Onward, as silently as possible. No need to muffle the oars in such a heavy fog, they would not be heard. If the elves were using oars, as they occasionally did when the wind deserted them, they, too, went unheard.
Onboard the Shakilgimil every breath was taken softly, deliberately. The enshrouding mist hung oppressively around them all. Tazakr wondered if it was the Sea God, trying to stifle their breath, and stopper their ears and eyes. It was like floating through some otherworld.
“Where are we, sir?” one of the oarsmen said to him. He shook his head and placed a finger on his lips. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure. The wind increased, as did the rain, so the ship creaked and groaned under the relentless waves. Bah, that was no good! To the prow he went, and took from his belt a short sharp black blade, and running it across his palm, dripped blood into the waters. He could leave asking the All Seeing one for intervention no longer. He began to chant slow sonorous words to fix his mind and will on making a smoother path, when all of a sudden, the white Swan on the prow of the elven ship headed straight at them from the west.
“Hard to port!” he shouted. In response, the steersman at the tiller raised a hand and the oarsmen pulled back with all their might. The ship turned sharp, and Naraal and the King came out from the cabin to see what was happening. The horses were screaming. Naraal’s tan coloured stallion was rearing and crashing his hooves on the deck, while others were trying to 'pull their head free' from the restraining ropes about their necks. Only one horse stood firm, and that was the snow white warhorse that belonged to the King.
Tazakr pointed at the Uinenlindë as she scraped along their starboard hull. They could see the elves readying their grappling hooks. “Aft oars, hold water! Forward oars, pull hard!” he yelled, but despite the oarsmen’s efforts, hooks soared through the air and bit into the railing of the Shakilgimil. There was only one way things were heading.
Captain Naraal ran along the deck. “Cut the ropes, and prepare to be boarded,” he yelled as he drew his cutlass, and stood in front of his King. Azrazôr lifted his head to stare up through the thick clouds of vapor. Sky and sea blended into one, grey light revealing pale eyes that were calm and indifferent, and features cold and expressionless as a statue. He raised his hands and spoke words unknown.
Nothing.
Then a ball of fire, or a fork of lightning (the men were uncertain which) struck the elven ship, midsection, and split the mast, knocking down the rigging and a few of the elven sailors. The crew called to their lookout to swiftly descend from his perch, and with elven agility, he did so in two bounds. Tazakr saw the captain then, tall and strong, and armoured in what looked like a coat of silver mail. True silver, perhaps? And his long hair was silver, and flowed around, swept this way and that by the wind. He was shouting orders, and the Uinenlindë seemed to bank left and slightly away.
“You carry my people as slaves?” Captain Gaerion shouted, in a deep voice that somehow carried across the din of thunder.
“Think not of us, but of yourself. Soon you and your men will be in the fish-filled sea, unless you turn away,” Azrazôr retorted. He spoke a few words with Naraal then stood at the prow, seemingly satisfied and perceiving no imminent danger.
“Pull, men!” Naraal sat and took up an oar that had been abandoned to cut the boarding ropes. “We are nearing land. Let us beach the ship and assess the damage.”
There was a loud crack as the top half of the Uinenlinde’s mast snapped and fell into the water. But the elves were manning oars too. “Put some back into it! We are strong, we are Umbari, we are Corsairs.”
“What can you espy?” Tazakr shouted up to the lookout, then turned to help out an oarsman who appeared to be lagging.
“The elf ship is losing speed and distance. It looks as if they had a fire aboard; I see smoke in the mist,” he reported.
Good, good, thought Tazakr, though his mind was then more on what the King was doing than much else.
They rowed with all their strength. But they were rowing blind in the dark.
“Lookout, what do you see now?” cried Naraal. Too late! There was a terrible crunching sound as the hull was dragged across rocks. Someone screamed, the horses screamed and kicked in their stalls, and the ship began to founder. “To the King,” Naraal yelled, dropping his oar and racing to Azrazôr’s side again. He was holding onto the railing with both hands to keep from being pitched into the sea.
“Are we grounded?” he asked.
“Alas my King, we must abandon ship! We should be near one of the easterly isles. You, you, and you,” he said, pointing at three men, “go have a look!” They hurriedly clambered into a rowboat and pulled through the breakers that washed over the boat and threatened to swamp it. Tazakr said they would find land, and he was soon proved right when they saw the signal from their lanterns.
“We are ill-content with this unlooked-for delay,” said Azrazôr, his eyes stern and regarding the state of the Shakilgimil with severe displeasure. The more the man spoke, the more Tazakr watched him, wondering.
“Look lively! All abandon ship!” said his captain.
“Majid! See to the horses. The rest of you lot, unload the cargo onto the small boats,” Tazakr barked orders, moving swiftly himself to grab the charts, hourglass, cross-staff and any other navigational instruments he could find in the Captain's cabin. “Salvage anything you can carry.” The crew raced back and forth, eager to get off the foundering ship before it broke apart on the rocks. All was unloaded and accounted for, except for two men and some of the cargo, washed overboard, most likely.
The rain lessened, the sky cleared, and the sun blazed down on them. The men sat in the shade of palms, a bunch of bedraggled sailors thankful for their lives, but wondering what would happen next, and in more than a little awe of their new leader.
“Our King called down the lightnin’ on the Elves,” said one of the swabbies.
“That wasn’t no lightnin’ but a rain o’ fire,” said another.
“Aye! A terrible, great glowin’ sphere of flame it was, me bucko, cracklin’ down so fiercely, the boards under my feet trembled like a jellyfish caught in a shark’s maw, and the mast snapped clean in twain, like this here dry biscuit!” said Crazy Old Majid.
“Whatever it was, it did the job! Where was their little Sea God then?”
There was even some laughter as the khorob was passed around and the tales grew. The cook built a fire from driftwood and broke open a barrel of dried fish for stew. Tazakr organized a scouting party and wandered along the shore, thinking they might find the missing crewmembers and cargo. Unsurprisingly, they found the wreckage of many other boats on the far side of the island. Laughing ironically at himself, he realised this was Bax Garâkh, the very place he had suggested they run the Uinenlindë ashore. He would not be so careless with his thoughts and words in future. They found two unbroken boxes of the missing cargo, that was all.
When he returned to the crippled Shakilgimil, stuck fast on the shoals with a big gaping hole in its hull, he heard the men lamenting the absence of First Mate Balkumagan:
“He would know what to do.”
“Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here on this haunted isle!”
“He could have her back at sea in a couple of days.”
“And Oliphants can fly,” Tazakr added dryly. “Quit crying like a bunch of women! Our First Mate is not here but we’re not helpless without him, are we? Assess the damage and give report. We will make sufficient repairs to reach Umbar Baharbêl. Plans! I want ideas and plans, not whining!”
His Captain and King were standing atop a large rock that afforded a good view of anything that neared the island, heads bowed together in another deep discussion. The horses had been let loose to stretch their legs and graze. Though the sea grass was poor fare, there was nothing for them on the nearby slope. They were on a small island and could not wander far. He had not seen nor heard any other animals, but that did not mean they were not there. Old Majid might know something useful about the place, something other than his tales of drowned sailors and bilge-drinking specters. The sooner they were all home, the better for his liking, and the sooner Tazakr learned more about the King and his plans, the better, too.
Captain Naraal called him over. The King had decided that he could not wait upon repairs, and he and Naraal would take one of the rowboats across the Shield Islands to reach the port of Halrax, and from there take ship to Umbar. Tazakr was to remain and oversee the restoration of the Shakilgimil, and the preservation of its surviving crew, as acting Captain.
