The Riddle - Alison Croggon [7]
“Awhile. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but I think it’s drawing closer.”
Cadvan called Owan over. He lashed the tiller and came back to them, and when he saw the dark line in the water, his face tightened.
“Do you know what it is?” asked Cadvan.
“No,” said Owan. “But I can guess.” He looked at Cadvan. “And if it is what I’m thinking, then it would be best to outrun it. Can you whistle any stronger wind, do you think?”
Cadvan grimaced up at the sails. “Perhaps,” he said. “How strong is the Owl, Owan? I fear her breaking if the wind blows too hard.”
“Strong enough,” said Owan shortly, and went back to the tiller. Cadvan’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed, as if he were mentally preparing himself for an effort beyond his strength. He went back to his post near the prow of the boat and lifted his arms, speaking words that were tossed away by the wind so Maerad could not hear them. She knew he was using the Speech, and she felt a prickle in her skin, a resonance of magery. At once, the sails bulged with a new, stiff blast of wind, and the White Owl sprang willingly forward like a horse urged to a gallop that it had, until that moment, restrained within itself. Maerad’s neck snapped back with the speed, and she put out her hand to steady herself and looked down the wake toward the ominous track in the sea behind them.
For a little while it seemed to vanish, and she relaxed, but with the new motion of the craft, her sickness came back, worse than before. She battled with herself, trying to find a stillness within her body that could counterbalance the nausea, and it seemed to work for a moment. But her nausea returned threefold when she looked out over the bow again. Whatever it was had more than matched their new speed; it was now cutting through the White Owl’s wake, gaining on them, and two white waves like wings fanned out behind a dark form she could now see breaking the surface of the water.
She cried out, and Cadvan and Owan looked back. Owan shrugged.
“You can’t whistle up more?” he asked Cadvan flatly.
Cadvan shook his head.
“Well, then . . .” Owan stared over the bow, scratching his head. “I’m pretty sure I’m right. I’ve never seen one so fast, though. And it’s behaving strange, for an ondril.”
“What’s an ondril?” asked Maerad, trying to sound as casual as Cadvan and Owan. They could have been discussing a slight problem with that evening’s meal.
“A kind of snake, a serpent of the sea,” said Cadvan. “I mislike this.”
“It’s a mighty big one, if it is,” said Owan. “They usually leave fishing craft well alone, unless you’re unlucky enough to venture into their territory. But we’re going so fast now, we’d have long gone past its borders. Normally an ondril would have just turned around by now and gone back to its place.”
“It has the stink of Enkir about it,” said Cadvan.
“So he lives,” said Owan. “I’d believe anything, after what I saw in Norloch. Didn’t know Enkir was a sea mage, all the same.”
“He is many things, alas, and few of them good,” said Cadvan. “And he draws on powers far beyond his own native abilities. I think he has summoned some creature of the Abyss out of the shadows. I did not think that he was dead; I think this monster proves that he yet moves against us.”
“Well, what can we do?” Maerad stood up, suddenly impatient.
“We’ll have to fight it,” said Cadvan. “It’s obviously following us. And we’re not going to outrun it.”
Maerad looked back. The creature, whatever it was, was gaining fast. Its head, the only part of it that was visible, was a massive black wedge that drove through the water like a spear; even at that distance it looked unimaginably huge. At the thought of being attacked in their flimsy boat in the middle of a great desert of water, Maerad’s stomach lurched with fright.
“I’d let the wind drop if I were you, Cadvan,” said Owan, breaking the heavy silence. “No point in using up that energy now.”
“Yes, it’s no use having it snapping at our tail,” answered Cadvan.
Instantly the sails slackened,