Ymdaton’s impression of awed demeanour was probably terrible. People around him had eyes full of devotion, had lips silently moving, reciting holy verses. His insincerity could have been spotted the moment someone paid attention to him. Fortunately, all gazes were locked either on a priest, who was singing prayers, or on an altar filled to the brim with generous sacrifices, or on a statue.

The later was a magnificent sight indeed. There was a fully armoured warrior twenty cubits high, cast in bronze, his one feet on a prone body of his fallen enemy, his raised hand holding a helm of tyrsenoi design richly adorned with precious gems. His face was cheerful, clearly celebrating the victory, yet a single tear rolled down his right cheek.

There was a curved line carved in the domed ceiling. Real Mahandahy could see the image of himself every day of the year, for the aperture was designed to track his cyclical path through the sky. Ymdaton doubted that the celestial being would like the overly dramatic rendition of himself. Crewslayer doubted that the sacrifice even made any difference. Sea Above was just as dangerous as Sea Betwixt. Did stars even have any spare time to pay attention to people living below them? Did they have any spare strength to share? Would they like to share it with literal beggars who cried for help and tried to bribe them with vulgar goods?

“O mighty bringer of victory, guardian of Isary, accept these humble gifts and support your stepchild Azytenisar in whatever undertaking he will perform. Let his enemies be crushed, let his opponent be bereft of profit, let him have the power to take what is his,” the priest proclaimed and set on fire sacrifices that were placed upon the altar. The smoke escaped through the hole in the ceiling, carrying the essence of offerings up, to the celestial realm.

There were many distinct kind of a fish living upon a coral reef. Some are predators, making their living by shedding the blood of others, some are peaceful laborers, some are tricksters, switching their colours to fool everyone. The crowd before the shrine’s mighty colonnade was no different to the fish upon the reef and just as motley: warriors, craftsmen, courtiers. They were waiting to hear their master, who left the temple as a captain was supposed to leave his vessel: after all his subordinates.

“As some of you may have already guessed, my decision will be to accept the proposal of outlanders,” spoke he to the gathering, “Before us lies a task which is not easy by any means. Many will not survive to see it through. Therefore, those of my underlings who wish to stay at Isary will be allowed to do so. My younger brother Ittenisar will rule the house in my absence. Those who will not leave with me, should honour him as their lord and master.

You may think this to be madness: trading lordship of the sea for kingship in the faraway forest. Yet I ask you to try and perceive it differently.

It is known that one sailing the sea can see further than one striding the land. But I dare to gaze even further than the former one. We are invited to rule over the land of countless riches which neither Arsaci nor Sakib have managed to conquer. Your children will be lords in their own right, enjoying unseen prosperity. You need only to support me in this expedition.”

There were whispers among men. Ymdaton himself experienced doubts. He was ready to reach the other side of the sea if such was the will of the house lord. But settling a colony somewhere deep in Big Land, far away from any shores, from any connections to home was a different matter. He loved his island, his city, the way of life that both brought upon. However distant was the target of his journey, it was always the pleasure to return back with spoils, and tales, and presents for Umshama.

Crewslayer glanced around. There stood warriors of High Crew with their polished armour and colourful shields. Most of them had their eyes radiating with resolution and anticipation even. They were eager to follow their lord anywhere. It would have been unseemly to waver away from his first task just few days after he gave the oath, thought Ymdaton.

“To the distant land!” he followed an impulse, shouting and raising his fist to the air. People around looked at the warrior with surprise, which quickly turned into expressions of approval. Some crewmen followed his example. As waves under the blowing wind, the crowd soon rocked with chanting.

Lord Azytenisar nodded satisfiedly and signaled the end of the meeting. The warrior called Abimnupal whom Ymdaton met few days before catched up with him on the way home.

“You kindled their spirits nicely,” said he.

“I but followed a momentary urge to express my feelings. I have no idea why everyone got that inspired,” shrugged his shoulders Crewslayer.

