Chandler Gros was starving. That was neither new nor uncommon in Wishborne. Ever since their nominal Lord, Pons Martel, had died, he had stopped sending food. The man had never even visited the far-flung northern village. Truth was that if the villagers could leave themselves, then they would do so. They had been brought to this accursed land because the kingdom mandated that every fief must be inhabited. Even though Pons Martel’s raising had been a joke and his fief a worthless clerical necessity. The rule had still been held to.

Pons had the responsibility to keep them alive and needed a populated fief to remain a lord. He had sent regular shipments of basic food north from the more inhabitable portions of the frontier. Wishborne was too far north and west to grow a proper crop or keep cattle.

Many had tried to leave over the years after they were escorted north. It always ended the same way. The southern lords were not a fan of peasants relocating under their own authority. No matter how inhospitable their lord’s fief. They killed any escaped serfs that they caught. Wishborne itself was surrounded by harsh storm conditions. It was tucked into a small cove that was sheltered from the surrounding winds.

The villagers had made small mud huts in a large cavern at the back side of the cove. That same cavern climbed up from the coast and opened up onto plains that stretched from the escarpment bordering the habited more southernly portion of the frontier, all the way to the World’s End mountains in the north. It was a wind scoured land and daring to travel it on foot often led to death. If one were to lose their way out on the plains, then that would be your end. The only route overland that was safe was an ill kept road. This made it very easy to mark anyone who made their way south from Wishborne.

The sea route was also impassable. The cove itself had a rare patch of calm water. It was almost eerily calm, considering that the Everstorm could still be heard raging all around. Just beyond the calm waters were many jagged rocks and hidden dangers. No ship had yet made its way safely through the ‘daggers of Wishborne’, as the locals called them.

The only chance of food the village had apart from the shipments was the creatures that sometimes washed up onto the beach. The Everstorm occasionally drove strange fish onto the sand. They never looked anything like the sea fish people knew from the south. The fish were known as foundlings, and it was uncommon for the same manner of fish to wash up often enough to warrant its own name.

The beach was also often peppered with other strange things after a particularly harsh cycle in the Everstorm. Gold coins, perfectly dry pages written in a language nobody knew, swords, once a statue had been found. The statute was of a woman. She did not match any description, and the local priest had insisted that it was not a statue of Ambrosine the Mother of Teranis.

Chandler was out on the shore in hopes of finding a foundling. He was the unofficial chieftain of Wishborne. Most had resigned themselves to death, but he felt a responsibility to at least try and save as many as he could. Perhaps a large enough fish would wash up on the beach to feed them all for a day more. The Martel’s would eventually remember that they had people up here.

Chandler did not find any fish. He did not even find any edible seaweed. What he did find was something metal and shiny, half buried in some driftwood. It was a crown, silver, with emeralds set all about it. It was carved in the style of a vine; each emerald was some kind of unknown fruit. Thorns pointed downwards so that anyone who wore it would never be comfortable. The thorns were sharp enough to draw blood if the crown were to be put on hastily.

It was the most precious thing Chandler had ever seen. Chandler wept. Fine though this crown maybe be, it would not save his people.

“Ambrosine, Mother,” Chandler shouted to the sky, “what good is a crown? We have no king who cares about us. I would give any man my loyalty if he would just give us food. I would put this crown upon his head! I will return this treasure to the sea. All I ask is that you find it in your heart to give us some hope in return.”

Having screamed his peace, chandler cocked back his arm and threw the crown into the ocean. He did not throw it very far, weak as he was. It would no doubt wash back on to the shore soon. Perhaps his village would have starved by then.

Feeling foolish Chandler began to turn back when something out in the water caught his eye. The sun was setting out beyond the breakers. It was rare to see the sunset. Usually, it was obscured by storm clouds. This evening a gap had opened up, letting the sun peek through.

The outline of what looked to be a rowboat was standing out against the light. Chandler was certain he must be mistaken. The boat seemed to be moving unusually quickly.

As it approached Chandler could hear a man’s voice giving commands, “come on men! We are almost there. Row!”

Chandler was amazed, he could see the boat clearly now. On its prow was a young boy. He seemed to be almost as malnourished as the villagers. His hair was black and his eyes where green. The same deep green of the emeralds that Chandler had thrown into the sea.

The boat thudded into the beach sand and rode up halfway onto it, a few meters away from Chandler. On board were six men excluding the boy. About their feet were fish. Scores of fresh foundlings. Chandler fell to his knees and started laughing. A mad laugh of disbelief and joy.

The boy hopped down from the boat, “well met stranger. We have come further north than I intended. Could you tell me where we are?”

Chandler forced out words through his laughter, “Wishborne, my lord. You are in Wishborne.”

___

Erec was annoyed. He had clearly found a madman. Who else would live out here so far north. It was not unliveable up here if you had skill and knowledge. As far as he knew however, there were not any in the kingdom of Nevares who had such skill.

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“I am no lord. Wishborne, you say, now that you mention it, this cove does seem to match the descriptions,” mused Erec, “why are you out here man? There cannot be much comfort this far north.”

Chandler scrambled to his feet, “we are not here by choice my lord. We were forced here years ago, to be subjects of the fool knight. We have been forgotten and we are starving.” Chandler said this last while staring hungrily at the fish in the boat.

Erec paused. That name rang a bell. He knew all of the noble houses of every kingdom or empire in the world, he did not however know all of the members of each house. The fool knight was a moniker given to Pons Martel. It was a punishable offence to retain the same name as a noble house if one did not belong to that same house. That being the case, his mission, Agace Martel must be related to Pons, and he had come by chance to the man’s fief.

