Alaric’s gaze was drawn to the rugged coast less than a quarter-mile away. The sun had already dipped below the horizon to the west, painting the sky in shades of deep pink that gradually faded into a dusky purple. Aboard ship, the day’s brisk activities had quieted to the point of stillness; the anchors had been dropped, the sails neatly and efficiently furled, and the long oars carefully brought in and stowed for the night.
This particular stretch of shoreline was a picturesque blend of beaches, followed up by rolling, sandy hills, over which clumps of sun-browned grass spoke of scorching days and cold nights. The ship had found her nocturnal refuge in a partially sheltered cove, the natural contours providing a semblance of protection against the unpredictable whims of the sea.
Not far off, the silhouettes of the two other vessels could be discerned. They were anchored a safe distance apart. To the east, about a half-mile away, the outlines of a fishing village were beginning to merge with the twilight, becoming nearly indistinct in the gathering darkness. A dozen small fishing boats lay hauled up onto the beach before the village, their day’s labor done, resting like tired but content sea creatures on the shore.
From the modest huts and single-room houses of the village, thin wisps of smoke curled up into the rapidly cooling air. The heat of the day was beginning to wane, giving way to a refreshing breeze that occasionally blew strongly, carrying with it the promise of a peaceful night. The wind smelled of sand—the desert far to the south, a place Alaric had no desire to ever see again.
A week had elapsed since their departure from Hawkani, and already, a rhythm as consistent as the tide had been established amongst the three ships. Each evening, as the sun’s fiery descent heralded the approach of dusk, the vessels sought sanctuary in safe anchorages, places cradled by nature’s hand. Sometimes other friendly ships were present, but ofttimes not.
These havens were chosen with a mariner’s keen eye for safety. When dawn painted the sky with its very first light, the crew would be mustered. The anchors were hauled up, the oars were run out, and the sails prepared and unfurled to capture the morning breeze as they navigated out of the night’s anchorage and embarked on another day’s journey along the coast, steadily creeping their way toward Dekar and Kevahn.
Bramwell, like most seasoned captains who navigated these treacherous waters, harbored a deep respect for the sea’s latent dangers, especially under the cloak of night. The coast was a jagged line mixed with both beauty and peril, fraught with hidden reefs and underwater hazards that were not marked on any chart and could spell doom for the unwary.
Such risks dissuaded the captain from the notion of nocturnal sailing. That was a common practice amongst those who plied these routes, only sailing during the day when one could see what lay ahead. Moreover, Bramwell’s navigation style was one of caution and proximity; he rarely allowed his ships to stray far from the reassuring sight of land. The vast, open sea, with its unbounded horizons and deep waters, was ventured into only when necessary, and even then, with a strong sense of reluctance and caution.
Through their nightly conversations, Alaric had come to understand the captain’s unease about the final leg of their voyage, when they would have to strike out into the depths of the ocean to reach Kevahn. Bramwell’s discomfort was born not of fear, but of respect for the unpredictable sea and the knowledge that safety lay in the familiarity of the coastlines and landmarks that typically guided their path.
As the sound of a bell tolled through the air, its purpose obscure to Alaric, he continued to linger, caught by the allure and beauty of the view laid out before him. The signal bell, a mystery wrapped in the rhythm of ship’s life, was rung once again. The sound of it was jarring and prompted him to turn away, for he was expected. Ezran, his shadow for the night, followed. Alaric hardly noticed.
With a purposeful stride, he approached the stairs that descended into the ship, his destination lying within her wooden heart. Alaric instinctively ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low-hanging ceiling. The steps plunged him into a dimly lit, almost nocturnal world.
Alaric’s relationship with the sea and the vessels that dared navigate its vast expanses was one of reluctant necessity. The sea, despite its beauty—which spoke to his soul, with its untamed nature and boundless mysteries—held little allure for him, a sentiment magnified every time he ventured within the close quarters of the ship. He much preferred to appreciate the ocean from the shore’s edge.
