Heart Of The Dove

The Irish Sea, off the coast of England June, 1275 A huge wave gathered under coal black skies and rolled with deadly menace toward the side of the ship. It hit much as the dozens that had come before, a fist of crushing force that exploded against the wooden hull, rocking the vessel and spewing a sheet of drenching water over the already sodden deck. The cog lurched heavily under the pummel of the storm, the protesting strain of its joints screeching over the steady clap and roar of thunder. Randwulf of Greycliff sat apart from the rest of the ship's few passengers on deck, his back pressed against the sheltering wall of the sterncastle, knees drawn up, boot heels braced apart to help steady him for the hurling pitch and swoon of the storm. It had only worsened since their departure from Liverpool's harbor, and showed no sign of reprieve. Three travelers had joined them in the port town when they docked for supplies that morning, two men and a young woman. At first Rand thought they were together, but the man and his wife had since moved off to share the cover of a moth-eaten blanket with five other passengers, all of them shivering, their gazes anxious and wide, holding similar looks of concern for their safe passage. The man who also boarded in Liverpool seemed no more inclined to mingle with the others than Rand himself. One arm lashed around the railing, he sat less than a dozen paces from Rand on the same side of the deck. Rain pelted his uncovered head and beard, wetting shaggy dark hair to spiky bristles in the sudden flashes of lightning that illuminated the somber community of the vessel. "You look as miserable as I feel," the man called to him, chuckling wryly. With his free hand, he held something out to Rand. A hammered metal flask glinted in the brief arc of light that broke as another bolt ripped jaggedly overhead. "Irish whiskey. Have some, friend. It will warm you." Although he had done nothing to warrant mistrust, Rand decided he did not like the man's look. Ignoring the offer, soaked to the marrow of his aching bones, he pulled the dripping hood of his mantle down a bit lower on his forehead and steeled himself to ride out the churning squall. The weather had been unseasonably harsh since he had set out on this journey more than a fortnight past. His destination, Scotland, was still several days northeasily more if the conditions of the sea did not clear up. And judging from the furious roil of the thick, sooty clouds overhead, he doubted there would be any mercy forthcoming. In truth, it seemed the farther north he sailed, the more ferocious the ocean's turbulence became. As though God Himself knew of the unholy purpose that drove him, and sought to dissuade him with the unrelenting lash of the elements. Let Him rage, Rand thought with grim savagery as another gale shouldered the side of the vessel and sent it groaning into a listing starboard plunge. The women on board screamed as the prow dipped sharply and took on more water. Rand did not so much as flinch where he sat. He refused to cow to the vicious tumble of the waves. Biting rain needled his face as the storm spat and hissed all around him. Let the ocean swell and the winds tear him apart. Not even godly fury would be enough to turn him away from his goal. Revenge. It was his sole intent now, all of his hatred focused on one man . . . if that's what the villain he sought truly was. Rand doubted it. Born of flesh and blood, perhaps, but there could be no shred of humanity left in the one called Silas de Mortaine. Not when he commanded a small army of changeling beasts from another world, sentries conjured by some manner of sorcery to aid him in his quest for wealth and power. De MoSt. John, Tina is the author of 'Heart Of The Dove ', published 2005 under ISBN 9780345459961 and ISBN 0345459962.