(Freddie's note: For those unaware. A Wereguild is the price put on a life. If a man is killed by another he must pay the family and the lord of the fallen person, the cost of that person's life. Roughly supposed to be the equivalent of money that a man might provide or earn over the course of his lifetime. A servant is relatively little but a Lord or Jarl's blood price can bankrupt clans. This happens so a Lord, jarl or monarch does not lose out on the amount of money that he would get in tax and income from the fallen person and the person's family will not starve or lose their homes because the family member has died. Not a bad system in theory but there are so many loopholes and variables that mean that the full wereguild is rarely paid. Too often, such matters end up before a court at some Jarl's Thing (see previous notes) and the matter congeals into a blood feud.)

“If she did,” Ciri said, a little slyly, “would you abide by her rules. You would have to you know. It's treason not to and no sooner would Clan Drummond be reborn than it would die again.”

“This bickering is pointless.” Ermion snapped again. This time, even Ciri was not free from his ire. “What did the Queen decide?” He demanded of Hjalmar.

“The Queen chose that the plan suggested by the Witcher should be moved forward.” Hjalmar spoke carefully and precisely. Thinking through his words as he spoke. “I stress that there is still room for a final change of heart or change of decision. But that depends on you Lord Ermion.”

“Why?” Ermion wondered, not unreasonably.

“Because one of your Druids lied to me.” Kerrass said, flatly and harshly, speaking for the first time and people visibly flinched. His voice grated in the open air amongst other men who have been trained to speak in public since a young age. Kerrass has not. He has been trained to kill. “He lied, and his lies have led to the loss of lives. Both recently and over time.”

“They mean to drag a Druid from the sanctuary.” Svartlebrand was beginning to feel as though he was losing the situation. He might not have been wrong either, but there was a new, desperate edge to his voice. “They mean to drag him out in chains and torture him for information.”

Ermion listened to this in silence. “Do you? Lord Hjalmar?”

“That depends on him, Lord Ermion.” Hjalmar responded. “But as the Witcher seems certain that this man is at the centre of the entire affair and, if true, that makes this man responsible for every death that has happened, every piece of destruction that has taken place when the Skeleton Ship passes... I will have no guilt at all in doing precisely that.”

“See my Lord Ermion. See?” Svartlebrand crowed, believing in his victory. “They mean to violate the Sanctuary and deny the Druid's sacred charge. They have no authority to do this. They seek to set aside our most sacred of laws as to the inviolate nature of the Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary is not inviolate.” Ermion told him. “Nor are the Druids above the law. They never have been. We are not some state religion like the Eternal Fire in Redania or the Sun Cult in Nilfgaard. We exist on Jarl Hjalmar's land and live here on the Queen's sufferance. That has always been true.”

Svartlebrand's mouth fell open. “But...”

“Close your moth.” Ermion told him. “You look like a fish. You have told me that you are here to protect me from marauding bandits who seek to attack our goods in the face of the Skeleton Ship's passing. I accepted you on the grounds that your people are clearly starving and would freeze to death without our help. But Lord Hjalmar and The Empress of the Continent are hardly common bandits are they?”

Svartlebrand struggled to speak.

“You really should have paid more attention to the Skald's lessons in school Svartlebrand.” Ermion chided him. You would have known all these things. In the mean time,” he turned back to Ciri, Kerrass and myself. “I would like to listen to these accusations that you level against one of our druids and assess the matter for myself. If he deserves it, then I will tie them to your horse myself.”

“We will not permit this.” Svartlebrand protested. “We had thought that you, Lord Ermion, at least would stand by the ancient laws and traditions but we see that even in this we are betrayed. We will not allow this to take place.” He stalked back to his men.

“Oh very well.” Ermion sighed before turning to Hjalmar. “Try not to make too much of a mess on my lawn and take as many as you can alive, many of them really are desperate and hungry.”

“I will try. But it would seem that the lure of a poetic last stand rings too true in certain ears.”

“That is always the case.” Ermion said sadly. “Gentlemen, I assume that you will not be separated from your men and will not want to come inside to safety while this inevitability is played out.”

“I cannot speak for everyone here.” I told him. “But I stand with the men who got me this far.”

Kerrass nodded his agreement.

“Sorry Uncle.” Ciri agreed, her voice hard.

“Very well, very well.” Ermion looked sad and old again for a moment. “Just bear in mind that the real dangerous people are the people driving the fodder forwards from the back will you.”

“We will remember, Lord Ermion.” Hjalmar told him.

So began the battle of Gedyneith, or the battle of Druid's Grove. Or the battle of Sanctuary if you prefer to follow the traditionalist propaganda that has been thrown around since these events have taken place. I cannot answer to that. No more than the fight with the Ice Giants and their forces, I didn't think of it as being a battle. There was just shy of a hundred men on our side with around half as much again on the other side which doesn't sound like much of a battle to me.

And it isn't, not really. In the scale of the great northern wars it would be considered little more than an “action” or a “Skirmish”. But I am not in charge of such things. It will be down to history to decide what it will be called and I suppose that such matters will be down to the whims of Queen Cerys. Certainly Hjalmar is calling it a battle and I would like to think that he would know when it comes to that kind of things.

He's also the one who keeps telling me that I can now say that I fought in a real battle. I don't think I did. The most that can be said for my actions that day was that I ducked a few thrown stones and helped a guardsman to his feet when he was knocked down.

Then I helped with the wounded. Kerrass and Ciri didn't even bother drawing their swords and although I had my spear ready, on the grounds that I can't draw it from it's new sheath, put it together and bring it to bear as fast as they can with their swords, I didn't use it. So I dispute the assertion that I fought in the battle....

See, even I'm calling it a battle now.

… Instead, I will say that I watched it. And, having studied history on the subject, Kerrass' assertion that if you prepare for a situation properly. If you have a good plan and follow through on it while making appropriate preparations for things to go wrong. Then that plan will work.

We were outnumbered, almost two to one but where our opponents were collections of individuals and small units with uncertain command structure. The Guardsmen and the An Craite Huscarls were trained as units. There was a clear chain of command in that Svein was in charge with Hjalmar in second and the commander of the Guard in third. Each of the three men leading an element of our battle line and none were in competition with the other for honour or glory.

Our opponents were ragged, tired, hungry and cold. This despite the Druid's work to the contrary. We were rested, well fed and quite warm.

Our opponents were also desperate, their weapons and armour were old and badly maintained. I am not insulting them as I say that. Given how these people had been living since the fall of Clan Drummond, it was a miracle that their weapons hadn't fallen apart before. It was also a testament to the care that had been lavished on them. But sooner or later, good armour and good weapons need to be oiled and scoured and sometimes they need to be taken to a smith.

As Kerrass would tell us all. Why do a job badly, which often makes a problem worse, when you can get a professional to do the job for you.

But again, our troops were the cream of the Imperial guard in their segmented plate mail over chain with their huge shields. The Huscarls were the hand picked personal guard and standing warriors of Clan An Craite. Hard men, battle-scarred veterans of war and raid wearing their thick, hardened leather armour over hauberks of steel chain and their shields were broad.

It was not a battle. But nor was it a slaughter. Not really. Hjalmar passed orders that we were to take prisoners where we could. So we lined up and advanced up the hill, the Guardsmen leading just a little. Our opponents screamed and charged down towards us striking the Guards line with a crash. The Guard fell back in a bow.

This was still part of the plan.

The enemy, sensed victory and had pressed forward in the face of the retreating guardsmen. This meant that the Huscarls could wrap around them and completely surround the enemy forces. What this means, in practice, is that every one of our troops could fight. Whereas many of our foes were trapped in the middle of the formation, pressed in on all sides.

And that was it. After a bit of time, the Skelligans started to chant a single word over and over again.

“Udbytte” was the word and they chanted it over and over again. The Nilfgaardians heard this and chanted their own version. “Cynnyrch”.

“Yield” they chanted. Stamping their feet as they did so. Any man not presently engaged clashed weapon against shield or dragged wounded from the lines.

In the end, that was what happened. The enemy yielded. Some men refused to be taken and insisted in their martyrdom. Svartlebrand was one of those. There were other men as well who were not taken alive. Men and at least one woman who took poison rather than be taken alive. Something that incensed Hjalmar more than anything else that had happened that day as they were also among those that appeared to be better fed and equipped than everyone else and could be assumed to be spies and agents of existing powers.

There were also some people killed. Because that kind of thing always happens when people swing weapons at each other. But in the most part, we took prisoners rather than making corpses. There were broken limbs and similar injuries. The Druids came out to help with the wounded.

