Sputtering and coughing up bouts of water from his lungs, Alaric clung to the rail side of what had once been part of The Skadskull’s deck. His coughing caused buzzards to f laptheir wings and gawk obnoxiously. One buzzard pecked at the face of a ship slave who floated on his back along the calm waters. Alaric grunted and moaned. His head pounded like someone relentlessly striking him with a hammer. He tried to stand but collapsed in agony when he saw a splinter the size of a dagger that had been lodged into his leg. He tried to pull at it, but the pain only worsened.
He looked around at the remnants of the ship. Thousands of pieces of wood differing in size littered the waters. Body parts and splintered decks drifted slowly in between bigger chunks of ship. The bow had remained more intact than any other part of the ship, as Alaric watched it float some couple hundred yards away. He did not see any other men breathing as he scanned the water until his eyes fell on the man behind him.
Somehow Mott had remained on the same strip of debris as himself. He guessed this had been the part of the deck that was right by the destroyed mast that had taken Saliske with it, as the base of the mast appeared torn at the bottom. Alaric dragged himself across the small square of deck to check in on the fisherman. Mott’s chest heaved in and out slowly. His eyes darted across Alaric as he loomed over him.
“Mott, can you hear me?” asked Alaric. His voice blurred into one loud ringing and so Mott only returned a confused stare. He knitted his brow and shook his head quizzically.
“Mott, where are we?” asked Alaric, turning away from Mott and gazing into the blue waters. The water was pure, and there was no black ooze floating along the ocean’s surface. Not a single wave ebbed along these waters and it was eerily quiet except for the occasional gawking of the buzzard that sat littered amongst the wreckage. It’s queer dark eyes stared Alaric down as he surveyed the waters. As far as he could see, there was no land in sight. Miles and miles of flat, uninterrupted waters. He did not like how still the waters were. There was not a cloud in the sky and the sun shone brightly.
Alaric tapped Mott repeatedly. “Mott. Mott. Mott!” He finally shouted. Mott’s chest began to heave but it was clogged with sea water. Alaric noticed his gasping and went to pumping his chest with both hands. “Cough it out, cough it out!” encouraged Alaric. He gave a harsh push and Mott jerked up both hands to his throat as a gush of water poured from him like a waterfall. The coughing fit brought on more spitting and floundering. He rolled to his side with his left foot submerging into the bright blue water.
“Stay on the raft,” said Alaric. He held Mott so he would not slip off even though his left side was slowing making its way off the raft. Alaric pulled him further towards the center of the raft and his eyes slowly fluttered open.
“Wha—happen—” Mott managed groggily.
“We fell into a whirlpool. I’ll bet that’s a first even for a fisherman.” Alaric had hoped to get some sort of reaction from Mott, but he got none. Mott’s upper garments had been fully torn away and he was left with his small clothes covering his privates and one boot on his right foot. Alaric finally left his kneeling position by Mott’s side to examine their surroundings. Maybe someone else survived the wreckage.
“AYEEEE!” Alaric shouted, waving his hands around. He hoped to hear a response but all he heard was the flapping of nearby birds who were startled by his shout. His shoulders dropped and he laid by down upon the raft. The pain had only just started to settle in. He hadn’t realized how badly his leg actually hurt. The large splinter still pierced his leg badly. He found a leather jerkin floating along the water and he reached out to grab it. He knew whose it was. It had been Virion Elvesbane’s. He always wore it over his mail. Alaric set about tying the sleeves tightly around his leg to stop the bleeding. He grimaced as he pulled, tightening the leather securely.
The sound of flapping wings happened so synchronously that it raised Alaric’s head. All twenty or so buzzards flew away in a hurry, pushing off into the sky and disappearing far into the distant sky. The water bubbled lightly where he had retrieved the leather jerkin as Alaric glanced around nervously. He shrugged it off and continued working on his taranakite. His head lifted again when he heard a splash from afar off. These waters were too still. Something was lurking—and close by.
The water was blue, but it was not quite clear enough to see past the first couple feet deep. Alaric looked along the water, but it had become still again. It was so still it hardly rippled. Then he saw it again. Bubbles rose to the top of the water and the force of something swimming along near the water’s surface moved amongst the rubble.
