[Mkguild] Engulfed (1/1)

[C. Matthias]

Here is a new story for Metamor Keep!  Ryx wrote 
most of it, while I did some editing and added a few things here and there.

Metamor Keep: Engulfed
By Ryx and Charles Matthias

June 18, 708 CR

Malger leaned his forearms against the railing 
and turned his muzzle toward the wind which had 
warmed perceptibly since leaving Metamor behind. 
The wind did not stream from the bow into his 
face, rather it was steady astern and their 
progress under its persistent nudge pushed the 
vessel swiftly enough to offer a breeze. Eyes 
half closed as he enjoyed the caress of his 
whiskers he could see young Erick sporting about 
the forward rigging under the watchful eye of a 
couple nearby crewmen. His own Misanthe, a truly 
strange acquisition to his House, and Charles’ 
Kimberly were below the aft castle with the other 
children listening to Pharacellus tell another improbable tale.

“We’re making excellent time, Your Grace.” 
Captain Calenti offered from his left. Malger 
turned from the breeze and opened his dark eyes 
more fully. The human offered a pleased smile 
and, extending one hand, a thin tapered flute of 
wine. The flute was pewter rather than crystal, 
owing to the risks of sailing, but was finely 
wrought and etched with maritime scenes. With a 
gracious bow he accepted the wine and sipped; it 
was a Lorland red, certainly young in vintage but 
not unpleasant to the palette all the same. “In 
another week we should be making safe harbor in 
Sutthaivasse, well ahead of schedule.”

“Indeed, captain.” Malger smiled with a burring 
concurrence, “So swiftly does the Venture fly the 
waves my messengers will scarce be ahead by a 
day, and even then only if I send them when we 
pause for the evening a day prior to arriving.” 
His nobles, both those loyal and those not so, 
would be wroth at his sudden return with another 
gaggle of beastly visitors. “The dragons may have 
great stamina of wing, but they’re considerably 
lacking for speed, and my messenger birds are the 
same save perhaps the gull. Your gryphon, 
Kurgael, may make better time but, well, he’s got 
the wings of a raptor, not an albatross. Good for 
speed over short sprints but not so swift over distance.”

“He doesn’t seem to much care for you, either.” 
Calenti offered dryly with a glance at the twin 
specks circling high above. Strangely, the 
smaller of the two was flying in exaggerated, 
elongated circles, positioning his wings in a 
most peculiar manner and falling a short distance 
before repeating. “Leastwise, he seems rather 
aloof.” Calenti trailed into silence after 
watching the gryphon for a few moments, and then 
his gaze dropped to the western horizon.

“Raptors tend to be aloof, too.” Malger opined 
blandly as he watched the odd behavior and sipped 
his wine. A soft metallic clatter brought his 
gaze to the deck where Calenti’s taper was 
spilling wine and rolling across the deck. “Captain?”

“Devil’s wave!” Calenti barked with surprising 
volume, gripping the rail of the aft castle and 
glaring goggle eyed at the deck below. A few deck 
hands paused to look up but most abruptly 
launched into frenzied action. “Devil’s wave to 
starboard! Starboard oars hard in, port double 
beat!” Leaping over the railing he dropped the 
short distance to the deck below, startling the 
already concerned women and children. Pharacellus 
quickly reached out and drew them in though the 
captain was aware enough not to land nearby. The 
human stalked furiously up the length of the 
Venture’s center deck barking rapid orders. The 
steady thud of the drum marking time was hammering a much more rapid pace.

“Dig in, you louts, dig in!” Even as he barked 
orders Calenti kept his gaze toward the boundless 
sea to the right side of the Venture. Malger 
could see nothing, at first. It took several 
heartbeats before he noticed a much darker line 
of water hulking up between their ship and the 
horizon. The tillerman, cursing a string of 
invectives in a foreign tongue, had pushed the 
board hard over even as the stilled port oars 
began dragging the ship into a laborious turn.

Calenti returned to the aft deck at a charge and 
snatched up the spyglass from its cup on the 
forward railing. He held it to his eye and 
scanned the oncoming line of deeper blue, then 
forward, and finally all the way around toward 
the shore just visible on the horizon to port. 
“Sea witchs’ tits!” He snarled at whatever he saw through his spy glass.

Malger followed each of the captain’s turns and 
saw the strange line of building water to one 
side, a paler stretch of water several boat 
lengths to the same side which slowly revealed 
itself to be land, or sand, encrusted with 
upthrust stones and corals, and to the shoreward 
side a gap in the land on the horizon. “Captain?” 
Malger inquired curiously, hoping for some 
interpretation to be offered. Calenti supplied 
it, though with terse words and actions.

His arm thrust toward the blue line rushing 
toward them, its crest beginning to fleck with 
white, to the stretch of newly revealed rocky 
shoreline between the Venture and the line, and 
finally to the gap in the distant land to their 
opposite side. “Devil’s wave, sand bar there’s 
going to build it up ere it reaches us, river 
cuts from land,” He pointed forward of the ship a 
mere few lengths where the sea water seemed a 
slight bit darker and was clearly moving far more 
swiftly away from land than the water upon which 
the Venture sailed. “There!” His eyes shifted 
seaward again. “Reef the bloody mainsail!” He 
bellowed so furiously Malger backed his ears. 
“Now, bleed ya, now!” Men who had already 
scrambled into the rigging were clearly already attempting to do just that.

Only a minute or two had passed since they spied 
the gryphon’s odd behavior and the Venture had 
barely turned; the sails had their fill of the 
wind and did not wish to alter course. “Meaning 
what, captain?” Malger’s voice ratcheted up an 
unwilling octave at the captain’s apparent loss of composure.

