Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

They’d pulled into the Witdel port late last night It was a deep harbor, so they could moor the Anvil at the docks. Rig had decided they would off-load the last of the refugees in the morning. But he hadn’t said it would be this early.

Then she heard other sounds, her keen elven senses coming into play and focusing on the pounding of feet. On the docks, people were running. A scream pierced the air, and Feril bolted out of bed and grabbed her tunic and boots. She sniffed. Something was burning. It wasn’t clouds she saw through the porthole. It was smoke.

A crash sounded behind Rig Mer-Krel as the rear mast toppled and rocked the ship. The sails were on fire, and as the mast struck the deck, flames streaked away in all directions.

The mariner dashed amidships, darting around the fires and drawing his cutlass high above his head. He brought the blade down hard, sinking it into the collarbone of an advancing Knight of Takhisis. Rig heard the mail split, the crunch of bone, and the gurgled cry of his opponent, who was already falling to the deck. The knight’s sword clattered from his hand, and the mariner scrambled to pick it up.

Rig leapt forward to meet his next adversary and ducked just as a blade sliced through the air above his head. He thrust forward with his borrowed long sword, sinking it deep into the stomach of another knight. Rig twisted the blade as he tugged it free, and the knight pitched forward.

The mariner paused only a heartbeat to survey his grim handiwork, then he bounded over the body and met the rush of two more knights. Smoke billowed all around him as the fire spread across more sections of the deck. His eyes watered and he coughed to clear his lungs. Cutlass in one hand and long sword in the other, he waved the blades to keep the two knights at bay until he could find an opening. They crouched side by side, their swords in front of them, weaving to keep away from Rig.

Behind the pair, a black-robed man who was partially concealed by the smoke moved his fingers in front of his wrinkled face and mumbled unintelligible words. The mariner scowled and coughed again. The robed man wore the Knights of Takhisis emblem on his chest, but in place of the death lily was a crown dotted with thorns. “Stinking sorcerer,” Rig whispered.

The mariner doubled over coughing, and the two knights moved in. Rig suddenly straightened up and impaled the knight on his right with the long sword. The man on his left dodged to the side, barely avoiding the mariner’s cutlass. Rig yanked the long sword free and rushed toward the sorcerer.

“Barbarian,” the sorcerer spat as daggers of dark red light flew from his long nails and struck the mariner in the chest. Red hot as coals, the magical shards melted into his skin, and the heat quickly spread to his stomach and shoulders, then raced down his arms. Rig’s fingers twitched, and he had to concentrate to keep his hands locked about the pommels.

“Stinking sorcerer,” the mariner repeated as his momentum carried him a few steps farther. He drove his cutlass into the belly of the black-robed man, who was in the midst of casting another spell. A look of surprise flashed across the man’s face. Rig followed with the long sword, making contact with the man’s leg. The sorcerer fell, and Rig tugged the cutlass loose, spun, and fell to a crouch when he spotted three more knights charging in his direction.

Several yards away, amidst the rolling dark gray clouds of smoke, Groller was grappling with the knight-officer. The half-ogre gripped the knight’s upper arms and squeezed hard. The knight was yelling something, but the man’s words could not distract the fierce half-ogre who slid his fingers up to the man’s shoulders and toward his neck. At the same time, the knight leveled blow after blow against Groller’s stomach. The man’s lips continued to move, his face reddened and contorted, and bits of spittle flew from his mouth.

Pain exploded in the half-ogre’s side as the knight-officer’s mailed fist landed hard against a rib. Groller raised his leg and slammed his foot down on the knight’s foot. Then the half-ogre pressed his attack by dropping to his knees and using his weight to pull the knight deeper into the growing smoke and heat. Coughs racked the knight-officer’s body, and the half-ogre’s meaty fingers found the man’s neck again. The knight tried desperately to pry Groller’s thick fingers loose. But the half-ogre held on, keeping the man from drawing any more of the hot, smoky air into his lungs. The knight-officer struggled feebly for a moment more, then fell limp. The half-ogre pushed himself up and rushed toward the rail, gasping for fresh air.

Feril nearly collided with Usha and Palin as they met at the top of the Anvil ’s steps and looked across to the deck of the Knights of Takhisis’s moored schooner. Its hull was charcoal black. Smoke billowed from several places on the deck, and flames licked up the mainmast and the forward mast

“Palin!” Feril cried.

“In the name of Paladine!” Palin breathed. The sorcerer wrapped his bed sheet tighter around him, took in the carnage, and began uttering the words to a spell.

Usha, dressed in a sleeping gown and robe, hurried to his side. “Ulin?” she whispered. “What in the gods’ names is Ulin doing?”

Ulin Majere stood in the center of the knight’s dragon-prowed ship, directing the fire. His hair was slick with sweat against the sides of his face, and his tunic and leggings were ashen and smeared with soot. He made a gesture, and a smoldering section of deck erupted into a bonfire, engulfing a quartet of knights. They thrashed about in the flames and rushed toward the rail, their tabards streaming fire as they plunged over the side. Their heavy mail quickly carried them below the surface.

A howl pierced the air as Fury leapt over the ship’s railing and onto the burning schooner. Feril scrambled down the Anvil ’s plank and boarded the knights’ schooner where she found her way blocked by Groller. His clothes were smudged and tattered, and blood ran from several cuts on his arms. He gestured toward her as if shooing away a fly. “Furl, go ‘way! Ship burns. Farr everywhere!”

She vehemently shook her head. “Behind you!” Feril shouted. “I’ve got to help Rig.”

The desperate look on the Kagonesti’s face made his eyes follow the direction of her outstretched finger. A burly knight, his tabard on fire, was charging for the half-ogre, his sword high above his head. Groller spun to face him and tugged the belaying pin from his belt. As he crouched to meet the attack, a red-haired blur streaked past him.

Fury’s front paws landed against the knight’s chest, toppling him. The wolf’s teeth closed on the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop the sword. Groller took advantage of the situation and slammed his belaying pin against the side of the man’s head.

On the deck of Flint’s Anvil , Usha rested a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Palm, can you … oh, you’re doing something.” Usha watched as her husband finished his spell and the energy he’d been summoning was channeled through him, whipping up both the air and the water around them.

The sorcerer stared at the mounting waves that had begun to toss both the Anvil and the dragon-prowed ship. He gestured with his hand, singling out a particular wave. Elsewhere the harbor was practically as smooth as glass. With a flick of his wrist and a few words, the sorcerer summoned the water from the wave and deposited it on the deck of the Knights of Takhisis’s ship. A second wave from the harbor followed it, and a third, each called upon by the sorcerer. The water doused some of the flames and succeeded in washing several knights over the railing.

“Let me help,” Gilthanas said. He, Sageth (still clutching his tablet), and the remaining refugees who had been asleep in the hold were now gathered behind the Majeres. Gilthanas tucked his blond locks behind his pointed ears and spread his fingers across the rail. He took several deep breaths, then closed his eyes and concentrated on the air blowing gently all around him. “Faster,” he coaxed.