As the time passed, it had was nearly an hour when Alaric was convinced, he and Mott had been the only survivors. The water was crowded with wood and supplies from the ship, but only dismembers body parts floated along the wreckage when it came to potential survivors. Another item caught his eyes. The former lord of Khudril rose quickly, forgetting about his punctured leg. He dropped back down to his belly and pushed himself towards the edge of his makeshift raft that he and Mott floated on.
About thirty yards away was the flaming sword. Tillet’s sword. Memories flashed through Alaric’s mind of the ship that had tried to convert the crew aboard The Skadskull. The cannibal Haqor had been allowed to skin Dericore’s scalp before chaos had erupted from trying to curse the ship by drinking Dericore’s blood. Alaric began to paddle with his hands to get the wooden raft to move towards the sword. The blade was boasting flames along its edges even though it sat afloat on the surface of the water. Alaric managed to get the raft close enough to some wroken wood to fashion himself two paddles. He turned to see if Mott was up and able to row, but Mott was motionless.
Something emerged briefly from the water to Alaric’s right and he glanced his head in a panic. He hated the great deep sea and had made a point not to sail upon it. Unfortunately for him, when you are being smuggled across the sea as a slave to goblins there is not much of a choice.
“Heliot? Tillet?” asked Alaric. He knew it was not them, but it comforted him to tell himself it was probably one of the two trying to swim to the safety of some floating wreckage. Alaric looked around, and then continued paddling with the two planks of wood when all was still. The shadow of a long, twisting creature flashed by deep underneath the waters and Alaric jerked back from the raft’s edge. He moved to the center, his breath coming in ragged waves. He dragged Mott out from the edge too—his leg had still been resting off the side and in the water.
Alaric had heaved on the makeshift oars enough to get the wooden raft moving in the direction of Tillet’s sword and so it made its way towards the sword very slowly. The water was still, and the air had gone silent. Alaric noticed the minnows and the small trout that had darted around the raft were gone now. Not a single living creature besides himself, Mott, and the slithery shadow of a creature below.
A while later, the raft finally was within a couple yards of the sword. Its edges still licked orange and red flame hungrily despite laying in water. Alaric slowly eased himself towards the edge to prepare to grab it. He flinched, covering his mouth as he yelped in fear. The tail of the creature underwater sloshed out of the water around ten yards beyond the sword. The water splashed up and landed on Alaric’s head. The tail was slimy and black-scaled with a yellow fin that had red veins running through it. The image of what he had seen sent shivers through Alaric despite the shining sun above beating down its warm rays.
The creature must have scrapped its back along the bottom of the wooden wreckage they floated along because the raft was bumped suddenly, and Mott’s limp body jumped an inch off the wood. Alaric steadied himself with his hands and then reached again for the flaming sword which was so close now. He began to reach his hand out towards the hilt and then he withdrew it just as closely, fearful that the creature below would sink its fangs into his hand if he dangled it at all over the edge.
He saw the body of a similar creature swoon up and down in loops through the water a hundred yards away and he wondered if it was the same one or a new one. He prayed to the One God that it was the same creature. If not, there was no telling how many of them lurked in these far away waters. Alaric wondered where they even were. There was only sea in any direction as far as he could see but the water here was blue instead of the usual green, and there was no black ooze that he could see.
The black scales of the sea snake slipped shallowly along the rim of the water’s surface. It moved towards him and so Alaric raised the flaming sword to his side with both hands. He snarled his face and stood, bearing the pain of his leg although tears welled in his eyes. His nose puffed panicked heavy breaths as he prepared for contact. The sea serpent disappeared, and Alaric waited. Nothing moved. The raft did not lurch one way or another. It had nose-dived somewhere deep below. He had not seen the serpent’s face yet, but he had not desired to. The serpent was longer than he had known possible for a creature of the sea. Alaric thought it near a hundred yards long or so, but he could not be sure. It had stayed below water deeper than he could see most of the time.
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“Well…you got your wish. You’re not going to Gobblesfled,” came an unsuspecting voice. Alaric turned to see Mott had not moved and still his eyes remained closed. Yet there was a trace of a smile on his face and Alaric beamed in delight.
