Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,67

the turbulence, or had a lightning tendril reach out and take it.

In a final moment of acceptance, as ice crystals showered his face from the sky-destroying wave overhead, Adacon looked about the ship; time was dilated by some strange force, and he took it as a chance to be comforted by the sight of his friends one last time before they shared in death. Flaer and Slowin had not moved in the slightest since last he saw them; they stood helplessly staring, the same as Weakhoof, awestruck by the fury that had so suddenly thwarted their quest. The next moment came, the wave finally ready to overtake them, and Adacon caught a most startling image—Remtall stood against the starboard rail, calmly smoking his pipe, shielding his tobacco from the downpouring ice crystals, smiling; then the gnome winked at him. Adacon decided the sight an illusion, and being filled with powerlessness he turned at last to meet his fate. The mountain-high wave of icebergs crashed, drowning everything in white, and the numbing chill of death forsook the crew of the Blockade Runner.

* * *

Adacon opened his eyes and began to rub his head. An awful pain coursed through his temples.

“Terrible dream,” he said to himself. He recalled a terrifying storm where a lightning bolt had stayed in the sky, thunder had roared unwaning, and a wave of ice and light destroyed the Blockade Runner. Slowly he rose, his senses unclouding, and he looked around: he was no longer on the Blockade Runner; all about was endless ocean and a scorching sun, half-risen in the center of the sky. Adacon realized himself to be in some kind of translucent boat; in shock he saw the ocean through the floor where he lay. Frantically he rubbed his eyes to be sure of what he saw. The sight remained the same, and around him hugged the rim of a tiny vessel that he could see through. At the opposite end sat Remtall, looking away toward the eastern horizon.

“Remtall!” Adacon squealed, forsaking his grogginess.

“Morning,” Remtall replied. The gnome turned to face Adacon, pipe in hand, lighting his tobacco.

“Where are we?” Adacon said, standing up to survey their surroundings, looking at the half-invisible boat that was separating him and the gnome from the depths of the sea.

“I expect we are fifteen leagues from the Fang Shoals, dear boy.”

“What happened? The storm from my dream was real?”

“But of course. I’d just as soon have stayed on the schooner had it not been sundered by that damned magic.” Remtall spoke without apprehension, as if it had happened long ago.

“What about the boat—the others?”

“Calm down some, boy. We are three days from land.”

“Three days?”

“Yes, and you have slept two long months as we drifted across the Kalm. Give yourself time to settle into the waking life once more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s alright to not understand, boy. It was a terrible thing—that cursed bolt. Only thrice have I seen worse things come upon a ship at sea.”

“Are the others dead?”

“I cannot know for sure, but we are truly lucky to have been saved,” Remtall said, puffing continuously. He was sitting near a small store of food and drink, piled by the front of the boat. “Vesleathren must have come to know of our quest, for I know no other conjurer capable of such a spell. Lucky for us, the phantom ship had been trailing us—in fact, it trails us still…” he explained. Adacon glanced behind but saw nothing but blue sky and gentle water; then suddenly a flicker of color appeared, the outline of a hulking ship of old, grand next to their own small boat. As soon as Adacon saw its outline, the phantom ship disappeared, and there was again nothing there.

“I can’t believe it—and what about this boat, it appears to be made of air,” Adacon said, staring at their transparent floor, flickering in and out of existence, at times seeming like nothing was keeping Remtall and Adacon afloat.

“After the wave came down, they preserved us in a net of magic—phantom magic—but they could not protect the others, or our poor ship, for the storm came too quickly,” Remtall told. “There is some hope that they survived, though my heart warns me against such romantic thoughts; you see, a month ago, as you slept, Yarnhoot paid us a visit. In his beak he held a parchment—from Krem the Vapour.”

“Krem!” Adacon gasped.

“The same who first journeyed with Erguile and you from the Solun Desert into the Vashnod Plains. Here—read for