The countess pulled her robe roughly onto her shoulders and cinched it across her mid-section. She stomped out of her bedroom and made her way to Darya’s room. She opened the door to see Darya sleeping. She silently closed the door and stomped down the long hallway. Her breaths raged from her body in huffs and puffs. She stopped near the courtyard exit, thinking where they might be. The courtyard maybe? No, far too cold. The stables? Tor wasn’t that patient. Then she knew and went directly to the bathing pool.
She slowly opened the door. The warm air touched the soft skin of her face and vapor sat on the surface of the pool water like fog. She quickly and silently closed the door behind her and waited until her eyes adjusted to the nearly dark room. Moisture that had collected on the ceiling dripped in drops onto the stone floor and water, a pitter-patter of gossip the countess thought. She eased around the left side of room and heard the muted sounds of sex. She snuck along the wall until she was almost at the storage room and stopped, listening intently.
Tor was making shushing sounds. His requests were quiet, guilt driven and barely audible over the muted protests of Crimson.
The countess peeked around the doorframe and she saw them, her rotund husband between Crimson’s legs as Crimson tried to push him off and made silent squeals. His hand was over her mouth and he whispered shush over and over. Crimson saw the countess and fought even harder, punching Tor on the shoulders and back.
Tor shifted position on his knees so that he rested his full weight on the petite girl and kissed her forehead. His breaths became labored as he continued to push into her and take the brunt of her punches.
The countess brought her finger to her lips and Crimson understood.
Tor never saw his wife come from behind with the heavy porcelain vase raised over her head. He heard it, though, only for a briefest of moments, as she swung it through the air and its open mouth caught the wind like someone playing a reedless wind instrument. It made a musical note of disaster and crashed into the back of his skull.
Tor was instantly unconscious, his limp body draped like a wet blanket over Crimson, who let out a scream and struggled to push him off her. She sat up and slid across the floor toward the back wall. “Is he dead?” she asked.
“Not sure,” the countess replied as she pushed the shards of porcelain away with her feet and knelt beside her husband. She pushed away the thick mat of hair on the top of his skull. There was no blood, but a nice bump was already developing. She watched his chest move up and down and could hear his heavy shallow breathing. She stood, grabbed a towel and tossed it over his naked body. “He’s fine. He may wish he were dead, but he’s fine.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Crimson said as she looked at Tor’s body.
“It never is. It never is,” the countess repeated as she pivoted on her toes and left the room.
Moments later, two caretakers arrived. They dumped a pitcher of cold water on Tor. He roused, sat up, and was pissed off at everyone, especially those nearby—the caretakers and Crimson. He rubbed the knot on the back of his head, studied the broken shards of porcelain that lay around him, and spat in Crimson’s direction. The spit landed near her feet. She moved away. “You bitch,” he grumbled, “you hit me with a vase?”
“No, I didn’t,” Crimson defended as she stood and sought shelter behind the larger caretaker.
“If you didn’t, then who did?”
The countess peeked around the threshold, “I did, Tor.”
Tor looked at Crimson; his look was scornful as if she had broken a secret between them. He managed to get to his feet, wrapped the towel around his mid-section, and pushed past everyone. The countess followed him, right on his heels, berating him. They shouted at each other as they exited the bathing room.
PART III
Relinquishment
Chapter I
~ The Baltic and Poseidon ~
Early the next morning, Viktor and his men sat on horseback and gazed over the cold waters of Stockholm harbor. They watched the masts of distant warships bob on the horizon of the Baltic, their hulls scolded by the sea’s irritating whitecaps; icy salt spray sprang into the air and dripped from the sails onto the virgin timber of the decks.
Viktor said, as he pointed to the ships among the red glare of the sky that skipped across the water’s surface, “We have to find a supply ship, one that’s heading toward Riga. I suspect those ships, the ones to our left, are heading to the White Sea.”
