Francis Lebaron - Magic The Gathering - Masquerade Cycle 01

Francis Lebaron

"Mercadian Masques"

(Magic: the Gathering. Masquerade cycle. Book I.)

Book I

Chapter 1

Years later, Atalla could remember every moment of the

night he saw the ship that flew.

It was early, at least two hours before morningsinging.

The sky still held the pale yellow of dawn, though darker

streaks showed where the deeper orange of full daylight was

beginning to break through. Atalla had risen before sunrise

because Father had promised he might ride his first jhovall,

and the ten-year-old boy had been far too excited to sleep.

All through the dark hours, he lay on his pallet, staring into

the blackness, listening to the soft breathing of Mother and

Father asleep in the adjoining bed. In the stillness of the

country night, he could hear the mournful cries of mating

qomallen to the south, and when the hour was latest he heard

the distant booming vibrations of nightsinging from the city.

As the walls of the cottage slowly lightened, Atalla rose.

Carefully, to avoid waking his parents, he slipped out the

door.

Before him the plains of the west stretched to a horizon

that was still only a dim line between sky and earth. Atalla

stood still, drinking in the rich, heady smells of the air;

the faint odor of human habitation mixed with the scents of

farm animals and the wild creatures of the plains. Breezes

tousled his black hair and riffled through his nightshirt. His

heart thumped in his chest, and he felt deeply, warmly alive.

He passed along the side of the house to the Jhovall

stable. The six-legged tiger-creatures patiently purred in

their stalls. Father had said Atalla might ride the smallest

one, Skotcha. The boy stood by her head, gently stroking her

wet nose for several minutes. Even a small Jhovall could tear

across the plain like a dust devil, could kill a red wolf,

could carry a farm boy on plenty of adventures. Atalla fondly

patted her shaggy gray flank and left the stables.

The air felt dry, even for this early in the day. It would

be at least two more turnings of the moon before the rains

came, filling the riverbed and pond with water. Now, as the

boy watched, distant eddies and clouds of brown dust moved

across the endless plain under the brightening sky. The air to

the south seemed to shimmer. Predawn light bent and played

about the boy, caressing him.

Atalla felt a sudden pressure in the air. Something

invisible violently struck his chest. The world before him

exploded in a silent sound.

Atalla staggered backward, tripped, and fell. He rolled to

his feet in time to see the air divide and slip away from the

sides of a ship, which burst across the screaming sky. A

flying ship? Atalla had seen oceangoing galleys last year in

Rishada, but a flying ship? It hurtled through the air as if

shot from one of the great cannons that guarded the city. A

flying warship-more than that, a comet, a sign from the

heavens....

What was that old myth Father spoke of? The Uniter?

A sudden gale threw Atalla down. Rocks dug into his knees.

The grass thrashed like flames. The barn's thatch was ripped

free. Jhovalls shrieked in their stalls. Every window in the

house shattered. The ship screamed so low overhead that lines

trailing from its side slapped the roof. For one frozen

moment, a bull's head stared at him over the rail. With a

great whoosh, the ship disappeared behind the house.

There was a heart-stopping crash. Wood rent and

splintered. Screams came with the sound. Earth flew outward in

a pelting hail. The ground shook. There was a loud crack, a

thud of some heavy body, and then silence.

The ship had crashed in the plowed field to the north of

Atalla's home.

He sprinted around the cottage, meeting his mother and

father. A confused babble of voices rose ahead. Charging out

to the brow of the low rise, they gazed down. Atalla's jaw

dropped as the scene opened before him.

Two deep furrows had been dug right through the heart of

the simsass plants. Broken stalks drooped forlornly, sap

oozing from their sides. At the end of the furrows was the

strange ship. One sail-were they sails? Atalla wondered- had

caught against the tartoo tree, the only tree for miles

around, and had snapped clean off. So had the top of the tree.

The ship lay below, near the dry riverbed.

In unison, Mother and Father muttered, "I'll be damned."

* * * * *

Gerrard Capashen wiped a trickle of blood from his close-

cropped beard. The once-healed cut on his left cheek had

opened again, but if that was his worst injury, he was lucky.

