Brom squinted through the telescope at Sharktooth Island in the distance.
"What do you think?" Captain Tarence leaned against the rail of the crow's nest.
"If such a place exists, that's it," Brom said, folding up the scope. "There's an inlet that's too overgrown to be natural. It's like it's being hidden. Right by that stacked rock, next to the two big trees."
Tarence chewed for a moment. "Sailing close to shore risks us being hailed by their patrol ships."
Brom frowned. "We're sailing legitimate cargo, are we not?"
Tarence grunted. "Doesn't always stop 'em. We'll thread the needle," he decided. He clambered down the crow's nest, barking orders over the ship. Brom's descent was much more awkward, navigating the tall ladder with his injuries. Eragon helped him down.
He got out of the sailors' way and busied himself swabbing the deck. Sailing was exciting; the drama of shouted orders causing the sailors to scurry like an upturned anthill, the way the prow of the boat crashed into the waves, the spray of salt and the creaking billow of the great big sails filling with wind.
It felt like Eragon was a part of a larger machine, the ship, as it went toe to toe with nature, riding over the dark ocean depths, catching the wind and stealing a bit for itself to sail on, smashing through waves on its voyage.
When a sailor asked him to help with heaving a line against a blustery wind, Eragon felt as if he personally was fighting with the elements, keeping the sail taut against the wind. He imagined he was like Saphira as she flew. Her sails were of her body, yet Eragon had his own, made from rope and canvas and wood. He shared it with the rest of the crew and together, they used it to bully a passage over the roiling ocean.
Teirm was a few days back behind them, Kuasta about as far ahead. Harry's absence was odd. The wizard was a lot closer to Eragon's age than Brom. Eragon found himself missing his companionship. He wondered what had come of Harry's mission to rescue the elf. He wondered how far Harry had gone, if he was already at Gil'ead or beyond, and if his mission had been successful.
Saphira often flew not so far off, delighting in the use of the invisibility ring Harry had given her. She felt like a huntress with it, she confided in Eragon. She was the most beautiful thing in the sky, yet it thrilled her to be able to approach unseen until the very last moment before she pounced, making herself known in all her terrifying glory to some poor animal in the last moment of its life.
Saphira's presence during the day kept Eragon from getting lonely. Despite his efforts to help where he could, he was set apart from the sailors as a sort of passenger rather than a true part of the crew. The sailors had their own jokes, seemingly their own language. Eragon did not mind too much though, Brom and Saphira kept him entertained on the voyage.
He gazed out over the rail and tried to spot the faint shimmer of Saphira's invisible form against the ocean and its mirages, the mist and the horizon.
Captain Tarence didn't seem happy with their course. He frowned and glanced at Brom, who nodded.
"What's happening?"
"A storm is brewing."
"Aye," Brom said. "A big one."
Eragon looked towards the horizon. He saw no clouds, but now that it had been pointed out, he got a similar sense. The waves had calmed and the air felt heavy, like the world was holding its breath.
"Is that going to be a problem with the Empire's secret ships?" Eragon wondered.
Brom rubbed his chin. "Maybe. Maybe not. Pursuit ships are smaller. They sail faster, especially under oar. But they are more susceptible to storms."
"Large ships do better in a storm," Tarence agreed.
"We shall see," Brom mused.
Anticipation built over the next hour. The crew had sensed the oncoming storm themselves. True to Brom and the captain's word, thunderclouds appeared on the horizon before long. Eragon was given the telescope and told to keep an eye out for Sharktooth island and any ships that might appear.
"When the waves get choppy, get down from there," Captain Tarence growled. "You've got no sea legs and the mast'll be thrown around in the storm. If you're thrown overboard, that's it. You're dead."
Eragon's fingers closed around the cool brass cylinder. "I understand."
He climbed up and leaned against the rail while Tarence issued orders below, readying the ship for the looming clouds.
Eragon sent his concern out to Saphira. Are you going to be fine flying in this weather?
He felt uncertainty from her. I do not know how fierce the storm will be. Shore is not so far.
The thunderclouds began to drift over them, darkening the sky and casting their shadow over the ship. Eragon felt the first droplets of rain hit his hair. The sail creaked and groaned.
