by A. C. Cobble
Branden tilted it up and let the harsh fire of the liquor slide down his throat.
“It’s set, then,” prodded the captain, “your resigned to your fate?”
“I have to be,” stated Branden, peering at the bottle in his hands. He looked up at the bearded man outside of his cell. “No one is coming to bail me out. I’m stuck here until Tollefson pays the price, the baron decides to hang me, or the guards get tired of seeing my face. Either way, there’s no chance to earn back the silver I owe, and the moment I’m outside, there’ll be a knife in me. I’d do anything, but… But there’s nothing to do. This is the way it ends.”
“Anything, ey?” asked the captain. He turned to the guards, “I’ll take this one with me.”
Grim-faced, one of the uniformed men appeared at the cell door and peered in at Branden. “He has to go voluntarily. King made it illegal to press ‘em, you know?”
“I know,” agreed the captain. “He’ll go willingly. Ain’t that right, boy? You going to come with me or stay here? If you agree, all it takes is signing the papers.”
Branden blinked at the captain, glancing between him and the guard.
“You sure about this?” asked the guard, meeting Branden’s gaze.
“I—”
“It’s come with me or die,” interjected the captain, shooting a glare at the guard.
“I’ll go,” said Branden, suddenly wondering what he was getting into. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than death, could it?
“Finish that while he prepares the papers,” said the captain, smiling at Branden and nodding at the bottle of foul-tasting liquor.
Branden did as instructed, and when the guard inserted his key and hauled open the door, Branden stumbled out into the poorly lit corridor that passed by the cells.
“Makin’ a mistake, boy,” said the grumpy looking man in the opposite cell. “Not worth it.”
Wordlessly, with a hand held against the wall to steady himself, Branden followed the guard and the captain into an open room. Half a dozen guards were there, but they ignored him. The guard who’d released him pointed to a parchment on the table. An ink-tipped quill and small jar of heated wax was set beside it.
“Sign your name or make your mark, then I’ll dab a bit of that wax beside it and you press your thumb down,” instructed the guard. “That’s it.”
Swaying slightly, Branden peered at the parchment. He could recognize a few words written there, but not most of them.
“Come on, then,” muttered the guard.
“Go ahead and sign. I’ll buy you another drink,” offered the captain.
Branden awoke to a gentle swaying, his stomach sloshing in time, and after a brief moment, he rolled to the side and vomited. His sickness splattered wetly, and he found himself hanging two yards in the air, looking at his sick on the wooden floor below.
“You’re awake, good,” said a deep voice. “It’s just past sunset. When it’s two turns past dawn, we’ll come ashore and disembark. In the meantime, I suggest getting something to eat and drink. Rest and recover. If you need it to stiffen your resolve, I’m opening up the rum barrel when the sun rises. Drink up, but don’t be stupid. You’ll want both your courage and your wits about you. If you don’t stay straight-headed, you won’t make it past the beach.”
“What?” asked Brenden, staring at the deep-voiced man in confusion.
The man was standing opposite the lone source of light in the room, a small oil-filled lantern. He had dark hair, a dark beard, and dark coat and trousers. He might have been wearing a sword, but it was impossible to tell in the gloom.
“What do you mean, what?” snapped the man.
“Where am I?” questioned Branden.
“Frozen hell,” growled the man. “That bastard captain said you’d agreed. He showed me the paperwork. Did you sign it, or did you not?”
“I-I signed something,” muttered Branden, struggling to recall what it’d been.
“Good enough for me,” replied the man. “You need to clean up your own sick. There’s a bucket and rags outside. Before you do, change into your royal blues, ey? Show these louts working the ship we’re made of stiffer stuff. While you’re cleaning up, I’ll arrange your kit. Look it over, then get the food and water like I suggested. Maybe some rest, though a lotta boys like you find it difficult the night before their first action.”
“Action…” muttered Branden, confused.
The man opened the door and disappeared outside, only a sliver of moonlight and the sound of off-pitch singing coming in the doorway. The tune had a familiar ring.
His head pounding, Branden climbed out of the narrow hammock he’d been lying in and glanced around the tiny cabin. A dozen of the hammocks, hung three high, stretched between two walls. A few rucksacks, some halberds, and a few pairs of boots were wedged into corners. A ship, he wondered?
He sniffed and looked down with a grimace.
