SEVEN

There’s a Storm Coming

 

Guthram made it back to the Southern Docks. He was sure Jon had told his father and Lifa about the cloaked man with the steel claws, but Guthram needed to let Lifa know he had escaped. After stealing a cloak drying in a yard, he considered making his way back to Fozzwald’s but realised it might be a risky move after he spotted some Shielders searching the streets.

It was too early for the docks to be humming with their usual tumultuous racket. It was too early for the myriad smells – from the beautiful aromas of cooking fish mixed with spices to the foulness of faeces, urine, and vomited ale – to be floating on every slight breeze. It was also too early for merchants to be out selling all manner of goods for less than many of the market-square establishments. As the merchants were not out, there were no customers. With no customers for the merchants, there were no food or wine vendors; but there was also no reason for the cutpurses, pickpockets, beggars or street urchins to be around, vying for a score or a mark. And without all of them, the brothels, taverns and gaming dens remained closed.

The symbiotic beast which was the Southern Docks had not yet awakened but there was still a stirring, like a sleeping hound prying open a single eyelid and sniffing the air on the chance fresh meat was for the offering.

Guthram felt an enormous sense of relief when he reached the sail-loft of his father’s old friend, a sailmaker by the name of Ígull, and found lantern light coming from the open shutters. Climbing the stairs he could see the stick-thin sailmaker already working.

Continuing his stitching, Ígull looked up with the noise of footsteps on the stairs. What little of the slated dark hair he had was tied back, and it took him a moment to refocus his small dark eyes on the captain. When the recognition hit him, a broad smile flashed across his narrow face, revealing a few gaps where teeth should have been.

“Ahoy, Guthram my boy, what brings you here at such an early hour? Come in, come in. Have a sup of water and a chunk of some bread, you look half starved,” said the sailmaker.

Guthram moved to the water-jug, swept it up and drank greedily. “I needed that, thank you,” he said, wiping the excess from his mouth and chin.

“I thought you were at sea these days.” The even rhythm of Ígull’s sewing did not slow.

“I am at sea, more than I can explain. I need your help. The lubbers are looking for me to do the ‘rope-jig’ for something I never done. I’m in a bit of bother, for sure.”

“I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy the next part of this conversation,” said Ígull, stopping his work.

“I just need you to let Lifa know I have escaped from the guards. Can you do this for me? Tell her I’m safe and I will be back when I can. Tell her…”

“Be easy, my boy. One thing at a time, pass me the bone fid and those grommets behind you. Now you said you escaped the guards, right? Well, your missus should still petition your release, or they’ll think she is helping you somehow.”

Guthram had not considered this. He moved across the loft with the items the sailmaker needed. “It sounds like you have done this sort of thing before, Ígull.”

“No fearin’ lad, I’ll help. Your father saved my life more times than I should have put it in danger. Leave it to me, boy-o.”

“Thank you, Ígull. Don’t put yourself in any danger, just talk to Fozzwald. He should be able to take it from there,” said Guthram. The captain reached inside his right boot and produced the jewel-handled dagger. “Here, even if the jewels are fake, it should be worth a coin or two.”

Ígull moved the weapon close to the lantern and examined the hilt.

“Nothing fake here, lad. I’ll sell this and give your missus what I get, I’ll just take the price of a sail,” said the old sailor with a smile. “You had best wait here until the docks wake up. If the baron’s men are looking for you, may as well make the search as difficult as possible and hide in a crowd.”

“This has been a night of strange fortunes for me, but I will never forget your kindness,” said Guthram, clasping the older man’s wrist.

“Bah! Think nothing of it, lad,” Ígull replied. “Come back and buy a sail or ten at some point and we are even.”

After taking some bread and watching the docklands appear out of the darkness, Guthram left the sail loft and walked toward the water. He moved with caution along the length of the wharves and jetties, searching for his men and his boat. The barest hint of fog remained, and the sun’s rays were beginning to lengthen along the water in the shape of a golden sword extending toward the shoreline. Many of the clouds bore an orange hue and a mixture of pink and grey scattered and still on a white and blue sky. Even the light breeze of the night had disappeared, leaving flags limp and sails flat.

The tide had just risen to its highest point and, as if there was a shared consciousness among all concerned with the docks, sleepy heads started to appear from everywhere. Shouts of captains and bosuns started ringing out together with any number of ship bells. Soon the docks were awash with sailors preparing to set sail as the tide ebbed. Sea birds swooped at the occasional fish entrails fallen from the mongers’ stalls the previous evening. One Kraken vessel, the Twice Shy, sat moored at the docks, which caused alarm in Guthram’s stomach, until he realised every sail had been removed and there were workers already repairing one of the masts and part of the deck.

