This piece is the first chapter from my fantasy novel: "Muzak of the Mice". A sort of R.A.Salvatore adventure meets Brian Jaques "Redwall". This is the final edit on the final draft-which means in reality I'll only change it a bit more before I submit it! I hope you enjoy it.
Preface: Before
The rigging, taut and abused, sang with a thousand different notes. Timbers groaned and the sails billowed with the wind, snapping hard as if keeping time to the music of the ship and sea. The heavy collision of wave against hull was the bass, and the occasional cry from some overhead sea bird echoed as a distant piccolo. It was an orchestra of sound and movement—and Berubah was its conductor.
He stood tall and arrogant against the backdrop of his ship. His black-booted feet, planted wide apart, stood solidly on the rolling deck. His sealskin long-coat flapped behind him in counterpoint to the sails’ beat and his mane of black, curly hair whipped about his face. He loved his hair this way, but right then he needed a bit more practicality than theatrics, so with a swift but deliberate thought, he willed his cloak to refashion it—short in front and long and braided down his back. That felt better. While he was at it, he had the coat remove the fleecy sideburns he currently wore and replace them with a flowing mustache, bound at the tips with small golden bands. As his features changed, he laughed and raised a fist to the heavens above—as if daring nature itself to try and shake him loose from his God-given place aboard M’Lady’s Ransom, for she was his creation, his world—and he, her master.
Men skittered up and down the ship’s lines like spiders on a giant web, each independent and yet serving the whole simultaneously. In the crow’s nest, high above the deck and just below the skull and crossbones, the lookout held tight to the rail with one hand while the other held the spyglass and kept a precise eye on the naval armada that was trying to close the gap behind them.
“North-by-nor ‘east, holding even at twelve knots, Captain!”
“Keep that eye sharp and make certain there’s no further gain, or I’ll see if that eye would do better in another’s head!” He shouted the threat without thinking about it, but he meant it all the same. The men respected and feared him in equal measure, and Berubah liked it that way. He was quick to reward and quicker to punish—and his men jumped when he spoke.
“Aye, aye Cap’n. They’ll not get a cod’s length closer, I swear!”
As the ship crested each wave and then slammed through a wall of sea spray and foam to the next, the lookout kept his precarious balance—more afraid of displeasing Captain Berubah than of any fall he might take—and continued to shout out their position and the distance gained over their pursuers.
From his place on the foredeck, Berubah’s piercing gray eyes scanned the sea, watching the pursuing sails as they ever so slowly diminished behind them. This time had been close. Rarely had the king’s fleet gotten so near or been quite so doggedly determined to catch them—but that had simply made the chase all the more thrilling and victory all the sweeter.
He breathed in the sea-salted air and smiled. They would escape this pursuit as they had all the others. He was certain of it. He prided himself on being as a chameleon on land, blending in upon entry and slipping away before they even knew he had come, and a fish—no, a shark—on the sea, constantly on the move, appearing and devouring whatever prize he chose and then disappearing, as if by magic—which in fact, it oft-times was.
He was well armed in that respect, having several options available, starting with his ability to force his will upon another and dominate them for a brief period of time. The weaker his victim’s own will, the longer Berubah could keep control. Then of course there was his magnificent coat, which allowed him to mold and alter his physical features at will. Finally, if all else failed, he still had one last resource to call upon.
He spared the crew a momentary respite from his all-seeing gaze and looked to Morva, the ship’s wizard—his wizard.
Amidst the constant activity and motion of the ship, Morva stood alone and unmoving, like a black stain floating on the surface of the sea. Instinctively the men avoided him, flowing around him without breaking stride. For his part, Morva not only accepted this but actually enjoyed it. The unease that he caused within the men set him apart, and in his own mind raised him above them all.
He stood still, his eyes watching the sea and the small shadows upon it that were their pursuers. Deep within his robe his hand clutched his latest prize like a hawk’s talon held a field mouse. He could feel the power that lay within the glass and he drew on it through the pores of his body, letting it infuse him and his magic with its chaos. He listened to its whispers, meant only for him, as it promised him access to power—more power than he’d ever known. Soon, he would be allowed to unleash it against their enemies—and though his body remained motionless, his soul trembled in anticipation of that moment.
