The Messenger

10

For a time, Kerrick knew nothing, and when awareness returned it was with the reality of head-splitting pain, agony that threatened to blanket his entire existence in miserable torment. He tried to open his eyes, but something seemed to be holding them shut. His swollen tongue filled his mouth, all but choking him, and he groaned and thrashed and tried to lift himself up.

He couldn’t move. From somewhere he felt cool water trickling between his lips, and he drank greedily. His pain remained, and his blindness, but with his thirst somewhat quenched merciful oblivion returned, and he slept.

The next time he returned to vague consciousness he became instantly aware of the pain trying to crawl its way out of his skull. It seemed almost a living thing, a serpentine enemy that coiled through his brain, rubbing up against every nerve, hissing through his body. One of his arms, too, seemed a seething furnace, the pain searing his flesh. For a moment he wondered if he was dead, then decided no-death couldn’t possibly hurt this much.

With that realization came the first return of memory. He wasn’t rocking in a cradle, he was aboard a boat, most probably Cutter. He was suffering the residue of terrible injury … an assault that should, by rights, have shattered him and his boat and ended his life. An image loomed in his mind: That great, spiked tail lifting from the sea, trailing great sheets of brine as it swept through the air and lashed into the mast and boom of his sailboat. He remembered the snap of breaking wood, something smashing into his skull with brute force, and then oblivion.

How long had he languished? The only thing he remembered was a wet rag somehow finding its way between his lips, again and again offering him a few drops of moisture, at least sufficient to keep his tongue from curling up, to allow his throat muscles to work through a few reflexive swallows.

He realized that only his arm was immobile. The rest of his body he could move and flex ever so slightly. So thick was the fog in his mind that it was a very long time before he realized that someone was tending him, offering him the lifesaving moisture, over and over again. Oh yes, there was that kender who had leaped from the back of the dragon turtle into his boat … that was who it must be. Coral Fisher … something like that … some kind of nautical name … that much he remembered.

The elf awoke and shifted in his bunk, peering into the grayish light seeping through his eyelids. He turned his head toward the open cabin door. Searing pain shot through his head, but it was a welcome sensation for it was proof that he wasn’t permanently blind. He all but sobbed with relief, before turning his head away and collapsing back onto the bunk.

This was the cabin of Cutter, he realized. Somehow the little boat had survived the attack of the sea monster. He tried to speak, and though the sound that emerged was a mere croak, he took encouragement from the fact that he could make and hear the noise.

“Did you say something?”

The kender’s voice chirped from the entranceway, and then Kerrick felt the warmth of his companion’s presence seated on the edge of the bunk beside him. Coraltop Netfisher-that was his name! Once more the elf dared to open his eyes. He looked into a small face, old beyond its childlike shape, eyes dark with concern. The kender’s green shirt smelled damp and, vaguely, of seaweed.

“What happened?” Kerrick asked-the words sounded like “Wuh ha’n?”, and the kender’s face broke into a broad smile.

“What happened? Well, the dragon turtle swam away luckily, but unluckily its tail knocked into our boat. It broke that wooden thing off, and that wooden think conked you on the head. Just about broke your skull, too. I don’t think the turtle actually saw us, I mean, you and me. It doesn’t eat ships usually, you know, just sailors. When you got all tangled up in the sail, I fell down in the back. I think the big dumb dragon turtle looked around and decided there was no food here. The tail just kind of whacked us almost by accident when it swam away.”

“It broke off the mast?” At least, that’s what he tried to say, as he struggled to keep up with the kender’s rapidfire explanation. “Ih oh off uh ass?”

“Well, yes, it just snapped off. I tied it to the boat, so it’s kind of floating along next to us, but I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Now the despair returned, deeper than ever. Without a mast Cutter was simply a cork bobbing in the current. The boat was directionless and uncontrolled, at the mercy of the first storm that came along. Certainly the harsh currents of the Courrain Ocean would doom them, would carry the boat farther and farther from land, into the trackless and icy southern end of the world. For a moment the elf wallowed in self-pity, wishing that the broken mast had in fact crushed his skull and brought him to a quick, merciful end. All the time he had been kept alive in the cabin had merely postponed his deserved fate.