He peered through the telescope at Sharktooth island. A droplet smudged his view, fallen on the curved glass lens on the end of the scope. Eragon shook it off and returned to his vigil. Three dark smudges played across the teardrop trail on the outer lens. Eragon reached out and muttered under his breath. "Skölir Adurna."
The droplets cleared up. Those three dots were tiny, tiny sloops far off in the distance, headed towards them. He put down the telescope. Frowning, Eragon found a thin film of water had formed over the lens. He looked back through the scope to confirm: three ships headed towards them.
Alarmed, he called down to Brom.
"Three ships," Eragon yelled. "Sloops, headed for us."
"How far?" Captain Tarence shouted back up.
Eragon had a poor sense of distance that far. "They left Sharktooth minutes ago."
He cursed, then went back to shouting orders. "We've got to ride this storm!" he bellowed over the rising winds. "Anders, Alderson, on mainsail rigging. Wind's coming at us from southwest, so we'll be tacking to make headway. Eragon, get down. If you're a newbie, grab some rope and tie yourself to the deck or get below! We're earning our pay today folks."
Eragon scrambled down the rope ladder. The waves were growing tall and already, the choppy water made the descent stomach-lurching. Brom shuffled with him down below deck.
"Call us if it looks like they're going to board," Brom shouted to Tarence. The captain saluted, then shooed them on below.
Everyone who'd been sleeping below had been woken by the shouting and lurching. Eragon and Brom had the dim underbelly of the ship to themselves. They waited in tense quiet as the lurching grew more intense. The rainfall became a downpour, and the first rumblings of thunder began to roll over the ship. Eragon's stomach was very unhappy with the unsteady way the floorboards bucked.
Through their bond, Eragon felt Saphira's determination to fight the storm. He felt her frustration when a gale sent her wheeling backwards, or when an updraft caught her and flung her up high.
Saphira! Eragon's concern spilled over the link. This is not an enemy you can best with tenacity and strength.
It is an enemy you must fight, she sent back grimly, determined to fight her way through the storm. And another enemy closes on you. I will not abandon my Rider to fight by himself.
She sent him images of the sloops drawing nearer, making alarming headway towards them. The waves grew to ten feet as the thunderclouds reached the far horizon, sealing them in like a dark coffin. Lightning flared intermittently, the sky roaring down at them as the ocean threw a tantrum, each wave threatening to fold over their ship and kill them all.
Captain Tarence was paradoxically shouting less orders, letting his sailors interpret and saving his voice for more critical commands.
The storm worsened. Saphira no longer fought to stay abreast of their ship, she fought to stay remotely nearby, and to keep from being caught by the waves or slammed into the water.
Saphira. If the storm worsens, you risk drowning. Eragon was sure of it. The ship's mast and rigging creaked alarmingly overhead, struggling to endure nature's wrath. Beside him, Brom rested his crutch on his leg, looking nervous. It marked one of the few times he had seen the old man uneasy. Eragon clenched and unclenched his hand over Zar'roc's pommel, anticipating the time to use it.
Saphira gave no reply. Eragon felt her beginning to tire. Through her eyes, he saw the sloops making their final approach.
"What are you worried about?" Eragon asked Brom. "The storm, or the sloops?"
Brom rolled his ring around his finger. "Magic may save us from human enemies. It can do nothing against nature."
Eragon relayed Brom's words to Saphira.
He felt her bitterness at that. Without a word, she wheeled off to the east and let the storm carry her to shore. Eragon winced. He knew he would pay for that later.
"She went back to shore," Eragon reported.
"Good." Brom rose unsteadily on his cane, his other hand on the hilt of his sword. "Use no magic unless I say." He muttered under his breath in the Ancient Language, then made his way up the stairs to the deck. Eragon followed him, ready to catch him if he fell.
On the deck, the storm was thrice as loud. Each thunderclap made his ears ring, and the sound of gushing rain was like white noise that blotted out any quiet sound. Brom stumbled up the deck towards the helm. The ship tipped nearly halfway to diagonal as it mounted the waves, bucking up and pitching down.
They managed to make progress with a variety of handholds, catching hold of anything to steady themselves on the way up. It felt like climbing the cliff outside Teirm to cross the length of the deck. Fat raindrops whipped Eragon's skin, stinging his face. They did not get in his eyes, though. He suspected he had Brom to thank for that.
