by Alex Paul
“Tell your men they have my permission to grumble about rowing and fatigue and heat, for I grumble as well. If life handed treasure to idle hands, then fortune would favor babies over hard men on ships.”
His officers laughed again.
“However,” Yolanta continued, “there is no reason to fear we won’t reach land. Land is ahead, and we make progress each day. So tell your men, until we make landfall, whoever questions my judgment in following the compass will find the lash on his back, and rowing will hurt even more.” Yolanta paused for emphasis.
“But those who say it is hot, or that rowing is hard work and they wish they were languishing in a cool mountain steam, then to those I say, be resolute. I want the same thing as you. Just know that, soon, we will be ashore.”
The ship turned dead quiet, like a burial ground before rinfall. The only sounds were the creaking hulls as the swell lifted and lowered each vessel.
“And tell them I have ordered our lookouts to be silent, to give the men on deck a chance to call out, land ahead! Whichever man says this first, I will pay one drot of gold.”
His officers gasped. One drot would allow a man to buy an estate of enough size to be independently wealthy. Now all hands would be looking for a thin, blue-green line of land on the horizon, rather than proclaiming it would never come.
“You can also tell them of the treasure we hunt. I have waited until now to tell you, because we chase a secret prize, a prize I could not trust to any, even those at this table.”
His officers frowned and shared looks that said, we thought we knew the prize we pursue.
“We are after the Tolarian priests and their temple treasure, certainly. When we caught that Tolarian ship off Baltak, one of their officers joined our crew. He serves us faithfully. I spared his life because he told me the treasure chest is carried by a fast freighter in their fleet called the Golden Willow,” Yolanta continued. “In that chest lies something more valuable than the temple’s wealth.”
He paused to sip some mead and to create tension. He had learned over the years how to captivate a crowd of men, how to appeal to their greed and their fear.
“The Necklace of Tol lies in a small treasure chest carried within the temple’s treasure chest. The necklace is a treasure worth more than all the rest together.”
“The necklace is a myth!” Pequed, one of his captains, objected. “Only fools believe in prophecy.”
Pequed was a fine captain and an excellent navigator. His narrow nose and close eyes made him look like a hawk, and Yolanta often felt as if a hawk was attacking him when he talked with Pequed, for Pequed usually disagreed with those around him.
A murmuring passed through his officers, accompanied by looks of doubt and disbelief. Few believed the necklace existed. Yolanta waited for silence. If his men doubted the necklace, they would wonder if the entire mission was a fool’s errand with no hope of reward.
“Not only does it exist, Pequed, but none other than King Zuul of the Amarrats believes it can reveal the future.” Yolanta crossed his arms to emphasize his point. “And I’m sure you don’t really think he is a fool, since he is the wealthiest man in the world.”
“But, sir,” Pequed said. “Surely you do not think the necklace has such power.”
“I don’t know! But what you and I believe does not matter. King Zuul invaded Baltak to seize the necklace. He paid to outfit our ships handsomely and gave us the compass and Mork’s fire. He has promised that if we return the necklace to him, we can keep all the other treasure we take from the Tolarians. And he will give us ten thousand drots of gold as well.”
“But that must represent a tenth of the entire wealth of the Tolarian Empire!” Pequed blurted out.
“That is exactly what King Zuul has agreed to pay,” Yolanta exclaimed. “And after conquering Tolaria, he will have far more gold than that, even if we were never to recover the temple treasure ahead of us.”
There was a long pause, and then Pequed muttered, “Ten thousand drots,” as he wobbled, slightly drunk, to his feet. “Then I toast King Zuul and the Necklace of Tol! I predict”—he looked around as the laughter built and waited for it to slow before going on—“I predict that once King Zuul has the necklace, he will look into the future and see us growing fat and soft on ample farms far away from the sea! Farms bought with his gold!” He raised his silver mug.
“To King Zuul!” Yolanta toasted.
