Sea Sickness
Ulrik’s head throbbed and ached. In his mouth was a strong taste, reminiscent of the valerian root he was given as a child to aid sleep. Not yet in control of his senses, Ulrik’s mind took him to a time when he had been a quiet and reserved youth who did not interact well with the other children. He had never been bullied – he was the son of the baron – but he tended to shy away from their childish games. His nights were often troubled, and he could never let his mind relax enough for sleep – there was always something to think about. Once he had taken the foul-tasting root and his mother sang to him, he fell into a restful sleep.
A sharp pain in his stomach brought focus to his mind. He could tell he was bound to a wooden chair by the feet and arms. His feet were tied to the rear legs of the chair, causing acute discomfort.
He could make out certain shapes against a flickering torch or lantern, through the weave of the flax fibre sack which had been placed over his head and smelled of fish. The room was quite cool compared to the street.
Underground, he guessed. As the last of the disorientation left him, Ulrik realised the feeling in his stomach was due to the undulation of his surroundings. Not underground. I’m on board a ship. The feeling in his gut worsened.
Whatever chance he may have had of escaping or being rescued were diminished by being at sea. He listened, not giving sign of was wakefulness. The initial fear was starting to abate, even if the sickness was not. He controlled his breathing and allowed his rational mind to engage. He thought back to the last things he could remember.
He had delivered the news of Vanif’s death to the young man’s parents at their modest home. Vanif’s father, a wheelwright, led him through his workshop, which had a comforting smell of sawdust. It was cluttered with all manner of saws, boring tools, chisels, planes, and many different wheels of various sizes and states of completion. He was brought upstairs to the living quarters where Vanif’s mother fetched him some wine and black rye bread with salted butter and garlic, despite his polite protestations. He had delivered the news of their son’s death in defence of the baron, adding how the murderer had paid for his crimes with his own death. He had left the heartbroken parents and exited the house to find both horses and the Shielder, Arngeir, missing.
Cursing, he had called out for the Shielder and looked to both ends of the street. He remembered hearing hooves stepping from the alleyway behind the house, and then going to investigate and finding his horse being led by what looked like a beggar. He had hurried along the alley, shouting at the man, when he was knocked to the ground from behind, grabbed by at least two people with his head covered by the sackcloth. The last thing he remembered was an unfamiliar guttural voice giving an order before a sharpness at the back of his head.
He now listened to the voices of the men in the room with him. They were accented and were not speaking the Gaelgaran language. He recognised some of their more offensive words and was again drawn back to his childhood. The children he would join in class often learned offensive words in other languages so they could get away with saying them without chastisement. Ulrik remembered overhearing the rest of the children, between classes, as they played. These men were speaking Zadestian.
It was some time since he used it last, and these men were somewhat less formal in their speech than he had learned. The pain in his head made it difficult to concentrate. The low volume of the speech did not help matters.
Ulrik recognised the voice of the man who had given the abduction orders, understanding much of what he said. “[Where is the whale anus? I sent him to Alfarinn almost an age ago. It is going to be a place of much danger before time has passed].”
“[Belsamu will be back],” grunted the second man. “[Enough, monkey spine, we are ready to go if we need].”
At least I am still in the city. They have not shipped out yet for some reason. They are waiting for this Alfarinn, or at least further instructions. As he listened, Ulrik heard clashing steel in the distance and smelled smoke.
Are we under attack? he thought. All part of the same plan. An attempt on the baron’s life, I’m taken prisoner. The council taken or killed, depending on their usefulness…maybe all dead, then. Ulrik allowed himself a hint of a smirk at his own humour.
These craven rats knew where I was. Arngeir is in on it, or we were being watched leaving the estate. Will I be ransomed since the attempt to kill the baron failed? I need to get away from here. My captivity will not ensure my father’s compliance.
Ulrik was aware the baron would never give up the city for him; nor would he want him to. He also knew his father would fight to his own death, rather than surrender. He would rather see his children dead than in the hands of an enemy – he had said as much to them before.
There will be no taking Feylan alive.
Ulrik admired the uncompromising nature of his father on this point, even if it was a little heartless, foolish, and was in no way for the benefit of the greater good. Ulrik remembered it being said once when he, his father and Rullo were discussing the attacks of the Gara Province Holds by the grassland clans in the West. Lord Lasair’s only son and heir had been captured in the initial skirmishes and ransomed for gold, well-forged weapons and grain, giving the clansmen a proper foothold in the area and allowing them to run roughshod over the province – slaughtering thousands of innocents including Lord Lasair himself, his son and the rest of his family – before the king’s army annihilated them.