Ribs ached beneath his red waistcoat. He would have fallen if

not for the helm, but it had paid him back with a blow that

drove the air from his lungs. Clutching the wheel in strong

hands, he managed a shuddering sigh.

"I shouldn't have taken the wheel from Hanna." Gerrard

released the helm and staggered across the bridge of

Weatherlight. "Hanna!" he gasped out, approaching the

navigator. She slumped across the cartographer's desk. Gerrard

tenderly embraced her. "Are you all right?"

Hanna lifted her head, breathing in short, panting gasps.

She raked blonde hair back from her face and said

breathlessly, "Yes ... but what of the ship?"

"Ship be damned. What of the crew?" Gerrard said gravely.

The only other crew member on the bridge had been the

cabin boy. The goblin had been hurled against the wall and was

now a mere bundle of whimpering limbs.

"Are you hurt, Squee?" Gerrard asked, moving toward him.

The green-skinned creature struggled to his feet. There

was no sign of serious injury. "Squee's head got cutted off!"

Gerrard smiled. "Not cut off, but I'm not sure it's on

straight." As Squee cracked his neck and every other joint,

Gerrard strode to the bridge window.

Beyond, the minotaur first mate helped injured crew

members. Strong and surehoofed, Tahngarth himself had escaped

the crash relatively unscathed.

Hanna was already heading out onto the upper deck. She

gave a faint yelp of dismay and ran aft along the slanting

planks to view the damage done to the ship's sails.

Gerrard joined the minotaur. "How bad is he?" he asked,

gesturing at a young sailor who gingerly cradled his arm.

Tahngarth's eyes blazed yellow beneath twisted horns.

There was blood in the minotaur's flaring nostrils. "This

one's not bad. Some broken bones, cuts, bruises. Orim's

sickbay will be overflowing." He motioned to two crewmen, who

helped the injured sailor to his feet and conducted him toward

a hatch.

Gerrard nodded gravely. "At least we got out of Rath-"

"Most of us," Tahngarth said. Gerrard had only recently gained

the minotaur's trust, and now there was unspoken accusation in

his eyes. "There are at least two dead-thrown from the prow.

They can't be alive, twisted like that. And, of course,

there's Mirri, and Crovax, and Ertai-"

"Ertai?" Gerrard asked, scanning the deck with anxious

eyes.

"Not here. He must not have made it." Gerrard slapped a

hand against the railing. "You're saying he's still in Rath?

Damn it, how could he not have made it onto the ship? All he

had to do was jump as Weatherlight passed under him."

"He did manage to close the portal behind us." The

minotaur pointed behind Gerrard to the empty sky. "The opening

is gone."

Taking in the news, Gerrard said solemnly, "Even if it

weren't, we'd have to fix the spar before we could fly back to

get him."

"It's worse than that," came a new voice, rumbling behind

them. The two turned to see a massive man of silver haul

himself up from the engine room hatch. Smoke wreathed the

metal golem and coiled into the early morning sky. Karn was a

living part of Weatherlight's engine, and no one but Hanna

knew the ship better than he. "Systems throughout the ship are

burned out. Hull integrity in the bow is compromised. The left

landing spine is jammed. A split has opened in the subreactor

manifold. And, of course, the Thran Crystal is still damaged.

Everything else will have to be fixed before we can fly, and

the Thran Crystal before we can planeshift-"

Gerrard licked his lips and tasted the coppery sweetness

of blood. Impatiently, he wiped his sleeve across his face.

"Well, wherever we are, we're stuck for a while."

"Hoy! You up there!" a man shouted below.

The minotaur glanced thoughtfully over the rail. "Someone

wants to talk to us."

"Hoy! Who are you, and what in the name of the Nine

Spheres are you doing crashing into my farm?"

Gerrard took a deep breath and shrugged to the minotaur.

"Now for a bit of diplomacy." He secured a coil of rope to a

bulkhead and dropped one end over the side of the ship. With

practiced ease, he slid down the line and stood facing the

fanner. Gerrard extended a hand in greeting. "My name's

Gerrard Capashen. This is my ship, Weatherlight."

