by Levi Samuel
Gareth glanced up, noting the man's signal. Spinning to mimic his direction, he pulled his own sight glass from its leather pouch and extended it to get a closer look. The darkening sky and heavy fog made it difficult to see, but sure enough, land could be seen in the distance. "Drop the sails and bring 'er in slowly, boys. Looks like we got rocks ahead."
The thick canvas fell with a thud, crumbling to the deck. The crew went to work collecting them for their next raise.
Standing beside the assistant navigator, Gareth watched him spin the wheel. The ship slipped between the jagged boulders breaching the surface. Their size was remarkable, most of them twice as wide as the hull. There was no telling how large they were beneath the surface. Though it had to have been impressive considering they shouldn’t be close enough for rocks just yet. Gareth would have preferred Malakai to be at the helm, but the man had already given fourteen hours. He was entitled to some down time. And the boy needed the practice. The young captain glanced at the black liquid beneath them. It reflected like polished glass, barely making a ripple beneath them.
A resounding crash echoed below deck, shaking the ship violently.
Gareth caught himself, unprepared for the sudden jolt. "Cabin boy, report the lower levels!"
A young boy, barely old enough to be called a man, took off below deck.
Gareth looked over his beloved ship. He didn't need a report to know she was going down. The rails bowed already. It wouldn't be long before she'd disappear beneath the black. He calmly walked to the overlook and peered down at his men.
The boy rushed to the deck, waving to the captain. Shaking his head, he sealed the already known fate.
“Men, it's been my honor to be your captain, but those days are done. I doubt any of us can swim the distance to shore, and gods know what lurks in the depths beneath us. It's up to you lads. You can stay here and drown, or make a swim for it and hope to reach shore before The Dutchman finds you.” Gareth finished his speech and gave a quick salute to the men. Turning away from the railing, he entered his room. It was customary to go down with your ship and he intended to join his wife and son.
The deck was chaos. Many of the men ran, jumping overboard. Some met their end upon the jagged rocks just below the surface of the dark waters. Others hit with a splash and swam for the faint outline on the horizon, disappearing long before they should have.
Gareth dressed in his finest garb. Securing his armor and cutlass, he pulled them into place and stared into his mirror. Running a wooden comb through his thick, red beard he gave a final adjustment and nodded to his reflection. His appearance was sound. There was no finer way to be reunited with his wife. Being under dressed for the occasion seemed sloppy. Solemn, he opened the door and stepped out.
Only a handful of men remained on board, preparing to meet their fate with their captain. Seeing the adorned captain, they stood erect, offering salute.
“May it be quick and painless, lads.” Gareth returned the gesture, allowing his men to stand down. Marching to the helm, he took hold of the wheel, feeling it was his rightful place at the end.
Water crept over the deck covering the tar sealed planks. The men cried silently, refusing to let their fear dampen the mood. Clenched to their various religious relics, many of them Corin’s trident, they stood defiant, disappearing from sight.
Gareth watched the sea swallow his men. It rapidly approached the helm, spilling over the top of his boots. He felt the icy chill of death upon his back, rising up to consume him. He was numb by the time the water reached his face. Time was lost. He needed to go quickly. Thoughts of his wife entered his mind. She was wearing her favorite light blue dress and holding their infant son. Smiling his content, he exhaled, forcing the air from his lungs. The dark water covered his face, blocking out the fading light above. He looked around at the darkness surrounding him, letting the memories of his family calm his mind.
Pipe smoke lingered in the air around the crowded tavern room. The collected noise echoed against the wooden walls, making more of a dull roar than a cohesive choir of voices.
Ravion sat in the corner of the pub, his dark blue pants and tunic stood in stark contrast to his tan vest. His red tinged hair hung loosely around his shoulders, swept back to display his forehead. His father's longsword hung loosely on his left hip, a dagger sheathed beside it, tucked nearly beneath the table but ready for use if required. He was still fairly new in these lands, but nobody questioned him. It seemed travelers were in steady supply in these parts.