“You’re awake,” stated Alaric. He still held the flaming sword at his side on the ready, but he had momentarily taken his studying eyes off the water.
“Am I hallucinating or are we really floating in the middle of the great big sea and you’re standing with Tillet’s flaming sword in your hand like your about to slay the greatest Skadjan warrior in history.” Mott eased his eyes opened, squinting so hard his eyes could not be seen.
Alaric managed a chuckle, which he had not expected and so it made him laugh harder. Mott grimaced at the pain he was suffering, and his eyes barely skimmed over Alaric’s laughing, convulsing body.
“I want my land back,” said Alaric.
“I want to survive,” replied Mott. The serpent seemed to be far off now, its tail barely poking above the water a far way off.
“Put me back in my castle with my younger sister, Sarin. Give me my back my squire, Qavrin. Fance. Blight Malle. My bannermen who fight my skirmishes for me with the Skadjans. The priests and the highborn of Khudril. The peasants who work on farmsteads and in poor settlements whose cows and goats feed our people. I miss having solid ground under foot. The green, sweeping hills of Khudril where castle Hildreth is situated upon. I miss the lady Aslay and her sharp comments. I loved her…” Alaric trailed off now. He stared as far as his eyes could stare out to sea.
“What you goin’ do with that sword? You ain’t gonna fight anyone here. There’s no one.” Mott was only talking to take his mind off the pain, Alaric knew. He ignored him.
“Oh, to be back in the courtyard underneath the window of my keep where I had watched others practice before me. The light feeling of swinging those wooden swords against my brother until it splintered or snapped.” Alaric was lying flat against the wooden planks with his flaming sword in hand. He laid it down beside him because it was heavy and a burden on his arms to hold it.
“Alaric, no!” it was too late. The sword’s natural flame had caught on to the wood of their raft and now it spread as wildfire. The flame licked up the wood and caught quickly, and soon it would consume the whole raft. Things worsened. Alaric looked into the bright blue water for something to leap to, but only small planks of wood floated, none heavy enough to support his weight, he feared. The serpent had returned. It was smart, and it sensed that they could not stay forever upon this burning raft. It circled the raft less discreetly than it had been.
“I thought he left…” Mott’s voice was trailing off in hopelessness. The scaly black serpent was long, and it stretched around the raft in a ring. Alaric felt the hairs all over his body stick straight up. The serpent was preparing to get its next meal. He looked at the thickness of its body and figured that both he and Mott could fit—comfortably.
Just as the fire was about to force both of the stranded men to leap to their fate, the serpent slithered away through the water. It slithered faster than anything Alaric had ever seen, and he could not believe the speed at which it had fled.
“Why did it leave?” asked Alaric, staring after the spot it had once been.
“Because of that.” Mott was staring in the opposite direction at the sight of something grand arriving in the distance. Something was travelling under the waters that could not be seen. Yet, upon its back, a crate larger than The Skadskull carried men who were small as dots. They slowly ebbed towards the wreckage. Alaric jumped into the water, although he was still quaking with fear for, he did not know if the serpent was going to return if he saw him. Mott jumped in behind Alaric. The raft began to shrivel and shrink in the flame.
“Who do you think that is?” asked Alaric.
“I am a fisherman, Alaric. I am not a master of the great seas. This sea is foreign sea to me.” Mott’s tone had grown irritated from the never-ending questions. “This place is far from our own, that much I do know.” Mott built off his first answer. His statement became apparent as the newcomers came closer. They appeared to be riding upon the back of a great whale. It’s hole upon its back was in the middle of the crate above water and it shot a cannon of water high into the air. It shot so high that when it came down it had partially evaporated and so it came down like light, spitting rain for hundreds of feet in either direction.
The men in the crate pulled on long reins that wrapped around the whale’s belly and all the way around the circumference of the entire creature. Alaric and Mott were still treading water to stay afloat, but their breath was ragged now. A severed finger drifted by Alaric’s mouth, but he ignored it as it passed him. The flaming sword floated next to him on his other side, but the flames had died out now and so it appeared as a normal sword.