Berubah stared at Morva from halfway across the ship. Surrounded as the captain was by sound and movement, he heard each call and saw each task, calculating in his mind the next move for each of his crew, all while keeping an eye on his wizard.
The fact that Morva had moved not at all, nor helped in any task since the chase began, meant nothing to him. Morva had his place and his uses and Berubah used him as he saw fit.
“Cap’n! Dead ahead and full sail!” Suddenly a shout from above cut through the symphonic cacophony of the ship’s activity and drew his attention urgently up the main mast. From the crow’s nest, the lookout was shouting again, this time an alarm and pointing southeast, not towards the pursuing armada but instead to the fore of the ship and along their intended course.
Berubah spun and moved quickly to the rail. The sea spread out before him, gleaming blue and white-capped as far as one could see. They were just about to round the tip of The Horn of Ashanti, and the mottled browns and greens of the mountains rose up due east of them.
For a moment, Berubah could see nothing to warrant the alarm but then, on the tableau of ocean and wave he saw a shape and shadow distinguish itself from the rest of the sea. And then another, and yet another. He reached for his own spyglass and snapped it open, raising it to his eye to more clearly make out what he already knew he had glimpsed.
Rounding the tip of the Horn and at full sail, another half-dozen of the king’s armada split the waves and was making its best speed directly towards them.
Even as he watched them they seemed to grow in size and solidify into a wall that Berubah knew he could not outmaneuver with pursuit behind him as well. M’Lady’s Ransom was a fine ship, but she was large and laden with cargo. She could not change course quickly enough to avoid both halves of the fleet.
Even before his scope had been shut and slipped back into his pocket he had turned and headed towards Morva. Now was the time to unleash his dog and give him free rein. Though he usually harbored some small concern about letting the wizard cast his magiks freely on his ship while they were out at sea, this time, he knew he had no choice. In situations such as this, you used what tools you had—however untamed the tool might be.
Before he had reached the quarter deck, Morva was beside him.
“Yes, I see them,” he replied to Berubah’s unvoiced question
“Then do your job and make good our escape,” he ordered the mage.
Morva ducked his head in a quick nod at Berubah’s demand, just enough to satisfy the captain that he was actually cowed by his presence, a trick he had long ago mastered. He had to play the role if he was to get his way—even if Berubah thought it was the other way ‘round.
“Of course. But with pursuers both fore and aft, I am afraid my simple illusions and tricks will not suffice. I may need to do something a bit more . . . forceful.”
“Do what you need—but no more than that. We must sail free but the majority of their ships must survive, intact. Understand?
This command was not based on mercy or a softening of the captain’s cruel nature; it was a simple fact of survival. A pirate that won a battle with but one of His Majesty’s fleet would raise a response that Berubah could easily deal with. As a pirate, that was an acceptable risk—but if they were to lay waste to an entire armada, especially with magik, the call to arms would be unheard of and there would be nowhere they could go to escape the king’s wrath. Morva had to make possible their escape without a full-fledged bloodbath.
“Of course, I understand perfectly.”
As far as Morva was concerned, he understood the Captain better than Berubah realized. The Captain reasoned that sparing the enemy was a matter of survival. Morva, on the other hand, recognized it for what it truly was: fear—fear of the repercussions of wielding true power against all who came at you.
Morva understood this all too well. It was a fear that most men, himself included, faced all their lives; being unable to do directly and without consequence whatever needed to be done. Men needed a shielding wall in front of them to ply their power unfettered, and Berubah and his crew filled that role in spades for Morva.
Fear was a powerful motivator but it was not a replacement for charisma, and Morva knew full well what talents and tools he possessed—and those which he did not. Finally, and best of all, Morva understood that Berubah did not understand this at all.
So he allowed the captain his stage. Allowed him to take risks, face the wrath, and reap the more obvious rewards while Morva carefully manipulated it all from behind the scenes. Morva did not have a desire to lead. He simply wanted power, and that was more often gained in the shadows of a throne, or a captain.
“I have a new spell I have been working on that I believe will suffice. The spell works on the causal effect of sympathetic magiks. I shall take from…”
Berubah whirled on Morva and cut him off mid-sentence with a growl.
