Hawke picked himself up slowly from the deck, wincing at the pain of scalded flesh along the left side of his face. As he glanced around, he could see sailors doing likewise, scrambling to douse those few fires in the rigging and the sails that hadn't been quenched by the scalding wave. He glanced to his left and was dully surprised to see the entire starboard rail of the main deck had been torn clean away, together with several of the deck ballistae.
He turned around slowly and stared up at the fo'c'sle; Fenris had been standing at the prow of the ship as Hawke had gone to order the captain to turn the ship; as the warrior stared up at upper deck, he could see no sign of the elf, and his heart sank as he began to run for'ard. He pulled himself up the stairs, hastening as his gaze swept the fore deck and spied the crumpled form of the elf lying against the port rail.
He threw himself down upon his knees next to Fenris. The elf lay upon his back, face turned away towards the railings, his left arm trailing down between two broken uprights, his right arm flung up above his head. He seemed to have been spared the scalding spray, but as Hawke carefully turned Fenris' face away from the railing, he frowned at the blood staining the snow white hair. An ugly contusion marred the elf's left temple, the bruising dark beneath the tanned skin which was split and bleeding.
"Fenris? Wake up Fenris!" said Hawke urgently. The elf did not stir; his face pale despite the tan. Hawke muttered a curse under his breath. "Fenris!" He stared down at the still elf, then gently he straightened the limp limbs before gathering the slender unconscious man up in his arms. He struggled to his feet, marvelling at how Fenris was deceptively heavy; though slim, he was strong, and his muscles dense.
He carried Fenris back aft towards the cabins, Captain Morrow meeting him halfway down the main deck.
"There are healing potions in the chirurgeon's cabin," said Morrow without preamble, gesturing to two of his men. Hawke stared at the two men then down at Fenris' pale face; the elf seemed somehow smaller, younger with an air of vulnerability about him that Hawke would ordinarily never have guessed at. Hawke felt strangely reluctant to give up his burden, but as Morrow gestured to the two men, he reluctantly nodded as he surrendered the elf to the two sailors who bore the unconscious Fenris swiftly away below deck, then turned back to the captain. "Your orders, Champion?" asked Morrow.
"Same as before," replied Hawke. "We pursue the Mage's Pride."
Morrow stared at Hawke. "After this?" he exclaimed, gesturing at the deck around them where men worked to put the ship to rights. "Are you mad, man?"
"Captain, consider the power required for doing something like that. Believe me, the mage who cast that spell will be drained of mana right now and completely incapable of posing a further threat to us for several hours to come. Do you think we can catch them in two or three hours?"
The captain glanced up at the sails, gauging the wind, then nodded. "Easily. She's missing a mast, whereas we still have full sail."
"Then come about and give chase," ordered Hawke. The captain regarded him neutrally, pursing his lips. "And the Pride of Starkhaven?"
Both men turned as one and stared across the expanse of sea separating the two ships.
The Pride of Starkhaven was in a sorry state. The damage was clear to the eye at this distance; she was listing badly to port, her foremast smashed beyond all hope of repair, little more than a tangled mess of spars, rigging and tattered sailcloth. The mainmast had fared little better; it had snapped off just above the main sail, the topgallant shredded into tatters and burning, the rigging and ropes fouling the mainsail and stays hopelessly. Even the mizzenmast had not escaped unscathed, its topsail scorched and topgallant torn.
All the ballistae on the main deck had been swept and smashed into a pile of debris and detritus against the quarterdeck, Corpses of templars and sailors alike were crushed into the wreckage and scattered over the main deck like discarded dolls tossed by some monstrous hand. But nowhere could Hawke see the white form of the Prince of Starkhaven. Perhaps Sebastian had been swept overboard by the wave that had decimated his ship and crew.
He wondered if their positions were reversed, what would Sebastian have done? Would he have gone to the aid of the stricken ship – or would he have ignored them like so much chaff on the wind, sailing on and leaving them to fend for themselves?
He bowed his head in thought for a moment, then glanced back at the Mage's Pride. "We follow the Mage's Pride," he decided, quashing down the feeling of guilt inside. "We will return and render aid once we have Anders on board."
Morrow regarded him thoughtfully, his gaze flicking from the stricken vessel then back to Hawke. He could see for himself that the Pride was in dire straits; she likely would not remain afloat much longer without aid. But he merely gave a brief nod before turning on his heel and striding aft once more, bawling out orders to his crew.
Hawke felt the ship's deck lurch as she came slowly about then slowly but surely began to pick up speed as she ran before the wind. Hawke strode slowly back towards the prow, fighting the urge to go below deck and check on Fenris.
They would have Anders yet. He gripped the railing and stared at the schooner that sped on ahead of them as they trailed in her wake. After a moment, he reached for the spyglass at his belt, training it once more upon the quarterdeck. He could see the figure of Isabela pacing back and forth, but could see no sign of the mage.
