"Really? Captain Bullsen said nothing."
"It depends on what sealed parchment you discuss over port. Kings and Princes order, Sunjammer. We obey."
"Did Bullsen? Did it bring your troubles onto us?" Dagmar tried to glare, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Yes, and I cannot say."
"Cannot, or will not? A few things bother me and that includes the behaviour of our Principal Sunjammer."
"Both. I was unconscious, remember?"
"I don't. Don't worry, Your Lordship. With our predicament, it's academic."
"Meaning?" Canute was more direct.
Dagmar waved, deliberately vague. Something still wasn't right, and something must have occurred, or been spoken between Bullsen and Gerard. Being an annoying twat may garner something useful from the secretive bastard? "Survival. Pure and simple. You receive the same as the rest of us. Some of us must get back to report Tryphon's demise and what we encountered. It shouldn't have happened in the middle of nowhere in the Western Ocean."
"One ship lost, even a principality warship is not a calamity?" Canute raised an eyebrow.
"One ship isn't. One ship attacked by a well-organised group of men, boats and spellchuckers mid-ocean is when it's the prince's flagship. We carried the payroll and much of the alchemical munitions for the Freeport expedition. Politely speaking, that is a bloody debacle."
"Excellent point, several in fact," Canute admitted, and squeezed his daughters' hand. "I must be going senile."
"Well," Carla tried to look innocent, making her seem younger to the sunjammer and less tense. "I have been waiting for it to occur for a while. It became senile when you agreed to these lengthy trips." She smiled, having emphasised her point.
Dagmar gave a wry smile at the antics of the nobles who seemed close before he felt his expression drain. "That isn't what concerns me." Canute turned, as did Carla. "What bothers me is having two flotillas in the same area a week prior to our voyage."
"You are concerned they also encountered trouble?"
Dagmar spread his hands, "I'm no expert. Even with the banging my head had, it's a thought which keeps returning along with your ship. Why attack in the first place? The overturned hulls we hit came from somewhere, and it is an empty ocean. Nothing which happened in the attack makes sense when you try to place it in context. With our luck, I'd put gold on them not being pirates, or traders. You would need significant numbers to do all that. Whoever did that." Canute looked at Carla, who nodded. The noble expelled a lengthy breath and rubbed at his chest.
"Someone will need to return to investigate and with care," she added.
"Yes, that occurs to me too, with the copious use of magic. I thought a battlefield is not where you find the common magus. More likely a taproom, or a library, if not running from a mob with robes raised aloft." Canute offered with a twist of a half-smile.
"That's accurate. The Treaty of Donau prevented spellcasting in anything bar limited national defence after the Danska and the Eastern Spires armies all but obliterated each other. That was before Germania came running along to pick over the ravaged eastern continent three hundred years ago. It was one of the few occasions The Citadel involved itself openly in secular affairs of nearby kingdoms and created a catastrophe before the imposition of enforced neutrality. Even in my profession, it is rare to greet a magus with open arms, unless in a grave emergency. People appreciate a sunjammer as a necessity, nothing else."
Canute seemed to reappraise him, and Dagmar explained further.
"I had several options on which discipline to specialise in. I mastered the sunjammer art as it would be a benefit to the guild. It requires a subtle touch and a greater opportunity to practise the art."
"I wonder with our current predicament if the treaty and its concept are redundant. If people of other nations are not playing by civilised rules, perhaps we need a decisive response." The baron's tone was sarcastic, but his face remained hard with recent events. No-one else found his comment amusing if the glances the seamen exchanged were to be appreciated.
"Perhaps. I bet the Danska and Germania kings and the Eastern Spires prince had similar sentiments before their cities burned and their fields sickened. We are still clueless at who attacked us, even before we consider the why. Even our most experienced men have no notion of who they killed." Dagmar scanned around, dejection warring with pain. The 'why' of the attack still rankled, even after their heated discussions during their night.
"Bright masks and shields, extraordinarily colourful, fabricated from wicker and feathers, with somewhat primitive weaponry. Their skin is a reddish-brown compared to ours, often with dark tattoos?" Canute's stare burned. The old bastard had been listening for some time before his awakening. Dagmar gulped with the intensity, then looked to the hulking marine who'd seen the enemy face to face. Between the two, he felt something. Anger more than anything he could describe. Grimm's mouth popped open into a broad 'o' of surprise, and even Hadly swivelled around in the other boat.
