The brig cannot possibly get close. Not unless we fancy swimming home to Llyr when this is done. And the white-capped waves on the surface are not half so worrisome as whatever monsters lurk beneath.
I am less than eager to confront another octopaeron.
“Rhya.”
I startle back to the present and find everyone staring at me. “What?”
“The initial plan was for you to use your fog to conceal the dinghies as we approach,” Soren says, that troubled furrow back between his eyes. “But your powers are not yet returned to full strength.”
“I’ll do what I can.” I press a hand to my Remnant. It still feels strange. Slightly sore in a way it never has before. And yet, beneath the soreness, I can feel my maegic returning, my innerstorms beginning to swirl and spin with increasing strength. “I cannot promise success, only that I will try.”
Soren nods, then shifts his eyes to Deke. “You will remain here, manning the ship until our return. If two hours pass and we do not come out, consider the mission forfeit. Get yourself home.”
The bleakness of that order settles heavily on all of our shoulders.
“Maybe give us three,” Vaughn mutters.
Jac snorts out a laugh. It fades quickly when Soren speaks again. “Three hours, that beach will be underwater. Even if we’re still alive in there, we’ll be trapped with no exit strategy.”
The leather-faced captain’s mouth presses into a frown. “Don’t like this part of the plan.”
“You don’t have to like it, so long as you stick to it,” Soren counters. His eyes slide to the two scruffy-looking sailors leaning against the port rail. “Chari, Xio…are you certain you are able to bring us in?”
“Navigated worse waters than these in the Desert Depths.” Xio shrugs, their slim shoulders lifting quickly. “And Chari rows faster than a Frostlander.”
Chari nods in confirmation.
“Good. I will do what I can to calm the waters long enough for you to bring us in.” His focus moves to the Paexyrian. “Is the equipment ready?”
Yara grins hugely, a trace of her old spirit creeping through the film of grief in her eyes. “Oh, it’s ready.” Her thumb jerks toward Farley, Cadogan, Jac, and Mabon. “Whether this ragtag lot is up to the challenge of using it remains to be seen.”
“Trust me,” Farley says, winking at her. “When it comes to my equipment, Ialwaysrise to the challenge.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Then we’re prepared.” Soren’s gaze sweeps around the whole group one final time, somber enough to make my pulse skitter. “Last chance to back out. There’s no turning around once we reach the isle.”
No one says a word.
Even the best-laidplans often go awry. And ours is not best laid. For there are only so many elements we can predict, only so many hurdles we can anticipate.
From the very start, I have a knot of worry in my stomach that tightens with each passing moment. Our approach through the roiling waves leaves several members of our crew retching over the side before we’ve reached the sliver of rocky beach.
Ashore, circumstances are hardly improved. We endure a constant spray of cold sea-foam as we struggle for solid footing on the slippery stones, hauling the dinghies from the shallows as quietly as we can manage so as not to call any patrolling guards down upon our heads.
Not so very high above us, several narrow windows are aglow in the darkness. If I strain my ears over the crashing swells, I can make out the faint sound of voices from inside the thick prison walls.
Not speaking.
Screaming.
Gods, I hope that is not Arwen making such a sound. It is pain in its purest form, the embodiment of agony. I shudder as it rings out again and again into the night. So does Alaric. He looks like he’s been punched in the gut, breathless with fear.
For the first time, it occurs to me that there might be other prisoners inside this godsawful place. Others captured by Efnysien for purposes I do not want to contemplate.
Near the base of the wall, Yara and Bretiax look up from their positions, flanked by Mabon and Jac. All four hold in their hands a claw-shot—a modified crossbow of sorts with a tight spool of wire mounted at the base. Instead of a standard bolt, it is rigged to shoot a sharp-toothed grappling hook from the end.
At Yara’s low signal they all fire in sync, sending their hooks upward toward the top of the wall. There is a low crack as the stone is punctured, a sharp snap as the wires go taut. We all hold our breaths in the aftermath, waiting for the telltale shouts of warning, the thunder of boots running our way.