Voyage of the Fox Rider (10 page)

The Elvenship cleared the Straits of Alacca ere noon of that first day, yet westerly she continued to fare, tacking west nor’west and west sou’west, close hauled to the east-running wind. She ran this way for a night and a day before turning on a sou’western course, the wind now starboard abeam and growing in strength, the
Eroean
swift-cutting through the indigo waters of the deep, wide Sindhu Sea.

Aiming for the southern latitudes, down where the winds blow strong, sou’westerly she drove, her hull dark blue above the waterline, the color of the sea, her sails the color of the sky. And when the wind heeled her over, her silver bottom showed, a bottom no barnacle could cling to, a bottom where no weed could grow. But the wind was not strong enough to challenge her outright, and so southward she drove running upright, slicing through the waves, her colors making her all but invisible to other ships afar.

It would be a long run to the south, faring through the shifting monsoons and then the equatorial doldrums lying just ahead, beyond which they would at last come to the southern winds, first the trades and then the polars, a set of calms between. As to whither the Elvenship was bound, ‘round the cape she was headed, down where the wild gales rage, that goal yet some five thousand miles distant as the albatross flies—longer as the ship tacks. Then back to the north she would ply through the waters of the Weston Ocean, aiming for the Avagon Sea. For it was to Arbalin Isle she was bound, bearing her precious cargo—nutmeg and cinnamon and porcelain ware—where it would fetch a premium.

Then it was back to adventure for this crew, seeking out legend and fable. It mattered not whether the legends were true, for the seeking was the sum of the game. Had they wanted nothing but wealth, then merchants of the seas they would have become, for with but a few trips of the Elvenship they could each make their fortune many times over.

Yet comfort and riches suited not Aravan, and neither did it satisfy his well-chosen crew. And so only occasionally did the
Eroean
bear merchandise for market, and that but to fund their quests, setting a little aside for the
times after, when they would leave the sea and settle down to a more staid existence. But that was for later and not for now, and not for the times immediately ahead, for legend and fable yet called to this crew, sweet voices singing in their hearts, in their spirits, and luring them on. And so they hied across the sea, the Elvenship’s holds laden to the hatches.

And when bearing cargo for sale, speed was of the essence, for the sooner sold, the sooner free, free to return to their prime mission—the pursuit of derring-do.

And it was this ship, this marvelous ship, which allowed them to follow their will, a ship conceived by Elven mind but fabricated by Red Hills Dwarves. Never before had the world seen such, and likely never again, its secrets locked in the hearts of those who made her, long ago in the mists of time. Nearly three millennia had she plied the seas, captained by the Elf who first envisioned her, the Elf named Aravan.

Three-masted she was with a cloud of sails, three-masted and swift. Her bow was narrow and as sharp as a knife to cut through the waters, the shape smoothly flaring back to a wall-sided hull running for most of her length, the hull finally tapering up to a rounded aft. Two hundred and twelve feet she measured from stem to stern, her masts raked back at an angle. No stern castle did she bear, no fo’c’sle on her bow. Instead her shape was low and slender, for her beam measured but thirty-six feet at the widest, and she drew but thirty feet of water fully laded. Her mainmast rose one hundred forty-six feet above her deck, and her main yard was seventy-eight feet from tip to tip. As to the mizzen and fore masts, they were but slightly shorter and their yards a bit less wide.

These were the things that other captains, other sailors, could readily see, and they wondered why the ship did not simply founder and sink, cleaving into the waves as she did. Why, with that cutting prow a high sea alone should sink the vessel, and that’s why it was foolish to have aught but a rounded bow: everyone knew that a good ship was designed to ride up and over the waves…“cod’s head and mackerel tail” was the wisdom of the ship builders—the round cod’s head smacked and battered into the waves, riding up over each crest, and
the narrow stern left a clean wake with hardly any turbulence, all safe and sane. But the Elvenship was different, her design foolish, mad: prow sword sharp and stern club blunt—built absolutely backwards! And with that much sail, come a sudden gust, all her masts would splinter into flinders, or so it was surmised. Why, many claimed that it was a pure wonder then that the
Eroean
had managed to survive the sea, slicing right through each and every billow, water rolling over her decks. A wet ship, that one, and someday in heavy wind and wave she’d plow under never to return, or so some said.

But there were others who claimed that she’d never sink, her with her mad design, for there was
magic
bound into her hull and
that
was what was holding her up, saving her from a dreadful death below the rolling waves, and as long as the magic held, well, she would never founder, never be sucked adown. And that’s why no one ever attempted to build another ship like her, for ‘twas
magic
alone that kept her afloat, and none else knew how to cast the same spells.

