The cataclysm

ship. Be looking for me!

THE VOYAGE OF THE SUNCHASER

Paul B. Thompson,

Tonya R. Carter

A dense red haze surrounded the sun in a hot, silent sky. The sea was calm, though swirls and eddies showed on its surface. The violent upheavals in the air and water had lasted through the long night; now they were done. Across this desolate scene drifted the merchant ship SUNCHASER, listing hard to port, its tangled yards and spars trailing in the oily water.

The ship's master, Dunvane of Palanthas, slipped the loops of rope from around his wrists. In the worst part of the storm, he had lashed himself to the ship's wheel. His wrists were raw and bloody from the hemp's chafing. Dunvane took the wheel now and turned it left and right, but the steering ropes were slack and the ship did not respond.

He drew in a deep breath and coughed. Feathers of smoke clung to the Sunchaser; the shredded sails were still burning. Dunvane had never seen anything like the blazing hot tempest that had swept down upon them. The wind was like fire itself, and it consumed more than the ship's sails. Those sailors who'd had the ill fortune to be standing on the windward side of the ship had ignited like candles. Half of Dunvane's crew of fourteen died in that instant. He and the others who'd been on deck had burns on their faces and hands and arms.

Then came the waves. Breakers as high and solid as cliffs fell on them. Only Dunvane's seamanship had saved the Sunchaser, as he turned stern first to the crushing waves. The ship rode out the extraordinary storm, but with all the spinning and turning, the captain had no idea where they'd come to be.

What crewmen remained were scattered on deck, laid out by exhaustion. Dunvane staggered to the waist of the ship, shaking the sailors awake. Four men, he found, were beyond waking. Within a short time, the only three survivors of the Sunchaser's crew were on their feet.

'Set the lads to clearing away those fallen shrouds,' Dunvane said.

First Mate Norry croaked the order, then asked his captain, 'As we're short-handed, sir, will we be puttin' back for Palanthas?'

Dunvane squinted into the billowing clouds. 'Nay. We've come more than halfway. It's better to make for Gardenath, on the Istar coast.' He shook his head and tugged thoughtfully at his dark brown beard. 'I haven't a clue where we are, Norry.'

'Surely the Solamnic coast lies south,' offered the mate, pointing over the starboard rail.

Dunvane was not sure of anything, and said so.

'Well,' Norry said, 'at least the cargo is safe.'

Dunvane looked at the reason for their voyage. Lashed to the deck hard by the mainmast was an enormous bowl, carved out of serpentine stone by master artisans in Palanthas. Dunvane and his crew were being well paid to ferry this stone bowl from Palanthas to Istar. The sight eased Dunvane's fear.

'I'll speak with the Revered Son,' the captain said. 'He'll know what's going on. In the meantime, keep the men busy. Don't give 'em time to think too much.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Dunvane circled the serpentine bowl, watching the iridescent colors flare and die on its surface as he moved around it. Although made of stone, the bowl was remarkably light, in part because of the skillful fluting of the underside. It was seven feet in diameter and two feet deep in the center, yet four Palanthian stevedores had loaded it without strain. Once the captain was satisfied that its lashings were intact, he went aft to the sterncastle.

A gust of wind disturbed the eerie calm. Something borne on the wind pattered on the deck and stung his face. He stared at it — fine, black dirt. Here was a fresh wonder — a shower of dirt this far out at sea! The wind swirled and stole the dark dust from his sight.

Dunvane hurried aft and knocked loudly on the stern cabin door. 'May I enter?' he called.

'Yes, come.'

Dunvane pulled off his knitted wool cap and raised the latch. The cabin inside was hot and dark. The sole candle had gone out. Dunvane's eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he saw a pale face emerge from the shadows near the cabin berth.

'Are you well, Revered Son?'

'I am well, Captain.' The passenger stood and stepped into the well of faint light from the open door. A tall, ascetic-looking man, not yet thirty years of age, his fair skin and blond-white hair shone in the gloom. Despite the violence of the night, he appeared remarkably composed. His white priestly robes were neatly draped around his narrow shoulders, and his hair was smoothed back from his forehead. Composure came easily to Revered Son Imkhian of Istar. He wore it as part of the costume of his office.

Seating himself at the table in the center of the cabin, Imkhian asked in a calm, deep voice, 'What has happened?'

Dunvane opened the side shutters and let diffuse red light fill the cabin. 'A storm like no other I ever encountered in my life, Revered Son. I shot the stars just before eight bells, and everything was as calm as a farmer's pond. The sky was fair. Then the lookout called, 'Fire! Fire!' 'Whereaway?' says I. 'In the air,' says the lookout.'

'Fire in the sky? Most strange,' Imkhian said coolly. 'Then what?'

'A great globe of fire fell into the sea, and a burning hot wind struck us.' Dunvane went on to enumerate his losses — sailors, sails, rigging. 'But your special cargo is safe,' Revered Son, safe and undamaged.'

The priest nodded. 'That is well. The Kingpriest himself is expecting the serpentine bowl before the great Festival of Purification.'

'If I may ask — what is it for?'

Imkhian folded his hands. 'It will be placed in the great temple in the center of the city, and there an eternal flame will be kindled. That is why it must be made of serpentine; any other stone would eventually crack under the continuous heat.'

Cries outside interrupted the priest. 'Heave away!' yelled a voice, and there was a loud crash. The ship slowly righted itself.

'The men have cut away the broken foremast that was making us list,' Dunvane explained. 'The hull is undamaged.'

'How will we proceed without sails?'

'There is spare cloth on board. We'll patch together a small sail, Revered Son. We are being drawn by a current. Our progress will be slow, but we can proceed.'

Imkhian frowned, his pale blue eyes narrowing. 'Time is short, Captain. The voyage was only supposed to last a week.'

The captain shifted nervously, his head still bent in a posture of deference. 'No one could have foreseen the tempest last night, but I don't think it will delay us more than a day. But… Revered Son, what could that globe of fire have been?'

The priest looked thoughtful. 'Forces of evil are rampant, Captain, and the work of our great Kingpriest is often threatened. Since the Proclamation of Manifest Virtue, evil sorcerers have plotted to stop this great cleansing work. Perhaps some wizard sought to prevent the serpentine bowl from reaching Istar.' Imkhian drew himself up taller, his eyes glinting proudly. 'But the will of the Kingpriest is not easily thwarted.'

'May his blessings continue upon us,' Dunvane murmured with feeling.

Imkhian frowned and studied the sea captain intently, as if searching for some sign of insincerity. Dunvane shifted uneasily.

'Ahoy! Shipwreck, ahoy!' came a cry from on deck.

Bowing, Dunvane hastily quit the cabin, jamming his hat back on his head. The mate and the other two