' riggin' t' make th' most o' th' wind."

"Aye aye, Cap'n," replied Alos, spinning the wheel as Jarl piped the signals to the crew.

The Solstrale heeled over as the ship swung to larboard, and the crew trimmed the sails to catch the wind now quartered off the port stern.

Moments later the black ship heeled over as well, her lateens now both set to starboard, her oars stroking the sea.

"Jarl, run up th' pennons askin' her t' identify hersel'."

Jarl piped the crew and signal flags were lofted. As the pennants ran skyward on the halyard, Alos said, "If she's a southerner, Cap'n, she might not know the Boreal codes."

Borkson did not reply… and neither did the black ship, and the wind in her sails and beat of her oars did not slacken.

"I think she still be o'erhaulin', Cap'n. Four miles astern, I gauge," said Jarl.

"Run up our own colors, Jarl," said Borkson.

As the sun set, again Jarl piped the crew, and the blue-and-yellow flag was lofted into the gathering twilight.

But still the black ship gave no indication of her identity, and her oars churned against the water.

"She be haulin' us in like a fish on a spindle, Cap'n, a fish t' be gaffed, I might add," said Jarl.

"Jarl, pipe th' officers t' th' poop, helmsmen, too."

Moments later, the bo's'ns and mates and helmsmen gathered 'round the captain. Hearing the signal as well, other members of the crew drifted up to the main deck, where seamen on duty pointed out the dark ship astern, her dusky sails silhouetted against the lavender sky.

After briefing the officers and helmsmen, Borkson said, "Here be my plan, gentlemen: we run on this course until full night falls, then we'll bring th' Solstrale hard astarboard to run a beam reach. In th' dark th' black one astern will nae be able t' see our extreme course change. There being no moon this darktide, we should gi'e her th' slip."

First Mate Sigurson glanced at the darkening sky, then raised his hand and, at a nod from the captain, said, "I judge it now be four candlemarks till full night. How close will she be when we make our turn?"

"I judge a mile, more or less," replied Borkson.

"Let us hope it be more than less," said Jarl, sotto voce, which brought chuckles to all lips.

Smiling and confident, Borkson said, "Spread th' word among th' crew, and ha'e them douse all light, then stand by until we're well away frae th' dark ship aft. And tell 'em t' be quiet as hold mice, for I'd nae ha'e rattle nor clack nor blather gi'e us away in th' dark."

Looking aft, Alos, his heart pounding, watched the dusky sails against the ever darkening twilight sky, the helmsman no longer able to see the black ship's hull against the waters of the Boreal Sea as she slowly drew closer. Some three candlemarks passed and stars glimmered ere he lost sight of her altogether, yet he could now hear the pulsing beat of a distant drum measuring out the strokes of her oars. Another candlemark passed and the drum grew louder, like the thud of an ominous heart, and lo! he espied luminous swirls in the water where the oars churned the brine.

"Stand ready," hissed the captain to bo's'n and helmsman, and as Jarl, unthinking, raised his pipe to his lips, Borkson said, "Nay, Jarl, I'll ha'e no pipes gi'e us away. Trim th' sails by word o' mouth, and in whispers at that."

Word was passed and the men stood by, and at last Captain Borkson gave the order "Hard over," and when the crew felt the ship begin to heel to the tiller, they haled the lines and swung the yards on the mizzen, main, and foremasts to bring the ship 'round twelve full points to set the wind direct on the starboard beam and make the most of it.

As the ship came to her new heading, Alos straightened the wheel and breathed a sigh of relief. But then, from aft, mingled with the drumbeat, he heard sinister laughter floating over the waves. Holding the wheel steady, Alos glanced rightward out over the sea toward the position of the dark pursuer, and of a sudden, a greenish glow enveloped the rigging of the black ship. Alos sucked air in through his teeth and gasped, "Adon!"

"Witchfire," sissed Sigurson, the first mate standing at hand. "Cap'n, she be burnin' with witchfire."

"Th' better for us t' see-" began Borkson, but then he broke off.

"Cap'n," hissed Alos, "she's turning on our-"

Suddenly, the Solstrale's own rigging flashed into witchfire flames, the ethereal luminance writhing over masts and yards, halyards, lanyards, ratlines, and the like. A collective wail from the crew of the Solstrale moaned up to the sky, and men covered their eyes to be shut of the sight of the ghastly glow.

