SeaJourney (Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals Book 1)

by Alex Paul

  “You ate half!” Arken teased and poked her as he sat, making her laugh all the more. All too soon, their happy breakfast was over, and it was time to leave.

  “Goodbye, Arlet,” Arken said as he hugged his Nander grandmother goodbye. For a moment, he wished he’d had more time with her, but then he realized he’d spent most of his life around Arlet, and what he was really wishing was that he’d known all that time that she was his grandmother.

  A harse-drawn cart that his father had hired appeared in the street. His family climbed aboard, and Arken took one last look at his house before the cart rounded the corner and his home disappeared from view.

  They soon joined the other city residents on the docks for the festive, annual send off for SeaJourney.

  “I’m so proud of you, Arken.” Nortak clapped him on the back as they stood on the dock teeming with cadets.

  “For what?” Arken asked.

  “For defeating Gart and being a part of all this. Just look about you. This is a historic day. We are preparing the fleet for war!”

  Cadets and their families swarmed the dock in the midday sun as slaves carried cadet’s duffels and supplies up the gangplank to the ship that would be home to the cadets for a moonth. White gulls wheeled in the sky and dove for fish nearby, and harses whinnied nervously while flicking their tails at flies, adding to the frantic atmosphere of carts waiting in line. The squeals of delight and sounds of crying as people said hello and goodbye competed with the gull’s cries. The smells were frantic: the sweat of fear, old canvas, seawater, and rotting docks mingled with the stink of fish and fresh sea air.

  Preparations for war added to the confusion and excitement as well. The king had ordered the refitting of every ship in the fleet. Harse carts full of new sails, rope, fresh food, weapons, armor, Mork’s fire bombs, surgery supplies, and all the items needed to supply a ship at sea filled dock after dock across the harbor. Sailors and dock workers swarmed like ants over ships and carts.

  “It is exciting,” Arken agreed.

  “You’re lucky to be young and going off to war,” Nortak said. “Remember to keep the soothsayer’s warning in mind, but don’t lose sleep about it. You’ll be fine.” He leaned in close and whispered, “You’re wearing the knife?”

  “Yes,” Arken assured him, though his father’s words made him more, rather than less, nervous. And he wanted so badly to speak with his father about their secret Nander heritage. But he hadn’t had an opportunity, and since his father hadn’t made an effort to speak with him, Arken worried he was not supposed to bring it up. And now he was leaving!

  “Nortak, my old friend!” Magra, the Alda of the Academy, shouted as he approached them. The crowds parted to make way for the head of the school as he limped along in his white, flowing robe with gold trim that hung down to his sandals. A wooden crutch under his right arm carried much of his weight.

  Magra drew up to them and grabbed Arken’s shoulder with his left hand, bracing himself firmly on the crutch. “Here’s the young man. Arken, son of Nortak! I’m told you advanced by combat when height failed you at the rock test! Most admirable, eh, Nortak?”

  “A warrior can have no better skill than swordfighting.” Nortak shook forearms with the Alda.

  “Arken’s an excellent swordfighter.” Lar had been standing behind Magra and now stepped forward to also shake arms with Arken’s father. Lar grasped Nortak’s left arm, or shield arm, by the elbow, and then they touched their chests with their right arms, which was the unarmed citizen’s version of shaking arms that imitated the military sword and shield salute used when armed. “Arken tells me you’ve spent hours training him with the sword!”

  “Not just me—this is my father, Balloom.” Nortak turned to Arken’s grandfather. “He sparred many nights with Arken, as well as teaching him to use the bow. My father is bowmaker to the king.”

  “Honored, sir,” Lar said as he shook Balloom’s arm.

  “I’m honored as well.” Balloom’s leathery face crinkled into a smile. Arken could see Lar’s respect had touched his grandfather.

  “Arken, you couldn’t have a better instructor than a bowmaker,” Lar added.

  “He made me a bow as a birthday gift.” Arken beamed. “With your permission, I’ll bring it on SeaJourney.” He held out the gastag sheath and quiver.

  Lar took it and partially withdrew the bow to examine it.