The farmer, whose smock and bare feet indicated that the

crash had awakened him, looked at Gerrard stolidly. His arms

dangled at his sides. Beyond him, huddled in the doorway of

the house, Gerrard could see a woman and the head and

shoulders of a small boy.

"Weatherlight?" the farmer repeated at last.

Gerrard slowly lowered his proffered hand. "Yes."

"What... what is it? What are you doing here?"

Gerrard smiled humorlessly. "We crashed. That was what all

that noise was."

"How in hell does a ship fly? I once heard of a Rishadan

dirigible but this ain't got an air sack ..." the farmer

continued, staring incredulously at Weatherlight. He looked at

Gerrard, fear flaring behind his coal-black eyes. "Where in

all the worlds did you come from?" he whispered. Although the

air around them was cool, the farmer was perspiring nervously.

"Are ... you gods?"

Gerrard's voice rose. "We're not any sort of gods. But you

wouldn't understand where we came from if I told you.

Suffice it to say, we want to get our ship out of your

field as much as you do. That means repairs-"

There was a loud thump as another figure, sliding down the

line, landed on the ground beside him. Sisay's ebony skin

gleamed in the bright light of early morning. She turned a

winsome smile on the farmer. "I'm Sisay, captain of his ship-

and from now on the one at her helm." Gerrard nodded a little

sheepishly at that. "We apologize for any damage we've done.

May I know your name, good sir?"

The farmer looked at her a moment more, then cleared his

throat. "I am Tavoot."

Sisay repeated the name several times, as if digesting a

fact of great importance. "Tavoot. Tavoot. And do I see behind

you your wife and son?"

Tavoot gave a grunt. "Sesharral-my wife-and my son

Atalla." His eyes remained on Sisay's face.

For her part, Sisay continued to beam cheerfully at the

woman and boy. "I hope we didn't frighten you too much. I'm

sure-"

Tavoot interrupted. "Who sent you? Are you Mercadians? You

don't look Mercadian."

"No one sent us. We were fleeing from a being called

Volrath," Sisay replied. "His ship was chasing ours, and we

went through a portal to elude him." She looked around, taking

in the cottage, the orderly garden, and the neat rows of crops

surrounded by dust-covered flats, which stretched in every

direction. "We need to repair our ship. Can you advise us as

to where we might get some mechanical assistance?"

Tavoot turned to look east. Against the lemon-colored sky,

beyond the graceful lines of the cottage, loomed a great, gray

shape. Its contours were softened by the dust that blew like a

fine sand through the morning air. It was a dark triangle, its

tip embedded in the ground and its long, flat edge hovering

above the horizon. "Maybe you ain't from Mercadia, but that's

where you'll end up. Everybody in trouble ends up in

Mercadia."

Staring at the strange sight, Sisay said, "The Mercadians

could help us?"

"They could." A rueful smile crossed Tavoot's face. "But

Mercadians only ever help themselves."

* * * * *

Atalla was a bright lad-bright and a little enterprising.

He and Gerrard stood in an empty pen in the Jhovall stables.

The space had been shoveled and swept, and new grasses lay in

a bed across the floor.

"I imagine Father would rent this space to you as cheaply

as he would rent our Jhovalls," the boy said, eyes ingenuous

beneath his tousled black hair. "Even with the hole in the

roof."

Gerrard set hands on his hips and stared up at the rafters

where a large section of thatch had been torn loose. The

lemon-colored sky showed beyond-dust kept this world's sky

from ever looking blue. Sunlight streamed down through the

hole in the roof to splash against one wall of the stables.

"It won't keep out the rain."

"Oh, there won't be rain for another few moonturnings. It

will keep out most of the sun. Besides, you were the ones who

ripped that hole in the roof."

"Just so," Gerrard admitted. "And we do need the space to

get the more severely wounded out of the sun. But as I told

you-we have no Mercadian currency and little in the way of

precious metals or gems to pay."