“Devil’s touch is gonna roll us!” Calenti 
snarled, shifting his steely gaze from crew to 
wave and back as if willing them to work more 
swiftly. “Swamp us or flat out capsize us, I do 
not know. Yet.” He cast another glance at the 
sea. “Tell yer ladies to hold fast to them 
younglings of yours and stay put. Belowdecks will 
be as dangerous as topside when that bitch of the seas kisses us.”

Malger felt a moment of panic, himself, when he 
saw finally what Calenti already knew. The blue 
line of water had resolved into a breaking wave. 
As it hissed noisily over the exposed spit of 
rocky shoreline it mounted even taller, easily 
twice as high as the low sitting Venture’s 
gunwhales. “Ship oars!” Calenti fairly yelped, 
“Ship oars and lock! Secure for rolling!”

“Phar!” Malger leaned over the railing to look down, “The children, Phar!”

“I know!” The man below was gone, in his place a 
hulking reptile huddled around a knot of 
frightened rats and a fox. “Erick! He was 
forward!” The dragon’s voice was a kettle pushed 
to boil and beyond. Malger felt the deck at his 
feet begin to tilt as the roaring wave charged. 
He spied Erick huddled at the very bow of the 
ship below the bowsprit, two crewman madly 
hauling lines on either side of him. Even while 
they worked they kept an eye to him but their 
attention was mostly on getting the sails furled.

And then the wave reached the Venture, curling 
but not breaking as it surged against the 
partially turned bow. Water exploded over the 
first third of the Venture as it lurched upward 
and rolled toward its starboard side. Men 
screamed. Beasts who had once been human 
screamed. Malger even felt a horrified howl 
escape his own throat as the world became white 
and wet with a roar drowning out mortal voices.

He held to the rail and thrust a leg and arm 
through the posts as the Venture, with a tortured 
groan, heeled up and rolled. Distant thunder 
boomed from below decks as cargo broke loose. 
Wood creaked and snapped with claps of tortured thunder.

Up and up the Venture seemed to rise as it 
rolled. The mainmast slammed into the water with 
an explosive wet crack and men were hurled into 
the churning sea. Oars not fully withdrawn wagged 
about like the legs of a beetle on its back. 
Malger saw the roiling surface of the sea a man’s 
height below him and looked away, only to see the 
bow of the Venture standing in the air. In the 
foamy tumult he could not see Erick, or the two 
crewmen, at the bow where snapped rigging flailed like an attacking Kracken.

Slowly the upward tilt began to reverse, though 
barely a handful of seconds had passed. The crest 
of the wave continued beyond them and the Venture 
returned to the water with a slap and groan of 
protesting timbers. The aft lurched upward over 
the fulcrum of the wave, almost launching Malger 
into the air. Calenti, who had similarly braced 
himself, would have been thrown overboard had 
Jerome not snatched his arm and hauled him down. 
The ragged Sondecki was as fully human as Malger 
had ever seen, one arm grasping the aft railing 
of the ship to pin the rudder handle, the other 
dragging Calenti back to his feet. Of the tillerman there was no sign.

Taking a moment to ensure Calenti had retained 
enough wits to take over the tiller, Jerome 
turned and launched himself overboard.

As the listing ship righted itself and stilled 
its wild tossing Malger released his deathgrip on 
the railing and levered upright. The scene on the 
deck was utter chaos. Men, injured and hale, were 
dragging themselves back to their posts. Smashed 
oars were hastily cast off and intact oars were shoved back into the water.

Whence came one wave another would follow so they 
were still trying to turn the ship into the next. 
The main mast had miraculously survived, but the 
boom and cross spars had all succumbed to the 
violence of the wave. Tattered canvas and snapped 
ropes dangled, showering the deck below with 
water. A single crewman managed to remain in the 
rigging – though only because he had become 
tangled before he could leap clear. The thrashing 
had all but dismembered the hapless soul who hung 
limp against the mainmast below the smashed crow’s nest.

Malger spared little thought for the crew. He 
glanced over the railing to see Pharacellus 
heaped against the gunwale, battered and bruised 
with a shattered oar thrust through one wing, but 
he had retained the women and children. He turned 
his attention to the water where sailors and 
debris bobbed, all caught in an increasing 
outward current. The river coming from shore had 
carved a channel through the reefs and sand bars. 
Now it provided the easiest route for water to 
recede from the wave’s passing. The Venture and 
its detritus was captured in the outward flow, 
lighter things moving away with surprising speed. 
Living crew wailed and flailed toward the Venture 
while others simply floated amidst the debris unmoving.

And then he saw it, a tiny arm flailing in the 
air as its bearer was swept away with startling 
speed. With a curse Malger raised an arm, seized 
the cuff in his teeth, and concentrated. Unlike 
Misanthe, he had to work to shift himself from 
man to animal, a process neither swift or exactly 
comfortable. But in moments he had shucked the 
form of a half-man animal to the form the curse 
should have left its victims with. As he shrank 
from man to marten his clothes collapsed around 
him, the falling sleeve allowing him to shimmy 
from the heap without difficulty. Misanthe had 
shown him that trick, allowing him to escape what 
would otherwise be an entrapping tangle. Hopping 
free he reversed the change even as he darted toward the railing.