“Don’t spout that shite at me—I’m not impressed by your words. All I’m interested in are results. See that I’m not disappointed.”
Before the wizard could reply he strode away, crossing the deck and once again shouting orders to the crew, readying them for whatever came next.
Morva watched him momentarily through narrowed eyes, and then turned and headed for the ship’s main mast, a small satisfied smile playing upon his face. He knew well the captain’s distaste for the mechanics of magik and he had used it to his advantage, leading Berubah exactly where he wanted him to go. Succeed, and the how did not matter. The captain had said so. It was just as his wondrous Chaos Glass had told him it would be.
As Morva reached the primary mast, he heard the boom of the enemy’s cannon as they fired off their first shot, gauging position and distance to M’Lady’s Ransom. A moment later he heard, rather than saw, the impact of dense metal with the sea as the first of what were certain to be many cannonballs made its mark upon the waters. It was near, but not yet on target. He knew that would not be the case for long—and so did the crew. He smiled. His plans were working out exactly as he intended.
After all, it had been he that sent word, obliquely of course, to the king’s armada to let them know what Berubah’s course would be.
It was his magik that had caused the rent in the sail two days prior and had slowed the ship; just enough so that both halves of the king’s fleet could be in a position to catch them as they rounded the horn.
And why, one might ask, was the entire naval fleet in pursuit of them at this time? Once again it had been Morva’s doing, this time slitting the young prince’s throat from ear to ear with an engraved dagger that he had taken from Berubah’s cabin while they were in port last.
Morva could feel the crew’s suppressed fear and rising tensions as the attacks escalated, and knew he could use that to his advantage. Along with his own power to manipulate the environment, he now had his Chaos Glass, which fed not only on his own desires, but on the emotions of those around him as well. The greater the emotion, the more power it offered. For weeks its whispers and dreams had taught Morva its secrets and how to use it to get what he desired most: Power.
Morva began his chant. He started with precisely memorized phrases, like mathematical formulae. He laid out the parameters of his spell and used his will to shape it. He then sought out components from the environment around him, using the sympathetic elements of his spell to bind them together. Usually a vial of saltwater would suffice—but he didn’t need one this time. Today he carried something special; as he thought of it, his fingers stroked the sharp and faceted surface of the glass he carried. The air surrounding the ship was heavy with spray and salt, which he could use to begin weaving an actual physical presence.
He drew the look and shape of the spell from the pendulous white and grey clouds that filled the sky overhead. He laid its foundation on the surface of the sea and then bound it to those same clouds above through the fabric of the air. Soon a vaporous shield began to roll up and over the deck’s railings surpassing them and then continuing to rise upwards and outwards.
On his own, a light wall of fog was all Morva could normally expect to create, especially over as large a scale as the ship—but now he was not on his own. The god of Chaos had seen fit to give him this most wondrous of gifts. He pulled the Chaos Glass from his robes, replacing the simple vial of saltwater with the arcane essence stored within his precious relic.
As he uttered the words of the spell and channeled it through the glass the magiks shattered into a thousand iridescent pieces and flew out and over the crew and ship. Morva knew he was seeing aspects of the magik that no one other than a master wizard such as himself could see; to him there was a visible spectrum, a fractured ring of light and colors that spewed out from the glass.
As that spectrum moved outward Morva began to use the glass to tap into the emotions of the crew. As expected, he found tension, fear, and anxiety—but also steely determination. He could use all of these. He took some from each crewman and then fed it to the glass, like a man quenching his thirst by taking a mouthful of water from several cups rather than emptying any single one
The words he spoke now changed slightly in cadence and speed as he took in the energy from the ship, the sea, and the glass—fusing it all together to complete his tapestry of magiks. The mists grew higher now, even obscuring the ship’s flag, and still they grew.
The power rose in Morva and he reveled in the feeling. Magic on a scale such as this was intoxicating. Like a narcotic, it grabbed ahold of him and his body and mind demanded ever more to satisfy them and maintain the feeling it gave.
He cried out the words of magik and flung them heedlessly across ship and sea, into the mist and beyond, with no thought of reining in the powers he unleashed.