Ulrik recalled Roslind had squired for some knight or other during those battles. ‘You can take that look off your face, Rullo,’ the baron had said. ‘I love my children too much to see them used in such ways. I would rather kill them myself than allow it.’
Ulrik could still picture the expression of distaste on Rullo’s face. He thought about the expression and realised he had seen it more and more often in recent times.
If Rullo had anything to do with what was happening, he would know the baron would never submit to an invader, even at the cost of his children. He would need to kill the baron to facilitate any kind of takeover. Maybe it’s the reason I am still alive. They think I would be more susceptible to a rational argument. I am not so sure I am.
Should the baron be killed, Ulrik would be Baron of Aksson and Baron-Lord of Gaelgara, a much more valuable prize to negotiate with and more of a liability to the city’s defence.
Ulrik tested his bindings. There was the barest movement.
With the odds against success as they were, Guthram ordered the crew of the Stormbringer to gather on the top deck. “Men and women of the Stormbringer. This fight will be as tough as Oln’s stone balls, as punishing as his righteous fist and as brutal as my singing.”
The crew cheered and laughed.
“They have called us traitors, but we know the truth of it. There is not one among you who is not loyal to this crew, this ship, and the Krakens. We have betrayed nothing and the people of Aksson will know the truth of it. We will sail against the enemy at our shores, not for ourselves but for the innocents still in the city about to face the enemy’s blades. We sail for our wives, our husbands, our children, our parents, our people. Let us send these invading bastards to Hel. Fail we may, sail we must.”
“Fail we may, sail we must,” the entire crew resounded, some punching the air, others cheering.
When the cheers abated, Guthram nodded to Drengr, who shouted the orders to the crew to ready the ship for battle. The wait for Ekwesh and the ‘traitor fleet’ felt like an eternity.
Guthram knew the captains of the Dragon’s Fang, the Graven Jester and the Dusk Treader were loyal to the King’s Krakens, despite being branded traitors, but he could understand if they chose not to fight.
It was a lot to ask any captain to put their ship and the lives of their crew at risk for a city which had forsaken them, hunted them, and even killed some of them. He could not be certain of help from Siggla Arok, Captain of the Jester, as he knew how often she had cursed the baron and the city for her outlaw status. She had often spoken of taking her ship and crew as far as they could sail and never return, had it not been for her family and the families of her crew keeping them close to the city.
Guthram was also unsure whether Tren Vikarr, Captain of the Dusk Treader, would join the attack. He had been one of the first captains branded a traitor and had resorted to acts of criminality and the sinking of two other Kraken ships for his crew to remain uncaptured. He had told Guthram he had a different perspective on things, and Guthram had seen a changed man. One who had become suspicious, bitter, and resentful of almost everyone. Vikarr had not been inclined to sail with any other ship, but he trusted Guthram from their time served on the Hawk Shadow. Guthram hoped this thread of loyalty was enough to sway Vikarr’s decision.
Time was running out. The signal had already come from the Ogre – its crew were at their battle stations and ready to sail. From the quarterdeck, Guthram watched his crew tending to their stations. They were quiet. The wind in his face, the wind they would have to row against, was stronger now. He closed his eyes, feeling the gusts and picturing his wife. For a moment he thought he could feel his son’s tiny hand around his finger.
“Ships ahoy,” came the call from the nest-man of the Ogre.
“Vester?” Drengr shouted up the main mast.
“Aye, sir,” called Vester. “Three sets of sails.”
Guthram turned to look over the back rail at the small dark shapes near the horizon. The wait was over, it was time to sail to war.
The relief on the faces of the group was obvious as they ascended the final stretch of the switchback pathway to the top of Sonton Falls. The mist from the falls made parts of the near seven-hundred-foot ascent treacherous, soaking them through as they journeyed.
Wet, cold, frightened, and miserable, they approached the gatehouse of the Olnianic monastery of Bartan’s Leap. They were a mixture of the city folk, villagers and farmers who had land between the city walls and the falls. Even the nearby village of Fosslan had been abandoned by its residents in favour of the promised safety of the monastery.
