The Witch's Patron

Chapter 1

There was a shadow emerging on the horizon – just a hint of the thing, like a specter haunting the edge of the sky. Most wouldn't have noticed it, perhaps mistaking it for a low rain bearing cloud or a waft of smoke. But Noori knew better.

Most people — even more experienced seafarers who had been sailing three times as long as Noori had been alive — weren't as keen-eyed as she was when it came to catching the first signs of a ship on the horizon. Noori always knew. It was as though she felt an approach like a tremor in her bones; a tugging that drew her long glass to what was usually still only a suggestion of a ship's silhouette creeping across the water.

"We have a mark," she announced with a grin, her eye still pressed to the lens. "Are you ready, Toddrick?"

"Aye aye!" her best friend and first mate called in reply. Seated in the stern, he gripped the tiller with chapped and steady hands.

Mystic Sal, Noori's small but formidable cutter, sliced through the choppy morning ocean like a dream. They were coasting in open water, and here the sea played no games. Beneath the hull the western sea churned, dark and deep and murky. Soon the sun would break over the horizon and burn off the low ceiling of gloom that smothered the mouth of the harbor. If the previous evening's red sunset was any indication, the city of Fernweh had a stunning sky waiting for it on the other side of the morning's clouds. But for now there was only this: the dark sea, the heavy cover from above, Mystic Sal, and a shadow.

"Eyes to starboard," Toddrick shouted over the slosh of sea spray leaping off the bow and the bellow of cold wind that slapped their faces raw. "We're not alone."

Noori glanced to the right and saw it – a small schooner creeping in from a wall of gray to the north. She recognized the sails in an instant.

Lady Bethel was sailed by an unruly crew of local coastal shippers, known for being perpetually broke and dangerously bored. For these hobblers, piloting was a way to make some extra money between jobs – the often perilous open water-racing that came with the job was a happy bonus as far as they were concerned. Captained by a man named Cort, Lady Bethel's crew sailed their employer's schooner with all the sophistication of school boys on a stolen dinghy. This wasn't the first time they had tailed Mystic Sal in hopes of beating her to a fare.

"I suppose the boys are looking for a race." Noori laughed loudly, knowing it would be heard across the water on Bethel's deck. "Let's show them how it's done!"

Noori tightened the jib sheet with a mighty heave as Toddrick pointed the tiller. Mystic Sal picked up speed the way a stallion charges across an open expanse, breathtaking and powerful. She tacked starboard at a sharp angle over the water's surface. By now the shadow on the horizon had taken shape; a massive galleon seeking berth in the port of Fernweh. If she squinted, Noori could see a flag of white and red snapping in the wind; they were calling for a pilot.

Out here the waters were deeper and more alive than in the relative calm of the sheltered harbor. Waves rose higher, pitching the Mystic Sal up and down. But Noori and Toddrick were old hands at this, and they steadied their vessel with skill. Cutting through the water, they navigated cleanly through the restless waves and closed the distance with ease.

The hiss and slosh of Lady Bethel's progress registered in Noori's ear. They were giving them a good run, but Noori wasn't concerned. She thrilled at the chase, she loved the challenge.

"We're nearly there," Noori called to Toddrick. Her normally buoyant hair was matted down with the slick of salt water, her cheeks glowing with the effort and the excitement of the race. "Shall we put them out of their misery?"