* * * * *
No storms troubled the land where Sir Niebar and his six companions rode swiftly toward the Inn of the Chained Ogre. Yet they rode in shadow, for they were taking byroads and trails through the forest wherever it lay thick enough to hide them from unfriendly eyes.
For the moment, Sir Niebar assumed all eyes were unfriendly. They might not be able to do harm out of that lack of friendship, for the seven riders were none of them recognizable as Knights of Solamnia or men-at-arms in the service of any respectable house. They looked more like tavern brawlers in search of a tavern to empty with their fists; the rest of their weapons were carefully hidden inside tunics, under cloaks, and in saddlebags.
The only eyes that might not be unfriendly were those of the nonhumans who inhabited these woods. Niebar was certain of kender and suspected gnomes; gully dwarves were everywhere, but made poor spies when a man wanted accurate news quickly. Centaurs also lived hereabouts, at least one small herd, but they so seldom cared much about what humans did (as long as it wasn’t trapping, shooting, or poisoning them) that they were no more a menace than the gully dwarves.
The kender had eyes to see, wits to understand, and tongues to tell. There could have been no warning to the local kender that did not risk warning the innkeeper and his friends. So Niebar could only pray to Paladine, Kiri-Jolith, and Majere that the kender would realize he and his men were coming to end their kinsman’s torments, not add to them.
* * * * *
Jemar tried to compose his face before he entered his cabin. Coming to Eskaia with a look of stark terror ruling every feature would not help matters.
From the look Delia gave him as he came in, Jemar had not been entirely successful. Then he abandoned self-restraint, rushed to the bed, and knelt beside it.
Eskaia smiled. It reminded Jemar of the smile he had once seen on the face of a criminal being impaled, but it made Eskaia seem real once more.
How long would she remain that way?
“What happened?” he asked. Now he thought he had command of his voice, if not his face. Eskaia actually raised both hands in salute-then dropped them again as pain twisted her face.
Delia favored the captain with a grim smile. “She fell. Hard. Forward.”
“Of course it was forward,” Eskaia murmured. “You’ve always said I was well padded-ah-astern …” She bit her lip, and Jemar noticed that blood had dried on both lip and chin.
“Can’t you at least put her out of the pain?” Jemar asked. He wanted to snarl, scream, roar, or otherwise sound like bull thanoi in the mating season. He kept his voice low, for Eskaia’s sake.
“Not without making things worse,” Delia said. “I don’t know if I should tell you this-”
“Jemar knows that I had some potential to be a cleric,” Eskaia said wearily. “Delia, talk quickly, or let me tell my lord the story.”
Delia swallowed, and Jemar had to do her the justice to admit that she then told the story quickly and even well.
Eskaia had fallen during the great wave-collision. She had so shaken her womb that she was in grave danger of miscarrying. Also, she might be bleeding from within.
There were spells Delia knew to heal each condition separately, but both had to be healed together if they were not to lose babe or mother. The only spell that could do that had to be performed on dry land. Attempted out at sea, and in the presence of so much magic already unleashed, the spell would surely fail, probably killing both babe and mother together.
“We must put in to land at once,” Delia concluded. “In hours, it will be too late. I have heard there is a safe harbor we can reach in that time. Steer for it, Captain, in the name of all good gods!”
“Delia, Jemar can’t take his bannership off and leave the rest of the fleet to-oh-to face the-the enemy,” Eskaia got out, between gasps.
“He can if he wants you to see another sunrise,” Delia snapped.
“I could go to another-” Eskaia began.
Delia squeezed her eyes shut and her hands into fists. Jemar wanted to shake her, then saw that she was weeping. Over that, he had no right to quarrel with anyone.
“If she stays aboard Windsword,” Delia said, hoarsely, “what I can do, and the help she gives me-this may keep her alive long enough. Putting her in a boat-you may as well fling her over the side!”
She glared at Jemar, as if daring him to raise hand or voice to her.
“It won’t help me to have you quarreling,” Eskaia said, with a ghost of her old fierceness in argument. “Jemar, do what you judge best. I will have no quarrel with anything you do.”
“Well, I cannot turn into a dragon and fly you to shore,” Jemar said. He bowed his head briefly, in remembrance of a bronze dragon who had died a hero at Crater Gulf, for all that he had been waked from dragonsleep for no other purpose than to balance a black dragon waked by a renegade mage.
“But we can steer for Waydol’s cove, I think. Delia, is speed all we seek, or will easing the motion of the ship help?”
“It will help if you can do it,” Delia said. “I am no sailor, but I think those wind-conjuring wizards out there will make it less easy than it could be.”
For once, Jemar found himself agreeing with the midwife-healer.
Chapter 20
Darin no longer had to fight an urge to climb to Gullwing’s tops. The ship had no mast left standing.
Even from the deck, the view was less clear than it had been. The magic storms were filling the air with clouds, rain, mist, spray, and everything else to block the eye. Also, the ship was a trifle lower in the water.
The Minotaur’s Heir wondered if Tarothin’s cabin was still watertight. If Gullwing sank much lower, the crew was going to have to rescue the wizard whether he wished it or not, unless he could conjure up a fish’s gills and go on working magic underwater.
The magic storms were still visible, however. Both now reared as high as hills above all the mist and spray. The green mist wall was fighting back with lightning bolts; great clouds of steam erupted as the onrushing waves quenched them.
At least no actual magic seemed to be spilling out of the storm area to endanger the ships at sea, either Jemar’s or Istar’s. Even wind and waves seemed less of a menace. Darin had six oars out on each side, and Gullwing was slowly opening the distance.
Meanwhile, a keen-sighted crewman said that he had seen Istarian ships sailing close to shore. Darin himself had seen Jemar’s ships heading about, straight for the mouth of the cove.
He hoped that they were doing this to carry out their task, and not because they were in distress. No one ever sailed to safety aboard a ship grounded to avoid sinking or holed on rocks.
At least there were other sailors besides Darin who could pilot Jemar’s ships through the passage. Darin could give his full attention to keeping his own ship afloat-and with it, the wizard on whose efforts all still might stand or fall.
* * * * *
Waydol’s armor was an old-fashioned leather shirt sewn with iron rings, a helmet large enough to cook dinner for a dozen men, and bronze greaves. His weapons included a clabbard, the saw-edged minotaur broadsword, two katars on his belt, plus a third strapped to his left wrist, and an arena-fighter’s rack of four shatangs on his back.
Pirvan suspected that before the day was over there would be men dropping dead from the sheer sight of Waydol fitted for war. He would hardly need to touch them with any of his steel.
He himself was profoundly grateful that this time he was fighting at Waydol’s side, and not against the Minotaur.
“Any word of Darin?” he asked.
Waydol shook his head. Pirvan noticed that he’d put sharp steel tips on his horns, to keep them from splitting if they struck armor. It reminded him of the efforts some Knights of Solamnia devoted to protecting their mustaches, a problem that had never concerned Pirvan. His chin was well arrayed when he chose, but his upper lip had failed to produce anything that didn’t look like an undernourished caterpillar.