Alaric dismounted with a resonant clack as his hobnailed boots smacked against cobblestone. Word had rapidly spread of his arrival. A round of cheers from the gathering throng on the street rang out. The air buzzed with energy as his escort, still mounted, and the local militia, armed with shields and on foot, cordoned off a protective bubble around him, pushing overly excited people back; a crowd of at least two hundred. More were hurrying up the street in an attempt to get a glimpse of him. The crowd cheered again, their voices blending into a cacophony of welcome.
He lifted his hand in acknowledgment, waving back at them and stirring another burst of cheering. The crowd was primarily made up of civilian laborers, with a scattering of women and children, all united in their enthusiasm, greeting their lord. The pungent aroma of civilization—sweat, dirt, human and animal excrement, the indefinable essence of a densely populated area—hung heavy on the air. After a ride through the countryside to get here, the stench nearly overwhelmed Alaric’s senses. He knew he’d become accustomed to it in due course and by the morning barely notice it.
Amidst the sea of faces, Alaric’s attention was drawn to two knights mingling with the crowd. They were clad not in their battle armor, but in their tunics, surcoats, and cloaks, which bore the emblems of their order, a cross set next to a golden compass—symbols of an organization he did not recognize.
That did not bother him much, for there were many holy orders. Still, they stood out from the rest of the throng and Alaric had the suspicion they were Crusaders. Both men appeared to be in their thirties and fixed Alaric with an intense stare, their gazes piercing enough to instill a flicker of discomfort in him.
Alaric decided they were likely passengers on a passing ship that had brought them to Smuggler’s Landing. With luck, this was merely a waypoint on a much longer journey. Such men could easily translate into trouble, especially if they were literalists, holy firebrands of a self-proclaimed mission from God.
The knights’ unyielding scrutiny did not waver, and Alaric felt a prickle of intrigue—or was it apprehension? Their eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to weigh and judge him, assessing his every move.
Wanting nothing more to do with the Crusade, or the troubles such knights potentially brought, Alaric turned his attention away. Thorne had also dismounted, taking the reins of Alaric’s horse. The mayor had excused himself shortly after their entrance into the town to attend his duties and call out the militia for Alaric’s visit.
Alaric turned to the tavern. Before him stood a robust structure, radiating a sense of warmth and welcome. Thick wooden beams framed its architecture, supporting a steep thatched roof that boasted a promise of refuge from the fiercest storms. Large, multi-paned windows punctuated the façade, their colored glass catching the light of the sun and reflecting it.
Above the main entrance, a sturdy, hand-carved sign swung gently in the breeze, the name “The Prancing Goat” emblazoned across it in bold, rustic letters that clearly echoed the tavern’s hearty and jovial spirit.
The tavern keeper stood before the heavy main door, which was held slightly ajar as if in anticipation of his arrival. A smile spread across Alaric’s face at the sight of the stout man, a familiar presence in a town that was otherwise filled with a mesh of new and unfamiliar faces. He wore a tunic and pants covered over by a well-worn apron stained with the evidence of many a spilled ale, not to mention cooking.
“Vertax,” Alaric greeted the former veteran with a warm familiarity. The man had been a corporal in the Iron Vanguard, a solid and steady soldier, one who earned his position through hard work and dedication.
As he approached, Vertax knelt on one knee in a gesture of respect.
“Stand,” Alaric commanded softly.
Vertax rose smoothly to his feet. “Welcome to Smuggler’s Landing, my lord, and my humble tavern, the Prancing Goat. It is an honor for you to patron it.”
“It seems like civilian life suits you,” Alaric remarked, his eyes taking in the sturdy build of the tavern behind Vertax. “I take it you are doing well?”
“I am, my lord,” Vertax replied, a note of pride threading his voice. “I took the money you gave me when I mustered out of the Iron Vanguard, along with part of my pension, came here, and built the Goat. It’s the finest tavern in all of Smuggler’s Landing. I’m even married now, with a child on the way, if you can believe that. I’m truly a blessed man.”
