belowdecks. He was especially concerned that Borros could be blown overboard.
He skidded once as the ship lurched to port, tilted, trembling in the howling winds, and righted itself. Slowly he unwound his freezing fingers from the rigging and moved now as a mountaineer would, using handholds at every step.
Borros, obsessed now by the thought of the pursuing ship, clung maniacally to the wheel, his blanched face a frozen mask, lips pulled back in a grimace of fear. And Ronin, coming alongside him, was reminded of the visage of the newly dead. Clawlike, Borros’ fingers were white bones against the wood. Ronin yelled at him, but his voice was drowned in the mounting shriek of the gale. He seized the Magic Man, chopping at his frail wrists to force him to let go of the wheel, and dragged him, lurching and sliding, to the cabin, thrusting him down the companionway. Then he turned and lashed the wheel firmly in place, went forward and slid along the icy deck, fetching up against the starboard sheer-strake. On hands and knees against the fury of the storm, he crawled to the mast and pulling himself to his feet, reefed the flapping storm sail. He choked in the crush of whipping hail and frozen snow as it beat at his face and shoulders. He secured it to the yard, doubling the knots.
Only then did he go below.
Borros sat on the cabin’s deck shivering in a small pool of water. Ronin sank wordlessly to his berth and thought that perhaps it was after all too much. Too many new situations arising each minute and neither of them yet fully acclimated to the surface. For Ronin, it was not so bad; he was young and strong, with a warrior’s body and adaptability. But just as importantly his mind was open and flexible. He could accept. He knew that from his journey to the City of Ten Thousand Paths.
But for Borros, huddled pathetically upon the wooden deck, more concerned with an imaginary ship carrying his all too real tormentor than he was with the realities of the storm hurling itself at their craft, it could not be the same.
The howling outside increased and the ship shuddered and swayed dangerously as it sped within the storm. We live or we die and that is the sum of it, Ronin thought. But, Chill take it, I will not die!
Borros had gotten up and was making his way drunkenly up the companionway to the secured hatch. Ronin caught him.
“What are you doing?”
“The sail,” said the Magic Man, his voice almost a whine. “I must be sure—that it is up.”
“It is up.”
He squirmed in Ronin’s grasp. “I must see for myself. Freidal comes behind us. We must make all speed. If he catches us, he will destroy us.”
Ronin whipped him around so that he could look into the tired eyes. They were clouded with panic and shock. It is too much for him, Ronin thought for the second time.
“Borros, forget Freidal, forget the sister ship. Even if it is following us, the storm will protect us. He cannot find us in this.” The eyes looked blankly back at him, then they turned toward the hatch. Ronin shook him, finally out of patience.
“Fool! The storm is our enemy! There is death out there. It is the sail which will destroy us in this wind!”
“Then you have taken it down!” It was the irrational wail of a disillusioned child.
“Yes, Chill take you, I had no other choice! If I had not, we would be on our side now breaking up.”
Frantically Borros clawed at Ronin. “Let me go! I must put it up! He will overtake us if I do not!”
Ronin hit him then, a swift blow at the side of the neck, breaking the nerve synapses and blood flow for just an instant, and the Magic Man collapsed, eyes rolling up, his body folding onto the companionway. Ronin put him on his berth and turned away disgusted.
The ship groaned under the onslaught and the hanging lamp swung crazily on its short chain, splashing the bulkheads with bursts of sullen light and geometric shadows.
After a time Ronin reached up and extinguished the flame.
He lay
He skidded once as the ship lurched to port, tilted, trembling in the howling winds, and righted itself. Slowly he unwound his freezing fingers from the rigging and moved now as a mountaineer would, using handholds at every step.
Borros, obsessed now by the thought of the pursuing ship, clung maniacally to the wheel, his blanched face a frozen mask, lips pulled back in a grimace of fear. And Ronin, coming alongside him, was reminded of the visage of the newly dead. Clawlike, Borros’ fingers were white bones against the wood. Ronin yelled at him, but his voice was drowned in the mounting shriek of the gale. He seized the Magic Man, chopping at his frail wrists to force him to let go of the wheel, and dragged him, lurching and sliding, to the cabin, thrusting him down the companionway. Then he turned and lashed the wheel firmly in place, went forward and slid along the icy deck, fetching up against the starboard sheer-strake. On hands and knees against the fury of the storm, he crawled to the mast and pulling himself to his feet, reefed the flapping storm sail. He choked in the crush of whipping hail and frozen snow as it beat at his face and shoulders. He secured it to the yard, doubling the knots.
Only then did he go below.
Borros sat on the cabin’s deck shivering in a small pool of water. Ronin sank wordlessly to his berth and thought that perhaps it was after all too much. Too many new situations arising each minute and neither of them yet fully acclimated to the surface. For Ronin, it was not so bad; he was young and strong, with a warrior’s body and adaptability. But just as importantly his mind was open and flexible. He could accept. He knew that from his journey to the City of Ten Thousand Paths.
But for Borros, huddled pathetically upon the wooden deck, more concerned with an imaginary ship carrying his all too real tormentor than he was with the realities of the storm hurling itself at their craft, it could not be the same.
The howling outside increased and the ship shuddered and swayed dangerously as it sped within the storm. We live or we die and that is the sum of it, Ronin thought. But, Chill take it, I will not die!
Borros had gotten up and was making his way drunkenly up the companionway to the secured hatch. Ronin caught him.
“What are you doing?”
“The sail,” said the Magic Man, his voice almost a whine. “I must be sure—that it is up.”
“It is up.”
He squirmed in Ronin’s grasp. “I must see for myself. Freidal comes behind us. We must make all speed. If he catches us, he will destroy us.”
Ronin whipped him around so that he could look into the tired eyes. They were clouded with panic and shock. It is too much for him, Ronin thought for the second time.
“Borros, forget Freidal, forget the sister ship. Even if it is following us, the storm will protect us. He cannot find us in this.” The eyes looked blankly back at him, then they turned toward the hatch. Ronin shook him, finally out of patience.
“Fool! The storm is our enemy! There is death out there. It is the sail which will destroy us in this wind!”
“Then you have taken it down!” It was the irrational wail of a disillusioned child.
“Yes, Chill take you, I had no other choice! If I had not, we would be on our side now breaking up.”
Frantically Borros clawed at Ronin. “Let me go! I must put it up! He will overtake us if I do not!”
Ronin hit him then, a swift blow at the side of the neck, breaking the nerve synapses and blood flow for just an instant, and the Magic Man collapsed, eyes rolling up, his body folding onto the companionway. Ronin put him on his berth and turned away disgusted.
The ship groaned under the onslaught and the hanging lamp swung crazily on its short chain, splashing the bulkheads with bursts of sullen light and geometric shadows.
After a time Ronin reached up and extinguished the flame.
He lay
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