If you have ever thought that the Priestesses of Melitele have bad bedside manner then you should thank that most wise Goddess that you are not in the care of the Druids. I saw one Druid telling one of the injured that if he wanted to complain about his injury then he should have considered not getting in a fight in the first place. Another man was told that if he whined about the unfairness of the victory, then he, the druid, would walk away, leaving the injured men to deal with it. When the man protested, the druid, literally, got up and walked away, leaving the injured man to bleed to death.

Or he would have done if another Druid hadn't arrived to tie off the wound properly. I'm getting at battlefield injuries. I had my hands in someone else's injury at the time, tying of an artery, but the difference in time between the first druid walking away and the second druid turning up meant the difference between the arm working again and not.

Therefore, the man's worth as a warrior, and not.

Harsh is not the word for it. In my experience from both sides of the operating table, the overwhelming emotion that you feel when you are injured and waiting the attentions of a healer, is fear. Or Terror. The eternal question of “Am I dying?” will shortly be answered. Men fight off the fear many different ways. I prefer humour, but anger is what warriors tend to prefer. This because, in this case, they are trying to fight off the pain and the fear and to fight anything, in a warrior's mind, is to get angry at it.

I have heard it said that men who will willingly charge into the killing ground of a besieged castle and hold a line against overwhelming odds will often need to be forced into the surgeon's tent, at knife point, to have a tooth pulled or a boil lanced. I've seen it happen too. Sir Rickard once told me when I commented on this that this is down to the fact that in battle, a soldier can hit his enemy back. Whereas in the surgeon's tent, they're not aloud to punch the surgeon afterwards.

Or during.

It's a valid argument.

I am pleased to say that Snorri survived. As did a number of people under his command. They were disarmed and I'm told that they were among those that realised that they were over-committed and that they were going to be surrounded and beaten. They had tried to get back and out but the press of men prevented them from doing this. He seemed sad and resigned rather than anything and he had about a dozen people with him who followed his orders to surrender and acknowledge that they were beaten. They were men of honour and I heard Svein say, more than once, that if the rest of Clan Drummond had followed his example rather than the examples of men like Svartlebrand. Then the clan would have still been in existence today.

The Madman died a matter of moments after announcing his rebellion in the face of the Nilfgaardian invasion fleet. If his heir had been stronger and listened to proper advice rather than being determined to make a name for himself, then the rest of the clan would have told the new Queen that the madman had been driven mad by grief at the loss of his son. They would have begged her to not hold the rest of the clan accountable for the sins of one man and then they would all have gotten on with their lives.

She would have done it too. In the face of Nilfgaard and later, the attacks of the Wild Hunt, Or the Wraiths of Morhogg if you prefer, she would have needed the troops.

So Snorri just sat there, telling his men that they would survive a year and a day of Thralldom to take up the fight again later, or to reassess the world that they found when they re-emerged. I did notice that they made a point of surrendering to Helfdan though. Hjalmar was not displeased by this and to be fair, I rather think he was amused. But that was a thing for a little while.

The other warriors that were taken rather than surrendering, looked down and spat on Snorri and his men but the Guard took command of them and kept them apart. Along with Snorri, a number of Women had yielded and there were some children as well. The youngest was eleven, given a short blade and told that it was his sword. He was particularly dismayed when he was told to hand it over now that he had yielded. Hjalmar took charge of the lad, found the boys mother who wept with gratitude that her son had survived and the boy spent the rest of the day, riding on Hjalmar's shoulders.

Or so I'm told. By this point, Ciri, Kerrass, Helfdan and myself had gone inside the Druid's sanctuary. We had waited until it had been clear that those men that were going to die were already dead or that the only thing that we could do for them was to make them more comfortable. Hjalmar had delegated the matter to Helfdan and ordered that, should Helfdan consider the matter correct, “The Criminal should be taken back to Kaer Trolde for the Queen's judgement.”

I noticed, again, Hjalmar's sense of theatre, in that he said this thing loudly and prominently so that everyone could hear it.

So Helfdan came in with us. I had the strangest sense of Deja Vu. Everything was different and the same. I was in new clothes since I had last come here. My old clothes either disposed of or lost with the Wave-Serpent, I had been put in fresh attire. Much to Kerrass' amusement. He claimed that I was too skinny to be a proper Skelligan and he is probably right.

Ciri was dressed as the Empress and an Empress returned from battle at that with her metal Shoulder guards, greaves and bracers with the Sun of the South emblazoned brightly on her breast-plate.

Kerrass was as he ever was. His armour was the same. His underclothes were Skelligan now, cut for warmth and he wore a Skelligan fur cloak to help with the cold. But other than that, he was still Kerrass. Swords on his back and grimace on his face.

But other than that, it was only Helfdan that kept the entire thing different. Ermion led us through the hill to his office where we had met the man Lennox before.

Ermion opened the door. I noticed that he muttered something and gestured a little bit as he did so. Judging by the way that Kerrass' medallion jerked I guessed that there was something going on with that but you would need to ask Ermion. The five of us entered the room, led by Ermion with Kerrass and Ciri next and Helfdan bringing up the rear. Helfdan just shifted sideways and planted himself in the corner of the room, obviously aiming for the same trick that he used back in the council of the Jarls, intending to just fade into the background and therefore, to fade from view.

Lennox was there. He was pacing and in a panic. His large, round and slightly chubby face was sweating profusely. The room was still warm but the chill had reached even this far down and I thought that his sweating was a little bit excessive. His hat was still worn on his head and he would occasionally take it off and mop his brow with it before placing it back on his head. He was still wearing his boots but now I knew that there was something different about him and I recognised what it was. I had walked like that myself as it makes life aboard ship that little bit easier. He had the rolling walk of a sailor

If you want to imagine it, it's very similar to the way horsemen walk in that they are slightly bow-legged. Horsemen get this effect from the fact that they are more used to life in the saddle than they are life on foot. Sailors get that look because they are used to compensating and having to keep their balance in the face of the swells and the waves that they must fight against every step of their way. I could see that now. I could also recognise the fact that he was uncomfortable in his boots. Now that I knew that he was a sailor and had sailed on the Skeleton Ship, I knew that he would have habitually gone bare-foot and therefore, boots were uncomfortable to him.

I deliberately kept to the back of the group. This because I was rather concerned that if I was further forward, I wouldn't be able to keep from strangling him.

That we might be angry had clearly not occurred to him as the look of relief that came over his face as Kerrass and Ciri came into the room was almost comical. He visibly sagged as though he was a puppet and one of his strings had been cut. Or that the stick had been removed from his back and he felt that he could relax more.

“Oh thank God.” He breathed. “I had heard that you had died.”

“Not quite.” Kerrass said as he moved into the room. Kerrass' attitude seemed friendly and almost relaxed. “It was a close run thing though.”

I had had to turn away, my fingers were twitching with a desire to do violence. There were all these clues that had completely passed me by last time. His walk. His discomfort in his boots. His attitude, different facial hair and conventions. All signs that he was, in some way, different and alien to the rest of us. As though he played by different rules.

This was confirmed, again, when he referred to “God “ as a singular. I was looking for these clues now and there was another example of one. In the north, we would either say “Gods,”given that we have many Gods and spirits in our lands. Or we are specific. We might refer to Melitele when we are praying for a sick persons recovery or we might call on Kreve in battle or on the Holy Fire to protect us from evil. This also shifts according the specific cares and thoughts of the person doing the praying. Brother Mark, or Cardinal Mark of Oxenfurt if you prefer, will always call on the Holy Flame. As will our mother. A druid might call on the spirits and so on and so on.

If you come from the south, you might call upon the holy sun. In this example, a fellow of the South would say “Oh thank the Sun.”

But Lennox hadn't. He had thanked God, singular. I don't know what kind of God would demand a denial of all other Gods given the blatant and common proof that there are other things going on but that's not for me to question. Maybe a question for the theologians amongst you.

But I was angry. The anger had shifted in that moment. I was no longer angry with Lennox so much as I was angry at myself for not seeing all these things previously and letting this man off the hook. I saw a similar feeling crossing Ciri's face as well although I got the feeling that her thinking was much more rueful and amused than mine was. As though she was more able to laugh at herself rather than to be angry.

“Perhaps we should all sit down.” Kerrass suggested as Ermion moved to sit behind his desk, turning the chair so that he could easily watch the rest of the room. Every so often, Ermion would shift so that he could look over at Ciri before he would smile slightly. It was as though he had an almost constant need to remind himself that Ciri was still there.

