James Lowder - The Ring of Winter

Of Captain Bawr herself he could learn little. The crew spoke of her in hushed tones, but always in glowing terms. They were loyal, but fearful, too. They'd all seen her transform at various times, though no one dared venture a guess as to her true nature. The only thing Artus discovered was she never came on deck during the day; when the sun shone, Master Quiracus and the other officers ran the Narwhal.

Artus shook his head. The contrast between the sweet young woman and the creature she became… He shuddered. It was horrifying to think on the matter too closely.

All thoughts of the captain fled his mind in that instant, driven away by sudden panic. Lost in his musings, he'd taken a wrong step. For a moment, the realization he was going to fall overwhelmed Artus. Then he toppled head over heels down the shroud. The net of ropes burned his arms and legs as he slid. He reached out, but discovered painfully he was moving too fast to stop his fall. It seemed he was going to either roll right down the shrouds and over the side, or slip from them and plummet to the deck.

Fortunately, Skuld was not about to let his master break his neck on the quarterdeck or drop into the sea like so much shark bait. A glowing silver hand shot from the medallion and clamped down on the shroud. Artus gasped, then choked as the chain pulled tight. His momentum gone, he slipped limply between the ropes. The explorer hung below the shroud for an instant, the medallion's chain and the silver arm suspending him like a hangman's noose. Then he was falling again, this time like an autumn leaf drifting slowly to earth.

When the chain had loosened its chokehold and the blood ceased to throb in his temples, Artus tried to sit up. The silver arm was gone, but it was clear everyone near the mainmast had seen his unearthly rescue.

"What's this all about?" Nelock shouted. He stood over the dazed explorer, his hands on his hips. "No sailor's allowed to use magic without the officers knowing about it. The captain will want you-"

"Sent to the surgeon to see about his wounds," interrupted Master Quiracus. The first mate was at the boatswain's side. When Artus looked up, a halo from the sun ringed the blond man's bead. "Go on, Cimber. Have Pontifax see to those cuts."

It was then Artus realized his shirt collar was heavy with blood. The chain had dug into his neck, but only enough to draw a ring of crimson. When he moved to lever himself to his feet, he found his hands gouged and bloody, too.

"It looks worse than it is," Quiracus noted calmly. "Still, better to clean out the wounds before they become infected. Don't you agree, Master Nelock?"

The boatswain muttered his agreement, then turned to the crowd of sailors who had paused in their work. "Awright, back to yer duties, ya bilge rats."

As Nelock looked around, he saw men and women pulling lines out of synch, and midshipmen caught in idle speculation about the strange magic that had saved Artus's life. The crew had been working at top form, like the well-tended engine they were trained to be. Now they were at odds, slowing the ship and making their own tasks harder by working against each other.

In his deep, growling voice, Nelock began to sing. The chanty was an old one and had a hundred variations all along the Sword Coast. The crew soon picked up the song. Its rhythm became the pulse of the ship, and the crew began to once again work in harmony.

My love was a lass from Shadowdale,

A beauty with hair of silver.

A pirate from Presper stole her away.

The sea take all pirates from Presper, brave boys,

The sea take the pirates of Presper.

My love was a lass from Marsember,

And we were to wed last Mirtul.

A whaler from Westgate stole her away.

The sea take all whalers from Westgate, brave boys,

The sea take the whalers of Westgate.

"Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job," the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain's side.

Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. "What I'd like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them-especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya've hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain't good to undercut me with the men around."

The first mate smiled. "There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren't privy to them." He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. "You should consider yourself lucky."

The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain's cabin and the maproom. "Something ain't right about this," Nelock muttered to himself. "But I ain't stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either."

The boatswain started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.

Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn't lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock's, but then he'd never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.

"How've you been, Pontifax?" he asked somewhat sheepishly.

"Fine. Now be a good soldier and sit on the table," was the somewhat chilly reply. "Take your shirt off so I can get a look at the wounds on your neck."

The mage bustled about the large room, only a small part of which was lit. Two magical globes of light floated at Pontifax's shoulders, but they did little to help dispel the gloom from the place. "I've spent the last tenday setting broken limbs, bandaging gashes received in mindless brawls, and ministering to petty officers with hangovers," he offered as he grabbed a handful of cotton wrapping. "Same sorts of silly injuries I worked on when I served with the Army of the Alliance-until the fighting started, of course. The barbarians dealt in more ghastly wounds. In fact, I spent most of my time on the crusade making men comfortable until they died…"

Artus dropped his bloodied shirt to the floor. Whenever Pontifax was disgusted with things, he talked about King Azoun's crusade against the barbarous Tuigan tribesmen. He had served as a surgeon during the entire campaign and had even fought alongside the royal War Wizards in the final battles. There were few things Pontifax prided himself upon more than this.

Pontifax sighed. "Did you know there are passengers aboard who don't have to work?"

"What?" Artus leaped to his feet, spilling a bottle of strong-smelling liquid. It splattered on his scraped hands, stinging like a thousand wasp bites. "Gods' blasted…"

"Serves you right," the mage said. He righted the bottle, mopping up the spilled liquid with Artus's shirt. "Now sit down before you really hurt yourself."

"But if there're paying passengers aboard who don't have to-"

"These privileged passengers have taken over the captain's cabin," the mage warned, "so don't go making a fuss just yet. Bawr's sleeping in the maproom to make space for them." He glanced at the long slice in Artus's neck, then dabbed the blood away. "They're important ambassadors on their way to Samarach on a secret trade mission. Quiracus told me about them one night after dinner. They paid ten times what we did."

"But I haven't seen anyone who even vaguely resembles a government-type strolling the decks."

"They're more secretive than the captain." Pontifax began to clean the scrapes on Artus's hands, dousing them with more of the stinging liquid. "Besides, you should be glad they haven't seen you. They're from Tantras."

Artus groaned-both from the pain in his hands and the dread in his heart. Government officials from Tantras! Both he and Pontifax were wanted men in that city, for murder and a dozen other charges, all stemming from a battle they'd had with Kaverin Ebonhand three years past. If the ambassador heard they were aboard the Narwhal, he might try to take them into custody or even worse, try them on the spot for their crimes.