Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

The rescued castaway collapsed on deck. Dunvane slid down a line and dropped onto the deck beside the stranger—a woman.

“Thank you!” she gasped, brown eyes gleaming out from under a thick mask of mud. She kissed Dunvane’s hand fervently. “Bless you, sir! I saw your ship and thought it was a vision—!” Her voice choked off.

Embarrassed, the captain pulled away and stood up. He ordered a sailor to push them off from the wreck, and soon the unusual current was once more pulling them along. Norry fetched a bucket of clean water and a rag. The woman wiped her face, then raised the heavy bucket to her lips, drinking deeply. The water cut rivulets in the mud plastered on her throat.

“Who are you?” asked Dunvane. “Where do you come from?”

“My name is Jermina. I am from Gardenath.”

Dunvane stared. “Where?”

The woman repeated her answer.

“How in all Chaos did you get out here, in the middle of the ocean?” he demanded.

Jermina looked forlornly at the receding bulk of the wreck. “This was Gardenath,” she said. “Right where you stand.”

“You’re lying!” said Norry.

She shook her head, dazed, in shock. “That house was Herril’s Inn. It stood on the highest hill in Gardenath. The wall of water fell upon us, covering the land in a single night. Nothing remains …”

“Bah!” Norry snorted, but the others weren’t so sure.

“Can it be true, Captain?” one of the sailors asked.

“I cannot count it so. There was an upheaval, we know that, but I cannot believe that a town of ten thousand souls has sunk beneath the sea.”

“So it happened,” said Jermina softly.

The sailors frowned, exchanging glances. It was obvious they were beginning to believe her.

“I will ask the Revered Son,” said Dunvane firmly. “He will know the truth!”

He took hold of the woman and headed for the priest’s cabin. Dunvane knocked until the door opened and Imkhian appeared. The captain brought Jermina forward. She told her story.

The priest’s composure remained untouched, and he spared no more than a glance at the muddy, bedraggled woman. “It is a lie, Captain,” he said flatly. “Such things do not happen. The Kingpriest does not permit them to happen.”

Jermina blinked at him. “Why would I lie? I tell you, the town of Gardenath lies under the water around you!”

Imkhian’s impassive gaze remained on the captain. “Resume your course, Master Dunvane. I am on an important mission, given me by the Kingpriest himself. The serpentine bowl must arrive in Istar for the ceremony. Don’t waste any more precious time worrying about this ridiculous tale.”

“We’ll set to work on the sail at once, Revered Son,” said Dunvane, relieved, as Imkhian slammed shut the cabin door.

“Captain!” shouted Norry.

The Sunchaser shuddered and heeled slowly to port. Dunvane and his men ran to the rail. The strange current that had been carrying them along was changing direction, and the ship’s rudder, tied straight ahead, was fighting the pull.

“Look!” Norry pointed.

“By all the holy gods,” breathed Dunvane.

Off the port side was a scene from a nightmare. A vast shoal of floating debris covered the water. Clinging to the mass of logs, shake roofs, and uprooted trees were bedraggled, muddy, sunburned people. All stared hopefully at the oncoming Sunchaser .

The first cries from parched throats reached their ears. “Help … help us … water, water … help …”

The captain recovered from his shock. “Norry. Take the wheel. Steer wide of them.” Dunvane ran to Imkhian’s door once again. “Revered Son! Come out, please! You must see this!”

Imkhian emerged. The captain pointed at the scene ahead.

A flicker of surprise marred the smooth surface of the priest’s composure. His eyes moved left and right, taking in the dreadful panorama.

The flotsam shoal was only a ship’s length away. Norry wrestled with the wheel, but, without sails, the Sunchaser could not resist the current. The ship’s blunt bow was pointed at the thickest concentration of rafts. The people were making ready to climb on board.

“Do not stop,” Imkhian said swiftly.

“But, Revered Son, a seaman’s duty is to aid—”

“We cannot help them,” answered the priest. “There is neither food nor water enough on this ship to save twenty, much less such a multitude. We can do nothing for them. You must fulfill your mission, Captain. The serpentine bowl must be delivered.”

“Help us … mercy, please … save my baby …” came the cries.

The cutwater struck the first line of rafts with a sickening crunch. Dunvane saw Norry’s hands trembling violently on the wheel. In a cold, anguished fury, the captain shoved the mate away and took the wheel himself. The Sunchaser rode over everything in its path. The screams and groans of the dying people were horrible to hear. Dunvane knew he’d be haunted by the memory for the rest of his days.

Jermina, left to herself, cast about wildly for some succor to give to the people in the water. She found a coil of rope and threw its free end over the side. The castaways clung to it, trying to climb the rope onto the ship.

Dunvane saw her as she steered to starboard in an attempt to miss a raft laden with people. “The Revered Son is right,” he said through clenched teeth. “We’ve not enough food or water to share. Cut the line, Norry.”

Jermina screamed. Norry pulled out his sheath knife, casting a look of agony at his captain. Dunvane could not speak the order again, but he nodded once. Norry cut the rope with one stroke, just as a pair of raw, blistered hands reached for the rail.

Dunvane would never forget that dreadful voyage. When at last they were clear of the floating refugees, he tied off the wheel and slumped against the sterncastle behind him.

“Captain.”

Dunvane opened his eyes. Norry stood before him. “We’re with you, sir,” the mate said. “Me and the men, we don’t want to die, but we’re scared. What’s happened, Captain? Who were all those people?”

“Pirates,” said Imkhian, looming in the doorway to his cabin. “Thieves.”

“Your pardon, Holy One, but those were ordinary townsfolk, not even sailors, by the look of their pale skin,” Dunvane replied.

“Could they be? Could the woman be telling the truth?” Norry asked slowly. “Were those the people of Gardenath?”

“You’re speaking blasphemy,” warned the priest.

Still sobbing, Jermina cried, “Since when is the truth a blasphemy?”

“Enough,” Dunvane barked. The sullen sky was darkening to purple as the sun began to set. “If there is a coast to find, it’s got to be south. Norry, you and the men work on rigging a trysail on the foremast. Once it’s done, maybe we can steer ourselves out of this current.”

The sailors dispersed to their tasks. The woman, Jermina, went forward to sleep in the shadows on the foredeck. Imkhian began to speak of faith and trust in the gods, and faith in the goodness and power of the Kingpriest. After a few minutes, the priest realized no one was heeding him. Scowling, he withdrew in offended dignity back to his cabin.

A wind sprang up before midnight. The breeze scoured the smoke and clouds away, and stars glittered overhead. Dunvane called for his quadrant. He shot the stars and called out their positions to Norry, who scratched figures on a wax tablet.

“Something’s not right about these figures, Captain,” Norry muttered. He chewed the blunt end of his wooden stylus. “We’re nowhere near where we should be.”

Dunvane sent below for a chart of the Istar coast. By lantern light, he compared the figures he’d just taken to the ones given on the parchment scroll. His jaw dropped in astonishment. He shot the stars again, with the same result. The heavens did not lie. He stabbed his knife into the map at their position. “We’re a hundred miles from the Istar coast,” said Dunvane. “A hundred miles inland of the coastline!”