“Don’t play coy, it does not fit your new position,” smiled the warrior, “It is a valuable quality to be able to influence hearts of men. It will come handy during your service, for in High Crew we are not only warriors, but also messengers and companions to our lord, often tasked with commanding lesser troops. Speaking of which, we will feast this evening to celebrate the new undertaking of our master. You are invited as well, it will be a great opportunity to bond with other crewmen away from formalities of service. At the dusk in Abeneewy mansion.”

“I will certainly come,” answered Ymdaton, energy ringing in his voice.

“What kind of task is that?! You’ve just got the greatest promotion of your life and that is your first duty? Settle in some stinking forest, far from the sea, far from home, far from me?” showered Umshama her husband with splenetic questions.

“It’s not as simple as that…” began answering he.

“It is just as simple. You are going to settle in some eastern mudhole just because your lord of the house decided to spice up his life. He gave you the option to refuse. You are rarely home as is with your endless campaigns. I was always closing my eyes to all amusements that you had during them. And now you decided to simply leave me,” the tempo of her speech seemed to rise with each sentence.

“Who are we to question lord Azytenisar’s vision,” told Crewslayer, trying to keep himself calm, “Yes, he allowed me to refuse. Yet I’ve only just entered High Crew. I’m not going to give up on my very first order. That ‘mudhole’ is a land of endless opportunities,” he paused for a moment, recent speech of his lord resurfacing in his memory, “Think about our children. When we conquer that land, I will take you there. Our children will be lords in the domain of countless riches.”

“Provided you survive,” interrupted she, “There are also bloodthirsty land dwellers and weird things feeding on flesh of men. If you died there, our children would not even be born. Have you honestly thought what could happen? If you died there, would you be sent to the western shore as it is required? Or would you stay as an ungoer to haunt these wretched lands forever?”

She put her palm over her mouth and looked as if she was about to burst in tears. Ymdaton moved closer to comfort her, yet Umshama stayed him with a hand. His wife regained composure just a moment later.

“Promise me,” told she much more quietly, “Promise me that you won’t do anything stupid, chasing the glory in battle as you always do. Promise me that you will survive and take me to live with you happily in whatever home you’ll choose for us.”

“I promise,” uttered Ymdaton in similarly quiet voice.

“Let every star give you it’s guidance,” said she and embraced him.

A sour feeling nested in Crewslayer’s guts as he left his home in the evening. It was not that his wife managed to shake his resolve. He never let her influence his decisions. He followed his will until he had proven to be right or, sometimes, wrong by himself. Yet even as he disregarded her opinions, he also understood that she acted out of affection for him. Berating Umshama for caring for her husband, albeit while disagreeing with her, felt simply wrong to Ymdaton. He loved that woman, after all.

When he knocked on the doors of Abeneewy residence he hoped greatly, that the feast inside would chase his dark moods away. Same old servant opened. His clothing was completely different this time. The only recurring detail that Crewslayer noticed was a brooch that held old man’s mantle in place. It was a round piece of bronze with a large diamond embedded in the middle, apparently, mimicking the famous relic of the house that he served. Again, the man guided him through the house.

“You are late, you’ve missed a lot of frightening stories about the place of our destination. These are told around the table all the evening,” said the servant.

“Be so kind and give me the summary,” murmured Ymdaton, glancing at small statues which were placed in the corners of corridors and rooms that they were passing.

“There is no point, really,” told the old man, ”These tales generally follow the pattern ‘the eastern the weirder’. Like accounts of men who had hands instead of legs and legs instead of hands which are said to live in the easternmost corners of former Arsaci empire.”

“I’d still like to hear.”

“Well, they tell of kinani merchants who went there and saw the endless forest where evil spirits and strange monsters reign supreme. People who live there hide in their small cities behind tall walls, never coming out without good reason. Creatures of the woods hunt them, gorge on their flesh and drink their blood. They are in a constant fight for survival,” the lack of enthusiasm in the voice of the servant did not fit the wondrous things he was talking about.