Guthram spotted one of the Shielders from the squad which had pursued him, asking a dock worker something, and the worker responding by raising a pointed arm away from Guthram’s direction. Ducking away from the main walkway and darting behind a large collection of casks, Guthram checked back along the walkway. The movement had caught the soldier’s eye and he moved down the wide-boarded path, searching along every docking station and pier, examining every person in detail. Lifting one of the barrels to his right shoulder with a grunt, Guthram moved further along the docks at a fast walk.

As he walked, he could hear a long whistle among the many other whistles and shouts of the loaders and ships’ hands. Then a second whistle responded from somewhere close to the water just up ahead. Guthram’s hopes lifted. He recognised the whistles as those of his men. They had remained in Aksson, hoping for the best against the fear of capture and imprisonment.

Guthram found Drengr, his first mate, preparing the mooring line of a narrow rowboat with two sets of rowlocks. Drengr was recognisable among other men on the dock, with the dark skin of Attunda and a shaved head with three long braids hanging loose from the back of his crown. Hard years in the diamond mines of Attunda before his life at sea had sculpted him into a mass of muscles, and while he was no taller than the average man, his presence was larger.

Guthram also recognised the boat. The Li’l Bastard was the creation of the same shipbuilder behind Guthram’s remarkable ship, the Stormbringer. The boat was an escape craft which protected those aboard with a unique defence system. Incorporated into the boat were a pair of levers, which when pulled raised two rows of light but sturdy iron-oak shielding panels to give cover to the occupants as they escaped danger and which, when in place, resembled something akin to a turtle shell. Guthram’s experience with this boat told him it was fast but had a danger of capsizing if caught by the wrong wave, as it had too low a windage and freeboard.

Drengr spotted Guthram and was about to signal when he stopped mid gesture.

“You there! With the barrel, you, stop right there,” came a voice from behind Guthram.

Guthram stopped and turned to the Shielder, who stared at the captain for a few moments. Guthram could see recognition in the man’s eyes before he reached for his sword.

Guthram hurled the barrel at the soldier, catching him off guard. The man fell to the deck as the barrel crashed against him. Guthram ran to the Li’l Bastard as Drengr shoved off. He reached the boat at the same time as his second shipmate, Brosa, a short and hardy individual who looked as though he had lived all his life in the blistering sun. Although not old, he had a hardened face of dark skin and scars, an appearance which would discourage most would-be attackers. Brosa grabbed Guthram’s arm.

“’S gud ta see ye again, Cap’n. Ye look like you got caught with someone else’s wife. I thought tha’ only ’appened ta me. Where ya been?”

“I’ll tell you later – and it’s a good tale – but we must row for our lives,” replied Guthram.

The two shipmen rowed while Guthram manned the rudder.

“The child?” asked Drengr.

Guthram just nodded and smiled, telling the crewman all he needed to know. The squad of Shielders gathered on the dock behind them, some with bows drawn. An arrow hurtled into the side of the boat with a thud. Drengr reached for the two levers at the front of the boat and lifted the shield rows into place around them as arrows either struck the shields or whizzed overhead. Brosa hauled the wide-end oars through the water as fast as he could. As the distance from shore grew, most of the archers stopped shooting.

The Shielders then made their way to two rowboats, where they set about removing unsuspecting sailors to pursue the three wanted men. They had failed to account for loyalty, however, and the ousted boatmen began shouting at the soldiers and calling for help. This incited resistance from a small group of dock workers who tackled the men in uniform.

For many of the dock men, the soldiers presented an opportunity to vent months of frustration and dissatisfaction at the way their lives had been disrupted, controlled and put under immense financial pressure from the baron’s decisions. The recent tax increase on the transport and sale of salt had been a step too far. They all suffered the injustice of the constant attacks on the fleet of the King’s Krakens, while also seeing the fleet as part of the problem. One of the greatest affronts to the laws of Aksson was the execution of the beloved Rear Admiral Ilmarinen, which was considered by most an outrage of injustice.

When the baron had bought in cheaper fish and grains from smaller towns along the coast like Sonnerton and Arnleif, it was seen as a deliberate attempt to undercut the city’s food producers and fishermen. The diminishing presence of the Kraken fleet had emboldened certain pirate crews and slavers to attack island villages, the worst of these as recent as the previous month’s attack on Ilak Áesa. Twenty-five people were slaughtered and nearly as many children were abducted for sale as slaves.