Isabela stared down at the unconscious mage, then back at the Kirkwall brig as she came on towards them. A hot, strong wind still blew steadily, bearing the Mage's Pride onwards; but unlike their own ship, Hawke's vessel still had her full complement of masts, and as Isabela watched, she mounted every last scrap of canvas, every square foot unfurled to its fullest to take advantage of the wind. It could only be a matter of an hour or two at most before they drew level with the Mage's Pride. Anders' trap had dealt a grievous blow to one of their pursuers, but not both; and whilst it would be a long while before the Starkhaven ship would be in a position to trouble them again, sadly it had not hindered the Kirkwall vessel more than momentarily. Through her spyglass, Isabela could discern that whilst she had lost several ballistae, more than enough remained on her deck to pose no small threat to the Mage's Pride should it come to a fight.
Isabela scowled. She wasn't about to give up just yet. She called to her crew, and two men came forward to gather up the unconscious mage between him and bear him below to the cabin whilst other men sprang to follow her orders, jury-rigging as much canvas as they could and unfurling the main sail and topgallants on both the main and mizzen masts.
The Rivaini pirate paced the quarterdeck. A part of her wanted to go below and check on Anders, but her captain's heart kept her on deck, where she could be in control and keep an eye on things.
And she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. She knew these waters well; better, she'd wager, than the Kirkwall ship following in her wake. She paused in her pacing to pull out her spyglass and train it aft upon the prow of the other ship.
She was closer now; close enough that Isabela could make out the lettering about her prow, below the graceful figurehead of a white seabird with outstretched wings. The Kirkwall Tern; it seemed an apt name. She was a trim vessel, neat and clean of line, only a little the worse for wear; and like the bird she was named for, she skimmed lightly over the waves under full sail; a beautiful sight in the late afternoon sun which washed her canvas in golden and rosy hues.
Pretty as a picture, but belying her deadliness. And with all canvas set to the wind she would overhaul the Mage's Pride all too soon. Isabela could clearly see Hawke standing upon the fo'c'sle, golden sunlight glinting off his armour and the telescope he held in his hands – watching her back, no doubt. She gave him a jaunty wave which the warrior did not return; as she turned away, she idly wondered if Fenris were with him, and if so where he was.
Isabela leaned over the quarterdeck rail. "Serah Hollick!" she called. Her first mate turned from giving directions to three men. "Captain?"
"A word if you please!"
Hollick dismissed the other men then climbed up the stairs to the quarterdeck. He began to smile as he saw his captain's grin.
"You've a plan then, Captain?" he grinned back.
"Of course I have," replied the Rivaini. "I always have a plan..."
Fenris pushed the chirurgeon aside irritably and sat up.
"Ser Elf, you should be careful, the dangers of concussion-"
"I am well aware of them," growled the elf as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and pushed himself upright. The chirurgeon frowned and placed a hand upon the elf's shoulder; a moment later, he gasped in alarm as Fenris forced him back against the wall of the small cabin where the healer worked, the elf's steel-tipped gauntlet closed threateningly around the man's throat. Fenris leaned in close towards the man, who flinched.
"Do not touch me," the elf said simply. The man garbled something unintelligible and nodded frantically in acquiescence. Fenris regarded him a moment longer, then abruptly dropped his hand as he turned and stalked away.
He had a raging headache and his stomach was still twisting rebelliously; he did his best to ignore both as he made his way back up towards the deck in search of Hawke. The last thing he remembered, before waking with the bitter taste of a healing potion upon his tongue, was the deck suddenly shifting beneath his feet as the wave threw the ship over on her side; his bare feet had found scant purchase on the slippery wooden boards as the deck canted at an alarming angle. He remembered falling, flinging out an arm to try and catch himself before he could be pitched over the rail, and then a blinding pain in his head followed swiftly by darkness.
Then there had been a moment's panic before he recalled where he was, in which he had lashed out frantically at the face above his that recoiled with a cry of alarm. He had felt almost contrite when he realised that the man shrinking away from him was not that of his hated yet dead master Danarius, but merely the ship's chirurgeon.
He allowed no fleeting sense of guilt to stay his feet as he made his way out into the fresh air of the main deck. He paused a moment at the top of the narrow stairs to glance about; then spying Hawke's familiar figure at the rail of the fore deck, he began to make his way forward.
He could put his unsteady footsteps down to the rolling motion of the deck, but the slight blurring of his vision was not quite so easily dismissed. He paused and steadied himself with a hand upon the haft of a ballista, putting his other hand to his forehead. His head throbbed sickeningly, and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. He swallowed down his nausea and after a moment he felt able to carry on.
