Husad Amir awoke in darkness, to the smell of salt and sweat. He blinked and wiped crumbs of sleep from his eyes. An ache reared in the small of his back as he arose and he silently cursed the hammock that he had endured for the better part of a fortnight. Three more days, he thought, It’s nothing. Despite being a Carthian born and bred, Husad’s blood was not that of a mariner. Nor was it that of a warrior. That question had been answered long ago. With a cough, he pulled a rough spun wool shirt over his head and exited to the cool dawn.

The sky above sang of a coming storm. Sailors moved languidly across the deck as they went about their endless tasks. Most of them were bare-chested, seemingly immune to the chill that nipped at Husad’s nose and ears. He glanced around the deck for sight of his comrade-in-arms and found the giant of a man slumped up against the port side rails. “Good morning Viktor,” he called out, but the giant did not stir. With a dozen strides, and a few choice moves around the dancing sailors, he reached his friend.

Husad stood a head taller than any sailor on the ship and had the broad-shoulders of a bull, but Viktor was even larger. Or at least he was once, before the sea had sapped his strength. As the red-headed giant slumbered, Husad studied his friend’s features. Incessant sea-sickness had stolen Viktor’s ferocious beard and the now smooth-skin of his face hung loose around the edges of his face. A gull cried overhead and Viktor snorted, spat out a mess of yellow phlegm, and gazed around through cracked, green eyes.

Eyes like death, thought Husad, but he had learned, painfully, not to speak such thoughts aloud. “You are looking a tad less pale, my friend,” he observed, “But surely sleeping outside does no wonders for your constitution.”

“Better than dying in that cramped cabin,” grumbled Viktor as he eyed the cloudy skies, “There is one thing I like about the sea and only one. The open sky. This day looks to deny me even that small joy.”

“I am sorry. It does appear that you may be forced inside soon enough.”

Viktor’s eyes narrowed into slits as he replied, “I’ve been rained on before, but a squall...” He sighed and continued, “We should’ve stayed in Duendaun. I tell you the sea is cursed.”

Husad smiled. “Your ancestors would not approve of such fear.”

“The raiders were killed off long ago. The Imperium saw to that,” growled the giant as he spat again. “And what of yours? Do you even know port from starboard or aft from bow?”

“At times I do, but my memory is imperfect. Could you remind me?”

“Hardly,” admitted Viktor. He stood up slowly, on shaky legs and leather boots smeared with phlegm and vomit.

This journey will be the death of him, thought Husad as Viktor rifled through his jacket with a hand marred by shiny scars. It is a wonder that his fingers still move so deftly..the healers did good work. White-blue flames raged around the edges of the world. His lungs flooded with smoke.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger and forced his eyelids shut. “It’s gone,” he muttered softly to no one and returned to the moment. The giant found his prize and pulled out a thick bag of tobacco. He flashed a toothy grin and shoved a wad of the poison into his mouth. Or that will be.

“We should make landfall in three days, less with good winds,” offered Husad. Viktor acknowledged his words with a curt nod and chewed with unnerving vigor. “Elizabeth awaits us in Grausport, with further instructions.”

Viktor unleashed several ounces of tobacco juice on the deck and asked, “du Fron?”

“Yes. Who else?”

“Common name,” replied the giant as he wiped spittle from his pale lips. Again he eyed the skies, but this time with a furrowed brow. Husad did the same, They are growing dark.

“We should continue this conversation in my cabin,” he said aloud.

“Fine, fine,” muttered Viktor, but he outpaced Husad inside and bumped into a pair of sailors in the process. They shouted out ignored curses to him, to which Husad offered extravagant apologies. Inside, Viktor grabbed a mug and spat into it as he half-sat, half-collapsed onto the wooden bench that ran across the portside of the cabin.

“That is foul,” said Husad. He did his best to glare daggers, but Viktor merely smirked in response. Twenty years and he is constant as the Northern star. Unwilling to engage in a squabble that he had never won, Husad searched through a well-worn knapsack that hung above his hammock for food and produced a half-filled wineskin, a chunk of odorous cheese, and several strips of salted beef. He tossed the cheese to Viktor, who caught it and promptly devoured the chunk before he could even settle down onto the hammock. “Your appetite has returned.”

“Aye.” Viktor gestured for the wineskin.

“Not with that shite in your mouth. I know you have a flask on you.”

Viktor shrugged, held up two fingers with a mocking smirk, and produced one flask from his jacket. A veritable treasure trove, thought Husad as the giant took a quick swig. “So, Elizabeth du Fron. It’s been a long winter.”

“She met with me after…” Husad’s voice trailed off. Why can I not say it? He wondered. Six years have passed. I can not run forever. His gaze drifted down to his boots. One unwittingly tapped against the deck. It took a firm hand pressed painfully against his knee to stop the tremor.

Viktor merely grunted. “I forgot.” He took another swing. “Try not to soil yourself when we see her. It’s unbecoming.” The marrow of his words was rich with sarcasm.

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“I am not quite that pathetic, I assure you,” shot back Husad, but before his eyes loomed a roaring sergeant-instructor, his shaved head glistened in the midday sun and thick veins pulsed in his forehead, the perfect punctuation to every word he spat forth. You must move with violence of action, Husad recalled, You dictate the tempo of combat. Not the enemy! If you lose this advantage, you will be dead! Your friends will be dead! The white-blue flames danced and sang.

“No. You’re not.”

Am I so pitiful as to need his comfort? “I appreciate your sincerity.”

