Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  Let’s just worry about getting the power first, shall we? decided Lycon, and happy to have his priorities in the correct order again, he gave the horse a commanding dig with his spurs and continued his descent at a much more satisfactory pace.

  CHAPTER FOUR – LYCON’S HEROES

  Two centuries ago, while the then Kingdom of Lucinia and the Daevastan Autokracy had been too busy kicking seven kinds of shit out of each other to bother with colonial adventures, Brython mariners had been the undisputed rulers of the Brimiric Ocean. In spite of this, the settlements they had established on the far western continent of Drægland, known to the Lucinians as New Arkady, had long since collapsed due to lack of investment, weak governance, and trigger-happy Lucinian frigates. Another factor, although highly disputed, were the tales of survivors from certain settlements who had returned home as gibbering wrecks. While the last of these depressing cases had long ago breathed his last on the floor of some seedy Blackwyk tavern, mumbling incoherently about ghosts and revenants, it had played no small part in taking the shine off the idea of imperial expansion, at least in that direction.

  Even so, the Brythons remained masters of the Brimiric crossing, with knowledge of the surface currents that gave their drekkar and knerrir the advantage of speed even over Lucinian steam-cutters. Still, it was a long and tedious voyage at the best of times. Master Cædmon, a veteran of the Third Fleet who had spent most of his life on one deck or another, had for the first week of the voyage found it an easy task to keep up the morale of his less seasoned crewmates. Now approaching the end of their second week of empty horizons, stale rations, stagnant water, and seemingly endless card games – which might have been more stimulating had the stakes not always consisted of spare ship nails – the strain was beginning to tell even on him. To feel firm land under my feet and to taste something fresh … Just for that the bloody ghosts can have my soul, and I wish them joy of it.

  No sooner had he thought this, though, than he inwardly reproached himself. True, the voyage had gone smoothly enough so far, with fair winds, calm seas, and no unlucky encounters with the Lucinian Navy, but the weary crew was now markedly less efficient, and they depended on him – the ranking mariner – to keep their spirits up. The grey uniform had been all but abandoned, leaving the crew slouching around in a mixture of greasy fatigues and civilian clothing. Even Ensign Ashbyrn had shed his silver helmet and his long, strait-fitting uniform jacket, and just wore his grey breeches, his high boots, and a loose linen shirt. No-one had shaved since the beginning of the voyage, and in their coarse wool and leather garments, aboard their swift but obsolete sailing vessel, Cædmon thought that they looked more like the Brython raiders of old than Lord Lycon’s sleek, disciplined, new-and-improved professionals. Right, and if I stuck a nice shiny collar on a wild, slavering varg, no doubt it’d magically turn it into a loyal and friendly guard dog, he thought, cynically. Now approaching his sixtieth year, and having lived through more than his share of bloodshed and mayhem, Cædmon was actually quite grateful to be spending the winter of his naval career in the most well-ordered of the Brython fleets, but he knew his people too well to believe that there was any danger of this modern ethos catching on. Seven hundred years ago, the Brythons’ ancestors had taken ship from the fiefdom of Thalmark, much later to become Southern Lucinia, because they were sick to death of being dictated to, taxed, and generally bullied by the archduke and his cavaliers. That desire for freedom, and loathing of strong, formal government had become almost instinctively embedded in the Brython character. It would take more than one sealord’s ambition to sway them from it, whatever the gains. It’ll take a damn miracle, and on the whole I reckon I could live without seeing that.

  Still, some of Lord Lycon’s ethos would not have gone amiss right now, Cædmon had to admit, as he looked around him at a host of tired, apathetic faces. The knarr was a small, single-decked vessel, with only a canvas tent across the midsection to provide any shelter. Ensign Ashbyrn was sitting within this tent, as he often did, re-reading the mission documents. While Cædmon could not fault his dedication, he could have wished that the young officer had done more to bond with the mariners under his command. The secretive nature of their mission had cast a pall of anxiety and suspicion over the crew from day one, and there had been precious little sense of camaraderie. As long as they were still on course, which Cædmon did not doubt that they were, in spite of the crew’s recent sloppiness, they would be making landfall soon, and he did not relish the thought of being sub-commander over a squad of potential deserters in hostile, barely-charted territory. It was possible that the ensign had been ordered not to divulge details of the mission with his crew, or like as not even he doesn’t have a fucking clue what this is all about. Either way, whether the young lord was unwilling or simply unable to clear up the air of sordid intrigue, that only left Cædmon himself to try to breathe some inspiration into the crew.