He climbed the stairs slowly, clutching the rail hard as the wooden steps seemed to pitch and shift beneath his feet. Gritting his teeth in determination, he hauled himself up and onwards. He had to pause at the top, his head spinning; he muttered a curse under his breath. This weakness would not do.
"Vishante kaffras..." Hawke turned as he heard the elf swear, and he frowned with concern, crossing the small fo'c'sle deck in a few long paces.
"Fenris, you shouldn't be up. You look bloody awful," he chided as he reached out a steadying hand towards the swaying elf. Fenris leaned into his support gratefully; his face looked a ghastly colour beneath the dried blood caked down the side of his face. Fenris shook his head.
"It doesn't matter. The Mage's Pride, is she...?"
In answer, Hawke gestured beyond the ship's prow; Fenris followed the gesture and visibly relaxed when he saw the graceful schooner still there ahead of the Kirkwall Tern, all sails to the wind as she strove to out-race them. "Can we catch them?" he asked.
Hawke nodded. "We should overtake them soon if the wind holds, Morrow thinks."
Fenris took a step forward; Hawke moved with him, a supporting hand around the elf's waist as Fenris leaned upon his shoulder. They returned to the prow rail and Fenris shifted his weight forward onto the rail. He stared keenly at the other vessel, as if by willpower alone he could close the distance between them. Little more than a cable's length separated them; perhaps three hundred yards at most. Fenris glanced up at the Tern's sails impatiently, then back at the Mage's Pride.
"I can see Isabela on deck, but where is Anders?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes.
"I don't know," replied Hawke. "He's not returned on deck whilst I've been watching."
"Have we signalled to them yet?"
Hawke nodded and gestured to the flags fluttering from the stays. "Captain Morrow ran up the signal for we come in peace, hove to, but they've not answered. I know Isabela's seen it though – at this distance, she cannot possibly miss it."
"Perhaps she believes us guilty of some deception?" suggested Fenris.
"Wait!" said Hawke, pointing. "Something's going on over there. It looks like they're lowering a boat!"
As Fenris squinted against the setting sun, he struggled to make out what the warrior had seen. It did indeed appear that a boat was being lowered over the side of the main deck of the Mage's Pride. A single figure appeared to be sitting aboard; it was hard to make out, with his vision treacherously blurring, but he thought the occupant had blond hair tied back, a staff clutched in his hands.
He glanced at Hawke. "They're giving him up?"
"Maybe he chose to surrender, in the hopes we'd let Isabela go?" suggested Hawke. Fenris frowned as he stared at the figure in the boat, who sat with his head bowed as though in defeat. As they stood watching, the boat was cast away from the side of the ship and immediately dropped astern, the mage making no move to row or steer the boat.
Hawke turned and cupped his hands around his mouth as he bellowed, "Hard a-port! Hard a-port! 'Ware the boat!"
Men scrambled to haul on lines as the helmsman, startled, turned the wheel; other crewmen ran to the remains of the starboard railing with hooks and ropes as the Tern shuddered and heeled to port. There was a sickening crunch as the prow of the ship ploughed mercilessly into the small boat and, with a cry, the mage was thrown into the water.
"Man overboard!" went up the cry, and two sailors with ropes tied around their waists flung themselves into the churning waters.
Then there was shouting and a kerfuffle as ropes were thrown down to the men in the water, one of whom was struggling to keep the head of the blond man above the water. Fenris threw himself recklessly down the stairs to the main deck; something felt wrong about this, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. His head was aching abominably, driving everything out of his head save fear for Anders.
The mage was limp and unconscious as they pulled him on board; Fenris caught a glimpse of soaked, blond hair, black leather tunic and a limp arm in wet silk as the sailors clustered round him. He struggled to push through the press of men, shoving against the sailors who obscured his view.
"Stand back, let us through!" roared Hawke as he forced his way through the throng; Fenris pushed his slender body through the gap that opened up and flung himself down upon his knees beside the man who lay unconscious upon the deck, face turned away from the elf.
Even as he lay hands upon the unconscious man, he knew it was not Anders. There was no magic calling to the lyrium within his skin, and as he turned the unconscious man's head, it was the face of a stranger that greeted his eyes.
"A trick," growled Hawke angrily.
"A decoy," answered Fenris. "And we fell for it."
Hawke stared over the rail at the Mage's Pride and at the widening gap that separated them. He could see the figure of Isabela waving merrily at them, and then pointing upwards as a flag was hoisted up above her head. Snatching up his spyglass, he focussed it upon the signal.
It was a templar flag, stolen no doubt on one of Isabela's many little adventures; the flag had been altered with two additions, however. Beneath Andraste's face, a pair of dainty lace knickers had been stitched, and below that an appliqué of two small brown animals.
"What does it say?" asked Fenris as Hawke groaned.
"A message from Anders, I think," replied Hawke. "'Andraste's knicker-weasels.'"