  “Goodness, I’ve never seen a bow of this quality,” Lar exclaimed. “I think it’s an excellent idea to bring your bow, Arken. Though if you wish to practice on board, you’ll need the captain’s approval. We don’t usually encourage boys to take bows to sea, but there’s no harm in one boy bringing a special bow.” Lar spoke quickly, and Arken could see he was excited. Lar had often spoken in class about life at sea and how SeaJourney was a grand adventure. His enthusiasm made Arken even more eager to be underway. “Perhaps you could fish with your bow!”

  “Excellent idea.” Nortak clapped Lar’s back. “I wish I were going. We fished with bows many years ago when you were a little boy, Arken. Do you remember that?”

  “Only slightly.” He couldn’t believe someone so enormous and dangerous looking as his father could be as excited as Arken was for his first SeaJourney.

  “He was quite deadly fishing with his own small bow years ago,” Nortak added.

  “So you’re ready for SeaJourney?” Lar looked Arken in the eye. “No lasting injuries from trying to lift Tok or sparring with Gart?”

  “Just a little sore in my back, but I’ll be fine.” Arken didn’t want to tell Lar his back still hurt more than just being a little sore, for fear they wouldn’t let him go.

  “What an exciting time in these young men’s lives!” Magra straightened himself on his crutch and glanced around. “I’d give everything to be young again and leave on this journey.” Magra sighed. “This blasted knee has ruined me. Otherwise, I would be joining this voyage, just like in the old days, eh, Nortak?”

  “This day reminds me of our departure for the Catonian war.” Nortak indicated the harbor scene with a wave of his heavily muscled arm.

  Several men stepped back, alarmed that they might have done something to offend Arken’s father, but they relaxed when they saw he was just gesturing.

  “Aye, a grand voyage.” Magra squeezed Nortak’s arm.

  “There is nothing like the thrill of the sun setting on your ship at sea,” Nortak said. “You’re alive in Kal’s bosom, with milts of stars soon to show above.”

  Arken felt his legs trembling and wondered if his calves were going to cramp again. He didn’t want that embarrassment in front of all these people! He tried to breathe deeply, but he was so excited to leave. Sunset on the ship followed by milts of stars... He couldn’t wait!

  “Well put, Nortak.” Magra snapped his fingers in delight, and his long robe danced with the movement of his arms. “Nortak, do you remember Captain Mundor saving my life at the battle of Balor?”

  Arken had heard the story before, so his attention wandered. He spied Tozzal and Han milling in the crowd. He waved and, when their parents saw Magra speaking with Nortak, they came over. Many of the parents had never had the honor of meeting Magra, and now Arken found himself suddenly popular.

  “Arken is your study mate, isn’t he?” Tozzal’s mother asked her son as they drew near. Nortak duly made introductions.

  “Please, continue your tale.” Tozzal’s father nodded deferentially to Magra.

  Tozzal and Han were Arken’s closest friends in school. Instructors formed cadets into groups of three to practice weapons and study together, and they had been in the same group all year. Both boys were half a head taller than Arken, and both had passed the rock test earlier in the year. Tozzal had a thick head of black hair, brown eyes, prominent cheekbones, and broad shoulders, while Han was slightly taller, with a leaner face and build, red hair, and green eyes.

  “Hello,” Arken said in a cheerful voice.

  But Tozzal and Han didn’t smile or
reply. It never changed from year to year. No matter who his class partners were, they always acted friendly during school, but stayed aloof in public where others would criticize them for befriending a commoner. Arken understood their behavior.

  In Lanth, a commoner was to a royal as a slave was to a commoner. Even though he understood Han and Tozzal, it didn’t feel good receiving a slave’s treatment from them. Then he realized that while he had always been friendly with Arlet at home, he had never acted friendly toward her in public.

  He suddenly felt awful because he realized that his treatment must have been so hurtful to his grandmother. Arken promised himself that in the future he would change his ways and treat Arlet—in fact, all slaves—decently in public. They deserved respect, even if they were Nanders.

  He watched as families from all classes of the Academy, from six-year-olds up to his class, streamed onto the dock for the farewell ceremony. He estimated at least five hundred people had come to see them off. Even the Queen’s Trackers had chosen to attend.