Eragon turned his head to look off the edge of the ship. The churning waves were terrifying enough. Beyond them, he spotted the sloops. They were deft, small crafts were agile under oar, circling around the largest waves.
"Tell me you've got something up your sleeve for those, Neil." Tarence wrestled with the wheel. Brom leaned against the rail and caught his breath.
"Evan. Get your bow."
It was a struggle to string it on the bucking ship. He drew one of the perfect arrows Harry had duplicated for him. He hoped no one noticed the missing arrow being magically replaced in the quiver. Eragon waited with the arrow nocked for Brom's word.
Brom put a hand over the arrow and muttered under his breath. "Thorna, ganga. Draw, but wait for my mark to release."
Eragon aimed toward the sloop. There was no way he'd be able to hit anyone on the deck. He'd be lucky to hit the ship.
Brom took the telescope from Tarence and put it to his eye. "Ready?"
Eragon drew.
"Fire."
The arrow zipped away. Eragon couldn't be sure if it wasn't the wind, but he thought he saw the arrow move in flight before it was lost in the sheets of rain and flashing lightning.
Brom's lips curved. "Again." He touched Eragon's nocked arrow and repeated his spell, his eyes never leaving the scope.
Eragon took Brom's chewed curse to mean he'd missed. "Again."
He wondered how long they could keep shooting before it occurred to Tarence that they'd fired an awful lot of arrows and must surely be running out soon. He was a bit distracted. Brom seemed to strike his target eight times out of ten or so. When Eragon was on his fortieth arrow, Brom uttered a particularly foul curse.
"What's that about?" Tarence called over the rain.
"They have a magician somewhere. They cast a ward to protect their men against arrows." Eragon made to put down his bow, but Brom stopped him. "I realize I may have been aiming at the wrong targets. Keep shooting. Thorna, ganga."
Eragon drew and waited. Brom muttered another word under his breath. "Now."
The shot seemed to take a lot more out of Brom than the last ones. He leaned against the rail, a vicious grin undeterred by the increased exhaustion of his spells. Eragon thought he saw a portion of the lead ship's sail slacken and flap in the vicious winds. "Tarence, where's the most important rope on those ships' rigging? Quickly, before their magician cottons on."
"The halyard," Tarence answered immediately. "It runs up the starboard side of the mast. Holds up the mainsail."
"Starboard is left, right?" Brom frowned.
"Right. Shit. No. It is the right side." Tarence scowled.
"Maritime jargon," Brom made a face.
"Landlubber ignorance."
Brom cackled. "Their captain's right, right?"
"Right."
Eragon groaned. "Just tell me when to take the shot."
Brom enchanted the arrow again. "The closer your shot is, the less this spell takes out of me," he told Eragon. Eragon swallowed and nodded. "The lead ship. Try to shoot just left of the mast."
"I thought you said right–"
"Our left. Their right." Brom mopped his forehead of rain. "Just shoot."
Eragon let the arrow fly. He lost its progress halfway across the water. But its effects were visible. The massive sail fell to the crossbeam, the lead sloop instantly falling back. The second one was sailing too closely and struck it, snapping off a bunch of oars.
A cheer went up from the beleaguered sailors before it was back to business.
"Quickly," Brom urged. "The last ship."
The second sloop had already recovered and the third was nearly upon them. Eragon nocked another arrow and held it out for Brom to cast his spell. Brom muttered the magic words. He was about to fire when Brom went rigid. A look of utmost concentration overcame his expression.
Pitons came flying over the heaving sea, locking the third sloop to their ship. They began hauling in the lines, pulling the ships together. Arrows began whizzing across the gap. Tarence cursed and ducked behind the wheel. Lightning flashed, illuminating the armor of the waiting boarding party on the sloop.
A violent wave strained the lines holding the ships together. Eragon glanced back at Brom. The man's focus had not waned for an instant. Even as arrows flew by, he did not flinch.
Eragon ducked under the rail, dropped the arrow, and slung his bow over his shoulder. He drew Zar'roc. His heart pounded. The anticipation was agonizing. Not ten feet away, men prepared for a still moment to jump the gap and kill everyone on board.
Zar'roc gleamed in the flashing lightning. Eragon's stomach roiled with the bucking deck. He drew a deep breath. The first men began climbing across, clinging to the lines and inching over while their archers covered them. Eragon peeked only long enough to nearly catch an arrow to the face.
