10 Doors: Creations

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 hard and 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, wide apart on the rolling deck moved not at all. His seal skin long-coat flapped behind him in counterpoint to the sails beat. He laughed and raised a fist to 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 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 cross bones of their flag, 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 tried to close the gap behind them.

            “North by Nor-east, holding even at twelve knots, Captain!”

        As the ship crested each wave and slammed through a wall of sea spray and foam to the next, the lookout continued to shout out their position and the distance gained or lost over their pursuers.

        On deck, Berubah watched as his crew scuttled like crabs on the shore, back and forth seemingly in chaos but each actually part of the precise ballet they had performed a hundred times previous. They knew their jobs and they performed them well, each completing his task and moving on to the next one before the order was even shouted.

        Berubah took it in from his place upon the foredeck, eyes seeing each man, ears hearing each curse and hands pointing this way and that as he choreographed it all. This was his place and he reveled in it.  

        He was a tall, darkly handsome man built strong but long and agile, rather than overwrought with muscle. His long black hair, wind tossed and wild, crowned his face like a mane. When he had the choice, this was the look he favored— it was a good look on him, so it really didn’t matter whether it had been his to start with or not. He liked it and what he liked, he took.

His eyes scanned the sea and he watched 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 simply made the chase all the more thrilling and victory all the sweeter. He breathed in the sea-salted air and smiled. They would outrun and escape this pursuit as they had all the others. He was certain of it. He was a chameleon on land, slipping in and away before they 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 spared the crew a momentary respite from his all seeing gaze and looked to Morva, the ships wizard--his wizard.

            Amidst the color 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 that 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. His hand deep within his robe clutched his newest 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 very pores of his body, letting it infuse him and his magic with its chaos. Soon, he would be allowed to unleash it against their enemies and though his body remained motionless, his soul trembled in anticipation for that moment.

Berubah stared at him from half way across the ship. Surrounded as he was by sound and movement he heard each call, saw each task and calculated in his mind each next move 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.

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 an alarm and pointing south-east, not towards the pursuing armada but instead to the fore of the ship and along their course.

       Berubah spun and moved quickly to the rail. The sea spread out, gleaming blue and white capped as far as could look. The mottled browns and greens of the mountains of the Horn stood almost due east, indicating they were just now rounding its tip.

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 to full extension 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 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 out maneuver, not with their pursuers 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. Before his scope had been shut and slipped back into his pocket he had turned and was in movement towards Morva. Now was the time to unleash his dog and give him free reign. Though he usually harbored some small concern about letting the wizard cast his magiks freely on his ship while they were out at sea--something he tried to keep from happening as much as was possible--this time, he knew he had no choice. You used what tools you had.

Before he had reached the quarter deck, Morva was beside him.

“I see them,” he replied to Berubah’s unvoiced question.

“Then do your job make good our escape,” he ordered the mage.

Morva ducked his head 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 to 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 and the majority of their ships must survive, intact. Understand?”

This was not mercy or a softening of the captain’s cruel nature but a simple fact of survival. A pirate that occasionally won a battle with one of his majesty’s fleet would raise no more than the customary responses that he and all pirates were accustomed to dealing with but, if they were to lay waste to an entire armada and by using magik especially, 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.”

Morva understood the captain better than Berubah realized. Berubah believed that sparing the enemy was a matter of survival. Morva on the other hand recognized it for what it truly was: fear. Fear 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, unable to do directly and without consequence whatever needed to be done. In Morva’s case, it was doubly so. It had been with him all his life.

No one paid much attention to a pale faced, balding, paunch-bellied man who had been ignored at best of times and laughed at most others. Certainly no one would stand up and follow him, much less risk their lives for him. And should an enemy breach his defenses, even once, he could be quickly overcome, physically, as had happened to him once before.

No, Morva understood that he needed someone like Berubah. Someone who men respected and would fight, even die for. 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 with little or no fear of reprisal, like a puppeteer moving his marionettes. 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.

“Don’t spout that shit at me; I’m not impressed by your words. All I am interested in are results. See that I am not disappointed.”

With that he strode away from Morva before the wizard could reply and was already crossing the deck, once again shouting orders to the crew, readying them for whatever came next.

Morva watched him through narrowed eyes for just a moment and then turned and headed for the ships main mast, a small satisfied smile playing upon his face. He knew well the captains 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. 

Even as he reached the main mast he heard the first boom of the enemy’s cannon as they fired off their first shot, gauging position and distance. A moment later he heard rather than saw the impact of metal and sea as the first of what were certain to be many cannonballs made its mark upon the waters. Near but not yet on target. He knew that would not be the case for long.

Morva smiled at this. He could use the anxiety, the suppressed fear and rising tensions of the crew as the attacks escalated. Along with his own power to manipulate the environment, he now had his Chaos Glass which fed on not only his desire but on the emotions of those around him as well. The greater the emotion, the more power it offered.