Many of the features which would have defined the place as a fortress were long gone, except for the main gates and gatehouse, with three-and-a-half enormous stone bears standing as pillars, together with most of the outer walls and the main keep which had become the Chapter House.
Part of the wall near the old western turret had fallen to ruin as the roots of a large oak tree sundered the bricks over the decades. Several trees and other plants sprung from the inside of the roofless turret. Ivy choked the brickwork and hid the arrow loops of the bastion. A grove of apple trees grew where the armoury had once been, their blossoms drifting on the breeze. Some landed on the water of the wide Sonton River and floated under the two ornate humped footbridges which joined both sides of the monastery. Orchard mason bees hovered from one tree to another before returning to their hive in the separated bricks.
From outside the sundered wall came the occasional lowing of cattle or bleating of sheep and goats from their pens. There was a wonderful array of scents – wild herbs, recently cut grass and fresh rye bread; and together with the rhythmic sound of the water cascading over the cliff, Kitsvanna could almost imagine there was nothing wrong with the world…almost.
The people gathered at the gates were the tenth group to arrive since she, Geist and the others had made the difficult climb. At least they had Geist’s grey Katizian horse, Nyx, and the two other pack horses to help them with the wounded.
Drell and the other wounded men were being tended to by the grey-habited monks in the Chapter House. The rest had been given bread and goats’ milk and offered woollen blankets. The group had chosen to sit on the soft vibrant grass in the western corner of the monastery.
Kitsvanna marvelled at the intricate and beautiful carvings on each brick of each building, indeed every pillar and paving stone around the monastery. Even the walls inside and out as well as the giant stone bears were covered with carvings. The monks had their skin covered with tattooed depictions of what looked like Oln’s great adventures and heroic battles, or strange ancient writing, in all visible places except their faces. Geist had explained that although the monks were devout followers of Oln, their practices and interpretation of The Ollinac Chronicles differed from the teachings of the Temple of Oln, which was why they worshiped away from the Temple and the city.
When the group from the estate had approached the gates of the monastery, the barefooted and grey-robed monks insisted they surrender all weapons and their shields if they wanted to enter, much to the protestations of the soldiers. Geist was familiar with the head of the monastery, Abbot Angus Dagda, a venerable monk of advanced years who greeted him.
Geist alone was permitted to keep his weapons, including the arming sword he had strapped to his back. The Shielders had all removed their white surcoats at the falls but kept their chainmail shirts when Geist suggested it would be better if they were not identifiable as soldiers in the Baron’s House Shield. Geist had instructed Kitsvanna to hand him her rapier so it would be close if needed.
The Night Watchman had instructed that no one refer to Kitsvanna by name or title once inside the walls, since it was clear other groups of people from the city were making their way to the falls, and there would be no telling if they posed a danger. Kitsvanna was to be referred to as ‘Tara’. When she questioned the name, Geist had replied with a wink, “She is the youngest and most stubborn of my sisters. Also the bravest.”
Sergeant Kafli and the other uninjured Shielders talked amongst themselves and made plans to go back to the city. They proposed to Geist that they would return to the city while Willem would remain. Willem was told, however, not to appear to be guarding the baron’s daughter.
Kitsvanna stood on the old battlements overhanging the edge of the cliff, looking toward her home. A chill ran through her, and the hairs stood on her arm as hundreds of people escaped the city in all directions. She pulled the blanket she had been given by one of the kind and strange monks close around her shoulders. Her concerns were for her family somewhere in the city below, parts of which were burned. Her concern extended to the numerous tiny dark shapes approaching it from the sea. The thoughts blocked out all else and she had not heard anyone approach her on the battlement.
“Keep your wits about you,” Geist said, handing her a woollen blanket tucked around her sword. “Please mind my blanket, I have no need of it,” he continued. “I must return to the city to find your father, brother, and sister. We will borrow a boat from Fosslan and take the river back to Aksson,” he said. “I will get word to your father that you are here. You will be safe in the monastery and the monks will keep a watchful eye on my ‘sister’, but there are a lot of people here and not all of them may be friendly to you or your family.”
“Will you bring them here?” asked the girl, though she already knew the answer.
Geist did not respond.
“I will probably never see all of them together again, will I?” Kitsvanna said, looking to the ground.
