Page 5 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Quickly now, Imperious,’ he commanded the mule, tugging harder on the reins until he was half dragging the terrified beast. ‘Don’t you see my point? This so-called “dancing plague” was nothing but the unfortunate side-effect of fermented barley and insect saliva!’ He jabbed a finger at the gate, now barely a hundred yards ahead, and the winding road leading up to the abbey. ‘What are the monks of Isola Sombra famous for? The potency of the liquors they brew from crops grown on that very island. Can we not, therefore, deduce that these recent storms may have triggered similar effects, not only on grapes and grains but also on the psyches of the people who live here?’

Imperious brayed again and Estevar held on tightly to the reins with one hand, patting the mule’s head repeatedly with the other in hopes of calming him. ‘Think, Imperious! Wines rendered mildly toxic by some change in the soil, a few monks too long living in isolation on this tiny islet, muttering their endless prayers to this god or that, and the well-known superstitious nature of ducal knights. The abbot confines himself to his tower, the margrave sends a dozen of his stalwart warriors to investigate, and what do they find? Naught but an abbey filled with frightened– and likely inebriated–quaesti, venerati and deators drunkenly debating theological esoterica. The knights no doubt deride the brothers, bullying them and making sport of their fears, and help themselves to the abbey’s legendary liquors. The irate monks decide to take advantage of the knights’ stupor by sending them packing– but not before painting upon the skin of the drunk and stupefied knights those hideous markings we saw on the picture that came with the margrave’s note. Days pass before the knights recover, and when sobriety returns, do you suppose they confess their drunken behaviour to their lord? No, they claim demonic influence!’

Even amid the battering wind and rain, Estevar found himself grinning as he pulled the mule along. ‘Do you see now, Imperious? The scheme is so simple, even a mind far less accustomed to such devious ingenuity than that of your friend Estevar could pierce this fragile veil of ignorance and gullibility!’

He felt the mule’s tension ease at last, and his own ebbed along with it. The stairs up to the gate were less than twenty yards away now, and even with the water at his knees, his anxieties began to fade. His tale had been meant only as a distraction for himself and Imperious from the discomfort of their journey across the causeway, but with every step he’d grown more convinced that he’d stumbled upon the truth of it. The incident at Isola Sombra which had so distressed Margrave Someil’s knights was nothing more than the effects of those most foul demons that Estevar had battled his entire career: superstition and duplicity. Now he needed only to validate his deductions, free the monks from their supposed supernatural hysteria and induce the easily panicked Abbot Venia to descend at last from his tower and resume his duties.

It was with a lighter heart and a confident smile that he led Imperious along those last few feet to the steps of Isola Sombra– only for a wave higher than all the others before to crash down on them both, dragging man and beast beneath the water and out to sea.

CHAPTER 4

BENEATH THE WAVES

Tumbling and twisting, Estevar was tossed about like a discarded child’s toy. What breath he’d been able to take in before the currents had snatched man and mule from the causeway he now held to as firmly as the hilt of his rapier during a duel–for a duel this was, and his opponent a relentless mistress of the disarm.

Already his lungs burned, but he set the pain aside; it was a distraction, a feint, nothing more. His mind, that was the key: he must keep his thoughts clear, precise, sharp as any blade. No battle worth the fight was won on brute force alone, so even as the currents flung him to and fro, he sought to cut through his dilemma. This was a puzzle, after all–a mystery whose solution hinged on a single question: how does a man already weakened by a sword wound, burdened by exhaustion and, let us be honest, a fondness for rich foods exacerbated by a belligerent streak that insisted that so long as he could still win his judicial duels, no evidence supported the proposition that his girth was an impediment, rise from this watery grave before the pounding waves inter him for ever?

A conundrum easier to solve when one is not turned upside down, he admitted, though he was no longer entirely sure which way was up. Briefly, he wondered how poor Imperious was faring. Mules were reputedly strong swimmers, though Estevar had never tested his beast in this regard.