That raised another question. “How ‘ong ‘a’ I ‘in ‘yin’ ‘ere?”

“How long have you been lying there?” The kender squinted in concentration. “Let’s see-there were seventeen days before you even twitched. I don’t mind telling you it wasn’t much of a twitch either. It’s like my Grandma Annatree used to say: ‘If it looks dead and acts dead, well, then, it just might be dead.’ Then you started to grunt and groan a little bit, here and there. That went on for-don’t worry, I made a mental note-let’s see, twelve more days. Then it was five days ago that you looked like you were trying to move. You’ve been getting slowly but steadily better, no doubt about it.”

Kerrick wasn’t feeling better-in fact, he was numbed by disbelief. He tried to force himself into a sitting position. That only resulted in spears of pain shooting through his spine, his back, and both arms. He immediately collapsed. “ ’Oo oo ‘een I ‘in ‘ere ‘or a ‘ole ‘onth?” he croaked in disbelief.

“Why yes, four days more than a whole month, actually. The weather’s gotten quite cold and gloomy. Do you know, that’s a very long time for me to go without having someone to talk to. Well, of course, I could talk to you, but you really couldn’t talk back, which isn’t so bad come to think of it. It was like talking to a wall, or a fish, or talking to the ocean. I don’t mind a little talking to the ocean, but it does get boring.”

The elf felt the darkness rising, unconsciousness surging from the depths to wrap his mind in sticky, obscuring fingers. He tried to fight, tried to stay awake. As he slipped beneath the surface of awareness he heard the kender, still talking to the ocean.

He was glad Coraltop Netfisher was there.

“That’s not the mast-it’s the boom,” Kerrick said two days later, when he had finally, with much pain and extremely slow movements, crept through the cabin door to collapse in the cockpit.

“The boom … oh, I’m sorry,” Coraltop said, chagrined. “When you said ‘mast’-well, it sounded more like ‘ass’-and I thought I had better humor you. Seeing as how you were near death and everything.”

Despite his pain, Kerrick couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t be sorry. This is very good news. If the mast had broken off, we’d be doomed. The boom I might be able to repair.”

He leaned back, shading his eyes with a hand while he gazed at the pale sky. He couldn’t see any clouds, but even so the color seemed more white than blue. The sun was very low on the horizon, and the water, slate gray, was almost preternaturally still.

How far had they drifted? He knew, like all experienced sailors, that the prevailing current of the Courrain Ocean would carry them south, away from any known mass of land toward uncharted waters reputed for their lethal storms and dark, icy winters. It seemed almost unthinkable that he had lingered, all but comatose, for some five weeks, and that during that time they had not encountered a ship-killer storm. In fact, when he had asked Coraltop, the kender had shrugged and replied that it had never even gotten very windy or rained. “Boring weather,” said the kender.

That raised another concern, and Kerrick painfully made his way past the cabin to check the level of the water barrel. As he had feared, it was nearly empty-perhaps a handspan of water sloshed back and forth deep within the container. He realized that the kender must have been very shrewd in doling out the precious liquid. Normally in this part of the world there would be rainstorms enough to keep them well-supplied with fresh water. In the event of a long dry spell, he would typically put in to shore, refilling his stock from one of the freshwater streams common on the coast.

How far away was that coast, now?

“Are you sure about how much time I was unconscious?” he asked the kender.

“Look. I marked it on the deck,” Coraltop replied proudly. Sure enough, the tiny hash marks added up to thirty-four days. “That’s not counting the days since you woke up,” added the little fellow.

Suddenly dizzy, the elf sat down. His whole body ached, and he felt weak as an infant. His left arm was in a sling. Coraltop had informed him that he had set the broken bone right after moving Kerrick to the bunk. The kender had done a surprisingly good job. The limb was straight, and seemed to be healing well if slowly.

“Let’s pull the boom aboard and see what we can do with it,” the elf suggested. Yet as soon as he tried to lift himself, Kerrick knew that even limited activity, not to mention complicated repairs, was beyond his abilities.