His men did not respond. From their vantage point, they could see the effects of a nation at war and it awestruck them. Even as early as it was, the harbor was active: laborers, warriors, carts, horses, cargo and garrison’s of soldiers were moved about and loaded onto ships moored in the wharf. Other small watercraft, no doubt loaded with supplies, made their way toward the deep-water ships. The safety of the harbor waned as they watched small vessels appear, then cut deep into the Baltic to disappear behind a wave, only to reappear seconds later. And past everything, as far as the eye could see, lay the sweeping Baltic backed by that foreboding red sky. The redness of the sky reminded them of the blood that was being spilled on foreign shores, but even with all that, they were in good spirits.
The story Viktor had told of his love for Crimson made them understand the importance of this mission. Princess Crimson had to be rescued—it was now a profound notion that brought about valor, and it flowed through them. It changed them from the lowly men they were before; no longer the grumblers and doubters, now they were emboldened men with a mission and a stir of adventure. Viktor didn’t know if they were willing to die for the cause, but all three were bursting with a sense of purpose and pride.
“Let’s move,” Viktor ordered.
They made their way into the heart of the harbor, through a tangle of muddy streets, warehouses, and staging areas until they arrived at the docks. There seemed to be no sense of organization, no one was in charge, yet people and soldiers were all busy, and somehow knew their duties. Viktor asked anyone who stopped for a moment, which ship was heading toward Riga, and no one seemed to know with any certainty. Others were downright rude in their responses or ignored his questions all together. He found an older citizen leaning on a container of tea. The old man watched and took in everything from the cover of his bushy eyebrows. Viktor rode up alongside him. “Sir, do you know which ship is heading toward Riga?”
“I do and much more.”
“Well,” Viktor pressed, “which one?”
“Riga you say?”
Viktor shook his head yes in agitation. “Yes, Riga. Which ship is heading toward Riga?”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said as he walked around the collection of tea, patting the wooden crates of tea like drums, “which indeed.”
The older soldier leaned toward Viktor. “Sir, he want’s coinage for the information.”
Viktor nodded. “How much, old man?”
The question appeared to require a great deal of thought on the old man’s part. He started to speak, then stop himself before the words spilled out. Finally, he said, “a lovely copper piece would help keep me warm this winter.”
“Sir, I am Viktor, with affairs of the king’s court,” Viktor began before being cut short by the old man’s response. “King’s court? Hmm … well then, I suspect three copper pieces are lovelier still. Gives me something to rub together on those chilly nights.”
The older soldier said aloud, “Viktor, you’re wasting time haggling with this old man. We must move on.”
Viktor nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Three coppers, then, old man. Which ship?”
“Only one today,” the man said with his palm out and a grin across his face. “It’s that wide cargo galley at the far end of the dock.”
“I’m in need of supplies, too,” Viktor said before he handed over the copper.
“No supplies if you want to sail on that vessel. It leaves soon and will not wait, even for those of the king’s court.” The old man chortled and swiftly removed the copper from
Viktor’s palm. He examined and pocketed the coins. “You best hurry, Sir Viktor. You and your men best hurry. Not another supply ship for a week or two, and that one will not wait. The whole world is in a rush to butcher each other and men in a hurry to make names for themselves. Two types of storms in this world, Sir, the storms of nature and the storms of men. I suspect you’re about to see both.”
“Very well, old man, be about your business,” Viktor said, turning his horse toward his men. “We shall get supplies in Riga, then.” Viktor dug in and guided his horse toward the end of the dock and his men followed. There were three ships at the end of the dock and the pace of the men suggested that all three were about to disembark.
“You,” Viktor ordered the younger soldier, “check on the vessel at the far end. You, the other, I’ll take this one. If either one is going to Riga, do not accept no as an answer. We must leave today.”
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s that one,” the younger soldier said, pointing at the ship at the very end of the dock. “I recognize the pear-shaped hull and narrow main deck. That’s a cargo ship if there ever was one.”
“I believe you’re right, let’s go,” Viktor agreed.
