Chapter Twenty-Eight

The river, though swift, ran slower than Eusari wanted. Even with Marita’s wind filling the sails, the journey downriver proved treacherous, with many twists and turns along the way. They slowed for each of these, losing precious time in chasing after the boys, and the captain and her crew each yearned for open water. As the river curved around a cliffside, it widened to reveal a large harbor. On the northern bank perched a city.

“Diaph,” Eusari muttered to Peter Longshanks. “Do you remember when last we sailed this harbor?”

“Aye, mum, it was at night under a full moon. You left me with Gelert, and he wasn’t too fond of your leaving.”

“Gelert...” the name left her lips dipped in sadness. “I miss him. Part of me died with him.”

“I know, dearie, but it wouldn’t be improper to bond another.”

“I can’t.”

“You may need to. Your craft is worthless at sea, and it will not protect you. Marita is extremely strong as far as emotants go, as well as a blade master, but cannot protect you in every moment of the fight.”

Eusari tapped one of her hidden knives. “I’m a fighter as well.”

“Your blades are oiled, but pardon me for pointing out that you, as a weapon, are covered in rust. You’ve lived to see fifty summers, and, though farm life has kept you busy, you’ve not drawn those blades in nearly twenty.”

“I hate it when you speak honestly.”

“It’s the only way I’ve ever spoken to you, mum. I will not choose now to stop, not when I’ve knowledge you must face directly.”

Eusari nodded. “I appreciate that candor more than I’ll ever resent the words, and that’s the reason you’re my first mate.” She looked his face over closely. Much of the redness and puffiness had left him during the week, a sign the alcohol had departed even if the addiction had not. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Less bloody awful than before and more optimistic as well.” He slapped his chest. “I just hope the ticker holds up with all the exercise I’m getting. It’s been a strain hauling lines with the younger men.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“I have to. I’m first mate and must handle the burden in every sense, despite my age.”

Eusari paused. She loved him like a father and hadn’t considered how old that would make him. “Good gods,” she realized. “You’re near eighty summers?”

Peter nodded. “Well beyond retirement age.”

“Peter?”

“Yes, mum?”

“I know a secret, and I don’t know whether it’s good or bad.”

“Does it involve your boys?”

“I think it involves all of us.”

“Are you asking me if I want to know the details?”

“No, only seeking your counsel as usual.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Do you remember when we fought the Brother’s War? When I told you there was another force driving the Falconers and Jaguars?”

“Yes, I do. You told me they were from a place called Astia.”

“Amash told me Astia is no longer a threat, but Robert fought against Falconers and Jaguars.”

Peter shuddered at their mention. Those memories were something everyone who fought the war would like to forget.

“Also, I’m worried about the others, those Skander freed. I fear Robert faces a war after Amash abdicates.”

“He has advisors,” Peter offered.

“He has Percy Roan,” she countered, “a politician so well-versed in corruption he evades its stench.”

“So this secret, dearie? How does it come into play?”

“The king isn’t really in charge of his kingdom.”

“Are they ever really?” Peter asked with a chuckle.

“No, I suppose not, but this time it affects Robert. You know I never wanted to be anywhere but the shadows. It took Braen to drag me out before and Franque and Krist now.”

“You wish to go back?”

“Part of me does, but part also enjoys adventure. I think I’m happy to be out again. I think something bigger than us is about to happen, and I believe I’m finally ready to be a part of it.”

“And after you’ve found your boys, now that your duty to Robert has ended? Then what? Once they’ve tasted the sea, they may not wish to return to the farm. Worse still, they may not survive this journey they’re on.”

“If anything happens to my boys, I would most definitely return to The Cove.”

“Piracy, mum?”

“In the most malfeasant of terms.”

“My, but that is a secret, and I shall hold it dearly in confidence.”

“I don’t know. I may feel differently after dealing with Devil Jacque. But, either way, that destination lies ahead.” She turned to the sailing master and called out, “Marita, point us to open water and give us wind, lots of it—as much as this ship can handle. We’ve a stop to make before we find She Wolf.”

The woman nodded and the ship lurched as sails squared by her winds.

“What’s our destination, Captain?” Peter Longshanks called out so the men would hear.

“Estowen’s Landing,” Eusari replied loudly. “I’ve business there, before heading south to Pirate’s Cove!”

The crew let out cheers of approval and went right away to work.

