Mary Herbert - Dragon's Bluff

Ulin pushed his stool closer to her bunk, and they leaned together, grateful for company in the pitching darkness. “Tell me again why we’re doing this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

She made a sound like a strained chuckle. “Because I lacked adventure and excitement in Solace,” she replied. “Attacks by Dark Knights and draconians, the destruction of the Academy, the loss of my magic abilities, the constant strain of dealing with refugees and worrying about Beryl aren’t enough. I wanted more! I need to make a name for myself if I am going to marry a Majere. Why not brave the dangers and travails of a trip to Flotsam?”

Her words took him totally by surprise. He swiveled around and stared at her through the darkness. “You’re joking … right?” he demanded. Most of her tirade had to be a joke! Surely she didn’t mean that part about making a name for herself. A flicker of lightning glinted off her eyes and for an instant he saw she was grinning—or grimacing.

Her hand clasped his arm. “Of course, I’m joking. I’m doing this because … my father. If he is truly dead, then I will bury him with decency. If he’s not, then I am going to find him and kill him myself.” A groan escaped her as the ship took a nasty pitch over a wave. After a moment, Lucy pointed a finger at Ulin. “I know you’re doing this—”

Ulin cut her off. “Because I love you.”

“And because Flotsam is on Blood Bay.” She managed a faint smile at the guilty start she felt jerk though his muscles. “Confess. I know it. There is a trove of ancient magical artifacts to be found on the coast of the Blood Sea of Istar and you are hoping to find some.”

“It’s worth a try. For my father,” he admitted, his voice more bitter than he intended. “I don’t believe even a god-crafted artifact is going to help us any more, but if I could find something that still functioned … maybe it would snap him out of his terrible depression.”

Ulin was cut off by the sound of groaning. Giving his arm an apologetic squeeze, Lucy grabbed for her bucket.

The ship’s pitching movements were miserable now. And dangerous, Ulin decided when a stool crashed into his shins then rolled across the floor. He staggered to his feet and practically fell across the cabin into his bunk. The bunks were more like narrow cupboards built into the wall than real beds, but on a tossing ship they were safer and had straps to help hold in the occupants. Ulin pulled his blankets over his shoulders and wedged himself in. He was too tall to stretch out comfortably on the bunk, but for once his length was an advantage and helped keep him in place.

Sleepy as he had been on the upper deck in the sun, sleep would not come now in this pounding, rolling darkness. He lay on his side for hours watching lightning flash through the small porthole and listening to the cacophony of the ship battle her way through wind and water. Although the gods had departed the world before his birth, Ulin’s parents had made sure he was raised with the knowledge of the gods’ identities, history, and sacred ways. Some day, they hoped, the gods would return. Ulin would often say prayers to the gods in the feeble hope they were still listening, but in his mind a strong core of common sense, or pragmatism, or bullheaded obstinacy refused to believe they listened, let alone cared. He toyed with the idea of saying a prayer now for his companions’ safety and the continued well-being of the ship, then he cast away the thought. The gods were gone and many ships had been lost at sea despite endless streams of prayers and curses. He might as well save his breath.

Lightning and thunder cracked simultaneously outside, and for a second, silvery-green light flared through the porthole. In a blink it was gone, followed by a sudden cessation of any light through the porthole. Abruptly, the ship began to lean to starboard.

Challie cursed as the table and the other stool broke loose and crashed into her bunk.

“It’s just a big wave,” Ulin called to reassure them all. “It’ll pass.”

But it was not passing quickly enough. Groaning like a wounded animal the freighter rolled farther and farther to the right until Ulin feared the ship would never recover. He knew tons of water were pouring over her decks, pulling her deeper into the grip of the sea. If she reached horizontal and her masts hit the water, she would founder and sink in moments.

Frantically he held on to the straps while his bunk tipped toward vertical. Seconds passed like hours. A new sound caught his attention, a rusty creaking noise that came from their porthole. Alarmed, Ulin let his body slide toward the edge of his bunk until he could see the porthole. Just as he peered around the bunk wall, the metal hinges gave way and the portal flew open with an explosive crash. A column of dark water shot through the hole into their small cabin, drenching Lucy and Challie.

Lucy, Challie, and Ulin scrambled out of their bunks. Shouting wordless oaths, they fought their way across the tilting deck toward the porthole. In the intense darkness, Ulin groped for one of the stools. He found one and tried to jam the round seat into the hole. It was a close fit, but the pressure of the water wrenched the stool out of his hands and threw it across the room where it floated in a growing flood of seawater.

“Try magic!” Lucy shouted over the uproar of storm and struggling ship.

“No!” Ulin made a grab for the second stool. His foot slid on the steep wet flooring and he crashed into the water by the wall, sputtering invectives. Challie slipped and fell with him.

“Ulin, please at least try it! We can’t stop the water with just a stool.”

Challie hauled herself up by the bunk. She could see nothing in the black cabin, but she could feel something. “She’s coming back!” she cried.

Her two companions realized she was right. As the wave passed, the ship slowly righted herself. The force of the water pouring into the room abated, and the tilt of their cabin returned to a more normal upright position. The flood of water against the wall spread out to cover the whole floor.

Wind and rain still poured through the hole, soaking what little bit of Lucy was still dry. She tried to close the porthole cover, but the hinges were twisted and useless, and the force of the crash had broken the thick glass. There was nothing they could do with that cover.

Ulin sloshed through the cold water, carrying the stool. He jammed it into the opening as another wave, a smaller one this time, slammed into the ship. Seawater poured into the hole and pushed the stool away.

“We need something to hold this in place,” Ulin gasped.

Lucy helped him shove the stool back in place. “Try magic. A seal of some sort.”

“It won’t work. Spells rarely work for me anymore,” he muttered between his teeth.

She bit back a retort. There was no point arguing with him. The wild magic Palin Majere had “discovered” years ago was failing for them all. For almost two years the followers of Goldmoon’s mystical magic of the heart, the students of the Academy of Sorcery, even the great Dragon Overlords saw their powers weaken and dwindle away. No one, not even Palin, knew why their magic was failing, and that confusion and disappointment ate away at the elder Majere, and in a lesser degree at his son. Both of them had worn themselves to exhaustion traveling across Ansalon in search of answers and in hope of finding magic artifacts that still functioned. For his trouble, Palin had seen his beloved Academy of Sorcery destroyed and had been held prisoner by the Knights of the Thorn. His hands were forever broken and twisted by their questioning. Ulin, while he had not been physically tortured, had lost almost everything that meant something to him. His world had come unraveled. He had virtually given up his studies of magic and only the hope that he could help his father kept him searching for something for which he had lost faith.