  The boys rarely saw Trackers, because the girls attended class in the city and not the fort, even though they were officially Academy students. Growing up, royal boys and girls rarely mingled with anyone outside their family members. Arken had always thought this odd, because all royals committed to their future mates at age eight and married at eighteen.

  The Trackers were the healthiest-looking girls he had ever seen in Lanth. They reminded him of wild anlops with their lean muscles under skin that carried little fat. Most of them trained to join the King’s Harsemen as scouts, which was designated by the small purple- and-white harse patch on the front of their tunic shoulders.

  Women were lighter and easier on the three-harse teams they rode into battle. If their harses failed, they could still deliver messages by running, as it was well known that women had better stamina than men. A few of the Queen’s Trackers looked his way, but when he smiled back they giggled, so he turned away in embarrassment.

  He noticed his mother had tired of Magra’s war story and had drawn Em aside, dropping to one knee to speak to her. He turned to speak to them, but Balloom grabbed his shoulder as he went by.

  “Set your pack down and rest with your grandfather,” Balloom commanded. Arken did so.

  “I don’t see any other boys with bows. Are you sure you want to bring yours?”

  “Yes, Grandfather, the soothsayer told me to bring it, and Lar gave permission.” He squeezed the bow and quiver to his chest.

  “Then you’ll be fine.” Balloom patted Arken’s shoulder, and the heavy callouses on his hands scratched through his tunic.

  “The bow reminds me of practicing with you every day.” Arken felt proud. “It was the best part of my day.”

  “Well, don’t you know how to make an old man happy?” Balloom squatted by Arken. “Are you all right, Arken? You don’t seem happy.”

  “I had an odd dream this morning, Grandfather.” Arken spoke in a low voice. “My classmate was trying to kill me.”

  “Do you think it was a vision?” Balloom looked alarmed. “Your mother said the soothsayer thinks you have powers.”

  “I’m not sure. The dream seemed real. I’m scared, Grandfather. I’m excited to go, but I don’t want to die. What would you do if you were me? Would you go?”

  “It’s not what I would want,” Balloom said. “I served with the King’s Harsemen. But this is your life fate now, you can’t back out of what you’ve chosen already.”

  “No backing out,” Arken agreed.

  “Tell me your dream,” Balloom said.

  Arken glanced around. He didn’t want anyone to hear, so he drew Balloom over to an empty part of the dock a few feet away before relating the events of the dream. Balloom’s face turned grave as he listened.

  “Sounds like he was trying to toss you into the sea.” He cupped his hand over his mouth. “Hmmm... this is a vision of evil, Arken. You’re sensing his hatred and that he wants to kill you.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Here’s what I advise.” Balloom gripped Arken’s neck, drawing him close. Balloom smelled of wood, pitch, and gastag hide, the scent of a bowmaker and a good, honest smell.

  “If someone is planning to murder you, remember that ships are dangerous places. Decks are slippery and night is long. People sometimes disappear overboard.” Balloom looked out to sea.

  “Are you telling me I should kill Gart?”

  “Perhaps.” The noise of the crowd covered his low voice as he looked around to make sure no one listened. “Only you can decide. I’m just saying you are entering a man’s world today. If you know someone is planning a sneak attack, or you know someone is going to try to murder you, you must attack first. Fighting fairly and in the open is stupid if you’re outmatched.”

  “I am outmatched! He’s so much bigger than me! I was lucky to win the sparring match. I was just quicker.”

  “Don’t be concerned, you will grow soon. Your Nander blood has just delayed your growth time,” Balloom reminded him. “But in warfare, you must act ahead of your enemy. Accidents happen on ships, often without witnesses. Without witnesses, murder becomes accident, lies become truth, surprise upsets advantage.” He stared into Arken’s eyes. “You’re carrying the obsidian knife your father gave you?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s—” His grandfather grabbed his hand before Arken could touch the sheath beneath his tunic.

  “It’s a secret, there’s nothing there at all.” Balloom glanced about as if worried someone had seen. “It’s a tool to relieve you of an enemy on guard duty on a moonless night. You’ve learned in school to kill from behind by cutting the throat?”