“King Zuul!” His officers rose and began chanting and laughing. “King Zuul, King Zuul!”
Sailors came up on deck out of curiosity and, as word spread, they too began chanting, until a ship miles away could have heard the chant coming from the eight ships lashed together on a still sea.
Finally Yolanta held up his arms, and all his men grew quiet. “Now you can see why we cross this sea as quickly as we can. I want each man to row as hard as he can. If we do, we will beat the Tolarians to their landfall and set a trap for them.”
“What is their landfall?” another of his captains named Jontor asked. He was built like a bull, like Brumbal, but much shorter. Jontor the practical, Yolanta thought of him, for he always asked practical questions.
“The River Zash,” Yolanta said.
“And how will we attack the Tolarian fleet?”
“I have a plan, Jontor, but that is for clearer heads to discuss in the morning. For now, it is enough to know that your men believe a worthy treasure lies ahead. They need to believe we have hope of winning it. And they need to know we will not perish out here in the middle of an endless ocean.”
“Yolanta! Yolanta! Yolanta!” Brumbal began a cheer, and the captains and officers rose as one to join in. They drew their swords and smashed sword handle to mug to add to the noise. Soon all the men on all the ships joined in. Yolanta glanced around to see if any officers seemed untrue in their enthusiasm, but he found no such sign. Tonight mead would flow, and they would forget the pain of rowing. Tomorrow he would lay out his plan to trap the Tolarians, slaughter their men, capture the Princess, and capture the temple treasure and the Necklace of Tol.
CHAPTER 14
FIGHTING TURNS TO FISHING
The captain promises landfall soon. Last night a bird flew over us. There was no evening breeze. Could that mean we are close? Land seems a distant memory.
—Diary of Princess Sharmane of Tolaria
“Form sparring square!” Lar shouted when the cadets completed basic exercises on the main deck. Arken shivered as he sat next to Asher on a deck still wet from last night’s rinfall. The morning offshore breeze cooled the ship despite the sun. The ship rolled from the wind waves, a roll amplified by the force on the enormous single sail. The breeze meant no rowing, but Arken knew the wind would die later, and they’d all get a turn at the oars. It promised to be an exhausting day between sparring and rowing.
“Jalar and Han to the armorer’s first,” Lar read from the bark listing the sparring order that he had posted the day before. “That is, if you’re up to it, Han?”
“I’m fine, sir.” Han rose and stood at attention. “And sir?” He looked better than the night before, but it seemed to Arken he still looked weak and pale. But he shouldn’t have a problem fighting Jalar.
“Yes?”
“I want to thank you in front of all the class for saving my life yesterday. I salute you!” His left arm held vertically, and he thumped his chest with his right arm.
“You’re welcome.” Lar returned the salute
“It was very brave of you, sir.”
“Thank you. And dismissed, cadet.” Lar’s voice broke, and Arken thought he saw tears in Lar’s eyes. But the instructor looked out to sea, and then he removed and studied the sparring list from the wall by the steps to the command deck, so the class couldn’t see if there were tears.
Arken looked about the square of cadets sitting cross-legged on the deck. Unlike many ships that sailed the Circle Sea that had rowing pits open to the sky, the Sea Nymph’s rowing room lay below decks, which ga
ve them ample deck space for sparring and exercise, since the main mast was mounted about one-third of the ship’s length from the bow.
As he looked at the cadets, Arken saw Gart glaring at him as usual. When their eyes met, Gart winked at him, which unnerved Arken. Gart poked Narval and pointed at Arken. When Narval turned and saw Asher by Arken, he mouthed the name Skullhead, and then said it to Gart, who laughed.
“Narval seems as friendly as ever,” Asher whispered.
“He doesn’t like you because you’re my roommate,” Arken explained.
“No, I think it’s because I’m from Tolaria! Many families hold grudges from past wars.”
“Then we’re doubly cursed,” Arken joked. Asher nearly laughed, but Arken jabbed his ribs.