  “Look sharp, lads,” he shouted, drawing a few listless glances. “Anyone’d think we’re sailing to a bleedin’ funeral, to look at you lot. Wouldn’t think you were Lord Lycon’s hand-picked heroes, would they? They’ll be writin’ sagas about us in years to come, I tell you.”

  “Sure they will,” said Able Mariner Eadwulf, while urinating over the bulwark. “Real epic shit, this. Do you suppose there’s any mermaids in these waters?”

  “No, you soft bastard,” answered AM Colgrim, the helmsman. “Not for the past five thousand years, anyway, and even if there were I don’t reckon that’s much of a way to go about attracting them.”

  “Shame,” replied Eadwulf, lacing up his breeches with a sigh. “Little Gudric there’s starting to look really attractive all of a sudden, and I’ll swear to you I thought he was a right ugly bugger at the start of this voyage.” Mariner Gudric briefly looked up from the rope he was splicing, threw a quick scowl aft, then immediately got back to work. “No kidding, lads: I’d fuck Queen Ironface herself if she was here, with or without the mask.”

  Cædmon did not much care for that. While female officers had previously been unheard of in Brythenedd, the noblewomen of that land were no strangers to authority. Since wars had the effect of depopulating the country of most men except for invalids, idiots, farm-thralls, and the very elderly, and since so many Brythons loved nothing more than a hearty war, it had often fallen to the wives of the eorls to manage the whole of what passed for the Brython economy. For that, they had earned a great deal of respect. Of course, I guess she isn’t really one of us, but … The jest still did not sit quite right with him. The Alvere queen was a frightfully easy target and Cædmon, whose own face was a proud if hardly picturesque collection of battle-scars, could not help but take that cheap shot somewhat personally. On the other hand, he reflected, it seems that I’ve her and Lord Lycon to thank for being lumbered with this blasted mystery voyage and this crew of suspicious buggers to motivate. Just for that, he decided to let the remark pass. At least the lads are talking again, and what she don’t know about ain’t going to hurt her.

  “Yeah. Good luck with that, mate,” said Colgrim, with a note of distaste. “Rather you than me. My mam always told me that if you diddle with the elf-girls, it shrivels up and drops off, but to each his own.”

  “Nice way with words, your mam’s got … Err,” Eadwulf added, in an ill-judged undertone: the ship was far too small to allow for any real privacy. “On second thoughts, maybe we oughtn’t to be talking like this in front of his Lordship, only I kind of heard as he might be a personal friend of the Queen’s, so–”

  “I’m really not,” interrupted Ensign Ashbyrn, emphatically, glancing up from his studies. “Please continue, Eadwulf. Personally, I’d be happier to never even see the damn woman again, but as Mister Colgrim says, to each his own.”

  Poor bloody lass … Not a bad bonding technique, though, thought Cædmon, with qualified approval, noting that Ashbyrn had memorised the men’s names. He had known many a more experienced officer who had not even taken that trouble. E
ncouraging their banter, however cruel the subject, was also a sound move. It increased their odds of making landfall as a cohesive unit, and if even one of the wild stories Cædmon had heard about Drægland happened to be true, he knew it was not the sort of place where he ever wanted to be caught alone.

  “I’m with the captain on this one,” said Colgrim, a little sycophantically, but Cædmon was pleased to note a subtle hint of pride in the ensign’s expression at being thus referred to. A reluctant leader could be worse than none. “You don’t want to go messing with those Alvere bitches. Not unless you fancy catching something way more interesting and lethal than you’ll get off the whores in Blackwyk.”

  “So speaks the expert,” quipped Eadwulf, then turned his attention to the youngest crewmember. “Hey, Gudric! What about you, eh? You even had your cherry popped yet, and would you be happy for old Iron-chops do the honours?”

  “No,” replied Gudric, bluntly, without even looking up from his splicing. Cædmon had been worried about their youngest crewmember from the beginning, and did not take this as an encouraging sign. Not only was Gudric barely in his manhood, but unlike the rest of the crew of freemen, he was a conscripted thrall. Cædmon, who himself had risen from that lowest of lows to freeman status, did not hold that against him, but he had seen all too many others from that background driven to suicide, desertion, and the gallows. The bullying of new recruits – especially of thralls and conscripts – was widespread and even encouraged by some officers, although Lord Lycon had never cared for it in his fleet. Which is to his credit, I guess, but it just goes to show that he lives in a dream-world. In spite of his inexperience, Gudric had served well and faithfully aboard the lofdreki, but courage would not be enough to keep him sane and alive if he chose to alienate himself from his crewmates. On the whole, Cædmon felt he would do the lad a greater service not to respect such a choice.

