THE CHRONICLER

Glaring above the open water into the towering maelstrom’s gaping black throat, Aodh agreed, “This storm is going to be bad.” Several minutes passed as the tattered lightning exploded into waves of resounding thunder that echoed across the choppy sea. Finally satisfied that he had seen enough; the burly Irishman turned to go below, “I’ll warn the women to get ready. This monster is coming fast.”

  

Within a matter of minutes the weather abruptly worsened as the typhoon slammed into the side of the listing ship, driving the boat and her three companion vessels farther out to sea. The helmsman struggled to turn the bow into the wind, but after endless effort finally let the ship run ahead of the gale.


“If we could just find an island,” Lochlann bellowed, “where the dromon could sail along the sheltered side.”


Drenching wet, Aodh adamantly shook his head and shouted, “No good! That close to land, the boat might founder on sandbars hidden in the shallows! We’ll be safer letting her run deep!”