Viktor boarded the ship and found the loadmaster, a cutthroat dissident who was saltier than the sea. The loadmaster constantly barked orders. He yelled and cursed at anyone who crossed the vision of his one good eye, and now it stared directly at Viktor. Viktor didn’t know how to approach him. He was sure this crank wasn’t going to be impressed with any type of prominence, quite the opposite he suspected. And the telling of a love story would probably make the crusty shipman hurl.
Viktor dismounted, unrolled the decree from the princess, and handed it to the loadmaster without saying a word.
The loadmaster didn’t look at the document. “Can’t read!”tThe loadmaster said as he pushed the document in Viktor’s chest almost knocking him down. “State yur busness?”
“I need to board the ship for an inspection.”
“Pess! Ain’t time for no e’spection, boy. We at war, ya know.”
“Sir, I must board this ship. I have my orders,” Viktor stated, pointing at the document.
“An’ I muss wipe my ass each mornin’. U goin’ ta hep me wit tat?”
“No.”
“T’en git oof my ship, boy!”
Viktor let out a phony sigh of displeasure and shook his head in repulsion. He then leaned in and whispered, “Oden, listen. If your ship passes inspection, and I can tell just from a cursory view, it will—you’ll get twice pay.”
The old seaman whispered back, “T’wce pay, you say?” He tugged at his beard. “Wy you call me Oden?”
“Sir, surely you know the Norse God, Oden, the one who guides souls with one eye.”
“On’ eye, you say?”
“Yes, I read about Oden many times and I can tell you, sir, you are the byword of him.” Viktor rolled up the scroll and tossed it to the floor of the ship. “You, sir, are a god or as close as one can be to one. There’s no need for me to inspect this ship. I shall give my report without inspection, though it pains me to not follow orders of the king.”
The loadmaster smiled, his flabby cheeks reddened, and the thick flesh padlocked his good eye nearly closed. “Guss no e’spection can’ urt.”
“You, sir, are a good man. It will be my pleasure to sail with you.” Before the loadmaster had a chance to change his mind, Viktor motioned for his men to bring the horses on board. The loadmaster moved toward the belly of the ship, screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs.
“Corral the horses below deck and keep out of sight,” Viktor ordered his men. He then walked around the deck pretending to be conducting official business. He’d stop seamen and ask them to destination of this cargo, or that cargo, until he heard the orders to cast off the lines. When the last line was pulled on board, he knew they were on their way and slowly dropped the ruse.
The Baltic seemed to swell and lift the ship as its sails caught wind. The fresh cut timber of the hull moaned against the arctic waters of the Baltic as it crept toward Riga. Viktor made his way to the bow of the ship to greet the dawning of Poseidon. He closed his eyes and prayed for the escorts of gods, asked them to bless this Baltic crossing, and reminded them that his only mission was to please them by saving a young princess. It reminded him that his mission was noble.
Then the yelling of orders ceased. A silence grew and was only interrupted by ship’s sails heavy with air, flapping toward the boundless sea.
Viktor peered toward the red clouds on the horizon. The color reminded him of the goblets that spilled over with the sweet red wine the king and queen presented when the king threw wasteful parties in Karlberg Palace. The red hues reminded him of Crimson, too, and he let out a deep thankful exhale--he was finally on his way toward her. He let the worry of his past journey slip away. He and his men were trained, they were motivated, and soon he and his love would be on the same terra firma, and he thought: the day couldn’t be more beautiful.
A man about Viktor’s age approached from behind, “Inspector?”
“Yes?” Viktor answered without turning around.
“It wasn’t a greeting. It was a question. Since when did you become an inspector, Viktor?”
Viktor turned around to see Erik, the nephew of Count Hans Wachtmeister of Johannishus. Viktor took Eric’s hand in a firm grip. “Erik, my old friend, is this your ship?”