“Sounds too brutal and dramatic,” whistled Ymdaton.

“I thought so also. These stories about nations that were forged between the flame, the cold, and unforgiving nature are always exaggerated. There are also protectors, their magnificent leaders standing between the men and the devils from the forest.”

“Like that one who abandoned the city that asked for our help,” shrugged Crewslayer, “Probably not being so magnificent and dying in some stupid way.”

“Who knows, we don’t have much intel on these guardians of dreavlyani,” the old man was suddenly quite serious, “We can not even get a coherent description from the embassy, since we are talking through the interpreter and it seems that much of the substance is lost in translation. They tell of divine creatures taking forms of massive beasts, possessing immense power and wisdom. But then arsaci described their heavenly kings as giants ten cubits high whose flesh was made of sun rays. The Cursed One ultimately proved that their throats could be cut just as those of mortal men. We arrived, by the way.”

In the end of another corridor there were massive wooden doors. The servant swung them open, revealing a vast hall lit with torches. On the walls hung countless trophies of war: weapons, armour, banners. There were several tables in the middle of the chamber where all the High Crew sat, drinking, laughing, conversating. Fruits, meats, fish, and various kinds of wine were served. The old man silently left Ymdaton, who stepped inside. One of warriors noticed him and beckoned to sit alongside, which Crewslayer did.

“Welcome aboard,” said the man as Ymdaton took a place at the bench, “My name is Hasdruhy and you, I believe, is the one called Crewslayer.”

Ymdaton flinched at the sound of his moniker. The man poured some wine in the goblet before him.

“This one,” the crewman pointed at the warrior who was standing and telling something to the audience, “Is Ahyq. He is currently narrating us a story about the wild land that we will try to conquer soon. Listen, he never brings a boring tale.”

“And so, the said merchant reached a town which was built upon a swamp. He brought with himself many sacks of silver, for it is said that in these lands this metal is much rarer than a gold. He went there to the trading house where exchanges were performed and sold it.

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During that time he noticed a lonely sack which was lying in the corner of the trading hall. He observed it for several days. No one came to pick up it so the merchant came to conclusion that the sack was abandoned. With this thought he opened it to see what was inside. To his surprise it was full of gold coins. That said, a golden coin among these distant wild people is not a golden coin that you would imagine. It is rather a small six sided bar with slightly curved edges.

Some other man would have taken the sack without a second thought. But merchant was an upright and honourable being. He announced at the top of his voice that there was a forgotten sack of gold. Surprisingly, no one seemed to be interested in it. He searched for the owner of gold a day more, yet found none. Finally an old trader from the city approached him, telling that the sack was there in the corner for years. It is said that the gold was cursed and lied here since the last owner of it was killed where he stood, right in the middle of trading house by evil spirits.

There is no such thing as cursed goods, protested the merchant, men bring curses upon themselves while foolishly using those goods. He then took the sack alongside his other profits. No curses fell upon him. In fact, he reached the sea undisturbed and sailed home.

But as he was travelling west, to Hundred Isles, his serfs noticed that the number of coins in the sack was diminishing every day. Again, the merchant was an upright and honourable man. He could not think of his closest peers stealing from him. So, at first, he ordered the belongings of mercenaries who were employed to protect his expedition to be searched. No trace of gold was found. Then his serfs were questioned. That made the merchant extremely unhappy, for his servants were all tested through many undertakings. Still, no trace of gold was found.

Finally, the merchant ordered his companions to be tested. He pardoned himself before them, feeling a great deal of guilt. To his shock, coins were found in the quarters of his closest advisor. The gold was not simply hidden, but weaved among many ropes so that it formed a liking of a metal cape. So the advisor was brought before him and questioned.

The man told to the merchant that he would need that cape when shedding the previous one. Saying this, advisor proceeded to tear off his own skin with his bare hands, leaving only naked meat. He then folded into the drape of golden coins and thrown himself overboard. There he swam away, leaving a bloody trail in the water. Despite the weight of precious metal he did not seem to sink even a little bit.

