Stormcallers: Chapter 16
What of Phalamili Rukiya? It was another day of sailing along the shrouded land before the Prezon’s lookouts spied another lighthouse. The distant light pierced through the clouds of Norrholt, guiding the Prezon to port.
When the Herathian port-city appeared, tall and dark against the mists, Phalamili was once again amazed at how similar and how different the Herathian City looked, compared to the Castian towns they had avoided only days before. Curled eves and paper lanterns framed the short buildings on narrow streets. Clean-faced men and long-haired women wore fur around their necks and heads. They were not Eroseans, nor were they like Kerrom, nor Atamato. They looked more like the old cook than anyone else Rukiya had ever seen. For not the last time, Phalamili was astounded by the number of the kinds of people who lived across the cloud-sea.
At Leig’s sharp commands, the sailors ran about the ship, pulling in the sails and floating towards the docks on the slowest winds they could catch. Before long they were lashing thick ropes to the deck and throwing the other ends to the dock. Strong dock-workers hauled on the ropes, looping them into iron rings and fixing them to horses that strained against the weight. Inch by inch, the Prezon was pulled downwards until their wooden gangplank could reach the broad pier.
No sooner had the plank hit the docks with a loud bang, then Captain Festan appeared from his quarters to address his men. “All right, you lot! We’re sailing again before night-fall. Once we’re loaded you can wet your whistles at the ale house, but if I have to go and fetch a single one of you before we leave, you won’t enjoy the next few weeks much! Go on, get this cargo moving!”
And move they did. The entire crew descended into the cargo hold, only to return hoisting giant crates with straining muscles. With every crate that left the ship, the Prezon lifted higher, straining against the ropes that lashed it to Herathia.
Then came a cry from the fore-deck, where the first-mate stood with a spyglass to his eye. “Captain!” Leig called, “An Erosean Dene, flying Erwind colors!” For it was indeed the brown flag of the Erwind Trade Conglomerate that he saw, flapping in the wind off the foremast of the approaching vessel.
Phalamili had never heard of the Erwind Trade Conglomerate, nor its well-known position on smugglers and unlicensed merchants. She knew nothing of their brutal retribution against those who undermined their profits, nor their authority in matters of trade. She did not even know that Clashwind Town was owned and operated by the Erwind Trade Conglomerate, a colonizing effort by the Merchant Kings of Erosea.
But Captain Festan knew them well, as did every sailor who sailed under him. At his shouted command, his men dropped their crates and scrambled back on board the Prezon. They ran to the ropes and carved away at them with axe and knife, until the Prezon was cut free from the docks. The gangplank was ignored as long poles pushed the ship free of Herathia, while sails were opened to catch the rushing edge-wind.
In the distance, the Erwind Dene sailed closer.
“Did they see us?” Captain Festan asked. “Are they following us?”
Leig did not answer as he stood like a statue, focused on the distant ship.
Phalamili Rukiya could feel the tenseness in the air, like a cornered river-rabbit uncertain if they’ve been spotted. She could barely see the Erwind ship, so far away was it. She had never seen a Dene before, but she could see it was larger than even the Prezon, with two canvas balloons instead of one and wind-catchers that spread across its side. It was longer than the Prezon too, and flat-bottomed, suitable for stability and speed in the sharp winds of the cloud-sea.
Captain Festan gripped the rail while Leig watched the ship through his spyglass. Phalamili saw the twitch in his jaw, the shift in his weight. She knew, deep in her bones, that whatever he was going to say would send the ship into a frenzy of activity. “They’re opening their lee wind-catchers.”
This told the Captain what he needed to know; the Erwind vessel had spotted them and was turning to give chase. With a spark of terror in his heart, Captain Festan turned to his anxious crew and bellowed; “Full speed ahead! To arms!”
“Captain,” Leig pointed at the baloke, noting the direction of the winds. “We’ll never outrun a Dene in this wind, and the cloud-sea is thin enough that they’ll be able to see us for leagues.”