“It’s good you have business there,” Peter whispered to his captain with a grin, then hurried off to trim lines with the crew.

“Let’s only hope we still find my boys in time,” she muttered, shuddering at the urgency in the voice controlling the king. He will never be the same by the time you reach them..., it had warned. “Be strong, boys, I’m coming,” she whispered.

“All hands topside!” the voice commanded.

“That’s us,” Franque said to his brother, lying unmoving on the hammock.

“Drown them all,” Krist finally muttered, barely forming the words but meaning every bit of the effort to say it. “I’m staying here. Doc said I can.”

“Well, I have to go.” Franque stood, inspected his brother, and thanked the gods he lived. Doc had called it a true miracle, and no one argued. Even the captain agreed Krist could rest for a few weeks, said he earned it by surviving the dunking.

Franque made his way up the ladder, emerging to see the entire crew manning the rails and staring off into the distance. Boats was with them. The boys were square with him, all apparently forgiven after emerging from the water alive—even if none of it would ever be forgotten. Krist was out of his reach under the care of Doc, but that didn’t mean the boatswain would let up on Franque.

“Where’s Francis?” he shouted from the deck.

“I’m here,” said Franque, not bothering to correct the boatswain any longer.

“I’ve got to figure out how to use you during the fight.”

“Fight?” Confusion fogged Franque’s thoughts. “Who’s going to fight?”

“We are,” Boats said, pointing to the horizon. Two masts and the sleek body of a longboat stood out against the clouds. “It’s one of those immigrant boats from Fjorik.”

“Why would we fight immigrants? What do they matter?”

Boats shrugged. “The captain is guilded, so he attacks whoever he wants as long as the insurance pays the merchants and nobles. First mate said they’re our target, so we hit ‘em.”

“Women and children?”

“Oh, there’s fightin’ men, too! Along with all their belongings and gold to start their new life with! It’s a bountiful garden ripe for harvest,” Boats countered.

Franque stared at the ship. Its occupants no doubt were doing the same as him, praying to their northern gods the sails they saw weren’t hoisting a flag of piracy. I don’t like it, he told himself, but there was nothing he could do. He was about to be part of murder and mayhem.

“Look at it this way, Francis,” Boats sounded less irritated, and almost seemed to have respect for him after the dunking. “Those people and their ancestors made war against us and ours for centuries. They’re no-good raiders and rapists during wartime and even worse now that they came over legally.”

“How so?”

“Do you know how people like those no-good northerners will conquer our kingdom? They’ll infiltrate it slowly without assimilating our culture into theirs. Once they’re strong enough, they’ll change the mindset of our children, planting seeds of rebellion against parents, the government, and even the gods themselves. They’ll demand we respect their culture, all the while spittin’ on ours. It’ll take years, but they’ll wait it out until the timing’s right. Then they’ll change the laws—little by little if they want or all at once in a single swoop. Next thing we know, just less than half the kingdom will be left staring dumbfounded and wondering why we can’t eat nothing but plants or carry weapons to protect ourselves or our property. That’s when Fjorik will let loose the true reason they came, and that’s to rob us blind and erase our culture because our way was always better and they resented they never beat us.”

Franque had never heard Boats say so much in a single sitting. He blinked at him, taking it all in and stunned at the simplicity of the man’s rationale. It was true, Fjorik always hated and resented the rest of Andalon, but he always assumed it was the government instead of the people who wanted to destroy the Estonian control over the continent.

“Look, you fought against me pretty well the other day,” Boats admitted. “I’ve still never been bested, but you came close. If it hadn’t been in front of the crew, and hadn’t been over insolence, I might’ve bought you a round to drink away our differences on the road to friendship.” He pointed to the other ship. “Now we’ve got a fight coming soon, and it’s time you serve our captain, this ship, and your crewmates with loyalty. You’ll be part of the raiding party, those who grapple and cross over in the first wave.”

Franque laughed. “Fight with what? You kept my marlinspike.”

Boats shrugged. “You ain’t gettin’ that back till I’m ready, just to prove the point further, but you’ll be issued a weapon by the armorer once we get closer. If you survive, you’ll check it back in and maybe I’ll give you the spike then. Now, go help the others prepare the cannons. There’s a lot of work to do before the battle.”

“Seaman Thorinson,” a voice called from behind.

Franque turned to see Zane Rogers standing with Ben Thompson.

