Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

The wind shifted several times, buffeting the small craft mercilessly. The yawl was pushed toward the sandbar that shielded the mouth of the river then driven back out to sea again.

“Crazy wind!” Frez exclaimed.

Faerlac and Darpo, who both knew the sea, agreed. Could it be more of the evil magic that was stalking Tol? Nervously, he touched the concealed millstone.

Although Faerlac worked the tiller back and forth like an oar, trying to hold a course for shore, they could make no headway. The yawl spun, throwing everyone to the sides. Like a leaf in a whirlpool, the small boat flew out of control.

With a loud crack, the mast snapped and fell across the port side. The canvas sheet and lines closed over Frez. Trailing in the foaming sea, the sail dragged the boat to a stop. Water began pouring in over the side.

Darpo and Tol attacked the snarl of lines with their knives. In the stern, Faerlac held on grimly to the tiller, trying in vain to counteract the drag of the fallen mast. Frez flailed beneath the sail.

The yawl lurched suddenly, starboard side rising. Darpo lost his footing and pitched headfirst into the sea. Tol was tossed over the boat’s ribs into the tangle of sail and rigging. A strong wave hit the high side of the yawl and rolled it completely over. The last thing Tol saw before they capsized was Faerlac, now lifted high above his head and still clinging to the tiller.

All was green-black seawater and rushing bubbles. Tol’s right hand and foot were caught in the battered rigging. As the boat settled, he could feel himself being dragged down. He still had his dagger, so he hacked at the clinging lines.

He managed to free his hand, but his ankle was still trapped. Flickers of lightning briefly highlighted his underwater struggle, then even that light was lost as he continued to sink. Heart hammering, lungs burning, he felt the water grow colder and colder. His numb fingers lost their grip on the dagger. The ornate blade, gift of Crown Prince Amaltar, vanished into the depths. Hope seemed to drain away with the sinking weapon. The darkness was absolute.

Darpo had nearly given up hope when his questing hands closed around Tol’s leg. The former sailor swiftly felt his way down to the snarl of lines and sawed through them with his knife. Looping an arm around Tol’s chest, Darpo kicked hard for the surface.

When they broke through, both men gasped for air.

“My lord! My lord, are you all right?”

The white scar on the other man’s face stood out in the gloom and Tol recognized his rescuer. He was coughing so hard he could not reply, so Darpo headed for shore, towing him behind.

Their toes touched bottom. His breathing easier at last, Tol pulled free of Darpo’s arm. The two of them slogged ashore and fell, exhausted and gasping, on the mud.

They could see the pirate fleet rising and falling with the onshore swell. Between the ships and shore, however, was a distinct and separate squall, hovering off the mouth of the river. Lightning flashed in a circle of clouds above the swirling, lashing veils of rain. Outside the squall it was not raining at all, though the wind was up. As Tol had suspected, this was no natural storm.

The sharp prow of a ship drove through the wall of rain. A galleot, bow ablaze with half a dozen lanterns, emerged into the clear. Sailors lined the rails. They threw a line to a swimming figure. Backing oars on one side, the galleot swung round, presenting its starboard side to shore. A voice, amplified by a megaphone, shouted, “Aloo! Aloo! Can anyone hear me? Lord Tolandruth?”

Tol and Darpo scrambled to their feet, waving and shouting. The galleot swung toward them, oars churning. The light craft drove straight onto the mud, beaching itself. Unlike other sharp-hulled craft, the galleot’s bottom was flat and shallow.

Once aground, sailors dropped over the side and carried lines from ship to shore. They drove large stakes into the mud and tied the galleot fast. The oars were run in. Rope ladders clattered over the side.

Wandervere strode through the surf. He was backed by armed pirates, swords drawn. For an instant Tol thought Wandervere meant to slay him and claim control of the remnants of the Blood Fleet, but as the half-elf pirate reached Tol, he sheathed his cutlass.

“My lord! I am pleased to see you!”

Wearily Tol offered his arm. Wandervere clasped it.

“Queer business, eh?” said the pirate captain, looking back at the squall, now gradually dissipating. “Never saw a blow like that stay in one spot so long.”

“Neither have I. Did you find Frez and Faerlac?”

“We pulled the bosun from the sea, but no one else.”

Horrified, Tol pushed past him and ran to the water’s edge. He called Frez’s name over and over, but received no answer except wind and waves. He started forward into the surf, but strong hands restrained him.

“No, my lord!” Wandervere said, as two sailors held Tol. “He is lost! You can’t save him now!”

Tol jerked free but made no move toward the waves. Instead, he stared out at the sea, shaking with sorrow and guilt. Frez’s death was his fault. It was a fool notion to go ashore in a small boat. He’d hoped to save lives by preventing a battle between the imperial garrison and the loyal pirates, and the effort had cost the life of one of his best, bravest men.

Sorrow melted into rage. No, Frez’s death was not his fault, not any more than Felryn’s had been or the deaths of the two soldiers at Golden House. The hand of an unseen enemy bore the stain of his comrades’ blood. It was on that shadowy figure that all the guilt lay.

“You’ll pay for this, I swear it!” Tol shouted into the sky.

Before Wandervere could ask what he meant, the thunder of approaching hoofbeats caught their attention. A troop of riders was galloping over the mudflats with sabers drawn.

The pirates formed a tight circle around Wandervere and Tol, facing the mounted men. They were soon surrounded by riders.

Mastering his anger, Tol said to the pirates, “Now is the time to be calm. Make no sudden moves!”

He stepped through the ranks of anxious sailors. Surveying the imperial horsemen, he said in a loud, commanding voice, “Who leads this troop? Where is your officer?”

A rider in a rain-slicked mantle broke out of line, and rode to Tol. “You brigands wish to surrender?” he said haughtily.

Tol announced who he was and why he had come, adding, “These men, and all the men in the ships you see offshore, have volunteered to serve the empire. For this I have offered them a pardon in the emperor’s name. Who is governor here?”

The young officer, Vanjian, was over his head. He knew the name of Lord Tolandruth-everyone in Ergoth did-but couldn’t equate the illustrious general of legend with the sodden, rag-clad man before him. Still, the question was easy enough to answer.

“Lord Tremond is Marshal of the Coastal Hundred,” he replied.

“Good! I know Tremond well. Take us to him at once!”

Vanjian was torn. Pirates would hardly tell such a fantastic story-it must he a ruse to introduce armed men into the citadel, yet, if this man was indeed Lord Tolandruth-

Backing his horse in a tight half-circle, Vanjian said, “I will take you to Lord Tremond, but you must lay down your arms first.”

Grumbling among Wandervere’s men boded ill until their captain stepped forward, unbuckled his sword belt, and handed it to the Ergothian commander. One by one, unhappy but compliant, his sailors followed suit.

“You have faith,” Tol said in a low voice when Wandervere took his place at his side.

The half-elf gave him a sidelong look. “The word of Lord Tolandruth must be worth something,” he replied, gray eyes amused.

With Darpo on one side and Wandervere on the other, Tol led the former pirates into Thorngoth. Lord Tremond met them in the outer bailey of his fortress.