The brig began to ride more deeply in the water, a sure sign that the seams had been strained or hatch covers pounded open by the force of the storm-or perhaps both. Then, almost abruptly, the ship swung sideways to the swells.
Chaenyr hauled himself hand over hand along the port railing, his eyes looking to the helm. “Rudder’s gone! Tie yourself to something topside, or you’ll drown when she founders!”
Quaeryt found line in the inside locker, but cutting it was difficult, and he almost cut himself before he put away the knife and just imaged out a piece of the rope, rather than cutting it. Then he had to follow Chaenyr’s example and struggle up to the railing on the low upper deck that barely merited the term “upper” or “poop.” By then he was soaked, but soaked was more to his liking than drowned belowdecks.
He’d barely managed to lash himself to the railing when another massive wave towered over the ship. He threw both arms around the railing and waited, taking a deep breath at the last moment before the dark chill of the water crashed down, thrusting him against the railing, then trying to rip him away from it. A second wave followed the first, and Quaeryt’s lungs were burning when he could finally breathe again.
When he could see again, after the foam subsided, although the main deck looked barely above water, Quaeryt squinted and tried to make out Chaenyr-or anyone-but he seemed to be the only one left on the upper deck, and the helm scarcely moved. Either the rudder had been torn away, or the steering cables had snapped, and sooner or later another wave would swamp the ship, rolling uncontrollably, first in the trough of one wave, then being submerged by another.
The skies were almost as dark as full night.
How many glasses later it was, Quaeryt had no idea, but some time later he could see spray foaming upward as well as hear what sounded like surf above the wail and whine of the wind. He looked to the starboard side of the helpless derelict, where less than a hundred yards away spray cascaded upward, then receded.
Whether they were being carried onto a reef, one of the sandbars the mate had talked about, or even the coast, Quaeryt had no idea, except there were no cliffs, and there looked to be waters beyond the foam and spume. Another massive swell lifted the ship’s hull, then smashed it down. The impact jarred every bone in Quaeryt’s body and strained his muscles.
Rocks, not sand.
Spray, foam, and water swirled over and around Quaeryt, then receded … but only for a moment, before another cascade surged over him.
For a brief time, he could breathe without having to grab mouthfuls of air between the surges of waves and surf, but he felt a warmer wetness. Belatedly, he realized that it was rain. He hadn’t even noticed it with all the seawater pounding him.
Then another huge swell lifted the battered hull and dropped it again. Grinding, jarring impact followed impact, until what was left of the ship’s stem and bowsprit broke away.
Quaeryt decided to stay with his section of wreckage, at least for a time. He could swim, unlike many sailors, but no swimmer would last in that tempest, especially not when being thrashed by the surf and pounded against the rocks.
The storm had to end … sometime.
He just hoped he could outlast it … and that wherever he was stranded was some place from which he could extricate himself.
Quaeryt husbanded his strength and trusted to the rope that held him tethered to the remnants of the stern section of the Moon’s Sun. At some point full darkness lifted, and the wind dropped from a gale to a strong wind. The surging surf receded enough that only occasional spray dampened the scholar, and what remained of the ship no longer shifted with the movement of the water. At that point, he cut the rope, which took almost all of his strength, and surveyed the hulk. The rocks on which the ship had broached were still covered with swirling water, and he could see no other sign of land through the dim light.
So he struggled back to the quarters under the upper deck. The captain’s cabin was empty, as were the two cabins for the mates. All were damp.
Quaeryt would have shrugged, except he was far too tired. Instead, he collapsed on the damp pallet. Sleep might help, and he could use it for what lay ahead.
19
When Quaeryt woke, his lips were cracked and dry, and he could taste salt everywhere. Every muscle ached, and his clothes and jacket were still wet, but not soaked. He could hear the sea, if barely, as he rolled off the still-damp pallet and up onto the sloping deck. He had to brace himself to keep his footing as he made his way to the hatchway, now missing the hatch itself.
He peered out. A misty drizzle surrounded the hulk, and patches of fog or low clouds obscured his view, but from what he could see, it seemed to be early, possibly less than a glass after sunrise. He definitely hoped that was the case.
What remained of the ship rested on a stretch of rock that, surprisingly, appeared dark and level, and stretched in an arc toward a sandy shore. He estimated that the long curve of stone was close to a half mille in length, and was less than a yard underwater. He glanced seaward, but the natural rock causeway ended no more than fifty yards from the hulk of the Moon’s Son.
Was it natural? Or had some ancient imager created it as a pier or a seawall for a long-vanished town? He shook his head. Whatever had created it didn’t matter now. Since the causeway that had broken the back of the Moon’s Son also provided a way to shore, he needed to take it. He had no intention of staying on board the hulk. As even a passenger, he represented the sole barrier to the local ship reavers claiming salvage rights over what remained of ship and cargo, and if they found him, his survival was less than assured, particularly since, in his present condition, it was unlikely he could do much imaging, not and be in any shape to do much of anything else.
He spent less than a quint rummaging through the captain’s cabin, where he found a pouch of silvers, and the galley. The galley yielded some squares of hard cheese and even more durable hardtack, and a tin water bottle with water in it. With his canvas bag not quite bulging he made his way back on deck, then over the side, trying to ease himself down onto the rock below, where the water swirled somewhere between ankle-deep and knee-deep.
He still ended up sliding across the angled planking of the hulk, but managed to land on his boots, if with a jarring impact. His boots slid out from under him, so that his backside hit the water and stone too, hard enough that he’d be bruised and sore there as well. He staggered to his feet and began wading through the calf-deep water over the stone toward the shore, his eyes scanning the narrow sandy beach beyond and beside the end of the causeway, which, near the water’s edge, straightened and continued due west. The patchy fog and mist limited his sight, but he did see detritus and debris scattered along the sand-but no reavers. Not yet.
He placed each boot carefully, well aware that the seemingly shallow water likely concealed deeper potholes. Yet for all the likelihood of holes or gaps in the stone, he found none on the long walk to where the stone ended, some forty yards shoreward from the water’s edge. Except, he realized, the causeway did not end, but extended under a sand dune covered with coarse grass. How much farther it continued, he had no idea, although he wondered if more of a harbor, even with the ruins of buildings, lay under the dunes that bordered the narrow beach.