“Why?” Lennox demanded. A little petulantly if you ask me. I might be being unfair to Lennox but I really was very angry indeed. “You have come back. The Skeleton Ship is still coming. Do you not have other things that you need to be doing?”

Kerrass ignored these questions and sat down on one of the stools that were in the room. From the looks of them, they hadn't been moved since the last time we had all sat in this room. Then he looked up as though surprised.

“You're still standing.” he stated as though confused.

Lennox looked as though he had struck a wall. That thing that Kerrass does so well of distracting someone from their current thinking. So, intellectually, they almost have to turn around and start again from a different direction.

“Do you,” Lennox began, a little more carefully, “know how to get rid of the Skeleton Ship?”

“I do.” Kerrass told him.

“Then shouldn't you be out there, doing your ritual or swinging your silver sword around or something?” Lennox demanded. If you look carefully, you can tell the difference between anger that is born out of circumstance and anger that is born out of fear.

Kerrass gazed at the still standing Lennox, letting the man's anger wash over him. “In a while.” He said. “But first I have some questions for you.”

“Questions. I told you everything. Why do you have to come here and ask me more questions?” He was pleading now. “Please, just get rid of the Skeleton Ship. Get rid of it. Destroy it, shatter it, dismiss it, fight it, do what you need to just free me.... free us all from it's presence.” He burst into tears.

Kerrass stared at him and took a deep breath while he waited for the smaller druid to calm down. Ciri and I exchanged glances while we waited. Ermion was still, not watching his fellow druid dissolve. He had his head in his hand, staring at his knee or something while the sounds of Lennox's sobs permeated the room.

“It doesn't work like that.” Kerrass told him when the tears and sobs began to abate. “There is a time and a place, as well you know. Don't you? You should or the Druid's education standards leaves a lot to be desired.”

Lennox had sunk to the floor, pushing aside the stool so that he could cross his legs and sit. Another sailor's habit that I had not put together last time.

“So how do you do it?” Lennox asked after a long time.

“You know, don't you.” Kerrass told him softly, but not kindly. “You know exactly how it's done. You know when and where and you know what has to be done. To get rid of the Skeleton Ship we have to be at Kaer Trolde for when it takes on stores for it's continuing search. We must give the ship what it is looking for. What it is searching for. We must give it that thing that it has been missing for all these centuries.”

“And what's it been searching for?” Lennox asked. I honestly don't think he knew the answer.

“You.” Kerrass told him. “You must be given to the Skeleton Ship. That's how the islands will be free of the curse. That's how this entire thing ends and....”

Lennox moved. He was up and out of his seated position so fast that I couldn't have reacted. Kerrass did but by that point Lennox was already past him, past me, Ciri was rising to her feet but she was out of position as Lennox bolted for the door. But Helfdan had seen it coming, reading the room as he had, he had guessed at this result and caught the fleeing man.

“Let me go.” Lennox struck out at the Skelligan as Helfdan spun him back down to the ground, twisting Lennox's arms behind his back and all but sitting on him. “Let me go, they're going to sacrifice me to dark...”

“They didn't know that that was what needed to happen until you fled.” Helfdan told him. “They were pretty sure that you were holding out on them, but they didn't know.”

“But that will curse me to...”

“I lost men,” Helfdan's voice shook with something. “I lost good men in looking for the answer to a riddle that you set us. A riddle that you already knew the answer to. Good men and a good ship killed because you kept things hidden. If you had just asked me for help then I would have helped you. But you didn't. You will not find any sympathy from me.”

I was surprised by how expertly Helfdan hauled the, objectively, much bigger man back to his feet before manhandling Lennox back into the room and all but tossing him inside. I shouldn't have been. It takes a lot of strength to stand at the tiller through a storm and Helfdan is the kind of man that knows how to distribute weight and apply levers.

“Hierarch?” Lennox pleaded. “You cannot allow them to....”

Ermion looked up from his pensive frown. “Nor will you get sympathy from me. I warned you, back when you first charged the Witcher to this mission that you might not like what he would find. Witcher's are agents of Chaos. And I think that this is one of those reasons why so many rulers don't like them and fear them wherever they go. They have a tendency to see into those places where we do not want them to look and to go where we don't want them to go. They are trained to stand on the outside of things and therefore see what we hide, even from ourselves. I warned you then. I told you that you might very well reap the whirlwind and I am not surprised that you are unhappy with the result.”

Ermion turned to Kerrass. “Ask your questions Witcher. Then I shall decide whether I shall plead the man's case before the Queen.”

Lennox's head had fallen during this little speech before he looked up. “Please Witcher. You cannot do this.”

“You lied to me.” Kerrass' voice was death. “If there is one thing that has killed more Witchers than anything else in this world, it is the client lying to those Witchers. You charged me to get rid of the Skeleton Ship. I can do that. I know how and I have the method within my grasp. Like others have said and will doubtless say again. If you had openly come to us and asked for help, we would have done our best to help you. But you lied and good people have died as a result. You have one hope and one hope only and that is that there is something in the truth that means that there is a way forward. But make no mistake, you will be taken from this place and you will answer for what you chose to do before the Queen of Skellige when she will decide your fate. Even if I have to carve my way through an army, this thing will happen. So only in truth, lies your salvation now.”

Lennox pushed himself up to a seated position, his eyes were vacant and I wondered if it had all gotten to the point of being too much for him. I have seen it in the faces of some of the other people that Kerrass has talked to over the years. Especially when he has to tell, otherwise, good men and women that they have been responsible for the curse that is killing villagers. Or that the wraith that roams the fields at night is actually the spirit of their daughter, or the rejected woman that was driven to commit suicide by a man's thoughtless gesture.

People just shut down, their eyes go vacant and I was worried that we had pushed this man too far. He was a coward, that was certain, but another term for cowardice is “being overwhelmed by fear.” In our anger, had we overwhelmed this man?

When he spoke, it was as though he was forcing himself to that point. As though his voice was coming from a long way away.

“No.” he said, little more than a whisper. “No, why would I do this? Why would I help you now?” He straightened against the wall, tugging his tunic and robe back into place after the man-handling that he had received at the rough hands of Helfdan.

“You came to me,” he half whined, half growled at us. “You came to me to ask me for help. I set a price on that help as is my right and my privilege. You do not dispute that, you did not dispute that. But now you come back here and tell me that you won't that you can't. Indeed, you come back here and tell me that you intend to sacrifice me to this thing. What kind of monsters are you?”

He shook his head.

“No. You have broken your word. You are nothing but a common thug and an honour-less mercenary. I gave you a job to do and you have not done it. The deal works both ways and now you have broken that deal. What possible reason can you give me to make me give you what you want.”

“Oh that was a mistake.” I breathed. Louder than I intended. I know this because Ermion, Ciri and Lennox turned to look at me. Kerrass didn't take his eyes off the man on the floor “Calling him an honour less mercenary was a mistake.” I clarified. “He tends to get all tetchy when people question his honour.”

“Freddie is correct.” Kerrass' voice was awful. “You told me that I was to get rid of the Skeleton Ship. You did not tell me how or add any conditions to this mission. You told me to get rid of the Skeleton Ship and in return you promised to tell us the information that we wanted to know.”

“I also think,” Ciri began, “that your moral outrage would be a lot more believable, as would your innocence, if you had tried to convince us of it before making a break for the door.

“You were the one that broke the contract.” Kerrass told him when Ciri had finished speaking. “You gave me a mission with false and incomplete information. Ignorance is an excuse in this kind of thing. But you knew what we were looking for. You know that the answer to getting rid of the Skeleton Ship was right here all the time. You knew that. What you really wanted was to find an other way to get rid of the Skeleton Ship. A way to sever your connection with it. That is what you wanted. I suspect that you would even have been happy if this had led to your death as all of the years and all of the death suddenly came home.”

“You have no proof of this.” Lennox protested.

Kerrass laughed. It was a false laughter although there was amusement there. It was a bitter and angry noise, but most of all, it was a tired laughter.

“This is not a court of law.” He told the cowering Lennox. Ermion shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “This is a conversation. One way or the other I am going to take you from this place and we will put the matter before the Queen. I do not think you will enjoy that process. Even if you survive this passage of the Skeleton Ship as the trial must be delayed so that proper witnesses can be brought. When Ragnvald is brought to Kaer Trolde and recognises you from all the visits to the Watchtower. When the Queen finalises some kind of peace with the Vodyanoi and they attest and testify to your identity. When a Sorceress or Sorcerer is brought and examines you. I do not think that you will enjoy a proper trial and I think that, even then, the results would still be the same.”