As he descended the stairs, the air grew thick with an unmistakable stench. It was the odor of humanity pressed too closely together, of unwashed bodies worn by labor and chained by circumstance, unable to escape the confines of this floating prison and personal hell.
Despite the effort to alleviate this oppressive atmosphere by opening the rowing ports to the sea’s breeze, the foul reek was overwhelming. It stung the eyes and clawed at the senses. Even breathing through his mouth did not help. The smell was so strong, he could taste it upon his tongue, and Alaric had to resist the effort to gag. He had been told that over time one got used to it, but he could not see how that would ever happen.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Alaric swept his gaze across the deck, taking in the grim view. Rows upon rows of benches running along each side of the ship stretched into the murky dimness. These benches, designed to accommodate four men apiece, were the stations of slaves, each one a small cog in the vessel’s massive engine of wood and sail. With two hundred oars cutting through the ocean’s embrace, the ship carried nearly eight hundred souls in bondage. They were chained to their fate, as surely as they were locked to their bench.
A few sparse lanterns did little to light the space under the dying light of the day. The illumination was meager in the extreme, casting long, eerie shadows across the deck and leaving much of the space enveloped in a near-impenetrable darkness. It was within this twilight realm that Alaric’s gaze fell upon the nearest of the slaves, their forms barely distinguishable in the gloom.
The sight pierced him with a sharp pang of pity. Despite the commonality of slavery, Alaric had always found himself at odds with the practice. To him, it was a violation of the most basic principles of dignity and freedom, an affront to the teachings of Eldanar that he held dear. The notion of owning another person, as one might a dog, struck him as fundamentally repugnant, a betrayal of the inherent worth and potential of every individual. But not everyone of the faith saw things the same way, especially when it came to the enemy.
These slaves, stripped of their dignity, their self-respect, and clad only in the remnants of their former lives, not to mention the rags they wore, were the enemy. He had learned they were mostly prisoners, captured at sea or during raids conducted by Bramwell and his crew on unsuspecting coastal villages and towns in enemy territory.
Yet knowing the context of their captivity did little to ease Alaric’s discomfort with the notion of his friend’s business. But that was the way of the world, and Alaric was powerless to change it. The realization that these men, now reduced to mere cogs in the machine, had their lives measured in the span of weeks—expendable and forgotten souls—deepened his sense of discomfort.
Turning his back on the dimly lit realm of chained souls, Alaric continued on, the weight of his thoughts heavy upon him. His path led him through the crew quarters. Here, just before the entrance, a contingent of five guards stood watch upon the slaves. They were armed to the teeth, a necessary precaution in a world where the line between captor and captive was as thin as the blade of a knife or the link of a chain. Among their number was a man with a crossbow, loaded and ready, cradled loosely in his arms—a potent reminder of the lethal seriousness with which they approached their duty.
Slave uprisings were a grim reality. Such events were not rare, but rather alarmingly frequent, a shadow that hung over every journey and a serious worry for the crew. The desperate struggle for freedom, should the slaves ever break their bonds, was a scenario fraught with extreme violence and chaos, one in which the captives would fight with ferocious determination, preferring death over the return to bondage.
The guards, despite the gravity of their role, appeared disinterested, the monotony of their duty etching a look of boredom upon their faces. Yet as Alaric approached, they shifted, acknowledging his presence with a blend of respect and routine. No words were exchanged. One of them moved to open the door for him, revealing a brightly lit room that served as a threshold to another world within the ship.
Beneath this deck lay the quarters of his people and his own cabin. Farther below, the belly of the vessel held their supplies and equipment, securely stowed for the long journey ahead, along with the animals they’d brought, a mix of horses and mules.
In the relatively brief period Alaric had spent aboard, he had quickly familiarized himself with the ship’s layout, including the positioning of the crew quarters both fore and aft. The ship was a hive of activity, sustained by a crew, not counting the slaves, that numbered just over two hundred men. Someone was always doing something. Their existence was one deeply intertwined with the rhythm of the sea, a life that demanded resilience and bred a unique kind of camaraderie.