All the crew was so shocked that no one tried to stop him, only gazing dumbstruck in his wake. The merchant mourned and cursed the moment that he saw the sack in the trading house. Never again he returned to distant woody lands. He spread this story far and wide, so other traders would be warned also against visiting there.”

The crowd in the hall became remarkably more quiet. Whispers could be heard here and there, some warriors silently gulped their whine with grim faces.

“Enough with spooky tales” raised his voice Abimnupal who was sitting at the other side of the table, “Let us welcome our new brother in arms, Ymdaton, also known as Crewslayer.”

Everyone turned to Ymdaton, he rose and saluted crewmen with his goblet. Most of men regarded him with friendly eyes, some uttering words of greeting.

“Tell us of your latest battle at Vetluna,” continued Abimnupal in an upbeat manner.

“You all heard of it already, I am sure. There is no need to repeat it once more,” answered Crewslayer. There was but playful display of resolve in his tone, while he circled the gathering with a sly look. Warriors urged him to tell anyway. Finally, he agreed and, filling his lungs full of air, began with his first step at the enemy shore that day.

Telling his tale was akin to charming a snake. While the serpent heard the pleasant melody it stood up from its jar and swayed, displaying interest. But once there was silence it quickly coiled back to take rest. While Ymdaton was describing scenes of violence, swings of a blade, broken shields, severed limbs and spilled blood, the attention of gathered men was fully his. But when he tried to speak of fine views or fair streets of Vetluna, of feelings and impressions that the war torn city gave to the observer, they instantly lost focus and entertained themselves with wine or chatter.

The flow of his story was forced into a shape of a constant chain of struggle and murder. He described each his confrontation in uttermost detail, every blow, parry, and step narrated in turn. The scene of his final and definitive skirmish, which rewarded him with his moniker and the place among his listeners, became so bloated and stretched, that his throat became dry when he finally reached its end. His efforts were not without fruit though, as warriors cheered and praised him, rising their goblets.

“That is impressive, provided you did not make half of the story up,” came quite a tipsy voice from Ymdaton’s left side.

He turned his head to regard a warrior beside him. Despite being there all the evening, only now he did catch Crewslayer’s attention. The man had round cheeks, weak chin and sharp pointed nose. His features somehow reminded Ymdaton of a pigeon. Eyes of a crewman were unfocused, his breath reeked of spirit remarkably.

“I would not dishonour myself with empty bragging, I assure you,” answered him Crewslayer, trying to sound as calm as he could manage.

“Sure,” the man idly waved his hand before Ymdaton’s face. Bronze flashed on his wrist: it was customary among kinani warriors to wear armguards even with casual clothing, to make their craft known, “But it also sounds to me like you got unschatted out of it mainly due to luck. And luck won’t help you in High Crew.”

“Who knows, at least I spend more time fighting than polishing my armour,” Crewslayer raised his elbow to show his own armguard, which was green and battered. The remark was met with some chuckles from the audience.

“We do not use vulgar customs to prove ourselves here,” shrugged the warrior, “We are proven by serving houselord himself for many years, which you can’t say.”

“Now, now,” a laugh came from the distant. It was the man who was telling the story when Ymdaton came in, Ahyq, “Azandahy, my peer, why don’t you just perform a friendly sparring and see whose word are true. There is a training ground right in the yard.”

The audience was split on this proposal. Some were muttering agreement, while others were protesting.

“I won’t fight a drunk man,” shook his head Ymdaton, “Let him get sober and then I might give it a try.”

“It is beneath me,” the warrior also disagreed to Crewslayer’s surprise, “I won’t spar with some rookie without reputation. Let him prove himself in battle first.”

“Oh common,” pressed Ahyq, “If he is as bad as you say, it will be over quickly.”