“I will not help you. Even by the original deal, I will not give you the information and if you have thrown me to.... to that.” He swallowed, “then I will not be able to give you the answers that you seek. You have to get rid of the Skeleton Ship and then I will answer your questions.”

I saw Kerrass and Ciri exchange glances. “Well you are just insistent on trying to make me hate you.” Kerrass snarled.

“There are mages who would tear the information from your mind if I ordered it.” Ciri began but even I could tell that she wasn't happy with that prospect.

“I might not object to much in all of these proceedings.” Ermion told the room. “But I would object to that. As I recall, even the council of Mages, the circle and the Lodge had rules against the use of such spells. And rightly so if I may say it.” He sighed and rose to his feet, moving to crouch next to the cowering Lennox.

“Look at me Lennox,” Ermion said. There was a warmth to the voice, also a power that I did not expect. I have no idea if there was magic there because I could not see Kerrass' medallion. But certainly there was a compulsion as Lennox fought to keep his gaze from rising to meet his superiors. But Ermion was determined.

“Look at me,” he said again and Lennox's bloodshot eyes, shining with unshed tears rose to meet the elder druid's gaze.

“You had to know that this day was coming.”Ermion told him. “You had to know that all of this would catch up to you in the end. If not now then it would have happened eventually. Indeed, it seems as though it was even surprising that it has not been done before. You have lived this long but even you must realise that it is time to face up to what happened. Time to put this issue to sleep, once and for all.”

“I can't.” The tears began to fall from Lennox's face. “You can't possibly begin to realise what it was like.” There was a strange accent to his voice now. Something that we had not heard before and that I did not recognise.

“Then tell us.” Ermion insisted. “Tell us what it was like. He might have a stony face and a snarl on his lips but this Witcher will help you if he can. That is always true as well. They might hate us and condemn us with their warnings and their thoughts and prayers. But even despite all of that, if they can lift the curse, then they will. But you must tell him everything.”

“Where would I begin?” His accent was becoming thick.

“Where does anything start?” Ermion said gently.

Lennox's mouth opened and shut several times. I felt laughter scrabbling at the back of my throat at the faces that he pulled. Dislike and scorn were warring at the back of my throat with the laughter and pity that threatened to come up to fight it.

That was when I think we broke Lennox. Not with anger or anything of that nature, rather I think it was with the kindness that Ermion showed him that he finally broke. The look of horror that crossed his face when that happened was... Rather haunting.

“Damn.” Ermion muttered as Lennox curled into a ball, hiding his face from us, drawing his knees up.

“What now?” Ciri asked no-one in particular.

“I don't know.” Kerrass sighed. “I suppose that we wrap him up and tie him to a horse. I can't help him or anyone if he's like this. Too impatient, that's my trouble.”

“Time is running short though.” Ciri responded.

“I know.” Kerrass sighed. “The risk is that one of the reasons that the ship hasn't found him yet is because he stays here in the sanctuary. There must be some powerful wards on this place to keep him hidden.”

“There is.” Ermion agreed. “There always has been. He's been hiding here for a long time hasn't he.”

“I think so.” Kerrass agreed.

“Can you help him?” Ermion asked. “For all the damage that he has done and will continue to do over the years. He has also done a lot of good. His herb-craft has saved lives over the years.”

“Honestly?” Kerrass rose to his feet and paced a little. “I truly don't know. I am not pleased that he is holding the information that Freddie needs over my head. I do not like ultimatums Hierarch, nor black-mail.”

“I can understand that.” Ermion nodded. “I am also not entirely pleased at those kinds of things. But can you help him?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. I think he's brought the curse down upon his own head. There is hatred in this curse and I couldn't tell you from whom it comes, nor can I tell you who it is really aimed at. I very much doubt that he is a bystander though.”

Ermion nodded to show that he was following Kerrass' thinking.

“The danger is,” Kerrass went on. “That this curse does not follow what we know of curses. If it originated elsewhere then there might be completely different rules. But if I had to guess, he,” Kerrass pointed at the shaking man on the floor. “Needs to do something to make amends. Whatever that thing is, it will not be fair, it will not be reasonable and he cannot do it from here.”

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“But if he tells you his story, can you advise him?”

Kerrass shrugged. “If he tells the story and if it is even close to anything that I recognise. There's a lot of “if” there.”

Ermion nodded. “I understand that.” He took a deep breath. “Then there is something that I can try.”

He knelt and started to chant, the words were relaxing, almost like the rhythm of the priest's prayer in a church and like those instances I nearly found myself falling asleep. I was tired and I was struggling to keep my mind aware.

“Lennox?” Ermion said after a while. I was not the only person that jerked as they woke up from whatever thoughts they had. “Lennox?”

The man on the floor had relaxed a little, the rigidity had come out of his limbs and he stared around at us, a little slack-jawed but he was aware. He seemed to blink often.

He said something. Words and sounds that I didn't recognise. It wasn't dwarven or any language of the north. There were sounds in it that almost sounded like the Elder tongue but that wasn't quite right either. Elder speech is lyrical and musical whereas this was more abrupt and harsh.

“What did you say Lennox?” Ermion tried again, gently.

He looked confused and said something more.

“Anyone?” Ermion looked around the room. “It must be his original language

Kerrass shook his head looking at me and I had to shake my head too.

“He's speaking English.” Ciri said quietly.

“What?”

“He's speaking one of the languages from his homeland.”

She leant forward and answered Lennox's questions.

“Can you translate?” Kerrass asked.

“I can try.” Ciri stated after a shrug.

(Freddie's warning: This took quite a long time to work out. The story that we were told in Ermion's office is as close to this as we can easily manage. But there are some words that defy description. We can guess that many of these things are descriptions and place names, slang terms and colloquialisms that we just don't have in our world. Also, Lennox was under some kind of hypnosis that made him a little more suggestible. But that was a two edged sword. In that he was keen to speak but he couldn't understand us. Therefore Ciri had to reach for a language that she hadn't used in several years. This means that this is our best guess as to what happened and what he said to us that night.

It is also true that he was far from an entirely willing speaker. He would often go backwards and forwards in the narrative, changing past details and jumping forward to change what he had said before.

I worked with both Ciri and Ermion to produce this account as both thought it important to record this for posterity. My understanding is that Ermion is going to find people who can read this account to the Skalds and the other people that might want to listen to the account so that it can enter into the histories of the islands. So, take what is written here with a pinch of salt. I, for one, believe maybe a fraction of it. I think it's much more likely that the man Lennox had seen some things and that what he described to us.... I think he absolutely believes what he said. But take I with a pinch of salt, is what I'm saying.)

My name really is Lennox. Joseph Lennox. I was regularly teased by the other kids that I had a Scottish name and that is true, Lennox is not an uncommon name in Scotland but, as far as I know, I was English, born and bred.

My Father was a Sailor. He sailed with the royal navy until he could no longer stand the way that navy worked. He always told us that he left, but judging by the scars on his back, I would guess that he was flogged and thrown out. I don't know if that was true. I know that he was a Sailor and a good one. That his father was a sailor and his father was a sailor and so on and on. I don't know if it's true but I was told, often enough, that this was the case.

My mother was a dock whore and father was one of her regulars. I have no doubt that over time he essentially became her pimp. There was never enough money from his voyages with the shipping companies to see my mother and I through his long absences. There always seemed to be something that we could never afford. Or that we needed something that had to be bought now. Looking back, I would guess that my mother wanted Gin and my Father wanted whisky. I don't know though.

I don't remember it being a bad childhood. I remember rough affection although I doubt that they loved each other. She was a warm pair of arms and a soft pair of tits for him to come home to and he was a rough enough customer so that when other men tried to take advantage of her, she could remember who they were and father would kick their teeth in when he got home.

I helped out when I could, mending nets and things to make a bit of money to put food on the table until Da decided that I needed some proper education and took me to sea. I hated him for that and I never forgave him. Even when he didn't come back from a voyage and my mother wept at his graveside.

She was told that he had been swept over the side in a storm but I remember noticing that there wasn't any other storm damage to the ship and that no-one else had fallen overboard. I always wondered about that. Whether he had picked a fight in some Dutch tavern and hadn't been ready for the steel to be drawn. Or whether he had another warm pair of arms and soft pair of tits waiting at the other end of the shipping routes. He would not have been the only man to do that. I never had the nerve. But I wondered if he had gone after another man's wife, or had got into gambling debt or one of the many other reasons that a man might be killed on a long voyage.

