Black wizards - Douglas Niles [23]
But Rodger was a skilled pilot, and the Lucky Duckling rode the waters like a carriage along a hilly path. She lurched occasionally but never faltered.
Somehow Pontswain had managed to sleep through the growing storm. Now he awoke suddenly and stumbled to his feet to look, aghast, at the rising sea. "What kind of a sailor are you?" he shouted at Rodger. "Can't you read a simple change in the weather?"
Tristan wanted to object, but feared that if he unclenched his jaw he would again be overwhelmed by nausea. Daryth climbed to his feet and stepped to the lord's side.
"Let the man sail, you pompous fool," he growled.
"How dare you insult -" Pontswain's hand reached for the sword hilt that would normally be at his belt, forgetting that he was unarmed. Daryth stepped in closer.
"There is something unnatural about this storm, and if you weren't so eager to blame someone, you'd recognize it yourself!"
Pontswain seemed to pale slightly as the black eyes of the Calishite bored into his own. Finally, he turned with a shrug and looked back at the sea. Daryth settled back to rest, and Rodger sailed on as though nothing had happened.
By late afternoon, however, Tristan sensed that even the seasoned fisherman was worried. The swells had continued to grow, and they had trimmed the sail until it was no larger than a baby's blanket.
"Tain't natural," groused the old man. "The weather failing like this. It'll be a long night if'n it don't settle down some."
For a few minutes toward dusk, it seemed that the Lucky Duckling would live up to her name. The wind faded and the seas grew marginally calmer. But as the surrounding seas turned from a dull gray to a deep black with the onset of nightfall, the gusts of wind swept forward again, carrying the little fishing boat with them. Now the seas rolled six feet high and continued to grow.
Canthus paced anxiously beside the prince as he darted from side to side of the boat, looking into the water for he knew not what. When the moorhound began to whimper, Tristan stopped to scratch the dog's broad head.
Rodger grasped the tiller firmly while Daryth raised the sail almost entirely. He left just enough for the sailor to retain steerage of the boat, but even so the little craft whipped forward recklessly.
A huge wall of black water rolled up to the stern of the ship and thundered past, sending a torrent of spray over the transom and leaving the Duckling awash, holding more than a foot of water.
"Bail!" cried Rodger, indicating a large bucket with a nod of his head. Tristan saw that the surging tiller nearly lifted the sailor off the hull with the force of the storm.
Desperately he knelt, noticing absently that he no longer felt sick. Pontswain knelt beside him, heaving full buckets over the side. Tristan had to admit, grudgingly, that the lord worked diligently and with great strength. Of course, he no doubt realized that his own life was at stake.
Pitching bucketfuls of water over the side, they bailed frantically, but water seemed to pour over the gunwales faster than they could scoop it out.
Tristan filled another bucket, but suddenly gagged as a surprising stench assailed his nostrils. Gasping, he dropped the bucket and staggered backward. Maggots spilled from the container to slither about the hull.
He struggled to voice his shock but no sound emerged. More maggots seethed from the hull of the boat, and he felt the wood grow spongy beneath his feet. The sickly white creatures, creeping from the Ducklings very planks, seemed to fill the boat. The horrible smell of rotting flesh rose from the hull with the maggots.
"Sorcery!" cried the prince, finding his voice.
"What black magic is this?" growled Ponstwain. The lord was not so much terrified as enraged. "You have brought this upon us!" he finished,