"The issue of payment needn't come up," Atalla assured

him. "There is always a trade to be made."

Blinking, Gerrard said, "What do we have that you could

possibly want?"

"Take me with you to Mercadia."

"Out of the question."

"I've always wanted to see the city."

"Your father wouldn't allow it."

"He needn't know. I'll leave him a note. It would only be

a few days."

Gerrard turned and set a hand on the shoulder of the boy.

Atalla was in fact on the verge of being a young man, he

thought. He was a bright lad and knew the languages and

customs of the people. A local guide and interpreter could be

helpful, but there was one flaw in him. Atalla craved

adventure, and young men craving adventure tend to find it. He

was, all in all, a little too much like a young Gerrard. "I'm

sorry, Atalla. I wouldn't want to risk it. Where I go, trouble

follows. We'll find something from the ship- an old sextant or

something-that you'd like in exchange for the stall-"

Atalla's young eyes grew very hard in the dim space.

"Don't bother," he said, stomping out the stable door.

Just as he left, another figure entered-two figures, in

fact: Takara and her blinded father, Starke. The woman's red

hair was flame bright in the sun, and her muscular figure was

bent to aid the shuffling man beside her. Starke was not an

old man, but he seemed one now. Blinded in Rath, he wore a

white bandage about his eyes. He had not shaved since the

incident and had eaten little. Starke was withering daily-the

wages of guilt-and now, atop his craggy head, there was a

bright sheen of sunburn.

"It's in here, Father," Takara said gently. "Gerrard has

found a place out of the sun, in here."

"Gerrard!" Starke growled. "He wants me dead. They all

want me dead, after what I did to Sisay."

"You cannot blame them. Treachery on any ship is a capital

crime," Takara replied quietly.

"I did it only to save you, my dear," Starke pleaded,

miserable.

"Yes, Father, I know," Takara replied. "But the rest of

the crew does not know me. They would never have sold out

Sisay to rescue a complete stranger."

Starke let out an exhausted hiss. "Then get them to know

you, Takara. They hate me, and if they start to hate you,

they'll kill us both."

As he shuffled along, a Jhovall stretched in a catnap

within one stall. It rolled massively to one side, released a

rumbling purr, and licked its dagger teeth.

"What is that sound!" Starke gasped. "What sort of animals

are in this stable?"

"You'll be perfectly safe," Takara said.

"I'm surrounded by monsters, vicious monsters. You say

I'll be safe, but every last one is after me. If you don't

protect me, Takara, you're as much a monster as the rest."

Gerrard at last stepped from the empty stall, motioning

Takara toward it. "You are safe, Starke. No one is out to harm

you. The wrongs you committed toward Sisay have been undone,

and I think even she would agree that your blinding is

punishment enough for everything."

Starke visibly trembled. He seemed more terrified of

Gerrard than he had been of the Jhovall. Sullenly, he said,

"Yes, Commander."

"I know you don't trust me," Gerrard replied easily,

laying out a saddle blanket on the grassy floor, "but trust

your own daughter." He glanced at the lithe and muscular

woman. "Takara was imprisoned in hell, but she emerged

stronger than she had been before. She was annealed by Rath,

not destroyed by it."

As she helped her father sit on the saddle blanket, Takara

locked eyes with Gerrard. She mouthed a silent thanks.

Gerrard nodded. He felt a sudden strong connection to this

woman. It was not the heady wine of desire-though Takara had a

fiery beauty, to be sure. Instead, this was the wordless

understanding that comes between folk who have faced down the

same foes. It was the strange, sudden camaraderie of

strangers.

"Sleep now, Father. You are exhausted. Others will rest

here too-those with the worst injuries. You won't be alone.

You needn't fear monsters."

Petulant to the last, Starke rolled away from her. Tears

emerged from beneath his bandage and bore in them red flecks

of dried blood.

Takara patted his shoulder once more and then stood to

leave.

Gerrard joined her. As they walked away, past stalls of

six-legged tigers, he whispered quietly, "You are showing a

great deal of grace under pressure."

