Andalon Awakens

by T B Phillips

  At least the Esterling queen was dead. That thought consoled him a little, even though his brother had slipped out of his grasp because of her death. Worse, her son had failed to deliver Braen. Fury rose as Skander thought about the humiliation of returning without either his brother’s head or the bounty that he had taken to pay for it. Marcus had made off with a small fortune in coin that night, and Skander wanted it back with interest.

  A thought occurred to the northern king as his ship skimmed the coast for Fjorik. He would extract all he was owed by renewing raids on the empire. Not just by raiding Loganshire as his father had done, the entire empire would pay the whelp’s debt. A smile crept across Skander’s face at the thought of war with the Esterling dynasty. With the mother out of the way the child had done the north a favor, giving him an opening to take what was rightfully his.

  But the desire for war was something to satisfy in spring. Skander realized that he wanted a morsel of revenge now, and so he scanned the coastline for any opportunity. Ahead, smoke billowed out of a few buildings in a small coastal village. The despair in his stomach eased at the sight, and he let out a slight chuckle of glee at the thought of bloodying both his sword and dick. He called to a tall sailor on the port amidships, “Coxswain!”

  The man hustled over. “Aye, sir?”

  “Make for the smoke up ahead. Luff sails and lose this speed. We feast tonight.” The man ran off to make the adjustments. Braston looked up at the clear sky, nodding his pleasure that there would be no interruption by bad weather. He then turned to a large, bald man carving a piece of whalebone while lounging on a starboard crate. The sergeant at arms perked up at the sudden change of mood and the snap movement of the coxswain. Pausing in his ministrations he awaited orders. “Artur. Ready a landing party. The peace is over, and it’s a beautiful night for raiding.”

  The man placed his scrimshaw into his pocket and answered the order with a wide toothless grin that formed a gap in his beard. Skander watched the man scurry below decks to gear up the soldiers, nodding along as he privately shared the excitement for bloodletting. As a king, this Braston loathed the duty of diplomacy. No, that was his brother’s strength. Killing and violence was this brother’s forte, and he was about to go to work.

  About an hour later Skander led a force of twenty warriors through the forest. He smiled alongside his men, lustily daydreaming about the carnage they were about to wrought. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, the temperature dropped quickly but the men barely felt the chill for their excitement. It was approaching dinner time, so most of the occupants would be in from the field, boots off and drying by the hearth when the attackers arrived. After so many peaceful years, the raid would be a complete surprise.

  He surveyed the buildings. There were very few, as this was a poor and simple village. It was so simple that there would be more bread than mutton in the crew’s diet that night. That mattered not to Skander, as he scanned the hovels for movement. The sun had nearly set, and the small windows emitted faint and flickering candlelight.

  Doors opened and women called to their children washing at the well. Laughter carried the children up the steps to their homes, oblivious to their fate. After they had all gone in for their supper, the northern king signaled for his men to split up and flank the buildings from two sides. The night fell suddenly silent as the insects and wildlife watched the men take up their positions.

  Braston crept silently to the first home, looking across the square at Artur who had done the same across the way. Likewise, his men fanned out and took their positions in small teams at each of the other buildings. He shivered both in anticipation and against the air, now quite a bit colder than it had been moments ago. He let out an icy breath that turned into frost as soon as it left his mouth. Breathing in the cold, he filled his lungs for a loud and blaring war cry, “Attack!”

  His crew answered his call by screaming and kicking down doors. Soon cries of a different sort rang out as the occupants responded. Skander swung his axe against the weak and pitiful door, and it splintered in two as it fell off its hinges. Inside a man and a woman ate at their table, wooden spoons frozen at their mouths at the sudden arrival of a war-clad Northmen. With a backhand, he sent the man’s head rolling off his shoulders and onto the floor. The woman screamed and Skander smiled. Somewhere a baby cried and sounds of battle raged in the night, entering through the open doorframe.