Already another wall of water was mounting before 
the wallowing Venture but it was far more shallow 
and, cut by the current of the unseen river, 
failed to form the deadly rolling crest. Malger 
reached the side, perched a moment on the gunwale 
to get his bearings, and dove overboard. The 
water was not cold, but far from comfortably 
warm, and closed over him with a rushing gurgle. 
The sound of creaking wood was loud through the 
water above and behind him but the current had 
him in its clutches, sweeping him swiftly away 
from the floundering ship. Arms churning against 
the weight of water soaking his fur Malger fought 
for the surface and gulped a breath as soon as his head broke free.

Turning away from the vessel he swam.

----------

Gmork’s Prodigal felt a displeasing emotion when 
the captain began bellowing and the crew began 
running about; fear. He could smell it through 
the reek of sweat, tar, and the suffusing fishy 
brine spilling from the bustling humans like the 
puff of a vapor mushroom trodden underfoot.

He found himself almost entirely wolf in a 
breath, darting away from a trio of seamen who 
had failed to heed where he crouched not far from 
the man-dragon Pharacellus. Scrambling hastily 
one way, only to dodge another knot of jabbering, 
frightened humans running about, he found himself 
at the steep stair leading up aft castle. 
Scrambling up, where only the tiller man and 
Malger remained, he found a moment of peace to 
consider the sudden change in the crew.

He wondered what had engendered such swift fear, 
for not knowing infected him with its own 
anxiety. Calenti surged up onto the aft deck and 
stepped around the huge crouched wolf without 
being conscious of doing so, and snatched a long 
spy-glass from a cylindrical holder on the railing.

Malger and the man shared a brief, curt exchange 
and a scent of alarm came from the normally 
affable, unflappable nobleman as well, further 
confounding the wolf. But at least he understood 
something of the exchange; a wave approached 
large enough to threaten the wide, deep bellied Venture.

The human Gmork’s Prodigal had once been knew 
water, if only enough to be comfortable with the 
concept of so much water neither man nor beast 
could swim its breadth. The creature Gmork's 
Prodigal had become, however, could not swim in 
the manner of man nor as easily as a true wolf 
born with the knowledge ingrained. If something 
could arise from it with such power to threaten 
the wallowing wooden tub there was little Gmork's 
Prodigal could do but hope it survived.

Fear struck true and sent the deadly wolf 
scuttling away from the human and marten, unsure 
where to go or what to do. The tiller man, eyes 
wide and pale face turned toward the seaward side 
of the boat, paid him no more heed than the 
captain did. Despite reeking of fear sweat he 
maintained his post, however, holding the long 
arm of the tiller turned hard to one side. On the 
decks below oarsmen worked similarly while others scrambled in the rigging.

Gmork’s Prodigal felt the deck begin to list and 
tilt, the bow turning up the face of a terrifying 
wall of water, white foam crashing over the 
forward half of the ship in a hissing roar. His 
stout claws dug at the deck but as it tilted and 
pitched further and further those normally 
unfailing anchors began to slip, tearing the wood 
beneath them to splinters. His fear ratcheted up 
further when, looking down, he saw the far side 
of the ship was nearly in the water below. The 
tiller man hung onto the arm of the tiller but, 
as the Prodigal watched, he slipped and, with a 
terrified shriek, fell into the churning water.

He did not resurface.

Gmork’s Prodigal was forced to finally move or 
fall into the water as well, but the paws and 
jaws of a hunter would not serve him against the 
truest of predators; the angry sea, against whom 
the wolf was no more dangerous than a cub. He had to shed the beast.

It proved to be more instinctive than willful, 
however. Sliding across the almost vertical deck 
looking down at the water below Gmork's Prodigal 
reached out for the nearest solid wood he could 
reach. His hand – not paw, but hand – grasped at 
the swinging arm of the tiller, hauling him up 
short of the water. His free hand grabbed at the 
rail of the aft gunwale and he hauled himself 
against it, pinning the tiller arm in place. For 
a moment all he could do was hang there while the 
ship’s bow speared skyward and the entire vessel 
slipped toward its aft, almost driving the 
Prodigal and the tiller he grasped into the water 
before it crested the wave. The reverse of its 
upward pitch and sideward roll was, if anything, 
even more violent. With the crest of the wave 
acting as fulcrum and the Venture a lever the bow fell and the aft rose.

Captain Calenti lost his grasp of a nearby 
railing, briefly flattened to the deck as the 
fore and aft traded elevations. The impact of the 
bow jerked the stern upward and catapulted him 
into the air where he would have gone overboard 
had Gmork's Prodigal not acted. Releasing the 
beam of the tiller, keeping it pinned with his 
body, he reached out and caught the flailing 
man’s arm and jerked him down. Once again Calenti 
was hammered to the deck but by then the ship had 
wallowed itself more or less upright.

And then he saw something he had longed for, but 
fighting, since his old friend had taken him from the north.

Freedom.

The Venture’s launch was bobbing in the flotsam 
behind the ship, both oars still secure in their 
locks, and only a little water sloshing in the 
bottom. Without another thought to the tiller or 
the captain floundering for control he leaped 
over the railing and splashed down into the far smaller boat.

My son, the voice whispered in his mind. Come 
back to me, my son, let us run in the forest once more. Let us hunt!

I come, Father, Gmork’s Prodigal thought in 
reply, grabbing up the oars and swinging them 
free. The launch listed as a hand reached up to 
grasp the gunwale near the stern. Another hand 
appeared, and then a soaked head as one of the 
Venture’s crew hauled himself up. Struggling, the 
man did not look up, spilling himself awkwardly 
over the side of the boat and collapsing in a 
sodden heap only an arm’s length away.