Merizus nodded, his eyes burning. "That's the bastards that did us. Little doubt in my mind."
"The Aztexa, Serjeant," Canute clarified, observing the identical blank expressions on Dagmar, Grimm, and Merizus's faces. "They live south of elven lands, quite a way off to our west between Tridon's Bore and the Sea of Rabat. The elves have experienced incursions with slave raids against their settlements. They are a reclusive race for humans and utterly xenophobic—" Canute broke off into an extended coughing fit that woke several nearby. Carla pressed a kerchief into his shaking hands, while ignoring everyone's stares. Canute barked into it, shoulders juddering with the effort. He wiped his lips and placed it into a pocket of his cloak. As he did, Dagmar spied several red stains of various ages permeating the weave of the fabric.
Dagmar sighed. As if there was not enough at the moment. Making a gesture to Dagmar that he was all right, Canute whispered into Carla's ear. She frowned in reluctance and shuffled aft to speak to the injured. Dagmar saw Canute incline his head at the vacant space, and the sunjammer sidled his way across to sit beside the baron. Canute leant closer and whispered into Dagmar's ear, his breath a weak rasp.
"I haven't much time. You need to know several things."
"I don't follow—" Dagmar began, but Canute cut him off, clasping the sunjammer's arm with incredible strength for an invalid.
"There's a growth affecting my lungs. It's weakened me for a year, but the dispatches in my coat need handing over in person. Officialdom to prove our principalities sincerity to Kelta chieftains and the infamous Atlantean bureaucracy."
"Can a cleric not help? As a baron and royal councillor, you must have resources? I have heard of priests who perform near miracles."
"So have I," Canute sighed. There was no despair, just weariness. An acceptance. "The miracles are stories. Propaganda, if you will, to replenish temple ranks with new acolytes. Anything like a major healing to body, or mind, is a costly affair. A king's ransom and the rest, with no guarantee of success. Our Gods are fickle, and I wonder since the war of succession whether they require a reminder we still exist on land and sea." He looked to Dagmar. "They have limits, or rather, the Gods limit what their priests may undertake. Not that we have one, and that's a pity for us all. A man must have a fair chance of recovery for a priest to be interested, in case it affects their reputation and coffers. I am well beyond that. My time here is borrowed time."
"Does she know?" Dagmar gulped, flicking his head towards the bow. Shit, of all the times to take command!
"Fully? No. I'm sure Carla suspects or has an inkling. She is an intelligent woman, make no mistake. Carla has her suspicions. She has been spending more time with me than necessary and taking more care of my needs. And with the tasks I've assigned her over the last few months... I would baulk at assigning them to most men, but she has performed them impeccably. I could not ask for more." Canute gave a tired but proud smile.
"I wondered why she's such an excellent nurse," Dagmar observed. Canute
gave him a quizzical look. "She has been a real inspiration, assisting the doctor, not complaining, and it cannot be pleasant for her. They appreciated it."
"Just like her mother." Canute became whimsical, "Her mother was the same. Caring, endearing to all who knew her. Carla has her face and twice the determination. Too much, perhaps." He sighed and leant back, "How I miss her. Still, we had wonderful times despite the travelling across our kingdom and our neighbours." He looked to Dagmar, his distant smile swamped by pain, "Most trips are uncomfortable, but not to this extent. I fear I should have arranged her marriage, to save her from this."
Dagmar leaned closer, "I need to know. Did that burgundy case of yours contain something The Citadel would be really interested in, say from the day Atlantis arrived on Sanctuary?"
"I am not prepared to—"
"Did you?" Dagmar's voice became a hiss."I saw our sunjammer with the case in our dome. After that, they somehow attacked us in the dark, in fog. Then, your daughter pulled a knife on her rescuers when it got dropped in our flight. No one does that over nothing. It is lost now, isn't it? Spill, please."
