They found him by the shore again. Neither Atir nor Bembul could figure out how or when he had left the safety of Crownhammers's walls, but there he was all the same. He stood at the end of the sand. Icy water lapped at his feet on its way back to join the ocean. He stared across the waters toward the horizon, motionless. From a distance, one could mistake the Admiral for a forlorn haunt of an age gone by.
When they were within talking distance, Atir called to him. "Admiral?"
No response. Bembul tried his hand at communication. "Cap'n?"
That seemed to jog him. Taran turned his head slowly. His dark-rimmed eyes looked glazed over like a gypsum addict's, and his whalebone amulet hung lopsided over his tunic. He looked even more like a ghost from close up.
"Aye? What d'ye want, lad?"
"We could nae find ye anywhere, ser," Bembul replied. "Ain't none seen ye around much since th' election."
"Course not," Taran replied. "I've been 'ere, thinkin'."
"Aboot what, ser?"
"The ol' days, Bembul. I'll say no more o' that."
Bembul nodded. The Captain - well, Admiral now - would never speak of their common past while others were around. Much as Bembul would like to reminisce about golden beaches and blue skies and endless voyages across the horizon, those days were gone. Their home wasn't a ship anymore, but Crownhammers, a fortress in a haunted land. A fortress for exiles. How fitting.
An icy wind rolled in from the east. It tugged at Taran's old clothes and long, ratty hair, setting them to dance. For a moment, he looked exactly as he did all those decades ago, standing at the helm of a ship a thousand miles from the nearest scrap of land, following the whalesong through the waters. It was enough to move the old sailor that still lived in Bembul, somewhere deep down.
"'Ave ye ever thought o' what's out there, lass?" Taran said to Atir. "Across th' water, ye ken."
Atir considered this for a moment. "Well, I didn't think much of it before I arrived here, Admiral." She hesitated for a moment. "But now that I've met you, I find myself thinking about it constantly. Are there other lands? Different kinds of fish? I've heard that there's places in the world where the ground is made of ice. Is that true?"
Taran gave an absent-minded nod. Then Atir piped up again.
"Admiral, how far have you gone? By ship, I mean."
Taran stared into the ocean for a heavy, silent moment. Then, with his back to Atir and Bembul, he spoke. His voice reached them as a whisper in the wind.
"Far eastwards o' here," he said, "once ye've sailed so far that ye can head in any direction fer an entire moon and see nay a hint of dry land. Once ye sail tha' far, ye come across a curious tide."
He held his tongue for a few seconds. Only the lapping of the waves in the low tide filled the void left by his voice.
"It flows westward, 'gainst most o' the other tides afore it. It's strong enough ta turn back a whalin' ship - or tear it asunder. Once ye get tha' far, vicious winds will tug and hurl yer ship every whichway - yet ever westward. Back from whence ye came, and ne'er toward the risin' sun."
"We called it the Lady's Tide," he said. "T'is how the Lady o' Shores keeps sailors away from th' greatest dangers o' the sea - n' how she keeps sailors' wives from becomin' widows. That's as far as I've ever gone."
"Has anyone ever sailed beyond the Lady's Tide?" Atir asked.
"Only the Ol' Dwarf hisself, lass. Though what he found there or what he did, nobody kens. Some say that's why he cannae die. Others say he died there and returned aboard a ship crewed by ghosts."
The wind picked up, drowning the Admiral's words. The three dwarves stood still upon the sand, eyes cast eastward. The blood tides had vanished for a few months, but it would be back. And with it, the undead birds. Not like that ever bothered Taran or Bembul. Atir sometimes felt that she would never understand these two dwarves she now called her leaders. Not without sailing to the ends of the world.
Taran clasped his amulet. Bembul held a hand up to his chest - his own amulet had sunk beneath the waves many moons ago. Atir did the same, though she had never so much as touched whalebone before. As far as she knew, they were praying to the gods of sea and sail. She understood little of these gods, and had no idea how to pray to them. She just wanted to sail the ocean.
Hours later, the three Whalers sat in the dining hall, a small crowd formed around them. Taran was telling his tales again, mug in hand, holding the rapt attention of a dozen dwarves or more. There was a strange power in the weathered dwarf's voice, a compulsion to listen, to hang on to his every word. The gift of a storyteller.
Those that became enchanted by his stories would think about them for days. With any luck, that interest would turn into curiosity. And thus the Whalers' ranks would swell.
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Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 66705 times)