The Companions Page 10

  The crag they were scaling must have been four hundred feet high. It was slow going, made slower by the fact that Flint insisted on leading and doing things his own way. Meticulously he inched upward, pounding short iron stakes about an arm’s length above his head and tying himself firmly before finding a new foothold. Raistlin had been prescient with his suggestion that the dwarf bring along everything necessary to survive a mountain expedition.

  Tanis and Raistlin had an easier time of it, thanks to Flint’s trailblazing. Still, even for an experienced climber, it was arduous work. The footholds that provided a secure respite were few. Tanis and Raistlin had to claw and cling to pitted rock while hoisting themselves ever upward. Toward the top, the temperature cooled noticeably, and unexpected gusts of wind buffeted their backs.

  Flint had to admit that Raistlin posessed grit. The young mage didn’t complain.

  Only once did Raistlin weaken and slip. Ahead of him, Tanis was alert enough to pull the rope taut, breaking the young mage’s fall, while with his other hand, he gripped the link to Flint above. Raistlin managed to pull himself up and grab hold of the rock face. Fluttering his hand, he signaled Flint to continue. The dwarf had been right in thinking that his sinewy friend Tanis would have no trouble safeguarding Raistlin.

  After nearly two hours of hard climbing, the three of them attained the summit of the precipice. They slumped on the ledge, out of breath, before turning their eyes to behold what lay beyond. The shelf was just large enough for the three of them. As the precipice rounded to the east, it revealed massive mountains with dramatic escarpments and snowcapped domes.

  Directly below them was a deep, jagged gorge. Steam from fissures in the rock obscured its bottom. A plunge down that craggy face would mean certain death.

  As Flint stood on wobbly legs, he realized that the strong gusts of wind were coming at him from two directions, east and west, the ledge caught in a crossfire of physical forces. The strong winds tore at him. He motioned for the other two to wait and crawled unsteadily to the far side of the ledge, where he pitted one of his iron stakes. While Tanis and Raistlin watched, he pitted several more, and then rigged his rope so that they might all stand, anchored to the crag, without being blown off into space.

  They stared below.

  “Is that where the portal is supposed to be?” asked Tanis skeptically. He had to repeat his question more loudly before it was heard over the rushing cry of the wind.

  “Yes,” shouted Raistlin, his voice hoarse.

  “I wouldn’t want to trust in it,” said Flint. The other two said nothing in reply, because they would rather not depend on it either. But what choice did they have?

  Flint picked up a loose rock and held it over the side. Tanis nodded. He let it drop.

  They waited for several minutes, straining against the noise of the wind to hear it hit bottom. Finally Flint thought he heard a ping off the rocks below.

  “No portal,” said Flint disgustedly.

  “Inanimate object,” disagreed Raistlin, shouting again. “The portal won’t accept an inanimate object unaccompanied by a mortal being, and in any case, it won’t open until I cast the proper spell!”

  After a long pause, Tanis asked, “How can we be sure?”

  Raistlin didn’t reply immediately. The three of them stood on the rock ledge, high atop the crag, leaning out over the craggy gorge that extended hundreds of feet below. The wind blasted around them, tearing at their hair and clothing. Flint’s ropes kept them from toppling off, but even so, they had to struggle to maintain their balance.

  “We don’t know,” yelled Flint finally.

  “Is that right?” Tanis asked, turning toward Raistlin.

  “Yes.”

  Tanis and Flint looked at each other. Flint rolled his eyes. Tanis unsheathed a knife.

  “Then say the spell,” the half-elf said.

  Raistlin closed his eyes briefly, concentrating, then opened them. He murmured some ancient words that sounded incomprehensible to Flint. Then, in common language that both of them understood, he shouted, “Open portal!”

  With his knife, Tanis slashed at the ropes that held them to the stakes. Swiftly he jammed it back in its sheath. As he did, the three of them moved forward, leaping off, Flint and Raistlin linking arms with Tanis in the middle. An unintelligible shriek escaped their lips.

  Whether because of the wind or their lack of coordination, the three companions got all tangled up as they plunged, heads first and feet splaying, toward the jagged rocks below.