The men standing inside the crate were around twenty men full. Their resemblance was striking to Alaric, who deemed in his mind that they could all be brothers. Their hair was dark—almost black except for the sun which shined upon it and revealed lines of faint red and brown streaks. Their eyes were full and dark as olives and their skin was tan from the scorching sun. they wore strapped leather but nothing else underneath. None bore any facial hair and the height of the crew didn’t dip below six feet, but none were taller than six-and-a-half. They spoke hurriedly amongst themselves and the man who appeared in charge boasted large rings around his arms and bones in his hair. Alaric did not recognize the language they spoke.
“Hello, human.” The man in charge chunked the syllables of “human” as if they were two different words. “We thought you extinct. You live. But how?” He spoke the One Tongue well enough, but his accent was so thick that neither Alaric nor Mott had recognized what he said.
“You are not human? Can you let us onto your…thing?” asked Mott, unsure what to call the gigantic beast that bore the oversized crate upon its back. In the center of the crate was the largest bolt and bow the men had ever seen. An iron bolt half the length of the whale itself was secured in place like a rock in a slingshot.
“We not human. We elves. I think that is what human call us,” came a sincere reply. “Come.” The leader reached out a hand that had steel plates around his wrist. His forearm was thick and strong and so he yanked Alaric and Mott each by their own forearms, hoisting them into the crate. There was a gate on either side, so they had opened it to allow the men to be dragged on board. One of the elves tilted his head, suggesting for Alaric to toss his sword aside. Alaric tossed it onto the barren deck of the crate and an elf picked up to examine it. He stared at it with an intense interest. The leader signaled for the man at the reins to guide them on again.
“What happen here? Ship crash. Ship burn. Bad.” The leader’s speaking tongue seemed to worsen, and his accent only thickened.
One of the elves with a higher voice and less of an accent spoke, “He asks what happen to your boat.”
“Oh, that? Erm, yeah…we fell into a maelstrom and turned up here. Where are we?” Alaric wondered aloud.
“This…the sea.” The leader of the group waved a hand over the air around his head to signify the entire setting.
“Yes, the sea. We have the sea. Where are we? Are you from Gobblesfled? Is that near here?” Alaric was full of questions at the moment. The whale set off at his slow speed. The men could hardly tell they were moving but the whale moved no faster.
“I tell no more question because I no more answers.” The leader suddenly appeared frustrated and he walked to the other side of the crate where he began to chatter in his native language with another elf.
Mott lowered himself to the ground beside Alaric. His leg was throbbing, and Alaric looked down at his own. The taranakite had stopped most of the bleeding but he needed to have his leg tended to quickly.
“Alaric, I think we’re beyond the known world of men. These men…” Mott looked around to make sure none of the men claiming to be elves had heard him. “If these men are truly elves, we are far, far from home.”
“I thought elves were myth.” Said Alaric, too loud for Mott’s liking. Mott put a finger to his lip and shushed his friend.
“They were, but we just found them.”
“You believe them?” asked Alaric. “How would they know the One Tongue if they are all these leagues away?”
“Elves are smart.” Said Mott.
“You don’t know that. Can’t be smarter than us.” Alaric’s reply was blunt.
The elf with the high-pitched voice chimed in. “Are there others with you? We should know now. The return to Corpsia…ahead now.”
“Corpsia?” Mott furrowed his brows. Alaric returned the confused look.
“Our land,” came the elf’s reply. The other nineteen elves just stared at the two in fascination. Some had become shy and gathered in a swarm at the far end of the crate.
A couple hours passed, and the elves broke off talk with the men. Alaric tried to ask more questions, but the high-pitched elf had moved over to the other end of the crate by his leader’s side. Off into the distance, the sight of land had finally begun to appear. Alaric had thought he might never see the green of land again. He was overjoyed, shaking Mott’s shoulder. Mott was uncharacteristically sullen. Alaric’s enthusiasm began to slow.
“We’re not guests here, Alaric. We’re to be prisoners,” said Mott in a low voice.
“You don’t know that,” Alaric was outraged that Mott would suggest it but deep down he knew it was likely. They were foreigners and the elves gave off hostile stares now. “Did we say something bad?”
“I don’t know. We’re soon to find out,” came Mott’s reply. The land was close now. Corpsia, they called it. Alaric prayed to his One God that corpse meant something different in their tongue than his own.
Something in his gut told him it didn’t.