Arutha blinked seawater out of his eyes and held on to the guide rope with all the strength he possessed. Another wave crashed over the side of the ship, and he was blinded once more. Strong hands grabbed him from behind, and in the darkness he heard Martin’s voice. “Are you all right?”
Spitting water, he shouted, “Yes,” and continued to make his way toward the quarterdeck, Martin close behind. The Wind of Dawn pitched and rolled beneath his feet, and he slipped twice before he reached the ladder. The entire ship had been rigged with safety lines, for in the rough sea it was impossible to keep a footing without something to hang on to.
Arutha pulled himself up the ladder to the quarterdeck and stumbled as much as walked to Amos Trask. The captain waited beside the helmsman, lending his weight to the large tiller when needed. He stood as if rooted to the wood of the deck, feet wide apart, weight shifting with each move of the ship, his eyes peering into the gloom above. He watched, listened, each sense tuned to the ship’s rhythm. Arutha knew he had not slept for two days and a night, and most of this night as well.
“How much longer?” Arutha shouted.
“One, two days, who can say?” A snap from above sounded like cracking spring ice upon the river Crydee. “Hard aport!” Amos shouted, leaning heavily into the tiller. When the ship heeled, he shouted to Arutha, “Another day of these gods-cursed winds buffeting this ship, and we’ll be lucky if we can turn and run back to Tulan.”
They were nine days out of Tulan, the last three spent in the storm. The ship had been relentlessly pounded by waves and wind, and Amos had been in the hold three times, inspecting the repairs to the keelson. Amos judged them due west of the straits, but couldn’t be sure until the storm passed. Another wave struck the ship, and it shuddered.
“Weather break!” came the shout from above.
“Where away?” cried Amos.
“Dead starboard!”
“Come about!” ordered Amos, and the helmsman leaned against the tiller.
Arutha strained his eyes against the stinging salt spray and saw a faint glow seem to swing about until it stood off the bow. Then it grew larger as they drove for the thinning weather. As if walking out of a dark room, they moved from gloom to light. The heavens seemed to open above them, and they could see grey skies. The waves still ran high, but Arutha sensed the weather had turned at last. He looked over his shoulder and saw the black mass of the storm as it moved away from them.
Moment by moment the combers subsided, and after the raging clamor of the storm, the sea seemed suddenly silent. The sky was quickly brightening, and Amos said, “It’s morning. I must have lost track of time. I thought it still night.”
Arutha watched the receding storm and could see it clearly outlined, a churning mass of darkness against the lighter grey of the sky above. The grey quickly turned to slate, then blue-grey as the morning sun broke through the storm. For the better part of an hour. Arutha watched the spectacle, while Amos ordered his men about their tasks, sending the night watch below and the day watch above.
The storm raced eastward, leaving a choppy sea behind Time seemed frozen as Arutha stood in awe of the scene on the horizon. A portion of the storm seemed to have stopped, between distant fingers of land. Great spouts of water spun between the boundaries of the narrow passage in the distance. It looked as if a mass of dark, boiling clouds had been trapped within that area by a supernatural force.
“The Straits of Darkness,” said Amos Trask at his shoulder.
“When do we put through them?” Arutha asked quietly.
“Now,” answered Amos. The captain turned and shouted, “Day watch aloft! Midwatch turn to and stand ready! Helmsman, set course due east!”