The ground had stilled. No shaking, no rumbling, not even a vibration. Sailors looked at the mountain to the north with its crown of smoke and made signs against evil before returning to their work. They should have been relaxing now that the earthquakes had stopped, but the feeling in the air was not that of a reprieve; rather, it felt like the calm before a violent storm. Without a word exchanged the sailors began throwing ropes over the mast they had spent so much effort to move, securing it to the sand. They tied down the tents, banked the fire, and covered the powder barrels with wet hides.
Deslock watched it all with a grim expression on his face. Sailors, he thought, were much like certain animals. They could sense when something bad was coming down the line, and by watching your behavior you could receive warning yourself. It was like watching a murder of crows before a storm, in a way. The sailors knew that something was about to happen, something big, and they were doing the only thing they knew how to do in response to such a thing: battening down the hatches and tying themselves to the mast. So to speak.
"So you said you knew my father. How?"
"Eh?" Deslock refocused his attention. "Ah. Hello, Mister Piercefield. Abrupt way to start a conversation, but we were interrupted when we last spoke so I'll let it slide."
He automatically took a moment to search his pockets for his pipe. He packed in tobacco as he spoke.
"I met your father some years ago," he said, "when I was attempting to map the Shattered Lands. You know them? The place north of the Empire, where every damn ganglord claims to be the rightful king? Anyway. Was mapping them. Didn't go well. Your father was, I believe, trying to close some sort of deal with some local warlord--people are always trying to get stuff out of the Shattered Lands, you know how it is, everyone thinks the damn old kingdom they talk about was such hot stuff--but anyway, he was trying to make some kind of a deal on behalf of someone else, and the whole thing went sour. He was running from the warlord's men, met up with me, we sort of got caught up in a local war, and to make a long story short we made it to the Illarym border two months later, half-starved and infected with some kind of weaponized plague, with a donkey that was healthier than both of us." He paused to reflect for a moment. "Godsdamn, we hated that animal. We could barely walk, and meanwhile it was dancing along the road, glaring at us, trying to escape from its lead. If we hadn't needed it to carry our equipment we would have killed it a dozen times over. Once we got back to the Empire we sold it to a glue factory, I think. There's a couple weeks in there that are a bit hazy."
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On the water Doctor Nexaddo sat in the longboat, surrounded by men rowing with all their might. He looked back at the island, noted the dark smoke seeping from the top of the mountain, and congratulated himself on getting off while he still could. He spared a thought for Deslock and the
Cepolada's sailors, and the survivors of the poor
Osprey--they were not as fortunate as he. They would survive, he was sure--they had the skill and the luck. Nonetheless, he sent up a little prayer for those still on the island.
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On the edge of the jungle, a minor argument was coming to a conclusion.
"You see, madam?" said the thin man in gray, not even a smudge of irritation touching his tone, "I do indeed know which direction the beach is in."
The red-skinned elf he was with replied in a low voice and laughed. The man in gray was unperturbed.
"As you say, madam," he agreed, and gave her a short bow. "And now, if you will excuse me..." He left her there, at the jungle's edge, and began making his way towards the hulk of the
Osprey.
"Good day, Mister Pews," said Riley Lynch as the man in gray came up beside him.
"Good day, Mister Lynch," Pews replied. He studied the beached ship for a moment. "She looks quite different without her mast, doesn't she?"
The mate sighed. "That she does," he said. "That she--"
Then came the roar, a sound that seemed to go on forever. The ground lurched beneath them, throwing both men from their feet, throwing the whole camp into disarray. The sailors fared better than everyone else, having just tied down everything that could have a rope attached to it, but there was only a bare few who kept to their feet.
It felt like it lasted forever. An objective eye, of which there were none, might have determined that it lasted a good half a minute. And when it ended, when the ground stopped shaking and the roar faded, men rose to their feet only to fall to their knees again when they saw the northern mountain, crowned with fire and smoke, billowing into the sky like a solid pillar cut out of Hell. The crater was rimmed with molten rock, flowing through cracks and channels, glowing redly in the sun.
The sailors prayed to gods of sea and stone. The Explorer, however, merely took stock. Deslock licked a finger and held it up to the wind.
He frowned. "Wind's blowing away from us," he said. "We should be safe from the ash. And from the look of things, the lava won't reach us either, and I think the earthquakes have calmed down. All things considered, we're fairly safe right where we are." He frowned again as a flake of ash drifted down in front of his face. "Reasonably safe," he concluded. He spent a moment staring at the mountain of fire.
"With any luck," he said, "none of our people are over there right now."