  “Yes.” Arken nodded. “Grab and slash.”

  “Then grab, slash, and tip him over the railing. You can be gone before there’s a splash in the sea, and no blood trace to cause suspicion.”

  “I understand.” Arken’s heart beat like the pounding gait of a harse in full charge. He felt guilty. He looked around the crowd, sure that someone had heard Balloom or knew what was going through Arken’s mind.

  “Is there a safe place on a ship to remove an enemy?” Arken looked at the Sea Nymph with new curiosity.

  “The main deck sits about two legs below the level of the command deck and the crew deckhouse.” Balloom pointed at the middle of the ship. “A man armed with a small blade might hide at night near the railing by the crew deckhouse and wait for someone assigned to patrol the ship. The tillerman couldn’t see from where he stands on the command deck.”

  “You’re right.” Arken’s eyes turned to the place where the tillerman stood at the tiller bar.

  “Cut the throat to keep the man from yelling, and then get him overboard fast to keep the bleeding down.” Balloom added, “It’s a good idea to carry a wet cloth with you, with a stone sewn into a corner, for wiping blood off the deck, or your hands for that matter.”

  “Why a stone?”

  “It sinks immediately when you toss it overboard.” Balloom winked at him. “If you want to be extra careful, you could wear an apron with a stone and toss that as well, and then your tunic stays clean.”

  “Have you killed a man like this before, Grandfather?”

  “Me? Arken?” The friendly look left Balloom’s face as he squeezed Arken’s arm so hard it hurt.

  “Ow!” Arken winced. His grandfather had never hurt Arken before, yet he had now with his powerful grip.

  “I squeezed you hard so you would never forget this lesson, Arken: never ask a man if he has murdered someone. You’re asking a question that could turn him into a liar if he has killed someone, because he has to say no, and a gentleman hates to lie.”

  “Oh... Oh! I see,” Arken said. The pain in his arm had confused him for a second, but he understood now. He would never ask anyone that question again.

  “Remember, if you must kill this boy, never tell anyone, no matter how guilty you feel. Not your wife, me, or your parents. Tell no one about the dark moment you had to
slay a man without honor to save yourself.” Balloom added, “That deed is between you, the other man, and Kal. Time or war will eventually get the better of you, and you will die. When you face Kal, he will decide if you behaved justly as a warrior and grant you entry into the Hall of Warriors.”

  “So I could remove an enemy and Kal would still accept me?”

  “Yes! Because Kal knows your enemy’s heart as well,” Balloom assured him. “Kal forgives a murder like that.”

  It suddenly struck Arken that grandfather’s years of instruction were not about shooting an arrow to hit a bale of straw. Someday a man would stand before him, and Arken would slay him with his bow. Killing people seemed more real with Balloom telling him how to murder Gart.

  “Thank you, Grandfather, I’ll remember your words.”

  “Good!” Balloom rose. “I spent too many afternoons teaching you the bow to have the effort tossed away over some silly sparring grudge.”

  “You didn’t waste your time teaching me the bow, Grandfather,” Arken assured Balloom, casting his own fears aside. “I will prove to you I’m a good warrior.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. If you’re like your father, you’ll soon begin growing taller quite quickly, and your muscles will surprise you with their power.”

  “I hope so.” Arken sighed.

  “You will be surprised Arken. Soon you’re going to have the strength of three powerful warriors.”

  “Really? I’ll be that strong?”

  “You’ve never noticed how strong your father is?”

  “I know he’s strong, but three times as strong?”

  “Even at his age today, no two men on this dock could defeat him if equally matched with spears, sword, and armor. When he was not much older than you are now, not even three men could have defeated him.”

  “You’re sure?” Arken looked at his father with newfound admiration.

  “I’d wager my life on it.” Balloom’s smile resembled crinkled gastag hide. “A Nander bull can lift five times the weight of a human. Your Nander blood is going to serve you well.”

  Just then, Em tugged at his arm.

  “What is Grandfather telling you about?” Em asked as she ran up next to Arken.