“Pons Martel? This is his fief then,” asked Erec.

Chandler tore his eyes away from the fish to reply, “it is or was, Pons Martel is dead. At least that is what the wagon team from the last shipment of food told us. The fool knight has never been here before. I doubt he has ever crossed into the frontier.”

Behind Erec Norbert cleared his throat, “my lord where should we take the provisions?”

Erec scowled back at him and said in an exasperated voice, “I told you Norbert, stop calling me a lord. Now that we are back on dry land you may all go your own way. Just leave me what mana we have left in the chest. As for the fish you can have the rest of it. I will find other ways to feed myself on my way to Stormbreaker. From the sound of it there are many hungry people somewhere around here give the rest to them if you cannot finish it yourselves.”

After he said that, Erec removed a chest from the boat. It was much lighter than it had been when they started their week-long journey.

Chandler was confused as to the dynamic between the two men. The man apparently called Norbert treated the green-eyed boy with reverence bordering on devotion. The boy treated him as if he were an annoyance.

“Now my goodman,” he said while clapping Chandler on the shoulder with surprising strength, “is there somewhere I can sleep? I have been awake for more than a week now and I need some shut eye. Oh, and Norbert,” Erec shouted over his shoulder as Chandler led him away, “make sure that boat is stored properly somewhere. I put too much work into it to see it go to waste.”

A quarter of an hour later Erec was asleep in Chandler’s hut. He had walked in, critiqued the hut’s shoddy construction for a few minutes and then fell asleep on Chandler’s bed while clutching a dagger in his left hand.

The chief had left him there and gone to join the rest of the village as they ate fish stew. The whole village had gathered around a massive firepit in the middle of the village ‘green’ as they insisted on calling the barren open ground in the centre of their mud huts. Most people had slowed down in their eating as they were already on their second or third bowls of the stew. As a result, the focus had turned from eating to talking. The villagers were trying to get information from the sailors, on who they were and where they had come from. Also, who was this young lordling who commanded them?

Eventually the one called Norbert spoke, “Actually we do not know if he is a lord. We are assuming that he must be. He knows too much for an uneducated peasant and no merchant takes to command the way he does. Regardless after what we have seen no matter what he is I know he is a man that I will follow.”

Norbert then told the story of how they came to be here. About the murder of Lothair, the destruction of their ship and the desperate journey back to shore.

“I have never seen a creature that big. We have taken to calling it a kraken because we heard Erec murmuring that name to himself just after we escaped. We all thought that despite the monster not killing us we were still doomed to death. After all, out in the Everstorm, in nothing but a rowboat, who could survive that?”

Norbert fell silent and stared off into the distance. As if reliving those moments. After a lengthy pause, that none dared to interrupt, he continued, “the first thing he did was to strengthen the boat and oars with mana. I bet that no matter how hard the strongest man in your village tried he could not break them. He also gave himself some kind of Tattoo on the base of his neck. It was beautifully done, and he did it on rough seas without even a mirror so that he could see his work. After that he did not need to sleep for the entire journey. He made a magic symbol to keep us warm, he made one to attract fish for us to eat, the fish just jumped up into our boat.”

This last feat struck home particularly hard to the villagers. It was too wonderous for them to hear about the acquisition of food in such an easy manner.

Norbert, not noticing their reverie, spoke on, “in some ways though his magics were the least impressive aspects of him. Magical etching and the use of mana is always astounding to those who know nothing of the craft. What I do know is seamanship and for him to navigate us through that storm back to shore without stars or landmarks to guide him, is nothing short of miraculous. If all that was needed was for us to row east, then any man could have done it. To get us back in that small vessel however, for that he needed to guide us to helping currents and have us put our oars to work only when we would not be doing useless or counter-productive work. To keep our spirits up he sang songs. His voice was beautiful, and I am sure that he made up most of the songs on the spot. He used the wind and lightning as an accompaniment rather than a hinderance to his music.”

Norbert stopped again and left his tale off there. Chandler was enraptured by the tale. His prays had been answered. Someone had been brought to the village with the ability to help them.

“There is more all here should know,” Chandler said. He told the story of the crown and his promise to Ambrosine.

“We must make him our king then,” shouted one of the villagers.

Norbert shook his head at the crowd’s excitement, “he will not stick around to be your king. He has a mission that seems to have been given to him by the gods. He has to save a woman in Stombreaker. I did not get the full details, but he takes duty very seriously. Besides, he seems to be annoyed by people calling him lord I do not think that upgrading his title to king will change his reticence.”

“Do you know the woman’s name,” asked Chandler.

“I believe her name is Agace Martel,” said Norbert.

The whole gathering was shocked by that name.

“She is meant to be our lady. Now that the fool knight is dead. Truly he has been sent by the gods. Erec the found king. Erec Foundling,” this last he shouted as a chant. The crowd took up the call, “Erec the found king. Erec Foundling.”

Norbert shook his head, but Chandler had the beginnings of a plan. If he could get Erec to stick around for a few days perhaps he could convince him to bring back the Martel girl here. If he took duty so seriously, he could not like the fact that the Martels had abandoned their fief. From there they would have to somehow trick Erec into being their king. The important thing was to get him back here after he had finished his god given task. Chandler had no doubt that Erec would succeed.

Chandler took the chant back up, “Erec the found king. Erec Foundling.” For the first time in the decades since they had been forced up here, they had hope, and Chandler would not let that hope just leave.