Justice at sea is brutal. Brutal and swift. In such close confines, there is no other way to do it. You have to do it that way otherwise that's how mutinies start.

But I am off track. My father took me to sea. Again, he could have done worse by me. He could have made me join the navy as a cabin boy or he could have signed me up to the trading companies that he worked for where, again, I would be a cabin boy which, as often as not, meant that I was the officers slave and bed warmer. Not many boys survived those trips. Far too many of my friends chose to go over the side in a rain storm. In a storm when the deck is trying to throw you about, it is sometimes awfully tempting to let go of the rail or let go of the rope and let the storm take you.

Instead, my father sent me to sea in a smaller fishing ship where every hand was needed in order to bring the catch in. So having me tired out running errands, or broken from the beatings, was not something that could be tolerated by the Captain. But it also meant that I could learn the trade. Get my sea legs under me and learn how the sea worked. Those times with those fishermen taught me to respect the ocean, even when I hated it.

I hated sailing. I always did, always have and I always will. But here's the thing. I'm good at it. I'm never short on work and I've tried to turn my hand to other tasks and other careers but over and over again, business ventures fail, money runs out and then I have to run back to the sea. Where I always find work.

There is always some Captain that is willing to take me and then back to sea I go.

Do you know what that's like? To only really be good at one thing but to hate that thing above all others. Do you have any idea how that can sour you against all other situations? I can climb the rigging and walk across the crossbeam in the highest of winds. I have stood in the crow's nest during storms and I have held the wheel and steered us true but I can't bring home the business. I don't make friends and I have never managed to attract a woman with more than my purse.

Not just prostitutes. I came back from a trip once with a fat purse and I started a venture. My money attracted some attention but it turns out that I am just as bad at love as I am at doing anything with sailing. That time, the money ran out because she spent it. I would be angry but my friends warned me in advance that that was what she was going to do and I fell for her pretty eyes.

I hate being a sailor. I hate the stale biscuits and the brackish water. I hate the mean eyed officers who enforce the strict discipline of the sea while at the same time I am able to see why such discipline is absolutely necessary. I hate the fact that I am more comfortable in bare feet than with boots. I hate the sound of the gulls on the air and I have never been fond of fish which is the only fresh food that you can depend on when you're at sea.

I hate the games we play and the jokes that we tell. I can't sing and for all the grace I show at the rigging, I can't dance either so hornpipes are like torture to me. I hate sailors and their stupid sense of arrogance and stupidity. I hate the way they look down on everyone else to the point where we invent stupid names and stupid insults for them in order to make ourselves feel important and superior when it is clear that if any of us had any sense, we would be farmers, or merchants or wagon drivers.

Yes, I tried to be all of those things. My crops died, my horses went lame and got collick respectively before I was robbed on the road and the goods that I bought, I couldn't sell at a good enough price to pay my way.

But most of all, if there is one thing that I hate about sailing over and above everything else, I hate that I am so very good at it.

Do you know what that's like? Do you? To be good at only one thing in your life and to then hate that one thing above all others. I actually quite liked being a farmer and no-one could tell me that I didn't work hard enough at any of the careers that I chose. But the only thing that I could ever do with any kind of success, was to be a mariner.

So my Da sent me out with the fishing fleet and I hated that too. Have you ever tried to attract a woman when your hands stink of fish all the time? The Dock whores are fine with it but at the end of the day, those women will fuck anything providing that it pays for the gin. So trying to attract a decent woman, let alone a wife, you can't do that as a fisherman in that part of the world. But we needed the money so father sent me to the fishing fleet and I worked at being a fisherman until my Da died. Then it became obvious that I would need to take a better paying job so that I could keep my mother and myself alive. For reasons that I could never understand, my mother was absolutely distraught with the loss of my father. They fought, often hated each other and openly scorned each other but she wept at his funeral.

But to keep a roof over her head, I would need to join a trading company. The companies all had their offices down by the wharf and there was always signs out that sailors were wanted. We lived in Portsmouth which was also the headquarters of the Navy so I had to be careful not to get drafted into the King's own Navy. Dad had told us plenty of horror stories about what life was like under that rule. But there were always offices there on the front and there was always a sea of masts, waiting for crews to set sail and take them round the world. I found a berth and set sail.

And that was the story of my life. My mother finally succeeded in drinking herself to death about halfway through my third voyage. I did not hate her, I rather think that I pitied her but her death... it left me feeling free. So free that I nearly floated away. I would not have needed a house like the one that we lived in so I told the landlord that I had no intention of taking it up again. He was pleased with that although he swindled me on the rent.

That was the way of things then. All of us, trying to swindle each other out of hard gotten, hard fought money. We, all of us, would sooner cheat than tell the truth. So he swindled me and I started being able to make plans for the future. “One more trip” I told myself. One more trip and that would be enough to make my fortune.

Well I did that one trip and that trip we were taken by pirates. So I needed another trip to recoup my losses. And another trip. Then I tried to be a shopkeeper. It was too late by this point for me to start another trade.

I rather liked the idea of being a cobbler.

A Danish crew turned up one day and set fire to my shop. Apparently it was an innocent mistake, they had gotten drunk and assumed that I was the one that had cheated them. I hadn't. It was actually two streets over but by the time this had been figured out, the sailors had been strung up from the gallows.

So I needed another trip and another trip and that was how my life went. A trip to the other side of the world or two to get some money together before returning home and then trying another venture which would inevitably fail meaning that I would end up having to return to sea or would end up in the debtor's jail.

There is even something to be said for the suggestion that if I had just stuck at it, if I had just stayed at sea over the years rather than returning to land and trying my hand at the various, inevitably failing ventures, that I would have been promoted and received more money and been able to retire. It is possibly even true and I did consider that as a possibility on more than one occasion.

But the truth was that I simply could not bear that course of action. I could not face the constantly being at sea. So I would always disembark at the first possible opportunity. Always and I would always move off onto the next thing, the next attempt at making money and establishing myself in some way.

But always would I be pulled back as well. Not by choice, it was as though I had little choice in the matter and that some power was determined to keep me at sea.

I would like to tell you that there were signs and portents that this particular voyage would be dangerous. That this particular voyage would be cursed but there was nothing at all. There were no eclipses. Nor was there a three headed dog watching us depart. No woman screamed and no cat tried to sneak aboard. We obeyed all the traditions, we carefully made sure that there was an even number of men aboard, we obeyed all the superstitions and each man spat, made their peace with God and stepped aboard putting our right feet on the deck first.

I cannot say that the Captain was a bad man, given to cursing God or invoking the Devil's name. Neither were there any bullies aboard. No stowaway women, no fleeing convicts.

I almost wish that there had been. I almost wish that there had been something. Something that I could point to that would say why the voyage was doomed right from the very beginning. But there wasn't. There was just me. I was no Jonah though. As I say, I was a good sailor and I did my job and even though I hated it, I was still able to take pride in being able to do it well. So no Captain of mine ever had any kind of reason to complain and no man ever complained to see my name on the roster of the ship's compliment.

It wasn't even as though my most recent venture had failed either. This would be my second voyage. We were heading south, due to come round the cape of Africa and head into the Indian oceans. The ship was relatively small really, but the Captain had an idea that a small quick ship would be able to specialise in the most expensive spices. We wouldn't be able to buy much anyway so we would buy the product and be able to come back with extra speed given our smaller size. It was a good idea and we all expected to be well recompensed for our efforts. I was not yet resigned to being a sailor but I thought that I could make enough of a profit from the voyage to invest in a few merchant enterprises that would enable me to buy a road inn somewhere.

It would be as far away from the sea as possible and live to grow fat on travellers needing somewhere to sleep.

There was nothing strange about the voyage at all and I have spent days, weeks.... years of my life in trying to figure out if there was som clue. Something that could tell me why that voyage, more than any other, why that voyage was so very cursed.

We were a Dutch ship sailing for the VOC trading company. The owner was using that concern rather than the more local ones because they paid preferential rates to Englishmen who would sail for them. We liked to think that this was because English sailors and English ships were the best in the world. This was certainly true of the navy but, looking back, I think it was more to do with the fact that the VOC was trying to compete with the English trading companies. So just as the VOC would try and hire Englishmen to go and sail for them, the English East India Company would try and get Dutchmen to man their ships.

And on and on the cycle goes.