“That is good to hear,” Alaric responded, his voice tinged with genuine pleasure at the news.
“Your guests are already inside,” Vertax continued, glancing at the partially open door. “I’ve cleared out the tavern for your arrival—there’s no one else inside. Even the servants have been sent away. Only my wife and I will be in the kitchen. Should you need food or drink, just call. My place is yours, my lord, for as long as you need it.”
Alaric nodded in appreciation. The seclusion offered by the empty tavern ensured not only privacy, but also a momentary escape from the demanding gaze of the public. He glanced at the crowd, being held back by the militia. The two knights were still there, gazes fixed upon him. Alaric turned his attention back to Vertax.
“Thank you, and I will call you if I require anything,” Alaric assured Vertax, his gratitude evident in his tone.
He turned to Thorne and Ezran, who had quietly approached and now stood just behind him. Fire was being led away by one of Alaric’s escort as the rest of Ganister’s men dismounted. “I do not wish to be disturbed. I don’t care how much they protest that they need but a moment, understand?”
“I will post guards around the tavern, my lord,” Thorne replied promptly. “You will not be disturbed. No one will come within ten paces of the building.”
Alaric nodded his approval, then walked to the entrance, pushing open the tavern door and stepping inside. Immediately, the rich aroma of woodsmoke mingling with the powerful scent of stale ale wrapped around Alaric like an old, familiar cloak. He glanced rapidly around, taking everything in. The tavern’s interior was spacious and warmly inviting, with heavy wooden beams crisscrossing the high ceiling. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, its flames casting a soft, welcoming glow across the room that flickered over the furniture and the faces of its occupants. Though it was muted, the windows let in the rest of the light.
The floor was freshly strewn with straw, which crunched softly under Alaric’s boots. The walls were a gallery of mounted, wooden carved heads of sea creatures, a clear nod to the tavern’s favored seafaring clientele. There was even a half-naked and beautiful mermaid. Long, sturdy tables and benches, crafted from rich, dark timber that matched the building’s beams overhead, filled the common room, offering plenty of seating for busier times.
Near the far end of the room, Bramwell sat closely with his first officer, Caxatarus. They’d been engrossed in a quiet conversation, their weathered faces illuminated by the flicker of a candle sitting on the table before them, creating shadows that danced across their expressions. The table was cluttered with nautical charts and a few tankards.
The rest of the tavern was eerily silent, empty; the bustling and likely normal chatter and laughter of patrons were conspicuously absent, replaced by an air of solitude. As Alaric’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, the weight of the day and the long journey to get here began to lift, replaced by the tranquility of this carefully arranged refuge.
Both men rose to their feet as Alaric closed the door behind him, sealing off the outside world and the crowd. He crossed the room. “It is my turn to welcome you both to Dekar,” Alaric announced, his voice carrying the warmth of hospitality.
Bramwell’s face split into a broad grin, and he wrapped Alaric in a robust bear hug.
“It is indeed a pleasure to be here,” the captain agreed, his voice rich with camaraderie and friendship. They patted each other on the back in a hearty exchange, then stepped back. “It has been too long.”
“It has been,” Alaric agreed, then shifted his gaze to Caxatarus. The last time Alaric had seen him, Caxatarus had been limping, a consequence of an injury sustained during their daring boarding and capture of the warship, Mysteeri. “And how are you, you old pirate?”
“I am tolerable,” Caxatarus said, his voice gritty and raspy, the result of an old injury marked by an ugly scar upon his neck. “Just tolerable.”
Alaric nodded, acknowledging the stoicism in the man’s brief reply.
“Shall we sit?” Bramwell suggested, motioning toward the table they had been occupying earlier. A large jar of ale and three mugs awaited their return. The captain hastily moved aside the charts and maps, stacking them together and placing them out of the way on the next table.