Slay him! The voice demanded fiercely. Slay him 
and come to me! His hands shuddered on the oars, 
striving to become paws, but he fought the 
impulse. Paws could not row; a wolf could not 
row, could not seek freedom. Turning his head, he 
glanced over the bobbing bow of the launch, but 
he was much lower on the water and could no 
longer see the thin band of land over the 
horizon. When he looked back the crewman was 
staring at him, fear and caution writ on his face.

Dipping the oars, Gmork's Prodigal dug them into 
the water, the long spars of wood creaking as he 
pushed his considerable strength against them. 
The launch was light and nimble, quickly moving 
its length and more away from the wallowing 
Venture. The crewman hastily grabbed the small 
boat’s tiller and pushed it hard to one side. 
“Into the wave! Row, man, row!” He rasped, choking and coughing water.

Gmork's Prodigal raised his eyes as the small 
craft turned swiftly, his view across the stern 
swinging landward rather than away. He could do 
nothing more than row, feeling freedom slipping 
from his grasp. It was a freedom he yearned for, 
though he knew it was the doom of the man he had 
once been, surrendering to the predator he had become.

He heard yelling from the Venture as it receded, 
the captain and crew striving to turn the 
lumbering hull away from the shore. Flotsam 
thumped and whispered as the launch pushed 
through but the Prodigal had eyes only for the 
distant horizon. After several long moments he 
felt the boat begin to pitch upward, a rumbling 
hiss growing in his ears. He chanced a glance 
back, toward the bow, and saw a towering ridge of 
water topped by a thin line of curling white swiftly approaching.

The crewman had gained control of their small 
craft and it sliced up the wave, through the 
birthing break, and tipped over the top to slide 
smoothly down the opposite side. Behind them the 
Venture plowed forcefully through, sending up a 
hissing spume of white as it rose and crashed 
down with a second spray of water. Some of its 
long oars dangled unmanned, while others reached 
out to dig into the churning waters like the legs 
of a water beetle. The smashed boom arm swung 
wildly, a few brave souls had scrambled into the 
tangled rigging struggling to get it under control.

Gmork's Prodigal continued to creak the oars, 
speeding the small craft away from the larger 
vessel, confused for a few moments as the man at 
the tiller half stood to crane his head high 
enough to see over their bow. “Left oar.” He 
muttered and Gmork's Prodigal let the right oar 
drag and pulled the left, swinging the craft. “Hold oars, look right.”

Off the right side of the launch was the ferret 
Garigan, clinging to a floating cask and waving 
an arm toward them. Once the boat coasted nearer 
he abandoned the cask and awkwardly swam close 
enough to grab one of the oars. He held it steady 
while the ferret dragged himself over to the boat 
and the first man helped him climb aboard. 
Garigan patted Gmork's Prodigal on the shoulder 
and offered him a grateful smile while the man 
resumed his seat at the tiller. Once more Gmork's 
Prodigal set to the oars and got the small rescue craft back to its task.

Freedom slipped further and further away as they 
moved from floundering crewman to crewman, 
cresting waves that seemed smaller with each 
pass. I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry.

----------

“Erick!” Kimberly screamed, scrambling awkwardly 
toward the bow even as the venture wallowed in 
the wake of the first wave. Having become a rat 
lent her surprising balance as she darted over 
spilled cargo and tangled ropes. Of the two men 
she had seen there before the wave hit only one 
remained, curled up about his broken arm and 
groaning. “Where is my son, the one who was here?”

The man looked up at her with terrified eyes and 
then at the tangled nest of ropes and spilled 
canvas in the small alcove beneath the bowsprit. 
“I
 I do not know, m’lady.” He moaned with a 
shake of his head. “I saw not where he went.”

“Overboard.” A woeful voice rumbled behind her, 
Pharcellus pushing his way through the hanging 
ropes and torn canvas dangling from the swaying 
main boom. He raised his head and looked beyond 
the swinging bow of the ship. Raising a wing 
slightly he swept it forward. “There. Lord Malger swims for him.”

“Erick!” Kimberly screamed again. She could not 
see her missing son. “Pharcellus, can you fly to him?”

“Alas,” The dragon rumbled, shifting his other 
wing to reveal a bloody rent through the delicate 
membrane. “I am truly bound to the earth, 
milady.” Charles darted past with barely a glance 
at the unpleasant looking tear in the hapless 
dragon’s wing. Reaching the rail beside his wife 
he stared out to see, and then looked up.

High above the gryphon Kurgael swooped and 
circled with Lindsey well above him. The muscles 
under the fur and scars of the rat’s face 
twitched and jumped, his ears jerking as he gazed 
out across the water. He ignored the captain’s 
bellowing or the scrambling crewman trying to 
recover from the chaos. Another dark line of 
water built as if summoned, slowly, from the blue 
green waters between the injured Venture and distant horizon.

Pharcellus quickly reached out and grasped 
Charles by one arm when the rat’s claws dug into 
the railing and his weight shifted forward. 
“Charles, no!” He rumbled, only the strength of 
his dragon form withstanding the rat’s Sondecki 
strength. Bits of wood tore free under his claws 
as he fought to pull his arm from the dragon’s 
grasp. “You are needed here, for your wife and children!”

Charles rounded on the dragon and his free hand 
grasped at the talon holding him. “Erick is being 
swept away!” He snapped, clawing fruitlessly at 
tough dragon hide. “I will not lose another child!”