“Death to the evil baron, death to his evil servants, mighty Oln guide us,” came a shout from somewhere in the crowd.

More men filled the small pier and soon it was full of irritated individuals with no qualms about displaying their dissatisfaction. One Shielder mis-stepped as he moved away from the crowd and fell from the jetty into the shallow water to raucous laughter and angry taunts. The crowd had a new idea: push every Shielder from the pier into the foamy water lapping against the pilings.

The pursuit of the fleeing captain and his crew forgotten, the Shielders helped their colleague out of the water and climbed from the commandeered boats to form a rank on the wharf at the sergeant’s command. The narrow planks were wide enough for no more than four men to stand side by side.

Knowing the situation was getting perilous the sergeant gave the command: “Shields out.”

Both rows of soldiers positioned their round, shining steel shields, swinging them on their guiges from their backs to the front with practiced efficiency. The rear line raised their shields to protect the front row from missiles from above. This action antagonised the gathering, who threw whatever they could find. Empty bottles, fish guts and an odd rock from the beach smashed, splatted or bashed against the shields of the beleaguered soldiers.

“Forward slow!” came the command from the sergeant, who had not yet drawn up his own shield.

The Shielders moved as a unit, a step at a time, down the pier towards the dock. Some individuals made attempts to wrench the shields from the soldiers as they progressed, but most maintained their distance from the front line.

“Steady,” shouted the sergeant, as a hope they might get off the pier lifted his spirit. The crowd held their ground, the gap between the groups lessening.

“Ready. Push!” came the command from the rear. The squad made a slight advance. Each soldier grappled to maintain a hold of his shield. When one of the men to the far left of the row had his shield jerked out of his grip, he was punched in the face and fell to the boards.

The angry mob surged forward, seizing the chance to break the Shielder line. The man behind moved up to replace the injured soldier, with the sergeant intending to pull the wounded man back to the now open gap in the rear line. It was at this moment that the docker who had punched the Shielder fell to his knees, clutching his stomach, a dagger protruding from it and blood already seeping through his fingers. The man pitched backward on the pier and stopped moving. The crowd were silent as they watched the blood flow freely from the wound and pool beneath him. The young Shielder who had been knocked to the ground was transfixed: “I…it wasn’t me. I didn’t –”

“Get them!” came a roar from somewhere in the crowd. As one, the squad drew their swords to defend themselves.

Guthram and his men, at first thankful for the distraction, had witnessed the situation deteriorate as they rowed further into open water. The idea had occurred to Guthram to return to shore, but he knew it would have achieved nothing. His stomach wrenched as he watched the angry crowd overwhelm the soldiers, and he was sickened by the visceral screams of the dock workers as bodies, uniformed and otherwise, splashed into the water or tumbled to the sands.

A dark and uneasy feeling grew inside as he felt the significance of what was happening. For Guthram, with those few moments, it felt like the whole world had just changed.

“To the ship, lads.” The captain shook his head as images of Lifa and his infant son formed in his mind. “There’s a storm coming.”

 

 

The large meeting hall to the rear of the baron’s keep was known as Úrsfrekr. It was a time-honoured tradition to name such a hall, and it meant the ‘Noble Bear’ in the bygone language of the region. A large circular oak table with elaborate carvings depicting ancient tales of heroes stood in the centre of the hall, where the original fire hearth used to warm the room before chimneys had been added at either end. Around the table were fifteen high-backed chairs, one for each of the council members and the baron, his wife and his successor. The latter three were, of course, more ornate and had the benefit of feather-filled cushions.

The slab stone floor had been smoothened over the years and was marred by occasional dimples or tiny cracks in front of the substantial fireplaces, where the heat had broken the stone and many people had stood to warm themselves on winter nights. Above the fireplaces on either end of the hall hung a crimson banner with a white bear’s claw embroidered above an open black scroll. The dark stone walls held many hunting trophies, as well as armaments both modern and historical, including Feylan’s father’s armour and broadsword.

The hall had been the scene of many conversations the previous evening. The members of the City and Townlands Council had arrived at the house over several hours. With the amount of people who had witnessed what had happened and the fact he had sent word to the city’s most experienced physician and council member, Túlfarr Skyne, Ulrik had known it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the council arrived. To cause no offence, he decided to issue an invitation to all council members. Ulrik had quickly grown tired of the sycophantic concern but accepted it all with grace.

Much had been discussed, prayers offered, and physical examinations of the baron conducted. As the evening wore into the night, what started as a gathering in support of the baron had twisted into a debate on the current crisis facing the barony.