Viktor spat into the mug. He stared back at Husad for a tense minute. Thunder cracked outside, followed immediately by the pitter patter of rain against the ship. “Gods, I hope this patchwerk fleck of dung holds together,” grumbled the giant. “Look. We’re going into a war zone. Is that correct?”

We have been over this, time and time again. Husad hunched over and reached between his legs for a wooden trunk stowed beneath his hammock. “Yes,” he replied as he popped the lid and rifled through its contents. “A civil war, insurrection, rebellion, whatever they may choose to call it.” He found the letter, orders from du Fron, and offered to hand it over. Viktor refused with an open hand.

“Her writing is a madman’s scrawl.”

“Very well.” Husad unfolded the letter and gave it a cursory once over, as if he did not

already know every word by heart. A reprieve. An end to your exile. “Rebel forces, mercenaries,” he said with a shrug, “It matters not. For the sake of simplicity I will call them rebels.”

“We were rebels once.”

We still are. “True. They could be heroes. Knights in shining armor, come to save the people from an unjust king. That is not our concern.”

“I agree,” smiled Viktor, “Continue.”

“Well...essentially, the rebellion began four years ago and they have managed to gain

ground with each passing year. They control the westernmost provinces and are making their way into the middle lands. Onder began conscription roughly two years ago, but that has apparently proven ineffective. It would seem -”

“Not bad,” interrupted Viktor, “They sound formidable.”

“Clearly.”

“That or Onder is truly a backwater hellhole. How did du Fron end up with this command?”

“She did not say, but…” Husad considered. She was Kyverian and Onder and Kyveria were once a single kingdom...but that was centuries ago. Before Onder closed its borders. I know next to nothing of the land. Does anyone? “It pains me to say this, but I believe the council is banking on retained cultural similarities between Kyveria and Onder.”

The giant scratched at the stubble on his chin. Do not think too hard, thought Husad, but the words, even voiceless, gave him shame. “I don’t like it,” said Viktor, “We’re going in blind, deaf, and dumb.”

“Such is life.”

“Hah! God, you’re depressing. Like a man twice your age, all bent back and crooked fingers!”

“I fear that I will blink and be there,” admitted Husad, though he doubted Viktor would understand. Of the pair, he was the one cursed to ponder life’s mysteries. With one hand he tugged listlessly at his now salt and pepper beard. At best...half my life is gone.

“I’d say you should drink, but that only makes you more insufferable,” grumbled Viktor as he finished off one flask and returned it to the depths of his jacket. He spat yet again into the wretched mug and grinned as Husad grimaced at the act. “A man needs a vice, you have none.”

“And I fear you have plenty enough for the both of us.” Outside, the rain picked up its pace and pounded mercilessly against the ship. The cry of sailors mingled with the first mate’s baritone orders and together breached the cabin’s walls. A hint of green sprang to life in Viktor’s pale cheeks and he hastily removed the wad of tobacco from his mouth as the ship began to rock. Not unlike a squirrel’s cheek. “Back to our mission, if I may?”

Viktor motioned for Husad to continue. “We are headed to Grausport. It is the only harbor open to foreign vessels. According to du Fron, the Countess of Greyshore enjoys special privileges. She does not expand on that. The good news for us is that Greyshore has been untouched by war, save for growing numbers of refugees. Likely due to its apparent safety.”

“Likely,” muttered Viktor as the green in his cheeks intensified. He closed his eyes and said with a defeated smile, “I shouldn’t have had that whiskey.”

“Do you need to excuse yourself?”

“No, no. I think I’m finally getting my sea legs.”

“Very well. We will meet with du Fron upon arrival for special instruction. I am positive it will be a fascinating assignment.” Husad tried to sound jovial, but his friend paid his tone no heed. “The overarching mission is to determine if the Royalists, that is, those loyal to the King, are capable of ending the rebellion on their own.”

Viktor groaned and clasped both heavy hands against his stomach. “And if they are not, then what?”

“Outside intervention may be necessary. The council’s greatest fear is that the Imperium may, shall we say, swoop in with a legion or two and claim Onder for itself.”

“By all the gods of men, I hate the bloody Imperials,” grumbled Viktor as he shifted back and forth upon the bench. The storm proved too much for him and the giant stumbled upright and outside.

As do I, my friend, as do I, thought Husad. Anger swelled in his heart and tightened his chest. He cracked the knuckles of each hand one by one as he heard Viktor’s pathetic heaves and the first mate’s bawdy curses. Yet I was one...once...in another life. A corporal of foot. “You’re too damn clever to be a footsore rifle,” one sergeant had said, “After we put down those louts in Duendaun you need to put in for a commission. The captain would sign off on it. Take my word for it.”

Too damn clever. And where has that cleverness brought me? wondered Husad. The white-blue flames filled the cabin. Smoke kissed his tongue and nostrils. Deserter, traitor, coward, exile. “I could live with that,” he lied to the empty room, “If only I could go home again.”

The words drained the anger from his heart and filled it with a sorrow that ached from sternum to spine. He knew the truth. Husad laid down into the hammock and closed his eyes. For now, all he could do was wait out the storm.

Elizabeth du Fron rushed to the forefront of his thoughts. He could picture her face, clear as day, even after six years, but doubtlessly she had changed in that time. But have I? She was a Kyverian, white as bone and her temperament equally hard. Her smile had been fading when he first met her and after the fires it had died forever. Can she forgive me? A part of him felt that she must have for why else would she request he and Viktor for this assignment? He dreaded the truth. There was no one else.