“No, you know I’ve never had a taste for blood, I’m far too fond of political service. Public service is far safer, as you know your enemies—your enemies come as friends. And, as such, I’m the purser of this cargo ship.” He smiled. “I control the money. But what of you? Why lie and tell my loadmaster he’ll get twice pay? Just know if I hadn’t backed up your story, your throat would’ve been slit this night. Bad luck to have a murder on the first night of sail—bad luck for you, anyway.”
Viktor let out a sly laugh. “Had to, Erik. I had to be on this ship and couldn’t afford any further delay.”
“Aye,” Erik replied, “in a rush to make a name for yourself, are you, Viktor?”
“No, Erik. My name can be forgotten by all but one. I want her to remember it forever.”
“Sounds like your heart beats for another, young Viktor?”
“It does my friend, it does. She courses through my veins, an elixir that makes me alive.”
“Who is she?”
“Crimson,” Viktor answered.
“And your bravery is for one at home?”
“No. She’s been kidnapped and is in Poland.”
“Kidnapped, you say? By whom?” Erik asked as he walked toward the bow of the ship.
“Horrors, Erik. Revulsions that lay deep in Poland.”
“Aye, deeper still my friend is your fool heartedness.”
“Yes, that is deep, as well, as deep as the Baltic and as high as this wintery sky,” Viktor stated, as he opened his shirt and pointed to his heart. “As deep as liberty and love can be. Doubt there is anything deeper.”
“I suppose you’re right, Viktor. But only about the passion you feel. There is much that is deeper. The deadly weapon that takes your final breath, for example.”
“Yes, Erik,” Viktor agreed as he looked out over the Baltic. “Crimson is both.”
* * * *
King Charles woke the next morning to find that none of his men had deserted him. He wanted to think it was bravery, but he knew it was fear and nothing more. None had snuck from the camp in the night for fear of the horrors in the woods. Simply put, there was safety in numbers and it was far safer to stay in camp than be caught alone in the woods. The king knew fear and bravery are not as communally selective as one thought, and as he walked the edge of the camp, he couldn’t help but feel both battles inside him. He set the internal clash aside, having won this battle before. He knew it didn’t matter if he conquered fear, only that he face it.
He found a lone soldi
er on the perimeter. “No alarms through the night?”
“None, my king, and we have the pikes dipped in silver and polished as ordered.”
“Good. Excellent work.”
The king walked back to the center of the camp and found the oldest soldier left. He had red hair and you couldn’t miss it. It was the color of a summer sunset. “You will be my field commander as we head south.”
“Yes, sir,” the young soldier replied as he stood at attention.
“Have someone stoke the fire and prepare breakfast. We should move as soon as possible.”
A moment later, the new commander approached the king who was rolling up his sleeping articles. “Sir, the men are not hungry. It seems the smell of burning flesh of their comrades … well, my king, they just aren’t hungry.”
The king nodded in agreement. “Yes, my appetite has waned, as well. Sound the horns then. We shall move out.” He grabbed the young commander by the shoulder before he left his company. “Make sure each man has his pike pointed to the heavens. I want the polished silver to catch and scatter the sun deep into these dark woods.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And dig through the ashes. Find me a piece of that one horror I killed.”
“A piece, sir?”
“Yes, preferably the jawbone.”
As the small troop of twenty men mounted their horses, the king ordered them to ride two file. “Men,” he yelled, holding the jaw bone of the horror above his head, “today we ride into Poland. If any have fear, then take pity on it because it will be left in these woods to battle those wolves. We leave this place today and shall never return. If this jaw bone could speak, it would tell of our conquest, as I shall hang my shield on the gate of the one who abducted my sister, Crimson.” The king nodded to the commander and a horn blew.
The formation moved quickly through the woods and soon they came upon a landmark the king recognized, the Daugava River. He had read about this river in the Chronicles of Nestor and had studied its path on his generals’ military maps. He also heard about this river through family lore. The Daugava had special meaning. He had a good sense of where they were. To his northwest lay Riga, to his south the city of Minsk, and they were on schedule. Word sent to Riga instructed Viktor to join them on the outskirts of Minsk.
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