He was more than capable of maintaining control of the room, despite the older men’s efforts to express their views on how to proceed during the baron’s illness. Late in the evening, the constant bickering took a toll on his controlled façade. The only point of agreement was that the city, the fleet, the surrounding countryside, and the island communities all had legitimate concerns requiring attention before the civil unrest turned to an uprising.

Ulrik knew that the council, despite their feigned respect, blamed the ailing baron for making foolish decisions on the management of his barony. He was, however, quick to point out that ratification of those decisions came from the council, who had no problem with the gold those same decisions had brought.

“Your Honour, your father’s decisions have brought in a few extra coins,” interrupted the svelte and dapper Orazio ul Atok, Head Alderman of the Aksson Guilds, “but at the expense of the tradesmen and workers already in the city and those struggling to make a living. Granted, the neighbouring towns have seen the benefits, but where will it leave our workers?”

“Orazio has a point, and with respect to my Lord Baron, the loss of jobs in the city has caused nothing but trouble,” said Hrókar Erstemann, First Commander of the City Guard, a giant of a man who stood a good head and a half over most men and was as broad as two. “Muggings, burglaries and stabbings are reaching crisis levels. We also have more prisoners than cells at the prison following the business at the Corn Market. We need to speed up the trials. Maybe then we might make some room when the murderers receive their sentences.”

“Can we do it, Justiciar Bolvar?” Ulrik asked the older of two brothers on the council – Fharran Bolvar, Prime Justiciar of Aksson.

The man was nearing seventy years of age and wore their severity on his face. His gaunt and angular features fitted his profession, and he answered in an official tone, “There are magistrates who are ready and would welcome being appointed as justiciars. I have already provided the names and erm…qualifications to our Lord Baron for approval. I have prepared a supplementary report on the matter of judicial appointments, if you wish to review it, Master of Aksson.”

“Leave it with me, thank you, Prime Justiciar,” Ulrik said, giving the slightest bow of his head to the senior councilman.

“Not that I wish to interfere with the fine business my brother has of killing criminals faster and more efficiently,” Yusten Bolvar, Keeper of Salt, Grain and Coin, put in, “but we had not planned on any extra justiciars being appointed this year. The recompense would be too great. We could spare the money for a maximum of two and only if they agree to take less recompense than those already presiding.” Yusten was junior to his brother by seven years, and although had similar features bore a fresher appearance.

“While I have the opportunity,” he continued, “it has been proposed by some of my peers to unentangle some of the city’s business interests from those of the Temple, in particular the use of Kraken ships to collect Temple tithes, and a proposed reduction of the salt quota provided to the Temple each year.”

“Outrageous!” bellowed the overweight Grand Gothar Theck, who was sweating in the mild heat of the hall. “This is a sacred duty and not to be interfered with by the likes of you.”

So began another round of arguments among the gathered men, their voices cancelling each other out. Ulrik placed his hands to his temples and rubbed them to ease the ache. He let them all shout for a while – everyone had something to say. All except the tall and slender Chancellor Túlfarr Skyne, who remained silent since returning from examining the baron. Ulrik could see Skyne sitting at the table listening to everything, and he assumed his academic mind was contemplating scenarios and eventualities.

With the voices so raised, Ulrik was thankful the rest of the council were absent. The Lord-Knights and overseers of the towns of Arnleif and Sonnerton - Sir Olander and Sir Holt, respectively – had both corresponded their apologies by pigeon for not attending, declaring their intentions to make future arrangements to travel to Aksson should the baron’s condition worsen. The new First Admiral of the King’s Krakens, Dallric Hákarl, was also absent, most presumed due to the impromptu nature of the call to council.

Grand Gothar Theck was questioned by Orazio ul Atok in relation to Temple demands for increased tithes from all worshipers. He also related there had even been rumours that a number of Gothai were threatening the peasants across the islands and farms owned by the Temple, for ‘donations’. The rumours alleged Gothai were selling blessings under false authorisation and promising a cleansed soul and the forgiveness of transgressions in the eyes of Oln, while also keeping the tithes for themselves. The worst allegation Orazio had heard was where no coin was forthcoming, grain, fish or sexual services were demanded. Grand Gothar Theck refuted the ‘scandalous’ allegations and, with a threatening fat fist to the table, demanded proof of such scurrilous and blasphemous lies. The cleric was so distraught his face had almost turned purple, which stood in stark contrast to the ridge of long white hair in the middle of his otherwise shaved head.