He commanded the clouds themselves, perched on their sky-high thrones, to come and serve his demands. The power blasted outwards from him, bathing the entire ship in a now visible-to-all eldritch glow of flickering colored lights.
To the enraptured Morva, the excited sounds of the men, the shouts of the captain, and even the crash of the sea faded to a muffled background and were easily ignored. He could not tell where he stood or even if he moved—all he knew was the power. The glass whispered, his voice commanded, his will shaped, and the power obeyed.
The skies overhead grew dark. The white and grey clouds turned black with faint flashes of silver within and began to descend. The mists he pulled upward from the sea rose to meet them. Raging clouds capped and then started filling the column he had raised about the ship. As the forces met, they merged with a furious clamor and became neither, but instead something more than both.
Morva wrapped the power around him and clothed his soul in its fury. He was in heaven, he was God and the world around him acknowledged his supremacy and knelt before him.
While Morva stood in this world of his own making, wrapped securely away at the center of the chaos he unleashed, Berubah and his crew were in quite a different world.
With barely any warning, the seas had begun to thrash and boil. M’Lady’s Ransom lurched one way and then the other as she was battered by waves that rose and smashed against the ship, impossibly, from either side, ignoring any laws of nature. Fog had been rising but now it fell to the deck, like tentacles of some great behemoth from beneath the sea, as it enwrapped the ship tighter and tighter in its malicious grasp. The sky turned black with blazing silver flashes as it plunged down and enveloped all into an abyss of complete darkness.
Berubah had stood on deck in a hurricane and had been unmoved by its force, taking each lurch and crash in stride. Now M’Lady’s Ransom moved and hurled itself in ways that he had never before felt this, or any other ship, move. The deck suddenly buckled like a wave in the sea, and Berubah was picked up and thrown back down hard. He landed almost head first with a blow that set him reeling. He kept his senses, barely, and gained his feet through near-Herculean effort. Around him he could hear the screams of his men as they too were tossed about the ship as wind and sea lashed the deck.
Somewhere he heard the timber of a mast groaning and then a sharp crack as forces twisted the pole beyond its ability to withstand them, though the captain couldn’t tell where or which mast had let out its death cry.
Berubah did not know what was happening or how it had happened—but he suspected Morva was at the center of it all. Falling to the deck, he continued to shout orders at the crew that in this time and place were meaningless. Occasionally he could hear a response, but it was immediately banished by another crash or shriek from somewhere else. With crew and cargo being thrown about, the captain crawled around in the blackness, trying to find anything fastened securely enough to hold onto.
Finally, he thought he found the stairs either leading up to the foredeck or down to amidships. Amid the chaos he was unable to tell exactly where on deck he was, but he didn’t care. The stairway seemed stable, and so he wrapped himself underneath and held on.
He called out, screaming Morva’s name as he tried in vain to get him to stop whatever the cursed wizard had started, but wind and clamor took his words and scattered them amid their fury.
Now and then another scream would materialize, and once, something that sounded strangely like a great croaking noise reached his ears, but he could do nothing but hold on and pray for the madness to end.
Berubah had never been seasick a day in his life and yet now his head pounded, his stomach roiled, and his back and legs burned with an intensity that he had never felt before, but was madly in tune with the chaos around him. He screamed until he forgot why he was screaming and his throat was raw and incapable of anything more than a whimper. That too finally died out all together, as he and his crew sailed to hell on whatever path they found themselves on.
Still wrapped in the chaos that pounded the ship and sea around him, Morva yet flew free, held aloft by magik and purpose. He did not know precisely what the end result of all of this would be, and yet since it had been he who put it all into motion, he was content to allow the magiks free reign and see where it took them.
Morva continued to peer into the magnificent abyss that was the Chaos Glass—and the abyss peered back. More than that, it spoke to him and told him what he must do.
Ahead of him he saw a door. It was surely not a real door, but what his magik and the Chaos Glass showed him appeared door-like to his mind’s eye. The glass shined like a beacon and led Morva where it willed. Without hesitation Morva flung open the door and went through. And where Morva went, M’Lady’s Ransom followed.
