In many ways, the story of our time in Skellige is a story about stories. About the telling of them and the recounting of them. About the truth that is found in the deepest of the stories and the accounts of the past. That even when people have embellished the story beyond all recognition from what had actually happened all that time ago, there is still a truth contained in every story that the Skelligans told.

It's how they define their lives. Stories of the past. Of the great heroes that founded each of the clans, including those clans that have died out or been destroyed. Stories of epic raids against each other, of raids against foreigners who are much more advanced than they are. Of quests to destroy mighty monsters and to recover artefacts long thought lost to the mists of time.

It was through the telling of a story that this entire affair began. When Ciri was a young girl, she first heard the story of the Skeleton Ship and what it represents. It was this story that had made her travel to Skellige in time for the second passage of the Skeleton Ship during the reign of Queen Cerys. It was that story that resulted in Kerrass and I being summoned to Skellige with such urgency which is where the story began for us.

It was in the telling of the story in the halls of Kaer Trolde when I first felt the spell of the Skeleton Ship. How we had first felt the pull of the mystery as well as the hypnotic power of wonderment and horror. I'm not just talking about the power of the Ship itself although that is powerful in and of itself. But also the power of the story and the storytelling.

I do not feel as though I am saying any of this quite right.

But there is a truth in all of the stories. Even if Heimdall himself did not climb aboard the Skeleton Ship and have his question answered as to where he should build his keep. Maybe he was just a highly talented and slightly magical engineer who simply knew more about the building of fortresses in inaccessible places.

But maybe it is also true that he climbed aboard the Skeleton Ship and asked the Tall robed man and the shorter woman as where his castle should be built. Maybe it's also true that he was given his instructions by the Goddess Freya on how to lift the stone into place.

Maybe one or other of these stories is true. But having listened to these legends as told by those men and women who know them best, I will say this. First, that it does not matter which of these stories is what actually happened all that time ago. The truth is that a great man built an incredible castle, so does it matter where he got his inspiration from? It is still true that he brought the castle into being, the divine or supernatural influence merely told him where, as well as the first stages of the plan. The keep, the tunnel and the tactics all belonged to the man.

That is correct but I feel as though the other thing is also correct. If not more so.

All of the stories are true. All of them are correct.

Including the contradictory ones.

It might seem strange that I am saying this as a historian. It is true that historians are trained to work towards the single truth. That truth being the discovery of what actually happened in such and such a place, at such and such a time. But we do this by listening to accounts of eye-witnesses, reading documents as to what happened, and visiting the sites to see what they actually looked like. Then we combine all of these factors in order to try and get as close to those events as we actually can.

This is made difficult by the fact that what is true to one person is a lie to another. That context and perspective change everything in these cases. So the most we can say is “According to this person, this is what happened.”

So I actually find that I am quite comfortable with this concept. That truth can be found in the strangest places. Sometimes it is a metaphorical truth. Sometimes it is a historical perspective and sometimes it is a view of the story teller as to what should be true.

I remember my time on the islands as being defined by stories. Yes there was music and dancing, feasting and other things. But even at a feast, men were competing with each other in order to tell the funniest story, the funniest anecdote. Everything was illustrated with a little story, a little tale about how this, or that piece of wisdom slotted into place and how they could prove that their point of view was the most important.

So many stories. It is therefore my intention to record some of these stories and to tell you about the people that I met, as well as to record the events that transpired. In the same way that I once spoke about the tools of a Witcher at the beginning of each of these articles, I shall write up a short story from my notes that will talk about some of the things that happened in the account to follow.

I am still enough of a historian to say that obviously each of these stories is at the whim of the person who told us the story as well as specifying the fact that people should try and find their own truths in the story.

We begin with the tale of how Helfdan became the Captain of the Wave-Serpent and how he was betrayed by his brother Dreng. This story was told to us by Ivar, the oldest member of Helfdan's crew. He leant forward as he spoke, his hands working with a carving tool as he worked on his club, shifting it and turning it in his hands. The firelight was reflected in his beard and off his eyebrows as the smoke and the sparks rose in the night, giving him an otherworldly look. As if he was one of the fire giants from Skelligan legend.

Kerrass listened to the story with a frown of concentration, no doubt gleaning what details he could from the party. Ciri's expression was unreadable although I got the feeling that she was no less intent than I was. The rest of the crew had heard the story before, many times from the look of them and some of the interplay that Ivar had with the men there, but they loved it. The way a crowd will love the antics of the best of minstrels and their activity even though the story might have been an old one.

The man himself sat a little distance away, slightly turned away from the speaker and the rest of his crew. Not because he was making a statement of any kind or trying to ignore the story. Nor did he have an air of weariness as though he was bored of hearing the same words over and over again. I decided that there was no pride in him, no humility either. It was just that there was a nice comfortable tree stump for him to lean against and he was in the middle of reading his book, writing in his journal or thinking of deep thoughts in advance of mornings sailing.

It was a cold evening, the wind blowing down from the mountain carrying the hint of snow and the smell of dampness as well as a sharp smell that I could not identify at the time. It later turned out to be the smell that Harpies carry with them everywhere. If you're wondering, it was close to, but a less sharp scent than, cat piss. It was somehow less unpleasant if you can believe that. We had already fought off a group of Necrophages and I had seen the way that the sailors worked with each other when it came to combat. It all felt... there was a comfort here that I had not felt elsewhere, not even with the Bastards and Sir Rickard.

There was no doubt in my mind that The bastards were a band of brothers that enjoyed the job and enjoyed the fact that they did it well. They were fond of their leader and they were equally as fond of each other. But there was no doubt in their mind that this was their job. It was a job that they loved and took pride in, but if you gave any single one of them, including Sir Rickard, a large sack of money, then they would be gone faster than it would take you to say farewell.

But here there was more of a feeling of fellowship. They belonged together. They loved and cared for each other although I can hear them laughing as they read this, or as Helfdan reads this too them. They tease and mock each other in the same way that the Bastard's did, but it would never cross any of their minds to do anything other than what they were doing now.

That was the difference. If I gave them enough money to retire then they would take that money, maybe by themselves a shiny new Helmet or a more ornamental piece of armour so that they could stand out from the crowd but they would still go where Helfdan led, do what he told them and sail where he sailed. It was inconceivable to them that they would do anything else.

They loved this. They loved the sailing and the hard, fast and sometimes brutal life that they lived. They loved the sudden joys and the savage beauty of it and I found those sentiments attractive.

I sat, along with the rest of them as Ivar took up the challenge. That challenge?

