Jean Lorrah - Wulfston's odyssey

“So Zanos’ dreams all ended in frustration. He doesn’t talk about them anymore, but I know-”

She stopped, her eyes taking on the unfocused look of a Reader concentrating completely on Reading, to the exclusion of her immediate surroundings.

At the same time, Wulfston shuddered. Something was wrong. It took him a moment to realize that it was. the silence. The birds had stopped their harsh cries, the creaking of the ship’s timbers had ceased, and the sails no longer flapped against the rigging.

The silence lasted hardly long enough for him to recognize it before a sound came out of the distance-a wind, rapidly building to a gale!

The Night Queen pitched and swayed as choppy waves drove against it, then huge breakers slammed the hull as the wind tore at the sails.

This is no work of nature ! Wulfston realized.

“An Adept wind?” Astra answered his unspoken thought.

“It has to be!” he replied, shouting over the increasing howl. He had no need to raise his voice for the Readers, but: “Captain Laren! It’s not just a storm! We’re under attack!”

As the sailors scrambled to haul in the sails before the ship capsized, Astra exclaimed, “I can’t find the source, my lord! The Adepts are beyond my range. I’ll have to go out of body to search.”

“Too dangerous,” he responded. White clouds were churning into black thunderheads. Bracing his powers, Wulfston prepared himself for battle against an unseen enemy.

Zanos fought his way to them against the wind, and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “My lord,” he shouted, “we must combine our powers to combat this storm!”

“We have to try!” Wulfston agreed. “Unless we can locate the source, the best we can do is shield ourselves and try to get the ship out of range.”

They had to struggle for every step to the center of the deck. The first bolt of lightning struck the top of the mainmast, exploding it into splinters. The Adepts deflected the falling shards from passengers and crew, but the ship was hopelessly crippled. They were trapped!

“Support me!” Wulfston commanded the minor Adepts, and felt their power flow to him. With increased strength, he fended off the next shaft of lightning. But we cannot keep this up indefinitely .

“Where’s Chulaika?’ he demanded. “She might know where the Adepts are gathered to attack us.”

But Chulaika was not on deck. Captain Laren was shouting to his men to lower the sails on the surviving masts, while the steersman hauled hopelessly on the rudder, trying to keep a southward course. Captain Laren reached for the rudder, to add his strength-and another thunderbolt turned him to a pillar of fire!

Wulfston recoiled in momentary horror as the corpse was pitched from the heaving deck.

Fireballs rained on the ship.

Wulfston felt his powers drain as he deflected them.

A wave of flame broke through their shield, death screams erupting around him as he was knocked to his hands and knees.

A lightning bolt sliced through the deck in front of him-the last sight he saw as the brightness blinded him.

There has to be a way to fight back ! his mind insisted, but he was helpless, blind, unable to get back on his feet as he heard people screaming around him, smelled the stench of burning flesh.

He groped, found a handhold on one of the small boats, and hauled himself to his feet as his vision began to return from the edges inward.

It was just in time to see Zanos rolling Astra on the deck, smothering the flames from her dress.

Bodies were burning, ropes were flaring, sailors were hauling buckets of seawater to pour over the writhing form of a man screaming as his flesh was consumed.

Wulfston put out that fire and sent the man into healing sleep, but even as he did so he felt his growing weakness and saw how hopeless his small efforts were. He turned to help Zanos and Astra-

The deck exploded under him, tossing him high into the air before dropping him amid the rest of the debris in the roiling madness of the storm-wild ocean.

Gasping for breath, Wulfston felt the surf carry him toward the beach, but a powerful undertow swept him back to sea again. He struggled to pull air into his burning lungs, and took in a mouthful of sea and sand.

Another surge swept him toward shore, but pulled him under and rolled him in a helpless tangle. As it retreated he felt sand beneath him, and thrust his feet down. The wave carried his purchase from beneath him, but his feet sank ankle-deep in the shifting sand.

Lurching to his knees, he wheezed, the water a cold ache in his lungs, closing out the air. But there was land under him!

He forced gritty eyes open and saw the beach, stumbled toward it pursued by another voracious wave, and fell on his face at the edge of the water.

For an endless time he coughed and vomited sand and seawater, leaving his throat and nasal passages raw. When the spasms finally passed, he was weak and sick… and alone.

His eyes still burned, but he could open them. To the west was the empty sea, all traces of the Night Queen swallowed in its depths save for black smoke drifting toward the clearing horizon. The tide retreated in a steady ebb and flow. North and south stretched the beach, with no signs of life except three little brown birds following the edges of the waves back and forth, snatching exposed edibles.

To the east stood a forest, impenetrable as a solid wall. It lined the beach in both directions, as far as he could see, unfamiliar and forbidding. But unless he found a stream running down to the shore he would have to go inland to search for fresh water.

When he could stand, Wulfston assessed himself. He was bruised and aching, but in the uncertainty of what lay ahead, he dared not waste energy healing such minor ills. He seemed to have no broken bones, but when he tried to walk his feet responded with sharp pain.

Wulfston quickly discovered the problem: he was wearing hose, a silk shirt, and a lightweight tabard that was now soggy and uncomfortable. His hose had been torn in the surf, and a few recalcitrant threads clung between his bare toes, cutting into the tender flesh. He reached for his knife, but it was gone.

Picking up a broken shell, he cut off the hose at his ankles, leaving his feet bare.

From the calves upward, although they bore holes, his hose were in good enough condition to provide some warmth against the coming night. He took them off, along with the tabard, letting the shirt dry on his body. Ordinarily he would have had everything dry with a thought; alone and exposed, he feared to waste what power he had left on mere comfort.

Above the tideline, the sand was dry. Wulfston laid tabard and hose out there; they couldn’t get any sandier than they already were. The waves had driven sand into every pore and crevice of his body.

It was warm enough to go without even the shirt, but although there was no one in sight, he felt defenseless enough without stripping naked. Modesty was better served, though, by turning the shirt into a makeshift loincloth.

Remembering the women Reading through his clothes on Freedom Island, he wondered if anyone were Reading him now, or even watching from the dense forest. He couldn’t worry about that. He had to try to find survivors of the shipwreck.

He wondered whether he should try north or south, until he remembered that Chulaika had said the harbor Sukuru had used was to the south.

Surviving Readers would be scanning for him-for anyone who had reached shore. Further reason not to use his Adept powers: they made him unReadable except to visualization, a technique a weary Reader would not be using after the battle with the sea.