Unfinished Business
The knock was gentle. Roslind sat on the lid of a chest which held what was left of the retainer’s personal effects. The only chair in the room lay on the ground outside the shattered glass window, a cabinet had been broken open, its contents taken. A small, tarnished mirror hung beside it. The pain and dizziness had abated, dried blood had matted the golden copper hair around the cut at the back of her head. She could still feel a shooting pain in her leg and the sting of several small cuts or knocks to different parts of her body, unnoticed during the fight. Her gaze never left her father’s body.
She could still smell the acrid smoke of the burnt roof of the great hall, Úrsfrekr. The stench pervaded all the familial rooms on the third floor, which had been ransacked, the furniture destroyed. The smell clung to the curtains in the two small dining halls, where furniture was also ruined by axes or hammers. The only place to rest her father’s body was this one remaining bed.
The young woman’s heart was pained enough from her father’s death, but seeing what had been done to her home affected her in a way she had not expected.
Roslind felt that both her past and future were desecrated by hatred. It was a similar hatred she was trying hard to suppress – against her guilt; against the nameless man who threw her father from the top of the Great Watch House; against the fleet of attacking ships in the Sonton Bay; and against the people of Aksson who had risen against her father.
There was another knock, but this time Asher entered. “Roslind? Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, opening the door.
The knight did not look up from her father’s body. “I do not,” she said.
Asher stepped in, closing the door behind him. He remained where he was until Roslind shifted to the edge of the chest to make room for him.
“There is still a lot going on and the other men are waiting for you,” he said. “Neither Kitsvanna nor Ulrik were among the…were outside, so until your brother returns, I think you are Baroness of Aksson. Or is it Lady of Aksson? I was never good with titles and such.”
“Have you heard of the Lord Knight, Sir Logan Drakensang of Blackbark?” asked Roslind.
Asher nodded. “There are few who haven’t. ‘The Immortal’ is the closest thing to a living legend we will know.”
“He does not like that name, or so he instructs the squires in Drottenheim. Did you know he is one-hundred and four years old and has served more kings and been in more battles than anyone alive? His mind is as sharp as a young man’s, and he still wields a sword as if it were part of him. He also still rides a horse with skill. But it was his wisdom I would seek out. The stories of his great deeds inspired an air of awe and mystique around Sir Drakensang. It gave him an otherworldly quality, as if he had seen the dawn of time itself – it is hard to explain. Everyone who passed him would bow their heads in deep respect for the man.
“He once told me, ‘The first duty of a knight is to serve his…or her king. Passion, love, anger, or fear can be powerful motivating forces during a battle and can be used by a knight to fuel a desire to stay alive and defeat the enemies of the king, but they should not overtake a knight’s reason. If a knight’s emotions are corrupted by fear, it could paralyse them and prevent them from executing their first duty. Therefore, a knight must learn the ‘battle focus’ and concentrate on the campaign. When times are trying, one must remember the truth. We are first and foremost the knights of our king. We are enforcers of his laws, protectors of his people, and we have chosen to live and die for him and not ourselves. If you remember this, fear, loss, and suffering will not stop you fighting for your king’.
“I memorised those words to guide me but right now I feel lost,” said Roslind, as she looked back to her father’s body. “You know he always liked you, Asher.” Roslind stood up from the top of the old chest.
“Well, I am just glad Lord Drakensang had heard of me,” said Asher, adjusting his jerkin with a smile.
“No, my father, you idiot,” said Roslind, her face lifting as if she were about to smile.
“I know,” said Asher.
“Do you remember when we were children and we decided to go on an adventure together across the world, to find the lost treasure of Firax the Warlock and slay the hundreds of giant daemon spiders he had enchanted to guard it?”
“I do. We never got further than the estate because you were not allowed past the gates, and we just kept circling the walls.”
Roslind smiled as she remembered. “When I told my father I was planning on leaving with you to travel the world, he told me it would be a good thing because at least you would make sure nothing bad happened to me. When was that?”
Asher’s smile faded. “That was four days before you went to Drottenheim to become a knight,” he said.
“You have a strong memory. How did you know?”
Asher did not respond. Instead, he looked to the baron’s body lying on the retainer’s bed. “I wish I could still make sure nothing bad happened to you, like your father once thought I could,” he said, the final words catching in his throat. Asher moved to where Roslind stood and hugged her. “I am so sorry, Roslind.”
“So am I,” she whispered, as she hugged him back.
The young knight could see the glistening of moisture in Asher’s eyes and knew her own must have looked the same. She took several deep breaths and swallowed a few times.
“Are you ready to leave your father to rest for a while?” Asher’s words hung in the air for a moment as Roslind considered them.
“It is time to leave him behind, I suppose,” she said. “The dead no longer need any of us.” She wiped a stray tear from her cheek, and they left the room.
With the door closed, a shadow fell over the body of the baron. The shadow then covered everything else in the room. Scaíth swung down through the smashed window with ease, landing without a sound.