Only use magic if you must.
This counted, didn't it?
Eragon reached out. His gedwey ignasia gleamed as he whispered. "Jierda."
The rope snapped, sending the man into the gap between the ships. A wave pushed the boats together, crushing him to death between the hulls.
The vitality drain was much more than he'd expected. It felt like he'd just lifted something enormously heavy. He took deep breaths to recover. That had to be the wrong approach. Jierda meant break, hit. It must have tried to rip apart the ropes instead of cutting them. Eragon did not know the word for cut.
But he didn't need to, did he? Eragon closed his eyes and focused. He imagined the ropes linking the ships, saw them in his mind's eye, just beyond the railing. He knew what he wanted to do. He would not allow his mind to stray. He breached the barrier in his mind and submerged himself in the flow of energy. He visualized the ropes being sliced by an infinitely sharp blade, all at once.
The pressure in his head built without a command word to spark the spell. Now! He yelled mentally.
The deck lurched. Eragon fell back, sprawling onto the planks. A much more substantial cheer issued from the sailors. Eragon heard an agonized shout. He scrambled to his knees and crawled across the deck, keeping his head down as he headed to the fighting.
Four men had made it across the gap. They had swords and leather armor with iron studs. Eragon's footing was horribly unsteady. The four men were not watching him, focused on murdering sailors who had the handles of mops and whirling ropes and whatever else they could lay their hands on to defend themselves.
Eragon beheaded the first one. Zar'roc was a red glint, flashing as a thunderclap marked the first man's death. The second one, he stabbed before he could spin and bring his sword up to defend himself. The red metal sank deep in his body, piercing the hardened leather like it didn't exist. Through Zar'roc's pommel, Eragon felt the texture of the inside of a human. Tough, like stabbing through a sack of grain, he felt his sword scrape against bone and jar as it smashed through his spine.
He yanked Zar'roc out with a spray of blood, the dying man falling off his blade and yanking his arm down. Eragon stepped back and ripped his arm away. The dying person laid sprawled on the deck, red blood spreading and mixing with the salty water and staining the boards.
The other two met him readily, prepared, furious, and terrified as their ship pulled away in the storm. They moved to attack without strategizing, crowding each other to stab and slash at him. Eragon forgot everything but Brom's voice and their eyes, terrified beneath their helmets.
Block. Parry. Jab. Circle left, woah. Eragon stumbled as the deck heaved under him. The man on the left recognized the moment and lunged forwards. The other man was kept busy by sailors jabbing with broom handles. Eragon desperately interposed Zar'roc between himself and his foe's sword. Their blades met and jarred his arm. Eragon found himself on the back foot, fending off an increasingly aggressive, desperate man bearing down on him. His footwork was unsteady at sea, while the other man was entirely unbothered.
He took another step back when a steely grip seized his ankle. Eragon fell, Zar'roc clattered from his grip. He felt a boot land on his wrist, the third man leering down at him. Eragon frantically searched for something, anything to do to kill the man on top of him.
The man pointed his sword at Eragon's neck. His mind blanked.
"Jierda!" Eragon cried out.
The man's head shattered, splattering Eragon with blood, brain, and bone shards. Some of it landed in his open mouth.
Eragon got on his knees and heaved, vomiting the contents of his stomach, spitting and hacking desperately to get the horrifying taste out of his mouth.
A lightning strike revealed a shadow standing over him. Eragon kicked a leg out, his heel catching someone's crotch. "Accio," Eragon called. Zar'roc's hilt curved into his hand. He spun and plunged his blade into the last man's chest. The sword sank deep into his chest, through his breastplate and out his back, through his backplate and into the wooden floorboards of the deck.
Eragon panted, pushing himself up on the sunken hilt, then squatting and heaving on the crossguard to withdraw it. He staggered back up the deck to the helm, where Brom was still locked in place. Eragon had no idea how to help Brom. He didn't know what was happening. Was it a spell? Should he try to cast a counterspell?
Brom noticed Eragon's presence. Eragon looked out at the heaving sea. The sloop without the mainsail still had oars, and was rowing towards them on the left. The one with the broken oars had either found some extras or pulled some from the other side and was back to trying to catch up to them. The third one looked like it was navigating for another attempt at boarding. They were about to be sandwiched.