“You shan't!” The dragon growled, covering how 
much those sharp, powerful rat claws hurt as they 
dug at the thin flesh of his talon. “Look! Malger 
swims for him!” The Venture’s bow rose several 
feet, dropping the weeping Kimberly to her knees, 
and another white explosion of water broke over 
them, and then a second as the bow crashed back 
down. In the distance Malger and Erick were but 
small specks on the littered water, one flailing 
and the other swimming rapidly closer. “He is too far away for you to swim.”

“Malger swims for him, but can he swim back?” 
Charles finally ceased struggling with the 
unbreakable grasp about his arm and slumped to 
grasp the railing. Kimberly grasped his other arm 
and pulled herself up, looking fearfully toward 
the raft of debris swiftly stretching toward the 
distant horizon. Another, shorter bulking of 
water obscured the distant swimmers. A short 
distance away the Venture’s launch was surging 
through the water, but not toward the rapidly 
dwindling pair. Charles was somewhat startled to 
see Jerome at the oars with Garigan and a half 
dozen crewmen in the launch striving to scoop up 
those they could reach before they were swept away.

“The gryphon!” Kimberly cried out, pointing, as 
the smaller of the two fliers dove precipitously 
toward the distant water. He pulled up, however, 
before dropping too low. “What of Lindsey? Can he help?”

“If he tries he will not escape the water, 
Kimberly.” Pharcellus offered, trying to keep his 
own fear out of his draconic rumble. “He would 
founder and drown, he is ill practiced swimming as a dragon.”

Several times the gryphon Kurgael dove and 
climbed, staying near the surface of the water, 
but he was so distant even Pharcellus had trouble seeing what he was doing.

By the fourth wave the Venture barely lifted and 
the shattered boom had been carefully cut loose 
to slip over one side of the ship into the water. 
Kurgael finally stopped diving and, in a show of 
both avian grace and feline awkwardness pumped 
his wings frantically, almost touching the water. 
A moment later he was struggling into the sky, 
defining a long curve back toward the ship.

Without the sails, ropes, and booms complicating 
his approach the gryphon was able to glide in 
and, backwinging powerfully, drop lightly to the 
clear deck with only his rear paws. In the deadly 
raptor’s talons of his forelimbs he clutched a 
small, sodden form. Erick cried out when his 
parents clambered up to the aft deck, darting 
into their arms to join his wailing cries with Kimberly’s relieved cries.

“What of Malger?” Misanthe asked fearfully, 
following Erick’s brother and sisters up to join 
the gaggle of rats crowding Calenti’s command 
post. The Captain, for his part, gave them a 
brief glance before returning to getting his 
severely damaged vessel pointed back toward land. “He is still out there!”

“Yes,” Kurgael panted, his rough avian shriek 
ragged, wings sagging. “He held young Erick above 
the waves, where I could take him without falling 
into the water. I am no sea bird to take wing 
from the water, milady. If I fell in, I would not rise again.”

“What about Lubec and the others?” Charles asked, 
glancing toward the top of the main mast where 
they could commonly be found. He saw none of them.

“Out staying with the marten.” Kurgael offered 
with a sigh, “But they are too small to lift him 
from the waves. They keep him afloat, but can do 
little more. The current is far too swift for him to swim against.”

“Even with that black clad man-wolf of yours at 
the oars, even riding the current, they are too 
far distant for the launch to reach. It could not 
return against the current, either.” Calenti 
sighed with a frown, glancing briefly toward the 
horizon before looking away. With little any of 
them could do and the Venture limping toward 
shore, he had accepted the truth; nothing could 
be done to save the Lord minstrel. Jerome had 
returned to the Venture to offload survivors 
before turning to the sea again. They could not 
easily be asked to try making for the horizon 
without abandoning those who were still in the water and closer to reach.

“What of the net?” Pharcellus asked, his large 
head peeking over the railing. “You used for fishing?”

“It’s either tangled with all the other gear or 
gone overboard.” Calenti said quietly with a wave 
toward the heaped items tossed to the center of 
the deck by the crew as salvageable. Everything 
too damaged to be repaired or re-purposed was being cast overboard.

Carefully freeing herself from Erick’s terrified 
grip Kimberly stood and darted down to the lower 
deck, returning within moments carrying a large, 
empty waterskin. Pulling the cork free she 
inflated it slightly before holding it out to 
Charles. “Carry this to him. It will allow him to 
float until we can get a boat to him, or do 
something. Anything! He saved Erick, we cannot simply leave him to drown!”

Taking the waterskin Charles inflated it as much 
as it would withstand before corking it. “Tie a 
rope to it, the others may be able to tow him 
closer.” He held it toward Kurgael. The gryphon 
eyed it dubiously before gingerly reaching out to 
grasp it carefully lest his sharp claws puncture 
it. “Or have him assume his animal form. It may 
be small enough for you or the others to pluck free of the water.”

Calenti had one of the deck hands bring a length 
of narrow rope and they tied it to the waterskin 
while the gryphon watched, his avian visage 
inscrutable. He accepted the bundle carefully 
when they were finished. “As you wish, your grace. I will do what I can.”

“He must survive, Kurgael. Without him, our 
journey ends here.” Charles frowned and looked at 
the distant horizon, now speckled only with a few 
distant bits of debris. “We know no one in the 
south as he does. Even in his city, that knew us 
briefly, I doubt any would offer us succor without him.”

“Please.” Misanthe begged, her voice subdued. All 
four of the Matthias children clung either to her 
or their mother, still fearful more waves might come.

Kurgael took a slow breath before bobbing his 
head once, “On my life, your grace, mistress. I 
will bring him back alive.” Stepping back while 
they retreated he climbed up to perch on the aft 
railing. He crouched for a moment before 
thrusting off with strong feline rear legs, wings 
snapping out and beating the air noisily. His 
launch never looked graceful, rising and falling 
with each flap of those broad pinions, but he 
never failed to climb despite the awkward look of his hybrid body.