Alaric moved around the table to claim a stool on the opposite side, pulling it up with a soft scrape against the wooden floor before seating himself. Bramwell and Caxatarus followed suit, settling in more comfortably. Bramwell, with a practiced hand, filled a mug with ale and slid it across the table toward Alaric.
“To old friends,” Bramwell declared, raising his own mug in a salute, “and friendship!”
Alaric and Caxatarus lifted their mugs in sync. “To old friends,” they echoed, their voices blending into a single resonant chord. The clink of their mugs punctuated the toast, and together, the three men took long drinks.
After his long ride from Dragon Bone’s Rest, Alaric’s initial anticipation for the ale faded quickly as he tasted it, for the brew was not up to the standards he was accustomed to back at the keep. He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he analyzed the flavor. The ale had a faintly acidic tang and seemed heavily diluted, lacking the robust depth and warmth he preferred. After a moment’s contemplation, he set the mug down gently and pushed it slightly away. Clearly, his old corporal was watering down the drink.
Despite the slight disappointment in the beverage, the warmth of the reunion and the safety of the tavern’s secluded environment allowed him to overlook the ale’s shortcomings. The moment was about more than the drink—it was about rekindling bonds with comrades in a world where alliances and close friendships were as crucial as any weapon.
“I must admit,” Bramwell continued, his tone shifting toward a lighter note as he glanced around the common room, “the transformation of this place, this town that you’ve built, is quite impressive. You have done a lot here in so short a time. When I dropped you off down at the shore, there was nothing even close to civilization hereabouts.”
“Agreed,” Caxatarus added, taking another sip of the ale. His expression soured slightly, and he thumped his mug on the table with a small grunt of dissatisfaction. “When we pulled into the harbor, I could scarcely believe my eyes. We may have to stop here more often. Your tax man didn’t even charge us an anchoring fee. That is unheard of…”
“I left orders that you, specifically your ships, when you came, were not to be taxed,” Alaric responded, his voice calm and assured. “At least those taxes concerning anchoring. There is, however, a tariff to pay on goods unloaded.”
Bramwell made a sour expression at that. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“At some point,” Alaric continued, “I must be fair to the other traders, merchants, and I need to pay for the improvements to Dekar, like this port. Saving you on the anchoring fee was the least I could do for a friend.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.” Bramwell raised his mug again in a gesture of gratitude.
“It seems like every stop we make,” Caxatarus said, “they are raising the anchoring fees and import taxes. Though from what I’ve heard from others, your rates are far lower than most.”
Alaric nodded. “It’s part of our—my effort to encourage more ships to choose Dekar as a port of call along their wider journeys. Fair tariffs and stable governance make for good relations—and better business—for everyone involved, I think. We will see if that plays out in the long run. It certainly did in Hawkani.”
“I see,” Bramwell said and took another drink of the bad ale.
“I hope to drive business my way,” Alaric stated plainly, his gaze sweeping across the tavern, envisioning not just the bustling normal business within its walls, but also the broader economic currents flowing through Dekar as trade increased.
“Keep the fees and taxes low,” Caxatarus said, his voice carrying a hint of advice mingled with approval, “and half the shipping in the north will be making regular stops in Dekar. From what I’ve learned from the other captains in port, it’s far cheaper to unload goods here and then transport them overland to the towns and cities inland than it is to pay the exorbitant taxes elsewhere, like in Averndale or Urburn.”
Alaric’s grin widened at the comment. “You know, there was a reason Hawkani’s anchoring and import taxes were lower than my competitors’.”
“I’ve always wondered about that,” Bramwell mused aloud, leaning forward with interest. “It made you a rich man, then?” The captain slapped a palm down upon the table. “Why, I am sure it did, thinking back on all those strongboxes we took aboard when you left Hawkani and took you home.”
“It did,” Alaric affirmed. “And now, some of those funds are financing the improvements to Dekar, including this port.”