“Well, now,” Boats exclaimed, “what does the first mate want with the likes of you?”

Franque shrugged. He had no guesses. He strolled over to face the two men. “Yes, sir?”

“The captain wants a word with you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Go now and make it fast, he’s a busy man!”

Franque hurried away, nearly running to the door to the captain’s quarters. He raised a fist and paused, suddenly afraid to knock in case this was a prank or set up. From Boats, maybe, or the rest of the crew, but not the first mate and the quartermaster. With a deep breath and a swallow, he knocked.

“Enter,” came the single command from within.

The quarters were not elaborate, not like Franque imagined. The dark wood was worn, but not as badly as in berthing, and decorative. Tall bookcases lined one wall, with doors to hold items fast on turbulent seas. There was a bed, a desk, and a table upon which the captain could dine and another covered with charts and a sextant. The captain stood there, frowning down at a particular map.

“You sent for me, sir?”

Jacque looked up, and narrowed his eyes as if sizing the boy up or appraising his worth. “You lost me a hefty sum to the quartermaster.”

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“You lived. The sure bet was that your brother would perish in the dunking, but I took the risk. I said you would both die. Ben Thompson bet you would both survive. He won the ship’s pot,” he let out a laugh, “and is probably richer than me now!”

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to...”

“None of that,” the captain said with a smile, “I don’t give a damn about gold. Gods know I have enough of it stashed in banks.”

“Why did you send for me, sir?”

“How’s your brother? Besides still living, I mean. Doc said he’s certain to perish at some point, he’s as shocked as me he made it through the dunk.”

“He’s determined.”

“That’s often a good thing. So your last name’s Thorinson? I knew a few of them in my time. What part of Loganshire are you from?”

“Brentway,” Franque lied.

“I see. There’s plenty of your kin around there, for sure. I knew one in particular back in my prime. She was a beauty.”

“What happened to her?”

“I’ve no idea, nor do I care. I used her to get what I wanted, that’s all, but it’s nice to reminisce about girls, isn’t it?

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you left a gal behind, or at least rolled in the hay a few times!”

“I really never struck a fancy to one. I never wanted to stay near home and planned to hop a ship for as long as I can remember. My brother, too.”

“I see.” The captain returned his eyes to the chart. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about seemed unimportant now.

“Is that all, sir? Am I excused?”

“Do you have my leave.”

“Sir?”

“You ask to be excused from a dinner table. You ask your captain if you have his leave to depart.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Do I have your leave to go?”

“No. I’m not finished.”

Franque paused, the darkness in the captain’s tone had overshadowed his jovial and easy-going demeanor. Even Jacque’s eyes had changed. They were darker with sinister undertones of danger the likes of which the boy had never seen.

“How did you both survive? Your brother, at the very least, should have died,” the captain accused.

“I don’t... I don’t know!”

“Your name is Franque Thorinson?”

“Yes.”

“But your brother is Krist Thorinson?” Devil Jacque pronounced the name as if it were bitter herbs or rancid meat on his tongue.

“Yes.”

“A Fjorik name!”

“What? I don’t understand...” Franque had no idea. His brother’s name was unusual, sure, but he never thought of its origin.

“I know of one other Krist, a Krist Braston! The father of Braen and Skander Braston.”

“I...” Franque stammered, hearing his father’s name uttered by this man.

“Who is your mother?” Devil Jacque suddenly demanded.

Franque froze. Why did this man care who is mother was? Is there harm in telling? He rose to full height, a full two heads above the captain. I won’t tell him!

“It’s Eusari Thorinson, isn’t it?”

Franque felt bile form in his throat and the urge to vomit overwhelmed his ability to think. How does he know of Mother? he wondered.

“Answer me!” the captain barked.

“No. I’ve never heard that name,” Franque lied. The tip of the cutlass moved fast, slicing through air as it found its home against the boy’s neck. A tiny drop of blood ran down his collar and onto his chest.

“The truth. Now!” Devil Jacque demanded, backing him against the wall. “Is Eusari Thorinson your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you on my ship? Is this her plot for revenge? She baited me with her two brats, the whelps of Braen Braston?”

“She doesn’t know we’re here,” Franque tried the truth as he stared down cold steel into the captain’s rabid eyes. He finally understood the nickname and why he was called Devil Jacque.

“Tell me more. Why did you volunteer for my crew?”

