by Cale Madison
“Aye, and Era’Kal is a land of empty skulls without a brain. Ataman poses the only threat to us,” Skalige answered, crossing his arms on his knees, “and that’s using the word lightly. Ever since the country found out about his brother, things for them have changed for the worst. Loyalty with his people are faltering. His relationship with the banks of Veines is strained, after they lost Taewe to the Skjarlans and Rotera to the Arrigonians. Penniless and low on friends, that silver-loving bastard has only his great armies.”
“King Emrich’s expanding across the south.” Hjaldemar responded, wiping ale from his chin, “He has the military strength to overtake Era’Kal. If Villaneuva claims everything below the Devil’s Barren, it won’t matter a lick who controls the North. Emrich’s sunk his teeth into the borders of Torra’kha. They’re playing the long game, biding their time until Ataman and the Arrigonians destroy one another.”
“Aye. True, Hjaldemar. Very true.” Skalige muttered, grinding his teeth as he thought.
“Can’t forget about their witch hunt either.” one sailor interjected, “Emrich’s hired thousands of agents in that little secret service of his. They’re too focused on chasing every hag with a crooked nose and broomstick. A bloody mess, that is. Child murdering psychopaths. And what about Moskaul?”
“What of it?” Hjaldemar sipped from his tankard.
“I mean, Moskaul makes up more than a quarter of all land below the Devil’s Barren. If Emrich plans on claiming everything south of Zuma, that would mean they have to take Moskaul, right? Am I right, baron?”
Skalige finished his cup of ale and replied, “Moskaul’s haunted and impenetrable, boy. No man enters those woods and comes out alive. None ever has. So why would Emrich give a shit about it? To him, it’s just a patch of woods in their backyard. Enough wights and wendigos in that patch to frighten any king away. Drue, fetch me another mug! Fill it with ale stronger than this horse piss. As I was saying, we need to narrow our circle of focus to the North for now. Ataman is the wild card here. Ramses is the one we need to keep an eye on.”
“His people are calling him the Cursed King now!” Drue exclaimed as he rose from his seat.
“Names won’t keep that mad man from sending his fleets to our shores. Breaching our islands would give them an edge over Skjarla. Should that day come, we’ll retaliate with full force. No islander has ever backed down from a battle.” the baron said. His crew nodded in admiration, muttering their code under their breath, “Damned right...we live for the battle and we die for our brothers. They’ll find their silver when we stick our blades up their arse ‘til it pokes out their gullet!”
The crew of the Siren’s Song nodded, raised their cups and shouted, “Live for the battle and we die for our brothers!”
“We control the seas,” said Hjaldemar as he finished his drink, “and the last time, I checked, Hallobar’s far too deep for a giant to cross.”
“Shut up about those damned giants, already!” Skalige barked, laughing as he spilled ale on his beard, “I say, if Ramses wants to cross every ally he’s ever made, who cares? Let those bastards bury themselves so we can have a mound to build upon when we come ashore, and if Tuskan joins us, we’ll command the seas and land.”
“Is that why we’re doing this? We’re escorting the Mercian to gain Tuskan’s trust?” Hjaldemar inquired. Most of the crew leaned forward, curious to learn the baron’s reason.
“Should the war come to our islands, we may need strong allies in the North, and Tuskan has far greater numbers than Ataman. Thirty thousand more, last I checked. If this helps, so be it, but we’re not out looking to make peace with anyone now. We don’t want word traveling of what we’re planning. Ataman’s setting fire to everything around them...their allies to the west and in the south. In time, they’ll either be devoured by their own flame or forced into the sea, where we’ll be waiting. Until then, we’ll be gracious guests in Tuskan and accept their coin. Understand?”
Hjaldemar nodded and refilled his cup with the last of the barrel’s ale before muttering, “Make their giant our ally and we might stand a chance.”
“SHUT UP ABOUT THE BLOODY GIANT!” the crew shouted in unison.