Bramwell gave a shrewd nod, his expression showing a mix of respect and understanding.
“It has been two years since I last saw you both,” Alaric remarked, his tone reflective as he pondered the swift passage of time. “What have you been up to?”
“The trade in the holy land has dried up,” Caxatarus replied grimly. “None of Eldanar’s followers are welcome in the ports of call along that cursed coast.”
“You mean there are fewer ships to raid and take?” Alaric asked, his words carrying a touch of irony mixed with genuine curiosity.
“Aye,” Caxatarus said. “Not to mention the enemy’s warships are more numerous now, especially with Sunara snapping up all the good port cities, making such ventures challenging to the point of being outright dangerous in the extreme.”
“Hawkani was the last city to fall to Sunara’s forces,” Bramwell interjected, his tone somber as he delivered the news.
“When did that happen?” Alaric inquired, feeling a stab of unhappiness.
“Two months ago.” Bramwell’s expression was serious. “I heard from a trader who set sail the day it happened.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“The city did not fall by force of arms,” Caxatarus added, leaning forward slightly. “As Sunara’s army arrived, the people strung Merrick up like the pig he was and executed him, then surrendered the city. At least, that is what we were told. We weren’t there.”
Alaric’s expression turned somber as he processed this information. The news left him saddened, for Hawkani had been his home. After several moments, he gave a slow, contemplative nod. While he never held any particular fondness for Merrick, the brutal manner of his demise was unsettling. It was a lesson, for it could happen to Alaric too if the circumstances were right. “And how did the city fare? What did Sunara do to the populace?”
“The priests were all killed, publicly stripped, flogged, and executed; beheading, I think,” Bramwell reported somberly. “But, as I understand it, Sunara was generous. Those who converted and renounced Eldanar were spared the sword or the torture of a forced conversion.”
That, Alaric thought, was not good news. Though it was better than the alternative, what he had expected. Sunara could have easily razed the city to the ground for supporting Eldanar’s holy warriors.
“We heard Sunara was enraged he did not get you,” Caxatarus chimed in. “He’s still unhappy with you, it seems…”
“I’m happy to disappoint,” Alaric quipped dryly, taking another sip of his ale, though the flavor seemed to have soured even further with the conversation.
“Such a man has a long arm,” Caxatarus warned, “and an even longer reach. He is holding a serious grudge against you.”
Alaric took another sip of the ale. He peered over the rim of his mug at Caxatarus, then Bramwell. The relaxed demeanor of the two men belied the undercurrent of tension that Alaric felt creeping into the room. Caxatarus spoke truth. Alaric had to be watchful, for there was the real chance Sunara would come after him one day. The subtle warmth spreading from his ring—a family heirloom sensitive to such things—confirmed that. He had to be on guard.
“I will be careful,” Alaric said.
“You were the only one to ever defeat Sunara in battle,” Bramwell said. “Such a thing sticks with such a man. I fear he will not rest until he sees you dead. There’s even talk of him turning his armies north to our lands, though I think that unlikely, as he’d have to cross the great ocean. No, if I am any judge, he will sit tight and consolidate his gains, what he conquered in the holy lands.”
Alaric thought so too.
“So, why, after all this time, did you decide to finally come for a visit?” Alaric wanted to change the course of the conversation. “Why are you here? Why now? I mean, I am happy to see you, but what took so long? It’s been more than two years.”
Bramwell’s demeanor shifted as he leaned back on his stool and set his mug down with a deliberate calm. “I bring a warning. I owed you that much.”
“A warning?” Alaric echoed, his interest piqued. “What kind of a warning?”
“Your kingdom’s neighbor to the south, Averndale, has raised an army,” Bramwell revealed, his voice carrying the weight of his words. “They are preparing to invade Kevahn.”
“I’ve heard the rumors about that,” Alaric admitted, his expression tight with concern. “There have been some border clashes in Urburn, raids on both sides of the border. In response, the king has ordered the raising of fresh levies, which, accordingly, I have seen done. If the call comes, Dekar will stand ready to answer.”