A barmaid approached carrying a bowl of stew and a wooden tankard of cider. She set the objects down and waited patiently for him to retrieve his purse.
Handing her a silver coin, Ravion took a long drawl from the tankard. The cider burned its way down, but it felt good against his throat. The frozen mountain winds hadn't done him any favors. “The change is yours. Perhaps you could tell me, where might one procure lodging for the night?”
She tucked the coin away. “We have a few rooms available, though we're more suited for a brief stay. If you're looking for a week or more you'd be coin ahead to talk to Melvin. He's the keep at the Inn of Aldridge. They average one to two silver less over a longer span.”
“Thank you for the information.” Nodding his understanding, Ravion waited for her to leave. Spooning the hot, steaming bowl of stew, he watched the strands of mist float away from him. He was hungry, but fairly certain it'd burn his mouth if he got too eager. Looking into the mixture of sauce, meat, and vegetables, he noted a rather large turnip. His nose wrinkled of its own volition. Scooping the plump mass from his bowl, he laid it to rest on the saucer. I hate turnips. Ensuring no more of the dense vegetables remained, Ravion reached across the table and grabbed a handful of the dried bread the wench had set out earlier. Crushing it into crumbs, he sprinkled it over the bowl and mixed the two into a semi-thick paste.
The patrons moved in and out, filling the room with gossip. None seemed to care who might have been listening. Many different stories echoed, each one having some slight bit of truth, as pub tales always did.
Ravion spooned in the paste, listening intently to the rumors. Having his fill on both counts, food and gossip, he stood and made way for the door. The planked barrier swung open, allowing the cool, fall breeze to barrage him. It was interesting how such a simple device could have such a drastic effect. The chilling wind tore through his light fabrics. Shaking the shock away, he wrapped his cloak around him and stepped outside. He needed to procure a room and perhaps find some thicker clothes. These new lands were harsher than he'd grown accustomed. Survival would come from planning, rather than simple intuition.
Reaching the inn, he couldn't help but study the architecture. It was similar to the other structures of the area, but seemed more elegant in its design. The clay shingled roof was trimmed in wood and curved to deflect wind and rain alike. It was an interesting design. One he hadn't noticed on the other buildings. It seemed this one was the foundation for the others, yet the quality dropped drastically from structure to structure.
Passing through the single wooden door, Ravion stood in awe at the interior. Not so much as a chair seemed out of place in the common room. The walls were decorated with trophies of hunts long pasts. The fireplace was blazing with a chainmail curtain, draped to prevent the embers from flying out. And even more interesting, the patrons were quietly minding their own business. None seemed to care about the other. Instead they simply ate their food and drank their drinks in silent solitude. Glancing to the head of the pub, Ravion noticed a middle-aged man standing over the polished countertop along the left wall. A thick book laid open in front of him, occupying his attention.
Ravion approached the man. “Excuse me. Assuming this is the inn. What are you rates?”
The man stole a quick glance from his book, surveying the young-looking scout. Returning his attention to the book, he spoke. “Three silver a week, one gold a month.”
“Here's three gold. Can you tell me where the
tailor’s shop is?”
Refusing to look away a second time, he reached under the counter and pulled an iron key with a thin chain linked around the back side. Laying it on the counter, he continued. “Upstairs, you'll be the second door on the right. Tailor's shop is two buildings north, though they’re closed for the night.”
“Thank you.” Ravion snatched the key and headed up the stairs.
A thick mist spanned in all directions, glowing white from the overhead sun beyond the clouds. Dark columns stood alone in the enveloping fog, taking the form of massive trees. The lone warrior wandered aimlessly through the unending mist, lost as much in thought as he was in his solitude. Weeks had passed since he’d last sat in civilized company. His pack was light and his stomach rumbled from hunger.
“Come on Kane, it can't last forever.” He told himself, forcing the doubts from his mind. He was unsure where he was headed, but instinct told him he was facing the right direction.