  The woman tried to run to the baby, resting fitfully in a cradle beside a simple bed. It wailed in fear and the king roared with delight at the futile act of motherhood. She should have left the child, he thought, saving herself by running past him to escape into the night. By running toward the child, she had turned her back to him, making it easier to push her down onto the bed. She tried to get up. Again, the baby screamed.

  He flipped his axe over and brought the blunt handle down across the woman’s temple, dazing her and sending her crashing back down on the hard bed of straw and wood. The timbers cracked under the force and so did the bones of her cheek. The wailing of the child grated against the rage within him, covering the sounds of her dress ripping in his bare hands. This enraged his fury further, as the tearing of cloth was his favorite foreplay. The sight of her perfect ass infuriated him. He responded by laying his axe down next to her on the bed and drew out his dagger, cutting lines against her flawless skin like the scrimshaw Artur had cut into the pale whalebone.

  Outside, pandemonium raged. Sounds of the raid intensified and Skander frowned at what appeared to be a change in momentum. Hearing shouts of resistance against his soldiers, he realized that a battle was taking place. He angrily put his knife away, smiling at his handiwork on the crying woman. Her once pretty ass was no longer perfect and bore instead his house sigil. Disappointed that he had not even unbuttoned his breeches, he grabbed his axe and strode into the night.

  Outside there was no wind to carry the sounds of battle. The air was still except for large, wet snowflakes falling from the cloudless sky. Eerily, the snow had already begun piling despite the short time that he had spent inside with the woman. Skander smiled at the blood that poured over the white blanket, painting the snow pink. He quickly formed a frown when he realized the state of his attack.

  He strode toward the center of the town and saw that several of his men had already fallen. Pushed back by villagers, Artur led a defensive shield wall against the organized line of ten men. Each one was dressed in tattered farm clothing but carried an exquisite quality of sword and shield. These weapons were made of top-grade imperial steel, far superior to the low grade that his men carried. Looking from corpse to corpse of his fallen comrades, he immediately saw that their weapons had been cleaved in half and lay broken in the dirt.

  Furiously, he ordered the charge. They may lack superior weapons, but sheer numbers should overwhelm the farmers and force them into submission. His men hesitated at his order, and Artur stared dumbly back at his king with defiant fear and trepidation on his toothless gape. Skander raged and threw his axe at the lead townsman, catching him in the center of his forehead and dropping him in the painted snow. He charged with a scream that shook his men into action as they chased after him toward the small line of men. Stooping low to retrieve his axe, he also drew the short sword from his hip. This he used to parry a blow from his left as he spun, swinging the axe down on the nape of the attacker’s neck.

  Bodies pressed in around him as a shield wall again formed on each side, this time making an offensive push toward the fighters. Discipline, inspired by his charge, won out that evening as his men restored the advance and dropped the last of the villagers in a pile on the square. Sounds of battle quieting, the wailing of children filled Skander’s ears. He frowned as the cries of one single infant rose above the rest. Squeezing his eyes tight against the wails, he spoke loudly so that his men would hear. “Take what you want. Bring the women and the children to the well when you’re finished.” Smiling, his sold
iers fanned out to enjoy their spoils.

  Squatting down, he picked up one of the fallen swords laying in the snow. Smiling at its superiority to his short sword, he tossed his down and sheathed the finer on his belt. Turning, he slowly walked to the center of town, whistling a tune that his mother used to sing before bed. He continued to hum and whistle as he casually returned to his earlier business.

  As he strode to the hovel where he had left the woman, he paused just outside the door. In the woman’s arms was a crossbow. Somehow she had managed to pull the instrument’s heavy bolt back into place and held it pointing at his chest. “Don’t you know that I like to play with my food, dearie?” Casually he pushed the weapon aside, taking it from her limp arms and holding it downward in his left hand. With his right hand he reached up and grabbed her hair, dragging her exhausted frame to the well that stood in the center of the village. He tossed her against the bricks of the structure, laughing as her broken face hit against the stone.

