The Storm before the Calm
Serra paced about on the deck of her ship. She had requisitioned five cogs, bretonnian merchantmen indebted to her family for their business with the Asur, who were now transporting six hundred angry and hopefully competent men on her mission. The ships were close enough that she could make out the individual sailors on all their decks, running around busily. It meant that they were close enough for her to work her more powerful spells should the need be required. Novice mages serving aboard the ships of the Phoenix King learned this technique rather quickly. Close enough for mutual support but far enough to manoeuvre if battle was joined.
They were taking a route that was a defunct trading node that skirted in rough waters. The Druchii corsairs would not trouble them, preferring to maraud in more profitable and populated routes. Most trade routes hugged the coast, moving from the protection of port to port, gathering supplies and selling their wares. This one had been unused for a thousand years, simply because it was now far more economical to go via the ports of the old world and their teeming markets of humans. The only problems they would face here were inclement weather and maybe some hungry kraken. She had handled her share of those monsters when she had served her stint as a mage, and knew how to scare them away. Even now her small fleet was protected by the grey winds of magic, and to a distant observer seem like distant clouds on the horizon.
Her cargo was insensate for the most part. Mercenaries would drink and gamble and stay away from her for the most part. Humans believed that women on a ship were harbingers of bad luck. Like every human superstition it had a small kernel of truth. Druchii ships had mages on them, just like their Asur counterparts. Of course, all Druchii magic wielders were female, and as a result, humans had taken to believing that women on a ship were bad luck. They had forgotten that the bad luck was being waylaid by a Dark elf ship in the first place. Once her mission was done, she would return to the White tower of Hoeth and confer with the loremasters and archmages therein about her hypothesis.
She kept her eyes on the clouds, her senses feeling the slightest change in the wind and summoning additional air elementals if need be. Speed was of the essence, but she kept the largest part of her might intact to protect her fleet if need be. Serra's mission was to sack the coasts of Ssildra Tor, and to rile up the Dark elves into attacking the warlike states of the humans. They would occupy the Druchii, allowing the high elves to break out from Arnheim and secure the hinterlands of the Clawed coast. This would split up the Dark elven realm and allow the high elves to destroy a large part of their debased kin between the Isthmus of Lustria and the newly secured coast. It was a more unorthodox strategy that the High Elves had devised. The safety of Ulthuan depended upon the Druchii being harried, but declining numbers of the High Elves meant that they now had to fight by guile even as they marshalled their armies.
A thin crease of worry appeared on Serra's face as she felt the approach of a maelstrom. She began casting incantations of warding, harnessing the Winds of magic into her staff and shaping it into a small and subtle spell that veered the ships together through a path that would allow them to bypass the pitfalls of the journey and reach Skeggi safely.
Even as the ships realigned, too subtly to be noticed by their captains, her magesight alerted her to a danger that the human sailors would not notice for hours. The winds of magic were coalescing into a magically charged cloud that would intersect them as they approached the coast off Skeggi. She steeled herself to face this onslaught. A bit of preparation of her body would go a long way to making the journey easier.
Her quarters aboard her ship were spacious enough. The captain had given it to her as befit her station and would had to share a bunk with his crew as was right and proper. She browsed over some spellbooks and cards that helped her to pass the time before reaching under the bed and bringing a small bottle stoppered with a rich purple liquid. The potion of Charoi fortified the body for far longer than it sapped at the mind. A few moments of haziness and she would be able to weather the magical storm with as much ease as a mild rainfall in Avelorn. Serra drank the potion and felt her mind swim and swirl. She focused as much of her power as she could on controlling the ship for the next few minutes before finally giving in to the haze.
When she came to her senses she could hear the roar of the storm almost overhead. The captain of the ship was frantically banging on her door pleading for help against the storm. Serra wondered how long she was out for as she put on her cloak and adjusted her circlet. It was important to keep up appearances in front of the humans lest their craven nature cause them to become fatalistic in times of crises.
Serra was out on the deck, a small aura protecting her against the sea spray and the rain as the sailors desperately lashed themselves on to the deck of the ship. To their credit, the humans were competent and knew what to do in a storm. They clumsily tied themselves to the railings, masts and anything else that was a part of the ship's body and wouldn't roll overboard. Maybe she had underestimated their tenacity. Or they were just following orders. She walked up to the front of the ship and planted her staff firmly in the wooden surface. The spells she would be invoking would require a focal point that she could harness the Winds of Magic and work her spell outward.