A single beam of sunlight shot brilliantly through the dense fog reflecting against his chrome breastplate. The bright glare burned into the shadows of the misty undergrowth. It blinded him as much as it helped to see anything in the thick blanket. A thin, black cape was attached firmly at the shoulders of his armor, serving more as decoration than actual function. The name of his mentor was carved into the collar of the freshly tempered steel, and a coiled dragon was inlaid across the belly giving the smooth metal a textured feel. It was perfect in every way. Though its price was too high. Mortimus had had it made for him while he was away. If only the old man had lived long enough to show it to him himself. Instead, he’d found it on a stand, similar to that of the tarnished armor, in the room between the walls of the barn.
A sudden snap ripped him from his memories. Kane spun, gripping the sword’s handle in searching of the unnatural commotion. He listened intently to the breaking twigs and crumbling leaves all around him, testing his sanity with the volume alone. It sounded as if it was right on top of him. But where? Unable to wait a moment longer, he drew the great sword and readied himself for battle. Standing defiantly, ready to strike down the first opponent to present itself, Kane squinted into the misty sheen.
A huge shadow formed in the fog. It was three times larger than the average human, and growing larger by the second.
Tightening his grip, Kane’s fingers stretched around the leather-bound handle, his knuckles popping in protest.
The figure loomed over him, making its way closer to the defensive boy.
His stomach tightened, watching it move closer with deadly purpose. The rumbled of footsteps in the leaves filled his mind. He found himself wondering how big it had to be to make such commotion. His heart raced, thundering inside his chest. His skin was sticky, pockets of sweat forming on his brow. Fear on edge, tempting him to flee, Kane trembled in uncertainty against the over-sized shadow. Feeling he could take no more, his target sliced through the fog, revealing itself to him.
A white rabbit with tan spots hopped into view, presenting its menacing presence to the embattled warrior.
A sigh of relief escaped him. Kane lowered the sharpened blade, chuckling at his foolishness.
The startled rabbit hopped away, equally frightened by the armored man’s presence.
Shaking his head, Kane continued through the fog, hoping he’d find a town soon. He was ready to rest. His fear of shadows being all the proof he needed.
Hours passed and the mist began to thin, revealing an old dirt road and a weather worn signpost stuck firmly in the ground. Tattered words were carved into the mossy wooden sign, hanging loosely from a single, bent and rusted nail. He read the words aloud, listening to them as he spoke. "Aldridge two miles ahead.” Stepping onto the path, he altered course and made for town.
The streets where just coming to life when Ravion stepped from the tailor’s shop, pausing just outside the door. Staring down his sleeves, he admired the new, thicker garments. They were much heavier than he was used to, but once they were properly broken in they'd function just the same. Well, I'm going be here a while. I suppose it's time I learn the lay of the land. Throwing the heavy cloak over his shoulders, he secured the ties and stepped into the cool, autumn air.
Ravion traveled north with seemingly unnatural speed. In truth, he wasn’t moving any faster than a seasoned athlete, he just didn’t tire nearly as quickly. It’d taken him nearly two decades to build up his stamina. Seeing the first signpost since leaving town, he noticed the words etched into the wood. Heroes Gate, he silently read. The name intrigued him. From what he'd learned about the landmark it was the only known gateway in the ancient wall that split the continent in half. It was rumored the ancient citizens of Shadgull constructed it, and it supposedly was built during some massive civil war thousands of years ago, but not much else could be said about it.
The sun was nearing peak height, creating a comfortable warmth on the ground. Though the occasional dense cloud or strong gust of wind was certain to remind the world of the chilly morning air.
Ravion reached the top of one of the few hills. Looking above the patchy trees in the distance, he could see the outline of the massive wall. The details were far from visible, but the image was shocking to say the least. Considering the stone structure towered over the trees lining the east side of the road, the term massive was putting it mildly.
Continuing closer, the iron portcullis took shape before his eyes. He couldn't tell how far away he was, but if such a structure was made to limit troops it must have been one hell of a force to begin with. Ravion slowed, hearing a commotion in the trees beside him. Placing his hand on his father's sword, he stepped off the trail and careful made his way into the forest. Following the unusual sounds, he stepped through the trees. Reaching the overlook on the other side, Ravion froze, lost in the sight before him.