***
After nearly a day and a half’s journey, we were overjoyed to finally arrive at the Tuskan port. Traveling at sea for longer than that would have killed me, indefinitely. Skalige’s sailors tossed ropes to the port-hands, who fastened them tightly in knots after pulling us beside the docks. Aketa and I marvelled at the beauty of this foreign place: the lush, green terrain, the ice-capped mountains and the dozens of blue rivers that flowed downhill into the Hallobar Sea...truly breathtaking upon first sight.
Aketa marveled beside me in a stupefied wonder, saying, “I’ve spent my entire life in Mercia...never seeing mountains like those.”
“Our hills are nothing compared to them.”
“It’s strange…” she began to say before trailing off. Her attention became diverted to the hundreds of peasants strolling through the busy streets.
“What’s strange? The city?”
“See how those men carry their bushels of wheat? See the melons and wine barrels in their carts? They even drag their cows around on leashes!” she exclaimed in astonishment, pointing towards the crowded docks. I looked and spotted several merchants leading cows in between the dockmasters and sailors.
“What’re you getting at, Aketa?”
“There’s no trolls in Tuskan, Caine! In Mercia, every farm has at least three ploughing the fields or carrying produce in the port. I’ve looked everywhere but I’ve found none! Not a single troll. How? How do they manage without them?”
Sir Ivan suddenly appeared at our side to interject, “In Tuskan, farmers save their money by working fields by themselves. They pull their harvest by cart. Thirty Brunson vineyards produce enough wine weekly to sustain our economy for months. That’s more coin for our growing armies. Mercia doesn’t have a military, so they can afford to pay trolls for their assistance. Have either of you tasted Tuskan wine? Ours is world-renowned for its exquisite flavor and bite. See those barrels, there? Be wary, every man in the port will charge you an arm and a leg for salt. Spices are hard to come by.”
“Can’t turn a corner in Port Mercia without someone selling some flavor of spice.” Aketa replied, crossing her arms on the ship’s railing, “Seems our countries aren’t quite as different as I may have thought.”
“Meat sours in time and we can’t preserve it without it. Salt happens to be quite valuable here.” the knight informed us before departing for the brig.
Bells were rigorously clanged at the port. A frenzy of sailors flowed into the city as their ships rested at the dock. I could see armored men peering through the lens of golden telescopes, as if they were spying on Brunson’s new arrivals. Small rowboats ventured out from the port, delivering sailors to their brigantines. I could barely hear Aketa talking over the consistent shouting of sea captains.
“All aboard! We set sail within the hour!” one would yell.
“Get a move on, ye bilge rats! The tide waits for no man!” called another.
I carried our few bags from the baron’s ship onto the bustling docks, carefully dodging the sailors and cargo-carriers as they walked alongside us. Fishermen sat on the end of piers with lines cast while their children anxiously watched over their shoulders. Boatmen shoved past us, heaving heavy crates and nets filled with fish or crustaceans. People were not nearly as friendly in this part of the Realm - that was certainly clear. Aketa followed me through the crowd and we awaited Skalige in the shade of a barbershop’s overhanging roof. Behind us, we could hear the snipping sounds of scissors. I turned around to find a burly sailor flinching and groaning as his barber shaved his scruffy neck. Aketa set her pack on the rocky ground and said with relief, “Good thing I didn’t bring more than one bag! By the Gods...couldn’t imagine lugging more than this all day.”
“They’re watching over the Siren for the days we’re here.”
Skalige announced to us as he emerged from the bustling crowds. I looked at the packed streets, watching as individuals conversed and rushed from shops to port then back again.
“You’re coming with us?” I asked.
“You seem surprised.” he said with a smile, “I’ve been paid handsomely to escort you to the palace. Think I’m just going to sit around on my ship until you’ve finished your mission? Where’s the fun in that?”
With our attention focused on the bustling city around us, we hadn’t noticed Sir Ivan approaching us in his shining red armor. His red face beamed with a proud smile.