As Alaric crossed the threshold into a room distinctly marked by the practicalities of seafaring life, he found himself amidst a scene that spoke volumes of the daily lives of the crew. Dozens of hammocks were slung across the room. At the heart of this communal space was a long table.
Around this table gathered more than a dozen men, their attention momentarily diverted from the simple, if not Spartan, meal before them by his entrance. The day’s fare, a type of green gruel served in clay bowls, was a humble offering that Alaric had come to recognize as the standard sustenance aboard for at least one meal a day. The type of gruel varied, but its quality, or lack thereof, was a constant reminder of the harsh realities of life at sea, where provisions were often limited to what could be preserved over long durations, not to mention what Bramwell considered affordable and appropriate for his men. He had told Alaric more than once he operated on a budget and had complained repeatedly of the cost to feed so many hungry mouths.
The crew, a rugged assembly of individuals, bore the unmistakable marks of their profession. Their hands were calloused from the relentless grip on ropes and oars—tools of their trade—and their faces, weathered by the salt and sun, told stories of countless voyages. As Alaric moved through the room, a few of them lifted their gaze from the evening meal, acknowledging his presence with a brief, albeit indifferent, glance before returning to their food, drink, and the low murmur of conversation that accompanied it.
This detachment was not born of rudeness but rather a reflection of their nature; they were men hardened by the exigencies of a life spent navigating the ocean. Their resilience was forged in the face of the waves and stormy skies, shaping them into a formidable, if not insular, brotherhood. As Alaric passed among them, he was acutely aware of the divide separating his world from theirs, a chasm bridged only by the shared, transient membership aboard this vessel.
Alaric’s journey took him through three distinct sections, each echoing the previous in its utilitarian design, yet unique in the snippets of life it harbored. He traversed additional communal areas where the rhythm of sleep had enveloped other members of the crew, their snoring forms swaying gently in hammocks while the ship moved with the waves as she rode at anchor.
Finally, Alaric arrived at the very end of the ship, what the sailors called the aft of the vessel. The absence of a guard outside the captain’s quarters spoke to a certain level of trust, or perhaps they simply feared Bramwell enough that a guard wasn’t warranted. The closed door stood as the final barrier between Alaric and the purpose of his visit. He paused, collecting his thoughts. Ezran stopped a few paces away and leaned against the wall, seeming to meld with the shadows. He would not be following further. Alaric gave the door a solid knock.
“Enter,” came the captain’s voice from beyond, firm and inviting.
Lifting the latch, Alaric pushed the door open and stepped into a realm that felt worlds apart from the rest of the ship. Inside, he found Bramwell and his first officer, Caxatarus, standing at a table. They were engrossed in study of a navigational chart that bore the creases and marks of extensive use.
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The first officer was a tall man, well built and muscular. There was a hardness about him that spoke of someone confident in who he was and what he was about. Alaric had never seen the man go about the ship unarmed. He wore a short sword on his right hip. The weapon had a well-used and worn cord grip. There was no doubt in Alaric’s mind that Caxatarus could use the sword, for his forearms and hands were heavily nicked and scarred from weapons training. He had learned the man was a former Crusader, one who could read, write, and do numbers. That hinted at a noble birth, for most were illiterate.
The cabin was illuminated by oil lanterns that hung from hooks in the ceiling, their light casting a warm, flickering glow that danced across the room with the ship’s gentle sway. The captain and his first officer, leaning in close, appeared as two scholars in the midst of a debate, their attention intently fixed upon the parchment that held the key to their navigational strategy. Bramwell had his finger on a spot and was tracing a line with it.
“I think here,” the captain said and looked over at Caxatarus, who nodded in reply after a moment’s hesitation. “This is the spot we will put in tomorrow evening. We can get fresh water from a stream that empties into the anchorage.”
“We’ve been there before,” Caxatarus said, his voice hoarse and raspy from a wound he’d taken on the neck. Puckered and red, as if perpetually irritated, the old scar was an ugly thing. “If the winds favor us, we can be there in ten—maybe eleven hours once we weigh anchor come morning.”