  “Well now, I like a man who knows his mind,” he said, jovially, to Gudric, who looked up with a respectful if uncomfortable air. “Bit harsh though, ain’t it? I mean to say, how bad-looking can she be? That steel mask’s probably no thicker than the layers of paint you’ll find on some fancy Lucinian bird.”

  “Didn’t mean that,” replied Gudric, timidly. “I just meant … the Alvere Queen’s a real lady. She ain’t for the likes of me.”

  A heavy, awkward silence fell, and Cædmon bit his lip. Fuck me, that could have been a mistake. He could feel the imminent, merciless ribbing in the air, building like a thunderstorm, and the only mystery was which crewmember would hurl the first lightning bolt of mockery.

  “Well there’s a fucking turn-up,” Colgrim eventually said, in an even more snide tone than usual. “Hear that, boys? Little Gudric’s in love. So lad, when’s the wedding to be? I’m guessing your betrothed’ll be keeping her veil on in bed.”

  “It’s nothing to do with that. It’s … You wouldn’t care, anyway,” replied Gudric, irritated but otherwise unfazed. “You’ll just laugh at it.”

  “Maybe, lad, but we could all use a good laugh,” said Cædmon, in a genial tone. Fond though he was of the lad, he knew it would not help him to let him take himself too seriously. “No secrets, now. We’ve enough of those already. Let’s hear your story.” Gudric sighed, put his work aside, and hesitantly commenced his tale:

  “Alright … About a year ago, I guess … I was living on Strygholm, working on the Eorl’s lands … Just me and my mam. She weren’t doing so well, though: a ploughshare went over her leg; proper did it in. Depended on me, she did. Then–”

  “Was that meant to be the funny bit, ‘cause I ain’t laughing yet?” asked Colgrim, sneeringly. Before Cædmon could rebuke him, Ensign Ashbyrn spoke, in a calm, quiet, yet surprisingly threatening voice:

  “I’m sorry, Mister Colgrim, that you don’t find it funnier that Gudric’s mother was grievously maimed.”

  “I … err … I didn’t mean nothing by it, sir,” stammered Colgrim, while Cædmon looked on approvingly. I may have underestimated this lordling.

  “Glad to hear it. Please, continue,” concluded Ashbyrn, turning to Gudric.

  “Yes sir,” said Gudric, respectfully but without any trace of smugness. Sensible lad: he knows better than to make himself the officer’s pet. “Anyhow, last Reademon is when it all kicks off: loads of mariners in greys and work-teams of thralls start arriving on the island, and they build this huge camp in the field between the village and the Eorl’s castle. At first we locals don’t figure what it’s all for, and why they need so much space, then they start building ships. We’re three kilometres inland, and they’re building ships in a field. We’re all thinking the Eorl’s lost his marbles, but we go on as normal and try and keep to ourselves. Then, when the ships are almost finished, they start coming,” he declared, his expression darkening. “The press-gangs, seizing any young lads they can find. Some of them a lot younger than me,” he added, although that information failed to shock anyone. Cædmon, in his time, had seen plenty of deck-thralls and powder-monkeys who had looked as if they were barely out of their swaddling-clothes. “My mam’s got no-one else to take care of her, so when they come for me I try and hide in the pigsty. Doesn’t do no good, though. They find me and drag me out, they call me a stinking coward, rough me up good and proper. Then, as they’re hauling me away, I look back and I see my mam lying in the dirt outside our cottage, with their officer standing over her, calling her a traitorous whore and kicking her. When I see that, I don’t give a shit anymore whether they hang me or not. All I want now is a chance to get even with that bastard, so I bide my … err …” he tailed off, as it suddenly dawned upon him that many an officer would not care at all for these sentiments, and Ensign Ashbyrn was listening intently. However, Gudric’s fears proved unfounded.

  “Go on,” urged Ashbyrn, sympathetically. “I’m no patriot, I assure you, or they’d never have put me on this mission, I think. Did you get your wish?”