“How about a story Ivar?” Someone called. It might even have been Svein or one of his brothers. But the cry was soon taken up by the other men that sat around the camp fire. Cries of “Tell us a tale,” and “Spin us a yarn,” were heard before Ivar bowed his shaggy head before the onslaught and smiled through his beard.

In honour of our guests I suppose I should start with our first story. The very first story of our crew and the story of how all of this began.

We have all heard this story many many times and we tell it ourselves, to our sons and our daughters. We tell it to those members of our families who live far away and do not understand the happy madness that affects us all. We tell it to the strangers in the tavern, we tell it to our opponents in the halls and we tell it to the prisoners that we take. So that rivals never feel the shame and the sadness of being beaten.

For there is no shame in this defeat. For that defeat was inevitable from the moment they chose to fight Helfdan and the men of the Wave-Serpent. It was inevitable from the first moment that weapons were drawn and sails were unfurled. From when bows were strung, fires were lit and armour was donned.

It is fitting, I suppose that I tell this tale at the setting out of a quest (there was some heckling here as the quest had actually started some time ago but some of the others in the group quickly quietened the hecklers) as we remind ourselves of who we are and what we represent. We are the men of the Black Boar, the crew of the Wave-Serpent and the warriors of The Bastard.

This is the story of Helfdan.

The men cheered.

He has many names now does Lord Helfdan. Some men, notably us, call him Lord. Still others call him The Black Boar. Captain Helfdan to the foreigners, Hersir Helfdan to the Queen and Helfdan the Bastard to his enemies. An epitaph that loses it's power given that he has taken what they mean as an insult and turned it into a badge of pride, given that he has no bloodline to fall back on. No powerful family to rely on and call in times of need and privation. He stands on his own two feet and lives or dies according to his own skills and deeds rather than the skills and actions of his forebears.

But when I first knew him, when I first met him, he was Helfdan the Fisherman. He was still a bastard and there were few men who wanted to sail with him given this status. But those that did learned to trust his instincts at sea. Too often did he warn his ship captain of a coming storm that no other eye had seen, that no other nose had smelt. Too often had he guided ships to places where the best fishing could be found and too often did he lead them from ambushes and warn of tides and currents that no-one else knew.

Then one day the lord of that small area of land came looking for a helmsman. He was a powerful chieftain, the lord of that area. Cousin to the Jarl of Tuirseach and a distant one at that, but his blood was noble enough that he had lordship over a village. Powerful enough that he took the first choices of raiding territories and rich enough that he had his own hall and commanded two Longships.

The first, the largest of the two was called the Surf-Strider and oh, she was a beast of a ship. Huge she was like a fortress at sea but no less beautiful and graceful for it. Despite her bulk she seemed to dance on the waves and a skilled master would make that dance seem effortless. She defied the sea and would often be forced to resort to oars in order to get her incredible bulk to move when the sails were not enough to get the proper amount of speed.

The Second, ah, but we know what ship that was don't we?

(The men chanted two words, one after the other. It sounded like Bølge Slange. They chanted the two words over and over again until Ivar held his hands up for quiet.)

Yes, the Wave-Serpent. A smaller craft but no less dangerous. She needed a more skilled hand at the tiller. She was older and more set in her ways. You could not force the Wave-Serpent to go in any direction that she didn't want to go, not even with the strongest of oarsmen. This had been the Lord's ship and he sailed on her still while he had ordered the newer ship, the larger ship to be built for his son to captain, his oldest son, whose name was Dreng.

(Some of the crowd hissed at the name. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was watching a puppet show with a bunch of children. A well told and compelling show but those hisses took me out of the spell of the story for a moment)

Dreng was a good captain, no no, he was, but he lacked the finesse that the Wave-Serpent needed. The best and most experienced warriors were on the Surf-Strider and the lord felt that the best thing for everyone would be that they look after their young captain, that an experienced helmsman along with an experienced crew would take care of Dreng's inexperience. While the older crew, on the verge of retirement, along with the younger, least experienced hands would serve with the Lord aboard the Wave-Serpent. And the Wave-Serpent needed a new Helmsman.

(A note for the uninitiated. It would seem that the term “Helmsman” is consistent with the old Nilfgaardian title of “Pilot”. The idea being that the Captain is often a nobleman who knows sweet fuck all about the actual ins and outs of sailing and so there is a crew-member who gives out all the orders. They tend to be the person that knows how to plot a course and handle a ship. The appearance of this means that the “Captain” says things like “pursue that ship” and “Head North” and “Find us a place to anchor” and the Pilot implements all of these things. This practice has been going out of fashion over the last decade or so. This is because competence is beginning to become fashionable and “Captains” are required to actually know their stuff.

I suspect that we can see the influence of the Empress and her father there.

The Skelligans have something similar. In that the Captain is often a warchief or a lord, expected to lead men in battle. In Skelligan culture the Lords lead from the front and have to know what they are doing, which in turn means that they often don't have time to learn how their ship works or properly learning how to sail. So the term “Helmsman” is applied. The Captain says, “attack that ship” or “Raid that coast” and the Helmsman does the sailing to get that done. Another reason that Helfdan is unusual in Skelligan society is that he acts as his own Helmsman and has ordered Svein to act as the Warchief in his stead. The Warchief seems to be a position with much greater perceived honour. Which seems unimportant to Helfdan and Svein.)

The lord went among the fishermen looking for his new Helmsman, but many were the men who could have performed the task, too many even. Fishermen offered their sons and extolled their virtues and skills to the lord in order to get their progeny a coveted place aboard the raiding ships. But the Wave-Serpent is not an easy ship to handle. She needs a good hand, a steady and firm hand.

So the Lord, in his wisdom, set aside the pleas and organised a race. Obstacles were set out and all potential helmsmen climbed aboard their craft and ran the course. But the Lord found fault with all comers. In frustration he shouted into the wind. “Is there no man here who can sail this course?”

But of course there was.

The men of the village knew that Helfdan would be out of the village, indeed they arranged it, but one older fisherman scratched his chin. “Well,” he said, taking his time in the way of old men everywhere.

A couple of the men jeered at the old man telling us this story.

“there's always the bastard.” He told the Lord.

The Lord's men blanched and paled. “It's a bad omen,” they told him. “He will bring bad luck down on our heads. The ship will flounder in weather and no matter how skilled he might be, the sea will object to our defiance of the old ways.”

The Lord listened calmly before sending a runner to fetch “The Bastard.”

Helfdan came. If it was another hero I would say that the storm heralded his coming or that the gulls cried out as his feet touched the sands. But in truth, nothing of the kind happened. He just came back, walking across the sand where he stood before the Lord.