Canute sighed and matched his glare. "Yes. A small shard"
"Fuck!" Dagmar spat, waving his hands angrily in the air, and seeing nothing to punch. Shit, it all made sense. The fucking baron had been lugging a sliver of the greatest magical artefact in history, and something every Citadel mage was instructed to safeguard. If it was in the case, Gerard must have returned it just before the attack.
Canute sighed again, coughed and wiped his lips again. He folded the cloth into neat squares. "What now?"
"Well, with the fuss, I've given up napping. It would be nice to get rid of my headache so I can think. With that said, we're rigging a sail to increase speed. If need be, I'll adjust our course to use it. Worst-case scenario, is it moves us away from the area they attacked us, and then we need some proper navigation."
"When do you plan to awaken him?" Canute twitched his chin sideways to Van Reiver, dozing beside the baron.
"Tonight maybe, I'd rather he rested. In frankness, he can't do anything until we have a clear sky. After his battering, I'm concerned. And that was before he went swimming with his arrow."
"It is a good crew you have; it is rare to see such discipline," Canute commented for conversation, looking around the calmness and stoicism. Despite every man carrying an injury, Dagmar wanted to add but held his tongue with contributing little himself.
"Handpicked by the captain during his lengthy career, with a few troublemakers thrown in for good measure," said Dagmar. "Some ships operated by enforced tyranny, others by the loyalty of men to particular officers or captains. Bullsen was one of the latter. Had been," Dagmar corrected himself with a twinge of regret. "He'd inspired tremendous devotion and loyalty with crewmen and officers." Hadly was a typical example. A chequered past with dark rumours, yet loyal to Bullsen, then Tryphon. Dagmar remembered faces, names and expressions merging and forced himself to blink away the sudden pang of tears. "Captain Bullsen had a knack for taking in men of chequered backgrounds and getting the most of from them. Officers and seamen throughout Spires relished the opportunity to work under him. That includes myself. He lacked a title, but had quite the following, what with his reputation as a pirate hunter in his youth. We've lost so damn many, and I fear this is all who escaped. Escaped for nothing."
"You will lose more. When the food runs out, the weak go quickly." Canute studied the magus' bruising, and the residual smear of Van Reiver's blood. Dagmar knew those eyes missed nothing. It made him uncomfortable, despite his irritation. Like a naughty student hauled to the tutors' office after a failed prank. He'd endured his fair share of those visits, and their pointless secrecy—if true—explained Van Reiver's mood.
"I'll deal with it when it raises its head." Dagmar said. "Hadly and Rufus can stretch the little we have and keep them busy. The rest is in the hands of the Gods."
Canute nodded and grasped his arm. "Good, there is no sense unduly worrying. Deal with the things you can influence and work with them. The only advice I offer is to keep people occupied. I suggest you rest, Magus. You'll need it for the days to come."
"Aye, aye, Your Lordship," Dagmar said, his mouth moving automatically and feeling each of the inspected aches and bruises.
He gave the Baron a fake bow that made the man chuckle as Dagmar stumbled back to his seat and thudded his arse onto the damp wood. Merizus rolled his eyes at him before studying the noble. Dagmar looked between the baron and his daughter, and from her tight expression and the sickly man's prolonged sigh, it was obvious the man wasn't fooling anybody. His hourglass emptied. It was a comfort to Dagmar when she returned to Canute, checked he was bundled up and settled against him, clutching his exposed hand until their heads bobbed in time to the swell. Merizus caught his gaze, glanced to the next boat and shrugged. So much for suspicions, Dagmar thought, as Hadly's gaggle dispersed and he looked to the moody clouds. Give us a chance.
21
"It's not pretty, but she'll do," Grimm announced, grinning at Harcux and Paska. They'd sorted ropes, spliced the lines, organised the four oars and supervised the associated lashings. Critically, the men had managed not to drop anything on the huddled wounded. Valant looked inordinately pissed off after dragging his bulk around the adjoining boat, forcing the ropes around dying men, while cursing each knot as the officers chattered.