“Let me try,” Coraltop suggested, kneeling and clutching the rope at one end of the boom. He pulled, but when the stout shaft started to rise out of the water he groaned, and the beam splashed downward. “It’s too heavy,” he admitted.

As Kerrick leaned back, despairing, he felt a breath of wind against his cheek. Raising his eyes in sudden alarm, he saw that the northern horizon was dark, obscured by a wall of cloud that could only mean an approaching storm.

“That doesn’t look too good,” the kender observed.

“Not too good at all,” Kerrick agreed. He felt hopeless and angry-why had he survived this far, suffering all this pain, only to face a storm threatening his crippled boat? Doom was inevitable if he couldn’t repair the boom and raise some semblance of a sail.

Only then did he remember the little strongbox, the gift from his father that might, one day, save his life, when he was in “imminent danger.”

He gasped out directions to Coraltop, and half a minute later the kender had returned from the cabin with the little box. Naturally, he had already opened it and was exclaiming in delight over the circlet of gold, holding it up to the sky, peering through the ring with curiosity.

“I need it,” Kerrick whispered, too weak now even to try to grab it.

Coraltop handed it over agreeably, and the elf, at last, held his finger up to the ring. He saw the pattern of oak leaves, winking in the daylight already fading under storm-clouds, and he pushed the metal band onto his finger. It felt warm and tight.

The warmth began to spread, a tingling sensation of energy that drove back his pain, tightened his sinews. Even his broken arm felt whole, strong, and limber.

He shucked off the splint and, accepting the enthusiastic help of the kender, was able to guide them through the job of heaving the boom back onto the deck. The breeze continued to freshen, rocking the boat slightly as he examined the break and planned the hasty repair.

The end of the post had been badly splintered, but by sawing off the broken wood and then reattaching the bracket to the freshly hewn end of the boom, they were able to once again mount it onto the mast. “It’s a foot shorter than I’d like, but we can live with that,” Kerrick announced, when the work was done. The wind was lashing spray across the surface of the sea, and Cutter was bobbing unpredictably in the rising swell. “Now, let’s see if we can get some canvas up.”

“Hooray!” cried Coraltop. “I knew you-we-could do it.”

Kerrick smiled wryly. “We make a good team,” he admitted. He turned to the sail locker, pleased to recall how neatly he had stowed the canvas, after their frantic and makeshift repairs. The ring was a powerful ally. His father’s warning, the notion that this enchanted ring might eventually sap his life, nagged at the back of his mind. Kerrick brushed the concern away, and in another five minutes they were ready to face the storm.

“You’ve got lots more sail!” Coraltop shouted over the howling of the wind. “Why don’t we put some more of it up?”

Kerrick grimaced as he leaned on the tiller and guided Cutter’s sharp prow through a black wall of rising water. Spray broke over the deck, churning into the cockpit, giving him a chill despite the protection of his slicker and woolens. He still wore his father’s ring, and he needed the magically induced stamina to steer the boat amid the violence of the southern storm.

The elf shook his head. “More canvas up there and the wind would rip it away. If it didn’t, it would push us so hard that we could capsize.”

“Oh, good point. I think I’ve had my fill of capsizing,” said the kender, bracing himself for the jolt of another wave, this one rising from the port beam. “Hey, that’s a really big one!”

The elf hauled on the tiller, bringing them around so that the breaker crashed over the port bow. The sailboat staggered sideways, wind and water tearing in opposite directions, but slowly she broke free of the heaving brine and clawed her way up another slope of the churning sea.

That was one of the worst things about these southern ocean storms, Kerrick realized. The waves seemed to come at them from every direction, and whatever way he steered the boat they were assaulted from fore and aft, from one side, then the next. The long twilight had faded into a night as dark and tempestuous as any he had endured. Only the slightly phosphorescent crests of the waves gave him momentary warning of the next crushing onslaught. Where the water lay smooth in a trough of the boat, it was black, eerily lightless.

He was piloting the boat more by instinct than rational thought. The sail, as Coraltop had pointed out, was deployed into a small triangle, efficiently capturing the gale roaring out of the north, but every time the wind smashed into the canvas and pushed the boat forward they had to hold on for dear life. Kerrick’s clothes were wet, clinging to his body. He smelled of soaked wool. When his body was racked by an involuntary shiver, he didn’t even notice. His wounds were a vague and distant discomfort, unimportant when weighed against the primal struggle he now waged.