She began her incantation by calling Hoeth, the god of wisdom, and forced a magical bubble around her ship. With a power that was beyond the power of the mightiest of human sorcerers as she weaved the raw magical power coming from the freak storm into a harmonious shape. High magic was the pinnacle of magic as a force of nature. The winds of magic, working together in harmony to accomplish far more together than they could do on their own. As her ritual climaxed, Serra spread the power that had gathered in the palm of her left hand in the shape of a tiny ball outward and around the ship. A shimmering shield of blue covered the entire ship protecting it against the elements that howled all around them
Serra smiled. Even the High Loremaster would be impressed by her feat. She was channelling the winds of magic directly into the staff, using it as a conduit for the bubble that surrounded the ships. When the winds would wane, so would the bubble and then they would continue on to Skeggi. The genius of the spell was that she had nothing to do with it any more. In a way it was like a stable arcane experimental device. The worse the storm blew, the safer the ships would be. She made a mental note to write down the details of the spell she wove later on. Satisfied that she had solved the problem plaguing her in such an elegant manner, befitting of a mage in service of the Pheoenix King, Serra exhaled a tired sigh before returning to her room. She deserved a good night's rest.
Erich's sleep was broken by the sun shining in his face through the porthole. Sven, Rudi and Phillip were still lying on the floor, and seemed to be sleeping off their binge. While he wasn't feeling ready to fight, Erich's head was not ringing. That meant that he had slept off the worst of the drink and could go about his business with a clear head. He walked over to his bunk bed and fetched a fresh set of clothes to put on. He opened his chest and took stock of the oddments he had kept on top of his neatly folded clothes.. A fine Estalian rapier hanging by his bedstead, a Pistol manufactured by the engineers guild in Nuln and a small pouch of lead balls were all the possessions that were the tools of his trade.
Mercenaries were known for the wealth they carried on their body, and Erich's equipment reflected that. Dwarf shot and powder was expensive and the fact that he had enough to last for an extended campaign was a personal point of pride. His breastplate was not quite dwarf forged but it was forged from steel of the highest quality one could find in the Old World. An outrageously expensive tunic covered his body, the joints torn and sewn again to show how little he thought of such expensive wear. His tights were of sleek dark wool and linen, that contrasted neatly with the tunic he wore. Erich's hat was made of dark bearskin hat, trimmed with golden thread and accentuated by several feathers from birds in Tilea, Estalia, and Bretonnia. Gods willing, he would soon add a lustrian feather to his hat. His codpiece completed his outfit, making him look outrageously fashionable.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and straightened his collar. Smiling despite himself, he listened to the sounds of the cog. The roar of the sea waves and the creaking wood were most in abundance, with the distant crying of seagulls. It probably meant they were close to a coast. Erich quickly left the room, taking care not to step over the vomit and remembering to take his coin purse with him. He could trust his men in the midst of battle, but not around his money. Years of campaigning had taught him that it never hurt to be careful with your expensive belongings around mercenaries.
The sky had a few sparse clouds with the sun still in the east. Gangs of sailors ran about on deck, shouting at each other in what seemed to be a mix of Estalian, Tilean and Bretonnian, with a few Reikspiel curses thrown in. The sails were being tended to and the decks were being cleaned. They seemed at home in the buckling cog. In contrast, a couple of his men were on the boat, looking confused and unsteady on their feet. A couple of them ventured to hail him while others took their turns to throw up much to the distaste of the sailors.
The cargo hold where the men had stowed themselves smelled of spirits, piss and vomit. A homely stench that reminded him of the less genteel quarters of half a dozen cities. Gingerly stepping over puddles of water and other nastier liquids, he walked to the back of the hold where the two cannons and their powder was stored. The dozen dozing bodies nearest to him were the gunners and the artillerymen who were to use the cannons to devastating effect in battles, and looked after the blackpowder supplies when the battle was done. Waking up two them, he began to inspect the ammunition and supplies that the two hungry beasts would need. Wisely enough no one thought to bring a torch close to the store of blackpowder. While the little light they had was a problem, it was a better alternative to be incinerated in an explosion.
After nearly an hour, he walked outside, satisfied that the blackpowder had not been destroyed by the sea spray. His men had double packed the crates with layers of straw and burlap, with the interior layer of wood still dry to the touch. For all their competitive economical value, Von Peiper's Pipers were not a company of incompetent soldiers. They knew to keep their pikes polished and stowed, and Erich didn't need to ask them to keep their crossbows dry. In a battle, the little things mattered far more than the glorious charges and valiant last stands. It was something that the stories of heroic lords and generals forgot to mention. People loved entertaining stories, not diaries and ledgers filled with mind numbing figures about supplies and armouries.
