Fates Choice

by Tristan Fairfield

  This was essentially a week away from the ship builder’s normal routine. Torr’s father still paid them a week’s wage. Consequently, the competition for places during the practice races on the Daret River close to Home Manor and the shipyards was fierce but, this year, it produced a crew who gelled very well as a sixsome. Timing was everything in these boats.

  He accepted his role as cox rather than rower. The size of the dockworkers next to his far lither frame would have been an issue, nor would he be able to match the sheer stamina gained by working long days over at least twelve years of boat building and rowing heavily laden working boats in heavy seas. The thirty mile course would take at least a morning, even with the spare rower that it was custom to carry.

  His water sense though was good and, during training on the river Daret, the crew seemed happy with his ability to pick out calm waters when against the tide, and the stronger flows when coming back with it.

  Although a longer hull than he was used to, the gig was easier to handle if you had a deft touch at the tiller, something that seemed to come naturally to Torr as well. It felt very similar to guiding a horse at speed. Judging corners on a point to point course akin to clipping the apex of a river bend, as the Great Boar River wound its way past its smaller, feeder rivers. These came down from the peaks of Daretmoor itself and right on towards the inland sea, way past the boundaries of Sommerswake and into the next Weald of Mercaexe.

  Again, Torr found the start of this race very similar to his horse trials. There was lots of jostling and jockeying for position at the start between each group of boats that set off.

  Torr had to allow for the tide to make sure they were not over the line when the starter’s flag went down. Jumping the start meant a time penalty at the end, conveyed down the course by various riders to the finish line officials, using the barge tow path. Starting at the back of the group though meant trying to fight past other boats, losing time early on.

  There were over three hundred boats taking part. Even allowing for the vast width of the Great Boar River, particularly within a few miles of its gaping mouth into the sea, meant that starting groups comprised no more than thirty boats at a time, each group starting two minutes apart.

  The queue of boats as crews loaded up meant that you would actually start rowing anything up to a mile or so before the start line itself. One of the merchant jetties was a convenient loading point for crews to get in. It was built for the vast flat hulled trade barges that carried goods up the Great Boar River itself.

  The riverbed was too shallow for full sized ocean going ships to get anywhere important up river. It was the steep shallowing of the river bed that obviously gave rise to the great boars which occurred every year that gave the river it’s name. It was understood by the wisest of alchemists, sorcerers and stargazers that the twin moons of Gaerdsun and Gaerdtohtor were the cause of tides the world over. By plotting their positions, tides could be anticipated with accuracy (providing a nice little side line of selling this information to the various merchant and ship guilds around the world!)

  Colloquially the moons were referred to as Gaerd’s children. Torr’s father had stated that in the more exotic climes of Suthras, it was believed they were giant eyes, the world being the giant’s head. His vast body stretching below them into space, and it was the eyes that allowed all beings to look out into space and see the stars.

  In practical terms though, the shallowing and narrowing of the river bed meant that small tidal waves, called boars, reared up at the strongest tides of the year. This meant that using adjacent land for any purpose and for many miles around was perilous at best, fatal at worst. Even on the smaller Daret, the minor spring and autumn boars there meant that the Skarsdale shipyard had to be set further back than was ideal and a deep trench required to allow new hulls out.

  The mill houses (many of which were owned by Raeknor’s family) were set atop a high motte of earth and a bailey wall, the adjustable drive shafts and gears allowing the mills to keep going even when the boars were expected.

  Even the solid granite stone slabs that comprised the jetty from which they had boarded their racing gig had to be protected by a series of sliding stone screens, dropped into the water, to avoid the power of the boar sweeping away even these monoliths.

  The thirty boats that Torr started with were all very similar gigs, produced by the smaller, more bespoke, boat makers right along this stretch of coast and down into the Weald of Coombe below. Originally used to rescue stranded merchant ships at short notice, the gigs had developed into a racing vessel by necessity, as only the first crew to reach a stranded merchant ship could expect to get paid.

  As the gigs were one of the fastest boats to compete, they were among the last to go in this handicap system for this race. That meant there would be more than two hundred boats in front of them over the next thirty miles to navigate but, differing hull speeds, accidents and crews who just plain gave up, meant that the busiest period of the race would be the start. Fortunately, his crew were as good at shouting the opposition out of the way as they were rowing past. A couple of the more junior crews steered clean out of the way when Torr’s crew started locking oars, a very good tactic for breaking another crews rhythm (and oars) if you could get it right. Again, his deft touch on the tiller enabled them to steer away just at the right moment, to avoid greater damage or accusations of foul play from the many horse-bound officials who lined the route, together with all the cheering spectators.

  They started like men possessed and were quickly through the batch of other boats in the same starting group just as they reached the first bend in the river. Their rhythm was unbroken and the natural selection of crew’s fitness and rowing finesse meant that each new group of boats they encountered was spread out more, which made it easier to pass. After five miles or so Torr reckoned that none of the boats they started with were in sight and no other had come close to them.