"Shoot," Brom managed to squeeze out, a grunt before returning to his invisible battle.
Eragon drew his bow and cast about for a target. "Arrow," Brom grunted again.
Arrow? What did he–
His eyes landed on the discarded arrow from earlier, the one Brom had already enchanted. Eragon scooped it up and nocked it, drawing as hard as he could. He pointed it to the ship on the right.
"Fire."
Eragon released the arrow. A moment later, Brom's face turned vicious. He spat a quick sentence in the Ancient Language, too fast for Eragon to understand over the rain. Somewhere on the deck near the helm, Eragon saw a silhouette collapse.
That seemed to have turned the tide for Brom. He went silent for another few seconds before muttering another phrase. This time Eragon had no idea what happened, but the triumphant grin on his face left little doubt it was good for them.
The ships seemed undeterred by Brom's actions until the storyteller whispered something under his breath, deathly quiet. Eragon barely saw his lips move when every single man on the ship to his right fell to the deck.
How the hell? Eragon felt perverse awe at the massacre. So many at once, how did Brom have the energy?
The ship fell away, limply running in circles as its dead sailors laid on the deck, lines going slack. A massive wave and a gust of wind later, the sloop capsized.
Another whisper and the oared, sail-less sloop drifted away, now a ghost ship. The last craft kept its distance. Probably terrified, Eragon thought. Maybe they'd get away. It seemed to be turning back to Sharktooth.
In the darkness, a green light flared on the deck. A moment later, a dart of glowing green raced across the gap, striking the mainsail.
A fire arrow!
The green spattered on the canvas, eating through the cloth. It struck far too high for the sailors to reach to put out, and the rain seemed inadequate for the job. The voracious flames spread, the green globs dripping down the canvas sail, consuming everything it touched.
"Sail's done!" Tarence bellowed. "Cut out the flaming bits and chuck 'em overboard!"
With a frenzy of climbing and cutting, the sail turned to cheese, holes sawed out of the canvas. Brom took to sending the flaming bits into the water with magic, hurling them far enough from the ship that they'd stay away from the hull.
The sail was intact enough to keep them limping forwards, and to be patched up whenever the storm passed.
"Do we chase the last one?" Eragon asked.
Captain Tarence gave him a strange look, like perhaps he was insane.
"They'll get word back to the Empire," Brom said. "But we're in no condition and without capability to give chase. You'll have to say they were pirates if asked," Brom told Tarence. "And see if the Empire will call their bluff. Spread the story of pirates based on Sharktooth island and the Empire may be forced to stop harassing ships altogether."
Tarence cackled. "We can certainly spread the story."
With the stormfront behind them, the worst of the storm was past, yet the winds and intermittent rumble of thunder continued unabated for the next few days.
Eragon noted an increase in respect from the sailors. Saving the lives of a few of their friends made an impression, and they were more willing to talk and joke with him and invite him to gamble with them.
Eragon never joined in with their games of dice. Gambling for copper and silver meant nothing to him when he had more gold than kings back in the tent in his backpack. And it was a bad habit Garrow had spoken against vociferously for as long as he could remember.
Yet without gambling, there wasn't much to do at sea. He was back to doing chores where he could help out, or sitting in the crow's nest and thinking about the way that one guy's head exploded and what brains tasted like, or how it felt to drive a sword into a man's chest. He always hoped to catch a glimpse of something interesting.
Saphira had not returned since departing during the storm. Eragon could feel through their link that she was safe and uninjured. He still missed her.
On the morning of the fifth day since the storm, the winds changed and they made good headway. By that evening, Kausta was in sight on the shore. Captain Tarence brought them in and offered the sailors a day's shore leave (with instructions to spread the tale of the attack far and wide) before speaking with them one last time and bidding them farewell.
"We'd all have been dead without a magician," the captain said, nodding to Brom. "For that I thank you, Neil. And Evan. None of my sailors are trained fighters. You saved as many lives with your sword. You made yourself useful. If following this guy around doesn't pan out, you'll always have a job here on my ship, Jeod or no Jeod."
Brom and Eragon said their goodbyes before heading into Kuasta.
AN: Short chapter. More interesting stuff to come.