All for the waste of Karthanâs lands the Leopard sailed the main. sâIlessid King then cursed sâFfalenn, who robbed him, gold and grain.
stanza from a ballad of Dascen Elur
The longboat cleaved waters stained blood-red by sunset, far beyond sight of any shore. A league distant from her parent ship, at the limit of her designated patrol, she rose on the crest of a swell. The bosun in command shouted hoarsely from the stern. âHold stroke!â
Beaten with exhaustion and the aftermath of battle, his crewmen responded. Four sets of oars lifted, dripping above waters fouled by oil and the steaming timbers of burned warships.
âSurvivors to starboard.â The bosun pointed toward two figures who clung to a snarl of drifting spars. âQuick, take a bearing.â
A man shipped his looms to grab a hand compass. As the longboat dipped into the following trough, the remaining sailors bent to resume stroke. Oar shafts bit raggedly into the sea as they swung the heavy bow against the wind.
The bosun drew breath to reprimand their sloppy timing, then held his tongue. The men were tired as he was; though well seasoned to war through the feud which ran deadly and deep between Amroth and Karthanâs pirates, this had been no ordinary skirmish. Seven full-rigged warships in a fleet of seventeen had fallen before a single brigantine under the hated leopard banner. The bosun swore. He resisted a morbid urge to brood over losses; lucky, they were, to have the victory at all. The defeated brigantineâs captain had been none other than Arithon sâFfalenn, called sorcerer and Master of Shadow.
The next swell rolled beneath the keel. Heaved and lifted on its crest, the longboatâs peaked prow momentarily eclipsed the castaways who struggled in the water. Afraid to lose sight of them, the bosun set the compassman as observer in the bow. Then he called encouragement while his oarsmen picked an erratic course through the splintered clots of planking and cordage which wallowed, treacherous as reefs upon the sea. The crew laboured in dead-faced silence. Not even the scraping bump of the corpse which passed beneath the keel caused them to alter their stroke. Horror had numbed every man left alive after the nightmare of fire, sorcery and darkness that Arithon had unleashed before the end.
The boat drew abreast of the survivors. Overtaken by a drift of wind-borne smoke, the bosun squinted through burning eyes. Only one victim looked to be conscious. He clung with whitened fingers to the nearer end of the spar, while at his back, another sailor lay lashed against the heaving pull of the waves. The knots at this oneâs waist were half loosened, as if, seeing help on the way, his companion had clumsily tried to free him.
âShip oars!â Gruffly, the bosun addressed the man in the water. âIs your friend wounded?â
The wreck victim raised listless, glassy eyes, but said nothing. Quite likely cold water had dulled the fellowâs wits. Weary of senseless ruin and the rescue of ravaged men, the bosun snapped impatiently, âBring him in. Weâll get the other second, if he still breathes.â
A crewman hooked the spar with his oar shaft to steady the boat. Others leaned over the thwart to lift the half-drowned sailhand aboard.