More of his men had come outside now, eager to stretch their legs and get away from the smell of the ship's innards. They would soon be clamouring for breakfast. Erich idly wondered how long they could eat biscuits and salted pork for breakfast. So far they had been sailing for a month straight and had consumed about half of their supplies. From what he had gathered from the captain and his first mate, they would be reaching Skeggi any day now. He set off to find the captain, a garrulous Breton from Bordelaux with a thick accent and a beard that would look at home on a dwarf's face. The man was at the helm of the ship, piloting it with wild abandon as he hurled abuses at his crew. He certainly seemed to be in high spirits. Even as Erich approached the man, a shout from the crow's nest. rang out. Instantaneously, the deck began to fill with sailors, herding Erich's men downstairs with haste. The ship began to ring with activity and began to change it's course down wind.
"Pardon me captain Tristan, I was wondering when we were going to reach Skeggi." Erich asked the man piloting the ship.
"Ah Monsieur, I am glad you asked this. We just sighted land, and should be able to reach the coast in a few hours if the weather permits."
"Ah, excellent. I would be happy to reach dry land for a little while at least."
"What, is my boat not too good enough for you?" The man's tone was playful, but it was hard to tell due to his accent.
"No, my dear captain, I am not very good on boats. But yours is the finest I have had the opportunity to travel in."
"Ah, I see." The man said in a voice that was equal parts belligerent and playful. "We should be reaching the coast by noon. Once I get our bearings we can continue on to Skeggi."
That turned the conversation to other homelier and mundane matter. Things about home and family. Things that Erich did not want to talk about. Luckily for him, the Bretonnian wanted a patient ear to listen while he spun his yarn. Apparently Tristan had wanted to be a knight once and was quickly disabused of the notion when a knight in service to Duke Alberic de Bordeleaux had thrashed him and conscripted him the Duke's trade fleet. Now had a house, wife and three squealing children in Bordelaux. The mysterious woman had insured his ship and he was sailing with a light heart. It was the first time he was transporting soldiers. Usually he used to ply his trade on the great ocean between bordelaux, Magritta, Tilea and Marienburg. He had visited Lothern on business once, and the elves he saw had been as beguiling as they were disturbing. They were largely distrustful of humans and would kill anyone who ventured beyond the human quarters of the city. From what he had been able to gather, the entire was hauntingly beautiful and disturbingly quiet. Elves were dying out and they were afraid that the humans might find out. Some even plotted to take over the city in secret. " I brought this ship by telling an elf about this. They confiscated their ship and gave it to me. Imagine, Tristan from Bordelaux, master of his own ship."
Erich made a mental note not to tell him anything about the volume of blackpowder they were transporting in his ship. Ship captains were notorious for dumping out more dangerous cargo when no one was noticing.
Even as they spoke, Erich began to make out land on the distant horizon. It was a grey shape rising out of the horizon that slowly began to get bigger. As they approached it. The sailors on the deck stopped to stare at it. It seemed that even they were over-awed at the sight of land after a distant journey. Humans were home at land, not at sea, and the seas of the old world had all sort of horrifying monsters living in them. The kind of monsters that made a brayherd seem like a flock of timid sheep in comparison. A few of the sailors began to pray to Manaan thanking him for keeping them alive. Tristan shouted something at the sailor in the crow's nest and after a few moments a simple flag began to fly over the ship.
"Monsieur, I must beg pardon but we must now prepare to move along the coast. The ships will converge presently and move in a convoy and I must make sure we do not crash into each other or run aground on the shallows."
Taking that as his cue, Erich left the captain and went to his quarters.
Rudi, Phillip and Sven had been busy. The room was a bigger mess than before and clothes were strewn all over the bunkbeds. They were sharing a repast of ham and biscuits and Erich pulled up a chair and joined them. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Phillip said. "Let us never drink rum on an empty stomach in a ship sailing on a roiling sea ever again." Everyone else murmured their assent and continued to eat.
They had nearly finished eating when Rudi asked "Hey Erich, where have you been? I haven't seen you since last night."
Erich replied, "I went to pay a nocturnal visit to your mother Rudi, but the line was so long that I only got back now." Sven guffawed at the retort while Rudi made a wry face. Phillip ignored the exchange focusing instead on finishing his meal.
"All right. I got up early and was checking on our blackpowder stores and making sure the men were all tucked in and cozy. Then I spent a couple of hours chatting with the captain and came back once we sighted land."
"Land, we sighted land? Praise Ulric!, we can get off this floating tub." Sven's relief was palpable. At times like these it was clear that whatever norscan heritage the Nordlander might have, sailing and violence were not part of it.
"Ho! what are you going to do do once we get to Skeggi? Me, I am going to walk into the nearest whorehouse and spend this week's salary" Rudi patted the contents of his wager from last night.