Tilting as he climbed the gryphon turned toward 
the distant shape of Lindsey who still circled, almost at the horizon.

----------

Calenti found a small cove some leagues south in 
the late hours of the afternoon into which to 
steer the Venture, the hapless boat still afloat 
but sorely damaged. He had lost a dozen crew to 
the rogue wave, either overboard or slain when 
the ship rolled. Another two dozen were injured, 
some severely, reducing the capable crew by half. 
Jerome and Garigan had saved over a dozen who had 
been tossed overboard, most of them uninjured despite their dunking.

In the depths of the cove was a sheltered curve 
of beach onto which they drove the Venture rather 
than anchoring it in deeper water. They secured 
it with stout mooring ropes to larger trees along 
the shore and waited for the tide to recede so 
the full extent of the damage could be surveyed.

With no duties to the ship itself the bedraggled 
passengers disembarked and began setting up a 
camp. Misanthe turned her attention toward the 
injured to distract herself from thoughts of 
Malger’s fate. Kurgael and the other fliers had 
not yet returned. For once the crew did not look 
at them as anything beyond those caught in the 
same circumstances. Injured crewmen suffered the 
embroidery needle and thread Misanthe 
appropriated to stitch up what wounds she could, 
including the painful looking tear in Pharcellus’ 
wing. Calenti admitted some surprise the 
diminutive, red furred vixen knew medicine at 
all, much less sufficient to treat his injured.

She explained she had been trained to serve for 
the entirety of her life, and taking care of the 
sick was one aspect of her training. Injuries at 
risk of infection were neatly bandaged and broken 
bones carefully, if painfully, set and splinted. 
Of those injured a good many who would’ve not 
been able to return to their duties would be able 
to. All were grateful, even those who had earlier 
expressed unease at their passengers’ beastly appearance.

Further setting their apprehension at ease, 
Charles, after making sure neither his children 
nor his wife had taken injury during the wave, 
especially Erick who despite being swept off the 
bow had suffered nothing more than fright and 
drinking too much sea water, regaled the crew 
with fanciful tales he'd known from his days in 
the Writer's Guild. The tales were full of ribald 
humor and double entente normally foreign to his 
repertoire as well as silly noises and 
expressions impossible for any but a rat of Metamor.

His children chittered and squeaked in delight, 
their fear forgotten as they watched their 
beloved father perform. At first only a few of 
the crew laughed, but with each tale more and 
more turned from cursing the fickle sea or 
lamenting friends lost, to laugh and relax with 
those still alive. By the seventh tale Calenti 
and his surviving crew applauded and demanded 
more. And with each new tale Charles cavorted 
across the beach more, gesticulated with greater 
verve, made even more salacious innuendo, and 
produced ridiculous noises with any part of his body he could manage.

Charles saved no lives when the wave hit. For a 
few hours as the tide went out he did his best to save their spirits.

----------

The sun had dropped below the horizon but the 
camp was still busy when all were startled nearly 
witless when a loud splash erupted from the cove 
near the beached Venture. Uninjured men leaped 
for weapons and everyone stood poised to flee or 
attack whatever intruder had caused such a noise.

Firelight glinted from rippling water and the 
narrow, wet visage of a large, panting reptile 
wading from the water, wings dragging at its 
sides. “Lindsey!” Pharcellus rumbled in surprise 
as he trotted to the water’s edge, Jerome as a 
wolf close behind. “Are you well? What of the others?”

“They are well.” The younger dragon panted, head 
sagging as much as his wings. “I’m exhausted. We 
could not find you until the sun went down and we 
spied your fire. The trees.” He flicked a wing 
halfheartedly at the foliage stretching over the 
cove. “Kurgael and the others are near behind, with Malger.”

“Oh, blessed Nocturna.” Misanthe breathed, 
trotting up to stand beside the dragons and wolf, 
eyes cast toward the darkness of the sea. Dimly 
she saw several shapes, one large and three 
small, gliding toward them from the night. Two of 
the birds dropped into the water as Lindsey had, 
though with far more grace. The third alighted on 
the bow of the Venture while the last form 
dipped, then climbed steeply with the loud 
thumping of wings before dropping onto the sand.

Kurgael collapsed where he landed, panting 
loudly, as Malger hopped from his back. Naked, 
his dried fur sticking in all directions though 
generally rearward, he had the appearance of an 
overly furry animal dried in a windstorm.

Which, in truth, he was and had.

Misanthe darted to him and he caught her in a 
tight hug, unabashed at his nakedness, resting 
his chin between her ears as he gazed at the camp 
and every eye turned toward him. “Captain Calenti?”

“Milord?” The captain stepped from beyond the fire.

“I would accept the service of your crewmember 
Kurgael, if that pleases you.” He reached one 
hand to rest his fingertips against the feathers 
of the panting gryphon’s neck. The raptor’s beak 
snapped shut with a sharp crack and his head 
turned slightly. “Had he not returned, I would 
have not survived the day, even with the help of 
the birds.” He gave a self-deprecatory laugh and 
looked down at his disarrayed fur. “My fur is ill suited to swimming, I fear.”

Calenti glanced at Kurgael and shrugged, “Whether 
it please me or not, master Malger, t’is he you 
would ask. He hired on to provide eyes, not crew my vessel.”