The large and oversized, aft-facing windows of the cabin, now unshuttered and fully open, provided not only an excellent view, but invited the sea’s breath into the room, filling it with the fresh, briny scent of the ocean. This influx of air swept away the heavier atmosphere that lingered like a shadow over the ship’s lower decks, where men were bound to their laborious existence or confined to narrow spaces and cabins.
At the heart of the captain’s quarters was a large table, its surface weathered by time and heavy use, currently serving as the foundation for the discussion. The presence of a sturdy desk of dark wood near the windows further emphasized the captain’s role as both commander and lead navigator. This desk was cluttered with the tools of his trade: navigational maps, books that held the wisdom of the sea, and scrolls of various types. On it also lay a sextant and compass.
The walls, if they could speak, would have told countless stories of conquests and defeats. They were adorned with a varied collection of swords and shields, each, Alaric was sure, with its own unique history. In one corner of the room, a pair of large, brass-bound chests commanded attention. Each was secured with an iron lock that gleamed dully under the lantern light.
Alaric supposed the chests contained spoils from raids intermingled with the ship’s operating funds and Bramwell’s own treasure, what he called his retirement fund. Opposite this, a simple cot was pressed against the wall and secured to the deck. Along the left wall were several cabinets, their contents hidden behind fastened doors.
“I am not interrupting, am I?” Alaric asked when the two men did not look up from the map they were studying.
“We were just finishing up,” Bramwell remarked, his eyes momentarily shifting from the map to Alaric and then back again. “Food should be here soon, but we already have drink.”
“We are done,” Caxatarus announced, straightening. “As discussed, though the moon won’t be overly bright tonight due to that bank of clouds moving in, I will place additional men on watch throughout the night.”
“Very good, Cax,” Bramwell said. “See to it. I will stand third watch. You can take second.”
“Do you want me to put a few men ashore, get them farther to the east and west of our position?”
“As lookouts?” Bramwell asked as he glanced down at the map of the coastline they had been studying. He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Yes—I think, given the circumstances, that might not be a bad idea.”
“I will see to it immediately, sir.” With that, Caxatarus nodded respectfully to Alaric, then left, closing the door behind him.
“Extra watch? Men ashore?” Alaric asked. “I thought we were in friendly waters.”
“We are.” Glancing down at the chart once more, Bramwell sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, then carefully rolled it up, tying it with a faded blue ribbon. He set it on the far end of the table. “I sent men ashore when we dropped anchor to barter with the people in the village for some fresh fish and meat. They told us an enemy galley had put in, anchoring for the night, in this very spot, two days before.”
Alaric straightened. “Raiders? Is there any danger?”
“At sea, there is always risk and danger, my friend, especially in these waters,” Bramwell added, moving around the table and clapping Alaric on the arm. He grabbed the pitcher and poured one drink, then another. “The enemy is growing bolder by the day, and these waters, which were once safe from raids and attacks, have become dangerous for some.”
“But not for you?” Alaric asked.
“Even for me,” Bramwell acknowledged almost regretfully as he handed Alaric one of the mugs filled with a dark liquid. “Then again, I am dangerous myself, and I have three ships. The enemy primarily operates alone, isolated raiders looking for easy prey, smaller ships sailing by themselves and not in a convoy. If they happened across us—they’d run, or at least try to.”
Alaric’s acknowledgment was measured, his mind already racing through the implications of their conversation. The possibility of encountering an enemy warship or falling prey to pirates was a concern. These waters were a complex weave of alliances and enmities, where the flutter of a friendly or hostile sail on the horizon could mean the difference between safety and peril. Alaric gave a slow nod as he wondered what the chances were of encountering an enemy warship or pirate.
“Let us toast,” Bramwell said, his tone lightening, “to an easy journey.”
“One without incident,” Alaric added.
Bramwell raised his mug in a casual gesture, the liquid inside sloshing slightly before he took a hearty swig. Alaric, following suit, lifted his own mug to his lips, the aroma of the grog hinting at its potency even before he tasted it.