Something loose flapped near the bow, canvas or rope streaming along the deck, whirled about by the storm. Kerrick knew that he would have to get up there and fasten it down, a daunting task in this tempest.

“Take the tiller!” he shouted to the kender, who was seated on the bench beside him. Despite his chattering teeth and obvious discomfort, Coraltop had declined Kerrick’s earlier suggestion that he bury himself in the cabin for a while.

“Great, it’s the biggest storm ever, and you finally let me steer,” he said, with a slight pout. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a lot of experience-”

“Don’t pull on it!” yelled the elf. “Just hold it steady until I get back.”

“Oh, of course, don’t pull,” sniffed his companion. “That’d be obvious to a gulley dwarf.…”

The rest of his remark was lost in the din of the storm, though Kerrick looked back to insure that the kender had the tiller clenched firmly in both hands. Limping past the small cabin, the elf turned sideways to ease along the narrow catwalk. Carefully, grabbing hold wherever he could to avoid losing his footing, he inched ahead to the bow, where he saw a corner of the jib sail flapping outside of the forward locker.

The ship pitched into another wave, and Kerrick held on as cold water poured over him. Without the strength provided by the ring he would certainly have been swept away. As it was, he was sputtering and gasping by the time the boat once again fought itself free of the clutching wave. With a swift gesture he pulled open the lid of the locker and wasted no time in jamming the sodden stretch of sail inside.

Clinging to every bracket, rope, and rail, he cautiously made his way back to the cockpit, at last tumbling onto the bench beside Coraltop Netfisher. The kender’s teeth were clenched as he blinked away the ocean spray, but he flashed the elf a delighted grin as Cutter sliced across the face of a huge wave and then glided into the momentary smoothness of the next trough.

“This is lots more fun than drifting along without any mast and stuff,” announced Coraltop.

“Yeah, fun.” Kerrick sighed, feeling the weariness creep over him, the enchantment of the ring fading. A new wave rose astern and caused the boat to lurch sharply forward. He cried out as he caught himself on his mending arm, then clenched his teeth and held on grimly. The swells were larger than ever, and wind whipped the whitecaps.

Times in the past he had found a storm invigorating, a challenge to his boat and his seamanship. But this was a monstrous assault of nature, a threat of death. The gale seemed to be attacking him personally. The breakers grew taller the troughs deeper. The wind stung. All of a sudden Cutter heeled, and for a sickening moment Kerrick thought she was going over and under. He braced his feet and reached out to seize the tiller that was still clutched under the kender’s arms.

“Pull!” he shouted, leaning into the bar, feeling Coraltop throw his own wiry strength into the maneuver. Kerrick ignored the pain shooting through his arms and back, knowing that if the boat capsized here, they had no chance.

Rising swells heaved under the stern, before cresting and pouring away at a shallow angle. Mountainous black seas rose to port and starboard. Straining together on the tiller Kerrick and Coraltop managed to pull the vessel and use the last bit of its speed to turn her tail into the wind.

The biggest breaker yet crashed against the stern, and water rushed into the boat, surging around their legs. As it drained slowly Cutter, heavy with the extra weight, lumbered like a drunk, slipping sideways into a deep yawning trough. The elf tried to pull the boat around but his weakened hands slipped right off of the tiller, and again the boat teetered on the brink. The ring … he had been wearing it so long that he had reached the limit of its power. He felt all but impotent, paralyzed by fatigue.

Coraltop showed good instincts as he pushed the tiller away from himself, giving just enough steerage to start the boat, nose first, down the slope of the wave. In seconds they were plunging with headlong speed, and a moment later the prow sank deep into the opposite wave. Water gushed across the deck, but the little boat was sturdy, and they held their balance. Once again the Cutter managed to slice through the briny barrier and claw her way back atop the crest of the next wave.