Harsh laughter sounded across the water, and the tempo of the drum increased, and the black ship, her oars churning, her rigging burning, haled closer with each stroke.

"Cap'n, what'll we do?" cried Alos, his voice tight with fear.

"Sigurson, break out th' weapons," snapped Captain Borkson, "arm th' men."

"But Captain," protested Sigurson, gesturing at the rigging above and then aft, "the witchfire, the black ship, she's got to have a Wizard aboard. How can we-?"

"I said, arm th' men," snarled Borkson. "She'll no take us wi'out a fight."

As the first mate scrambled down the ladder to obey, the captain turned and scanned the ship aft. "She'll be on us in a candlemark or two, lads. Be prepared t' swing her t' larboard or starboard, Alos. Jarl, ha'e th' men stand ready. We'll gi'e her a run for it."

"Aye, Cap'n," replied Jarl. Then, "Oh, Adon. Look. On th' poop of th' black ship."

Alos turned and looked as well, and his heart leapt into his throat and he groaned in fear, for there on the fantail of the ship stood a form flaming with witchfire, his dark robes burning blue-green. It looked to be a man… yet deep in his shuddering bones, Alos knew it had to be a Mage. And the drum pounded and oars slashed down and through and up and back to its pulsing beat.

"Galley," hissed the captain. "I now remember. I ha'e heard o' these. Old ships, ancient ships, from realms far away-but I ne'er thought t' see one." He turned to Alos and Jarl. "We'll ha'e t' be nimble and stay off her bow, for 'tis told they bear rams."

"Rams?" Alos moaned.

"Aye, lad. Great underwater beaks. They'll hole our hull. Sink us down. We got t' stay clear."

His frightened face illumined by the witchfire in the rigging above, a sailor bearing blades came clattering up the ladder. "Y'r sword, sir." He handed the captain a saber, then falchions to Alos and Jarl.

His breath whistling in and out through clenched teeth, his heart hammering wildly, Alos took the falchion and slipped it through his belt.

Now the black ship, its rigging alight, was only three furlongs astern, drum pounding… then two furlongs, oars stroking… one furlong, laughter echoing across the waters… then directly astern.

"Oh, Adon, Cap'n," moaned Jarl, "they're Rutcha. Th' crew is Rutcha."

"And Drokha," added the captain, grinding his teeth. " 'Tis a Foul Folk craft."

Black-fletched arrows whistled through the air, thunking into ship's wood or slashing through canvas sails, but one took Jarl through the neck, and he fell backward, dead before striking the deck.

Now the black galley pulled to the starboard, edging alongside. "Hard alarboard," shouted Borkson, snatching up Jarl's pipe and signaling the crew.

Gasping in fear, Alos spun the wheel leftward as the crew pulled the halyards 'round, and slowly the helm began to answer, but then the ship lost headway as the broad lateen sails of the galley sliced across the flow of air to the kravel.

"She's got our wind, Cap'n!" cried Alos. "The black ship has stolen our wind!"

"Bring her about!" shouted the captain, raising the bo's'n's pipe to his lips and sounding the signal, yet in that same moment-thnk! chnk!-grappling hooks thudded over the wales, and the black galley, her drum silent and her oars now shipped aboard, began to wrench the kravel to her side.

"Repel boarders!" shouted the captain, drawing his saber. But then, "Oh, Adon, Trolls."

In the light of the witchfire and clambering up to the main deck of the black galley from the rowing deck below came behemoth Trolls. The men of the Solstrale cried out in fear, some leaping overboard in their panic, while others fell to their knees. And on the stern of the dark ship, the Wizard, glowing with ghastly flames, laughed in malevolent glee.

As Trolls clambered across the wales from galley to kravel, Alos, shrieking, abandoned the wheel and sprang down from the poop deck and bolted through the aft cabin door. Howling in panic, he fled along the passageway and scrambled down the aft ladder and forward through the crew's quarters and down a second ladder and into the holds below. Sternward he ran, along the planked aisleway and among the piled barrels and crates and bales, Alos weeping and hissing, whining to himself, "Hide in the bilge. They'll never find you there. Hide in the bilge, the bilge."