  Inside the hovel, the baby cried. The infuriating sound irritated him to the point that he could no longer think rationally. All he could see was the snow falling around him, piling fast and burying the corpses. Above him shone stars against a cloudless sky. Crossbow in his hand, he held his arms against his ears, muffling the sounds of the infant. Wails. Screams. Fury.

  Artur stepped up beside him, corralling six or seven of the village’s children toward the well as he was instructed. “These are all that we could find, your highness. We think some escaped with some of the women during the fighting.”

  Lowering his arms, Skander’s face contorted in rage against the sound of the crying baby. Letting out a scream, he reached out and shoved the first of the children over the ledge of the well, laughing maniacally as the body splashed into the water twenty feet below. One by one he threw them after the first, cackling and hooting as they fell. But still the infant cried. Even after the last child splashed into the well, the infant wailed.

  He leaned over and looked down into the hole as his men watched on with credulous stares. From this angle he felt at one with the water below, warmed by the earth surrounding the pool. As his anger at the sound of the crying rose, so did the water in the well. Slowly at first, but then rapidly. The children below, some still conscious from the fall but suffering bruises and fractures, wailed along with the infant. All Skander Braston could hear was the crying.

  Slowly, the water churned and spun into a gentle whirlpool as he again raised his hands up to shield the sound. Around and around the children spun in the pool, water rising and frothing as it gained speed, sucking the children into the vortex and silencing them. But it wasn’t enough. He could still hear that single infant. Crying and useless. You cried all the time as a baby, Skander. Your mother and I couldn’t stand the sounds you made, so we left you with the nursemaid.

  With a final scream, Skander rushed into the hovel, still holding the crossbow in his left hand. When he emerged, the child dangled by its foot in the right hand of the king. Still it cried. Still it wailed. Seeing her pride and joy swinging as he ran toward the well, the mother emitted a sound that was sweet to the ears of the northern king. Sweet because they momentarily muffled the sound of his torment.

  When he approached the well, he swung both child and crossbow up at the same time, firing the bolt so that the shoulder of the infant was affixed firmly, nailed to the frame of the riser. He dropped the crossbow into the snow and instead drew his knife, still pink from the blood of the woman laying helpless at his feet. Her eyes were wide, but her mouth made no sound as she watched him draw a single line across the belly of the tiny, naked boy. In a final attempt to silence the cries, Skander Braston wrapped the neck of the child with its own intestine. Even after it ceased to breathe, he could still hear the cursed cries.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ice Prince raced along the open seas, finding both wind and current. The sleek lines of the ship, low to the water, added to her speed. It had been nearly two weeks since the crew and passengers had escaped The Cove, and time was of the essence if they were to find Braen and Eusari. They had to warn them about the mutiny in Pirates Cove. Unfortunately, only they and Artema Horn had known the location of the transaction, so Ice Prince was winning a race with no destination.

  “I’m telling you, Sippen! We need to head to Eston so that I can reach my contacts. I have eyes all over Andalon, and can get word to the rest of the fleet no matter what port they land in.” Samani had been making the same argument for a week straight, but Sippen and the rest of the crew had insisted on systematically checking possible locales for She Wolf.

  “We have one more spot to check, then we will heh… head to Eston.” Estowen’s Landing was high on their list but had been the furthest away. The first two places that they had checked were dead ends, and the men on Ice Prince were anxious and concerned about the whereabouts of their beloved captain. The Landing was an obvious spot, due to its functional harbor and easy egress if something had gone awry with the trade.

  Gunnery Sergeant Krill added his support for Sippen, much to the chagrin of Kernigan. “We be arriving at the Landing soon. Then, if the gods bless us with wind, we be arrivin’ in Eston in three days. Five, if they piss on our sails instead.”

  “Wonderful.” Samani was visibly frustrated with the decision and seemed put out. “And very elegantly put, Mr. Krill.” Not hiding his disappointment, he laid below decks to await their arrival at the Landing.

