to repair the breached hull.
Pug rolled over and looked at Kulgan. ‘What about the storm?’
Meecham came up on one elbow and looked at his master. Gardan did likewise. Kulgan said, ‘It will blow three days longer. We will put in to the lee of an island and hold there until it slackens.’
‘What island?’ asked Pug.
‘Sorcerer’s Isle.’
Meecham shot up out of his bunk, hitting his head on the low ceiling. Cursing and rubbing his head, while Gardan stifled a laugh, he exclaimed, ‘The island of Macros the Black?’
Kulgan nodded, while using one hand to steady himself as the ship nosed over a high crest and forward into a deep trough. ‘The same. I have little liking for the idea, but the captain fears for the ship.’ As if to punctuate the point, the hull creaked and groaned alarmingly for a moment.
‘Who is Macros?’ asked Pug.
Kulgan looked thoughtful for a moment, as much from listening to the work crew in the hold as from the boy’s question, then said, ‘Macros is a great sorcerer, Pug. Perhaps the greatest the world has ever known.’
‘Aye,’ added Meecham, ‘and the spawn of some demon from the deepest circle of hell. His arts are the blackest, and even the bloody Priests of Lims-Kragma fear to set foot on his island.’
Gardan laughed. ‘I have yet to see a wizard who could cow the death goddess’s priests. He must be a powerful mage.’
‘Those are only stories, Pug,’ Kulgan said. ‘What we do know about him is that when the persecution of magicians reached its height in the Kingdom, Macros fled to this island. No one has since traveled to or from it.’
Pug sat up on his bunk, interested in what he was hearing, oblivious to the terrible noise of the storm. He watched as Kulgan’s face was bathed in moving half lights and shadows by the crazily swinging lantern that danced with every lurch of the ship.
‘Macros is very old,’ Kulgan continued. ‘By what arts he keeps alive, only he knows, but he has lived there over three hundred years.’
Gardan scoffed, ‘Or several men by the same name have lived there.’
Kulgan nodded. ‘Perhaps. In any event, there is nothing truly known about him, except terrible tales told by sailors. I suspect that even if Macros does practice the darker side of magic, his reputation is greatly inflated, perhaps as a means of securing privacy.’
A loud cracking noise, as if another timber in the hull had split, quieted them. The cabin rolled with the storm, and Meecham spoke all their minds: ‘And I’m hoping we’ll all be able to stand upon Sorcerer’s Isle.’
The ship limped into the southern bay of the island. They would have to wait until the storm subsided before they could put divers over the side to inspect the damage to the hull.
Kulgan, Pug, Gardan, and Meecham came out on deck. The weather was slightly kinder with the cliffs cutting the fury of the storm. Pug walked to where the captain and Kulgan were standing. He followed their gaze up to the top of the cliffs.
High above the bay sat a castle, its tall towers outlined against the sky by the grey light of day. It was a strange place, with spires and turrets pointing upward like some clawed hand. The castle was dark save for one window in a high tower that shone with blue, pulsating light, as if lightning had been captured and put to work by the inhabitant.
Pug heard Meecham say, ‘There, upon the bluff. Macros.’
Three days later the divers broke the surface and yelled to the captain their appraisal of the damage. Pug was on the main deck with Meecham, Gardan, and Kulgan. Prince Arutha and his father stood near the captain, awaiting the verdict on the ship’s condition. Above, the seabirds wheeled, looking for the scraps and garbage heralded by a ship in these waters. The storms of winter did little to supplement the meager feeding of the birds, and a ship was a welcome source of fare.
Arutha came down to the main deck where the others waited. ‘It will take all of this day and half tomorrow to repair the damage, but the captain thinks it will hold fair until we reach Krondor. We should have little trouble from here.’
Meecham and Gardan threw each other meaningful glances. Not wanting to let the opportunity pass, Kulgan said, ‘Will we be able to put ashore, Your Highness?’
Arutha rubbed his clean-shaven chin with a gloved hand. ‘Aye, though not one sailor will put out a boat to carry us.’
‘Us?’ asked the magician.
Arutha smiled his crooked smile. ‘I have had my fill of cabins, Kulgan. I feel the need to stretch my legs on firm ground. Besides, without supervision, you’d spend the day wandering about places where you’ve no business.’ Pug looked up toward the castle, his glance noted by the magician.
‘We’ll keep clear of that castle and the road up from the beach, to be sure. The tales of this island only speak of ill coming to those who seek to enter the sorcerer’s halls.’
Arutha signaled a seaman. A boat was readied, and the four men and the boy got aboard. The boat was hauled over the side and lowered by a crew sweating despite the cold wind that still blew after the storm. By the glances they kept throwing toward the crest of the bluffs, Pug knew they were not sweating because of work or weather.
As if reading his thoughts, Arutha said, ‘There may be a more superstitious breed on Midkemia than sailors, but who they are I could not tell you.’
When the boat was in the water, Meecham and Gardan cast off the lines that hung suspended from the davits. The two men awkwardly took oars and began to row toward the beach. It was a broken, stuttering rhythm at first, but with disapproving looks from the Prince, along with several comments about how men could spend their lives in a sea town and not know how to row, they finally got the boat moving in good order.
They put in at a sandy stretch of beach, a little cove that broke the bluffs of the bay. Upward toward the castle ran a path, which joined another leading away across the island.
Pug leaped out of the boat and helped pull it ashore. When it was fast aground, the others got out and stretched their legs.
Pug felt as if they were being watched, but each time he looked around, there was nothing in sight but the rocks, and the few seabirds that lived the winter in clefts of the cliff face.
Kulgan and the Prince studied the two paths up from the beach. The magician looked at the other path, away from the sorcerer’s castle, and said, ‘There should be little harm in exploring the other trail. Shall we?’
Days of boredom and confinement outweighed whatever anxiety they felt. With a brusque nod, Arutha led the way up the trail.
Pug followed last, behind Meecham. The big-shouldered franklin was armed with a broadsword, upon which his hand rested. Pug kept his sling handy, for he still didn’t feel comfortable with a sword, though Gardan was giving him lessons when possible. The boy fingered the sling absently, his eyes taking in the scene before them.
Along the trail they startled several colonies of turnstones and plovers, which took flight when the party came near. The birds squawked their protests and hovered near their roosts until the hikers passed, then returned to the scant comfort of the hillside.
They crested the first of a series of hills, and the path away from the castle could be seen to dip behind another crest. Kulgan said, ‘It must lead somewhere. Shall we continue?’ Arutha nodded, and the others said nothing. They continued their journey until they came to a small valley, little more than a dell, between two ranges of low hills. On the floor of the valley sat some buildings.
Arutha said softly, ‘What do you think, Kulgan? Are they inhabited?’
Kulgan studied them for a moment, then turned to Meecham, who stepped forward. The franklin inspected the vista below, his gaze traveling from the floor of the vale to the hills around. ‘I think not. There is no sign of smoke from cook fires,