The realization left Kulp horrified. The storm threatened to fling them onto that shore. Was the same fate awaiting him?
Gesler and his crew's skill was all that kept the Ripath from striking the reef. For eleven hours they managed to sail parallel to the razor-sharp rocks beneath the breakers.
On the third night Kulp sensed a change. The coastline on their right – which he had felt as an impenetrable wall of negation, the bloodless presence of Otataral – suddenly ... softened. A power resided there, bruising the will of the magic-deadening ore, pushing it back on all sides.
There was a cut in the reef. It gave them, Kulp decided, their only chance. Rising from where he crouched amidships, he shouted to Gesler. The corporal grasped his meaning instantly, with desperate relief. They had been losing the struggle to exhaustion, to the overwhelming stress of watching sorcery speed towards them, only to wash over Kulp's protective magic – a protection they could see weakening with every pass.
Another attack came, even as they swept between the jagged breakers, sundering Kulp's resistance. Flame lit the storm-jib, the lines, the sail. Had any of the men been dry they would have become beacons of fire. As it was, the sorcery swept over them in a wave of hissing steam, then was gone, striking the shore and rolling up the beach until it fizzled out.
Kulp had half expected that the strangely blunted effect on this part of shore was in some way connected to the man he was sent to find, and so was not surprised to see three figures emerge from the gloom beyond the beach. Weary as he was, something about the way the three stood in relation to each other jangled alarms in his head. Circumstances had forced them together, and expedience cared little for the bonds of friendship. Yet it was more than that.
The motionless ground beneath his feet was making him dizzy. When Kulp's weary gaze fell on the handless priest, a wave of relief washed through him, and there was nothing ironic in his call for help.
The ex-priest answered it with a dried-out laugh.
'Get them water,' the mage said to Gesler. The corporal pulled his eyes from Heboric with difficulty, then nodded and spun about. Truth had swung down to inspect Ripath's hull for damage, while Stormy sat perched on the prow, his crossbow cradled in his arms. The corporal shouted for one of the water casks. Truth clambered back into the boat to retrieve it.
'Where's Duiker?' Heboric asked.
Kulp frowned. 'Not sure. We went our separate ways in a village north of Hissar. The Apocalypse—'
'We know. Dosin Pali was ablaze the night we escaped the pit.'
'Yeah, well.' Kulp studied the other two. The big man lacking an ear met his eyes coolly. Despite the ravages of deprivation evident in his bearing, there was a measure of self-control to him that made the mage uneasy. He was clearly more than the scarred dockyard thug he first took him for.
The young girl was no less disturbing, though in a way Kulp could not define. He sighed. Worry about it later. Worry about everything later.
Truth arrived with the water cask, Gesler a step behind him.
The three escapees converged on the young marine as he breached the cask, then held the tin cup that was tied to it and splashed it full of water.
'Go slow on that,' Kulp said. 'Sips, not gulps.'
As he watched them drink, the mage sought out his warren. It felt slippery, elusive, yet he was able to take hold, stealing power to bolster his senses. When he looked again upon Heboric he almost shouted in surprise. The ex-priest's tattoos swarmed with a life of their own: flickering waves of power raced across his body and spun a handlike projection beyond the stump of his left wrist. That ghost-hand reached into a warren, was clenched as if gripping a tether. A wholly different power pulsed around his right stump, shot through with veins of green and Otataral red, as if two snakes writhed in mortal combat. The blunting effect arose exclusively from the green bands, radiating outward with what felt like conscious will. That it was strong enough to push back the effects of the Otataral was astonishing.
Denul healers often described diseases as waging war, with the flesh as the battleground, which their warren gave them sight to see. Kulp wondered if he wasn't seeing something similar. But not a disease. A battle of warrens – Fener's own, linked by one ghostly hand, the other ensnared by Otataral, yet waxing nonetheless – a warren I can't recognize, a force alien to every sense I possess. He blinked. Heboric was staring at him, a faint smile on his broad mouth.
'What in Hood's name has happened to you?' Kulp demanded.
The ex-priest shrugged. 'I wish I knew.'
The three marines now approached Heboric. 'I'm Gesler,' the corporal said in gruff deference. 'We're all that's left of the Boar Cult.'