She knew the room held only the baron’s body, but she checked the door once more to make sure it was closed. Scaíth looked at the dead face in front of her. She had heard every word spoken between the young woman named Roslind, knight and daughter of the baron, and the young man called Asher. They had feelings for each other, whether they knew it or not. She also knew the pair had known each other since they were children.
She had witnessed the knight’s reaction to seeing her father’s body and knew it had been furious. She had wielded her skills to deadly effect. To stand toe to toe against such a skilled opponent would not be preferable. Scaíth did not doubt her own ability and had been killing and fighting for nearly three decades, but rarely had she seen a better combination of speed and power.
The thought occurred to her that she could just leave and not create another enemy here. The modicum of fear made her angry with herself. With renewed determination, she moved to the bed and grabbed a tuft of the baron’s hair in her right hand. She wrenched the body forward until the back of Feylan’s neck was exposed. She drew her short sword and raised it high.
“In the furnace of battle,” she uttered, before hacking as hard as she could down onto the neck.
Dark blood oozed from the wound as she drew her sword up and chopped again. The blade bit deeper as it cut through the spine. The baron’s head remained attached by nothing more than arteries and muscles. The third stroke was enough to allow Scaíth to lift the head clear. She worked with haste, using the bedsheets to soak as much of the remaining blood as possible. She then wrapped the head into a neat bundle and placed it in an empty satchel.
Climbing back out the window, she pulled herself up on the rope to the roof of the house, where she collected her bow and quiver. Crawling to the apex of the roof, she could see Shielders and Night Watchmen on the battlements, in the courtyard and patrolling the grounds. Leaving the estate was not going to be straightforward.
Hrókar waited in a drawing room on the first floor of the baron’s house with Thorn, Brokk, and the Night Watchman, Valravn. The first commander had already tried several times to say something before opting for silence. After several more minutes, he began, “Someone needs to get her out here. I know the lass has just lost her father and we all mourn him but, damn it all, the world has not stopped for the rest of us. I need to get back to the docks. The attack is almost upon us and she is acting more like a child than a knight –”
“I know, and I apologise,” said Roslind as she and Asher entered the room. “I have been selfish when you have all been so patient. After we were certain Kitsvanna and Ulrik were not among the dead, I felt like I needed to tell my father. Then I found it hard to leave him. I almost believed I could wake him up, and I wanted the rest of the world to disappear. A knight of Gaelgara should be better than to entertain such fancy. I also could not face questioning the prisoners, so I thank you, Thorn and Valravn.”
“Sir Radsvinn, I wanted to mention this earlier…” said Valravn, “but I was told by a Commander Geist of the Night Watchmen that he intended to remove the baron, your siblings and you from the city, using the tunnels to the Sonton Falls. Since Kitsvanna, Ulrik and Geist are not present, maybe he was in part successful. I apologise, but I could not wait…I sent my best scout, Hábrók, to the monastery in search of your family. I hope I did not overstep.”
Roslind grasped Valravn by the wrist. “Thank you,” she said.
“Hold fast. All stop. Anchors wet,” Guthram shouted. “Let the bastards come. This one will get salty, mates.”
The crew of the Stormbringer pulled ropes, fitted ballista rounds in the turrets, lifted the sweeps out of the water and dropped three of the six smaller anchors, used for tight turns and sudden stops.
Guthram knew the seas of the Sonton Bay, knowledge which he had learned during the chase was lacking in the helmsman of the battleship bearing down on them. Several times the enemy had narrowly missed a sandbar or low-lying rocks. Each of its eight sails billowed full in the strong southerly wind. The ship, scything through the waves, was close enough that they could see the faces of its crew; and the many marines, armed with bows, swords, and shields, crouched along the bulwarks waiting to attack.
“Steady. Set full sail on my shout,” the captain bellowed.
There was a moment of uncertainty in Guthram’s mind as he judged the distance to the three smaller ships approaching from different directions.
Was this a mistake? he thought.
He grasped the hilt of his sword as if to reassure himself it was still attached to his belt. He knew the risks of dropping anchor during a battle, knew if the enemy got too close, the ship would be grappled and overrun by marines. He could see the faces of his crew – some were nervous as the battleships grew closer. Others looked like they were having a day no different from any other.
He checked the position of the Stormbringer against the other ships, the sea-stacks and the shore in rapid succession, the hint of a knowing smile curling on his face. It was too late, he had committed to his plan. He looked back to the speeding battleship, its bronze ram aimed at his ship. It was as close as it was ever going to get.
With a tremendous spewing of foam, the battleship came to a convulsive, heaving halt against the reef of razor-sharp coral. The prow of the ship raised as the keel was torn apart. The men on the deck were jarred loose from their positions. In one terrible moment, crew and soldier alike were thrown over the bulwark of the bow and were ripped apart by the coral as the force of the moving water propelled them under the waves.