The drink, a favorite among sailors for its warming qualities and the ease with which it could be made aboard a ship, was a curious blend. It carried a sweetness that was almost surprising, a richness that coated the palate, only to be followed by a robust aftertaste that lingered assertively in the mouth.
Bramwell seemed to relish the drink, a small nod of satisfaction after swallowing. Alaric, on the other hand, found his thoughts drifting to the wine he preferred, where each vintage told a story of the land it came from. The grog, for all its interesting qualities, lacked the subtlety and depth he had come to appreciate in a fine wine. It was not without its merits, however. In the chill of the sea air and the company of sailors, it provided a certain communal solace, a shared reprieve from the rigors of their journey and toil of their hard life.
Yet, as he took another sip, allowing the warmth to spread through him, Alaric couldn’t help but reflect on the differences between the worlds he had navigated—the refined courts of his fellow nobles, where fine wine was a symbol of status and sophistication, and the deck of a ship, where grog served as a lifeline to warmth and friendship. Each had its place, and while he might prefer the former, he understood the value of the latter in the context of their current endeavor. The drink, like their journey, was a blend of necessity and choice. It was also cheap, which was how Bramwell preferred things.
“If it comes to a fight,” Bramwell said as he lowered his mug and looked levelly at Alaric, “I trust I can count upon your men, for it will mean a boarding action.”
“Of course,” Alaric said, “though we have never fought in one.”
“It is not terribly different than fighting on land. We steer for the enemy ship—all of mine are equipped with a solid bronze ram. Once we drive into them, planks are lowered from the bow and we board the enemy ship, rushing it, killing everyone who resists. It’s simple, really, and this is one of the fastest ships afloat. There are few out there that can out-row us.”
“And what of those who don’t resist?” Alaric asked.
“We always have need for more rowers,” Bramwell said with a shrug. “If there is anyone valuable, they will be cared for and ransomed.”
“What of the goods?”
“We take what we can before the other ship sinks,” Bramwell explained simply. “Most times, their ship is stuck fast with ours, which keeps them afloat and gives us time to unload the cargo before we need to back away. Sometimes the damage is too great, and the ship sinks rapidly. If that happens, we lose most everything of value but send a few infidels to the great beyond, which is always a bonus.”
Alaric gave a nod. “You can count upon my men, if it comes to a fight.”
“Excellent. I figured I could but felt the need to ask.” Bramwell glanced at the floor, and when he looked back up, he studied Alaric for several heartbeats before speaking. “May I touch upon a personal matter? There is a curiosity I wish to satisfy.”
“In relation to me?” Alaric found himself mildly surprised.
Bramwell gave a nod.
“I don’t see why not. I consider you a friend.”
“As I do you.”
“Then ask away.”
“In my travels, I have heard whispers, tales…”
“About me?” Alaric asked, raising an eyebrow and wondering what was coming.
“Yes…” Bramwell hesitated once more, as if unsure. “Suggesting the blood of great and ancient leaders courses through your veins.”
The air around Alaric seemed to thicken with an unspoken gravity, a shift that was almost immediate in its effect. His body, previously relaxed in the act of a shared drink, became a portrait of tension, every muscle tightening as if bracing against an unseen blow.
This reaction was more than just a momentary lapse of composure. The Cardinal King’s realm was one of intricate politics and delicate alliances, a labyrinth of power where secrets were both currency and weapon. Bramwell’s words, perhaps innocuous in intent, had unwittingly pierced through his defenses, evoking a response that was as involuntary as the subject of conversation was unexpected.
The chord struck by those words resonated with silent fears, worries, and the burdens of concealment that Alaric carried, a reminder of the precarious balance he had maintained in his quest to safeguard his own truths amidst the ever-watchful eyes of the Cardinal King, his spies, and the sycophants of his court. And yet, the Cardinal was now a prisoner of Sunara, the Crusade was on the verge of disaster, and Alaric was headed home.
“So, it is true?” Bramwell said slowly, clearly gauging Alaric’s reaction. “You hail from an ancient line.”
“Who told you such things?” Alaric asked.
“I make it my business to listen to the words whispered in dark corners,” Bramwell said. “Information can be power.”