“I will wait, then, and let him get the rest he 
so mightily deserves.” His hand gave the 
gryphon’s neck a light pat and he stepped away, 
one arm still around Misanthe. “How fare your 
crew, captain? I’m afraid I abandoned ship a tad early.”

Calenti snorted a brief laugh and even Kimberly 
managed a short titter before stepping up as if 
she would embrace the bedraggled marten. As if 
suddenly cogent of his state of dress, or the 
fact that even in his state of undress he was 
still a royal, she merely reached up to cup his 
muzzle in her slender rodentine hands. “You 
nearly died to save my son. I – there is – I –” 
Flustered, she dropped her hands and gaze, only 
to snap it back up briefly before turning aside.

“We are in your debt, Malger.” Charles intoned 
quietly into the momentary silence. After a 
moment one corner of his muzzle lifted ruefully. “Again.”

Malger shook his head slowly, “For that, you are 
not nor shall ever be, my friend. The life of a 
child is worth any risk, of friend or foe.” 
Moving toward the fire he raised a hand to clasp 
Charles on the shoulder before continuing on. 
“Misanthe, did any of my wardrobe survive? As 
much as modesty annoys me, it does not due to 
reveal my good looks to just anyone.”

A few of the crew laughed, the surprise of 
Lindsey’s noisy arrival ebbing. “Well, your 
lordship,” Calenti opined as people began to 
resume their interrupted tasks, “Getting my poor 
lass back into seaworthy shape will take a number 
of days. Such, perhaps, that your messengers may 
bear tidings of our arrival in a timely manner.”

“After they have rested, captain, after everyone 
has rested. We have all earned a respite. Let us 
make of it what we can.” He said as Misanthe lead 
him out of the firelight and into the shadows of 
the forest where she had arranged their area of the camp.

----------

June 20, 708 CR

Seated upon the thick trunk of a fallen tree 
Malger leaned back against an upright limb and 
toyed with his flute. While the tumbling of the 
wave had all but destroyed his dulcimer and 
subsequent dunking had ruined his tambour and 
drum his flute had escaped unscathed. Nearby 
Misanthe sat, cross legged, perched between two 
branches while she worked on what remained of his 
wardrobe. Like his tambour, much of it had been 
ruined by a lengthy stay in seawater tainted by 
both cargo and bilge. He had no fine garments 
surviving worthy of wearing when he presented 
himself to the lords of Sutthiavasse.

Into one’s life a little fetid water must flow, 
he mused, admiring the vixen as she worked. She 
truly was a fetching creature, he had to admit, 
as much if not moreso than any he had ever had 
the pleasure of entertaining in the past. Worthy 
of the itch teasing the back of his head, he 
wondered, or more? Her skills were without peer, 
surpassing any manservant he had ever employed, 
and far more broad beside. She was adept at the 
skills of body servant, house servant, steward, and even cook.

His ruminations were disturbed at a slow 
whispering among the leaves not far away and he 
paused in his admiration of the vixen. Beyond the 
source of those sounds, in the distance, the 
sharp reports of axe against wood drifted through 
the forest – Calenti’s crew hard at work 
fabricating workable repairs to the Venture.

The source of the nearer noise soon proved to be 
a large raptor easing down the path to their 
small camp. The sharp predatory eyes spied 
Misanthe and glinted in an errant beam of 
sunshine leaking through the canopy when they 
shifted to Malger. “Your grace.” The gryphon 
rasped with a slight bob of his huge head. “I have considered your offer.”

“And?” Malger inquired guardedly, sensing 
something about the gryphon was not entirely on 
balance. The bird’s dreams had been troubled 
since the Venture’s near disaster but Malger had not plumbed them.

“I wish you to know, before I respond.” Raising 
his head, the gryphon gazed down the length of 
his deadly raptor’s beak with intense eyes. “I 
meant to kill you.” Misanthe froze abruptly, ears 
pinning forward, one hand creeping toward the 
long blade secreted up the sleeve of her blouse. 
“Or see you dead, in any regard.”

“And now you seek to fulfill that?” Malger asked 
quietly, his senses expanding to seek out the 
most immediate route of escape, and engagement. 
“None are near enough to hear, or witness, should 
we inexplicably disappear.” A roll to the right 
would drop him from the log, impeding the gryphon 
long enough for him to draw his blades. If 
Kurgael went for Malger first, anyway. If he 
struck at Misanthe first he would take those 
swords to the back of his neck, and likely her 
dagger to his throat, before his beak could close upon her.

“I –” The predator paused to take a breath, eyes 
dropping and huge head slowly dipping. “I hired 
on with the Venture when I heard who had hired 
it, the last survivor of House Sutt.” Head and 
eyes came back up to bore down upon him though 
the gryphon did not move closer, or further away. “To kill him. You.”

“Ahh, my sire’s legacy lives on.” Malger sighed 
with a slow shake of his head. “Tell me, then, 
which land did you hail from that he conquered?”

“Breckaris.” Kurgael rasped in a short, furious 
hiss. “My sire and brother stood, and fell, in 
your sire’s last push. Crushed between Sutt army 
and Breckaris defense. They were merchants, Sutt. 
Not soldiers. Pressed into your sire’s service 
and pushed to the vanguard though neither had but 
swing a sword at straw men in some Lord’s yearly levy training.”

Malger slowly bowed his head to gaze at the 
gleaming silver of his flute for a moment, though 
never letting the gryphon slip from the corner of 
his sight. After a moment he raised the 
instrument and blew a few short, mournful notes. 
“For that, Kurgael, my most heartfelt grief for 
you. As a youth you were spared?”