Sure enough, the Erwind Dene had already turned to face the Prezon, abandoning the dock for the sake of catching and claiming a smuggler’s bounty. Its sails had opened wide to catch the strong edge-winds that blew past the island.
For almost a quarter hour they watched as the Erosean Dene drew closer and closer. Rifles that had once been hidden were now gripped in sailor’s hands. Even Kerrom stood proud on the quarterdeck, one hand gripping the handle of the festna on his back.
The Captain knew they could not out-run them, as the Erosean Dene were built for speed. Nor could they fight them off, as a Dene could carry fifty sailors, while a Chattral like the Prezon could hold no more than twenty.
There was only one way in which a Chattral could escape a Dene; its bowl-shaped hull gave it more stability, and the flat-bottomed shape of the Dene made it quite dangerous to sail in rough weather. The Captain knew there was only one place they could go where the Dene would not follow.
Now as I said before, Captain Festan was a pious man of the Church of Storms, and he knew the dangers of what dwelled beneath the depths. He was trapped between two deaths, both as painful and horrific as could be imagined; but the Captain had prepared for this. He thought that Phalamili was connected to the storms, as he believed all the primitives of Lergos were, and if her heathen magics could protect the ship, than it was a risk worth taking.
He reached up to his cap, and ran his fingers through his hair. He bit his lip and turned left and right. He wrung his hands and paced the deck, but his fears did not assuage. Nor did the approaching ship move further away.
Phalamili watched as the panicking captain turned to his first-mate and gave the fateful command; “Open the balloon, mister Leig. They may be faster and stronger, but they will never risk the depths.”
Leig, as I said before, was a pious man of the Fellowship of the Light, and he feared the storms more than any other thing. The Fellowship said the storms were the birthing pains of the world. They claimed men’s souls for their own, and tore apart what they did not devour. “Captain, we only have two barrels of Storm-breath in the hold. If we go too low, we won’t be able to escape the depths.”
“You heard me, Mister Leig!” Captain Festan whirled on his first-mate with a fury that Phalamili had never seen from the man. “I will not be caught by those mercantile thugs to be tortured to death in their prisons for daring to make an honest living! I said drop the ship!”
Poor Leig, how the world might be different if his faith was weak, but he too feared the Erwind dungeons, and when his fingers touched the solmontix at his throat, he knew that his faith in the Light could protect him from the storms. Still gripping his pendant, called out his commands; “Batten down the loose! Open the balloon! Release the gas! We’re headed for the depths!”
Phalamili Rukiya could feel her stomach churn as the sailors tugged hard on the rope at the aftmast that opened the balloon above, releasing the Storm-breath into the cloud-sea. With a sickening lurch, the Prezon began to sink. Like a stone into a river, like a Saqur after its prey, the Prezon dove towards the distant cloud-sea.
As the ship sank, the distant rumbling grew louder. The clouds grew darker. The winds grew sharper. The air grew colder. Oh, unfortunate sailors of the Prezon, a Storm was brewing beneath them!
“Deeper!” the captain shouted, both to himself and to his crew. “They’ll never follow us so deep, they can’t have enough lift-gas to pull themselves back up.” And still the Prezon sank.
The bitter winds chilled Phalamili to the bone. Her breath was white, joining the misty air. The mists of the cloud-sea rose higher, reaching up like fingers to grasp the wooden ship. The creaking and groaning was matched by the distant roar of storms brewing and simmering beneath the dark clouds.
The clatter of ice, the hissing of flame, the storms were gathering, and the Prezon sank deeper still.
At last, Captain Festan raised his hand, and shouted up at the quarter-deck. “That’s enough!”
The Prezon stopped its inexorable descent. Just above the rolling storms, barely out of the Erwind Dene’s reach, almost bereft of food and water, the hapless smuggler’s ship sat, waiting.