He listened calmly as he was told what was required. He nodded and then went to his small craft, sailing it to the starting point.

You had to sail the ship close to floating barrels and snatch tokens from the barrels. The person who got them all in the shortest time while making it back to shore was the winner.

Of course he won, it was not even close although that victory is a tale for another night. Suffice to say, Helfdan sailed that course in a way that none of the preceding sailors had done, fetching the tokens in a different order. The other sailors had run the course in as short a physical distance as possible. But Helfdan had sailed the course according to the wind and the waves rather than the physical distance between the barrels. Helfdan's only response on the subject was that his course was more “efficient”.

Despite the efforts of his court, the Lord took Helfdan with him when he set off.

Dreng hated him on sight. He saw it as a slight that Helfdan had been chosen. He shared the view that Helfdan's lack of lineage would curse the raids. He argued, not incorrectly, that Helfdan could not hunt, could barely fight, was physically clumsy, had the curse of literacy as well as his general.... Strangeness. He suggested that men would not fight with him, would not follow him and would refuse his orders....

It was this last that finally summoned the Lord, his Father's rage.

“They will follow his orders,” The Lord declared. “Because they are honourable men. To say otherwise is to insult them. You will apologise.”

Helfdan sailed on the next raid and proved his lord's trust to be well founded. His skills and his instincts meant that the Wave-Serpent felt a new life in her decks. Even the oldest, most tradition bound warrior on the ship was forced to admit that Helfdan was an exceptional helmsman and the old girl danced on the waves as though she was newly birthed.

For four seasons, the Wave-Serpent sailed under the masterful hand of Helfdan. He was still far from a great warrior but the other men of the Wave-Serpent said that he could sail his ship through the eye of a needle.

I was one of those men.

He was so successful in his raiding that The Wave-Serpent began to pull ahead of the Surf-Strider in the amount of goods and money that they had taken despite the fewer men. They found that Helfdan could put the ship anywhere that the Lord wanted him to. He could sail into fortresses that men said were impossible to plunder. He could sail to coasts that were impassible. He could find passages through solid ice and dodge any storm. Stories began to be told of him that he was the son of the God of the sea, so well did he take to his new role.

A rivalry began to spring up between the men of the Wave-Serpent and the men of the Surf-Strider. It can be good for there to be a competition as that self same competition would drive each onto bigger and larger feats of daring. The two ship still served the same master though and there was a brotherhood between the two decks. But they say that this was the true seed of Dreng's resentment.

For his part, Helfdan enjoyed his new tasks. He enjoyed his endless tussle with the sea, the first mistress of the islands. He enjoyed confounding her, finding new ways to flirt with her and surprise her and it did seem to all that the sea loved him back, just as much as he was devoted to the wind and the waves.

(There was a long pause here as Ivar stared into the flames sadly.)

Of course it couldn't last. Many men have since set themselves the task of trying to assign blame for the disaster. The men of the Surf-Strider lay the blame at the feet of the Wave-Serpent, at the feet of Helfdan. Those of us that were on the deck of the Wave-Serpent at the time protest this and point out the mistakes that Dreng had made during the entire incident.

The truth, though. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but his new found successes at sea and on the raid meant that the Lord began to become overconfident. He would boast that there was no port that he could not sack. No town that was safe from his ships and no enemy that he could not confound and slay. His pride was well founded as his ships were fine ships, sailed by fine men and fine warriors stood on their bows. But his arrogance made him sloppy.

But he paid for it in the end, it is just a shame that so many good sailors paid for it as well.

It was the end of the season and the Lord decided that he wanted one more raid. One more haul of treasure so that he could expand his mead-hall rather than having to wait for the next season. One more journey out onto the open sea, a sea that was beginning to get tempestuous and angry.

All his men advised him against it. Including Helfdan and even Dreng saw the wisdom enough to admit that attacking at this juncture was foolish. But the Lord felt the strength in his arm and the warmth in his bones. So he ordered that the raid would be carried out, against the augers, against the advice of his men and advisers. His first lapse in judgement for many a long year and we sailed out on the morning tide.

The black ones were waiting for us.

Three ships, all of them bigger than the Wave-Serpent. One of them bigger than the Surf-Strider and they waited for us. We never found out how they knew that we were coming. But they did know.

Three ships, only three of them. Even then I would have wagered my money and takings from that raid that we would have been more than a match for them. We were the better warriors. We were the better Sailors. We should have laughed in the face of their defiance as our warriors prepared their weapons.

But they had something that we did not expect. They had brought a mage with them.

(The watching men groaned, even Kerrass shook his head in sadness. Ciri was just watching Ivar, her eyes bright with fascination)

The Black ones were cunning though, begging the Swallow's pardon. The Black ones were cunning and they hid the mage until the last possible moment.

The Lord was not foolish. He knew that we could defeat the ships but that that battle would cost us. That we would be injured, losing men and our ships would be hurt. Which meant that we would no longer be strong enough to raid the target that we had in mind. His rage was colossal. He checked with Helfdan and the Helmsman of the Surf-Strider, both men agreed that it was impossible to get round the Black ships without battle.

The Lord's rage was colossal. He declared that he would not back down from a fight. That he refused to leave this field with his tale between his legs. He wanted the Black ones to suffer, he wanted them to bleed.

Do not judge him to harshly. He had come all this way and was seeing his objective vanishing before his eyes. How many of us would have been able to keep our temper if the thing that we wanted most of all was snatched from our grip? How many of us would have turned away from even the smallest measure of vengeance?

He ordered the Wave-Serpent to attack one of the smaller ships, The Surf-Strider would follow and cover us from attack.

We were near in a small group of islands that was close to the port of the Black ones. We had intended to use the rocky outcroppings to hide us from the watchers from the shore. It was a good strategy and had served us well before which was why we found ourselves so caught.

Our enemies had taken up a simple formation, The large ship in the middle with the smaller ships on either side. The Lord ordered us to attack the small ship on the right hand side as we were looking at it. The Wave-Serpent leapt forward to the attack.

They were too confident. We should have seen it really but we were so angry. On the deck of the large ship, a man stood forward. He was dressed plainly, dark shirt and dark trousers. But there was no surprise as to who he was and what he could do. We were closing on our target but the mage raised his hands and fire spit forth from them.

The seas exploded, steam filled the air and we were thrown about, some men fell over the side and we could hear them screaming in the boiling water. There was another explosion and another and another. The Wave-Serpent groaned as our enemies gouged chunks out of her hull. Leaks sprung open below decks and we started taking on water. Men burned in the flames and choked in the smoke.