“Who has written on this list I posted?” Lar had reached the center of the sparring square. “Someone wrote on this list!” Lar’s voice sounded angry as he looked around the square. His eyes found Gart and stopped. “It shows Arken sparring with Gart. Do you know anything about this?” Lar’s lips formed a tight line within his black beard and mustache, and his right hand rested on the handle of his short sword as he waited for an answer.
“No, sir, I don’t.” Gart managed to maintain eye contact with Lar, though his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down nervously as he swallowed.
“Arken?” Lar turned to him. “Did you do this?” Arken’s heart pounded in fear, even though he knew he was innocent.
“No, sir. I noticed my name opposite Gart’s, but I thought you wanted me to spar with him again. I have no desire to spar with him. I would never put my name opposite his.”
“Hmm.” Lar crossed his arms. “I don’t blame you. Yet someone altered this list, because I certainly did not assign this match. Gart’s not allowed to challenge Arken for six moonths. This isn’t a mistake! Someone tampered with it, evidently as a joke.” He looked up from the list, and his eyes swept the cadets.
“Arken, you’ll spar with Asher, but only as a training session. I’ll figure out a suitable opponent for Gart, who can spar last.”
He studied the list and then continued.
“I need to introduce our guest classmate.” Lar looked for Asher in the class. “Asher d’Will, please stand.”
“Skullhead,” Narval said as he pretended to cough. The rest of the class laughed.
“What did you say, Narval?” Lar asked.
“Nothing sir, I’ve developed a cough. My apologies.” Narval squirmed and coughed again.
“Watch yourself, Narval,” Lar warned. “Now, Asher, please stand.”
“Sir.” Asher rose. His lean legs looked too long for his short, barrel chest. Arken realized that Narval’s nickname was going to stick, because Asher was so lean the skin on his face actually seemed stuck to his skull.
Asher tugged nervously on his nose and winced slightly, making Arken think he had a habit of tugging on his nose when he was nervous, but he had forgotten about hitting the ladder earlier and the fact that his nose was still tender.
Asher didn’t seem afraid, which surprised Arken, because Arken knew he would be scared if he were being introduced to a new group of boys. Asher seemed confident and ready for anything.
He wore an unusual belt, the buckle larger than the standard issue for cadets and studded with stones. Arken realized Asher was also wearing a large gold ring, which was very unusual for a boy his age in Lanth.
“Some of you have met Asher already. He is traveling with us because his father is the new Tolarian ambassador. We are to show all due cordiality to Asher and give him training in weapons and fitness, but not at the level we have achieved, because they do not normally start training until age sixteen in Tolaria. Asher, is there anything you wish to add?”
“I appreciate the opportunity to sail with you and receive training,” Asher said. “I’ll try hard to excel.”
“Excellent, Asher,” Lar nodded. “You can go to the armorer. You’ll spar after Han and Jalar. Arken, feel free to speak with Asher during our training session and point out what is going on, how we attack and defend.”
“Yes, sir.” Arken stood and directed Asher to the small armory that took up part of the crew’s sleeping building on the bow end of the main deck. A low roof had been extended out from the foredeck. The roof allowed the armorers to work in the open air without the added heat of the sun. Two sailors rose as they approached: a lean one and Yon, the man who had given Arken the red scarf. They rose and knuckled their foreheads as the cadets approached.
“I didn’t realize I had the honor of meeting an armorer when you loaned me your scarf,” Arken said.
“I am your humble servant.” Yon gave a slight bow.
“Thank you for your scarf. It came in handy,” Arken answered.
“Oh, you’re the one,” Asher added. “I’m sorry, I got it bloody. I’ll clean it and give it back to you.”
“Not necessary, sir. It was a gift to the young master.”
Arken pointed out two lines carved into the deck to Asher. “We stand here on these marks face-to-face, one leg apart, and they place the armor on us. Normally we’d glare at each other as combatants and not talk. But I’ll tell you what is going on.”
