Cut The Rose 23

The ship was listing alarmingly to port and sitting low in the water. In the cabin, water was lapping at Hawke’s knees as he tried futilely to stem the flood of seawater as it cascaded in through the shattered window. Blood was dripping in his eye from the cut across his forehead, and concussion was making him feel dizzy and sick. He had no idea how long he’d been bellowing for help, but none had come. As he cast his glance despairingly around the cabin, he realised there was nothing he could do; the ship was taking on water, and if he stayed below deck there was a very real chance both he and Anders were going to drown.

Staggering up against the slant of the sodden deck, he reached for his and Fenris’ swords and slung them upon his back before struggling against the rising waters towards the bed. The covers were soaking wet with seawater and clung damply to the unconscious mage; with difficulty Hawke managed to strip away the bedding. Anders was soaked to the skin; Hawke caught him before he could fall into the dark cold water that slowly was filling the cabin, and hauled him bodily up out of the bed, somehow managing to sling the tall man over his shoulder before turning and starting to fight his way over towards the door. Flotsam and jetsam bumped against his legs as the waters rose over his knees, lapping at his thighs and edging higher. Anders’ limp white fingers trailed in the water as Hawke struggled with the door. Finally he yanked it open and hauled himself and Anders up out into the passageway.

The wooden floorboards were slowly canting up beneath his feet; even as Hawke pulled himself bodily along the passageway, he could feel the water lapping around his ankles. Anders was a dead weight over his shoulder; black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, but he dared not stop. He pushed on, shouldering open the door out onto the main deck, then paused, blinking.

The storm still screamed and howled its fury around the stricken ship, with the voices of panicking men barely perceptible over the tumult of the maelstrom. The main mast was gone, ripped away entirely, and the ship was drifting aimlessly without her rudder, heeling over on her side under the onslaught of the wind. Slipping and staggering, Hawke made his way towards the quarterdeck; dimly he was aware of the cries around him to abandon ship - and then Sebastian was at his side, steadying him and helping to support the weight of the unconscious Anders. Hawke was vaguely aware that the Prince was asking him something - saying something about a dragon.

“Ship’s sinking. Taking on water below,” Hawke cried back over the wind. “What dragon?”

Then Sebastian took him firmly by the shoulder and turned him round.

“Oh. That dragon,” said Hawke.

It soared overhead, its wings vast and seeming black against the grey sky; it was easily the length of the Mage’s Pride, and the stricken ship was utterly helpless before it. Men screamed in terror and dove over the battered weather rails of the ship, disappearing into the foam-whipped grey waves, never to be seen again - choosing the icy depths and drowning over dragon fire and claws. Hawke and Sebastian watched silently as the dragon swooped low over the ship then out across the waves, banking round for another pass, then hurriedly they pushed on up to the quarter deck.

Isabela stood guard over the unconscious Fenris, who was tightly lashed to the ship’s rail. Sebastian and Hawke deposited the mage next to the elf and hastily bound him safely to the rail, looking anxiously over their shoulders as the dragon wheeled over the sea, looping lazily around the drifting ship. Then Hawke unslung Fenris’ blade and handed it to Sebastian even as he readied his own blade. The two warriors flanked Isabela as she watched the dragon, a long fighting knife in each hand. The first mate, Hollick, stood nearby, an axe readied in his hand.

“Almost like old times, Hawke!” remarked Isabela. “You do know how to show a girl a good time!”

“You’ve always had a very strange idea of fun, Isabela,” remarked Sebastian as the dragon wheeled and turned towards the ship once more.

“Live a little, Chantry Boy!” she quipped back at him.

“I’d like to get the chance,” he replied drily. “I think yon dragon has other ideas though.” He readied the two-handed greatsword and regarded the huge winged reptile ruefully with his one good eye.

And then the dragon was upon them, in a roar and a belch of fire that roiled around and over them... yet strangely didn’t touch them at all, even as they flinched in spite of themselves. As the flames winked out around them, they peered disbelievingly from behind raised arms to stare incredulously at the white-haired woman who was striding slowly down the main deck of the Pride towards them.

“Well, well, well. What a welcome from the Champion of Kirkwall,” purred Flemeth. “And Prince Vael too. Tell me, my one-eyed Prince; what good do you think that sword will do you against the rising sea that even now is claiming this ship? Can you sail with it to shore? Can you catch the wind with its blade?” She chuckled throatily.

“Who are you?” breathed Sebastian. “What manner of witch are you?”

“A witch indeed,” replied Hawke, lowering his blade as he straightened. “Sebastian, this is Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds.”

“Then the legends are true?” exclaimed Sebastian, likewise lowering his weapon as Isabela sheathed her blades.

“True enough,” replied Hawke as Flemeth merely smiled. “Your timing is, as ever, impeccable, Flemeth,” he added. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided to finally teach me that trick of yours? Dragon wings would be very useful right now.”

“I have come for another purpose, though your purpose and mine may run together for the moment, child,” replied Flemeth as she slowly mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. Around them the storm was abating; and the shifting, creaking sounds of the ship as she slowly settled deeper in the water were becoming more audible over the dying winds.

“Not good,” muttered Isabela. “Come on girl, keep afloat just a little longer....”

Flemeth gestured with one gauntleted hand towards the unconscious mage. “There is a small matter that concerns us both, Champion; a life that hangs in the balance, and yet so much more hangs upon that balance than you could possibly dream. Tell me: what would you give for his life?”

“Anything,” replied Hawke instantly.

“Hawke!” objected Sebastian. “You do not know what price she will ask or even if she is capable of doing as she says!”

“Sebastian, I already know of her power. I owe my life to her. She brought us out of Lothering during the Blight.”

“And that debt was repaid upon Sundermount,” nodded Flemeth. “Now I offer another bargain. I say again: what will you give for his life?”

“Anything that is in my power to give,” replied Hawke. “My life.”

Isabela drew her breath in sharply and glanced back at Fenris, who was stirring slightly, then back at Hawke. But she said nothing as she dropped back to kneel by the elf’s side.

“A princely gift indeed. It may yet come to that.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” demanded Sebastian. She turned her golden gaze upon the Prince.

“You can’t,” she replied simply. “Know only that I am here to fulfill a purpose. It suits my purpose at this time to aid you, but I care not whether you trust me. Your trust is immaterial. Does the blacksmith ask the steel’s trust before shaping it into the blade?” She turned away with a faint hiss of leather skirts over damp wood. The deck was listing more sharply now.

“What secret are you hiding, witch?” demanded Sebastian. “Why would you aid us - and what do you want with Hawke and Anders?”

Flemeth stared back over her shoulder at Hawke, ignoring the Prince. “Come. Do we have an accord, you and I?”

“We have no choice,” replied Hawke heavily. Slowly he nodded. “Yes. We do.”

Even as Sebastian cried out in objection, Flemeth smiled and turned back towards them, her form beginning to shimmer and glow golden before changing.

Then the dragon reached for Anders with one huge taloned claw.