Morva began his chant. He started with precisely memorized phrases, like mathematical formulae’s, laid out the parameters of his spell and used  his will to shape it. Then he sought out the sympathetic elements of his spell and those of the environment around him. The air around the ship was heavy with spray and salt. He used that and began to weave them into a physical presence.

He drew the look and shape from the pendulous white and grey clouds that filled the sky overhead. He laid the foundation on the surface of the sea and bound it to those same clouds above through the fabric of the air. A vaporous shield began to roll up and over the railings of the deck but still continued to rise upwards and outwards as well.

On his own, a light wall of fog was all he could normally expect to create over this large a scale but he was not on his own. The god Chaos had seen fit to give him this most wondrous of gifts. He pulled the Chaos Glass from his robes now and began to focus his magiks through the relic. As his perfectly balanced equations and precise words of power were channeled through the glass they shattered into a thousand irridescent pieces and flew out and over crew and ship. Though he knew he was seeing the magik that no one else could see he swore he could almost see a visible spectrum, a fractured ring of light and colors begin to expand from the glass.

As it moved outward Morva began to use the glass to tap the emotions of the crew. He found tension, fear and anxiety but also steely determination. He could use all of these. He took some from each and 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 of power he spoke now changed slightly in cadence and speed as he took in the energy from the ship, the sea and the Glass and added it all together into the fabric of his weave. The mists grew higher now even obscuring the ships flag and still they grew.

The power rose in him and he reveled in the feeling. Magic on a scale such as this was intoxicating. Like a narcotic it grabbed hold of him and demanded more and more to satisfy 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 reigning 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 an eldritch glow of flickering colored lights.

To Morva the 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 if he moved, all he knew was the power. His voice commanded, his will shaped and the power obeyed. The skies overhead grew dark. White and grey clouds turned black with faint flashes of silver within and began to descend, capping and then beginning to fill the column he raised about the ship. As they 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.

While Morva stood in a 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. The sky turned black and blazed silver in flashes as it plunged down and enveloped all into the abyss of complete darkness. Fog had been rising but now it fell to the deck, like tentacles from some great behemoth beneath the sea and enwrapped the ship tighter and tighter in its malicious grasp.

      Berubah had stood on deck in a hurricane and had been unmoved by its force, taking each lurch and crash in stride. But now M’Lady’s Ransom moved and hurled itself in ways that Berubah had never before felt his or any other ship move. As if the deck itself buckled like a wave in the sea, Berubah was picked up and thrown down hard. He kept his senses, barely, and gained his feet through almost herculean effort. Around him he could hear the screams of his men as they too were hurled about the ship in wild abandon as wind and sea lashed the deck.  

       Somewhere he heard the timber of a mast squeal and then a sharp crack as forces twisted it beyond its ability to withstand, though he 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 knew one thing with a sea captain's absolute certainty--the ship was no longer under his control or anyone else’s as far as he could tell and he had no chance at this moment, of regaining control. Falling to the deck, he continued to shout orders at the crew that in this time and place were less than meaningless. Occasionally he could hear what he thought was a response but it was immediately banished by another crash or squeal from somewhere else. With crew and cargo being thrown about he crawled in absolute darkness and tried to find anything that was fastened securely to hold onto.

Finally, he thought he found the stairs leading up to (or was that down from?) the fore deck to amidships. He didn’t care at that moment where it was, it seemed stable and 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 had started but wind and clamor took his words and scattered them away. Now and then another scream 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 this 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 intensity that he had never felt but that seemed madly in tune with the chaos all around him. He screamed till his throat was raw and incapable of anything but a whimper. That too finally died out all together, as he and his crew sailed to hell on whatever path they found themselves on.

Wrapped in the chaos that pounded the ship and sea around him, Morva flew free, held aloft by magik and purpose. He did not know any more what was happening than his captain did, yet he knew there was purpose in all that happened. He was its architect after all.

It had been he that sent word, obliquely of course, to the Kings armada and let them know what Berubah’s course would be. It was his magik that caused the rent in the sail two days ago that had slowed the ship; just enough, so that both halves of the fleet could be in a position to catch them as they rounded the horn. And why was the entire naval fleet in pursuit of them at this time? Because it had once again been Morva that had slit the young princes throat from ear to ear with an engraved dagger that he had taken from Berubah’s cabin while they were in port last.

Morva had orchestrated it all. He put the players onstage, gave Berubah the directions and watched as they followed the script to the letter even as they were completely unaware of the play that went on about them.

All this had come to Morva when he had first opened himself to the Chaos Glass. He had peered into its magnificent abyss and the abyss had peered back. More than that, it had spoken to him and told him what he must do. And Morva did.