by her right hand. She said, “You are educated, are you
not?”
“I know my letters, and have studied the Chronicles of
Huma.”
“Huma? Who is that?”
“You don’t know? Huma was the greatest hero of
Krynn.” Sturm cleared his throat and recited:
THUS HUMA, KNIGHT OF SOLAMNIA,
LIGHTBRINGER, FIRST LANCER,
FOLLOWED HIS LIGHT TO THE FOOT OF THE KHALKIST MOUNTAINS,
TO THE STONE FEET OF THE GODS,
TO THE CROUCHED SILENCE OF THEIR TEMPLE.
HE CALLED DOWN THE LANCEMAKERS, HE TOOK ON
THEIR UNSPEAKABLE POWER TO CRUSH THE UNSPEAKABLE EVIL,
TO THRUST THE COILING DARKNESS
BACK DOWN THE TUNNEL OF THE DRAGON’S THROAT.
Sturm finished the canto. Artavash was smiling again.
Very quietly she said, “And this demigod, this Huma; you
are a descendant of his?”
“From olden times, yes,” Sturm said with pride.
“I cannot wait to present you to my master,” she said.
The fog dispelled and never returned. SEA RAVEN’S
oars beat day and night.
Sturm worried about Soren. There had been no sign of
the sergeant since he disappeared into the dark, fetid hold of
the galley two days ago. Artavash was not available, so the
boy complained to Radiz.
“You will not like what you see,” Radiz told him.
“I want to see Sergeant Soren,” Sturm insisted. The
commander agreed without any more argument.
“Perhaps it would be instructive for you to visit the
benches,” he mused.
The boy and the commander descended a steep set of
steps into the hold. There, a long wooden walkway ran from
forecastle to stern. Below on either side were the rowers’
benches. Four men were chained to each oar, and twenty
oars were set on each side. Hard, grim-faced men prowled
the walk, lashing the rowers at random. The sight and smell
of the neglected slaves was fearsome.
Soren was not hard to find. Compared to the skinny
wretches around him, he was a giant. Radiz let Sturm on the
catwalk to speak with his friend.
“I’m sorry, Soren!” he said, choking on disgust and
angry tears. “I didn’t know they’d put you in this horrible
place!”
The guardsman hauled back his oar. “Don’t – worry –
young – lord,” he panted in time to the sounding drum.
“Alive – there is – hope.”
“Hope is a good breakfast, but a poor supper,”
countered Radiz. He led Sturm away. The boy went back to
his mother. He sat between Lady Ilys and Carin and said
nothing to anyone for a long time.
After four days and three nights, the SEA RAVEN hove in
sight of land. The coast of Abanasinia lay like a low, brown
cloud off the port beam. Lady Ilys looked longingly at the
far shore.
“So near” she said. Sturm leaned on her arm. “If I knew
we were close enough, I’d throw you overboard to swim it
and find help.”
“I could try,” he said eagerly.
She stroked his tangled hair. “No, my son. I fear you
would drown.”
Abanasinia receded as the SEA RAVEN bore south and
west. A plume of smoke followed the wind away from the
mountaintop.
“Kernaf is a fire-mountain,” explained Artavash. “The
natives call it ‘HEJ MARAF,’ – the Furnace.”
“Are you not a native?” asked Sturm.
“Me, a fish-eater? My ancestors laugh at the idea!”
Sturm peeked at Radiz. The swarthy face under the
shiny helmet could not conceal annoyance at her insult.
SEA RAVEN gained steadily against an offshore breeze.
The sea was empty of ships, even as she drew in sight of the
mouth of the main harbor. From the high forecastle, the city
of Kernaf spread in a half-circle around the bowl-shaped
bay. Two tall, stone towers flanked the narrow harbor
entrance. The tower tops were blackened by fire.
“Has someone attacked your town?” asked Sturm.
Radiz squinted into the morning glare. “No, boy. Those
are signal towers. Fires were burned up there to mark the
entrance for passing ships,” he said.
“Don’t they use them anymore?” Sturm asked. Radiz
was silent.
Artavash ordered message pennants sent as the galley
churned to its haven. They passed large numbers of fishing
smacks moored to buoys. They were waterlogged from
neglect. In the main dockyard, large merchant ships swung