“These are not rumors,” Bramwell insisted, leaning forward to emphasize his point. He tapped a finger on the table. “King Thorold means to take Kevahn from Roderick through force of arms.”
“My king?”
“Aye,” Bramwell said. “I saw the army with my own eyes. Thorold’s ships have already begun to raid Kevahn’s shipping.”
“I’ve not heard about that,” Alaric admitted.
“We both saw the army,” Caxatarus said, “and the aftermath of one such raid, the wreckage of the galley, and talked to a survivor who’d swum ashore rather than surrender. A ship flying under the colors of Averndale was the aggressor.”
Alaric’s posture straightened, his attention sharpening. The casual setting of the tavern faded away as the gravity of the situation settled upon him.
“Thorold means to invade Kevahn, and soon,” Caxatarus added, his voice grave. “Your king, Roderick, is viewed as weak, your kingdom vulnerable. Before we weighed anchor, from Throgg’s Head, Thorold sent for me and even tried to engage my services.”
Alaric’s gaze flicked between the two men, absorbing the implications of their words. Kevahn’s king was indeed young and inexperienced—traits often mistaken for weakness in their harsh, unforgiving world. Though this perception was widespread, it stirred a protective loyalty in Alaric for his king. But, the truth was, Roderick was weak. Alaric had met the man twice and been far from impressed. Still, he’d given his word and sworn an oath of loyalty to his king.
“And what did you say to that?” Alaric asked. “What did you say to Thorold?”
“I told him I’d think on it, give his offer the thought it deserved,” Bramwell said plainly. “And I am still thinking on it. Thorold is an experienced fighter and leader. He may be older, but he is not a weak man, not by a long shot. He brought his kingdom together by force of arms. He wants Kevahn and aims to have it before the fall rains arrive.”
The silence hung heavy as Alaric considered his response. His commitment to Roderick was not just a matter of loyalty, but of honor. He knew well the responsibilities that came with his oath, and the potential consequences of the looming threat that war brought. Alaric’s word was his bond. He’d not go back on it. When the king called, he would answer and bring Dekar’s might to the war.
“Why not just take him up on the offer?” Alaric asked. “Why come here and warn me?”
“I was tempted,” Bramwell admitted. “Seriously tempted. But the thought of you stopped me…”
“Me?”
“Aye, you,” Bramwell said. “I’d not fight against you. It is not a winning bet, and besides, you are one of the few friends I have.”
Alaric snorted. “If it comes to war, I won’t be leading Kevahn’s army. It will likely be one of the dukes or the king himself.”
“That did not stop you at the Battle of Cross Forks from saving the Cardinal’s army, pulling that fat and entitled man’s bacon from the fire. I seem to recall you were rewarded with Hawkani after that.”
“In the end,” Alaric said, “I did not make much of a difference. The Cardinal King and his domain still fell and is now in Sunara’s hands.”
“Aye, it did,” Bramwell said, “but I have a feeling about you.”
“A feeling? Really?” Alaric barked out a laugh. It sounded harsh in the empty common room of the tavern.
“Yes, a feeling,” Bramwell said. “There is more to you than meets the eye. There always has been, and you know it too.”
Alaric scowled at the words. “Thank you for the warning.”
“There will be war between Averndale and Kevahn before long.” Bramwell was firm. “Thorold has amassed a considerable army that includes former Crusaders and their men-at-arms, now hiring themselves out as mercenaries.”
“We’ve heard it said Thorold has more than ten thousand men,” Caxatarus said, “maybe even twelve thousand.”
Alaric rubbed his jaw as he considered what he was learning. He would have to write the king. Such an army was a real threat.
“Call this a friendly heads-up,” Bramwell said.
Alaric snorted again. “You fight on sea and I on land. If you took Thorold’s side, we’d not likely face one another in battle, at least until after the war. You’d sell your mother if there was an opportunity.”
