The Huntsman's Amulet (13 page)

Chapter 19

Gathering Clouds

I
t seemed that Soren
was finally coming to terms with life at sea. It had been a full twelve hours since he had returned aboard the
Honest Christophe
and he had not yet vomited. He hadn’t even fallen over — usually a regular occurrence in his first few hours on board. In fair breeze and clement weather he was even beginning to see the appeal of a life at sea. It was also nice to see the sun again. He hadn’t realised the effect the constant gloom in the Isles had had on his morale.

For Soren, the most interesting thing was what he had learned about the Fount since coming on board. Berengarius had told him that the sea, or water in general, would cut off access to the Fount underneath. With whatever energy was created by and accumulated in the presence of the nine people around him, he found that he already felt far better than he had at any point on the island. He had only needed a few hours of sleep after arriving on the ship before wakening refreshed and he was not tormented by the shadowy memories of dreams that were so vivid at times they seemed real.

He stood next to the bulwark watching a large flock of birds pass overhead, flying south, the first he had seen in many days. He was wondering how much longer it would take them to get back to Auracia when Joris approached him, also looking at the birds.

‘A fine day,’ he said. ‘But not so fine everywhere. Those birds. They’re flying away from a storm.’

‘A storm?’ Soren said. ‘The weather seems fine.’

‘Aye, here it is. But there’s a storm out there. No more than a day to the north I think,’ Joris said.

‘Will it affect us?’

‘I hope not,’ Joris said, with a laugh. ‘But it might; it’s still too early to tell.’

‘That’s a cheery thought.’

Joris laughed again. ‘Anyone who tells you Ventish sailors are optimists is a liar. But listen, I’ve been meaning to say something to you. When we arrived in Voorn, there was a man there asking about you. Said he’d been told you were due to arrive there with us. You’ve friends in Voorn?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Soren said. ‘That’s odd. Even if I did have friends in Voorn, there’s no one who could’ve known I’d taken passage on this ship. I haven’t been in contact with anyone in… months. Did he say what his name was?’

‘No. I didn’t think to ask. I didn’t like the look of him and wanted him off the ship fast. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. What did he look like?’ Soren said. He was reminded of the attempt to kill him before he left Auracia. Could there still be men looking for him on Amero’s behalf?

‘Sallow, long black hair, thin moustache, pointed tuft under his bottom lip. Anyone you know?’

Joris’s description would have fit half the men in Ostenheim. Soren could think of a dozen people that matched it, none of whom had any reason to be looking for him.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Strange. Maybe he was looking for someone else. Well, I’ll leave you to watch for the storm!’

All he left Soren to was the gut wrenching certainty that the incident in Auracia was not a one-off.

The following morning proved that Joris’s prediction was correct. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky over the horizon, and the air had become noticeably colder. The clouds reminded him of the shroud over Vellin-Ilora and the memory made him a little uncomfortable, but there were new things to worry about now. The wind had shifted into the north and increased steadily over the night. Joris said he expected the storm to be upon them by midday. The western coast of the Middle Sea was still a long way off, and there was no hope of making landfall before it hit.

Soren spent all morning feeling useless. The sailors worked frantically, doubling up each of the lines and sheets used to control the sails so that if one broke there would be a backup. All of the rigging was checked for wear and reinforced where necessary. All of the cargo and loose items on board the ship were secured down and everyone on board enjoyed their last hot meal before the galley fire was extinguished. Everyone had a job to do but Soren, leaving him to watch the angry black clouds crawl across the sky toward them and wonder how nervous he should be. The sailors maintained their usual patter of fatalistic humour, but there was noticeable tension on board.

The first indication of the storm being close came with an increase in the sea state. Where before there had been a steady and regular pitching of the ship, now the waves were larger, more confused and the
Honest Christophe
felt as though she was being thrown in several directions at once. Soren’s earlier hopes that he had become accustomed to a life at sea proved unfounded as the familiar nausea returned and he vomited that last hot meal back over the side.

The day darkened quickly and Soren felt as if he was back in Vellin-Ilora. The wind whistled through the rigging and spray started to break across the deck of the
Honest Christophe
. The crew were not chatting now; the fatalistic humour was replaced by silence and gritted teeth. Joris stood determinedly at the wheel, his face showing ever greater strain as he wrestled with it, struggling to keep control of his ship and ensure she remained on his chosen course.

As the wind continued to build, the whistling increased to a constant screech that made it impossible to hear even his own voice. Joris had one of his crew tie him to the binnacle so he could concentrate on the wheel and not have to worry about hanging on to the ship. Soren didn’t need to be told twice when one of the crew instructed him to go below and lash himself into his hammock.

