The Ruling Sea by Robert V. S. Redick

Author:Robert V. S. Redick
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - General, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, Sea stories, General, Science Fiction And Fantasy
ISBN: 9780345508850
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-02-16T05:00:00+00:00

20 Freala 941

129th day from Etherhorde

At dawn the Chathrand was no longer alone.

They had heard nothing, and seen no vessel approach for as long as there was moonlight to see by. Yet somehow before dawn a small, single-masted cutter had swept down upon them, around the curve of one of the Black Shoulders, or else out of some hidden mooring on Bramian itself.

She had drawn up under their lee and was closing still. The lookout bellowed; the watch-captain gave a blast on his pipe. Archers raced to the Chathrand's fighting tops.

The cutter was some forty feet long. There was grace to her lines, her tight-fitted timbers, and her silent crew worked the headsails with confidence, riding her gently on the swells. Little by little she edged closer to the Great Ship.

Mr Alyash came on deck and ordered the archers to stand down. 'Let us have the ladder, gentlemen. Helmsman, nothing sudden if you please.'

The accordion ladder snaked down the hull. On the cutter the men were rigidly alert: if they drifted too near they would founder in the Chathrand 's underswell: a fatal accident beyond any doubt. The helmsman of the smaller craft fought the waves, shouting orders to the men at the staysail. The gap narrowed: twelve feet, ten--

Suddenly a man was airborne: he had taken a flying leap from the smaller craft. He cleared the gap and caught the ladder in both hands, smacking against the Chathrand's hull. For an instant he vanished completely in a wave; then the Great Ship rolled and his body punched upward through the water. Alyash, watching his progress from above, heard him laugh aloud.

The cutter veered hastily away. The man on the ladder climbed with easy assurance. Water streamed from his loose grey hair and the tip of the scabbard lashed sidelong on his back. Some thirty feet below the topdeck he raised his eyes to Alyash and barked:

'You're the new bosun - Swellows' replacement?'

'Aye, sir,' came the startled reply.

'You'll reopen the midship portal. This is no way to board.'

'We sealed it against the Nelluroq, Mr--'

'Open it. And let Elkstem know he must bear north around Sandplume Isle - tight in, there's a cove.'

'The cove at Sandplume?' Alyash sputtered. 'But sir, the reef blocks the mouth of that cove, it's unapproachable.'

'There is no reef, you fool. We tore it out six months ago. Where's the captain? What mischief has that cursed mage been up to? And what the devil happened to the Shaggat's son?'

'He . . . that is--'

'Never mind, give me a hand. By the Night Gods, your face is ugly!'

Alyash glared, but bent over and clasped the outstretched hand - a scar-covered hand that closed on his own like a trap. The bosun grunted and heaved backwards, and the newcomer sprang over the rail and landed four-square on the deck. They stood there, eye to eye. Then Alyash wrenched his hand free.

'You're one to talk, you old spittin' viper.'

A moment's silence. Then Alyash guffawed, and Sandor Ott cackled, and the two men locked arms in what was almost an embrace.

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