But her peculiar design wasn’t the only topic bandied about, for as well there was her crew, and what a strange mix they were—forty Men and forty Dwarves. Why, it was common knowledge that Dwarves
never
went to sea, though they were Hèl on foot as fighters. And then, too, it was said by some that this Captain Aravan often took on Wee Folk, too, them what call themselves Warrows; as to what these little’ns might be good for, well, that was anybody’s guess.

And so the rumors persisted, for three millennia or more.

And still the Elvenship defied all the predictions of doom.

And still no one else was mad enough or wise enough to attempt another one like her.

Two more days she ran, the winds gradually shifting about, changeable in this season, now blowing southwesterly, the
Eroean
running before a following wind. But on the third day…

First Officer Jatu held a small sandglass. “Ready the log line,” he called.

“Ready, sir,” responded Artus, the sailor holding the reel.

“Cast the log.”

Rico heaved the wood over the taffrail, the billet splashing into the wake. Unreeling the line to the first knot, Artus payed out a length and then stopped the spool, the log now a hundred feet astern.

“All set, sir,” barked Artus.

“Ready?” called Jatu.

“Ready!” responded Artus. “Ready!” said Rico, too.

“Then loose!” cried Jatu, turning the sandglass over.

Artus released the spool, his eye on its spinning, making certain that it ran free on the greased axle. Rico watched as the cord reeled out, counting the knots as they sped past:
“Un. Dis. Tis…”
The Tugalian counting in his native language, though ordinarily he spoke the shipboard speech—the Common Tongue.

Moments later—“Belay!” cried Jatu, the top glass empty, the sand run through, Artus jamming shut the reel brake, halting the line.

“
Ancé nutos
—eleven knots—and some,” said Rico.

“Pah!” spat Jatu. “As I thought: the winds are dying. Midline Irons ahead.”

Over the course of the next few days, the ship slowed and slowed and slowed even more, the wind gradually becoming but a faint stir of air. And even with all sails set, still the doldrums clutched at the
Eroean
as honey traps the fly. They crossed the equator with the gigs unshipped and the crew rowing, towing the slack-sailed Elvenship southerly, Men and Dwarves alike taking turns at the oars. And the Sun beat down unmercifully in the torrid, summer days, its searing rays slashing through the stifling mute air, reflecting back from the copper-colored, molten brine.

Yet by burning day and hot still night the crew rowed onward, the Men singing chanteys, the Dwarves canting warrior chants.

Four days they rowed, Aravan sighting on the heavens, gauging the
Eroean
’s position; not only was he captain of this vessel, he was the pilot as well…for like all Elves he had the gift of knowing the skies, aware at all times precisely where stood the heavenly bodies—Sun,
Moon, and stars—and thus as navigator he was unsurpassed.

“The southern boundary draws nigh,” he said on the fourth night to Rico. “On the morrow we should find the wind.”

“Aye, Kapitan,” replied the bo’s’n, mopping his brow. “
¡Diantre!
I be glad when wind she come, stuck on midline as we be. I never t’ought I say this, but I going to welcome polars, blow and chill and everyt’ing. But to find wind in these lats, bah, at this time of year south equatorial she be as fickle as north. Still we be ready. Sou’easters or sou’westers or any bearing, we be ready.”

The very next day, the sails of the Elvenship belled slightly as the rowers towing the craft finally came into a faint sou’westerly breeze. Swiftly the gigs were shipped back aboard as the bo’s’n set the sails for a southerly run, and into the capricious monsoons the
Eroean
fared.

Due south she ran for three days, the wind shifting about, and on the eve of the third day the Elvenship came at last unto the southeasterly trades. And with the wind abeam on the larboard side, southwest she turned, running for the Cape of Storms, the wind gaining in strength the farther south she fared.

One hundred leagues a day she sailed, three hundred miles from Sun to Sun, over the course of five days, but then she came to the Doldrums of the Goat, there in the southern latitudes. Even so, gentle breezes blew, though fitfully quartering first this way then that, and the crew was hard-pressed to manage the sails in the shifting airs, yet after three days and a half the ship came into the prevailing westerlies beyond the southern calms. And south and west continued the
Eroean
, aiming now for the polar realm in which lay the Cape of Storms.

Steadily the winds increased, the farther south she fared, and the lengthening nights grew cold and colder, and chill grew the shorter days as well. The speed of the ship increased, and she ran sixteen and seventeen knots at times, logging more than three hundred fifty miles a day on three days running. And the weather became foul, rain and sleet off and on lashing against the ship, while large breaking waves raced o’er the southern Sindhu
Sea, the
Eroean
cleaving through the waters, her decks awash in the cold brine.