The next several hours were a nightmarish blur. Strapped into his hammock, Soren’s body was flung back and forth with each violent pitch and roll of the ship. Sleep was impossible and, isolated in the darkness below the decks, he had no idea what was going on. He felt completely powerless, that his fate was out of his hands and that he had no control over whether he would live or die over the next few hours.

He vomited several more times, soaking the cloth of his hammock with foul smelling bile. Stinking bilge water sloshed around and was added to by waves that broke over the ship and washed down the companionway. The ship’s timbers groaned and creaked in protest, and Soren thought she was going to break apart. Above all other noise was the howling of the wind as it tore across the decks and through the rigging. Soren’s imagination ran wild; he feared that the crew had all been washed overboard and he was the only soul on board, being blown inexorably toward his death.

The nausea and the stench, the violent movement of the ship, the noise, the darkness and the fear all drove him to a state of near delirium as the storm seemed to go on for ever.

At some point, like a blessing from the gods, sleep came.

He was still strapped into his hammock when he awoke. From the swinging movement, it seemed to him that it was still attached to the deck beams of the ship. He was not floating in the sea, which had seemed a likely outcome the night before and something he was thankful for. The movement was less violent now, more regular and not straining the lines of his hammock with each swing. The sounds of the ship groaning and straining to hold herself together were also gone, as was the screaming of the wind across the deck. The stench of bilge and vomit was still there though, and each time he caught a whiff of it he wanted to throw up again.

He was hungry and exhausted by the strain of the night before, both physical and emotional. He slowly undid the ties on his hammock and released himself from his wet and stinking cocoon. He dropped his feet to the deck, which was awash with water; hardly a good sign. He slipped from the hammock and stood unsteadily. The cold water was a shock and sent a shiver up his spine. His nerves were still shaken from the night before and the gradual tolerance he had been developing for ship-board travel was completely erased. Each time one of the pieces of junk that was floating in the bilge water brushed against his feet and ankles, it gave him a start.

He moved from handhold to handhold as he made his way to the companionway. The fresh air drifting down from above was a relief and flushed the stench of below from his nostrils. He stumbled up the steps and out into the sunlight.

The initial shock of the water sloshing around aside, Soren’s hopes had grown that the
Honest Christophe
was still intact and seaworthy. He was unprepared for what greeted him when he stepped up on deck. Captain Joris stood by the wheel, one hand resting on its rim, his other arm in a roughly tied sling. The otherwise calm day was disturbed by a constant clanking sound. Soren turned to see two of the crew working a crank on a pedestal beside the main mast. With each turn there was a sloshing noise and Soren could see water gushing from a pipe that ran across the deck and out of the scuppers.

The main mast was now no taller than the height of two men, ending in shattered splinters of wood. Some of the spars were lashed down at the side of the deck, while others were missing. The bowsprit was also gone, along with much of the rigging. The ship also seemed to be riding lower in the water than it had been the day before. Soren looked back to Joris, who had a grim look on his face. There were two fewer men on deck than there had been the day before.

‘Can the damage be repaired?’ Soren asked hopefully.

‘Not while we’re at sea. We can jury-rig some sails that’ll keep some way on her, but we’ve sprung a few timbers below the waterline and there’s not much that can be done about that without getting to a dry-dock or beaching. The only question is, can we get to a safe shore before the lads are too tired to turn the handle on the pump? That’s the only thing keeping us afloat. You’ll have to take your turn on that. I’m not much bloody use now, I pulled my arm out during the night. We lost two of the lads overboard. Never even saw them go; one minute they were on deck, the next they were just gone. First time I’ve lost anyone at sea,’ Joris said.

Soren thought about Alessandra. Had that been how she had died? The notion gave him a pain in the pit of his stomach. Soren considered trying to console Joris, but didn’t want to dwell on the subject of drowning. Changing the subject was all that remained. ‘How far are we from the coast?’ he said.

‘No clue,’ Joris said.

So much for trying to change the topic to something more positive, Soren thought.

‘The storm blew us south. We could be as much as two hundred miles farther south than we were when we started. We’re still drifting that way too. I’ll take a sighting on the sun at noon to see how far east we went. The coast could be ten miles, or a hundred. There’s no steerage on the rudder because there’s nothing to put canvas up on to drive us forward. We’ll rig up something to try and put a bit of way on her and just have to creep along and land wherever we land.’

The eastern seaboard of the Middle Sea was one continuous coastline, which meant as long as they made ground to the east, they would reach land eventually, assuming they could keep the
Honest Christophe
afloat for long enough.