Arken turned to look at the sparring square where Jalar and Han were preparing for battle, and Asher watched as well. He knew it wouldn’t be a contest, because Han had been over many times and practiced with Nortak, whereas Jalar was one of the worst fighters in the school. He could not master combat with a sword, even though he was smart, strong, and had excellent reach with his long, thin arms and legs.
“Take your marks,” Lar ordered. Jalar and Han stepped to the square’s center. Their bronze armor clanked as they walked. They saluted by crashing their swords into their shields.
“On referee’s command.” Lar nodded at Saldet Tyo and stepped back. Lar was the sole judge of the match.
“Ready?” Tyo asked.
Both fighters nodded. Tyo dropped his hand and jumped back. The two cadets touched shields, and then they dropped into a crouch and began circling, looking for an opening.
Arken turned his attention to his outfitting, because he knew Han would win. “They start with the breast plate,” Arken said, showing Asher how they were to raise their arms so the armorers could buckle the straps.
Yon pressed a breastplate against Asher’s chest, and then replaced it with another before tightening the straps and fastening them.
“We don’t have a good size for your comrade,” Yon explained to them. “He really needs custom-made armor. You can see his chest is full, so he needs this larger size, but that’s usually used on a taller boy, so this armor is a bit long. It’s going to gouge the top of his hip bones.”
“You can’t make an adjustment?” Arken asked.
“No master, not without a day of metal working.”
“That’s fine,” Asher said. “My father said he had some custom armor made for me and delivered to the ship.”
“Ahh, now I remember,” Yon said. He disappeared into the armory, and then he returned with a set of armor. He began with the shoulder plates and worked his way from there, adding bronze forearm, knee, and shin guards.
The hand of the armorer working on Arken brushed against the knife strapped under his tunic. He glanced at Arken with a questioning look, but he didn’t otherwise draw attention to it, and Arken felt relieved.
Finally, the armorers handed them wooden swords, with a bronze weight inserted along both sides to match the heft of the service’s short sword.
“Now we stand here until Lar calls us,” Arken explained.
They watched as Han and Jalar exchanged blows. Han faked a thrust and followed with a circular swing that brought his sword down toward Jalar’s left shoulder. Jalar threw up his shield, yet his block was not good, and the sword smashed the shield down on his shoulder and helmet. Jalar staggered back.
“Point to Han,” Lar said. He turned to the class. “Han, can you tell Jalar what he did wrong just then?”
“Good analysis, Han.” Lar turned to Jalar. “Do you understand? You block from here.” He stepped forward and raised his shield arm. “Not here.” This time he only leaned forward and extended his shield arm up and out. “No strength this way.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Lar looked around the square of cadets.
“Always step in to defend if you’re going to counter.” He stepped forward, raised his shield, and thrust his right arm forward, as if thrusting the sword into a man’s stomach. “Or step back to avoid the blow. You have to decide and do it quickly. Your feet are essential to your next move. Han, you move well for your size!”
Han began to smile and say something, and then his look went cold, and he simply said, “Thank you.”
Arken suspected Han had thought of something humorous and then remembered his punishment.
“One more point, if you are fighting a man carrying a dagger in his left hand and not a shield, then you must always step back. Raise your shield, Han, as I swing a sword down at your head, and come into me.”
“Sir.”
Lar swung an imaginary sword with his right hand. Han stepped in with shield raised to block, and Lar’s left hand struck for Han’s exposed neck like a coiled snake, stopping a finger away.
“Dead!” Lar said simply. “Remember that your tactics depend on your enemy’s weapons, and fighting with a short sword in one hand and your knife in the other can be more deadly than fighting with short sword and shield.”
The two cadets circled and exchanged blows, and then Han stepped in quickly with a jab.
“Halt! Excellent blow, Han!” Lar shouted. “A kill if the swords were real.”