She continued a few more paces before responding. "My

father-the father I loved and grew up with-is a different man

than this husk. My father is dead. That doesn't mean I

shouldn't honor him by caring for this ... poor creature."

Shaking his head in wonder, Gerrard felt again the sense

of connection. "You have lost so much, and still you fight

on."

"What else is there for heroes to do?"

* * * * *

It had taken all day to empty the wounded vessel. Five

crew members had been killed in the crash. Four others were

wounded badly enough to need bed rest in the stables. Two had

such severe head and neck injuries that Orim had refused to

let them be moved from the ship. She tended them throughout

the long day in Weatherlight's own sickbay.

The rest of the crew had to make themselves at home in the

open air. They had off-loaded the stores of food and drink

that would see them through and had rigged makeshift shelters

with torn sections of sailcloth. All the while, Gerrard moved

among them, planning the next day's expedition to Mercadia.

When the sun set on the dust flats, the air quickly grew

uncomfortably cold. The crew huddled around a bonfire built

from shattered hunks of Weatherlight's hull and simsass stalks

rained in the crash. The fire lit five graves dug that

afternoon on the hillside. Already, the bodies lay within, and

three sailors, sweaty and stripped to the waist despite the

cold night, waited with shovels to fill in the spots.

Atalla watched it all from a shattered window.

The crew of the vessel stood to attention as Gerrard,

Hanna, and Sisay passed in front of them, followed by Karn and

Tahngarth. The bridge crew of Weatherlight stood to one side

of Hanna as she spoke solemnly.

"We lost dear friends this morning-Danis, Groud, Steepen

Willm, Erkika, and Bevela. We lost dear friends on Rath-Ertai,

Crovax, and Mirri. We have spoken their names to each other in

grief, and all have mourned according to our own traditions. I

want now to speak the name of my grief, the name of my dear

friend and companion Mirri." Her eyes glistened in the

firelight.

Sisay put out a hand to gently touch hers.

"Mirri gave her life that we might live," Hanna continued.

"She did this without thought. That was the way she lived her

beliefs. It was during this last journey that I came to know

her best. We became friends when she and I traveled through

the Skyshroud Forest on Rath. It was a friendship born of

mutual respect. She passed through the dangers of the

Stronghold," she continued, "was wounded defending Crovax, and

slain defending the rest of us...."

Karn spoke into the choked silence. "I join in mourning

Mirri, for I remember her life and the brave deeds she did,

but now she is gone."

Sisay said, "Mirri is dead, but we, her friends, her

comrades, will always remember her. In our memories, she will

live."

Tahngarth said simply, "I salute you, Mirri, a warrior

worthy of Talruaa."

Last, all eyes turned to Gerrard. He had been standing in

the shadows behind Hanna, shaking his head quietly. As the

silence stretched, he looked up, caught unaware, and blurted

the first thing that came to his mind. "So many lost. We have

lost so many friends...." Uncertain what else to say, Gerrard

peered numbly out at the crew. Orange light illuminated

Takara's hair, and her face shone white in the firelight. The

fine bones beneath her skin were lit as though from within.

Her green eyes returned his gaze. He said at last, "We have

lost so much, but we must keep fighting. What else is there

for heroes to do?"

The ranks of the sailors bent and rose, tossing handfuls

of dust into the air where it briefly formed a black cloud

before falling back to earth. They also scooped dirt into each

of the five graves. Their voices murmured together an orison

for their fallen comrades.

A sudden, loud rumble broke the quiet. A fine spray hissed

above the fire.

"That sound came from the ship," Gerrard said.

Cries rose in the distance.

Sisay seized a burning branch from the fire and rushed

into the night. Gerrard and Hanna followed, Tahngarth and Karn

bringing up the rear.

From the direction of the dry riverbed, perhaps fifty

yards to the north of the farm, they saw a strange, ghostly

light. Clouds of fine mist sparkled, turning blue and green.

Figures moved in that mist. They were the size of men but had

wings of skin like dragons. The advancing cloud cast a dark

and sinuous shadow on the ground beneath it. Within that

shadow more figures darted.

