Day Forty-seven

The morning has dawned to find the wind now blowing from the south, its bluster veering in the night and leaving the Fleet in the grip of an icy hand. Still we forge westwards, the horizon a clear vista of surging water and the spreading wakes of dozens of vessels. As in the early mornings of previous days I am up with my colleagues, handing out warm clothing and helping with the clearing of ice from the workings of the ship. The southerlys bite deeply, the winds a rising bluster that has begun to churn the waters about us, raising the swell of the waves and sending the Dromannion pitching and rolling in its endless heave. There is no sign of cloud though. The sky remains clear, the dawn of the suns breaking the east with flaring hues of orange and red. I cannot help but notice the looks of anticipation in the eyes of the crew. They feel as I do that something is on the brew, and that it lies beyond the horizon to the south.

This day passes as all others have. The wind increases as we move further west and the cold has taken hold of the ship, freezing water as it pools upon the decks, making even the shortest of journeys hazardous. We spend our time clearing the decking and tending to our normal duties, but there is something out of place in the cold that assaults us. It is known that huge icepacks lay far to the south but they stand at such a distance that they could not generate such chill. Somehow the wind has the feeling of icy claws drawing their way along the ship, grasping at it and smothering it slowly in a cold that paralyses anyone who ventures above deck.

At last light flags have been raised to signal the rest of the Fleet. Captain Duschet has decided to turn to the north-west and put distance between ourselves and whatever is generating the cold bluster. By dusk the entire Fleet had changed course. Hopefully we can outrun these unknown forces and tear ourselves away from this all-embracing chill.

Maps of the voyage
The Chronicles of Arborell
A Glossary of Terms