Chapter Twenty-Five Thera #3
The wind had become a gale when the Great Wolf trimmed sails in the lee of Iselda’s Nail.
The towering spike of granite created a shield against the worst of the mounting storm, of which the rest of the fleet were quick to avail themselves.
Within a few hours the waters to the west of the Nail were crammed with ships, all having dropped anchor.
Their crews began lashing their ships to neighbouring vessels, better to withstand the coming maelstrom.
The Great Wolf was soon fixed securely between Ossgrym’s Storm Fist and Veilwald Torlund’s even more impressive Bronze Eagle, the renamed hulking Nihlvarian warship Thera had gifted him in return for his oath of allegiance.
While Ragnalt harried the crew to secure all loose fittings and cargo, Thera stood at the prow, peering out at the increasingly mountainous seas beyond the tall island’s flanks.
She had hoped to find the Silver Hawk waiting for them here, and worried what the Styrnspeld’s unabated temper meant for the fate of Kahlvik and the Queen’s Navigator.
Without them, there would be no route to Nihlvar.
Throughout the rest of the day and the night that followed, the conjoined fleet swayed and twisted at the storm’s whim.
Hulls ground together and the occasional scream, mercifully dimmed by the howling gale, told of unfortunates carried by misstep or misfortune into the treacherous gaps between the vessels.
Recurrent lightning flashed over the indifferent majesty of the Nail.
At one point a blazing white fork of energy streaked down from the shimmering clouds to caress the tip of the rocky tower.
Thera hoped the many warriors huddling in this temporary wooden island saw it as a sign of Ulfmaer’s favour, for the lightning appeared to do no damage.
She spent the hours crouched at the Great Wolf’s prow, wrist lashed to a stanchion as surety against the tall waves now battering the hull.
Lynnea, more sensibly, had secluded herself beneath the hides of the queen’s shelter, but Thera could sense her Tielwald’s growing trepidation.
Never have I known a storm such as this.
Can it be that the Altvar oppose our mission?
Thera frowned. Lynnea was not one for allusions to the gods, but then neither was her queen, except when required by ceremony.
The sound of splintered timbers from the depths of the massed fleet, probably one of the smaller ships being crushed by larger neighbours, spurred Thera to action.
Unwinding the rope from her wrist, she stumbled across the heaving deck to the shelter.
Lynnea, as usual, had anticipated her intent, holding out the striker.
He’s been deaf to our entreaties so far, she commented as Thera took hold of the bronze effigy of Ulfmaer’s sigil.
“He’ll hear me now,” she said. Making her way back to the prow, she waited for a dip between waves to clamber onto the rail, an act that instantly raised a chorus of concern from her menda.
“My queen!” Ragnalt cried, doing his best to rush to her side while being repeatedly thrown from his feet. “The danger is too great! I implore you, come down!”
Ignoring him, Thera raised the striker above her head.
“Ulfmaer, Master of Storms!” she called out, the breath-stealing gale rendering her words into a plaintive yell, but she refused to be deterred.
“Hear me! For I am Thera Speldrenda, Queen of the Ascarls, first among your servants upon this earth!”
The storm continued to assail her, another tall wave pounding the Great Wolf’s bows but failing to carry her away.
“In the Altvar’s name have I come!” Thera shouted into the seething mass of water and lightning.
“For our enemy has defiled your gifts to us! They have twisted the blessed lessons of your sagas and corrupted your benevolence! In your name have they done murder, and worse! I come to put it right with sword and flame and I do not beseech your favour – I DEMAND IT!”
Taking hold of the iron peg affixed to the striker, she scraped it across the edge of Ulfmaer’s sigil.
The resultant cascade of sparks was brief, an unimpressive flicker instantly swallowed by the storm.
More waves pounded at her, as if roused by her impudence, but once again failed to drag her into the sea’s embrace.
Another lightning bolt streaked down to tap a blazing finger to the tip of Iselda’s Nail, a blinding display that almost sent Thera reeling and might have accomplished what the waves could not.
But, as she blinked the dazzle from her eyes, she perceived a lessening in the wind.
Its howl diminished enough to allow her to hear the thunder roiling overhead, a booming cacophony that grew fainter by the second.
Raising her eyes, Thera saw a shift in the vast ceiling of flickering cloud.
The titanic swirl had begun twisting its way north.
In all her many years at sea, Thera had never seen a storm fade so quickly.
Within moments the tall waves calmed and the pounding rain thinned to a drizzle.
She saw sunlight shafting through the clouds to the west and realised that morning had already broken, and there, caught in the curtain of light, was the dim but undeniable silhouette of the Silver Hawk.
Ulfmaer, it seemed, had seen fit to bestow not one favour, but two.