At one point an explosion all but lifted the wave-Serpent out of the water and we returned to the waves with a crash. The Surf-Strider was not doing much better. She's a heavier ship and an easier target for the mage.

Another explosion. We were done for, defeated, not by force of arms and not by skill or cunning. But by magic. It rankled, it tasted bitter on our tongues. But not one of us considered surrender. We readied our weapons, determined to sell ourselves as dearly as we could.

The Lord was hurt, impaled by a flying lump of wood, blood ran down his leg and from a thousand and one little cuts. He had been next to the rail, looking at the enemy as part of the ship exploded. He dragged himself to the rear of the ship and bellowed his orders to the Surf-Strider. Telling them to flee before the magic finished them as well. Then he collapsed next to his young Helmsman who was tugging at the tiller.

“Fight them Helfdan,” the old Lord said. “Fight them so that my son and house will survive. Consider it my final command.”

Helfdan simply nodded. Most men would swear oaths. Most men would bellow orders and scream their defiance against the men that were coming for them.

Helfdan drew his own axe, a gift from the lord taken from the loot in Helfdan's first raid, and gave it to the Lord who was slumped against the deck so that the old man could die with a weapon in his hand if it came to it. Then he rose to his feet.

We were all looking at him. Our enemy had decided that we were done for and could be destroyed at their leisure. They were setting course to pursue the Surf-Strider. They would fail of course. Dreng was no slouch and would follow the commands of his Father and was already turning to flee back to Skellige.

Helfdan looked around. He looked at the islands, then he looked at the sea. Then he turned his face to the wind before peering at our sail, increasingly tattered and gently smouldering from some of the flames.

Then he nodded.

“Archers.” He called and those of us that were still standing called our answer. “Keep that mage's head down.”

I had already strung my bow and I looked for my target. Old age has taken my sight now as well as the steadiness of my aim, meaning that I am far from the archer that I was. But I was good then, even though there are a few years between then and now. There were another five of us that could shoot a bow and we started raining arrows down on the large ship's deck. We were aiming for the mage but it was a long shot, even for our skills.

Helfdan was pulling on the tiller, turning us so that we would be sailing across the front of the enemy formation. It was easy to see what he was doing. If the enemy ships tried to sail on then they would run the risk of our ram, such as it was. There was a small ship behind and to our right that was falling behind us.

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The large ship was looming closer and there was another, smaller ship beyond that.

The mage realising that he was in danger now as well as no longer being able to get his head up in order to cast any spells. It looked as though he was ordered to do something and then he left, disappearing from view. But Helfdan didn't pause.

“Oars,” He shouted. “Plug those leaks and give me speed.”

We were surprised. We were expecting a fight, not to exert ourselves at the rowing bench. But the habit of obedience to the Helmsman runs deep.

But Helfdan still wasn't done. “Archers, rain fire on the furthest ship.”

I felt the question as I ran to the fire basket to light the end of my arrow. My fellows were wrapping rags round the ends of their other arrows and setting them aflame. But others had the question.

“What about the ship behind us?” They called. “What about the other, bigger craft?” Still others shouted.

Other Helmsmen would have yelled for silence or obedience. “Leave them to me,” he told us. He was almost quiet as he said it before he took a deep breath and bellowed.

“GIVE ME SPEED, CURSE YOU. ROW FOR YOUR ANCESTORS SAKE.”

We did as we were ordered. We shot our arrows into the distant target. Only one in three arrows struck home, landing in the sails with a hiss, or on the deck but those arrows were deadly. Fire is death on board a ship. Fire is death and now our enemy was aflame. But the enemy was not done.

Helfdan was watching the retreating back of the Surf-Strider. There was a strange look in his eyes as he swapped his gaze between the Surf-Strider and the small ship that we had left in our wake. Then he nodded.

And pulled on the tiller again.

“Speed.” He cried. “More Speed. Keep those arrows flying.”

He was peering through the smoke, squinting against it, legs wide and braced against the deck. I was not the only one who looked at him and saw a hero of legend.

“Surf-Strider is away.” Someone called and we roared our approval. We could see the small ship and the large moving to intercept us, giving up the pursuit.

“Time to die then,” I said. “It is a good day for it.”

Some trick of the wind carried my words to Helfdan. He looked puzzled. “Die?” He asked. “Die? I do not intend to die.” Then he grinned, possibly the first time I had seen much more than a slight smile on his face. “I intend to punish them for the hurt they have done to the Wave-Serpent. I intend to conquer.”

He laughed then, one of the few times that I have heard him laugh and I am one of the few remaining who have been with him longest. It was a chilling sound.

“But we will only conquer if you give me MORE SPEED.”

The oarsmen roared and bent to. We missed the front of the large ship by feet. No more than that and the sailors on that ship were far from idle, raining their own arrows amongst us. More than one man fell with an arrow in his body but we had the drive now. We had the rage to see us through.

The Wave-Serpent was angry and we laughed and sang with our rage.

Those of us who were still shooting had got the furthest ship well ablaze now. The sail had fallen from the mast and lay on the deck. Brave men could be seen trying to put the fire out, but even if they succeeded it would take hours to get another sail in place to pursue. Other men could be seen leaping over the side.

Helfdan ordered us to put our bows down and to raise buckets of water for when the Nilfgaardians followed our example. The Black ones were slow but they were not stupid. We were past the main ship now but they had seen what happened to their fellow and their own fire arrows started to fly.

Helfdan ordered our sails furled and we ran about with buckets putting the arrows out as quickly as we could.

We were making for a row of rocks in the surf. We could see the waves breaking against the small row of black stones that jutted out from the island. They were killer stones. Every sailor dreads that noise, the grinding noise of stone against the bottom of the hull, not the soft, wet noise of sand as a ship is breached, but the tearing, groaning sound. The sound of boards splitting and tearing before the rush of water overwhelms everything.

And Helfdan was heading us straight towards them. And he was still calling for more speed.

As we looked back the smaller ship was now overtaking the big one in their pursuit of us. But we were moving quickly. We were out of their arrow range now but that didn't faze Helfdan. He still wanted more speed.

It was a race now, the small Black ship versus the Wave-Serpent but we had no idea what the finishing line was going to be.

We had lost some men to the enemies arrows. Our crew was tired. We were the old men and the young boys, we were facing defeat and our lord was bleeding on the deck from a thousand cut as well as the cunk of wood in his chest.

But still Helfdan wanted speed.