“You steer! I’ll work the pump!” Kerrick shouted. His arms were limp and stiff, but he could crank the bailer by foot, and he set himself numbly to the task. The gale roared and they raced with the wind, headlong to the south. Again Kerrick was hit by a different kind of wave, the fatigue that threatened to consume him. Soon the simple device was shooting a steady jet of water over the side.

For more than an hour he cranked the footpedals, maintaining pressure in the hose, slowly emptying the hull as Coraltop guided them through the continuing tumult. As she grew lighter Cutter became easier to handle, riding higher in the water, skimming the crests of the worst waves. Kerrick pumped automatically, leaning against the cabin, barely conscious of anything except the rhythmic motion. Finally, when his head dipped forward to slump against his chest, he lost all awareness. Only when he fell sideways and sprawled in the chilly waters of the cockpit did he awaken.

It took Coraltop’s help before the elf could force himself up. His surroundings swirled, a mist thicker, more permeating than the foul weather. Gradually he realized that it was his own mind that was foggy. His strength was utterly gone, he could barely keep his eyes open.

The ring! He remembered his father’s warning words. It took all of his strength to draw his right hand over to his left, and then he could barely claw the circlet of metal from his finger. Finally he fumbled with the leather flap and slid the ring into the secure pocket inside his belt.

The darkness of the night surrounded them. The icy water penetrated his bones. However, the kender turned out to be a surprisingly worthy crewman, and the boat was solid. As they plunged deeper and deeper into the southern ocean, Kerrick slipped into a profound slumber, dreaming that they would survive.

The wind held firm over a full day, during which the kender guided the sailboat on a straight course, and Kerrick slumbered. He awoke just before the second dawn broke. Immediately he checked the compass, which showed their course to be just west of south. The clouds had shifted enough to reveal a familiar star, Zivilyn Greentree, sparkling once more directly over his course. Kerrick had never known it to lie this far to the south. For the second time on this voyage, the sight filled him with awe.

Dawn suffused the northeast with a gray, reluctant light, and the elf guessed the sun would remain low for a few short hours before vanishing again.

At least they would behold another day.

Coraltop Netfisher slept within the cabin, and the gray ocean rolled to the far horizon in every direction. Kerrick could not recall a more violent storm or a more perilous night at sea. He touched the pouch at his belt, where the ring was securely hidden. The fatigue was fading.

During the long hours of darkness they had been driven relentlessly south by the force of the storm. Now sunlight had come, not directly but filtered through the gray haze. The wind had settled somewhat. Still, he had little choice but to hold the tiller steady and let the wind continue to bear Cutter south.

“Aw, the big waves are calming down,” Coraltop Netfisher griped, popping open the cabin door and squinting ruefully at the mountainous swell. “It’s gonna get boring.”

“I’ll take ‘boring’ anytime you want to offer it,” Kerrick said with a laugh, glad his companion had emerged to join him. He was used to sailing alone, but it surprised him to realize how quickly he had accepted the kender on this trip to wherever the storm took them.

“Do you want some fish and flatcakes?”

The elf’s stomach grumbled. “Yes, I’m hungry.”

Coraltop went forward to the fish locker and came back with a long fillet. “There are five more left,” he reported.

That was ration enough for barely another week, yet Kerrick was strangely unconcerned. Perhaps he was still dazed, giddy with the aftereffects of the ring. Perhaps they would find a school of fish and spend a day casting the net. Maybe something else would happen in this trackless ocean.

He froze, squinting across the stormy wavetops, looking south, straining to make out something on the horizon.

“What is it?” the kender asked, noting the intensity of his gaze. Coraltop scrambled onto the cabin and looked forward. “Say, I see it too. Is that what I think it is?”

Kerrick could only nod, awed and thrilled and frightened at the same time. There was supposed to be no land here, nothing but dire weather and trackless ocean. Yet there was a definitely solid shape in the distance, a rugged horizon above the sea, outlined in snow and rock. Suddenly Kerrick felt a sense of destiny, as if Zivilyn sat upon his shoulder and, in his wisdom, guided tiller and sail. Still holding his south by southwest course, he stared in the distance and watched as the land mass grew in size.

“Yes,” he said, finally answering the kender’s question. “That’s what you think it is-a mountain. Many mountains.”