Whether because of the wind or their lack of coordination, the three companions got all tangled up as they plunged, heads first and feet splaying, toward the jagged rocks below.

For days they drifted. Since Sturm and Caramon had no idea where they were, it didn't make sense to try to swim in any particular direction. Besides, the ropes that bound them to the splintered mast were shrunk by the salt water. It was all they could do to keep their chins above the waves and kick out with their legs.

The sky remained gray and leaden, and a haze blanketed everything. The shroud was impenetrable. They could see nothing.

Although the sun never shone, a diffuse light permeated the haze, and it was hotter than deep summer in Solace. The heat smothered them like a sodden blanket, burning their skin and eyes, relentless in its constancy.

Night offered only slight improvement. They would have welcomed nightfall and relief from the heat, except it plunged them into utter darkness. They could barely discern each other, much less the twin moons, Lunitari and Solinari. In this part of the world, wherever it was, the sky was monolithic, oppressive.

The water itself offered little comfort. Brackish and brown, almost muddy, the sea remained uncomfortably warm even at night, carrying a pungent smell. The waves heaved and roiled, though there was little wind. It was almost as if some turbulence beneath perpetually agitated the surface.

For two days, they saw no signs of life, no ships on the horizon, no sea birds, no fish. For two days, they had nothing to eat or drink, nor any sleep. For two days, they kicked and paddled as best they could, draped over the mast, gradually losing strength and willpower.

"It could be worse," Caramon had said the first day.

"How?" questioned Sturm.

"It could be Flint instead of me," replied Caramon. He managed to force a grin. "He's the only poorer swimmer I know."

Sturm returned the grin. He was determined not to think about his body, weakened by hunger and pain. In spite of that, he began to doubt how much longer either of them could survive.

"I wonder…" began Sturm.

"What?" asked Caramon.

"Where are we?"

On the third day, the haze gradually grew even thicker, so that by midday, they could hardly see a dozen feet beyond where they floated. Sturm and Caramon glanced at each other nervously as they began to hear creaking and groaning. High-pitched shrieks rent the air. Broken beams and pieces of planking and heavy, waterlogged clumps of kelp materialized, bumping up against them in the water.

Sturm leaned away from the mast and was able to snatch some of the seaweed in his mouth.

"What are you doing?" asked Caramon, aghast.

"It's quite edible," Sturm said in a bare whisper as he chewed arduously. It was edible, though its raw and gummy texture made it worse than tasteless. "Who knows where our next meal is coming from?"

Caramon thought about that for a moment, then lunged as best he could for the next patch that floated by, catching some of the purple-brown vegetation, spotted with grime. Trying not to think about it, the twin chewed determinedly, but he couldn't bear it. With a flash of disgust, Caramon spat the mouthful out.

His brown eyes leveled at Caramon sternly, Sturm chewed on.

After a moment's consideration, Caramon lunged for the kelp again but missed. The vegetation washed by.

The groaning and cries intensified, followed by the booming and splitting sounds of… what? It sounded like a ship's crash, the noise of wood breaking up, a hull tearing on some unseen reef. The cacophony of sounds rose and fell, echoing spookily.

The haze mingled with drops of rain and seemed to rub up against their faces. The waves diminished so that the sea was eerily calm. All around them was a ghostly gray-white void.

"What can you see?" asked Caramon, his voice hoarse and cracked.

"Nothing," Sturm replied. "And you?"

"Less than nothing."

Suddenly a large mass, a great and formidable cluster of shapes, loomed out of the haze. For a moment, Caramon panicked, thinking a gigantic sea monster was descending on them. Then his vision cleared somewhat, and through his exhaustion, he realized the mass was actually a number of ships and scattered remnants of ships, creaking as they glided through the oddly calm waters.

Sickeningly white, like the bellies of dead fish, the rotting hulks were riddled with gaping holes, their timbers stained with blood, rust, and a yellow-green slime. Strange barnacles and marine life clung to their sides. Tatters of sails hung from the masts. The wind moaned in the rigging. It seemed impossible these ships could float.

"Look!" cried Caramon.

A dark shape glided toward them, the biggest ship of the wrecked fleet. A solitary hooded figure stood at the helm. Three skeletons dangled from a high post, swaying gently. As the ship bore closer, coming within a dozen feet of them, the hooded figure turned and inclined its head, appearing to focus on them.

The hooded figure pointed at Sturm and Caramon. The phantom ship had drawn so close that Caramon could see the figure's eyes, fiery red inside the black holes of its featureless visage. With a bony finger, the hooded ghost-for surely that is what it was, Caramon thought-beckoned.

The ship pulled so close the two stranded friends could have almost reached out and touched it had their arms been free to do so. Stray, rotting beams jutted out from its side. Caramon had to kick away to avoid being struck by one of them.

As the ship passed, pieces of it broke and crashed onto the deck or splashed into the sea. The hooded ghost didn't stir, but its eyes followed them. Caramon felt their terrible gaze on him and Sturm.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the ghost fleet disappeared into the haze. In its wake, the brackish water churned around Sturm and Caramon as the wind picked up and quickly became a howl. A strong current tugged at the warriors' legs. Waves crashed over them, filling their noses and mouths. The strange current sucked them downward.

With his last reserve of strength, Caramon pumped his legs, straining to keep above water. Gasping for air, he realized his friend was faring worse. Sturm was all pretzeled up, almost on top of him, his lungs at the bursting point. Caramon strove to buoy up Sturm as best he could, struggling against the enormous pull of the sea.

Sturm's strength was gone, but the knight didn't panic.

He regretted dying, but the sea had proved a worthy opponent. Death offered a welcome respite. He felt the waves close over his head for what he was certain was the final time, when suddenly the turbulence spent itself and the sea grew calm.

Sturm and Caramon both broke to the surface, choking. The sea still thundered around them, but it was no longer as threatening. The haze had returned as before. The two companions clung awkwardly to the mast that both imprisoned them and kept them afloat. Half-drowned, Sturm barely clung to consciousness. Caramon, exhausted, fought the urge to fall asleep.

Somehow they kept going. By the morning of the fifth day, the two young men had begun to despair. Brine parched their lips. Their faces had burned until the skin cracked, oozing a glistening mucous. Dampness clogged their chests, yet their throats were as dry as tinder.

Still they drifted, clinging together, roped to the mast. The brown waves tumbled over them. In every direction stretched the endless, merciless sea.

Caramon's legs had thoroughly cramped, so that he could barely move them. Sturm's eyes had shrunk into puffed slits. The endless effort to keep their chins above water, had dazed their minds as well as ravaged their bodies.