  CHAPTER 6

  CAPTIVE AND ADRIFT

  ———

  FOR DAYS THEY DRIFTED. SINCE STURM AND CARAMON HAD NO IDEA where they were, it didn’t make sense to try to swim in any particular direction. Besides, the ropes that bound them to the splintered mast were shrunk by the salt water. It was all they could do to keep their chins above the waves and kick out with their legs.

  The sky remained gray and leaden, and a haze blanketed everything. The shroud was impenetrable. They could see nothing.

  Although the sun never shone, a diffuse light permeated the haze, and it was hotter than deep summer in Solace. The heat smothered them like a sodden blanket, burning their skin and eyes, relentless in its constancy.

  Night offered only slight improvement. They would have welcomed nightfall and relief from the heat, except it plunged them into utter darkness. They could barely discern each other, much less the twin moons, Lunitari and Solinari. In this part of the world, wherever it was, the sky was monolithic, oppressive.

  The water itself offered little comfort. Brackish and brown, almost muddy, the sea remained uncomfortably warm even at night, carrying a pungent smell. The waves heaved and roiled, though there was little wind. It was almost as if some turbulence beneath perpetually agitated the surface.

  For two days, they saw no signs of life, no ships on the horizon, no sea birds, no fish. For two days, they had nothing to eat or drink, nor any sleep. For two days, they kicked and paddled as best they could, draped over the mast, gradually losing strength and willpower.

  “It could be worse,” Caramon had said the first day.

  “How?” questioned Sturm.

  “It could be Flint instead of me,” replied Caramon. He managed to force a grin. “He’s the only poorer swimmer I know.”

  Sturm returned the grin. He was determined not to think about his body, weakened by hunger and pain. In spite of that, he began to doubt how much longer either of them could survive.

  “I wonder …” began Sturm.

  “What?” asked Caramon.

  “Where are we?”

  On the third day, the haze gradually grew even thicker, so that by midday, they could hardly see a dozen feet beyond where they floated. Sturm and Caramon glanced at each other nervously as they began to hear creaking and groaning. High-pitched shrieks rent the air. Broken beams and pieces of planking and heavy, waterlogged clumps of kelp materialized, bumping up against them in the water.

  Sturm leaned away from the mast and was able to snatch some of the seaweed in his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” asked Caramon, aghast.

  “It’s quite edible,” Sturm said in a bare whisper as he chewed arduously. It was edible, though its raw and gummy texture made it worse than tasteless. “Who knows where our next meal is coming from?”

  Caramon thought about that for a moment, then lunged as best he could for the next patch that floated by, catching some of the purple-brown vegetation, spotted with grime. Trying not to think about it, the twin chewed determinedly, but he couldn’t bear it. With a flash of disgust, Caramon spat the mouthful out.

  His brown eyes leveled at Caramon sternly, Sturm chewed on.

  After a moment’s consideration, Caramon lunged for the kelp again but missed. The vegetation washed by.

  The groaning and cries intensified, followed by the booming and splitting sounds of … what? It sounded like a ship’s crash, the noise of wood breaking up, a hull tearing on some unse
en reef. The cacophony of sounds rose and fell, echoing spookily.

  The haze mingled with drops of rain and seemed to rub up against their faces. The waves diminished so that the sea was eerily calm. All around them was a ghostly gray-white void.

  “What can you see?” asked Caramon, his voice hoarse and cracked.

  “Nothing,” Sturm replied. “And you?”

  “Less than nothing.”

  Suddenly a large mass, a great and formidable cluster of shapes, loomed out of the haze. For a moment, Caramon panicked, thinking a gigantic sea monster was descending on them. Then his vision cleared somewhat, and through his exhaustion, he realized the mass was actually a number of ships and scattered remnants of ships, creaking as they glided through the oddly calm waters.

  Sickeningly white, like the bellies of dead fish, the rotting hulks were riddled with gaping holes, their timbers stained with blood, rust, and a yellow-green slime. Strange barnacles and marine life clung to their sides. Tatters of sails hung from the masts. The wind moaned in the rigging. It seemed impossible these ships could float.

  “Look!” cried Caramon.