“You wound me,” Bramwell said, then gave a shrug.
“I seriously doubt that,” Alaric said. “There’s more to your visit than’s plain.”
“Well,” Bramwell said, dragging out the word, “now that you mention it… there might be an opportunity to be had for the both of us, one we would be foolish and remiss to ignore.”
“You mean to prey upon Averndale’s shipping,” Alaric surmised. “Is that it? Why not just take Thorold’s offer and his side?”
“Their taxes and import fees are too high as it is,” Bramwell said simply, “and Thorold’s bureaucrats have not been so friendly to me of late. They want bribes, and not little ones, to look the other way. Besides, Averndale is richer than Kevahn, and their merchant fleet is far larger, meaning there will be more marks to take. If it comes to war, I now have five ships at my disposal, all with good crews and captains. There is money to be made, for Averndale does not have a proper navy, at least an experienced one. That ship they took, it sank prematurely, and the amateurs lost half the cargo to the sea.”
“They are terrible sailors,” Caxatarus added.
Alaric was silent for a long moment as he looked between the two men.
Caxatarus grinned at him with rotted teeth. “We are offering you our services.”
“We only have a small fleet,” Bramwell said, “as I said, five ships, but in a manner of speaking, it would be Dekar’s navy.”
“That you want to put to use in Kevahn’s name?” Alaric asked. “Is that it? Make your piracy legal?”
“Not quite for Kevahn,” Bramwell said, “but in Dekar’s name, yes, and I would not call it piracy, not exactly. We would be fighting for your side, wreaking havoc upon the enemy. I would also need a place to move the goods taken and seized, a place to anchor my ships, to refit, conduct repairs when needed… a safe harbor”—Bramwell held out his arms—“like this one. Some wars tend to be longer than others, and when they drag out, in my experience, there is money to be made.”
“You would get a cut of whatever we seize,” Caxatarus said, leaning forward upon his stool and growing deadly serious. He glanced over at Bramwell, who nodded. “A very generous cut, in addition to the taxes you charge, twenty percent of our profit. Thorold wanted twenty-five, and that’s highway robbery. We’re the ones taking all the risk.”
Intrigued, Alaric thought for a long moment. He gave a slow nod. “I might be agreeable to that, if it comes to war.”
Both Bramwell and Caxatarus grinned at him, relaxing a bit. They both shared a look. Then Caxatarus gave a slight nod, as if for Bramwell to continue.
“I also need a place I can call my own,” Bramwell said.
“We,” Caxatarus added, “need a place to call our own, a place to put down roots.”
“You mean land?” Alaric asked. “You both want land?”
“A place to invest our considerable retirement funds,” Caxatarus said.
“I see,” Alaric said. “Here in Smuggler’s Landing?”
“Aye. You would see me more often, and I would buy the land from you for a fair rate and build a villa with seaside views, a place to relax when in port. We both win. You get a navy and we a safe haven.”
Alaric leaned back. His stool creaked as he considered the two men before him. When he’d walked through the door to the Prancing Goat, he had not expected this in the least.
“There would also be our crews to think of,” Caxatarus said. “They would need a home, a place where, when their days of sailing are done and they retire, they might be able to settle down and live out their final days in peace.”
“A land grant for service?” Alaric asked. “Service to Dekar in the coming war?”
“Kinda like that,” Bramwell said. “They might fight harder for land. If the war is a short one, perhaps some sort of long-term deal can be made. We could become your navy in name, patrolling Dekar’s waters, driving away any pirates that seek to take advantage of your prosperity, while also conducting some trade on the side.”
Alaric took a deep breath, weighing the heavy decision. His mind raced with the tactical implications of Bramwell and Caxatarus’s proposal, the balance of risk and reward playing out in his thoughts.