The tension in the hall had been palatable and the remarks were withdrawn by the assemblyman at the subtle nod of Ulrik, and to prevent the Grand Gothar from suffering a failure of the heart where he sat. Ulrik had mused it might not have been such a bad thing. The baron’s son knew from the look on both men’s faces Orazio was going to pay for his remarks at some point.

The proceedings were frustrating all involved so much that Ulrik had seen the late arrival of Rullo Thangen, the baron’s closest friend and an individual he could barely tolerate, as a welcome distraction. Ulrik was so well practiced in feigned interest that he could see through the behaviour of Rullo when he was present. He had always hated how Rullo impressed and swayed the opinions of others with his tailor-made humour and rapier wit suitable for whichever situation presented itself. The reason most obvious to Ulrik as to why he held such dislike for the man was that he had the impression Rullo was aware of Ulrik’s own utilitarian view of those in his service and of society in general. Through discussions relating to the running of the city and the interests of the people with his father and Rullo, among others, he would catch an occasional wry smile or knowing glance when Ulrik referred to ‘the good of the people’ or ‘the greater good’.

Rullo had expressed his heartfelt concerns at the baron’s illness and the colour had drained from his face when he was informed a cougari was responsible. He made a great effort to persuade Ulrik to allow him to speak with the cougari, but as Rullo did not hold any official capacity, Ulrik could not see a reason to allow it. Even had there been one, he would have been reluctant to agree. He found it difficult to trust the man, despite knowing him and working with him these past few years. After his attempts to speak with the cougari had failed, Rullo had focused his attention on visiting the baron. Ulrik thought the hour too late and suggested Rullo come back when day had broken. Rullo excused himself shortly afterwards, citing the lateness of the hour, and Ulrik could see the man was masking his frustration.

Following Rullo’s departure, Ulrik had summoned a Shielder to inform those on duty at the cells to shackle the cougari to the far wall of his cell and to ensure Drell understood that under no circumstances was anyone other than himself allowed near the cell area.

After some time, Ulrik drew the evening to a close. As the last person to leave, Túlfarr Skyne gathered his regalia and moved toward the door of the hall. He turned back to the baron’s son.

“Get some rest, my boy,” he said. “It has been an arduous night, and one never knows when one might need their strength.”

Ulrik nodded his thanks for the physician’s concern but noticed the familiar language used. Once alone he sank to the chair and rubbed his eyes and head, knowing the next few days could be difficult to traverse for all concerned; and should the baron fall foul of this illness, the instability it would bring would push the denizens of the city over the edge. He availed of the opportunity to rest a while and slumped into his chair as the fatigue seeped into his muscles. Since the previous morning he had been coordinating efforts to find his missing sister and had even ridden out in search of her himself, despite hating being on a horse.

And now this, he thought.

He had just managed to fall asleep in his chair when he was interrupted by an alarm and a Shielder bursting into the hall to inform him the prisoners had escaped. Ulrik remained silent for a few moments, and he could see the soldier becoming uncomfortable.

“Shielder…erm…Vanif, right?” asked Ulrik.

“Yessir,” Vanif replied.

Ulrik thought him no more than a youth and suddenly felt old. “Could you please ensure my father’s room is well guarded, there’s a good lad. And get someone to summon Drell for me immediately.”

It was not long after when the rather tired looking Captain of the House Shield appeared in the hall. Drell’s report to Ulrik mentioned how the cell door had been found with a lock-pick still jammed in it. Reports from the Shielders on duty stated the prisoners had escaped together toward the offices at the west end of the grounds.

“Deal with this,” Ulrik said to the captain in an even tone.

“Your Honour!” replied Drell as he spun around and left the hall.

The baron’s son leaned toward the large table and rested his head on his crossed knuckles. It was unlike him to entrust a situation like this to anyone else, but his concern for his father was growing. Not just for his father but for the city.

How do I manage this? What would you do, father? Things seem to be on a knife edge, your illness made the council nervous and liable to make a bid for control – I saw it in their eyes. The people are uneasy with the betrayal of the fleet captains. I can taste the fear in the streets. What do I do?

Many minutes passed with the young man trying to analyse all the information he had to hand. After a while he looked around the hall and back to the gold signet ring bearing the Radsvinn bear-claw seal on the table before him. Many previous Barons of Aksson, also Baron-Lords of Gaelgara, had walked in this hall and sat in these chairs. The imagined weight of history rested heavy on his shoulders. After a while, Ulrik attempted to shake this feeling, attributing it to tiredness.

If it is to be the beginning of my time as baron, so be it. I will do my utmost to live up to the Radsvinn name.

He picked up the ring and tucked it into an inside pocket of his tunic.