  Sippen watched Kernigan leave. He had grown to like their passenger but was still leery. Although he was learned and charismatic, as well as a fun drinking companion, he had a lot of secrets and his “contacts” could spell trouble. Before leaving on She Wolf, Braen had warned of Samani’s questioning loyalty to Artema Horn. Why does he want so badly to get to Eston? No, Yurik would not fully trust this man, no matter how much he liked him as a person.

  They continued to hold the wind the entire day and reached the port just before sundown. As they rounded the jetty and turned west toward the inlet, their eyes beheld a magnificent sight. She Wolf stood boldly on the water, silhouetted against the orange and yellow blaze of the setting sun. She moored away from the pier with anchor in the water. There was no activity on deck, and the ship appeared more as an apparition than a corporeal object. Her beauty and presence instantly calmed the men of Ice Prince.

  “All hands to deck!” Sippen shouted without a hint of a stutter. He stood smiling at the marvelous find, ready to embrace his friend and to open a bottle of 754 over a deck of cards and great conversation. Looking closer, he could make out Braen waving his arms frantically in excitement as they approached. “Puh… prepare to move alongside!”

  As they made their approach, Krill took over the piloting and the little engineer went below decks to inform Kernigan that they had arrived. “Turn to starboard and head into the wind, you sorry sacks of blood!” Krill addressed the crew with a smile emblazoned on his face, the singular eye twinkling with excitement upon seeing his captain. “Prepare to slack sheet, you miserable sons of whores! Now luff sails and feather and drift!” When the ship had slowed to a crawl in the small harbor, the crew tied the main sail and made their preparations to moor alongside She Wolf.

  After twenty yards, the big ship came about to port, intending to drift along-side the smaller vessel and tie off. Without warning, starboard cannons roared from She Wolf, placing a full broadside into the bow of Ice Prince. The ship rocked fore to aft from the blow, cracking the mast and sending it crashing across the stern. The crewmen tying off the mainsail flew into the dark water, screams abruptly stopping when they hit the surface. Several more of the crew slid across the deck into the rail, the impact knocking from them either wind or consciousness.

  The concussion of the impact sent Sippen into the bulkhead. He scrambled to his feet and made his way topside to see what had happened. He emerged from the hatch just in time to witness the fall of the mainsail, as
the tremendous post crashed into the helm where he had stood with Krill only moments before. Eyes wide in shock and disbelief, he took in the scene. The large helms wheel had been crushed. Beneath the large pole he could see the leg of his longtime friend, trapped beneath what was left of the steering mechanism. That was all that he could see of Sergeant Krill.

  The lookout reported an incoming vessel and Eusari ran to the rail beside Braen, instantly recognizing Ice Prince rounding the jetty into the harbor. Eusari watched the burly captain smile at his friends’ arrival with radiance that spread to his eyes. She silently wished she could experience his private joy, and, as he turned to look at her, she smiled back. A smile, something so foreign to Eusari that she could not remember the last time she had.

  During the past week she had noticed things about Braen that she never looked for in other men. She admired the confidence with which he walked and spoke. She appreciated that when they talked, he listened with intent and heartwarming honesty. His eyes always found hers, despite that she kept them hidden under her hood. Eusari was beginning to believe that she could someday trust or even have feelings for a man like him. Maybe.

  “Help has arrived. See? The gods favor us today.” He shot an anxious look toward the hatch that locked their prisoners below. All night long the mutineers had banged their weapons against the door, causing the topside crew to fear that they would break free and overrun the ship. The banging had finally stopped a few hours ago but recommenced at the arrival of Braen’s ship and crew. Frowning, he added, “They’re banging with more fury.”

  “No matter. With the help of your crew we should be able to kill them all or convince them to surrender.” Eusari glanced back at the cannon atop the hatch, as if willing it to stay in place.