Sponsoring what could be seen as piracy was not without its dangers, but in the chess game of regional politics, what they were suggesting made sense. However, if Bramwell took the wrong ship and word got out, it could have serious repercussions for Dekar. Alaric knew well enough he could not trust these men, not fully. They’d do what was in their best interests. Still, if war broke out, Averndale’s shipping would indeed become a valid target. Without Bramwell, Alaric had no way to take advantage of that, and the two men knew it.
Alaric understood that when war came, his new port and the shipping he sought to bring into it would suffer, especially if Thorold was already raiding Kevahn’s shipping. Having seasoned, allied ships on his side could prove invaluable. Bramwell would do as he pleased, but hurting Averndale would help Kavahn and, in turn, Dekar. Bramwell was a force to be reckoned with when it came to warfare at sea, and the man was offering Alaric his service, along with five ships.
“So,” Bramwell pressed, watching Alaric closely, “what say you? Do we have a deal?”
Alaric did not answer right away, thinking through it some more. The fire crackled softly in the background as the room seemed to hold its breath. Finally, he nodded, his decision made. “I think I might be able to arrange that, land in return for service. Yes, I accept your offer and welcome you into Dekar’s service.”
At this, Caxatarus’s hand came down on the table with a satisfying thud, his face breaking into a broad grin. “I told you,” he said, looking triumphantly at Bramwell. “I bloody told you he’d agree, that he would see the sense of it all.”
Alaric realized there had been doubt on the other side of the table. In truth, he would be a fool to turn them away, especially with war on the horizon.
“You did,” Bramwell acknowledged with a chuckle, then turned back to Alaric, his expression one of renewed respect and camaraderie. “I’ve always liked you, and now more so, my friend.”
“Before I leave town,” Alaric said, “I will speak with the mayor. You and your ships will always have a place here in Dekar, a safe anchorage to hole up. Just make sure your sailors behave themselves. I’d not have this town descend into anarchy every time you put into port. In fact, that is non-negotiable, especially if you plan on making Dekar their home. They’ll need to put down roots here, form families—”
“Of course,” Bramwell quickly interjected, nodding in agreement as he glanced at Caxatarus. The seriousness of Alaric’s stipulation was not lost on them; that much was clear. Maintaining order was essential to Alaric’s long-term plans throughout all of Dekar. There would be no exceptions.
“We will control our men,” Caxatarus affirmed, his voice carrying the weight of responsibility. “I will see to that personally.”
“Very well,” Alaric said, finally taking another sip of his sour ale.
“I do have some suggestions as to how Smuggler’s Landing can be made more useful,” Bramwell added, “that is, if you would hear them?”
“I would.” Alaric nodded for his friend to continue.
“I know you plan on building more piers for mooring additional ships.” Bramwell’s eyes shone with a strategic gleam as he laid out his thoughts. “But make the docks longer and wider to accommodate more freight, to allow ships to be unloaded and loaded more easily, more rapidly, and then push off to anchor.”
“I will speak to the mayor on that,” Alaric responded promptly, recognizing the value in Bramwell’s suggestions, “and see what can be done.”
“Also,” Bramwell continued, leaning slightly forward to emphasize his next point, “bring in more carpenters, those who specialize in work on ships, and sailmakers and the like when it comes to skilled labor. Put a focus on those types of people, ones who are useful to us. Additional dried foodstuffs—hardtack, salt-pork, and beef—would be a plus for ships looking to rapidly reprovision and put back out to sea. That stuff is easily stored and will last forever. You should be able to make some good coin off of it too.”
Alaric gave a thoughtful nod, understanding the necessity of having skilled labor that could cater specifically to the needs of the seafaring community. The suggestion on food stores made sense too. “More skilled craftsmen who cater to a ship captain’s needs,” he echoed, summarizing the idea succinctly, “and long-term provisions on hand, stored in abundance.”
“Yes, exactly,” Bramwell affirmed, pleased with Alaric’s receptive response. “You have that on hand and ships don’t need to linger as long as provisions are gathered. Time wasted in port costs us money.”