"You might get more than you bargained for Rudi, the foul norsemen are often mutated by the powers of the dark powers they worship" It was amusing listening to Phillip's sermonizing. The man would have been a warrior priest if his courage had not failed him at a critical juncture. As it was, he still cared for the spiritual well being of his friends, going so far as to pray for forgiveness as they worshipped heathen gods. It took some getting used to but the man cared about them in his own holier-than-thou way. Knowing Phillip it could either be a warning or a jest. It was hard to tell.
Rudi, delighted at making the generally quiet Phillip start a conversation, started to speak when Erich noticed something very peculiar. There was a disquieting buzzing around the room as if a crowd was murmuring. For a moment Erich's mind went back to Nuln and his expulsion from the college of Engineers. He held up a hand and slammed on the table. Everyone in the room stopped talking. They could hear it clearly now. A variety of noises coming from the deck. It seemed the sailors were having something of an animated conversation.
Almost unconsciously Erich's voice assumed a tone he used when commanding men in the midst of battle. "Get up and get dressed. I think something is afoot."
Serra sat in her room, terrified of what her senses were telling her. When she had gone to bed, she had sensed the wards around the ships holding, and the last thing she remembered was them getting stronger even as the storm of magic subsided. Something in her mind warned her that something very unexpected was happening but her body rebelled. She was tired. Too tired to even lift a finger and she dozed off into sleep.
She woke up by the time the sun rose. Exhausted but happy she put on her hood and started to cloak her form. She spent the next hour detailing the spell she had cast in her diary. After a good night's sleep she noted the mistakes she had made while working the spell. A few wrong words and hand inflections here and there. The spell she wove was supposed to shield the fleet from the storm, but it could do much more. If it absorbed enough power it could even survive the destruction of the world. A fascinating idea in theory. She resolved to share it with the Archmage Bellanaer and High Loremaster Teclis. They could help her by pointing out the leaps in logic that she had made.
Her notes completed, she idly began to shuffle a few cards while slowly feeling the winds of magic around her. She froze as she felt nothing. She couldn't sense the winds of magic at all. While it was known to be a side effect from drinking the potion of Charoi, she had rested and felt otherwise normal. Maybe she had drank all of the potion instead of a few drops. Serra rose and fumbled as she looked for the bottle. It was hanging on her belt and she looked at the clear crystal bottle nearly filled with the glittering purple liquid. She had barely taken a single sip. A terrifying thought arose in her mind. Had she burned out by channeling that spell? Mages were known to burn out on the rarest of occasions, where their senses would be so inundated by the winds of power that they would get overwhelmed and lose their magical affinity. To one with a gift it was a fate worse than death. No, it couldn't happen to her. She had warded herself well, and hadn't even used that powerful of a spell. She would have felt all the magic draining away from her body if that had happened.
Her staff! It would be able to tell her what had transpired. The traces of magic in it would help her understand what had happened during the storm.
She slowly walked up to the deck, flitting past the sailors using her natural agility and speed Humans were distrustful of elves, as was to be expected, and she would rather the sailors not see her. The staff was still there. She grasped it and slowly began to the work of the spell that had been cast using the device as a conduit. It had been stripped of it's magic nearly completely. The elven gem that focused power had fine hairline cracks in it but was stable structurally. She thanked Hoeth out of instinct. She could still sense a lingering sense of magic around her, feeble and almost non existent compared to the tempestuous winds of yesterday. She closed her sight to and saw the world beyond the purely physical. A moment later she was terrified. There winds of magic were beyond becalmed. They were non existent. The only thing magical around her was the staff, a few amulets she kept for those lulls in the wind of magic and...
On the far distance she felt a tug of magic. Almost instinctively her spirit rose from her body and flew beyond the ship. The amulets she had on her person would break the spell if danger came close or if something demanded her attention. As her spirit form rose higher in the sky she saw a sight that she would have dismissed as fiction if the enormity of it's realness didn't strike her. Lines of magic criss-crossed the land and the sea, moving to the north in a parody of the polar gates. Their colour was purple, but it was not the magic of death. No...It was akin to the harmonic winds that the High elves had mastered, but different still. Magic was supposed to be like the wind, the magic she beheld was like a river, slow moving and constant. Even as she admired the vast flow of magic, her talisman pulsed and she was dragged back to her body with a disconcerting speed.
Serra was startled as a Bretonnian sailor shook her. She get up with a start knocking the poor man down. He groaned and clutched his head clutched his head murmuring in Bretonnian. "Lady preserve me, where am I?" Serra replied in Eltharin, "Somewhere else." This certainly required further cataloguing.