Beneath us, I could feel the oars begin to pull, but I also heard several of them snap against the force of the current and the waves.
The ship pitched wildly, rocking back and forth, throwing several of us, myself included, to the deck.
"Now!" shouted Captain Nugetre.
Finding our footing, we managed to heft the anchor over the side. The thick rope unspooled so rapidly that one of the sailors tossed a bucket of water on it so that it wouldn't burn. For several minutes, it dropped through blood-red water, coming almost to the end of the reel before finally reaching bottom.
Yuril uttered a cry of astonishment. "Never have I heard of such depths!" she exclaimed.
As Captain Nugetre had expected, the anchor temporarily stabilized the ship. But because of the wind and storm, the Castor tore at the anchor rope, threatening to break free.
Flint stood by, one of his stout hatchets at the ready. When Captain Nugetre shouted "Now!" the dwarf slashed downward, cutting the anchor rope in one clean blow. The pent-up momentum of the ship was such that it practically leaped several hundred feet through the air, breaking the grip of the suction.
At the same time, Yuril and I had made our way to the sailors in the aft section who had the extra rudders at the ready. Just as the ship splashed down, before it was caught in the current again, we released the makeshift rudders. Looking over the side, I could see them fall into the water, forming flippers at the rear of the boat.
"Now!" Captain Nugetre shouted again over the din of the storm.
I could feel the oar crew pull in unison, and this time the boat, with a momentum of its own, surged in a northeasterly direction. Working the oars with every available sailor, the crew held the Castor to its northeasterly course, propelling it farther and farther from the dangerous core of the Blood Sea.
SEVENTH AND EIGHTH DAYS
The worst was over. Now our course lay across Firewater toward Mithas and Karthay. The sailors celebrated their victory over the Maelstrom, looking strangely wild, with salt caked on their lips and wreaths of seaweed in their hair.
Captain Nugetre gave orders to break out a ration of brandy for each of us by way of reward.
Damage to the ship was surprisingly slight, considering the battering we had taken. One mast and a number of oars had been broken. Debris tossed about by the storm had rent some of the sails, even though they had been rolled up. Kirsig was useful at stitchery, and I happen to know a little needlework myself. Together we worked at mending the sails. The men gladly tore the shirts off their backs to provide crude patches.
A few of the sailors roamed the deck, taking care of the gashes in the vessel, none of which were major.
Flint set his mind to fashioning a new makeshift anchor, which would have to serve until the next time the Castor made port. Gathering pieces of lead and other soft metal from around the ship, he melted everything down over a huge pot and was able to hammer out a mottled sinker that Yuril pronounced satisfactory. The new anchor was set in place of the old.
The waves continued high and choppy. The water had cleared only slightly; it was still that unsettling rust color. Though fixing up the Castor and keeping it on track demanded hard and constant work, all of us felt great relief.
A fair wind blew at our backs. A sun that grew hotter each day shone overhead. A haze formed in the sky and refused to go away.
EIGHTH DAY: EVENING
Raistlin has been staying in his cabin during the day and pacing the decks at night. Flint and I both realized that he hadn't told us everything that occupied his thoughts.
This night, a black, starless night that held no cheer, I found him on the foredeck, standing and staring out over the choppy waters. Hearing me behind him, he turned and offered a slight smile—small encouragement, but enough to embolden me to interrupt his reverie.
"You must be very worried about Caramon," I ventured mildly.
To my surprise, the young mage raised an eyebrow, as if this was the furthest thing from his thoughts. "Caramon," he said to me with his usual brusqueness, "can take care of himself. If he didn't die back in the Straits of Schallsea, I feel quite certain that we shall find him somewhere in this forsaken part of Krynn. He is more likely to rescue us than it would be for us to rescue him."
"But I thought," I began, "that we came all this way because you believe that he was taken prisoner by minotaurs."
"Yes . . . partly," said Raistlin. He started to say something else, then paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts, perhaps simply to pull his cloak about himself more tightly to ward off the chill in the air. "Yet," he continued after a moment, "there are more important things to consider, apart from the fate of my happy-go-lucky brother. There is the reason why he was taken and the use of the rare herb, jalopwort." His tone was very solemn. In the darkness, I couldn't gauge his expression.
I leaned closer, thinking to draw the mystery out of him. "What is it then, Raistlin?" I asked. "What spell have we been pursuing across these thousands of miles?"
He turned toward me, peering at me intently. Seeming to consider my question, he took a moment before replying. "The spell that I came across can be cast only by a high cleric of the minotaurs. It is a spell that would open a portal and invite into the world the god of the bull-men, Sargonnas, servant of Takhisis."
Now it was my turn to be silent, to consider. As an initiate magic-user, Raistlin believed in the gods of Good, the gods