“As a youth I fled.” The sharp beak scissored the 
air, breath hissing from the gryphon’s nares. “My 
father bid me take to my feet and flee, with my 
mother. Illness and grief did for her a year 
later, learning what fate befell those who 
marched against Breckaris. I fell in with 
bandits, earning my pay cutting throats and 
smashing heads. We did not know, or care, where 
we roved.” With a snort the gryphon abruptly 
folded his forelimbs, body settling couchant so 
swiftly Malger almost cast himself away fearing 
attack. “Until one of our member sported tits and 
I found this 
 thing, protruding from my face.” 
Though the gryphon could not cross his eyes 
Malger sensed that he sought to stare at his own 
deadly beak. “Other things happened to others of 
the band, and they eventually fell upon one 
another in rage. The one who led us became a 
woman, and I will say nothing of his fate. It was 
not swift. I slipped away in the night before I 
became a spitted roast over the fire.

“Eventually the change stopped, leaving me as 
some monstrosity the likes of which I had never 
before encountered. I hid away from the lands of 
men, making my way to the cliffs to the south. 
One day, while I feasted on a deer I had slain, a 
bird landed nearby. And it spoke to me.”

“One of our long traveling three?”

“The gull, Quoddy. I nearly swooned in surprise 
at being spoken to by a bird.” The massive head 
shook slowly at the memory, though humor tinged 
his rasping voice. “He told me of his brothers, 
and of Metamor. He explained the Curse, which had 
apparently overtaken myself and the others when 
we carelessly ventured too far north, plundering 
a rich farming duchy called Lorland.”

“Lorland is a barony, actually, of the Northern 
Midlands duchy, under Duke Thomas, of Metamor.” 
Malger corrected blandly, watching the deadly 
creature just far enough away not to reach him 
with a single darting snap of that beak. “But, say on.”

“They lead me north, showed me the safe cliffs to 
find a home in, where strange beasts and beasts 
who spoke would be little remarked upon. That was 
where I first heard the name ‘Sutt’ uttered. 
Indeed, the same House who conscripted my sire 
and brother. A princeling of the House had come 
to Metamor. Vengeance!” Malger started at the 
hissing vehemence of the raptor’s last word, 
looking into those piercing predator’s eyes and 
finding confusion rather than fury. “Vengeance, 
could I find him. The winter siege had come and 
gone and the name faded, I thought him dead in 
the attack. But ere the next winter the name came 
again. I waited. I listened. I asked my winged 
brothers what they could learn. But little 
returned. I would have to go to this place, Metamor, and find my justice.

“And then I learned that the princeling whose 
sire had destroyed my family sought to hire a 
ship. I learned which ship he sought to hire, and 
I offered my services to its captain. And 
finally, after more than a decade, I discovered 
my prey. A fop with a train of rats at his heel 
and a vixen to wife. Prey, all, when the ship 
made south far enough not to send word back.”

“You put much thought into my demise, Kurgael son 
of a merchant.” Malger rested his elbows on his 
knees, tapping one unshod foot with the end of 
his flute. “And now the moment has come. To talk?”

“To listen, in truth, and be heard.” Kurgael’s 
wings lifted and fell. “I found that the rats did 
not follow you, rather you followed them in some 
manner of pilgrimage. They did not fear you, or 
the name of your House. They seemed friends. And 
I saw nothing of the arrogance of nobility in 
you, save for the masquerade you proffer. And 
then, I saw you commit your life to the sea for a 
child, knowing that your fur would hamper your 
limbs and drag you down. But it was not even 
that, but what you said when we returned.”

“And that was?” Malger leaned forward, ears 
pricked. Even Misanthe was alert, though one hand 
was still in the opposite sleeve. She was rather 
surprisingly good with that dagger, Malger knew.

“The life of a child is worth any risk, be they 
of friend or foe.” Slowly Kurgael shifted himself 
upright, wings shuffling at his back. “Your sire 
would have never thought such, for he trod upon 
man and child alike without concern.”

“And for that his life was forfeit in blood.” 
Malger concurred, “And the legacy haunts me 
still. For that, I have sought to balance the 
scales, in as many small ways as I can. I fear I 
can never undo such evil as my sire stained the land with.”

“You try.”

“I do. And if, in justice, my life is forfeit for 
the loss suffered by one whom my father wronged, 
then so be it.” Turning slightly Malger let his 
legs down over the facing curve of the log, hands 
resting on the pommels of his tasseled swords. 
“Though I will not offer payment cheaply.”

Kurgael’s eyes dropped to the blades and he 
actually let out a hissing snort. “I did not 
nearly drown myself merely to snip your head off 
now, your lordship. I have come to respond to the 
offer you made.” Folding one foreleg Kurgael 
lower himself, head bowing. “I accept, milord.”

“I am Malger, Kurgael, save when observing your 
station in my house, retainer Kurgael.” Malger 
took a cautious step forward, still aware that a 
jerk and a snap would likely be fatal, and laid 
the fingers of one hand between the long eartufts 
of that bowed head. “First retainer, messenger, 
and voice of Sutt in my absence, if you accept that commission.”

“I do, your – ahh, Malger.” Kurgael’s head came 
back up and, with a short but swift twitch, 
bumped Malger smartly at the shoulder. “Unto my 
demise or yours, but never by the edge of my beak 
or prick of my talon as you fear.” Malger saw the 
dark pupil so unnervingly close dilate and then 
shrink. “Could you ask her to put that away? I 
fear that she can’t miss at such distance.”

Malger turned to see Misanthe poised, dagger 
raised to throw, her vulpine pupils narrow slits.

THE END

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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