I will not deny, I thought that we were committing suicide. One last effort to prevent ourselves from falling into the hands of the enemy. Capture and torture awaited us if we were taken and I thought that Helfdan was protecting us from that. There was no way that we would survive impact with those rocks. Even if we survived the impact, the waves would batter us against the stone. Hope was fleeing from us and we had nowhere else to go.

“Lift Oars,” Helfdan called at the last moment, we lifted our oars out of the water and the inertia carried us towards the cold, sharp stone.

Then we hit the rocks.

And just as quickly, we passed through them. Somehow, by some instinct or skill that no one-else could possibly have seen, Helfdan had found a gap in the killer stones. He had seen the gap and he had urged us forward.

It would be a lie to suggest that that crossing was easy though, there was still currents there as the prevailing currents on one side of the stone were different to the other.

The impact his us like a hammer, and the crash of our hull hitting the new water was like the crash of a shield wall meeting a shield wall. The Wave-Serpent floundered. Just for a moment but she staggered and spun in place, but then we were through and moving.

We would have cheered if we had the breath. But Helfdan was not done.

“Stow oars and recover,” Helfdan called, “Full Sail,”

The sail billowed out, the sheet was safe now that we were out of the range of their arrows and the canvas rippled as the wind caught at us again. The Wave-Serpent was battered but she was still a proud ship and she leapt to the fore. Moving quickly again.

The oarsmen rested a bit, some men took hammers and nails and set about repairing the worst of some of the leaks. Water was passed around and we looked back to see what our enemy was doing.

The Black ones were not great sailors. The large ship was floundering, trying to turn away from the rocks and it would probably make it as it wasn't moving as quickly. But the small ship was too fast to recover and on she came, still trying to chase us.

We will never know why their captain or helmsman made that choice. We will never know whether it was because they could see their quarry and were desperate to catch us. That because we had made the gap then they thought that they could make the same gap. Nor do we know if the Captain lost his nerve at the last moment and turned aside when he should have spurred his ship on. Nor do we know if the captain was watching us rather than watching the rocks.

All that we know is that small ship hurtled into that same line of rocks that we had passed. It seemed to me that the Ship had gone for the same gap that Helfdan had seen but at the last second had lost his nerve and turned, trying to turn away when it was too late. A friend of mine also suggested that the ships of the Black Ones are wider and run deeper than we did and maybe she was caught on some underwater rock. I do not know the answer.

I do know that the sound that ship made as she hit the rocks was awful.

I can enjoy an enemy defeated. I can take strength from a broken opponent and joy to see him fleeing before my club and my shield. I am a warrior after all. What kind of a warrior would I be if I couldn't do those things. But I am also a sailor.

I cheered when that ship of the Black Ones broke itself onto the rocks. I laughed and I jeered along with everyone else. Their captain had been foolish. He had tried to follow a better sailor than he and had lost his ship and his life because of it. It was a victory and I rejoiced in it. But if felt a little hollow. I had yet to receive my own measure of vengeance, my own solace for the attacks of the mage against the Wave-Serpent.

I might have set a few fires but that's not what I wanted to do. I wanted to meet my foe in combat.

I was not satisfied and it was all too easy to imagine what it would be like to be dashed against the rocks like those Black sailors were.

Helfdan looked back. It was his victory. He had taken the fight to the enemy and won out against odds that he shouldn't have won. He had escaped. Dreng and the Surf-Strider were safe, which was what we were ordered to do, and he had sunk one ship and severely damaged another. Anyone else would call that a victory and head for home. The Wave-Serpent was hurting and damaged. Our Lord lay on the deck bleeding. No-one could have expected more and as it was, the honour was Helfdan's.

But Helfdan was not done.

He was not watching the small ship wrecking itself against the rocks. He was watching the large ship that was struggling to turn. It was floundering in place. Helfdan looked at it closely before turning his face towards the wind again. Then he nodded and leant into the tiller, the wind caught the sail and we started to come round the island.

It wasn't a very big island. But we went fast. Keeping close to the shore, cutting as much distance off as we could.

“Weapons.” Helfdan called. The word that was used for us to prepare for combat. We looked at each other I remember. We could barely believe we had heard that order. Weapons? We had been chased off. We had been defeated. We were hurt, injured, our ship was in pain, you could hear it through the hull.

We looked around in a panic. Had he seen something that we hadn't. Was there something coming that we had not prepared for.

But again, the habit of obedience to the Helmsman runs deep and we leapt to. Helmets were placed on heads. Weapons were left to hand. Shields were slung on backs.

Helfdan was watching the island. If anything we were moving faster. How he managed it I will never know but the Wave-Serpent reacted to his eagerness. He was leaning forward, his face was a grimace, halfway between a smile and a snarl.

We felt it too. That hunger for battle. We had all thought that we were going to die in a fight to keep the heir to the Lord safe. We had thought that we would be captured and tortured as pirates. Then we thought that we were going to die, battered to death against the rocks or drowned. We had felt the anti-climax of that but then our Helmsman had promised us battle.

“Weapons” he had called and that meant blood. We did not question his thinking then. He was the Helmsman and he knew things about the sea and the waves that we could only dream. Maybe he was worried that Dreng was not properly away.

(“He's certainly a shit enough sailor.” Someone heckled to general laughter.)

But we were on the attack and there was only one target left. The large ship. The ship that had the mage on it.

I found a rage in my chest then. I am not a berserker. No offence to Sigurd (the groups berserker) but I have never wanted that burden. But I dearly wanted some of that ship.

Then we rounded the island. Lookouts could just about see the Surf-Strider off in the distance. It was a long way away but you could see it. I doubt that any ship could catch it. We certainly couldn't. But then we turned again and saw our enemy.

The ship of the mage. He was back from wherever he had gone to and was waving his hands around. Blue light danced through his fingers and the sail was beginning to pick up. There were men running up and down the rigging, climbing across the sails. Men in black armour were yelling. The ship that had lost it's sail was drifting and still smouldering. It was a little too cold for the craft to properly catch fire but it was smouldering and smoking.

They had caught themselves in the water. The effort to turn aside from the rocks had meant that they were all but stranded. They were desperately trying to turn their ship so that they could do something. Maybe rescue some of the drowning men or, more likely, get to pursuing either the Surf-Strider or ourselves. It had not occurred to them that we might attack them.

But then again, they didn't know Helfdan then.

Neither did we then but we reacted to his orders with ease.

“Ready oars.” he all but whispered. We moved quietly. They still hadn't seen us and the smoke from the smouldering ship formed a light mist. “Be ready Archers.” He told us again and the four of us ran to the front of the Wave-Serpent. He didn't need to tell us what we would be shooting at. I wanted that mage.