Not all of his sick had ended up on the floor, and a damp spray across his shirt sleeve smelled as foul as a pig’s back end. He stripped out of his old clothes and tossed them on the floor. The sick from just now and the stench of the gaol cell floor. The clothes were due a healthy burning.
He felt like a new man as he tugged on the simple woolen britches, shirt, and jacket that the stranger had left for him. It fit loosely, but well enough. Anything was better than the old stuff. Deciding that cleaning up the mess on the floor was both courteous and common sense if he was expected to sleep in the room, he stepped out onto the moonlit deck of a sailing ship.
“What the…” he muttered.
“Hello there!” boomed a voice.
He turned and saw the friendly captain who’d bonded him out of gaol. “Where—”
“Your on the deck of my ship, approaching Finavia, boy,” replied the bearded man, his boisterous posturing on the ship leagues away from his calm demeanor back at the baron’s mansion. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on joining the royal marines.”
“The royal…” Branden trailed off as he looked down and saw the dark blue trousers and jacket he’d just put on. Royal blue. Frozen hell. “I didn’t— I didn’t join the marines.”
“You signed the papers, lad,” reminded the captain. “Seven-year term, though it’s not often someone lasts long enough to meet the commitment. Still, it offers an honest salary and an escape from Eiremouth. From what I saw, your days of card playing were over. Your may cheat a sailor, boy, but no one plays dirtier than the peers. Maybe you thought they’d be an easy mark, but the truth is they were coming to cut your throat the moment you sat down. I tried to warn you, but it was no use. Now I’ve done you another favor and got you outta that place.”
“You sold me to the marines!” cried Branden.
The captain snorted. “I collected a recruiting fee, aye. That man Tollefson woulda collected your head, though.”
“Where… where are we going?”
The captain grinned broadly. “We are going to the coast near Tounnes. Then you and your new brothers are going ashore. I’ll be headed back to Enhover to pick up another batch of fresh blood.”
“You cleaned up that mess in the cabin yet?” asked another man, the same one who’d been in the cabin when he woke. The man clapped one hand on Branden’s shoulder, in his other he held a small pack and a dangling sword. “Look alive, boy, you’re a royal marine now. If you’re this green just crossing the sea, you’re really going to struggle when we land and see the ranks of Finavia, Ivalla, and Rhensar arrayed in front of us. You know they’re allied now, right? It’s why Duke William Wellesley has pushed so hard on recruiting. The whole damn continent is set against us!”
Branden stared at the man, working his mouth silently. A sergeant, by the tassels on his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say.
“Ah, it won’t be so bad,” assured the sergeant, giving Branden’s shoulder a squeeze. “William and the boys will hit ‘em hard from above, then all we gotta do is mop up the remainder. Let me
tell you, southern Finavia will be an easier march than going through that spirit-forsaken forest in the Coldlands. Finavia is all wine, vineyards, and beautiful women from what I’ve been told. To the conqueror go the spoils, ey? Look around you, boy, we’re not alone in this. You’re our brother, now, a proper royal marine.”
Branden did look, and over the gunwales, he saw they were surrounded by a fleet. Lanterns bobbing on dark seas, dozens, maybe hundreds of vessels all sailing to Finavia. Sailing to war. The sergeant pointed up, and hundreds of yards above their sails, Branden saw the unmistakable outlines of an airship. A royal marine airship.
“We’re going to build an empire, boy, but first, go back in the cabin and clean up the mess you made.”
The captain shouted a brisk order, and the sailors scrambled to work, bursting into a rambunctious song as they raised the sails.
My lassie awaits me upon far the shore
Ho ho raise the main sail
My heart’ll ache til I pine for ‘er no more
Ho ho raise the main sail
Tip me the grog and I’ll drink my cup down
Ho ho raise the main sail
At the bottom of me tankard, that’s how I will drown
Ho ho raise the main sail
High breasts and full lips, ‘er skin like cream
Ho ho raise the main sail
‘Er naked body, it’s of all I can dream
Ho ho raise the main sail
Raise high your rum, let it crash like the sea
Ho ho raise the main sail
Drink as ya will, ya won’t get drunker than me
Ho ho raise the main sail
I’ll make her my wife, her beauty her charm
Ho ho raise the main sail
But while I’m away, any port that is warm
Ho ho raise the main sail
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