Sissing, moaning, he started down through the stern trap to the bilge below, but the falchion in his belt snagged on the rim. As shrieking and bellowing and screams of terror came from above, Alos hurled the weapon away into the darkness, the blade tumbling and clattering along the plank aisle. And then he was down and through, slamming the trap behind.

On his belly, Alos slithered through putrid bilge water across ballast stones, groaning and crawling toward the bow, away from the trapdoor aft, his breath coming in harsh gasps, whines and grunts and moans leaking from his lips. At last he fetched up against a thwart and could crawl no farther.

Panting, hissing, lying in water sloshing over the round rocks, still he heard the sound of chaos adeck. Then footsteps clattered down from above as someone else fled into the hold. "Don'tcomehere, don'tcomehere, don'tcomehere," Alos gibbered and hissed through clenched teeth, trying to remain silent, emitting tiny squeaks instead. Then a ripping and rending of timber sounded, followed by a hideous roar, and a voice in the hold shrieked in terror, panicked footsteps running along the plank walkway. There came a massive thud, as if something had dropped into the hold from the deck above, followed by the sound of ponderous footfalls overtaking the ones fleeing.

"Ygahhh!" shrilled the man, and his footsteps ceased, then he howled and howled and howled, as if in the clutches of a monster who lifted him up.

The massive thumping treads came back along the walkway, bringing the screaming along with it. Yet, suddenly, there was a horrid roar and the snapping of metal. Then there sounded a hideous cracking of bones, and the screaming stopped, followed by a sodden thud as something fell to the planks. Now there was a heavy, deep grunting and moaning as the ponderous footsteps began again, but this time unevenly, as of a monster limping.

Blue-green light leaked down through a chink in the planking above Alos's head, and puffing and sissing, clenching his fists and teeth, trembling uncontrollably, Alos raised up and peered with one eye through the gap overhead, trying to see.

There in the dimness above, down the walkway a monstrous bulky form loomed darkly, approaching, faltering, as if lame, groaning with every other step as it hobbled toward the witchfire light shining through the rent-open hatchway to the deck above. Alos could see it was a Troll, and he started to scream, but he clamped both hands across his mouth, stifling the sound. And then the monster's injured foot-the right foot, the foot that had stepped on a thrown-away falchion that had somehow become wedged in a crack in the dark, the foot that had borne the whole of the Troll's weight on the sharp point of the blade-that foot came down directly above Alos's upturned face, and a dark ichor that burned like fire plopped into one of Alos's fright-wide eyes.

His hands still pressed across his mouth, Alos shrilled through his nose in agony, and he pulled his right hand away and frantically clawed at the eye. Yet the caustic burning drove deeply into the socket, into his skull. In unbearable anguish, Alos jerked down and away, rolling over and plunging his face into bilgewater. And as he shrieked, bilgewater bubbling, and raked underwater at his eye, the groaning Troll above, unheeding, clambered back to the deck.

Time passed, and more time, and at last the shrieking above ceased, though there were yet moanings and weepings, as of men captured by Trolls.

Below in the bilge, Alos trembled and waited in silence, his right eye yet in torment, though the water had washed some of the fire away, and again and again he submerged his face in bilgewater to try to relieve the burn.

Finally, feet clattered down the ladderway-not the ponderous treadings of Trolls but lighter steps, instead- and he could hear voices speaking in a tongue he did not understand. Rutcha and Drokha? Are they looking for me? Again Alos clamped his hands across his mouth, sealing in his whimpers and whines, and he shrank back against the thwart, waiting for them to find him, waiting for his doom, wishing he had a weapon, wishing he now had his cast-off falchion, somewhere on the walkway above. If I had my falchion and someone came after me, I could kill them in silence and be safe. And he wept for his hurled-away blade. But the Foul Folk were not searching for Alos; they had come for the cargo instead. Grunting and swearing, they moved the barrels and crates toward the hatch, where Trolls lifted it to the deck above.

After a time, the Spawn left the hold behind, clambering up ladders and away. Alos could hear distant shouts and the beat of the drum, but these sounds, too, faded away, leaving silence after. Still Alos cowered in the bilge, trembling, weeping, moaning, his right eye filled with pain, and in the quiet the empty ship slowly rocked, swaying in the waves, the bilgewater sloshing to and fro across Alos.

But then he again heard the beat of a drum, drawing closer and closer still.