Curse his bleary eyes! On dry land, they saw all, yet here beneath the water, he could barely make out his own hand in front of his face. He’d been a skilled diver in his youth, able to leap from the clifftops of the magnificent city of his birth to land with exquisite precision between the merchant vessels below, never coming back up without having found some lost trinket to bring to his belov—

Stop reminiscing about the past, you fool. It’s the present which seeks to kill you! Nostalgia is the trap that promises insight yet offers only the slow, insidious acceptance of failure. You will not outwit your watery nemesis this way. If only I had dry land beneath my feet and not this frenzy of—

Wait. . . That’s it!

Fighting the currents was a fool’s game, no different than chasing a younger, swifter opponent around the duelling circle. Estevar needed firm soil on which to stand and fight–and there it was, waiting for him below!

Quickly he calculated the relative incline of the shore where first he’d set foot on the half-mile-long causeway. This far out, the seabed would usually be too deep to serve him, but the causeway itself wasn’t constructed as a narrow wall but rather a sloped ridge of soil and rock that widened as it descended deeper beneath the surface. The wave that had swept him and Imperious from the causeway couldn’t have driven them more than ten or twenty yards away, which meant the bottom shouldn’t be more than fifteen feet down.

His lungs ached mercilessly, as did his wound. Once again, he pushed such trivialities away and concentrated on the first step towards survival: figuring out which direction was up. The sky, darkened by grey clouds, sent precious little light this far down, but still, he could make out shadows well enough. He let out a tiny portion of his precious air and watched for the bubbles.

Nothing.

Too dark. Damn those storm clouds!

Unless itwasn’ttoo dark after all? He craned his head back as far as it would go and released a bit more air. This time, he saw the bubbles drifting in a line up to the surface; he was, indeed, upside down. Rather than right himself, Estevar swam as hard as he could, straight down until he felt undulating tendrils brush his cheeks, and then his hand touched the sandy seabed below.

Grabbing a handful of the seaweed, he pulled hard, swinging his legs under himself until his feet found the bottom, then, bending his knees, he flexed his thigh muscles and launched himself upwards, kicking his legs furiously to speed his ascent, as fast as he could, until for one brief, beautiful moment, he broke the surface.

He gulped air into his lungs and tried to get his bearings. The chaos of the storm above was as disorienting as the roiling maelstrom below. His gaze swept the waterline, searching for the shore. He could barely make out the rocky cliffs of Isola Sombra– was that someone standing on a stony outcrop? A woman? The seawater stinging his eyes blurred his vision, but he thought he saw a sleeveless white dress and thick curls of red hair dancing in the wind as if waving at him.

Who would venture out in such a storm—?

His rumination was cut short by another wave crashing down upon him, pushing him back beneath the surface.

Already weary from his exertions and unable to swim back to the surface unaided, he was forced to return to the bottom, find purchase and once again launch himself upwards. This time, his nose and mouth broke the surface for only a second, barely time to catch a breath, before he began to sink again. He caught another glimpse of the cliffs, but there was no one there, and all too soon the currents were pulling him deeper under the water.

Despair began to set in. His muscles were tiring quickly and only the insulating warmth of his greatcoat was keeping the chill from his bones.

Saint Zhagev-who-sings-for-tears, hisgreatcoat!

The garment that had protected him through countless judicial duels and ambushes, with its slender bone plates sewed into the lining and its dozens of secret pockets filled with the tricks, traps and potions upon which he relied to survive, was now an anchor dragging him like a shipwrecked vessel to the bottom of the sea.

The thought of removing his coat, of abandoning this most precious of treasures, was almost unthinkable. His fingers fumbled with the damnably sturdy buttons he’d done up to keep out the cold and rain.

Air.He needed air or he’d drown before he could remove the very thing that was weighing him down.

One final attempt then, he thought, allowing his body to drift back to the bottom, then pushing off with every remaining ounce of strength. Even as his legs kicked him towards the surface, he managed to undo a few of the buttons trapping him inside the leather coat. He broke through a third time, but desire was a cruel temptress and she tricked Estevar into breathing in too soon. As much water as air came into his lungs, leaving him coughing and choking and, worst of all, sinking back down, unable to shed his coat or even unscabbard the rapier still belted to his side.

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