So we sailed from Portsmouth. It was a good day, not too early a tide, the wind was good and we made excellent progress. We came round Spain, having to head a little further into the Atlantic than we were entirely comfortable with in order to out run some Spanish privateers but these are the kinds of problems that you have to take into account when you sail a trading ship. Our cargo was mostly building materials. Again, small things like nails and hammers. Things that could not be depended upon in the East but which England could supply in plentiful numbers.

We passed the Mediterranean and started sailing down the coast of Africa. We stopped a couple of times to take on Fresh water because there is always the need for Fresh Water on a ship and the rains were not plentiful enough to ensure that we could quench our thirst despite the Tarpaulins and barrels that had been set out for precisely that purpose. But there was no reason that we shouldn't be able to sail around the cape in good time and be into Indian Trade waters before the serious storms started to blow up.

We were wrong.

I'd been sailing for fifteen years by that point and I had never seen anything like it. I've lived on these islands for centuries now and I've still not seen anything like it. We had a steady and strong Northerly wind that was blowing us south. We were also carried by the currents and we were congratulating each other, really slapping each other on the back that we were making the southern trip so quickly. Sailors are superstitious and I was and am no different. We really believed that we were blessed and that God was pleased with our enterprise. Other ships heading back North to Europe were having to tack into the wind or head into port to take shelter while the wind blew itself out and al the while, we were stealing the distance on our nearest competitors.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and we should have seen that that wind and that current were far from being heaven sent. Instead, they were sent by the Devil.

I have never seen anything like it. Ever. A vast, wall of cloud started to billow up. My captain was not stupid and we sensed that there was a storm. We tried to head for shore in an effort to find shelter but the wind and currents that had been our friend up until that point became our enemies. Not matter how hard we tried, we could not get away. We ran for the deeper water to make sure that we wouldn't be blown onto the shore instead but even in doing that, were heading for the storm.

It was a wall of cloud. Really a wall. Giant battlements ranged in the sky. Huge towers of black, forbidding cloud with the rumbling of Thunder underneath it. If almost felt like we were heading into battle, that the thunder was the sound of enemy warriors stamping their feet and cheering us on so that we could die. We saw flashes of lightening and every man on the ship knew that we were not going to survive that storm.

It was enough to remind you of the tales of childhood. Of the Gods of the sea with their tridents, fighting against the Gods of the air with their Lightening. I was terrified. We all were terrified and there was absolutely nothing we could do. We strapped everything down that we could and then tied ourselves to the various pieces of wood that we could find in the hope that these things would carry us to shore. At least they would float and we would be able to keep our heads above water. But there was no doubting it. We were heading into that wall of water and then we would be at the mercy of the wind, the rain and the ocean beneath us.

I remember that it got dark. As though a great curtain or blanket had covered the sun and we whimpered in fear. We might as well have been sailing into hell itself.

I remember little of the hours that transpired after that. I've never been in a battle although I have had to fight off pirates before. But I understand that it's a lot like that. You spend time fighting for your life and then you look up and you realise that the day has vanished and there's nothing you can do to bring it back. And that was what we were doing. Tying things down, untying other things so that the ropes didn't snap and decapitate some prone and helpless sailor. The moment where you see a ship-mate about to be swept over board and you know that if you untie yourself and go to his aid then you might be able to save him. But that there is then a danger that you will both go over the side.

The habit of obedience in this situation runs deep and in the same way that a Warrior must obey their lord. A sailor must obey their Captain. But this is a battle where there is no victory other than survival. You must simply fight and hope that when you come out the other end you are either on a ship that will still take you somewhere, or that you wash up on a beach that is survivable. Not some sand bar in the Mediterranean where there is no food or water.

Or that if you are going to drown, that you are not conscious when you do so. The best you can hope for is a quick death in those instances, to be brained by a falling spar or knocked unconscious by something before you drown. That's the best way. I had plenty of time to contemplate that during that storm.

We held on. We just held on. I have never seen waves larger, dwarfing our piddly little ship. The Captain fought it and I will say here and now that he was a brave man. He never stopped fighting, always doing his best to turn the ship into the wave so that we wouldn't capsize. Doing his best to make sure that we would live. In the long term, I may have done him wrong but he did right by me.

I have no idea how long we were thrown around by that storm. No idea. In that world there is no such thing as magic, or if there is, it is not a magic that any from this world would recognise. Otherwise I would have said that it was a magical storm.

It was also a constant thing. I have no way of proving to you how unusual that is. But I suspect that you all have at least a little bit of experience with spending time out of doors in all weathers. Rain is never constant. It comes as squalls and flurries. It ebbs and flows like the tide. But this was a constant downpour. A constant rain of daggers that cut and gouged into our bodies. It was awful.

Then we started to realise that it was getting colder. The rain turned from being rain into being sleet. Then the hailstones began to fall. Huge things. Each one big as the end of your thumb. Then it turned to snow. Driving snow, snow flurries being blown into your face and freezing your fingers. At first it had little effect, all it did was hit the decks or the rest of the crew and melt. But then it started to settle as the storm began, finally, to die down.

The wind was still high and the current was still strong. But now it was a case of simply riding the wind and the waves. The Captains compass went berserk and we had no idea where we were. We thought we knew which way was North but the Wind and the sea was still determined to carry us further and further South and The cloud cover meant that Navigation was impossible.

We were exhausted. We had no idea where we were and there was nothing we could do about that at the moment so we did what sailors and soldiers all over the world do when they don't have any better ideas.

We went to sleep.

We were no longer in any danger of the waves overturning us. We couldn't immediately see any land due to the cloud cover but we kept from unfurling the sails for that reason. If land or rocks really was just outside of sight then the wind through the sails could easily carry us to our deaths.

So we slept. Many of us went below where we could put together some hot coals and get some rest after the exertions of the storm. We were already on short rations as we had no idea where we were and had no idea how long it would take us to get anywhere where there might be some supplies to be had. But we had a biscuit or two each and a small swallow of rum before curling up and sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.It's easy to admit now that we were making a mistake but there really was nothing else that could have been done. Tired was not the word for it. We couldn't see where we were, so what else were we going to do?

But the storm had carried us south. A long way south. Into uncharted waters, that was how far south we had come and we discovered that the same levels of cold that occur in the far north, also happen in the far south.

There was a small watch aloft, the Captain and a few of his hand-picked cronies who were more experienced and had sailed with the Captain that little bit longer. There had been the promise of a bonus for them at the ending of the voyage but I didn't begrudge them that. I judged that I was all but dead from the fatigue and went below. But we were woken from our stupor, rather savagely by the ringing of the Ship's bell and we rushed up on deck. I have no idea what we expected, some people picked up weapons, I picked up my crossbow and threw a satchel of bolts over my shoulder. Other men exclaimed excitedly that we might have sighted land or that the fog and mist was lifting.

We would all have been better off if we had caught up blankets or our fur lined cloaks.

What we had actually been brought up on deck to see was the first of the ice-bergs floating by.

Huge it was, a veritable island in and of itself and as is the law with all of these kinds of things, there was more underneath the water level than there was that we could see. But we all stood there, in utter silence as we watched the thing move past us.

But it wasn't silent. One of the things that they don't tell you about ice is that it moves, and when it moves, it makes these noises. It sings to you if you let it but it also cracks and howls with hate as well. We jumped the first time we heard that as the ice-berg seemed to growl at us. But we all stood there and watched as it floated past.

The Helmsman was a good man, good at what he did and he had spotted it early enough that he had managed to steer us round the thing. The mist, if anything, was thicker than it had been previously, ice crystals glittering as they hung there in the air which meant that he only had his best guess as to being able to return to the original heading. But that was the question that we all called out to the Captain. What do we do now?

If we kept going then there was the danger that we would run into the grasping fingers of the ice. The Captain argued that we were completely turned around. The compass wasn't working, swinging wildly from one extreme to the other and so how were we to choose our course. If we turned to any different heading, we could just as easily be heading into the ice as if we had just kept going the way that we had gone.

So we carried on going. The Captain set look outs and we carried on going. I was high up, climbing the rigging to stand in the crow's nest in an effort to see as far as possible with that movement. And I pulled my blankets even tighter around myself in a futile effort to stay warm. I had been one of the voices that had determined that we should turn around and do our best to return the way we came. I have no idea if I was right and the Captain was wrong. Now, I think it much more likely that we were doomed anyway and that there was little we could do one way or another to avoid our eventual fate.