Chirping seagulls and crashing waves echoed along the coast. The shore was lined with large jagged rocks, save for a small, sandy patch. A thick forest spanned from the east, wrapping to the north. And the western horizon was filled by a towering mountain range.
Gareth awoke to the chill of sea water rushing over his body, threatening to cover him completely. Just as it reached his face, it receded back into the ocean, only for another wave to take its place. Opening his eyes, the blaring sun burned into his clouded vision. Shielding himself, he rolled over and wiped the salt out as best he could. Pushing to his hands and knees, he glanced around, hoping to see how many survived the shipwreck.
Rocky canyons towered on either side of the sandy beach. Ocean to south, and a thick forest to the north, it seemed he was all alone. Searching for any evidence, Gareth noticed a large road along the edge of the forest. It turned and cut a thin path into the dense woodland. Surveying the terrain, he felt a sorrow for the loss of his men. If they weren’t here, they were most-likely swallowed by the sea. And yet again, he was the sole survivor, as if the gods continued to curse him. Getting to his feet, he turned toward the sea. To his surprise, his ship’s mast was nowhere to be seen. The waters must have been deeper than he’d thought, despite the numerous rocks breaking the surface. Watching over the watery grave, a silent goodbye echoed inside him. By Corin's grace, sail the eternal seas, my men. May your longing be at an end and your hearth always warm. For the life of a sailor, while wet and cold, is one of exuberance and adventure. Many go their lives without really living. You, my men, did something many never will. You truly lived. Snapping to attention, he gave a final salute and turned toward the forest road.
Reaching the top of the sandy bank, Gareth noticed a group of horsemen riding along the small road.
Breeching the forest, they abandoned their single file and staggered into an arrow formation.
Gareth was certain they saw him. They would have had to have been blind had they not. Hand on his sabre, he assessed the five horsemen, unsure if they were friend or foe.
The group slowed, signifying their desire to talk.
Close enough to make out details, Gare
th looked them over. The first and largest of the group was adorned with a silver helm covering his face. A long tuft of blue fur flowed from the crest, dancing in the wind. His tabard was blue and silver, emblazoned by an odd symbol across the chest. A silver rapier hung on his left hip, graceful in all ways. The man on the right was helmless but wearing similar garments. Instead of the single finesse weapon, a short sword was sheathed on each hip. These two stood out among the rest, dressed in court garb, while the other three appeared brutish in nature. It wasn’t so much their frame or facial expressions, as it was their armor. These three were clearly knights, dressed in thick armors and sporting an assortment of heavy weapons and shields. Though they still displayed the silver and blue sash matching that of the first two.
The group came to a stop several feet away, keeping enough distance to prevent aggression, but close enough to communicate. Large man at the head removed his helm, revealing a mass of flowing golden hair. "Greetings, friend." A friendly smile adorned his face, overlooking the stranded captain.
Gareth waited a moment, studying the man's choice of word. "As I've never met you, I believe the title of friend has yet to be earned." He stated coldly.
The lead man looked the shipwrecked man up and down, allowing his smile to fade to little more than a smirk. "I cannot dispute your logic. However, as I do not yet know your name, it seems as fitting a title as I can muster to show you that we mean no harm. We only wish to assess your situation and offer aid." He paused a moment before continuing, "My name is Master Remle De Leon, Commander of the Heroes and Lord of Shadgull. This is my second, Sir Erik De Leon," He said, gesturing to the younger man on his right. "And my Lieutenants, Sir Victicious Hovay, Sir Jem Asray, and Sir Kald Eirwan." Remle pointed to each of the men. "And you are?"
Gareth glanced over they, measuring each on in his own way. Returning his attention to the large, blond haired man, he replied. "My name is Gareth D'Averon, Captain of the Merratin, sadly resting at the bottom of the sea. We were a fishing vessel from the port city of Everik off the northern coast of Negield. My ship was lost among the rocks, my crew along with it."