“We ran away to kill the king. We found out he killed our father and just wanted to get to Eston, but we were robbed in Loganshire. Our horses and gear stolen. Then we ran into this guy Peter Longshanks in a tavern. He tricked us into signing up for years instead of months, and pushed us down a trap door. We woke up on She Wolf, we didn’t choose her!”

The tip of the cutlass faltered, quivering in what was once a steady hand. The man’s eyes grew wide with what Franque recognized as passing fear.

“Peg-legged Pete?” The captain suddenly recovered, breaking out with honest laughter. “He placed you on my crew?” His laughter stopped abruptly. The fear returned. “That son of a bitch meant to gall me… but now this means she knows!” The cutlass returned to its scabbard. “If she knows,” he muttered, “she’s on her way here!”

“She doesn’t even know where we are! She was arrested, probably still in jail in Loganshire!”

“Loganshire... She was that close to me, then? Hot on my heels?”

“She doesn’t even know about you! I swear, Captain! She has no idea where we are!”

“If Peter Longshanks kidnapped you, and she finds him, then she knows.”

“I swear, she doesn’t!”

“Prove to me you were headed to Eston to kill the king!”

“I saw you there, atop the Span. I held a rifle, one of the fifty you had brought aboard She Wolf, and pointed it at the man’s head.”

“But you didn’t fire?”

“No. I saw you there, not far away talking to a man with only wisps of hair atop his head. He was dressed in finery, scarlet threads that spoke wealth and influence!”

“Hmmm.” Jacque considered his story. “But you didn’t pull the trigger? Why not?”

Franque wanted to tell him of Gretchen and the horrifying things she foretold, but lied once more, this time more convincingly. “I realized that man, dressed in red robes, was more powerful than the king. He must have been an advisor, but the fact you spoke to him and not the monarch convinced me that he runs the kingdom! I think it’s him who gave you the rifles to take to The Cove and who asked you to start a war with Fjorik.”

The cutlass drew once more, this time jabbed against Franque’s breast.

“My,” the captain remarked, “aren’t you a smart one! But wrong about one thing. The rifles were headed to Ataraxia, to sell to arms dealers who will smuggle them into Fjorik. We attack the immigrants enough, supply the government with guns, and then we get our war. Now, what will you do with this information?”

“Do? What can I do? We’re part of your crew, hundreds of miles from home, and about to attack a Fjorik vessel. Boats told me I’m to swing across the lanyards as part of the boarding team. What will I do? I’ll fight and kill my first man or men before they kill me!”

Jacque considered his words. This time they were truthful, and even the captain knew it. He had a job to do, the entire crew did. No matter what this captain’s history was with his mother, they would fight alongside each other. The cutlass dropped. “Really? You’ll fight with loyalty for me, my ship, and the crew? No matter what squabble I had with your mother?”

“Yes,” Franque promised. “But Krist isn’t healthy, not at all, so I’ll fight for the pair of us.”

“I... I believe you,” Devil Jacque replied, laughing and again returning the blade to its sheath. “Tell me this, first. Has anything odd ever happen when either of you are around water?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know... just oddness.”

Franque remembered Gretchen’s warning, that one or both of them may hold an affinity for the sea—that their father… Fathers, she had said… may have shared that ability. “No. Neither of us. Other than the dunking, we’ve never even swam in it.”

“How did you survive?” Jacque demanded once more.

“By sheer determination not to let Boats defeat us.”

The captain laughed. “Then you really are like your mother, in more ways than you could ever know. Welcome to She Wolf,” he said. “Choose any weapon you want from the armory, and bleed it well!”

Dusk set on She Wolf, the sky overcast and threatening rain, while she raced toward the slower Fjorik vessel. They had chased it all day and were finally in reach of their prey. The slower ship beat drums and blew whistles, a futile attempt to ready its fighting men to repel an onslaught. Franque Thorinson was a part of that threat, and he gripped his father’s axe with a tightness that offered promise—one of victory.

The water between the ships grew frothy, agitated by the coming storm of steel, gunpowder, and screams. Franque watched as it swirled and spun against the vessels.

“Ready portside guns!” the captain ordered.

Every man on the gunner’s crew ran to and fro, hauling powder and shot. The entire evening felt surreal, a thrilling reminder to Franque he would fight alongside pirates. As awful as that should be, he found it alluring, a promise of everything the sea offered. He felt alive.

