“Sinalth was so moved by her courage that he had her body placed with honour on the battle pyre with those of his own men who died. Nor did they strip her of her curious armour and weapons.
“It was only much later that my father learned who she was. Her name was Haragil. She was Menish’s sister.
“It was this that led me to Anthor to serve Menish. I'd never heard of such courage anywhere else, yet in Anthor it is almost commonplace. But I found more than that in Anthor.” He looked at the sleeping King with affection. “You've known him but a few days. The King of Anthor is a man one could cheerfully die for. Oh, Vorish is impressive. He's triumphant in battle, wise in judgements and his people love him. Vorish is just. He has to be, for we Vorthenki are a lawless people and he has had to set down laws and see them obeyed. He's fiercely determined in all he does, and I've never once heard of his failing a task he has set himself. He expects the same determination from those he commands.
“But Menish is not like that. He'll listen to a plea for forgiveness, for he's made mistakes himself. If Vorish had found you he would either have left you behind or killed you if you did not fit into his plans. Menish would have brought you along even if you had done nothing spectacular. Look at Keashil and Olcish and the other slaves.”
“This Vorish sounds a cruel man.”
“He can be cruel, but rarely from passion. Everything he does he does for a reason, usually more than one reason. Menish is kind from his heart. When Vorish is kind it's because you may be of some use to him.”
“You speak as if you know this Emperor well.”
“I grew up with him. He and I were always playmates or adversaries on the practice fields. Yes, I know him as well as anyone can.” He seemed to shake himself as if waking. “By Kopth I seem to have been telling you my life story. Come, we must wake the others before the storm comes.”
Chapter 11: Storm
The first effects of the coming storm were felt long before it was upon them. The wind shifted suddenly and turned chill. Althak and the newly woken Anthorians moved their sailcloth shelter so that it blocked the wind better. Shelim brought another sail out of the hold and set it over their heads.
With the change of wind the air smelt wet and close, as if it ached to teem with rain. Dark clouds chased the sun from the sky and swept them into gloom. Awan called orders to his men to trim the sails, tighten some ropes and loosen others. The lookout clambered down from his place at the top of the main mast, and the ship’s motion became more accentuated. Drinagish groaned and reached for his bucket.
Azkun could see that Menish and Hrangil were fighting the sea retch themselves. They sat quietly by the main mast, sheltered by the sailcloth, and clenched their jaws.
The splash and swish of the waves grew louder and the wind turned from a breeze to a howling gale that stretched the sails, making the ropes creak with the strain. Omoth went to the stern to help Awan with the tiller. The sky was dull grey now, with patches of darkness reaching from the east.
The first squall struck unexpectedly, although Azkun had seen its rippling trail across the waves. He was unprepared for the icy shower that splashed across the deck. Shelim was ready, though. He had set an open barrel in the middle of the deck to catch some of the water.
“Fresh water, M'Lord. Always worth having,” he called to Azkun through the rising noise of wind and rain.
The black sky extended over their heads, bringing heavier and heavier squalls until, at last, they were deluged with a constant downpour. Those sailors not actually required at their various tasks sought refuge under the sailcloth shelter with Althak, Menish and the others, but Azkun did not mind the rain.
The deck surged up and down beneath him and the wind swept the rain into his face. Tenari remained beside him, as oblivious to the weather as she was of everything else. Water streamed down her face like tears and her hair clung wetly to her head.
At first he found the storm refreshing, as if it were a confirmation of his own restlessness. Kishalkuz filled his thoughts. The storm blew from the east. Had it crossed the dragon isle before it came here? Perhaps it had.
The waves grew with the wind, rising beside them then seeming to dive beneath the ship, lifting it high. Awan and Omoth were hauling on the tiller, Azkun felt a brief twinge of anxiety from them. But then the tiller was pulled over and the ship heeled around to face into the storm. From this angle the waves seemed even larger. The ship see-sawed between them. One moment the stern lifted high, and the bows plunged towards the foaming, blue-green pit between the waves. The next the bow rose, and they were lifted towards the dark clouds and the pouring rain. Azkun clutched the gunwale to prevent himself from being thrown to the deck.
Above the roar and crash of the waves came a distant, muffled rumble of thunder. It was as if the very storm itself were speaking from the clouds, and it reminded him suddenly of the river that had tried to kill him.
Awan called more orders and Shelim and several others loosened ropes. Their anxiety was growing and it insinuated itself into Azkun’s own mind, making him see boats overturn and sink in tempestuous seas. A weird, mauve light flashed among the clouds and the thunder rumbled more threats.
Still the waves grew. The ship was tossed about on them. Sometimes the bow would turn and thrust off centre at the rushing sea as Awan and Omoth fought to hold it into the storm. White water crashed over the gunwales and swept across the deck. Sailors scrambled for bailers and some clambered down the deck hatch to man pumps in the hold.
The anxiety of the sailors ate into his mind and the thunder and lightning confused his senses. More white water crashed over the bows. The ship was forcing its way out of the course Awan had set, wanting to present its broadside to the waves. Even Azkun, with his few days at sea, understood that they would capsize if that were allowed to happen.
They rushed down another wave and up the next. This time the tiller was held firmly and they climbed up the mountain of water to the crest. It broke over the bows, sending a wall of water down the length of the ship. Azkun clung on, his knuckles white. The water rose to his thighs and it clawed at him, enticing him. He saw one of the sailors lose his footing and grab a rope just in time to save himself from being swept overboard. Awan and Omoth had lashed themselves to the tiller, they would have no second chance if they lost their footing.
Azkun did not expect the bow to rise from under the swirling foam but it lurched back out of the water and they rushed down the next wave to the swirling valley below.
He began to notice something about the waves. They were all enormous, but every so often a great mountain of a wave that dwarfed the others would appear. The last wave had been a mountain so the next few were smaller, but from the crests of the smaller waves Azkun could see the next mountain building.
The sailors, especially Awan and Omoth who were not bailing or pumping, had also seen it. They were not so tense now, these were waves they could overcome, but they waited in readiness for the next mountain.
When it came it was bigger than the last. Azkun had seen it grow as they approached to an appalling size. It reared above them, backed by flashes of lightning that seemed to stamp its displeasure across the sky.
Azkun willed it under the ship, clenching his teeth in futile effort. Again the crest broke over the bow and surged down the deck. It was swifter than Azkun had expected and it clutched at his knees, flinging him off balance. His grip twisted and he was thrown against the solid wood of the gunwale and down into the torrent.