The Companions

bespoke experience. Tas had dubbed the captain 'Walrus Face' because of the pronged teeth that stuck out over his lantern jaw.

A punishing crash drew Sturm's attention upward. With the peculiar grace of a ballet, the top half of the Venora's mast broke off and toppled slowly into the violent sea. Nobody had bothered to furl the sails as the storm approached, and now there was no one to respond to this latest crisis.

Sturm's worried thoughts turned to his companions. He started to pull himself along the rail toward the back of the small cabin where he had last seen Caramon drinking with a group of sailors. The Venora's deck seesawed wildly back and forth beneath his feet. The ship seemed to be spinning around in circles that left Sturm's head swimming. Wind and rain whipped around him, creating an overwhelming cacophony.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Sturm lunged from the side rail to the small cabin and pulled himself around to the rear, which offered some small shelter from the battering of the storm.

With dismay, Sturm shook his head at what he beheld. Caramon was sprawled on the deck, eyes dreamily closed, an overturned jug of liquor rolling around at his side. Drunk, thought Sturm with exasperation. Sturm had developed an abiding respect for his friend's fighting skills and bravery, while acknowledging privately that Caramon's judgment, due to his overly generous nature, could not always be relied upon. But this lapse, at this particular time, seemed almost inexcusable.

And where were his drinking companions? Clearly, Caramon had been left behind.

The deck shifted violently beneath Sturm's feet. He braced himself against the side of the cabin, gauging how difficult it would be to drag Caramon into the slight shelter offered by the interior of the cabin, then shake him awake. After that, Tas still needed to be found, Sturm thought to himself grimly. And this all presumed there were still enough crew members aboard to bring the Venora under control.

Keeping one foot braced against the cabin wall, Sturm leaned over to grab his friend. Although the deck was slick from the rain, it would be difficult to budge Caramon's bulk. It was then that Sturm noticed that Caramon's weapons were missing. Before he could contemplate this odd fact, he heard a scuffling sound. Sturm looked up, but it was too late. The young Solamnic felt a thump on the side of his head, followed by the sensation of falling down a deep, dark, bottomless hole, with the wind shrieking in his ears.

Tasslehoff had been absorbed in finishing his letter to Raistlin. When the ship's increasingly turbulent motion caused the oil lamp to slide off the writing desk and shatter, the cabin was plunged into darkness. Tas looked up expectantly, just in time to grab the magic message bottle before it rolled off the desk.

'Oh… the storm. I forgot,' the kender muttered to himself. Quickly he rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into the bottle. He pinched off a piece of the cork and crumbled it inside, then watched as the letter took on a golden glow before it vanished. Following the instructions he recalled, he swiftly corked the bottle and held it up. It appeared to be empty.

Standing on his tiptoes, Tas pressed his face against the porthole. In the dim light, he could make out little except that this was certainly a fine storm. He rugged the porthole open, and with a mighty effort, hurled the bottle into the churning sea.

As he stepped back from the porthole, the cabin tilted at a crazy angle, and the chair Tas had been sitting on crashed into his shins. Flashes of lightning filled the porthole with brilliant white light, extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. Loud cracks of thunder followed. In between two thunderclaps, Tas heard something else up on deck.

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his throbbing shins, Tas began hopping around the cabin, gathering up the rest of his pouches and shoving them into his rucksack. He had no intention of leaving any of his treasures behind. 'No telling what might happen in a storm like this,' Tas mused aloud. 'Sounds like it’s even more exciting up on deck. Sturm and Caramon must be having a great time up there. I bet they can't wait for me to join them.' He took a moment to strap his hoopak, the fighting weapon prized by kender, to his back.

Tas paused at the door to the cabin, casting a quick glance behind him. Another flash of lightning at the porthole momentarily blinded him.

'I wonder if it's okay to use the magic message bottle during a storm,' he reflected. 'Oh, well. Too late now.' He turned and bounded through the narrow passageway leading to the cabin, then up the stairway to the deck.

Prepared for a warm greeting from his friends, Tas was disappointed when he didn't see anyone. There was no sign of Sturm or Caramon, or even Captain Murloch. With typical kender agility, Tas managed to keep his footing on the rolling deck as he looked around. The mainmast appeared to have broken and toppled into the sea. The sails left attached to the stub of the mast whipped around wildly. The Venora careened dizzily. Where were Sturm and Caramon, not to mention everybody else?

Sensing some movement behind him, Tas whirled around and came face to face with Captain Murloch… old Walrus Face, The captain grinned at the kender, his yellowed teeth sticking out over his lower jaw. Swell, thought Tas. Despite his ship's dire predicament, the captain was managing to keep in good humor.

'Hi, Captain Murloch,' Tas shouted into the wind and rain that lashed his face. 'Quite a squall we're having. I bet it's going to give the ship a bit of trouble. I'll stay by your side and help you out. I've been on many ships in such circumstances…well, not too many, actually. Seven or nine, not counting this one. But Sturm and Caramon can be a big help, too. Do you know where they are? Good thing our friend Flint isn't along, because…'

Tas took a few steps closer to Captain Murloch, to make sure he was being heard. Somehow nothing seemed to be registering on the captain's grinning face. Perplexed and distracted, Tas failed to see the captain's arm swing up or notice the club arcing toward his head until it was too late.

'Damnable kender! They'd talk your ears off in the middle of a hurricane,' Captain Murloch muttered to himself. But the captain's club had put a stop to the kender's chatter. Tas lay unconscious at Murloch's feet. The captain seized him by his topknot and dragged him toward what was left of the main mast. Beneath the shredded sails lay the unconscious forms of Sturm and Caramon.

Captain Murloch dragged the limp bodies closer to the mast and began to rope them to it as he had been instructed. He worked as quickly as he could in the fury of the storm. Finally, when he was finished, he stood for a moment to survey his handiwork. Heavy, purple-black clouds blotted out the sky overhead. The Venora's timbers creaked loudly.

Captain Murloch had kept his part of the bargain. The generous payment he had received meant he would be well compensated for the loss of the Venora and the risk to his own life. Like many old sea hands, Murloch loved his ship and regretted losing it. He would almost rather have lost his life.

'Well old girl, we had a good run,' the captain murmured, licking his lips.

Murloch bent down and pulled a thick ring of cork from a hatch near the mast. He slipped it over his head and secured it with a rope at his waist. Looking back at the three unconscious bodies, then down toward the dark, turbulent waters, he climbed over the rail and plummeted toward the sea below.

He had managed to thrash his way through the high waves and swim several hundred feet away from the ship by the time the angry cloud that hovered above the Venora lowered itself upon the ship, spitting fierce blasts of lightning and hail.

Then, with a fearful, rushing clamor, the cloud began to rise slowly, carrying the Venora with it. From his distant vantage, Murloch could barely make out the ship's bow and stern as the Venora spun around like a top and was sucked up into the vortex.

Half a day later, the treacherous Captain Murloch, drifting with the tide, spied the distant shore of Abanasinia. He was nearly home free.

Tired and hungry, he was nonetheless comforted by the prospect of being a rich man for the rest of his life.

His cork preserver fitted snugly around his middle, Captain Murloch reached out and stroked the water, paddling in the direction of the coastline.

An odd sound drew his attention skyward. The sun was so bright and hot that he had to shade his eyes. Specks appeared to be dancing in the air.

Suddenly Captain Murloch stopped paddling and stared in shock. What appeared to be specks was actually a cone-like swarm of flying insects. As he watched in terror, he realized that they were hovering above him, moving