As Dwarves hauled in the lines, “Skubbe av!” Kolor called.
And fore and aft, oars were used to shove away from the dock.
“Roers, ares til vann!”
Dwarves fitted the oars through holes in the upper starboard and larboard strakes and slid them out into the water. Kolor said, “Brekki,” and a brown-haired Dwarf stepped forward and began rhythmically chanting “Strok!.. Strok!.. Strok!..” And as the Nordavind backed away from the pier, Camille in the prow raised a hand in au revoir to Jordain, and the harbormaster sighed and waved in return.
Soon Kolor commanded Brekki to turn the craft, and the oar-chief called for the rowers on the starboard to back water, while those on the larboard stroked ahead. And when she was turned about, the oars were shipped aboard and square sails were raised on all four masts and the beitass poles angled to catch the wind. Swiftly the craft surged forward and toward the harbor mouth. Past lanternlit ships moored at anchor glided the Nordavind, sailor’s songs and sea chanteys drifting o’er the water from some. Camille looked back at the town of Leport, brightly lit in the night, her eye finding the Red Lantern, and she wondered if anyone therein did sing. Onward sailed the ship, most of the eighty Dwarves looking aft as well, for their shore leave had been quite brief-but from mid of night to dawn. Yet they knew the Fates could not be denied, and so they groaned and watched Leport recede-they, too, singling out the Red Lantern-until they sailed past the harbor mouth and out into open water, the North Wind asea at last, its ultimate goal a point in the ocean marked on a chart by a dying, delirious man, a place where might or might not lie an island of Goblins and Trolls.
Camille sighed and turned to face forward, looking across the starlit deeps, wondering what peril or joy or grief lay in the waters ahead.
“There,” said Kolor, pointing. To the fore and standing across their course reared a great wall of twilight, a border of Faery there in the sea.
For nearly a fortnight in all they had sailed across the deeps, the pale arc on the dark disk on Lady Sorciere’s staff growing every day, keeping pace with the moon, turning from crescent to half and beyond, and now it was nearly full, a thin bow of darkness yet remaining along the left perimeter. And in that fortnight the Nordavind had sailed through stormy and fair weather alike, in seas smooth and choppy and raging, the wind brisk and agale and nonexistent, and there Dwarves did row. Camille had fared quite well, no matter the seas or the weather or wind, but Big Jack had, as he said, spewed his guts more than once. And in these days Camille had discovered that the amenities aboard a Dragonship were nonexistent, for she had not even the meager privacy that a burlap curtain in her pere’s crowded cottage had given. She had learned to relieve herself over the side just as did everyone else, and to take care of her courses as best she could, though for the most part, Big Jack and the Dwarves looked the other way. Scruff, however, seemed disgruntled out upon the sea, for it held no beetles or grubs to scratch up, no trees to perch in, and no flopping dust whatsoever. And still every day Camille had treated his injured wing with the salve, working the joint tenderly, Scruff’s small peeps quite unsettling to her as she did so.
But now in the dawntime, with the moon having set a candlemark past, they had come to a looming wall of twilight there in the middle of the deeps. Faces had turned grim, and weapons were placed at hand, for beyond the shadowy marge lay the Sea of Mist.
“Guide her true, Belkor,” said Kolor to the redheaded Dwarf at the steerboard tiller.
“Bestandig, Skipskaptein,” replied Belkor, his jaw set at a jut.
And driven by a brisk wind, toward that dim ambit they did run.
Big Jack took up Lady Bronze and stood ready, the great battle-axe agleam in the first rays of the sun rising off the port beam.
And just as the golden orb broke free of the rim of the sea, through the Faery border the Nordavind slid to come into a cold, clammy mist, a damp, grey fog shrouding all. And the sea-blue sails fell slack, for therein was no wind.
“Ares rede, tie,” whispered Kolor, the order passed on down the line.
Quietly, Dwarves took up oars from the trestles.
“Roers, ares til vann, tie.”
As quietly as they could, the Dwarves fitted the oars through the strake holes and slipped them into the water; ’round the shafts where they fitted through the openings, they muffled the oars with cloth wrap. Then, facing aft, they sat, their sea chests acting as seats.
Now Kolor signed to his oar-chief Brekki, who stood just ahead of the tiller, where all the rowers could see him. Brekki put his finger to his lips, and, with measured strokes of his hand down through the air, the Dwarves began to row to his mute cadence, the dip and plash of blades nearly silent.
When Camille looked questioningly at Kolor, he whispered, “ ’Tis a tactic we use in perilous waters. At times, though, when edging up on a foe, the rowers stand and face forward as they stroke, axes and shields at hand. But for long pulls, much of the stroke comes from the legs, and so we sit.”
On they went through the grey fog, the mist swirling in coils with their passage, a chill dampness seeping through all. Scruff ruffled his feathers, fluffing them outward to stay warm. Camille held open her high vest pocket, inviting him to take shelter within, but he did not accept.
On went the Nordavind, oars quietly dipping in concert, ripples of the craft’s passage spreading wide to vanish in the gloom.
And though they could not directly see the sun, a vaguely brighter glow in the chill, cloaking mist showed where it was. A candlemark passed, and the nebulous shine angled upward as the hidden sun crept into the unseen sky above.
Of a sudden, Scruff chirped and grabbed a golden tress and leapt into the pocket.
“Captain,” hissed Camille, urgency in her whisper. “Peril is nigh.”
“Peril?”
Camille pointed at the sparrow, frantically tugging on her hair.
Kolor stepped forward and whispered to Brekki, and Brekki silently signalled the rowers, Ares oppe!
Oars were raised from the water, and the Nordavind glided and slowed.
Big Jack held Lady Bronze at the ready.
Camille gripped her split and splintered stave.
All eyes stared into the grey fog, but its chill grasp thwarted vision beyond three or four boat lengths in all.
Moments later, from the larboard, a swell washed through the water, the Nordavind bobbing up and down with the passage of something huge and unseen.
In silence they waited, Camille hardly daring to breathe.
Finally, the undulations quelled, and Scruff regained his perch upon Camille’s shoulder.
“We can go on,” whispered Camille, pointing to the sparrow.
Kolor looked at the wee bird in wonder, and then hissed to Brekki to proceed.
Once again oars quietly dipped in synchronization, and the Nordavind glided on.
And still the dim glow of the sun edged up through the shrouding mist.
A candlemark passed, and then another, fog aswirl in their slow wake.
Time edged forward.
Another candlemark slid by, and then once again Scruff snatched a tress and dove into the pocket, and again Camille hissed a warning to Kolor. Oars were raised, and all fell silent, but for plip s of water dripping from the blades. Left and right did eyes stare through the grey shroud, and once more to the larboard did a surge in the water come, this time close enough to see the point of the heave as something enormous just under the surface passed by. Yet what leviathan thing or creature caused the bulge, none could say, for only the surge did they see.
Once more they waited in silence, until finally Scruff took to Camille’s shoulder again. And once more did they quietly row.
And still the glow of the sun crept across the fog, yet it did not burn away the cloaking mist, as if the shroud itself defied all. Even so, the sun, or rather its diffuse glimmer, provided a guidepost to steer by, else they could have been rowing in circles, for all Camille knew.
Becloaked in mist, across the chill, glassy sea they went, Brekki mutely marking the beat, oars dipping in concert, the Nordavind gliding in near silence, though ripples of passage spread wide.
The glow of the sun passed through the zenith and started a slow slide down the sky, and still the ship went