They're coming back to get me!

Alos whined and gibbered and wept into his hands.

Suddenly, with a horrendous crash, a great brass beak crashed through the side of the ship, timber splintering, water gushing inward after. Alos shrieked in fear, and tried to scramble hindward, but the thwart stopped him. Outside, the drum pounded and with a groaning and screeching the brass beak ponderously withdrew, the waters of the Boreal Sea thundering inward through the breech left behind.

Beneath the planking of the bottom deck Alos howled in terror, and choking, coughing, half strangling, he clawed his way across ballast rocks toward the distant stern, fighting through whelming torrents, attempting to reach the bilge trap. But the ship settled and Alos was plunged completely underwater, yet he clawed onward.

Again the brass ram crashed through the hull of the foundering Solstrale and judderingly withdrew, and more water thundered inward to flood the hold. The ship slowly canted sternward in prelude to its a final plunge downward.

Underwater, Alos finally reached the trap and was up and through, yet the hold was nearly full, but he swam straight up and into a trapped pocket of air. Coughing, gasping, he had only time for a breath or two before the pocket vanished under the rising brine. Now he swam toward where he thought the hatchway would be, and just as it seemed he could swim no more, he popped through. The canted decks were awash, the stern fully submerged, the Solstrale plunging fast. And as the ship went under, Alos was pulled down by the suck of the undertow. Down he was dragged and down, into the nightdark Boreal Sea, and though he tried to swim, he could not defeat the pull. And when the suck at last vanished, Alos drifted in the depths, spent, stunned, not knowing or caring which way the surface lay. But something slammed into him from below, and he was borne upward again. And tangled in wrack he came once more to the crest of the sea.

Overhead stars gleamed, remote and diamond cold, and of the black ship there was no sign.

Two days later a Fjordlander Dragonship fished Alos from the waters. They found him clinging to a shattered spar, nearly drowned and suffering from thirst, his right eye blind and burned and filmed over white. And he screamed when he saw the longship's oars and heard the stroke-drum sound. He gibbered for days, and spoke of a black ship, and shrieked in the night of Trolls. Yet all he would say when he seemed sane was that his ship had foundered.

They took him to Morkfjord and set him aland.

He began drinking that day-"To forget," he said-and he stayed that way for thirty-three years.

Mewling and gibbering and hissing of Trolls, Alos crawled backward from Arin.

Sailors came up behind. One shoved to the fore, a sandy-haired man, the Gyllen Flyndre's first mate. "What's all this houndin' one o' our passengers wi' swords and axes and knives, eh? We'll ha'e no murthers aboard this ship. Look at th' poor lubber; y' ha'e driven his wits away wi' fear."

Aiko growled and turned toward the mate, and he blenched but stood his ground.

Arin stepped between the two. " 'Tis not we who affright him so, but his own phantoms, deliriums."

"He's full of drink and seeing things," added Egil.

The sailors looked down at the cowering old man, and one of the men turned to the first mate and said, "Aye, Guntar, he was brought aboard unconscious drunk."

Arin turned to Aiko and Egil. "I don't understand why he's on the ship at all."

Aiko and Egil glanced at one another, as if sharing a secret, and Egil said, "After a week of searching, I finally found him last night… while you were packing provisions aboard the Brise, love. I knew there wouldn't be time to convince him to come with us, and so instead I took him to the Cove and bought him two flagons of Tryg's best brandy, and then I asked Olar and Yngli to lade him aboard the Gyllen Flyndre when he passed out."

Arin's eyes widened. "Dost thou mean thou spirited him here against his will?"

Aiko sighed. "Dara, you said that perhaps we needed him, that he might know the way to the holt of Ordrune."

Arin turned to Aiko. "Dost thou approve what Egil has done?"

Aiko lowered her head and peered at the deck. "Dara, I aided Egil, for I paid coin to Captain Holdar for Alos's passage to Jute."

Arin shook her head, and looked at Alos, the old man's mouth now stretched wide in a soundless scream as he clawed at invisible foe. Then she turned to the first mate and gestured at Alos. "Canst thou and some of thy men bear him to his cabin? I will fetch some balms to lay these phantoms to rest."

The mate nodded and signaled to two of the men, but it took six of them to carry the shrieking, wrenching, flailing, drunken old man to his tiny quarters.