The sly-faced seaman gazed away, face curdled with whatever sourness occupied him. Grimm assumed it was the resentment at having a shorter left arm from a nasty break four years back. Tryphon's crew quarters for deckhands were sodden, the damp making any ache miserable. The sunjammer's' might lift Tryphon from the sea, but spray and soaked men worked their way into the forecastle where cold met the heat bleeding off the sunjammer plating at the stem. The lower deck was not a kind place, and Valant had rubbed people the wrong way with his clever tongue and fawning to Hadly. Wittmann had presumed it was for preferential deals, but out here it could be for what—a better seat, rations? Fuck, it could be anything. As though hearing his name, the man in question caught Grimm's eye before scratching at his belly through a tear in his shirt. He spat over the side and shuffled down to doze. It was a concern he'd settled down with Hadly, yet with Cephill's repertoire of eyeballs, the 'them and us' attitude between boats only went so far. Hadly had the bulk of the food and doled it out as tightly as if his own. Grimm had the nobles, the comatose navigator and the sole sunjammer. Co-dependance in insanity. Grimm shook his head.
"It brings a new meanin' to raisin' the colours," scoffed Trevir, draping an arm around the ballista while he kept watch. Merizus snorted. Grimm had found the serjeant adding his considerable strength when they'd hauled the spar against the double-lashed oars forming the 'A-frame'. Their improvised mast and sail straddled both boats, with the white-tipped brown tiger-fang mountain of Central Spires inset with the shark-toothed mountain and the golden crown on the Spires blue background. The flag strained to the snap of a light wind. Only West Spires and Spires Central had mountains noteworthy for inclusion on the national flag. The ones in the Eastern Principality were comparative pimples, their flag having two crowns instead.
"Any chance of a wet? I'm parched, Cox'!" whined Paska, wiping spray from his stubble, the birthmark on his cheek a dark splodge through the grime. Grimm nodded to Onvice and opened the lid of the current flask. The youth strained and heaved it to Harcux, who lodged it between his paddle-sized feet. Harcux glared at the fat man's wheedling, but said nothing.
"Do we have any empty flasks, sir?" Grimm hinted, glad that Harcux had kept his mouth shut around the cadet.
"No, just this one when we empty it."
"Very good, sir." Grimm winked at Merizus, who gave a wan smile. He was a tough kid, and may yet amount to something if they survive. That went for all of them, and for the first time, the marine appeared to be suffering from his injuries. Grimm gave the serjeant a thorough once-over with being so quiet since they'd raised the mast. H
ang on, he wanted to shout, all of you hang on. It wasn't the done thing, was it? Grim humour and bad jests. How the mighty from three nations over two continents had fared.
To Grimm's surprise, Merizus spoke first. "How's your foot?"
"Aching. The side hurts most, but I can't keep the foot anything but soggy with the spray."
"Have you tried covering it with a coat?"
"It's pointless with the swill, an' the weight makes the fucker hurt more."
"Heh," chuckled the marine in rough sympathy.
"Sorry about your lads—meant to say earlier."
"I try not to think on it, it's easier to cope with losing my boys. I recall the faces, but most of the names have gone already. So many faces. At the minute, my side hurts more."
"So you tell yerself, huh? Then you hauled on ropes? Tit!" Grimm observed.
"Wanker!" Merizus grinned, brown eyes mocking. "What're you, my ma?"
"Donkey's bell-end! I'm ugly enough to be the bow-legged bitch. I owe you that for the tripod comment." Grimm paused, a flicker of thought moving over his face. "How d'you let them get close, being your size?" He pointed at Merizus's side.
"Oh, the cut was them. One got lucky with a spear while you twatted about below. The ribs were yer poxy riggin' landin' on me in a shit-shower of blocks and pulleys. A man my size can't dance, stab and duck at the same time."
"Hah! We had that fuck-cock of a mast remounted a week before sailin'. Your lads missed the fun while you were off in yer cushy barracks suckin' each other's dicks. We got it lifted across fine; then the dockyard chippy discovered the cunt wouldn't fit our tabernacle. The bald bastard spent an hour adzin' the end while moaning the entire time. Panon laughed his balls off when the chippy moved it backwards and forwards for another hour, trying to get it to fit.
"The cheapest bidder prolly made it." Lukas said. It caused a brief chuckle, and in all likelihood was accurate.
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 19