Geist noticed Kitsvanna’s eyes move to where her grandfather’s sword had been on his back. “I gave it to Willem, he’s hiding it,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “It is time I gathered the men. My horse is in the cattle pen if there is a need. Nyx will only move if he hears the command ‘shirak’. Will you remember it?” He patted her shoulder and moved away. When she turned, she had almost expected the Night Watchman to have disappeared, but he simply moved along the battlement until he was stopped by Abbot Dagda. There was no denying the monk was old, many years older than her father, but his movements had a bearing she would expect in someone younger. She was close enough to see and hear their conversation.
“You seem to have lost two of your swords, Geist. Very careless of you,” said the abbot, tapping Geist’s belt where Kitsvanna’s rapier had been.
“Forgetfulness and old age catches us all, it seems. I go back to the city. If you find the swords, take good care of them for me, will you?”
The cleric nodded and smiled, doubling the number of lines on his wizened face and showing a number of gaps where he no longer had teeth. Geist shook the abbot’s hand and moved into the throng of people, who separated to allow him to pass.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kitsvanna noticed another person on the battlements, staring toward the ocean. The woman was beautiful, her long golden hair shining in the sun and whipping forward in the wind. Her expression was one of worry and she held her infant child close to her chest, rocking it.
“What will happen to us?” the woman asked of no one, as if finishing her own thoughts aloud. Kitsvanna remained silent. “Has the city ever faced such an attack?” The woman met Kitsvanna’s gaze.
“As children, my father would tell us tales of the four great attacks on the city and the heroic defence of our walls and coast,” Kitsvanna replied. “The city has always stood against invaders. ‘Aksson will always stand’, my father would say.” Kitsvanna heard the uncertainty in her own voice. “You were with us in the tunnels, but I do not know you. Who are you and how did you come to be with us?”
“My name is Lifa Friemann. My husband was arrested last night and taken to the house. I went to plead for his release. I was waiting to see someone when the attack started, and a soldier brought us to the hall.”
“And what of your husband?”
“He…had already returned to his ship,” Lifa replied, looking back to the sea. “I just pray he had enough good sense to fill his sails and head to open water before those ships arrived…but probably not.”
Kitsvanna had heard the soldiers talking about a man who had escaped from the cells beneath the house – a sailor, they said. This must have been this woman’s husband. The thought occurred to Kitsvanna the woman before her might be among those who were angry at her father and yet she heard no animosity in the woman’s voice, only sadness.
“Is it hard to be away from him?” asked Kitsvanna, not sure where the question had come from.
“I miss him every day, but sometimes the happiness we share when we are together almost makes up for the times when we are apart. At least I have my beautiful boy to keep my mind off my troubles. He is quiet for the moment, but he can be a little lump on a log, just like his father.”
Kitsvanna smiled for the first time since she was last with Roslind. “Through all of this I don’t think I have heard him cry, even in the dark of the tunnels or the cold spray from the waterfall.”
“I would like to think he doesn’t cry because he knows he’s loved and has nothing to fear. More likely it’s because I’ve kept him fed, clean and warm. He might not be worried but none of us here knows what will become of us.”
There was something in the woman’s manner which Kitsvanna had been missing in her own life. It was comforting for her to know such love existed amidst the chaos which had driven them from the city. With her father acting so strangely, her brother maintaining his usual indifference, and Roslind being so far from Aksson, she had forgotten tenderness and affection. Kitsvanna could feel her throat tighten and needed to blink several times.
The thoughts of her own mother burst to the forefront of her mind – the warm smile, the loving embrace, the beautiful songs she would sing; sometimes the songs were so sad they would cause her mother to cry while singing them. Her mother’s voice came to her mind: My brave little flower.
Kitsvanna could no longer hold back the torrent of emotions and thoughts – her family, her home, all she had seen this day. She cried, not caring who saw her or how it would look. Nothing mattered other than the release of her feelings. She slumped to the battlement and buried her head in her hands. A few moments later a warm arm moved around her shoulders, pulling her toward a warm body.
“Do not despair, m’lady,” Lifa whispered into her ear as she caressed Kitsvanna’s hair with her free hand. “We must have faith Oln will protect those we love and return them to us. Let yourself cry, dear child, there is no weakness in it. Crying can give you more strength than you ever thought possible. Trust me, m’lady, I know.”
Kitsvanna continued to sob into Lifa’s shoulder.