“Grog would be a welcome addition too.” Caxatarus thumped his near-empty mug down on the table. “All that’s available in town is this shitty ale and poor-quality mead and wine. More taverns, ones that a sailor will like, and with easy women who readily accept a man’s coin for some pleasure in bed.”
Alaric chuckled, then after a moment sobered. “You’ve met Mayor Brakenhill, yes?”
“We have,” Bramwell confirmed. “He seems a good sort. A former soldier, if I am not mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken. I trust him implicitly. Before I leave,” Alaric continued, turning the conversation toward a more formal arrangement, “I shall appoint you as one of his advisors.”
“Advisor?” Bramwell echoed, the surprise evident in his voice. He scowled at Alaric as he tapped his chest. “Me, an advisor? Whatever for?”
“Yes, you,” Alaric confirmed, his tone firm. “That way, you can tell him exactly what you feel the town needs and what you and your men require. He will do his best to make it happen.”
“I see,” Bramwell said.
“That way,” Alaric added, “I don’t have to be involved in the smaller details. With all I am doing, I have enough headaches. All I want is to be kept in the loop. If I don’t like something, I will let you both know straightaway.”
Bramwell still appeared taken aback by the proposition. “I’ve never been an advisor to anyone,” he admitted, his uncertainty clear.
“Well,” Alaric countered, his voice imbued with encouragement, “if you want to put down roots here, you might as well have some ownership in the town and how it develops, some say in what goes on here. Just speak your mind. The rest will work its way out. I’m certain of it.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Caxatarus interjected. “You could speak for us sailors, Captain.”
This strategic move would allow Bramwell to directly influence local governance and ensure that the needs of the incoming community of sailors were met. Alaric thought it a clever maneuver, effectively integrating and tying Bramwell and his crew into the fabric of Dekar, while offloading some responsibilities that could bog down Alaric’s broader rule.
“Think of it as part of your investment here—not just in land, but in the community,” Alaric explained further. “Your insights as a sailor and a leader could greatly benefit the town and port’s development, especially as I aim for Smuggler’s Landing to become a prominent maritime hub.”
Bramwell pondered Alaric’s words, the initial shock of the suggestion giving way to a slow, understanding nod. The role of advisor would empower him to help shape the future of the town in a way that supported both the local and maritime populations. From his look, it was clear to Alaric that his friend understood as much.
“Alright,” Bramwell finally said, a decisive tone taking over. “I’ll take on the role. It’s a good opportunity to make sure our needs align with the town’s growth.”
Alaric smiled, pleased with Bramwell’s acceptance. This arrangement would strengthen their alliance and, by extension, the strategic and economic positioning of Dekar.
“Good,” Alaric said. “Then, since we’ve got the business out of the way, let’s enjoy a few drinks, some food, and company, for I cannot linger. I must head back in the morning.”
“I am afraid there is more,” Bramwell said as Alaric went to take another drink. The captain leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, clasping both hands.
Alaric set his mug back down. “More?”
“Yes,” Bramwell continued, his voice bearing the weight of their import. “One of the reasons we came was because we were chartered to bring passengers here to Smuggler’s Landing.”
“Really?” Alaric’s interest piqued, wondering who these passengers were.
“Two knights and a dozen men-at-arms between them,” Caxatarus added, “from the order of Saint Vinthus. They paid well to be brought to Dekar.”
“I’ve never heard of their order,” Alaric admitted, his confusion apparent, thinking back to the two knights he’d seen outside the tavern. “Why would they want to come here?”
“They believe in the restoration,” Bramwell disclosed.
Alaric straightened on his stool, his relaxed demeanor evaporating. His mood darkened. “Of the Ordinate?”
“Yes,” Bramwell said. “That is the purpose of their order, their mission to bring about a second coming of the empire and—”
“They came to see me to make it happen,” Alaric finished.