But we were getting closer. The Mage finished his spell and the wind picked up. He was using magic to help in the pursuit. It was comical really. He looked out at something. We almost saw him smirk just before he turned, he saw us, he opened his mouth.

Then we made him duck. It wasn't my arrow. I was quick but my fellows were quicker. I remember laughing.

“Full speed. We're going to ram them.”

Then, like now, the Wave-Serpent had a ram underneath it's bow. Both to help us beach the ship but also for moments like this. The enemy ship was turning towards where the Surf-Strider was disappearing over the horizon and we were all but on them with a perfect strike. The oarsman roared, the Wave-Serpent screamed her fury out over the waves as we cut through the water.

The rowers pulled their oars with all of their might and the Wave-Serpent reacted as she was meant to as she leapt to the attack.

The Black ones rained arrows on us. The mage tossed spells at us but he couldn't see as he didn't dare lift his face above the rail. We would have shot it off if he had.

A rower died. Another man took an arrow in the leg and I leapt to take up the strain. Speed was our ally now. We had to hit that ship with everything we had.

And truly we gave it everything.

Battle is not the word for it. It was a slaughter.

We struck that ship almost plumb on. The Wave-Serpent shook and groaned with the impact. We sprung more leaks and a couple of us were thrown overboard by the force of the impact. But what happened to us was nothing compared to what happened to the Black ones.

Helfdan had almost split the enemy ship in two with a crash like thunder from a clear sky. If I close my eyes, I fancy that I could still hear the echo of that sound today. The sound that is a boon for the victors but is like the hammer of death to the defeated. It's the kind of sound that you pray to all of the Gods that you never hear. But this time, we were the ones that were inflicting that wound on other people.

We climbed to our feet and leapt to the attack so that we could take our vengeance out on our enemies. So we could wash the stain of our dishonour, to be so nearly defeated by the hand of a mage's fire. I myself took up my bow, I could not get onto the ship at first but I took up my bow and began to shoot. The deck of the enemy ship was actually above us, well above my head but we could easily climb amid ships where we found our enemy still staggering and stunned. Screaming with fear and shock at the awful, terrible ram of the Wave-Serpent.

After some time of doing little more than counter shooting at enemy archers, I saw that the way was clear and took up my club.

My club was hungry for the brains of my enemies and for those seamen who thought that it was ok to rely on magic to take their victory. It would have been a decent fight but we were cheated from having a proper battle as the enemy ship was already going down. Enemy sailors were jumping overboard and swimming for the island but we still found many brave men who tried to fight back. Mostly young men who believed that their youth made them immortal. Men who were too young and ignorant to feel the proper fear of death. Who have not felt death's fingers clutch at their throat, who have not felt the pressure of deep and icy water on their chest or been injured by cold, sharp metal entering their bodies.

I fought no more than two men. The first was a man who rushed at me with his sword above his head. He was whirling it around and it was elementary to cave in his skull. He was a brave man for a black one, foolish, but brave. The second man was no more than a boy. I would guess that he was as young as my son who, at the time, had seen no more than thirteen seasons and I would not have allowed him to go to sea even if he had begged me. I grabbed him by the scruff of his nexck and threw him back out the hole and into the sea, hoping that he would swim ashore.

“The Mage,” Helfdan called. “Bring me the mage's head.”

But the mage had seen which way the wind had turned against him. And then, like all of his ilk, he proved himself to be the coward that he was and teleported away.

We couldn't stay. We wanted plunder. We wanted to finish the battle and take our vengeance. Apart from that there were practical concerns. Timber to repair the Wave-Serpent's injuries. Tools, nails, sailcloth. We hoped for medicines to help heal our wounded, provisions and the rum that Black Ones gave to their sailors in order to make long journeys easier.

But we had no time. It was all too easy to suppose that the mage would fetch reinforcements and so, with our enemy defeated, dead or fleeing, Helfdan called us back and so that the sinking larger vessel wouldn't drag us down with it. We rescued some drowning enemy sailors because that's what you do when you're at sea and then we limped for home, using the last of the magical wind that the mage had summoned for his own use.

And limped is the right word. Some men say that in bringing us home, Helfdan managed a greater miracle than winning the fight at sea. But that is a story for another time.

We limped home to find that Dreng was already home and taking on the lordship of his father's realm and so was actually quite angry when we arrived. The Lord survived but it was clear to everyone that he would not sail again. He gave Helfdan a sword in return for his feats and his skills and began calling him son. But Dreng's pride never really recovered from that.

He never quite got over the fact that he had been ordered to flee in the face of the enemy. He felt that some people branded him a coward for that action despite the fact that he had been ordered to flee for the horizon. He did what his Lord wanted. But he never forgave Helfdan for winning his battles and snatching his victory from the jaws of defeat.

Less kind men than I, would also comment that he never forgive Helfdan for returning Dreng's father back alive either.

Helfdan was never formally adopted and there was no word as to whether or not the Lord actually intended to do that or not, so that when the Lord died a couple of years later, Helfdan had nowhere to go. He had been given the Wave-Serpent according to the Lord's wish and many of us chose to follow him.

He went because Dreng cast him out. Dreng's bitterness was such that he could not allow himself to have a rival so close to home. This despite the fact that Helfdan was a loyal Hersir to his war-chief, Dreng, and a man of honour. But Dreng would not listen to those advisers who told him to let his grudge go. The grudge that had not been helped by the fact that when the two ships sailed separately, Helfdan would regularly bring in the bigger haul of goods.

So Helfdan left. He had his ship, he had his crew and the waves and the world welcomed him. Clan An Craite took him in as a skilled Longship captain and although he was consigned to the patrol fleet rather than raiding like he should have been, he proved himself an able captain and was soon raiding again. He was awarded lands in the wild and remote parts of the former clan Drummond's domain and has thrived ever since.

So ends the tale of Helfdan and Dreng. Men who should have been brothers but found themselves as rivals instead.

Throughout the telling, Helfdan barely moved. He was writing in his journal and looked as though he wasn't really listening. The entire thing had the feeling of a long told tale that men loved to hear in the same way that everywhere he goes, people always ask for Dandelion to tell the tale of the White Wolf of Rivia and his dark haired Sorceress.

Ivar subsided from his tale telling and the men stamped their feet or drummed their fists on their chests in order to show their approval.

“Seems like we chose the right man for the job of ferrying us around.” Kerrass commented.

“What's this “we” stuff?” I demanded but Kerrass was already listening to the next story.