  He found himself buoyed by this and his natural enthusiasm for racing shone out in his encouragement and praise of his crew. He quickly got the hang of passing slower boats without altering course unduly, something that could upset the delicate timing of the oars in a gig. The crew worked like one six armed rowing monster, their stamina topped up by Torr’s praise. The crew had told him they had specifically practiced swapping with the spare rower they carried, to avoid losing time here as well and this was very telling. Boats they were passing often seemed to take twice as long at the same task .

  With the tide behind them (no crew could row this far and fast against this river’s tide), they made good time, causing Torr to exclaim when they passed an official standing next to the twenty seven mile flag, that they could very well win the race outright. His belief was very genuine and, again, urged his crew on.

  With two miles to go though, Torr felt their pace slacken. At around the same point, he thought he saw in the distance a boat that had not shrunk out of view. “Alright lads”, let’s keep the pace up to the finish, don’t slacken, come on, you can do it”. He had surprised himself how easily he had slipped into a commanding tone.

  Their pace increased, but only for a short period and the boat behind them now looked like two. He kept his encouragement lightweight at this point. He had already sized up the possibility that, if push came to shove, he would have to adopt a harsher tone if they got caught towards the end.

  Sure enough, two prows drew slowly closer. His crew could see it anyway as they faced Torr, looking out of the stern of the boat. His glances over the shoulder also became more frequent.

  Just past the twenty nine mile marker, Torr could tell what the other boats were: twelve oared racing pickets out of North Coombe, the fastest boats in the race and which would therefore have started dead last. Torr had to hand it to the organisers, their handicap system was spot on. This was going to go down to the last few hundred yards.

  “Right lads, looks like we have got a fight on our hands if we want to win this. Now, don’t panic, we will be
fine if we keep this pace and this rhythm. They won’t actually have enough time to catch us”. Using his excellent judgment of speed, they were not actually troubled in the end, although it did not stop him from becoming a little more vocal with his encouragement.

  Their win was celebrated by a large firework being ignited over the finish line, a rapturous applause and a band striking up a rather tired old tune. All this barely mattered to the crew though, whose own pride and heartfelt thanks to Torr were all that concerned them (although the financial rewards offered for the win quickly set in).

  The boat was loaded for them by a well organised group of officials and they were quickly on their way back home after the awards and congratulations of all who greeted them.

  ****************************************

  The celebrations at Home Manor on their return complimented the gloriously temperate Highsun evening, with a marquee and musicians being called in from Paegas Bay itself.

  Torr was firmly told by his mother that, after his earlier escapade, he would not be joining his brother in the walled gardens. The wall was high enough that the ladies of the manor could pretend that they did not know what went on because they could not see any debauchery that ensued. Unless someone had invited all the wild denizens of the forest, Torr argued, he was unlikely to come to harm in their own garden. It was to no avail. Besides, they would be hosting more than the miller’s family. The ships-guild captain and others would be over and it was too onerous and unfair to expect all the hosting duties to be undertaken just by his mother and sister. Aelfsige had already claimed that he would take care and control of the outside celebrations so, reluctantly, Torr accepted that as the only other available member of the household (as his father had not yet returned), he would assist with the hosting duties inside. Torr made sure he also roped Raeknor into this when he arrived. As expected, this proved to be borderline torture for Torr. He found polite discourse, at least with people with whom he had nothing in common, almost physically painful, aggravating every ounce of his desire for sharp and cutting wit at every opportunity. Raeknor and he could not wait to excuse themselves as soon as they could. The two young men left when they were able, and sat under the elegant porch and open stone flooring that ran the entire length of Home Manor, facing the walled garden, whose oak gate was now firmly shut.

  They had requested drinks on their way out and originally, two tankards had been brought to the back of the manor where Torr and Raeknor sat, listening to the sounds of the bawdyhouse band that had set up earlier.

  However, their tankards soon became empty. They had both been promised another but nothing arrived for quite some time, leaving the boys with nothing but their imagination about the entertainment on the far side of the wall through the solid oak gate.

  Eventually, the gate was opened by Aelfsige, tunic undone and looking suitably merry with a girl perched atop an entire cask of cider. In turn the cask was in a wheelbarrow, now being wheeled, not completely along the garden path, towards the younger men. “Sodding Hells, she looks just younger than us”, said Raeknor slyly to Torr. “Does being a pervert run in the family then!” he continued, grinning.

  “That’s fine, I’ll leave you with the empty barrel. The tap hole should be about the right size for you” said Torr glibly, holding up his right little finger to his friend.

  “Greetings my young friends” said Aelfsige, having pulled up leaving a notable line in the grass leading to their mothers exotic flower range. “I’m not taking the blame for that” said Torr to his older brother, pointing to the meandering groove left by the wheel of the barrow.

  “Ptth” Aelfsige gave a confident and uncaring wave. “Here, good ssirshs, is your reward”, tipping the barrow forward, making the young girl shriek and laugh as she caught herself from falling flat on the path. She steadied herself with one hand against one of the wooden porch supports and the other on Raeknor’s shoulder.