There is a place beyond fear. A place beyond reason and determination. That place is resignation and I was becoming resigned to my fate. I hated the sea and at that point I was hating the uncertain nature of it. We were an experienced crew under an experienced Captain. The Ship was in good repair when we had set out, the ship not being too old that it was falling apart or too young and untested in such conditions. There was absolutely nothing that we could have done different. All the portents had been in our favour, everything had suggested that we were heading to a victory and a fortune in the ongoing trade wars. There was nothing that we could have done to predict or prepare for what happened and I was wallowing in my misery and self pity.

My luck had finally changed and now it was effecting me on the water, just as much as it was effecting me on land. I was in the process of deciding that I was cursed and was beginning to look around myself with fear in case any of my fellows decided that I was the Jonah and therefore responsible for our predicament.

The truth? I have no idea if we're being honest with you, although I suspect that our fate was already sealed. As we went on, it gradually became clear that we were heading for the ice. A solid line of ice against the horizon. The mist began to lift and we saw just what we were facing. We approached the wall of ice at an angled so at first we turned so that we would be travelling along the ice wall, looking for gaps or if there was a place to land and take on supplies.

Not as strange as you might think. There are tribes to the far North who are wrapped in fur so that they can make their living off selling fur and reindeer meat to passing sailors and we hoped that something similar might be available. We had given up on the thought of profit and just hoped that something in our hold would be good for the people who might be here. That they might find some value in a barrel of nails.

But it was deserted. The mist was lifting and all there was was snow and ice as far as we could see.But things had already gone wrong. As we looked ahead now that the mist had lifted we could see that the wall of ice, whether it was ice on land or ice floating on the water, it didn't really matter which, the ice was coming out and would mean that we would have to turn. So we turned to the left, turned to port to, again, follow the line of ice. But always the line of ice seemed to be turning us to the left. Sharper too. We were having to turn further and further in order to avoid running into the ice.

The moment where we realised that we were trapped was a dark moment. I've never been on a ship that was closer to mutiny than I was there and then. Things might have gone bleak but for the first officer who simply asked what we might have done different if we had been in charge.

And he was right. Absolutely right. There was nothing that we could have done differently given what we knew at the time. When we passed the first ice-berg, we should have turned around directly. But it was impossible to know that at the time.

There were some times when there were breaks in the ice of course. Where the wall was made up of towers of ice rather than a solid mass. But the currents in the water meant that passage between those massive fortresses of frozen water was impossible. As we watched, trying to get up the nerve to take the plunge and to sail into the open maw of one or other of these openings, we heard them crash together, showering us in shards of the stuff and we moved on, looking for something easier, something wider and more open.

Every time. Every time we chose a gap to go for to try and get out of the mess that we were in we would turn the ship and be moving towards that gap with all the speed that we could muster only for the gap to snap closed just before we got there. Or, even worse, we would see a gap but the wind or the currents would be against us and we could get nowhere near it. No matter how hard we tried, we were nowhere and even worse than all of that, we knew it too.

We sailed in circles and as we did so, more and more ice was falling from the great shelf of ice... That was what we called the wall of ice, the great shelf, I have no idea what it's really called but if it turns out that we discovered it, that's what I'm going to have someone call it. The great Shelf. But parts of that were breaking and falling off and as the hours began to turn into days it became clear that what had once been a kind of bay of ice that had turned into a circle of ice, constantly shifting to keep us in the middle of it, instead it became a maze of ice that we were floating through.

And it was getting colder too. So cold that the water was beginning to freeze over which made our problems even worse. Three times we had to stop as our ship had gotten stuck in the ice and we needed to hack it free.We were days about that. Days where we tried to find our way out of that labyrinth of ice. Days of us working to make it through. Although the mist had lifted, it was still so overcast that we couldn't see where we were going or what we were doing really. But having said that, it is also true that even if we could have seen where the sun was or been able to look up and recognise the stars and figure out where we were, we would not have had the time. We were too busy just surviving. Just surviving and making sure that we avoided the floating ice as we sailed, or avoided crashing into the walls of ice that would have been our deaths.

Food supplies began to run low. We were never short on water at that point, the ice made sure of that. Some of it was salt water but we found that if we melted the snow then we had plenty to drink from. But food was really beginning to be a problem. As well as the look outs and those men that worked the rigging and the steering, we had men out with fishing lines trying to find us some extra food.

We were unsuccessful.

Despair was beginning to have it's first hold on us.

Which was when the Albatross came.

Have you ever seen an Albatross, really seen it when it gets up close to a ship and decides that it's time to play? It's a majestic sight. It really is. It's also difficult to articulate just how.... Impressive and huge those birds are until you see one up close and personal like. It was big, beautiful and power made manifest.

I hated the thing on sight.

It swept over the ship with a call that woke us from a our stupor before flying off in a direction that it appeared to pick at random. Then it seemed to call out to us as if berating us in some way before coming back and flying around us over the heads of the rest of the crew.

In the lack of anything better to do, we followed the bird. Any time we tried to deviate from that path it would come back, circle us, scream at us until it realised that we were turning to follow it again. It led us through the growing amounts of ice. We were now sailing through valleys and troughs of the stuff, as though it was guided by some kind of living thing that was trying to reach out, take hold and then throttle us to death with it's icy fingers. If that was the case and that that metaphor was correct, then we were no longer being grabbed at. We were the ant in the palm of the hand and the fingers were just coming together to crush us in an icy fist.

And the Albatross led us through the gaps in the fingers.

Our time became a long series of hours where we would discuss what the albatross might be. Whether it was the hand of God himself helping to guide us through the darkness towards the light. Whether it was some spirit of the sea or whether it might be the instrument of the devil himself leading us to our destruction and eventual painful death due to starvation or cold.

If it was this last option then I couldn't tell. I thought it kind of ridiculous to be honest as there must be far more reliable ways to get us all to die horribly. Or to sell our souls in order to get free from the ice.

My view was that the Albatross was playing with us. I thought it an animal that had found it's way to where we were and had sighted a plaything to toy with on the water. What it was doing there, I will never know as we saw no other birds in the air. Nor could it have been there to follow the food as we never caught any fish ourselves and we never saw it diving for anything that might provide it with sustenance. At first, a couple of fools tried to throw bits of food up in the air for it in thanks for it's help. But it was too big and too cumbersome to be able to catch the stuff and all that ended up happening was that we were throwing the food away.

But still the ice was closing in, getting closer and closer to us. It began to get dark as the ice kept the sun from reaching us. We started to make our peace with each other. Letters were written, those of us that could read and write were pressed into service in order to write letters, wills and writs to loved ones and family members. Messages that were rolled tightly before being pushed into bottles and cast over the side with more hopeless optimism than any kind of real belief that the tides would carry the words home.

So the ice was closing in, cutting us off from the sun which made us colder and colder until we were shivering.

And the Albatross led us to this cavern, this... cave-structure in the ice. At first we refused to go in. We were enclosed and we realised that we could not turn around and go back. There was little enough wind as it was and the capability to turn aroun was beyond us. We had been pulled towards this cavern and now, there was nothing left to do but to follow the Albatross.

I was furious. I remember being so angry. I had hated the Albatross from the first moment that I saw it anyway and now I saw what had happened as the final proof that we had been betrayed by the thing. It had led us here to our eventual destruction. It seemed ludicrous to me that there would be a way through the ice and as a result we were just going to end up running into an even deader end than we were in now.

I didn't mutiny. I didn't argue with the Captain. I will admit to making my feelings known but again. I was enough of a mariner to know that we had no choice other than to follow the Albatross into the cave. I was enough of a sailor to know that hindsight is perfect and that it is easy enough to look back and say that we should have done this or that we should have done that.

The truth was that we shouldn't have set out on this voyage in the first place. That was the truth that I came to believe and that the entire thing had been cursed from the beginning. We had been lured down here by prevailing winds and strong, beneficial seeming currents. Then we had been thrown here by the storm before being trapped here by the ice. Yes, there were decision points where the Captain could have gone left instead of right but he had no way to know that. I never resented the Captain for those decisions and I would want it noted that this was the case.

We entered the cavern. It was the strangest feeling and I swear that I saw this kind of strange, sickly green flash as we entered. It seemed to ripple through the ice almost like lightening.

There are always tales of the green flash that occurs either at dawn or at sunset. The new fangled scientists theorise that it is the sun shining through the waves as it rises and it sets. Others claim that it is the opening and closing of a portal or some other kind of phenomenon that we do not yet recognise. Such conversations are too much for me and I will not claim to even trying to understand them.