  A dark shape glided toward them, the biggest ship of the wrecked fleet. A solitary hooded figure stood at the helm. Three skeletons dangled from a high post, swaying gently. As the ship bore closer, coming within a dozen feet of them, the hooded figure turned and inclined its head, appearing to focus on them.

  The hooded figure pointed at Sturm and Caramon. The phantom ship had drawn so close that Caramon could see the figure’s eyes, fiery red inside the black holes of its featureless visage. With a bony finger, the hooded ghost—for surely that is what it was, Caramon thought—beckoned.

  The ship pulled so close the two stranded friends could have almost reached out and touched it had their arms been free to do so. Stray, rotting beams jutted out from its side. Caramon had to kick away to avoid being struck by one of them.

  As the ship passed, pieces of it broke and crashed onto the deck or splashed into the sea. The hooded ghost didn’t stir, but its eyes followed them. Caramon felt their terrible gaze on him and Sturm.

  Then, as suddenly as it came, the ghost fleet disappeared into the haze. In its wake, the brackish water churned around Sturm and Caramon as the wind picked up and quickly became a howl. A strong current tugged at the warriors’ legs. Waves crashed over them, filling their noses and mouths. The strange current sucked them downward.

  With his last reserve of strength, Caramon pumped his legs, straining to keep above water. Gasping for air, he realized his friend was faring worse. Sturm was all pretzeled up, almost on top of him, his lungs at the bursting point. Caramon strove to buoy up Sturm as best he could, struggling against the enormous pull of the sea.

  Sturm’s strength was gone, but the knight didn’t panic. He regretted dying, but the sea had proved a worthy opponent. Death offered a welcome respite. He felt the waves close over his head for what he was certain was the final time, when suddenly the turbulence spent itself and the sea grew calm.

  Sturm and Caramon both broke to the surface, choking. The sea still thundered around them, but it was no longer as threatening. The haze had returned as before. The two companions clung awkwardly to the mast that both imprisoned them and kept them afloat. Half-drowned, Sturm barely clung to consciousness. Caramon, exhausted, fought the urge to fall asleep.

  Somehow they kept going. By the morning of the fifth day, the two young men had begun to despair. Brine parched their lips. Their faces had burned until the skin cracked, oozing a glistening mucous. Dampness clogged their chests, yet their throats were as dry as tinder.

  Still they drifted, clinging together, roped to the mast. The brown waves tumbled over them. In every direction stretched the endless, merciless sea.

  Caramon’s legs had thoroughly cramped, so that he could barely move them. Sturm’s eyes had shrunk into puffed slits. The endless effort to keep their chins above water, had dazed their minds as well as ravaged their bodies.

  “If … if I could only untie these bonds,” gasped Caramon, water sloshing into his mouth when he opened it to talk. “You might have a better chance alone.”

  “I!” declared Sturm, shocked. “I’d never abandon you! It would be dishonorable.”

  “Anyway,” acknowledged Caramon, casting a fleeting glance at Sturm, “I can’t budge them, so I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

  A silence grew between them for several minutes. “The mast is a curse,” said Sturm at last, his voice grim. “It keeps us afloat, but just barely … just enough to torture us. Drowning would be preferable.” He paused, glancing away. “There! There they are again!”

  A pair of aquatic predators had been circling them for a day. Four round, blackened eyes set in a massive forehead poked out of the water now and again, when one of the creatures surfaced to gulp some air. The helpless companions could see the creature’s thick, knobby hides and webbed claws. They could also glimpse powerful maws lined with rows of triangular teeth. Although the creatures were huge, broad of back, and at least eight feet in length, they had kept a respectful distance for a day now, circling for hours, diving underwater for long intervals and then returning to circle and watch.

  “Vodyanoi … cousins of the umber hulk,” rasped Caramon. “I’ve heard tales that they existed in deep waters. Why don’t they attack?”

  “Vodyanoi are cunning,” said Sturm in a bare whisper, “but they’re are also cowardly. This must be a mated pair. You can bet if they were with a pack, we’d be dead by now. But they know that we’re tiring. It won’t be long now. All they have to do is wait. It’s much simpler than fighting.”