Now the crowd agreed almost unanimously, even the man called Hasdruhy smirked and nodded to Ymdaton. Crewslayer did not have time to as much as blink, when he already was standing on the sand in the courtyard of Abeneewy residence. In his hands were wooden axe and shield, noticeably heavier than real ones. His opponent was few steps away. Now it was obvious to Ymdaton, that the crewman was a good head taller than him, albeit his build was much leaner. They were standing in the circle of spectators: High Crew in its entirety. Abimnupal was somewhat separated from the crowd. He glanced at both the competitors.

“Fight as you would do in the real battle. With the exception of intentional mutilations like eye pokes and such. Fight with all you got, but do not forget that you are comrades of the same crew,” explained he in a loud voice, “These are the rules. Begin now!”

FIghters closed the distance, their weapons clashed. Soon Crewslayer thanked the stars that his opponent was drunk, for his technique was almost flawless. All his moves were at the right moment, all his counterattacks were extremely difficult to avoid. Ymdaton doubted, if he could beat this man in the sober state, all the advantage that he had now was the slight clumsiness in pigeon-face’s movements caused by wine. The warrior also had really long limbs, so he could punish Ymdaton for advancing long before Crewslayer could reach him with a blade.

It took a long time of dancing around, waiting for a missed step, before Ymdaton managed to hook the sword’s blade with his axe and pull it away. The attempt was met with some cheers from the audience, but it failed in a way that Crewslayer could not have even imagine. His opponent did not let his weapon to be twisted away, he forced it back into the right angle, making Ymdaton stagger instead. He followed with a riposte, that Crewslayer barely deflected with a shield. Azandahy’s frame was lanky, nothing suggested such a tremendous power behind it.

Ymdaton frantically tried to come up with a plan. Losing a fight to a drunken angry man in front of his new crew was not an option at all. More power, more height, and probably more experience were at foe’s side. But there should have been something that could be used as an opening. More power, more height. There it was.

Crewslayer made several attempts and closed the distance between him and pigeon-face some more. The opponent allowed him, for they were now too close for a proper axe swing. Perhaps he saw a sign of panic in it and planned to play on it. Ymdaton was not panicking, with next step he placed his foot behind opponent’s heel, so their shins crossed. This way their limbs acted as a lever and Azandahy’s significantly longer leg made it but more potent. Crewslayer pushed his shin and his opponent lost balance, falling on his back.

A kick to the wrist by Ymdaton followed immediately, to negate the danger of a riposte with a sword. It worked also, the weapon was dropped by pigeon-face. Crewslayer made almost no mistakes in his onslaught and was ready to finish the opponent with a quick cut. His opponent still found one. For a moment in which he made his kick he was briefly standing on one leg. Azandahy managed to seize the opportunity, locking that leg between his shins and twisting it, dragging Ymdaton to the ground also. From there their battle devolved into an ugly exchange of kicks and punches.

They were quickly separated by other crewmen. Abimnupal signaled the end of the fight, announcing the draw. Azandahy, restrained by his fellow warriors, tried to shake them off and drilled Ymdaton furiously with a look. Crewslayer did not show any desire to continue the sparring so he was not kept in place, yet his stare was just as fierce. Some members of High Crew left, taking angry pigeon-face with them. That signalled the end of the meeting and other warriors also began leaving. Abimnupal approached Ymdaton and hit him on the shoulder.

“Good fight,” told he, “I liked your improvisation.”

“I could not beat a drunk man,” answered Crewslayer grimly.

“You could not beat a most decorated drunk man in High Crew,” chuckled the warrior, “And still made him sweat. Good fight. Welcome, now properly. I hope you are ready for our coming journey.”

“I am ready. I hope,” Ymdaton suddenly smiled “I hope he won’t hold grudge with me forever after this evening.”

“Trust me, the fight will be a second worst thing he regrets tomorrow, right after the amount of wine that he drunk.”

Both crewmen laughed and left the residence, discussing the matters of future and stories of past in the most friendly manner.