Chapter 89: Cant Catch a Break (1/2)
Deep below the ocean's surface, an ancient, coiled formation of rocky material broke the monotony of the dark sea floor. If Mike had seen it, he may have been reminded of the Ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail and symbol of infinity.
In the otherwise motionless stretch of empty water and silt, the mana was suddenly disturbed. Whispers of an old enemy thought long extinguished.
There was a stirring beneath the rocky formation, like a sleeper on the verge of waking.
A burst of power and light from the surface filtered down into the dark reaches of the ocean floor, briefly illuminating what had long laid dormant.
With an unheard crack, six wide crevices opened on the formation in two rows. Eyes of the deepest purple looked for the source of the disturbance, barbell shaped pupils narrowing in the glare.
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Mike landed on the deck of the lead ship, taking a moment mid-flight to douse the burning rigging with a bit of Water Magic.
The crew was still recovering from blast, giving him time to do a quick inspection. The ship itself was built in a long, slender style that reminded Mike of a cross between a Viking longboat and an Ancient Greek war galley, although it was battered and in poor repair. Long wooden oars lined the sides of the ship, and dozens of large, hairy men were lying stunned and prostrate along the rowing benches.
As far as he could tell, there was only a single, battered cannon, mounted near the prow of the ship. Judging from the rudimentary weapons the men had on hand, Mike could only figure that they must rely on boarding actions to overwhelm and capture their foes. Something that would require a great deal of bravery when facing the weaponry of the ships he had seen in Wyrport.
He'd landed in the aft section of the ship, which featured a slightly raised platform where the ships steering mechanism was housed, a thick and flattened piece of wood that seemed to rely mainly on muscle and leverage. Nearby, two men, who seemed to be shaking off the effects of his spell faster than the others, were slowly getting to their feet.
One looked to be the leader of the raiders, a large man dressed in a suit of battered splint mail and a fur lined cloak. His open faced helm had fallen off revealing long blonde hair, speckled with grey, tied back loosely. Armbands of gold covered both of his arms, clinking faintly as he stood up. A single-headed axe clutched in one hand.
The other was a slender grey haired man, with a long beard. He was clad in rough cut leathers decorated with a number of talismans and shamanistic paraphernalia. One of his eyes was milky white, while the other was a pale blue. He leveraged himself to his feet using a gnarled staff adorned with runic carvings and topped with bird feathers. He was staring at Mike with something approaching awe.
[Crap, I forgot to come up with a plan. How should I handle this?]
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A little while ago...
On the deck of Fireforged, Wyrd Eyed Skarn rolled the bones, praying to the Spirits to give him guidance. As the rune carved bits of scrimshaw came to a rest in the wooden bowl, he felt a trickle of power leave him, a sign that the magic was working as intended.
He looked over the results, divining meaning from which of the runes were showing, which weren't, and their locations in the carved ritual bowl.
A frown formed on his face. One that grew deeper the longer he studied the bones. Finally, with a weariness that belied his age he stood, feeling the popping of his knees.
”Lord, I have rolled the bones, and I would have words with you regarding the spirits' guidance.”
Enar, one of the five great Swordlords of the Barren Isle and the leader of their expedition, glanced over at him with a hint of disdain. However, even he was wary of earning the ire of one of the Wyrd Singers.
”Speak old man. I have little time to waste on old superstitions. We will soon be in range of the Drylanders' guns, and I need to focus.” He growled from the depths of his helm, already fully equipped in his battle array.
Skarn spoke in the slow, rhythmic tones that characterized his kind, ”The Spirits have warned that this undertaking entails great danger. Many of our men will lose their lives should we continue.”
The Swordlord eyed the shaman suspiciously, evidently calculating his options. Although Enar himself felt that the Wyrd Singers were liars and charlatans, he knew many of the crew were serious believers.
”What else have the bones told you? Surely a warning was not the only thing you saw.” There was a hint of a threat in the man's posture.
Sighing inwardly, yet maintaining his neutral face, Skarn reveled the rest of the Spirits' message. ”We will face a terrible foe. One that may rain ruin upon all of us. The only hope of surviving intact is to flee now.”