  Summoning all his strength, Sturm kicked out in the direction of the bulky sea animals. The two vodyanoi opened their huge jaws, let out piercing screeches and dove under the water.

  “Don’t worry,” murmured Sturm, closing his eyes momentarily. “They’ll be back.”

  Sturm didn’t think he and Caramon would make it through the day. His stomach felt poisoned, on fire. His legs hung lifelessly, mere dead weight. Once or twice he looked over and saw Caramon, almost asleep, his chin balanced precariously on the bobbing mast. Sturm tried to warn his friend to stay alert, but his parched mouth couldn’t form the words.

  A shadow flickered across the water in front of Sturm. Looking up, he thought he saw a black dot circling above in the hazy sky, but he couldn’t be sure. He thought he had seen that black shape before, too … yesterday? What was it? Another predator, like the vodyanoi, he guessed. This one from the heavens, waiting for them to die.

  There it was again, the cawing that he thought he’d heard before. It seemed to come from the black dot. Was it a giant bird, then, taunting him and Caramon?

  Abruptly something plopped in the water almost directly in front of him. It was square, grooved, and several inches thick, a kind of thick, flat bread, floating in the water very near the Solamnic.

  Sturm reached out and caught it in his teeth. It was as hard as wood, but it wasn’t wood. It was a thick slab of bread. Hungrily he bit down on it, digging his shoulder into Caramon.

  The big warrior stirred, easing his eyes open. Sturm let half the bread fall back into the water, nudging it toward Caramon. Caramon had enough wits left to seize it in his teeth, devouring it in several gulps.

  The caw sounded again, more distant this time. Caramon and Sturm looked up into the sky, squinting, barely able to see the black speck as it arced over them and vanished from sight.

  The thick, hard bread was no substitute for Otik’s spicy potatoes, but in their present circumstances, it tasted almost as good.

  The warmth of the seawater lulled them. The torpid haze drained their energy. The monotony of the waves drowned their senses.

  Trancelike, they drifted aimlessly.

  Sturm dreamed of his father and wondered what had become of brave, doomed Angriff Brightblade. One day he would find him and know the answer. For now, the clues were few and far between, like stepping-stones sc
attered across an endless pond. Whenever Sturm began to step on one of the stones, it turned into a lily pad, and he sank to the bottom.

  Caramon dreamed of a warm inn and a comely wench.

  Neither of them noticed that the haze had begun to lift, and that the water was losing its muddy brown color.

  The kender paced the perimeter of his stone cell in an underground annex of the palace. Tasslehoff Burrfoot seemed to be the only prisoner in this part of the building. Dogz had told him that he was a special prisoner of the minotaur king. This made Tas proud, even if it meant that he was in for some very special torture and inquisition.

  Dogz did not adminster the torturing. Once a day, he brought what little gruel the minotaurs permitted Tas to eat. It was disgusting stuff, even to Tas, who like most kender was open-minded about what he ate.

  The one in charge, Cleef-Eth, did not adminster the torture, either. It was he who asked the questions between the torturings.

  Cleef-Eth demanded to know why Tasslehoff had bought the crushed jalopwort from the minotaur herbalist, Argotz. Cleef-Eth now possessed the crushed jalopwort, as well as the contents of the rest of Tas’s pouches, but it appeared what he really wanted to know was why the kender had sought the rare ingredient in the first place.

  Tas might have answered if he had happened to know the answer, but only Raistlin knew. In general, the kender always tried to be courteous and helpful. But Tas knew that Argotz had been murdered and that after murdering him, the foul-smelling minotaurs had come after him and Caramon and Sturm and somehow conjured up a magic storm—he must remember to ask Raistlin about the mechanics of the magic storm—which had transported them all to the far eastern rim of the Blood Sea.

  So Tas didn’t answer the question, and the minotaurs had been torturing him for days now.

  Poor dumb, ugly, squalid cowheads. They needed a lot of help with their torture techniques. From Tas’s point of view, the minotaur torture masters were pretty confused about the question of how much to hurt him in order to make him tell them what he knew, without hurting him too much or killing him or incapacitating him. If they killed Tas or incapacitated him without extracting the necessary information, somebody called the Nightmaster would be very upset.