Here Tas paused and scratched his chin. That was a good beginning. He chewed the end of the quill pen before dipping it back into the inkwell.
Anyway, the mission was a success. Caramon especially enjoyed the town nearby, called Hyssop—Asa was right about that, too—and he seemed to make a lot of new friends there, especially female friends. Sturm kept Caramon company some of the time. Other times he explored the docks and the port of Hyssop, which is a much smaller place than Eastport but clean and friendly. They don't get many visitors from afar. I think Sturm enjoyed the novelty of the town, but it's hard to say with Sturm.
I did my best to keep an eye on both of them and also did some exploring of my own. Hyssop is filled with one-of-a-kind shops, but many of the storekeepers seemed to have never met a kender before. They became so overexcited whenever I stopped into one of their shops that Sturm finally suggested—insisted really—that I stick with him and stay away from the market district.
But there are certain strange and inexplicable parts of our trip that I would like to tell you about and which are the purpose of this letter, because I certainly wouldn't waste a magic letter on a boring trip.
The minotaur herbalist's shop was unlike any I've ever been in. For one thing, it was in a cave, and if you didn't have Asa's map, you'd never be able to find it. Also, the minotaur herbalist was just as polite and pleasant as can be. He didn't smell as bad as most of them usually do, either. Sturm said he actually detected the scent of soap on the horned beast, whose name is—I guess I should say was, but that's getting ahead of myself—Argotz.
The rhythmic creaking of the ship suddenly changed, its gentle motion interrupted by a sudden lurch. A gust of wind slammed open the porthole over the desk. Tas jumped up and peered out, happy for the distraction. Good! A storm was brewing! Tas had never been at sea during a storm. He felt certain it would be fascinating and enjoyable.
Tas sat back down at the desk and began to scribble faster in order to finish before going up on deck to watch the storm.
* * * * *
Sturm had barely started to make his way toward the rear deck when the first hailstones pelted him with the force of a thousand tiny, hurtling missiles. The deck shifted beneath his feet, and he momentarily slipped on the icy pebbles before catching his balance. Glancing up, Sturm saw that the ominous mass of clouds had come upon them so swiftly that the sky was suddenly blackened around them. Lightning crackled above. Flames flared from the masthead of the Venora. Grabbing the side railing, Sturm leaned into the wind and began pulling himself toward the Captain's post in the stern.
An instant later, Sturm was nearly blinded by stinging rain that poured down with awesome intensity. Shielding his eyes with one hand and clutching the rail with the other, Sturm was barely able to lurch forward.
What he saw as he approached the stern left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A group of sailors were bunched ahead of him, working frantically to lower a small boat into the heaving waves. Sturm fought his way toward them. As he did, the ship pitched and he fell backward. By the time he succeeded in pulling himself upright, the lifeboat and the sailors had disappeared over the side.
As Sturm looked on in astonishment, several other members of the Venora's crew slipped furtively over the side, carrying what looked like makeshift life buoys under their arms. Sturm called out to them, but against the raging tumult of the storm, he could barely make out his own voice. When he reached the railing where they had jumped, Sturm peered downward but could see nothing except the dark waves thrashing the ship.
Their desertion was a cowardly act and strange as well.
Did the deserters expect to fare better in the wild sea than on board the storm-tossed Venora? Was it some kind of mutiny? Sturm glanced up at the steering deck, where Captain Murloch usually stationed himself. Sturm's perplexity deepened into outrage and fear. Murloch wasn't there. Not a soul stood by the wheel, which was spinning dizzily.
Strange indeed. Captain Murloch didn't seem to be the type to abandon his duties. It was Sturm who had picked him out from among the sea captains whose ships were moored at Eastport. Murloch's mournful, craggy face 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