  “My Aelfsige” said the girl with a broad Sommerswake accent, “is this your younger brother?” she enquired, raising an eyebrow. She seemed slightly steadier on her feet than Aelfsige, but only just. “No that is the young whelp’s friend. That is the toast of the party, that one”. Aelfsige pointed to Torr.

  “Such a dandy young thing, come young sirs, won’t you join us”. The girl took both Torr and Raeknor’s hand but was too slim of frame to lift them from their seats, falling instead slightly between where they were both sitting.

  “I am afraid these young gentleman are devout acolytes of The Sunlord’s Church of Paegas Bay and would not dream of entering into the foul perverted deprivation currently going on the other side of that wall”. Aelfsige took the young girl’s hand, lifting her easily onto her feet and then walking along the porch path, towards the rear door to the house, used largely by the house staff this evening.

  “And where the hells, do you think you are going with her?” said Torr.

  “My dear brother, if you think that I am returning to the noise and vulgarity over there when I have a perfectly warm bed where I can entertain this lovely guest of ours, then you are gravely mistaken”.

  Aelfsige walked off, both he and the girl propping each other up to some extent, towards the servants’ entrance, where both brothers knew they could enter the house relying on the discretion of any kitchen staff catering for the event and avoiding their mother and sister as well.

  He had, however, left the barrow and its cask with Torr and Raeknor.

  They moved the cask back onto the barrow. From its weight, it seemed entirely full although Torr pointed out that his older brother was lucky not to have split the cask and that he would have sloshed all the sediment around. “Well, if you don’t want it, that’s fine”, said Raeknor, reaching for his tankard which, fortunately, had remained steady on the stone mullioned window’s edge. “I’ll drink the sodding lot then!”

  As it transpired, both only required three tankards each of this brew. They only discovered sometime later that it was experimental, the first of its kind according to its brewer, a merchant from the far side of the Weald of Badesk, who had only heard of the concept of cider before buying his very own orchard from a nearby miller. The new brewer had, apparently, never tasted cider himself before. Torr and Raeknor agreed from the outset that it tasted ‘unusual’ but as it had a kick like a mule, they both decided it would be fine to drink still.

  Torr still had sufficient control of his arms to reach the tap to refill his drink, but not really to turn it off fully. He was aware Raeknor was speaking but just thought he was trying to push in to refill his tankard first.

  “Shod off, me fhirst co’s it’s my house you toss” was the extent of his eloquence at this point.

  “I’ll think you will find young man that it is my house as is this barrel and its contents, which I wouldn’t mind trying if that is alright with you two” said a far deeper voice than had a right to be coming from Raeknor.

  With some effort, Torr managed to look up but the porch lanterns were a bit too bright now. He saw a figure he recognised, dressed very much like his father might be, green tunic, fashionable sash and cap denoting a rank fitting to a ship’s captain or, in this case, commander of several trading vessels.

  Torr also thought he might still be grinning from ear to ear when it started to dawn on his addled mind that it was actually his father, back from his voyage to the ports along the northern shores of Suthras. This shock, together with the quality of their consumed brew, made their presence felt all over the porch floor at this point and, partially, upon Raeknor, who had decided to pass out just beforehand.

  Torr tried to stand, pointing to Raeknor with his drink still in his hand, spilling what was left upon his friend’s comatose body. “I’m sho shorry for my friend”, he said, as if addressing a guest at a well heeled gathering, “he’s shuch a lightweight!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  T he caravan ride over to Paegas Bay was a more sullen affair than usual. Normally, Torr would have many questions to
ask his father of his travels, where he had been and what he had seen, questions that Aelboric Skarsdale would be only too keen to answer.

  Torr could learn more from his father’s anecdotal comments than all the dusty tomes in Paega’s Abbey School.

  By coincidence, they were passing the boundary of the school grounds now, on their way to a merchant’s guild meeting that had been summoned. Torr was under no illusion that his attendance here was compulsory.

  Again, he did not feel that the sermon he received the following day was fully justified. How was he to know the brew was that potent? He had grown up with cider, albeit from local Sommerswake brewers who knew what they were doing, as well as their own orchard.

  His sister was full of her usual indignation and holier than thou approach to her younger brother, but, to some extent, so even was his mother. Unfortunately, the decision of Torr’s stomach to reject the foul brew came at exactly the same time that the guild captain and his family were leaving.

  His one saving grace, his brother, had left before Torr had resurfaced from his room. Aelfsige had been charged with overseeing the re supply of their ships in Paegas harbour, with a view to commanding the next voyage back down to Sha Haram.

  He had not even dared to ask what became of Raeknor. Instead, as the caravan lurched on the uneven road surface into Paega itself, there was a stony silence.

  Aelboric had found Torr in his room the following morning and informed him, after the predicted, but still reasonably calm, lecture, that he had decided that his youngest son would be coming with him to this guild meeting. Torr was well used to merchants’ functions but, up until now, these had all been the post meeting social events, not the political and strategical element of their guild’s operation. Aelboric had just advised Torr that his presence at this particular meeting was required.