Touch of Fate

Chapter 89: Can't Catch a Break

Chapter 89: Can't Catch a Break

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."

The Swordlord growled at the idea of retreat, no doubt already hearing the whispered jibes and rumors that would damage his reputation for bravery.

The Wyrd Eyed continued. "Should we face this foe, we will sustain terrible losses, but there is a chance for a great reward."

This got the warrior's attention. "What kind of reward?"

Skarn spoke with a heavy heart. "One that will bring prosperity to our people, but change them utterly as well."

Enar looked into the distance at the Drylander ship, avarice clear in his gaze. He announced to the crew, who had quieted to hear the conversation. "We will continue. Honor demands it. And from the sound of it, the Spirits demand it too."

This brought forth a hearty cheer from the men who now rowed with renewed vigor. Signals were sent to Stormlashed and Shipbreaker, the two other ships in their small flotilla. The drum beat that marked time for the rowers increased as the vessels shot forward on the water.

Skarn closed his eyes mournfully. He had read the deaths of his kinsmen in their current path, but he knew that no force could now change their destiny. Greed would drive them to their doom.

Worse still, the time of tribulation would come for his people. Should they be found wanting, ten centuries of history and culture would come to an end, as they dwindled into oblivion. Should they succeed, a new path would be open for them, one that would lead to great prosperity at the cost of their very identity.

As one of the Wyrd Singers, bearers of the ancient traditions of the Barren Isles, it was difficult to reconcile himself with either destiny.

There was a strange shift in the patterns of mana that flowed over the sea. One that made the hairs on the back of Skarn's neck rise. Something was coming. Something that sought to cleanse the ocean of his people.

He stared out at the blue expanse of the waves, seeking the source, only to find it one the Drylanders' ship. A point of harsh white light formed on its deck, and before long it began to fly towards them.

Skarn felt a deep sense of dread at the ball of glowing fire. Doom was approaching in its wake, and he could only wait for its arrival. He watched until it reached a point right above the ship.

The world was filled with heat, light, and pressure. He could feel his skin blistering, smell his hair burning as he was pressed against the deck by an irresistible force.

Eyes burning with a stinging pain, ears ringing, he could only writhe in agony for an indeterminable amount of time. Gradually, his senses returned, and he could see the blurry shape of Enar nearby. The Swordlord appeared to be in a similar state.

He felt more than heard the thud of something landing on the deck nearby, the vibrations traveling along the wooden planking. The ship itself seemed to tilt in response to the impact.

Using his staff, Skarn forced himself onto his feet and turned to look at the source of the disturbance.

A youth stood before him, dressed simple clothes and deep crimson cloak. In one hand was grasped a spear, the other hovered near one of his pockets, almost protectively.

Shaggy brown hair nearly obscured the pair of golden eyes that were staring at him with an intensity that shook Skarn to his bones. The youth looked ready to speak, when the world shook a second time.

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[Alright, I just need to convince them to give up a lifestyle of raiding and piracy and become legitimate traders or something. How hard could it be?]

Mike opened his mouth to begin his persuasion, when the deck suddenly shifted precariously underneath him. He nearly fell over as the crashing sound of water filled the air.

Looking back over his shoulder he was treated to the sight of a massive, blueish wall rising out of the ocean, nearly a kilometer into the air. For a moment he thought it must be some kind of gargantuan column of some sort, but he soon realized it was organic in nature. The column was a creature built on a scale that defied imagination.

He found himself staring at the sight for a moment, before he realized the impending danger as the creature, whatever it might be, started to fall back to the ocean, creating a wave of titanic proportions. A wave that was heading right towards the three raider ships.

Mike mentally sighed as he summoned the Air Magic necessary to throw himself up out of harm's way. [It can't ever be easy, can it?]