All about the Prezon, the dark depths churned. Distant roars and crackling claps echoed from below, a sure sign of the storms brewing. For every hour that passed, the depths grew higher, reaching up towards the Prezon with hungry eyes.
The sailors grew more and more frightened, Phalamili could see through silent voices and still tongues. They did not cry out, nor wail, nor weep, but the language of their bodies betrayed their fear.
All save Captain Festan. As he walked the deck of his ship, Phalamili saw not terror but calm, a peace that she did not recognize. Were she older or wiser, perhaps she would have recognized the peace for what it was; the calm of the grave, the resignation of madness.
Perhaps then she would have been more prepared when the Captain called Phalamili to his side and bid her to follow to his cabin. She did so, and once inside he moved her to the far end of the room where a small of doors were set in the wall.
Opening the doors, Phalamili saw the Captain’s shrine, for this is what it was: a small shrine to the storms below, a means to placate and appease the torrential and callous forces that churned beneath the depths.
Captain Festan was pious, and that meant he was afraid. He was terrified of the storms as no other sailor was, for he knew their divine power could not be escaped forever. At best, it could be appeased, and it was for this purpose that he knelt down in front of the tiny alter and lit the two candles at its sides.
When Phalamili joined him, sitting at his side, the captain asked; “Do your people practice a religion?”
“I don’t know,” Phalamili answered, because she didn’t recognize the oman word.
Captain Festan tugged at his pointy beard, for he found it difficult to explain. “I was never much for prayer. When I first became a sea-captain, I thought the superstitions of priests and preachers to be nothing but stories. Tales told to children to explain what we did not understand. As I sailed the cloud-sea, I began to understand the clouds. I could feel the ebb and flow of the air-currents, the winds and eddies…the cloud-sea is almost a living thing.”
The candle flame flickered gently as a single drop of wax slid down its side. They sat together for a moment, the creaking of the wooden ship providing the only sounds. When Festan spoke again, his voice was still calm. “The engineers and philosophers of the Free City of Imbari, they say the storms are natural; As practical and understandable as a rock or a flower. I myself have found flowers quite impractical, and a mystery worthy of the poets, but I have seen things while sailing the cloud-sea that cannot be explained. Impossible things. Things that look back at you from the depths.”
Festan turned to look at Phalamili. His face, once calm, flashed a look of such pain that Phalamili was afraid the Captain was about to cry. When the look passed, he spoke softly; “A great many sailors believe that the storms are living things. Monsters beneath the world that breath death and pain and chaos upon the land above them. Some sailors even believe the storms are not gods, but strong enough as to make no difference; natural forces more powerful than distant deities, beyond even the concept of divine. We gave them names. Sumuzi, serpent of flame. Onai, the river lash. Kotaopati, the maw of ice…They are not gods, it’s not a church, but it has its priests and chapels in the sailors and ships of the cloud-sea…and it has its heresies.”
Phalamili strained to listen as the man’s voice grew quieter still. “A taboo whisper that even the most faithful dare not breathe, but every sailor…I think everyone believes it, even if they don’t say it. They must. They must believe it because when you see what I’ve seen, it’s the only thing that makes sense.” His eyes widened as he stared deeply into the candle flames. “The storms are themselves alive. They must be. I’ve seen them get hungry, tired, playful…and I’ve seen them get angry. Furious. I’ve seen them hate. They hate us, Phalamili, and nothing will stop them from destroying what they hate. And there are people they hate more than others. They hate me, I’m sure of it. I can feel their hate.”
Phalamili did not understand the meaning behind the Captain’s words, but she heard in his voice the truth of it. “You’re scared,” she said.
“Am I?” Captain Festan looked at her, his eyes empty. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am a fool. Few survived sailing the cloud-sea when my grandfather was alive. Even fewer before that. I thought perhaps now it was safe.”