Many others were cast backwards along the length of the ship as it rose from the water, smashing into the masts and other obstacles or getting caught in the backstay lines. With another cascading splash, the ship came level but immediately began to list forward.
Guthram could hear the screams of those soon to die. “Lift anchors. All sweeps wet,” he shouted. “Full speed port, every last scrap of cloth to the wind.” The crew of the Stormbringer had been waiting for it. The diminutive anchors had already been raised. Drengr spun the wheel port with all his strength, the oars dropped into the water and were drawn hard as the sails filled with the strong breeze.
The Stormbringer powered forward.
The remaining three enemy ships attacked. Guthram vaulted the railing of the quarterdeck and made a dive toward the wheelhouse, shouting for the crew to take cover as scores of arrows arched through the sky.
Two men fell from the high ropes as the rest of the arrows tore through the canvas sails, bounced off the hull, or stuck into various items on the deck. The captain heard the screams before he saw Vester near the bow and the teenager Warren plummet to the main deck, midship, almost hitting Brosa as he directed the sail crews. Screams continued from the main deck.
“You know the heading?” he asked Drengr. Not waiting for a reply, the captain grabbed his shield from the wheelhouse, leapt up and ran to where Warren had fallen. “Get Vester below deck,” he called to two crew near the bow. “Brosa, get to the nest, call positions – enemy, ally, and terrain. Take cover when the arrows fly.”
Brosa nodded and ran for the mast.
Guthram attempted to lift the young sailor, when he was reminded of his wounded left shoulder, the strength of which failed him. He roared in frustration. “You there, help me with Wren, lively now,” he called to three more of the crew still crouching below the bulwark. The ship lurched to port.
Guthram pulled near the ear of Feya, one of the few women in his crew. “Tell Ki’rek to expect wounded, tell her to name assistants herself if she needs them. Ten rowers to main, boarding ready.”
Feya nodded and prepared to move.
Another volley of arrows peppered the ship. A woman named Jodís was hit as she was adjusting the bowsprit sail at the front of the ship. Guthram did not see the three others who were either struck from the rigging or fell overboard. The ship lurched starboard.
Two men ran to help Vester but were caught in the rain of arrows. One was struck in the ironwood shield slung over his back; another was pierced twice in the right hip and thigh and collapsed to the deck with a loud, pain-filled roar.
Guthram and the hands moved with the injured Wren. A ballista round clipped the ironwood taffrail at the stern and was sent into a wild spin along the deck, snapping several lines and ripping into the mainsail. When it stopped spinning, it was caught precariously above the captain and the others. The ship veered sharply starboard once again.
“Move!” shouted Guthram, as the ballista came loose and hurtled down at them. The long spike impaled the capstan they had used as cover, splitting it. The group hurried to the hatchway. Guthram left them there and looked to the bow of the ship, where he could see his men bringing Vester below deck. “Stay covered, lads,” he shouted to the rest of the riggers as he ran back to the wheelhouse. The Stormbringer lurched to port.
The three enemy ships were astern and following but were outside of the firing arch of the Kraken ship. The ship lurched starboard, still catching most of the wind. Another volley of arrows came from the pursuers but this time only a fraction of them struck the Kraken ship, two ballistae splashing down behind them.
Guthram knew his ship was gaining speed, despite the damage to the sails; but the other ships were slowing down. Drengr’s sudden course corrections were intended to make the other captains think twice about the water in which they sailed, having seen what happened to their battleship. It seemed to be working.
“You are going to make everyone sick,” said Guthram, as Drengr spun the wheel port again.
“How are they?” Drengr asked.
“Pretty banged up. Jodís was hit, I think she is dead, but we won’t know the tally until we can take a breather. The ship is holding – other than the sails, we have taken little damage. I saw the Ogre and Jester bearing down on a supply vessel. There were men throwing horses overboard.”
“The Dragon’s Fang signalled its withdrawal to the first fallback position by the Harlot’s Grave sea-stacks,” said Drengr. “They also signalled heavy losses. The other ships are with them. There have been no sightings of the whale since we both attacked the supply ship, but we know it is not unusual when they fight.”
Guthram felt concern quicken his heart. In the turmoil, he had lost track of the Whale Riders. He made haste back to the quarter-deck to gauge the movements of the pursuing ships. He scanned the horizon full of enemy ships, the cliffs with the destroyed fort still on fire, and the city of Aksson, most of which was still smoking. He despaired for his wife and child.
The Whale Riders risk much for us, he thought.
“Big Fish, Captain!” came the excited call from Brosa in the nest atop the main mast, hauling Guthram from his thoughts.
“Big Fish under the hull,” Brosa called again.
The captain ran to the taffrail and saw the dark shape of a whale moving fast toward the enemy ships. He followed the movement of the water being disturbed by the coral spike armour on its back. Guthram released his breath. “We will never get to the towers at this rate, our positions are too exposed. We need to regroup. Hammer the chime and fly the withdrawal,” he ordered.
Drengr nodded. “The wheel is yours, Captain.”