James Lowder - Crusade

"Thom, wait!" Azoun cried as the bard tossed the last page over the side and lifted the finely carved box above his head. Another flash of lightning zigzagged a wild path across the sky, and the king saw sailors lining the rails to either side of the bard, tossing coins into the water.

In the instant of absolute blackness that followed the lightning strike, Thom hurled the case. The king reached the bard's side in time to see another fork of lightning split the night and strike a nearby cog. The bolt splintered one of the smaller ship's two square-rigged masts and set its canvas ablaze. It was the first time Azoun had realized that the storm had tossed them so close to other ships in the armada. Flames eagerly licked the cog's second mast, and soon it was burning brightly.

The eerie red glow from the burning cog cut through the night and the storm, illuminating the churning sea. The king glanced out at a few of the parchment pages bobbing on the waves.

"Why?" Azoun asked.

Thom didn't answer, but kept his gaze locked on the spot where he'd guessed his gift to Umberlee had hit the water. "Look," he said in a voice that was barely heard over the storm. He pointed to the waves.

When Azoun saw what Thom was pointing at, he gasped and gripped the railing tightly.

Against the backdrop of the burning cog, a forty-foot-high, forked wave had risen out of the ocean. The wave curled in breakers both to the left and right and moved with unnatural slowness toward the Welleran. "Lady Umberlee herself! The goddess's hand!" Azoun heard a sailor cry from nearby. "We're doomed!"

"Try and turn her about!" Farl Bloodaxe yelled from somewhere on the deck. "This'll swamp us for sure."

But the wave continued to move toward the king's carrack, slowly blotting out Azoun's view of the burning cog. A burst of wind pushed cold rain into the king's eyes, so he shielded his face for a moment. When he looked up again, the forked wave, its breakers never falling, was only fifty yards from the ship. It reared even higher for a moment, then collapsed, slapping the surface with a terrible roar.

Everyone onboard the Welleran who saw the unnatural wave fall braced for the terrible aftershock. The collapse of the forty-foot-high wall of water should have sent huge waves out all around, but it didn't. Instead, the storm died abruptly. The wind lessened, the sea calmed, and soon only a steady rain fell on the king's carrack.

As Azoun, Thom, and the crew looked out at the now-calm waters, they saw hundreds of blue-white points of light sinking below the surface. The light diminished as the glowing coins sank into the sea. Closer to the surface, dozens of sheets of parchment, tangled and torn, shone more brightly. Finally, a small box with Cormyr's symbol prominent on its cover bobbed on the waves, casting a bright light.

Thom Reaverson turned to King Azoun. "I'm sorry, milord. Of the things I have on the ship, I valued them most."

Azoun watched the pages and the box sink beneath the water, their light dimming as Umberlee drew the offerings to the bottom of the sea. "I'll replace the gift, Thom, but I can't give you back all your work."

The bard shook his head. "Our work, Your Highness. The annals told of everything you've done up until now to organize the crusade." He glanced at the points of light falling beneath the water. "Perhaps that's why Umberlee accepted the pages and all as a suitable sacrifice. They tell why we're here."

Farl Bloodaxe clapped Thom on the back as he reached the bard's side. "You may have saved us all," he said, exhaustion apparent in his voice.

The king cast a glance at the mainmast, then looked at Farl. "Will we need to make for shore? From the orders you were giving, I thought the mast was splintering."

The infantry commander shook his head. "We lost some rigging, and the masts were sorely tested by the storm. I've given command over to the first mate for now. He's inspecting the masts and the sheets to make sure we're still seaworthy, but I think the ship will be able to go on."

The rain continued to fall, so Azoun moved the discussion back to the great cabin. Thom Reaverson stayed on deck for a short time, watching the cog burn itself out, then slowly sink. The Welleran picked up some of the survivors, as did the dark-hulled Sembian ship that had passed the king's carrack earlier.

Before he left the railing, the bard took one last look into the sea. The blue-white lights that marked his sacrifice were gone. As he gazed into the inky water, Thom Reaverson wondered if Azoun or anyone else could truly understand what he'd given up. The pages that Umberlee had taken could never be exactly reproduced. They might have been his best work, now lost to the world.

Then again, Thom realized suddenly, perhaps the new annals he would write would be better. He returned to the great cabin to begin his notes anew, hoping that the goddess's hand had granted him an unintended favor.

The storm caused by Umberlee's wrath was the last bad weather the fleet saw on its way across the Inner Sea. Most of the days were bright and breezy, and the cogs, coasters, and carracks made good time toward the free city of Telflamm. Still, each day presented new problems for the ragtag navy and the soldiers unaccustomed to life at sea.

This particular morning, on a Sembian ship in the crusaders' fleet, Razor John rubbed his shoulder in a futile attempt to work out a knotted muscle. The fletcher's back had begun to ache continuously after his first night aboard the dark-hulled, square-sailed cog, and he'd been unable to shake the pain since. The constant damp and perpetual hard labor he faced each day only aggravated the problem.

Sighing, John pushed his rough, spray-soaked blanket aside and sat up. Like most of the other passengers onboard the Sarnath, he slept on the open deck. In fact, the shortage of storage space on the cog meant that many of the sailors and soldiers on her slept, ate, and passed their free time on deck. Still, Razor John was a hearty soul, and he quickly acclimated to the everpresent dampness and the aches it caused.

He couldn't get used to the lack of privacy. Only high in the rigging could anyone escape the bustle of the deck, and that was certainly not the safest place to be. Four sailors had already plummeted to their deaths from the masts, the victims of a single misplaced step. Picking up half the survivors of the ship struck by lightning during the storm hadn't helped the overcrowding either. The refugees from the burned ship had swelled the ranks aboard the Sarnath almost to capacity.

Clasping his hands high over his head and stretching again, John said, "Time to get up, Mal." When the snoring lump next to the bowsprit didn't move, the fletcher kicked it softly with a toe.

"Leave me be, son of a Sembian pig," Mal grunted. He pulled his blanket up over his head, muttering incoherent curses.

Razor John frowned. Mal-or Malmondes of Suzail, as John had discovered his full name to be-had proved himself quite adept at starting brawls with comments like that one. Though Mal was seemingly a good-hearted man, the fletcher found it hard to see beyond his many prejudices. The fact that John, Mal, and their other companion, Kiri, were traveling on a Sembian cog only made the problem worse.

John nudged the ham-fisted soldier again. "Don't give the first mate an excuse to start in on you again, Mal." As the lump beneath the spray-soaked blanket grumbled, the fletcher pulled on boots and placed a shapeless felt hat on his mop of sandy hair.

"Won't get up again, eh?"

Razor John started, then turned to face the person who'd just posed the question. "No, Kiri," he said. "Just like every morning."

The thin, brown-haired woman handed John two hard biscuits and a piece of fruit. The fletcher let his gaze wander over the woman's lithe form to her slightly round face. As usual, her brown eyes were bright and made John glad to see her. In fact, he had recently found himself using images of Kiri and her smile as shields against the boredom and fatigue that assailed everyone aboard ship.