“You brought me here to help you,” Phalamili knew. “To protect you.” She saw in the Captain’s sagging shoulders that it was true. “I cannot control the storms. I thought you Eroseans could. I wanted to learn your magics, so my people could rise up against you, but now I see it is not magic.” It was hard for poor Phalamili to say. How had she ever thought that simple words or charms made from twigs and grass could affect something so powerful as a storm? Trees were felled by strong arms and axes, not whispers and clasped hands. Houses were built and farms plowed by sweat, not potions. That she ever believed in magic when the truth lay in front of her filled her with shame.
But the Captain continued as if she had not spoken. “There are rumors about Lergos, your people and your islands. You float lower in the cloud-sea than any other island, and spend almost the entire year there. They say you are closer to the storms than any other people, and that you have a kinship.”
“I don’t,” Phalamili felt sorry for Captain Festan. He was terrified, she could tell, and was looking for something, anything, that could free him from this wooden cage he felt trapped in. She could sympathize; she was frightened too.
“I think you do.” The Captain licked his lips. “I think I do not wish to die in the middle of the cloud-sea, to fall forever among the clouds until I reach the seed of chaos at the middle of all things, for my soul to be trapped forever in form ever-changing. I do not wish to become something terrible.”
There had been no change in Captain Festan’s speech. His voice had not become tight, or thick with sorrow. He had not choked nor gasped, his jaw had not clenched. He had spoken slowly, as if he was telling a story. It had been soothing to hear him speak so calmly.
But Phalamili knew the language of the body. She knew it so well that she had rolled away from the Captain before his knife was even free from its sheath.
Eroseans did not kneel properly. They bent their foot flat with their soles pointing upwards. The Orenda knew how to kneel, keeping the toes on the ground and the ankles up. It was because she knelt properly that Phalamili could dodge the blade and reach the door before the Captain was even on his feet.
But the Captain had locked the door, and though the key remained in the lock, Phalamili could do no more than turn it once before he reached her. A soft whisper cut through the air as she ducked away from the Captain’s knife and around behind his desk.
“They hunger,” he said in the same calm voice. “The storms demand blood. Suffering. They hate and seek to destroy and if we do not give them an offering, they will return. The Icy Maw will chew the Prezon apart, and we will all die, screaming in the winds.”
“You’re mad,” Phalamili shouted, kicking out at him and dodging away from his grasp.
“I don’t want to do this,” he protested. “It’s a bloody blaspheme, but it must be true. I believe it. I’m sorry, Phalamili, but it’s the only way. I have to save my ship. I have to quiet the storms. I have to appease them. I have to show them that I’m not scared of them…I have to…I have to…”
Ducking under his grasping hands, Phalamili lunged towards the door once more. Turning the key further, she pulled at the door as a sharp pain cut across Phalamili’s collar bone. She fell to the side, striking out with her fists. To no avail, she felt a surge of panic when Festan’s rough hand clasped around her wrist. With a roar of pious passion, the Captain shouted: “Keep still! The storms must be appeased!”
Phalamili was brave, but even the bravest would have turned away from the look in the Captain’s eyes. It was not terror, nor mad hate, but nothingness behind his gaze. This bloody blaspheme was not a panicked desperation, but the simple act of someone who did not know how else to behave.
But the final blow did not come. The knife did not descend. Poor Phalamili was saved by the two strong hands of Kerrom, the swamp-knight. A warrior of Madrain, Kerrom too knew the language of the body, though not as keenly as Phalamili. He had seen the deception in the Captain’s eyes, and so had listened at the Captain’s door. With the key turned, he had opened the door and brought his hands about the Captain’s neck.
It was but the work of a moment. A twist and crack, and the Captain fell to the ground, as limp as a frayed rope.
In grateful relief, Phalamili fell into Kerrom’s arms, gasping in air to reassure her body that it still lived. She did not sob nor brush away tears, for she was Orenda and knew how to be strong, but for a single terrifying moment she wished she had never left the twin isles.