  “Kind of, sir. They took me and the other conscripts to the camp in chains, and they penned us all up like cattle. The able mariners just laughed at us, threw manure, called us their little bitches … you get the idea. Didn’t bother me. I was just keeping my eyes on that officer, making sure I didn’t lose him in the crowd, ‘cause as soon as they let me out I was going to take the first chance I could to put my hands round his neck, whether they shot me for it or not. The only time I started to panic was when I lost sight of him, then I just looked around everywhere … and then I saw her,” he declared, with awe in his voice. “Striding through the camp in her greys, with her metal mask on. Didn’t know she was an Alvere then. I hadn’t a clue what she was, except that she meant business. She strides right up to the commanding officer, and talks to him as high-and-mighty as an eorl talking to his house-thrall. ‘Why are these boys being treated like animals?’ she asks. ‘They’re to be trained for my ships. Lord Lycon assured me I would have motivated men. Not a broken-spirited rabble.’ The CO ain’t impressed. Tells her to mind her place, so she points at the runes on her shoulders. ‘See these?’ she asks. ‘Your sealords gave me these, and they say I’m your superior officer. So, are you going to get these lads out of the cage, or am I going to be arresting you for mutiny?’ Whole place has gone quiet now, and the CO’s just staring at her like she’s mad. I half agreed with him, truth be told.”

  “A woman, and an alien to boot, flaunting the runes of a fleet captain,” said Ashbyrn, with a note of derision. “Not to mention the Eorl of Strygholm’s never been overly fond of Lord Lycon’s reforms, and he prefers like-minded men under his command. This officer probably thought the whole world had gone mad, and before he knew it the Convocation would be entirely staffed by little girls in pigtails … Anyway, what happened? Did he obey her?”

  “Did he fuck … begging your pardon, sir. No, he ignored her. Just turned his back and told his men to carry on as usual. She’s having none of it, though. ‘I gave you an order, Captain,’ she says. ‘This is your last warning: obey me or face the consequ
ences.’ Now, that’s done it for him. He turns right back around, and smacks her across the face … which was kind of stupid, really. So, there’s this big clang, and while the CO’s busy nursing his bruised fingers, the lady reaches into her pocket and takes out this little pistol. It’s one of those fancy six-barrelled Lucinian pieces, all chased silver and ebony. Bit la-di-da, but it gets the job done. That CO barely has time to look shocked before she puts one right in his head. His lieutenant’s standing there, gawping, not knowing whether he ought to arrest her or not … or more likely whether he dared try to arrest her.”

  “Say what you like. Striking a superior officer is mutiny, mask or no mask,” pointed out Cædmon, “and woman or not, if the sealords gave her that rank. I’ve known plenty of men get worse than a bullet to the head for that. Just imagine what Lord Corin would have done …”

  “Something involving hempen whips with lots of red-hot nails pushed through them, I would conjecture,” suggested Ashbyrn, casually. “Still, it might be a less humiliating demise, if nothing else. So what next, Gudric?”

  “Well sir, the lieutenant’s still dumbstruck, so she talks to him. ‘Congratulations,’ she says, putting her pistol away. ‘Looks as if you’ve just made captain. Now, strike the chains off these boys and get them something to eat. While you’re doing that, I’ll explain to them why we’ve conscripted them.’ Like I cared. So she starts speechifying to us lads, and I can’t say as I pay much attention. Lot of talk about necessary sacrifices, fixing injustices, greater good, whatever. But then I really start paying attention, ‘cause she asks each of us if we’re leaving behind any dependants: any kids, or any old folks who can’t get by without us. Says she wants to make sure they get properly taken care of while we’re away, or if we never come back. She’s the first noble I ever knew who gave a shit about that sort of thing,” he added, with both awe and wonder. “I guess that made me a bit bolder … then I sees him again: that bastard officer, watching along with the others, looking at us like we’re filth. So, when she comes to me, and asks me who I’m leaving behind, I tells her, ‘Just my old mam, Milady, but I don’t know as she’s going to live much longer ‘cause last I saw of her, that man was kicking her in the gut,’ and I point that officer out. He stares back at me like he’s about to flay me alive, but that don’t last long. The lady whips out her shooter again and turns it right on him, and now he’s starting to panic, calling me a dirty liar and a coward. So she asks him what she’ll find if she decides to pay a visit to our cottage. Now the little fucker’s really panicking, down on his knees, with those dainty little gun-barrels hovering between his piggy eyes. Can’t see the look on her face, of course, which just makes it scarier. He’s pleading and stammering, and his breeches are getting darker between the legs, if you know what I mean. Eventually, she puts up her gun, and I’ve never seen a man look more relieved, but his bad day ain’t over yet: she calls him the liar and the coward, and has him demoted and enthralled right there in front of the whole camp. His greys are stripped off, he’s chained up in his damp smallclothes, and he’s chucked into the pen we’ve just been let out of, blubbering like a babe … So you see, this Gloriana could be as ugly as a kraken for all I care, because that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he concluded, with grim pleasure. Another spell of silence ensued, but the appetite for cruel mirth seemed to have dissipated.