“Fire!” The command came suddenly, and the retort deafened every hand. She Wolf rocked starboard with the concussion, smashing hard into the waves and sending a violent volley toward the bigger vessel.

Franque paled. The four pounders did more damage than he expected, tearing splinters free and hurtling their sharpest points toward the huddled mass of people watching topside.

They hadn’t realized we meant to attack! The boy understood at once, as women and children rushed below decks to hide. All men left above deck were dressed in the heavy fur-clad armor the Fjorik people wore. Five of these warriors stood far away from the others, painted with dark hues of crimson and blue. They beat their swords and axes against their shields, while some savagely growled and bit until their teeth and gums bled with anticipation of battle.

Berserkers! Franque had heard of these. Krill had spilled the beans once, around a campfire, telling heinous stories about the most dangerous warriors Fjorik offered. But on an immigrant ship? Their presence made no sense at all.

“Grapplers!” the first mate roared. “Away!”

Franque gripped a tool with his right hand, sweating with fear as he let it slip downward to slacken the attached line. He spun it slowly the way Boats had taught. In his left he held the end of a long rope, with the coil held loosely by only two fingers. Once he felt enough momentum for the toss, he heaved the metal and loosed the line. Most of the others failed and had to haul theirs wet and limp over the side to try again, losing precious minutes in the effort. But Franque’s found the rail, and he pulled it taut.

Now came the hard part, the maneuver requiring a bit of luck, a lot of danger, and tremendous foolishness. He stood, gripping the rope tightly and waited for Boats’ command.

“Heave!” he shouted, and the grappling crew pulled hard until the ships closed the gap. With each heave the tempest between them shrank, until both vessels crashed together.

Franque stepped onto the rail then leapt, boots crashing hard onto the enemy’s deck. He swayed, but soon the timbers felt right beneath the treads of his boots. A sword swung down and he moved, the blade arching mere inches past his ear. Thankfully the attacker missed, striking the wooden beam instead.

Franque grabbed his father’s axe from his hip. It felt so right. He swung the head of it, sharp and heavy toward the fool who challenged. It met a shield with a crack, as fifteen years of chopping wood paid off, and splinters dug into a Fjorik forearm. The startled warrior stepped backward, eyes full of anger as she again raised her sword.

Franque steadied his feet for another blow. She? He wavered, marveling at a woman dressed in Fjorik furs and wielding an instrument of death. She charged.

Franque stepped aside, he would never fight a woman, from any man he would accept a challenge, even his brother—a stranger more easily.

She lurched, furious at his feint, and frothing at the mouth. He stepped aside again, but the tip of her steel met his ribs, slicing a line around his body. The salt spray entered immediately, sending a burning scream of panic into his heart. Thankfully it wasn’t deep. Anger suddenly burned within, furious over his precious blood now dripping on the deck of a foreign vessel. He lunged.

Franque was a good boy, loving and loyal to family—especially his mother and even Tara whom he loved like a sister. He had sworn once, in a grandiose display of chivalry before his brothers, never to raise arms or fists to a woman. That pledge disappeared in an instant as the anger overtook him.

Never had he lost his temper so, ramming his shoulder into the berserker’s breast and knocking free her wind. They stood so close, it loosed near his mouth like a lover’s pant. Driving his left boot into the deck for balance, he raised his father’s axe. The weapon, already blooded decades before by his father, yearned for more as Franque brought it down. The blade of it cleaved the slender bit where the woman’s shoulder met neck. The blood sprayed, there was so much of it. Her body bled out any fury she once held for battle and useless legs crumbled beneath her dying body.

His rage now reigned supreme, pulling the axe free just in time to block an angry sword thrust. From whom? Her husband? A lover? Whatever connection this new attacker shared with the deceased it did not matter, their boldness to challenge fueled his demon wrath. Their life would be devoured as well, and Franque roared at the man’s arrival. The blunt of his axe handle crushed a Fjorik nose, smashing the tender parts into his brains. The second movement finished the job.

In a matter of moments Franque Thorinson had killed not only once but twice, and the feeling thrilled his soul. His father was certainly one of them, either Skander or Braen, the sons of Braston and princes of hell. He roared challenge to another Fjorik target who backed away with fear. They all now feared the axe of their former sovereign. They, like many more that evening, felled against its blow. The Demon of the North lived, and it controlled Franque’s every move.