“Welcome, my fellow camaraderie, to Tuskan: the land of prestige and honor,” he proclaimed for the entire world to hear, “ruled by King Darius of the Lockmour House and his father before him...generations upon generations of strong leadership and fair mandation.”
“Knight of the Tuskan Guard and master of tours.” Skalige jested, nudging me with his elbow.
The knight errant smirked and beckoned for us to follow him. I took in the surroundings of this alluring new world: riotous, bountiful gardens that spanned for miles in vineyard orchards, dozens of farmers who worked their fields and hand-picked potatoes from the soil, an abundance of woodworkers who crafted canoes and ships along the docks. Two women stood outside of a winery, stomping their bare feet in wooden vats filled with grapes. Juice spurted upward as they joyously trod in place, giggling with glee.
“You know, baron, a tour would be a marvelous idea. This village is Brunson, formally known as the Golden Port.” Ivan announced as he led us through the hectic streets, ignoring Skalige’s chortling, “Our capital and the largest port in the North. If you require herbs or medicine, I’d recommend either Bandi’s or Brunson’s Post. Our knights’ weapons are smithed in Orm’s Sword Shop over there. The practice of magic is forbidden in these lands, should you ever wonder...if someone offers you potions or strange vials, do not accept them. That will only earn you fifty floggings or an immediate exile. Or both.”
Skalige nudged my arm, prompting for me to glance over at a brothel that rested between a library and an old monastery. I laughed at the strange choice of locale, noticing the patrons as they stumbled out with clothes in hand and dumbfounded looks on their faces. Their whores tossed heaps of trousers into the mud before slamming the doors in frustration.
“Not a chance.” Aketa whispered to me, pulling me close to her.
“Women of the Pleasure House are trained to satisfy all needs of men.” Ivan declared as we passed the establishment, “Elven maidens, daughters of iron workers or shipmasters are rigorously trained for gratification. Some are even imported from the western continents. Beauties of all nationalities and color.”
My wife shook her head in disgust.
“Nearly seven decades ago, this magnificent land was just a village, merely an expanded outpost of Arrigon. King Mortemon saw these hills as prime estate for ore mining. Disagreeing with having to pay taxes and take orders from a ruler who lived across two seas and a chain of mountains, our ancestors fought back with outstanding courage and gained their freedom. This came to be known as Blackheart’s Rebellion, named after the man who led the charge against the Arrigonians: Ronan Blackheart. Now, we are one of the nine great kingdoms and a respectable region.”
“The Ataman War, has it affected your country as well? Rotera is half a day’s voyage from your port.” Skalige mentioned, “You can’t tell me that Tuskan is still claiming to be neutral in all of this.”
“Ataman’s affair with Arrigon is of no concern to us for now. Rotera contributes little to nothing in the way of trade. Those barren hills provide nothing but gemstones and mining ore. Unfortunately for them, the trade market isn’t managed by dwarves. His Majesty could care less if Rotera is taken. It serves as no advantage, location-wise, and is crammed between the Black Hills and North Mountain.”
Aketa scoffed, rolled her eyes and muttered, “Stupid name for a mountain. Ataman isn’t even the North? Neither is Mercia. Ataman is technically the South if you take Orthos into consideration.”
“The madame is knowledgeable of her maps, I see. I believe they named it that because of its location being north of their capital city. Orthos is the Far North. Everything past the Further is considered the Far Nor-”
Skalige extended his arms, yawned and spouted, “God, this conversation is hellishly boring. I know my maps, damn you both. I thought I left all this talk about geographics in grade school. Let’s talk about something more interesting, please.”
Ivan joyfully continued to explain Tuskan’s rich history, to Skalige’s detest, as we broke free of the busy streets. Brunson reminded me of Port Mercia, but without the nearly identical shops and wine plantations. A deckhand from The Siren’s Song found us, leading Nadi and several other horses for my company. We mounted our mares and trotted through the village, ascending a steep hill that would lead us to a stone trail. The many voices faded away as we placed enough distance between us and the village, following the rocky path across hillsides and unfamiliar country.