But it wasn't a shadow. The river was running-

That was impossible. Hours ago the bed had been dry and

cracked. The blazing sun had evaporated every drop of moisture

from the soil, leaving it baked and gritty. Yet now, a torrent

of water flooded down the center of it, splashing over the

banks and washing in puddles out over the field- the field

where Weatherlight lay.

"All hands to the ship!" Gerrard shouted even as they ran.

"What is it?" Hanna gasped as she clambered over a brake

of simsass and climbed down toward the field.

"Water," Gerrard answered.

"I've never seen water like this," Hanna replied.

The flood swirled and lapped as if it were alive, driven

by conscious purpose. It was limned with light, each wavelet

shining with a glow that seemed to amplify the light of the

twin moons overhead in the starry sky. Through the flood,

figures moved like darting merfolk. Atop it came dark shapes-

craft of some sort propelled rapidly over the waves. In the

mists above, winged, semi-human figures soared and dove.

Gerrard and Hanna reached the field, near the

Weatherlight. Something long and heavy thudded into the ground

next to Hanna's feet. With a kind of slow-motion detachment,

she saw that it was a spear, a slender stone head bound

tightly to a wooden shaft. She looked up. The riverbank,

deserted a moment before, was filling with dark figures.

They rose from the deep, descended from the mists, and

shot across the crests of the waves in canoes. The force of

the waters propelled them forward, and they steered with slim

paddles, wielded by oarsmen in the rear of the craft. Those in

the front of the boats were clearly warriors, who wore

headdresses made of woven grass, colored by dyes in brilliant

reds and oranges. They were bare-chested, clad in loincloths,

and armed with spears, bows, and arrows. Some stood in the

prows of their canoes, and others leaped to the shore, hurling

missiles. There seemed to be hundreds of the dark figures.

With bare fists, Gerrard attacked one of the warriors.

With a quick punch to the temple, he sent the man to the

ground. The warrior rolled, groaning. Gerrard smashed him in

the jaw, knocking him out. He yanked up the warrior's spear

and tossed it back toward Hanna. "You think you can make use

of this?"

"Sure," she said, grasping the haft of the weapon. "I've

wielded slightly more sophisticated artifacts in my time."

"Good," Gerrard said, grinning. "I'll go get me one."

As he dashed off, Hanna advanced on another warrior. His

back was to her. Oddly, he was kneeling next to the ship's

hull, placing his palms flat against the ground. In the

distance, Hanna glimpsed several of the other attackers making

the same mysterious gesture.

"That's my ship!" she growled, and rushed at the man.

The ground rocked. Hanna was thrown from her feet. Dirt

and pebbles stung her face. The soil sank. Cold wetness rushed

in around her. Water rose, lapping at Weatherlight's hull.

Hanna splashed, struggling to keep her face above water.

Figures teemed through the sudden flood. In moments they

grasped and bore away the man Gerrard had knocked unconscious.

The pool widened and deepened.

Hanna cried out as a hand grasped her leg and pulled her

under. Lashing out with the spear, she bashed her attacker and

swam to the surface, spluttering and coughing. The edge of the

widening pool was twenty feet away. She struck out, swimming

vigorously, kicking off her sandals and fighting the weight of

her sodden clothing. Nearby, she could see the bobbing heads

of several fellow crewmen.

Hanna swam harder, but the shore receded continuously. For

some moments, all was shouting blackness and cold struggle.

Then she threw both arms over the edge of the pool and pulled

herself onto the bank. Staggering up the slope, she turned to

look behind her.

Weatherlight was floating on the small pond that had

somehow been created by the attackers. Its damage made it list

heavily to one side. The repair crews had done a partial job

of patching the rent in the ship's side, but Hanna suspected

the vessel was taking on water. She wondered how long it would

be before the water reached the engine room.

All around Weatherlight surged canoes and swimmers and

gliders. They cast lines about the hapless craft and began

hauling it toward the river. The waters boiled with the

struggles of crewmen caught in the sudden collapse of solid

ground. Hanna reached out to help her companions to shore.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Sisay's

dark face, almost invisible against the backdrop of night.

