The Oncoming Storm

A Tale from Heartvale

The Arisa cut through the dark seas as clouds continued to gather. At the helm, Steward Siorra eyed the remnants of the Orival. They should be trying to outrun the oncoming storm, but she had to know what had happened to their sister ship, to Filandro. Her crew knew that about her, that she wouldn’t leave without answers. Briga’s ten, they even supported her in that. 

Siorra could have left if the Orival was just tinder and wreckage, but it wasn’t. The once beautiful ship was now a gnarled, twisted mess of timber and what looked like mushrooms. It looked as though it had been taken apart and forced back together in all the wrong ways. Worst of all, it hadn’t sunk. It just floated there. 

As the Arisa grew close, the crew murmured at the sight of it. Siorra gripped the helm and called out, “Prepare to come alongside. We’re boarding.”  

For the first time since they sighted the Orival, her second said, “Steward, are you sure about this?”

She looked at him and said, “Not really, no. But we have a duty to the Drift to determine what happened.” 

He nodded, though his eyes flicked toward the coming storm. 

“We’ll have enough time,” she said. 

He nodded again and started shouting orders to the crew. 

When they were close enough, grapplers sailed through the air and hooked onto the Orival, dragging the two ships together. Siorra left the helm and stepped to the railing, her stomach churning at the smell of decay that met her nose. Planks dropped between the ships and the boarding party made their way across. 

When Siorra stepped onto the deck, her hair began to tingle and dance ever so slightly. She had never had enough of the Talent to become a powerful mage, but she had enough to sense the presence of magic. 

“Steward,” one of her crew said and pointed. 

There were a half dozen members of the ship’s crew dead and rotting, twisted into the deck. They looked as though they had simply fallen through the planks and the wood resealed around them. 

“Search for survivors,” Siorra said, knowing they would find none. “But be quick about it.” 

The crew looked at each other and then split up to explore the Orival. 

Siorra spared another glance at the gathering storm clouds and made her way to Filandro’s cabin. Something blocked the door, but with a few kicks, it opened enough for her to squeeze through. 

The smell was worse inside. The whole place smelled musty and foul, like the inside of a rotting tree, and she squinted in the dim light. A figure sat in the chair behind the Steward’s desk. 

As she edged forward, she grabbed an unlit lantern from a catch by the door and raised her fingers to it. 

“Who goes there,” a voice rasped in the dim light and the head of the figure moved ever so slightly. 
Siorra froze. The voice sounded like Filandro, but there was something off about it. Her heart thundered as she focused on the lantern while trying to keep an eye on the figure. Snapping her fingers, the lantern lit, casting shadows in the firelight. 

Gasping, Siorra took a step back and almost dropped the lantern. Filandro wasn’t so much sitting in the chair as he had become part of the chair. His skin was devoid of all color and his eyes were a dull gray. They did not blink as they watched her. 

“Filandro, is that you?” She asked. 

“That voice… Siorra. Why?” Each word sounded like it was wrung out of a threadbare rag.

She took a few steps forward. “What happened to you?” 

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… come closer.” 

“What happened?” 

He shuddered and groaned as he peeled his arm away from the chair, then he pointed at a leather bound book on the desk. “Take it… and go.” 

Siorra eyed the book, which seemed unremarkable save for the pristine condition of the dark leather. “What is it?” 

“The answer,” he moaned as his body became one with the chair again. “Get away.” 

Stepping to the edge of the desk, she extended a hand. A thrum of power pulsed out of the leatherbound pages, inviting her to take it. Sweat beaded at her forehead as her hand shook. She looked at Filandro again. “What did this to you?”

He shuddered and his eyes fell slowly, inexorably toward the book. “Take it,” he gasped between gritted teeth. 

“Filandro, I want to help you. Please tell me. Did something in this book do this to you?” 
“Si, please. Don’t let…” he groaned again with incredible effort. “Don’t let the storm… catch you.” His eyes rose from the book and met hers, and though his eyes remained dull gray, she could see him inside, fighting against whatever change took his body. “Take it back… to Auxillia. She will know… what to do.” 

Focusing on the book, Siorra could sense nothing menacing beyond the raw power contained within the pages. Exhaling, she grabbed the book and pulled it away from the desk. She gasped with the required exertion, as though the book itself was reluctant to be lifted. 

“Now go,” Filandro said. “Survive.” 

Tears welled in Siorra’s eyes, and she considered trying to grab Filandro as well and drag him out of the cabin, but the look in his eyes told her that would be fruitless. She opened her mouth to say goodbye, but no words followed. He closed his eyes, accepting the unspoken words. 

Siorra turned on her heels and fled the cabin. Back on the deck of the ship, she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. The storm was almost on them. The book, in her hand, thrummed again, and this time she felt the urgency. 

“Everyone back to the boat!” she yelled, running for the gangplank. The other boarders joined her, their faces grim with defeat. No survivors. She wondered if they had encountered any others like Filandro. 

As the others pulled up the planks, Siorra called out, “Shove off! Get those oars in the water.” Within moments, she was back at the helm, the book still clasped in her hand. The Orival drifted slowly away as the drummers set a steady pace and oars slapped in the water. 

Siorra looked back. The storm had almost reached the Orival. A thick curtain of rain pounded into the sea just beyond the broken ship. The storm was moving fast.

“Increase speed!” Siorra called and the drummers responded. Behind them, the storm consumed the Orival, and as she watched, the gnarled, twisted ship disassembled and turned to ash. Her heart ached at the loss, but she knew Filandro would suffer no more. There would be time to mourn the dead later, if they escaped. The storm still came on. 

Siorra, wondering at the power within the book, gripped the helm and called out to her sailors, “Arisa, let the gods hear you now! Briga, nurturer, lend us your strength!”

The crew shouted, “Briga!”

The book thrummed. 

“Lupercas, hunter, lend us your speed!”

“Lupercas!”

Again, the book thrummed. 

“Argante, dawn and dusk, lend us your direction!”

“Argante!”

Once more, the book thrummed. 

“Sleeper King, may we not enter your halls this day!”

“Sleeper King!”

The thrumming filled the air, giving the drummers a faster tempo, and the rowers met it as the Arisa knifed through the dark sea. The book thrummed and thrummed. Siorra felt the power coursing through her into the ship, the crew. They rowed with a strength and endurance beyond mortal reason, and Siorra felt them all pulling as one, pushing the ship away and out of the storm’s reach. 

Once they were safely out of the storm’s reach, Siorra called for a break and the drummers slowed their pace. She slumped against the helm and gasped for breath, her entire body wrung out by the experience. Never before had she felt such power channeled through her. Siorra called her second over to take the helm and she stumbled away into her cabin, ignoring the concerned looks on her crew’s faces. 

She sat at her desk and set the dark, leatherbound book down, finally able to release it since taking it up on the Orival. She studied it, sensing the residual thrum of power, that invitation to take it up again. And then, with a trembling hand, she reached over and loosed the tie holding it shut. Taking a deep breath, Siorra opened it and began to read.