Ciri said nothing.

-

Do you know the term “Natural habitat?”

I ask because I keep getting reminders that not everyone reading these words are academics and that some people don't have as wide-ranging a vocabulary, like wot I do, so I just want to check.

The term “Natural habitat” is used to describe an animal or monster and where they prefer to live or work.

It's where they can find the proper food sources that they need to survive, generally there is water and they are able to live and hunt for themselves and the number of natural predators that can kill and eat them is relatively small.

For example. Necrophages, as a whole, hang around those places where there are large amounts of dead bodies to feast on after the fact. You can generally find them in grave yards, crypts and old battlefields after the looting has been done. Griffins prefer mountainous, remote areas despite the fact that there is some evidence that this is shifting a little bit. Because they are discovering that humans like to pen up all the tasty animals into one place which makes hunting them all that much easier.

I can go on and on and Kerrass could add even more examples to my already growing list.

Giant Centipiedes like warm, dry, sandy ground to work with which is why you find them in Toussaint and not in Redania. Rotfiends like damp environments where things are generally in the process of decomposition which is why they like sewers and swamps. The various different mutations along the form of Swamp Hag live near some kind of dirty water source.

The term can change from the obvious. “Fish live in water, birds fly in the sky.” but it becomes more finicky as different things get more complicated. A human's natural habitat varies for instance. They need water, and the ability to acquire food, either through the hunting of the food or the growing of the food. This is why you don't find humans out in the great desert.

But you can also apply it to different individual people. As an example, my sister Emma's natural habitat would be in a meeting room surrounded by lawyers and merchants talking at her. She sits there in a pose that is taken from my father, legs stretched out or crossed with her fingers steepled together as she takes everything in and forgets nothing. Ariadne's natural habitat is inside her laboratory or her library. She would claim differently but the truth is that she is never more happy or relaxed than when she is wearing a simple robe and working on some project or another. She can adapt to other places but those are the ones where she feels most at home, most in command of herself and her environments.

You know it's true my love.

Kerrass' natural habitat is out in the forests. He enjoys the comfort of civilisation and the company of other people but he could not stand it indefinitely. If you gave him a bunch of money so that he didn't have to make a living and the monsters of the world vanished meaning that he did not have to kill them then I firmly believe that he would build himself a log cabin in the woods somewhere. Close enough to a city in order to get some of his creature comforts but far enough that he couldn't smell the people that live there. Not in fields or farm lands. Maybe near a stream or a well for the fresh water or a river for fishing. But he prefers trees and forests than plains or fields. I don't know why I think this although the man himself suggested that I might be right.

When I was discussing this with Kerrass and Ciri, they declared that my natural habitat was my study. Not a library as I had first suggested but in my study. With a desk full of papers that only I knew the location of or understood the order and the sorting of. Shelves full of books and scrolls, maps on the wall, a comfortable fire, a comfortable chair, plenty of writing implements with food and drink near to hand.

It doesn't sound bad after all and I don't think that they are too wrong in their assessment.

For those wondering though, Ciri's natural habitat is wherever she damn well decides it is. I've never met a person who adapts to her surroundings quite as easily as Ciri does. Equally at home drinking heavily with a group of Skelligan warriors twice her size as she is in the most formal courtroom in the land. She's provably comfortable in the communal baths, walking in the gardens, watching a sporting or martial event, listening to the minstrel or bard in the tavern, watching a play at an opera house, getting sweaty on the training yard, riding on horseback or in a carriage, on the hunt for some game beast or sleeping in a hay loft.

She did admit, when pushed, that she doesn't enjoy time spent in libraries studying paperwork. Learning for the sake of learning is not something that interests her. She needs to see the point behind the activity and the reason that she is studying for the thing. The knowledge needs to be applicable so that she can enjoy the application of that knowledge in daily life.

But, and the reason for this little preamble is this. You have never seen a man more at home, more in his natural habitat than when I saw Helfdan stood at the tiller of the Wave-Serpent as we shot out of the harbour of Kaer Trolde. As I said before, it was like an arrow was fired from a bow, or a ballistae bolt fired from a... well.... ballistae. I later found out that Helfdan is one of the few Longship Captains that dares take their ship out of that harbour under full sail rather than with the oars because the winds through that canyon are chaotic and strong. As well as the cross winds that occur across the mouth of the gorge that can catch hold of a ship and dash it against the rocks.

Svein told me that there were thousands, millions of crowns worth of treasure at the bottom of the ocean at the end of that gully due to merchant and trading ships getting cocky, but because of the cross currents it was almost impossible to run salvage operations. I was beginning to get used to Svein and his tall tales by now though and looked at him sceptically. He wasn't far wrong though, it's just that most of the treasure is of the food and cloth variety that would have rotted into utter disuse over the years making salvage pointless.

But it was partly because of these wrecks that Queen Cerys' grandfather had changed the traditions regarding the harbour of Kaer Trolde so that small ships loaded and unloaded the goods while the larger ships and longships were kept at anchor in the harbour.

But Helfdan rode the ship, the currents and the winds like a champion. Like all experts in his craft, he made it look easy as well, but he was the very mythical image of the Skelligan ship's captain. Legs wide and planted firmly, tiller under his arm, eyes straight ahead. It was raining so water was running through his hair and down his face, dripping from his nose and occasionally seeming to spray out with his breath or because he snorted.

But we felt the exit from the gorge as much as saw it. It was like the ship was hit with a hammer and at first I was concerned as the sail rippled and the mast creaked. But the men of Helfdan's crew cheered the departure and didn't look too concerned.

We turned eastward out of the harbour and ran along the cliff's edge. A course I found surprising since our goal was to the west but I have since learned that the quickest course at sea is not necessarily a straight line. Something that was confirmed when Svein brought us some food. Turns out that one of the secrets of keeping a settled stomach on rough voyages is to keep something in your belly. Not a lot, but just enough to keep things settled. He sat on his haunches and told us what was happening.

“Two reasons we're heading East rather than west. The first is that any pursuit is going to expect us to head straight west. They'll be waiting for a bit so it doesn't look as though they're following us directly but then they will assume that we are heading west. The other thing is that there weren't that many supplies that were free for us to buy in Kaer Trolde,” he told us all this with his never missing grin on his face. Like most of the crew, he simply ignored the driving rain. That's not to say that they stood in the open when shelter was available, but if a job needed doing then it needed doing. “So our first port of call is our home port where we can simply commandeer some more supplies. We've had a surplus for a while so there's plenty to go around. It's also an unexpected departure so there are certain things that need to be taken care of.”

