"Grab your staff," she said, testing the weight of her own pole. "Now put it up like this."
Malthooz tried to mimic the druid's stance, feet wide with his staff held crosswise across his chest.
"Now," Vadania said, coming at him, "step into my advance and raise your staff to block mine. Good."
They ran him through a battery of simple maneuvers, showing him the basic techniques of quarterstaff fighting. While the women each favored a different tool for battle, they were both handy enough with the pole to give Malthooz a few rudimentary skills. The three of them parried back and forth across the sand, exchanging mock blows with their wooden staves. It was not long before Malthooz was out of breath and had a number of dark bruises, more colorful than painful, on his sides. The elves had not broken a sweat.
"Enough," Malthooz hollered, falling to the sand. "Enough!"
"Bah," Krusk's deep voice boomed from the fireside. He had watched the sparring lessons with quiet disdain. "You wouldn't last a second in a real battle if you tire that quickly."
He grabbed Malthooz's staff from the sand and started forward.
"Get up," Krusk shouted as he bore down on Malthooz.
Malthooz scrambled to his feet but was too slow to avoid Krusk's lightning-quick swing. The staff cracked across his shoulder, snapping at the point where it hit his shoulder blade. The half-orc stepped back in shock but managed to keep his footing. Though pain bolted through his arm, he refused to let it show on his face.
The half-orcs stood face-to-face for many moments, their eyes burning with the rage of a rekindled rivalry. Malthooz sneered.
"It is no different than it ever has been, is it, Krusk?" he asked.
Krusk tossed the splintered ends of the staff to the ground and stormed off.
When Malthooz awoke the next morning, the ache in his shoulder reminded him of the furious confrontation the night before. He knew that Krusk hadn't meant to fly off in such frenzy and guessed that Krusk's anger was probably directed more against his own conflicted feelings about returning to the village than against anything Malthooz had done. He was also certain that Krusk's actions, however antagonistic they might seem, were really a sign that he did care about what was happening to his friends of long ago.
Malthooz rubbed his sore muscles. If this was Krusk's way of showing love, so be it. It was better than the silent treatment Malthooz had endured during the journey up till then. The standoff seemed to bring the two to a mutual understanding. Malthooz was pleased with himself for not backing down. Perhaps it was only stupid pride. It was painful pride for sure. It was also a start.
More than anything else, it showed Malthooz that the only way he could make Krusk consider the request was to relate to him on Krusk's terms. There was nothing new about that, but it was easy to forget such lessons over the years.
Malthooz rose from his bedroll and started packing his things. Lidda and Krusk were hiding the remains of the camp. They kicked sand over the smoldering embers of the night's fire and smoothed the sand with pine branches.
Vadania was nowhere to be seen. Malthooz guessed that she was off in the forest, gathering food for the day's journey or herbs for healing or casting spells. Once they left the woodlands for the open beach and cliffs, such things would be much harder to come by.
Mialee sat against the trunk of a tree, poring over her spellbook, memorizing the spidery script that flowed across the pages in a way that allowed wizards to access the magical secrets held within the words, diagrams, and formulae.
Malthooz looked around for the broken ends of his walking staff. The fractured pieces of wood were nowhere to be seen. He finished rolling his bedding and tying it shut with a length of silk cord. As he carried the bundle over to his backpack and began strapping it to the underside of the bag. something caught his eye. A long, lean staff of wood rested against his pack. Lying next to the staff was a shorter and much sturdier-looking piece. The surface of the smaller weapon was worked smooth and it tapered down its length from one end to the other.
Malthooz finished tying his bedroll in place and hefted his backpack to his shoulder, wincing as the weight of it pressed on the bruise beneath. He paused for a moment then took off his pack and rummaged around for the symbol of Pelor. He hung the trinket from a leather cord around his neck, tucking it inside his tunic. After re-donning his pack, Malthooz slid the club into his belt and grabbed the new staff. The weapons felt balanced and reassuring.
For the first time in a long time, Malthooz greeted the coming day with confidence.
7
They traveled north along the sand well into the morning. The forest to the east slowly gave way to sandy bluff then to a jagged wall of stone. The beach disappeared as the tide came in, forcing the group to climb a number of low rises where huge sea stacks trailed out into the surf. By the time the sun reached its crest in the sky, the water finally started receding and travel became easier.
Rippling water lapped at the heels of Krusk's boots as the companions rounded a final peak of rock and got their first view of the broken ship.
Despite the lateness of the day, a thin fog had settled over the beach, the winter sun unable to shake its hold on the shore. The mist obscured sight at any distance greater than a quarter mile and gave the whole scene a ghostly aspect.
As they moved closer, Krusk could begin making out the details of the wreckage. Treachery lay on the beach as though she had been tossed as a giant's plaything. A gash split one side of the hull where it was impaled on the rocks. The mast was a tangle of splintered timber and snarled lines, and the rudder was nowhere to be seen. A few large crates were strewn around the craft, those too heavy for the sea to have claimed as its own. Already the boat was sinking into the sand. The smell of salty air mixed with something else more putrid.
"I don't like this," Krusk said, eyeing the wreck. "It smells of death, but I see no bodies."
"I think we're a bit late for whatever happened here," Lidda said. "I'd guess that Vadania's rocs beat us to the dead."
"Or they've been washed away," the druid added.
"We should split up," Mialee declared, stepping forward to join the other two. "The tide's going to turn before long. We can cover more ground in teams."
Krusk nodded and said, "I don't think there's any danger in that. Whatever happened to the crew is long done."
"Good," Mialee said. "I'll take the half-orcs and check the inside." She adjusted a pouch of herbs on her belt. "Lidda should go topside and Vadania can search the beach for tracks."
The railing at the rear of the ship hung half a dozen yards above the surface of the sand. A grappling hook and rope made the ascent as easy for Lidda as a climb up a short flight of stairs, and she reached the edge of the deck in seconds. Grabbing the top with both hands, she vaulted up and over it, landing in a crouch on well-worn planks. She snatched the crossbow from its holster on her back and advanced down the ship's length.
She moved stealthily along the deck, gliding around the perimeter of the vessel, riffling past folds of cloth from the fallen sail. She rummaged through a few boxes that were lashed to the deck at various points as she made her way to the bow. Most of the containers were smashed open, with yards of heavy canvas, hemp rope, and an assortment of pulleys spilling from their insides.
From the open deck, it looked as though a hurricane had hit the ship. What remained of the mainmast was no more than a short, jagged stump protruding from the decking. Rivets still held the stub firmly to a steel collar where the post emerged from belowdecks. The lower end of the once towering pole presumably still ran down through the heart of the craft and butted the keel. The rest of its length lay across the deck, flattening a section of railing near the front of the boat, with its final yards hanging over the beach.