"Who are they? What are they after?" shouted the young

woman. Her voice was trembling.

Frantically, Hanna scanned the scene for some sign of

Gerrard. At last she saw him. He was wrestling with one of the

attackers, whom he had evidently captured and pinned to the

ground. Just as she spotted him, he reared back and, with a

great blow, laid his opponent senseless.

"They're taking the ship!" she shouted to him.

Looking up, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, Gerrard

rose and rushed toward her.

Already, Weatherlight was in the clutch of the river,

which had reversed its course. It flowed away from the

cottage, almost due west into the blackness of the plains. The

ship was drawn along with the current.

"Run," Gerrard said. "It's speeding up!"

"We'll never catch it now," Hanna said as she fell into

step beside him.

"We might! Look!"

The massive ship seemed to hang up on something, as if

caught on a sandbar. Streaming water piled up behind it, but

Weatherlight stalled for a moment in the flood. Something

glimmered in the moonlit waters at the prow-a shiny boulder?

No. It had eyes. Its mouth opened, and an almighty roar of

exertion bellowed across the waves.

"Bless you, Karn," Hanna said, darting across the dark

grasses toward the spot.

It was too much for the silver golem. The weight of the

ship drove him down into the muck. His fingers scraped

uselessly along the keel. Weatherlight won free and shivered

away atop the receding flood.

"No!" Gerrard shouted. He ran futilely onward. "No!"

Panting, Hanna stomped to a halt. She gazed hopelessly

toward the disappearing vessel. Her heart stood still as she

spotted a small, turbaned figure clutching the rail and

shouting.

It was Orim. She had remained on the ship with her two

charges.

Gerrard had seen her as well. With a shout that rose to

the skies, he pursued the ship. It moved all the faster now,

swiftly vanishing from him. The river dried up as swiftly as

it had swelled. Pools and rivulets of water splashed beneath

his feet, and his face was stained with mud. All was in vain.

Weatherlight was gone.

Chapter 2

In her trips aboard Weatherlight, Orim had experienced

many un-pleasantries but nothing quite this bad. The ship

creaked and groaned as it raced along the river. The bed was

narrow, and Weatherlight lurched from side to side,

occasionally blundering into the banks. Each impact jolted the

ship and almost hurled the healer from her precarious perch at

the rail.

Short and scrappy, Orim clung on. Her turban had padded

her head against the worst knocks. The pockets in her healer's

cloak helped absorb some of the body blows-and promised her

salves and poultices aplenty when this all was done. She only

wished her knee-high calfskin boots would have better footing

on the rolling deck. Orim desperately wanted to get below and

check on her patients.

She could see nothing behind her but the foaming water of

the river, which receded as the ship passed. She turned to

look ahead and was rewarded with nothing more than an onrush

of blackness. Over the top of the pilothouse she could see dim

forms moving about the ship's deck- attackers. The ones who

abducted her patients, her ship, herself.

Orim struggled toward them along the rail. One figure-

more surefooted than she-ascended the stairs and clung to the

siding before her. He was tall and slender. Dark hair flew

before his face. Hundreds of coins were braided into the long

strands. The man's eyebrows drew tightly together. His eyes

glinted like onyx in the night. He wore white robes that

draped his shoulders and his waist but left his muscular chest

bare.

The man spoke in a language she had never before heard.

She shook her head. "What do you want? Where are you

taking me?"

He grabbed her elbow and hauled her to the hatch leading

below decks. At the bottom of the ladder she could see him

more clearly. His hands were glowing strangely-a silvery light

that flooded the familiar passage. He urged her on toward the

infirmary.

She entered and found two other strangers already

occupying the cramped space, standing guard over Klaars and

Drianan. Klaars was suffering acutely the effects of having

been pitched from side to side in his bunk. In the crash, the

thin young sailor had suffered a concussion. A large black

knot hovered beneath his shock of auburn hair. In addition,

his arm had been broken just below the elbow, and it was bound

Francis Lebaron - Magic The Gathering - Masquerade Cycle 01 - Mercadian Masques

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