Paul Thompson: Dargonesti

The strange cloud continued moving rapidly toward Evenstar , though no breath of wind stirred the air. The oppressiveness that Vixa had felt earlier, as though a storm were brewing, was even more pronounced now. A sense of dread swept over her, and she heard Armantaro whisper, “May the gods have mercy.”

Hull creaking, the Qualinesti ship met the oncoming cloud stern-first. The wall of white swallowed it.

Vixa flinched as the vapor flowed over her. It was cold, finger-numbing cold. One instant she was bathed in the glaring heat of the sun, the next, an icy chill dried the sweat on her face and penetrated her baking chain mail.

Everyone had braced for catastrophe, but the fog’s main effect was to make teeth chatter. Sailors and warriors stood and compared reactions to the bizarre mist enveloping them. No one felt ill, or unusual in any way, only very cold.

“What do you make of this, Captain?” Armantaro asked Esquelamar.

The elven sailor waved a hand through the cloud. “Feels like a sea mist such as mariners find off the cape of Kharolis,” he said. “But it moves and holds its shape like no natural mist. It’s an enchantment, I’d say.”

“I agree,” Vixa said. “Perhaps it was called up by the emperor’s sorcerers to screen his failing army from General Solamnus.”

“Damned uncomfortable, if you ask me,” grumbled Harmanutis, stepping out of the white cloud.

Shivering sailors and soldiers wrapped themselves in their cloaks. The captain called up to the crow’s nest, asking the lookout if he could see anything.

“Nay, Captain. It’s like trying to peer through milk.”

“Come down then, before you freeze.”

The captain, the princess, and Armantaro went to the rail. Esquelamar knelt in the scupper, thrust his head over the side. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he muttered. “Not even water, nothing!”

“It feels as if we’re moving,” Vixa offered.

She was right. Although the sails hung slack, the creak of the hull and a slight rolling of the deck caused them to sway on their feet.

“The emperor of Ergoth does not command such power,” Armantaro stated.

Evenstar was mysteriously adrift, her crew and passengers unable to rescue their ambassador-unable, even, to rescue themselves.

It was impossible to measure the passage of time. Sailors collected in small groups and whispered fearfully to each other. They called out long and hard, but received no answering hails from any of the smaller craft that had dotted the waters of the gulf. Captain Esquelamar resolved to curb the growing terror. He assembled his mariners before the mainmast. On the quarterdeck, Vixa and her company stood listening.

“Now, lads, there’s no reason to fear,” the captain said firmly. “We’ve seen fogs before. And we’ve been in much worse situations than this. Why, remember that time off Sancrist Isle? We thought we were goners then, didn’t we, lads? And yet, here we are. Evenstar is a strong ship, the finest of her size in Qualinost, and she’ll come through this.”

“But this is an evil spell,” one sailor insisted.

“We don’t know that, Pellanis,” Esquelamar replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nothing so ill has befallen us yet, has it? In fact, this could be a good sign. Mayhap the gods called down this mist to protect us.”

“Do you believe that, lady?” Armantaro whispered.

Vixa shrugged. “I never studied sorcery,” she replied. “But Esquelamar is right about one thing: neither we nor the ship has been injured by the fog. I prefer to know where we’re going, and I don’t like being taken away from my proper duty.”

Captain Esquelamar dismissed his crew. The sailors went to their posts looking less fearful, though some still fingered lucky talismans. The captain climbed the steps to the quarterdeck.

“A good speech, Captain. Do you believe it yourself?” asked Vixa.

“I have to, lady. Those lads look to me for their safety.”

The crew and passengers of Evenstar settled into a state of uneasy watchfulness. Despite their initial dread, as time passed with no untoward occurrences, they gradually grew accustomed to the silent, impenetrable cloud that enveloped them. The captain kept his sailors busy with all the usual shipboard tasks: swabbing decks, mending sails, and polishing the brightwork. Vixa kept her contingent on the quarterdeck, where they would be out of the way. Time passed.

When their stomachs told them it was time to eat, the elves did so. Then Paladithel broke out his pipes. He wasn’t much of a player, knowing only one song, “When We’re Coming Home Again.” He played this mournful tune eight times in a row and would’ve launched a ninth, but his comrades protested. Suddenly there was a shout from the bow.

“Ahoy, Captain!”

“What is it, lad?” called Esquelamar, emerging from his cabin. A napkin was tucked under his pointed chin.

“Dead ahead, sir! A break! A hole in the fog!”

A cheer went up from every throat. “Two points to starboard, Manneto!” the captain barked.

The helmsman tried to comply, but the whipstaff refused to budge an inch. With both hands and a shoulder braced against the tall lever, Manneto struggled to turn the ship. Esquelamar joined him, grunting and groaning as they hauled on the whipstaff.

The dark spot ahead was a welcome change from the monotony of cold, white cloud. It was featureless and black, like a doorway into night, and grew larger all the while. Either they were drawing nearer to it, or it was approaching them.

The two elves continued to struggle with the whipstaff. At last, Esquelamar and Manneto stepped back from the helm in defeat. The helmsman cursed eloquently in three languages, then remembered who was listening.

“Begging your pardon, lady,” he said.

“I thought my mother could curse, but helmsman, you are a master.”

In any event, they were heading straight for the opening in the cloud. The mist thinned to gently billowing streams. Warmer air washed over the ship, filling the sails and offering a respite from the biting cold. In spite of the head wind and the straining sails, Evenstar ploughed onward, against the wind. The hole grew taller and wider.

“Stars! I see stars!” cried the sailor in the bow.

Remnants of the fog peeled away from the ship like petals dropping from a flower. The dark spot was simply the night sky, clear and star-spangled. Once Evenstar was free of the last tendrils of mist, her sails rippled and caught a cross breeze. The ship heeled under a sudden gust as the sails bellied full. Without having to be ordered, sailors scaled the masts and trimmed the sails. Manneto saw the whipstaff lever flopping from side to side. He grabbed it and turned Evenstar against the wind. The ship came about smartly, turning a half circle in the open sea.

“It’s gone!” Armantaro cried, pointing. The odd cloud had vanished behind them. As soon as the ship was free of it, the fog had disappeared without a trace.

Esquelamar called for his sextant. The princess and Armantaro stood at the captain’s elbow as he aligned his instrument with the stars. Within minutes he had their position.

“Charts-fetch my charts!” he ordered. A nimble sailor scampered into the captain’s cabin and returned with an armful of rolled maps. Esquelamar scrutinized the writing on the sleeve of each, handing back those he didn’t want. The fifth chart he unrolled. Squinting in the flickering light of a lantern, he found their position according to Krynn’s stars.

“By the Blue Phoenix!” he exclaimed.

“Where are we?” Vixa demanded. She peered over his shoulder, her mouth falling open in astonishment. Esquelamar’s long finger rested on a spot at least a hundred leagues east of Cape Kharolis-some three hundred leagues east of their original position at the mouth of the Greenthorn River!