I had never seen one before and I startled at it before a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over me. At the time I took it for hunger. I was at that stage of hunger where I was actively looking forward to finding weevils in my ship's biscuit for the differences in texture and flavour that they provided. But now, I look back and wonder.

We found ourselves in a network of caverns. That first cavern was huge. I was once inside the Cathedral at Westminster when I sailed out of London docks for a while and I wanted to try and make my peace with God after another venture had fallen through. It reminded me of that. This vast, huge, awe-inspiring edifice. So tall that we easily fit the ship inside.

The sails had already been lifted as there was little to no point in trying for wind that wouldn't be there. Grappling hooks were brought out on deck in case we had to literally drag our way out of the caves or along corridors and things. Torches were brought out and braziers lit for light and warmth. But then another strange thing happened.

We found that we could see. The light was dim to be sure and it was no way near as easy to see as it would be at the height of midday. But what we assumed to be sunlight was shining through the ice in a myriad of colours. We could see rainbows in the ice as well as colours that hurt the eye and turned the stomach. There were noises in those caverns as well.

The logical mind will tell you that this was the ice moving around and settling in the changing temperatures and movements of water. This would only have been made worse by the fact that a ship full og warm bodied humans had entered into the domain of the ice. But there is only so far that the logical brain can take you before you start to become disbelieving of the logic. It was almost easier to believe that we were being sung to. As though by some huge, vast and ancient sea creature was serenading us into sleep.

It was quiet in those caves as well. We were sheltered from the wind but that meant that the only sound was the lapping of water against the hull and the sounds that the ice was making. The effect was oddly soporific and many of us just went to sleep. I didn't find the noises reassuring. To me, they sounded like the noises that a stomach can make while it's digesting something that is a little tougher. Like a cheap piece of steak. I was already beginning to get the feeling that I was a Jonah and that therefore, what was actually happening was that the Albatross had led us into the maw of some great beast and the sounds that we could hear were of that beast slowly digesting us.

It was the movement of the water that carried us along. There was occasional gusts of wind through cracks in the ice which meant that we still had to keep our sails unfurled after those first hours. Those same cracks would often also give us more light to see by.

Time seemed to blur. We seemed to be in there for days. Obviously we weren't but it felt like that. It never got dark in those caverns. Even when we could see that it was dark through the cracks in the ice, there was still that strange, glowing light in the middle of the ice. The light seeming to change away from the rainbow effects that we had had before and moving more towards the same, sickly green that I had seen when we first entered the cavern. Nor was that the only time that I had those flashes of green followed by vertigo and nausea either. It happened several times during the journey.

We had all retreated into ourselves by this point. We were ghosts moving about the ship, rarely talking, rarely doing anything really. We still worked because we were sailors but there was little else to do. We just watched the ice drift by slowly or watched the Albatross flying nearby as it led us through the caverns towards.... whatever.

We had told ourselves that the bird knew what it was doing. That it would not allow itself to be trapped, so all we had to do was to follow the bird out and then we would find our way to freedom.

But that continued to fail to happen. We were still struggling through these caves of ice and we moved around like ghosts on our own ship.

(Freddie's note: There was a long pause here)

I don't know when it started. I really don't. I don't know when it started. I had chosen my spot just in front of the front mast and I would sit there cradling my cross-bow. I had so many half formed ideas about what to do. I suppose that I was losing my mind by this point. Just losing my mind and going slowly mad. I had become a creature of raw feeling and raw instinct. There was no conscious thought. No decision making process. My sense of touch had become numbed by the cold so I longed for extreme feelings.

It was almost as though some giant had placed their hands on either side of my head and were slowly squeezing on my skull. I took my crossbow apart, cleaned it, greased it and oiled it before placing it all back together. I sharpened my bolts obsessively as well, checking the fletchings for wear and tear. I honestly believe that I started this whole routine as a way of passing the time. It could, reliably, take several hours to do the entire job and do it properly and it was another way of marking the time.

I also remember being so very tired. As I say, I felt that we were being eaten alive by the ice and swallowed whole by some monster. I was starting at every noise and would often be jerked into consciousness by even someone coming near me.

I was not alone in this. Many of us were going mad by this point. We had been in the caverns for what felt like years and all the while that pressure was building.

And I hated with a passion that frightened me. I already hated the sea, hated ships and hated sailing. I hated myself for not being good at anything else and I hated the world for forcing me into a task that I despised in order to be able to do things as basic as being able to eat. I hated my crew-mates for the many and varied crimes that exist when you put thirty to fifty men together in such tight confines for prolonged periods of time and I hated the captain for making the mistakes that had got us into this mess in the first place. I hated the water for being cold and the ice for being solid. I hated the food that we ate and the rum laced water that we drank. I even came to hate God for putting me there.

But most of all, I hated the Albatross. The stupid thing all that way above us, gentle lazy movements that seemed to keep it aloft for so long. I hated how white it was. I hated the curve of it's beak that we could see whenever it deigned to come low enough for us to see it. I hated it's strength and I hated that it was still up there.

I hated it for leading us astray. I no longer believed that it was leading us to safety. I believed, with all my soul, that it was leading us deeper into more dangerous waters where we would eventually run aground on the ice and freeze to death. I hated it for not just getting the job done and letting us die here. I hated it for failing us. It had been full of promise that we would make it and take us to safety. I had so wanted to be proven wrong and to be shown that all was not bleak and ugly in the world. I wanted to believe in something. I wanted to know that this was going to happen and that we were going to make it out and now that bird had let us down.

Over the time, the pressure seemed to increase. I had a nigh constant headache and my rage was building. There was no outlet for it. Punching a ship-mate was beyond consideration and I rather felt that I would not be able to stop with a punch. It felt like my skin was too small and that it was stretched over too much body which was ironic because I had clearly been starving for days.

All the while, my eyes were fixed on the Albatross. I barely blinked. I only did so when it became necessary. When my eyes burned and hurt with the cold and the salt water in the air. I didn't look away to accept my meals and I didn't look away when people tried to talk to me. I just poured my hatred into that bird and I wished for some kind of outlet.

I so very badly wanted to die. I wanted to take a blade to my wrist to let the pressure out. I wanted to place the crossbow underneath my chin and pull the trigger so that the bold would travel through my skull from underneath my jaw and out the top of my head. That way all of that hate and anger would be released. But suicide is a sin and I could not do that.

So I watched the Albatross and all the time, my hatred grew.

It was like a physical thing. As though it was a fire that burned with in my chest and that was growing to destroy me and burn me into a cinder. I literally wept with it, gasped for air and choked on it as I struggled to breathe.

Then I rose to my feet. I calmly put my foot in my crossbow's stirrup and wound back the bow. Then I placed the bolt into the groove and brought the cross-bow to my shoulder.

It wasn't until that point that people realised what I was about to do. Some shouted that I should carry out the killing. Others begged me to stop but I heard none of them.

I sighted carefully and pulled the trigger.

My bolt flew from the bow and I have often wondered how life might have been different if I was a worse shot.

Just pulling the trigger was an act of release for all that pent up rage and hatred and I screamed as the bolt whistled out over the air. I screamed with such force and such savagery as I begged the bolt to strike true.I am a very good shot when the shot matters and the Albatross had time to scream itself before it fell from the sky and landed at my feet. It's white breast rising and falling as it died with my steel bolt sticking out of it.I killed the Albatross and I bellowed my victory to the heavens.

The other sailors got hold of me quickly after that. So swept up in the Euphoria was I that I didn't even notice when they took the crossbow off me and tied me to the mast.

Men screamed at me as to why I had killed their saviour. They were furious and it was only the intervention of the Captain that saved my life. He did order that the corpse of the Albatross be placed around my neck as the reminder of my crime.

I had killed the Albatross.

It was no crime. It was no murder. I killed our tormentor. I know this because soon after that, we got into open water when I was able to make my escape. I killed the Albatross and good riddance I say. It was just an animal, just a bird. It was leading us deeper into the ice and meant to kill us and I killed it first which led to us attaining our freedom. I owe them nothing and they owe my everything.

I killed the Albatross. If I had my time again, I would have murdered the fucking thing sooner. It was no angel sent from heaven to save us. It was a filthy, horrid, smelly beast. I know because they tied the thing round my neck and it stank, even before it started to rot.

I killed the Albatross. I'm glad I killed it. I would do it again. It was no crime to do so. It was my crossbow and I had every right to kill it. No orders had been given to preserve the thing's life and it was not a mutiny to do so.

I killed the Albatross and fuck you if you think I was wrong.