***
After some time of riding though desolate forests and rolling plains, we began to feel the weight of the strenuous journey. “How far until the palace?” Aketa asked with a frustrated groan.
“Several hours...when the sun sets behind the Gorgon Mountains, we’ll be there.” Ivan answered. I gaped at the spectacular mountain passes to the north, resting against the skyline with the golden sun dancing along their peaks. The hotter seasons brought life to the trees that were scattered throughout Tuskan, bearing colorful fruits and shrouds of green leaves. Rivers and brooks flowed downhill, revealing salmon and other fish on their perilous journey upstream.
Nurmels darted between the blades of high grass, chasing one another and chirping their joyous songs. These adorable creatures closely favored squirrels with rounded faces, giant eyes, tiny pink noses and ears that were too big for their heads. Their spotted fur blended in with the dirt-covered roads, making them nearly impossible to see as we progressed. I watched as they dove into the shrubbery, disappearing into the trees above us.
“Sly little fuckers.” I could hear the baron hiss under his breath, “I hate them.”
“How can you hate something that looks like that?” I said in disbelief, “You truly must have no heart, baron.”
“I’ll tell you something about nurmels that you might not know, Caine. Those rodents are smarter than rats and far more clever than raccoons. Five of ‘em once burrowed into our wine cellar. Opened the door in the morning to find ‘em lying in a pool of ale, bloated and fast asleep. Two whole barrels were emptied. You wouldn’t believe how much ale a mouse that size can drink in one night,” he said with a scowl, “and they’re not big enough to stuff and turn into trophies. Guess what night that was? Hmm? My wedding night. So what good are they? They’re just scavengers that spread diseases.”
“How about we play a game,” Aketa announced, knowing that the baron could ramble for hours, “a game of riddles. I’ve thought of a few on the ship.”
“I was rather enjoying Skalige’s rants. Alright, let’s hear it.” I replied.
“Okay...say my name and I disappear.”
We rode quietly for a few seconds, practically giving away the answer without realizing it. I quickly answered, “Silence! Too easy.”
“Damnit, Caine. I must’ve told you that one already! Your turn.”
“I’ve got one that my mother used to be very proud of. One by one we fall, down into the depths of past...our world is upturned, so that some time will last. What am I?” I asked my company.
No words were said as they rode and processed the riddle. I glanced into the large oak trees as we passed them, noticing how different they looked in comparison to those in Mercia - bulkier, more sturdy. Chipmunks dashed between their burrows, gathering fallen acorns and nuts from the ground.
“Can’t be snow or rain…” Skalige said, scratching his neck.
“Nope.”
“My grandfather taught me this one. When you went into the woods, you got me. You hated me, yet you wanted to find me. You went home with me because you couldn’t find me. What was I?”
“A splinter...far too elementary!” Skalige exclaimed with a burst of laughter, “I’ll show you northerners how to riddle. The cost of making me, only the maker knows. Valueless, if I’m bought, but sometimes traded. A poor man may give me as easily as a king...when I’m broken, pain and deceit are assured. What am I?”
“A promise.” I answered after minutes of thoughtful consideration.
The baron huffed and looked away, revealing that I was correct.
“Islanders, not as skilled as you might’ve thought.” I said with a victorious smile, “My life can be measured in hours, I serve by being devoured. Thin, I am quick but if fat, I am slow. Wind is my foe.”
“A fuckin’ candle. A dimwitted rock troll could’ve guessed that one.”
“It seems so.” I replied, smirking as Skalige finally caught on.
“Wait...” Ivan interrupted, halting us in our tracks, “Everyone be quiet. Did you hear that? That sounded like a...”
A dark shadow passed overhead, reminding me of the omnipotent terrors that lurked in the wild. I felt a surge of anxiety wash over my nerves like the rolling tide covering a beach. In the glare of the sun, we couldn’t tell what it was until we heard it: a deafening screech that rattled our ear drums. I held my palm over my face, attempting to see through the blinding brightness as the shadow returned again.
