“Well ya done this all wrong,” came the expected response. After a moment’s pause, the boatswain barked, “Into the rigging, Cimber. I thought I heard a sail tear on the mainmast, so ya better check it for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Artus managed to reply.
The explorer dreaded the long, unsteady climb into the rigging. Luckily, much of the ice had melted away from the ropes after the first tenday at sea, so they weren’t as slick as they had been. The weather, in fact, was fast becoming balmy. Still, the brisk wind hissing into the sailcloth and the not-so-gentle roll of the ship made the duty quite dangerous for someone as inexperienced as Artus. Moreover, he knew the sail to be perfectly sound; unless the cloth had torn from top to bottom, the boatswain couldn’t possibly have heard it over the cry of the gulls, the creaking of wood and rope, and the roar of the Narwhal cutting through the waters of the Sea of Swords.
Tentatively, Artus climbed into the shrouds. The tar-soaked ropes were sticky on his bare feet, but he’d learned on his first day aboard the ship that his boots were not made for nautical feats. As he went, he scanned the huge sails of the mainmast—at least, he made a show of looking them over for tears. His mind was actually drifting in languid turns over the events of the last few tendays. First the cursed medallion, then Theron Silvermace’s news of the ring and the flight from Suzail. Now he was paying for the privilege of being a slave aboard a galleon. He’d been right about the ship being a pirate vessel, but he never could have guessed the rest of its past.
Artus had been told of the Narwhal’s short, but astounding history his first night aboard ship. The costly vessel had once flown the flag of Cormyr’s navy, but Captain Bawr had gathered a fleet of pirate ships together in the Inner Sea and taken her by force. Next she cut a deal with the villainous masters of Zhentil Keep, who provided her with the services of a group of stupid but extremely brawny giants. The monstrously strong creatures carried the Narwhal across the bulk of Faerûn, from the land-locked Inner Sea to the wide-open Sword Coast. Now Bawr alternated between outright piracy and high-paying cargo runs for the Refuge Bay Trading Company, carrying supplies to their outposts in the jungles and returning with the ship’s holds full of near-priceless Chultan teak and ivory.
Of Captain Bawr herself he could learn little. The crew spoke of her in hushed tones, but always in glowing terms. They were loyal, but fearful, too. They’d all seen her transform at various times, though no one dared venture a guess as to her true nature. The only thing Artus discovered was she never came on deck during the day; when the sun shone, Master Quiracus and the other officers ran the Narwhal.
Artus shook his head. The contrast between the sweet young woman and the creature she became … He shuddered. It was horrifying to think on the matter too closely.
All thoughts of the captain fled his mind in that instant, driven away by sudden panic. Lost in his musings, he’d taken a wrong step. For a moment, the realization he was going to fall overwhelmed Artus. Then he toppled head over heels down the shroud. The net of ropes burned his arms and legs as he slid. He reached out, but discovered painfully he was moving too fast to stop his fall. It seemed he was going to either roll right down the shrouds and over the side, or slip from them and plummet to the deck.
Fortunately, Skuld was not about to let his master break his neck on the quarterdeck or drop into the sea like so much shark bait. A glowing silver hand shot from the medallion and clamped down on the shroud. Artus gasped, then choked as the chain pulled tight. His momentum gone, he slipped limply between the ropes. The explorer hung below the shroud for an instant, the medallion’s chain and the silver arm suspending him like a hangman’s noose. Then he was falling again, this time like an autumn leaf drifting slowly to earth.
When the chain had loosened its chokehold and the blood ceased to throb in his temples, Artus tried to sit up. The silver arm was gone, but it was clear everyone near the mainmast had seen his unearthly rescue.
“What’s this all about?” Nelock shouted. He stood over the dazed explorer, his hands on his hips. “No sailor’s allowed to use magic without the officers knowing about it. The captain will want you—”
“Sent to the surgeon to see about his wounds,” interrupted Master Quiracus. The first mate was at the boatswain’s side. When Artus looked up, a halo from the sun ringed the blond man’s bead. “Go on, Cimber. Have Pontifax see to those cuts.”
It was then Artus realized his shirt collar was heavy with blood. The chain had dug into his neck, but only enough to draw a ring of crimson. When he moved to lever himself to his feet, he found his hands gouged and bloody, too.
“It looks worse than it is,” Quiracus noted calmly. “Still, better to clean out the wounds before they become infected. Don’t you agree, Master Nelock?”
The boatswain muttered his agreement, then turned to the crowd of sailors who had paused in their work. “Awright, back to yer duties, ya bilge rats.”
As Nelock looked around, he saw men and women pulling lines out of synch, and midshipmen caught in idle speculation about the strange magic that had saved Artus’s life. The crew had been working at top form, like the well-tended engine they were trained to be. Now they were at odds, slowing the ship and making their own tasks harder by working against each other.
In his deep, growling voice, Nelock began to sing. The chanty was an old one and had a hundred variations all along the Sword Coast. The crew soon picked up the song. Its rhythm became the pulse of the ship, and the crew began to once again work in harmony.
“Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job,” the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain’s side.
Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. “What I’d like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them—especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya’ve hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain’t good to undercut me with the men around.”
The first mate smiled. “There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren’t privy to them.” He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. “You should consider yourself lucky.”
The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain’s cabin and the maproom. “Something ain’t right about this,” Nelock muttered to himself. “But I ain’t stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either.”
The boatswain started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.
Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn’t lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock’s, but then he’d never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.
“How’ve you been, Pontifax?” he asked somewhat sheepishly.