A few hours later the sky ahead became a lurid wall across the sea, from horizon to horizon, its predominant colours, dark red and purple. It towered upwards and yet the sky above them was as blue as it ever had been and the sea was perfectly calm. Only the wind had dropped slightly. It was as if they sailed in a lake, enclosed on all sides by mountains whose peaks disappeared into the heavens. The crew was disconcerted and there was a note of fear in the bosun’s voice when he next confronted Hawkmoon.

“Do we sail on, sir? I have never heard of such a phenomenon as this before; I’ve never experienced any

thing like it. The crew’s nervous, sir, and I’ll admit that I am, also.”

Hawkmoon nodded sympathetically. “It’s peculiar, right enough, seeming to be more supernatural than natural.”

“That’s what the crew’s saying, sir.”

Hawkmoon’s own instinct was to press on and face whatever it was, but he had a responsibility to the crew, each member of which had volunteered to sail with him in gratitude for his ridding their home city, Narleen, of the power of the Pirate Lords.

Hawkmoon sighed. “Very well, bosun. We’ll take in all sail and wait the night. With luck, the phenomenon will have passed by morning.”

The bosun was relieved. “Thank you, sir.”

Hawkmoon acknowledged his salute then turned to stare up at the huge walls. Were they cloud or were they something else? A chill had come into the air and although the sun still shone down, its rays did not seem to touch the massed clouds.

All was still. Hawkmoon wondered if he had made a wise decision in heading away from Dnark. None, to his knowledge, save the ancients had ever sailed these oceans. Who was to tell what uncharted terrors inhabited them?

Night fell, and in the distance the vast, lurid walls could still be seen, their dark reds and purples piercing the blackness of the night. And yet the colours hardly seemed to have the usual properties of light.

Hawkmoon began to feel perturbed.

In the morning the walls seemed to have drawn in much closer and the area of blue sea seemed much smaller. Hawkmoon wondered if they had not been caught in a trap set by giants.

Clad in a thick cloak that did not keep out much of the chill, he paced the deck at dawn.

D’Averc was next to emerge, wearing at least three

cloaks and shivering ostentatiously. “A fresh morning, Hawkmoon.”

“Aye,” murmured the Duke of Koln. “What do you make of it, D’Averc?”

The Frenchman shook his head. “It’s a grim sort of stuff, isn’t it? Here comes the bosun.”

They both turned to greet the bosun. He, too, was wrapped up heavily in a great leather cloak normally used for protection when sailing through a storm.