“Will that delay us much?” Ciri wanted to know.

“Not as much as you might think. Even if we sailed straight west out of Kaer Trolde, it would still take us three days to get to the watchtower. We're talking a difference of a few hours at most.”

“That sounds a little odd.” Kerrass commented.

“That's because the coming of the Skeleton Ship comes with a couple of extra problems that make a sailor's life difficult.”

“Oh?”

“The prevailing winds, during the time of the Skeleton ship's coming, is from the west. As are the currents which means that even if we rowed, we would barely get anywhere and merely exhaust ourselves.”

This piqued my curiosity.

“Does the Skeleton Ship not move magically then?”

“No.” Svein laughed, obviously enjoying himself. “It's definitely a ship and obeys the normal laws of the sea.”

“How many times have you seen it?” Ciri asked him.

“Many many times,” he told her, his smile fading a little. “Far too many. It holds a special dread for sailors like us.”

“Why?” I wondered.

“It's a constant reminder of our mortality innit.” He told us, recovering his humour. It's the constant fear that one day, I might be the one lost at sea and it might be my wife and children that are throwing offerings before that great, black hulk. We have to believe that we're immortal to do what we do. But there is no denying that the sea is a fickle mistress. She gives and she takes away with equal abandon.”

Someone called to him and he glanced round before turning back to us.

“I have to go.” He told us. “Believe me when I say that there will be plenty of time for stories during the journey.”

“You Skelligans do like your stories.” Ciri commented.

“We really do.” Svein laughed. “We camp ashore due to strong currents and potential for drifting ice so...”

“We understand.” Kerrass told him. “Don't let us keep you.”

He left after that.

The northern edge of Ard Skellig is mostly Cliff face as it backs onto the mountains. Kerrass told me that there are caves all through that mountain range, many of them had been left unexplored, but the reason for that was obvious. You could see the siryn and harpy population flying and flitting around amongst the caves. Going from one opening to another. Kerrass told us that there wasn't too much to worry about as both species of monsters are reptillian and therefore uncomfortable and sluggish in the cold air.

I noticed that despite this, he was constructing his crossbow though.

Svein also stationed bowmen as look out to protect us from any airborne menace. He needn't have worried though. One lone harpy ventured towards us. Svein called a name out to one of the archers who took a shot. The winged beast shrieked at us and flew back towards the caves.

I stared at the reptilian forms of the Siryns and wondered, not for the first time, how sailors ever fell for their spells.

The sailing settled down a bit after that. We came round the North eastern tip of Ard Skellig where there seemed to be a flat plateau at the bottom of the cliffs. I thought that I could see a camp fire there, occasionally hidden by the swirls of rain and the swelling of the ocean. One of the crew saw me looking and told me that it was a favourite haunt of smugglers and pirates. That it was a dangerous place to try and land though because if the sea decided to surge against the ship that had found it's beaching point, then the ship could be picked up and dashed against the rocks with little to no warning at all.

We also began to get to know a couple of the other crew-members. Including Svein's three younger brothers that he had contacted and had joined him on Helfdan's crew when space had opened up. It was an interesting family as it also turned out that, although the four of them had the same father, Svein shared a mother with Haakon the next oldest. But then the youngest pair both had different mothers and all four men had bonded over a mutual loathing of their father.

Haakon was the straight brother to Svein and he shared Svein's lean frame. He was a sallow man with sunken cheeks and from some of Svein's hints I gathered that he had suffered from some form of childhood illness that made it almost impossible for him to put on any kind of serious weight. He had a long pale face and although he had less charm than Svein, he had a bone-dry sense of humour that Kerrass, in particular, found amusing. He was content to live in the shadow of his older brother and follow his orders.

Unlike Svein though, he had not gone bald and his hair had formed into Long dreadlocks that he tied back from his face. When he was armed he wore a shirt of chain mail, expensive wrist and shoulder guards and plate metal guards over his shins. He fought with a large two handed axe that boasted the peculiar hook shape that the Skelligans favoured. When I did see the men train, Haakon turned out to be a very dextrous fighter, sometimes with his shield slung on his back but sometimes without. I once saw him parry an axe strike with his shins and the armour covering them. He also war a helm in battle that made him look like some kind of undead creature as it put his face into shadow. To the other Skelligans he looked like their Draugr of legend.

A Draugr is, to them, the dead returned to life. According to Kerrass they are mythical creatures or are other creatures that have been mistaken for Draugr. It's the kind of thing that happens all the time.

The next of the four brothers had been the man who had been wrapped in the bear skin. He was called Ursa which, in the way of Skelligans, had been decided to be a corruption of the word “ursine” meaning bear.

Others claimed that the reason he was called “The Bear” was because he was covered with long and unusually thick body hair. He wore metal shoulder plates and a thick leather coat, fighting with a large, metal headed hammer and a huge shield that covered him from his shoulders down to his shins. He had chosen to embrace his nick-name and wore bear skins in just about any circumstances. He was a fiercely intelligent man and, according to everyone that we spoke to, was the best one on one fighter on the crew. When such things were required, it was Ursa The Bear that acted as Helfdan's champion.

The reason he deferred to his older brother was that he claimed that he didn't have the gift of being able to impart his skills to other people and was too lazy to be a proper warchief. But Helfdan would regularly rely on his advice. The other men said that when Ursa started to walk forwards then even the mountains struggled and fought with each other to get out of his way. Because sooner or later, the hammer of the Bear would beat them down.

The last brother was the ill looking pasty faced man who's skin seemed to be peeling away from his face. He looked nothing like his older three brothers unless he smiled, which displayed a cheekiness to him that he seemed to share with Svein. Another fiercely intelligent man like all of his brothers but he had been born as the son of a whore. The pregnancy had been tough and the birth had killed the mother and almost killed the baby as well. The father had left the baby to die but somehow the child had survived as a thief and drifter.

His name was Kar. He shared Haakon's problem that he struggled to put on any weight but he also lacked the strength of his older brothers. Which meant that he struggled to wear any kind of heavy armour or wield any of the heavy weapons of the other members of the crew. He was, however, ridiculously quick with his movements and fought with a pair of long knives. The other brothers had taken him in hand when they found out that they had another brother and he had joined the crew and had stayed.

He was another man that shared a puppy like devotion to Helfdan due to the fact that Helfdan had given him trust and purpose. His older brothers watched him closely as otherwise enemies of Helfdan had a tendency to simply disappear suddenly.

Or so they told me. I was beginning to learn that any time a Skelligan told me a story, that I needed to take it with the proverbial pinch of salt.