Alaric eyed the other man for a long moment. He knew he would not get an answer. Bramwell was like that, for he always played things close to his vest and seemed to know more than he should.
“So?” the ship’s captain pressed.
“This subject is something I generally do not speak on, with anyone,” Alaric said firmly, feeling almost pained. “My family has a long history, one we take pride in but rarely discuss, let alone advertise.”
“How far back do you trace your ancestral line?” Bramwell asked.
Alaric found himself hesitating. He considered making a denial, but Bramwell would surely see through that, for it was far too late. After a moment, he gave a mental shrug. “All the way to the Ordinate.”
“The empire?” Bramwell asked, clearly surprised, for his dark and bushy eyebrows rose a tad. “Your lineage goes back to the Great Empire of the Ordinate—the empire that ruled all? Are you serious?”
It was now clear to Alaric that Bramwell had not believed what he’d heard concerning his family and its history. Alaric gave a slow nod of confirmation, hoping he’d not made a terrible mistake though fearing he had.
“Nobility of the empire? That is what you are saying—claiming?”
This time, feeling deeply uncomfortable, Alaric did not reply.
“Well, well, well.” Bramwell shook his head slightly and set his mug down upon the table. He poured himself more grog, topping his mug off, then stepped forward and refilled Alaric’s mug. “Perhaps some drink will loosen your tongue some, eh?”
Alaric eyed him as he took another sip. It was time to put his foot down. Though Bramwell was a friend, he had no need to know more, let alone the line Alaric descended from. “I’ve said all I am going to say on the subject.”
Bramwell scowled. “There are more than a few orders of knights and holy warriors that would give anything to see the Ordinate restored—even some of our enemy. You realize that, right? They believe in the prophecy of the second coming of the empire.”
“I do,” Alaric said. “But I wish no part in that nonsense. Drawing such attention is—would be dangerous, not to mention unhealthy.”
“I don’t doubt it, for there are few who can trace their lines that far back. Those orders aim to see a restoration, and as the years have passed, they have gained in strength and power. The Second Ordinate—I have no doubt people would rally around such an effort should it come to pass. I might even rally to such a cause myself.”
Alaric felt the ring on his finger begin growing warm, intensely so. Both his father and grandfather had warned not to discuss this subject outside of immediate family.
“And there would be those who rally against it.” Alaric took another sip from his mug. “I would appreciate you dropping the matter. Let us talk on something else.”
“All right.” Bramwell’s eyes had narrowed as he regarded Alaric.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened and the ship’s cook stood there holding a steaming pot with a thick towel. He was a large, burly man with a heavily stained tunic and apron. He spoke with a gruff and thick accent, from one of the southern kingdoms. “I have your food, sir.”
“Put it on the table.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alaric was grateful for the interruption. The ring on his finger had grown hot enough that he feared it might burn. As the cook placed the iron pot upon the table, Alaric noticed the captain’s gaze resting upon him in a speculative manner.
“Do you require anything else, sir?” the cook asked.
“No,” Bramwell said. “Leave us to eat.”
“Yes, sir,” the cook said and retreated, closing the door behind him with a thud.
Bramwell went to one of the cabinets, opened it, and drew forth two plates, along with a pair of metal spoons and a ladle. He set them down upon the table and turned his gaze fully upon Alaric.
“Your secret will remain in my confidence,” Bramwell assured. “My friend, should you ever wish to discuss the matter, you can count upon my discretion.”
“I appreciate that,” Alaric said, wondering on how Bramwell had learned of the matter in the first place, for he thought few knew beyond his immediate family. Who had the man been talking to? Worse, how many knew the actual truth and how had they learned of the secret? “I doubt I shall put that burden upon your shoulders.” Alaric turned his focus to the pot. “What are we eating tonight?”
“I asked the cook to prepare something special for us, pea soup with salted pork,” Bramwell said, with a pleased look. “My favorite. Shall we eat?”
The captain pulled the top from the pot. Alaric resisted a groan, for it looked very much like the green gruel the rest of the crew was eating.