Heroes of Time Legends: Murdoch's Choice

by Wayne D. Kramer

  “If it’s such a powerful, dangerous thing, I can’t imagine it being better with Seadread.”

  “Maybe it’ll prove too much for that black-souled tyrant.” Jensen leaned upon a crutch, his leg splinted and bandaged. “Perhaps he’ll get just a little too careless and turn into stone.”

  “Or perhaps he’ll melt into a puddle of ooze,” said Evette. The loss of oarsman Winston had fueled in her a special hatred for Seadread.

  “He’ll burst into flame and burn to ashes,” Miles said.

  “Boils will cover his skin and all manner of bugs will bite at his wounds,” said Hookknee.

  “Bah,” said Kasper, “we still have no prize to show for this voyage, with not enough time to take new jobs before the bar goal expires…or before Seadread beats us to it.”

  “There will be more prizes,” Zale replied, clapping Beep on the shoulder. “What we’ve lost here in spoils, perhaps we’ll have gained in scruples. That’s much more than can be said of Seadread. I have a feeling he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

  He descended the stairs to his cabin. He heard one final grouse from Beep as he walked away.

  “Perhaps, but they don’t pay well for scruples back at port.”

  “Today, friends, the sun smiles upon us!” Captain Murdoch shouted from the forecastle deck.

  Everyone was gathered upon the deck under the light of late morning, the salty air mild and comfortable. They had sailed hard all night, working to put as much distance as possible between them and Gukhan.

  Some of the crew had managed to sleep. Some were wobbly on their legs with fatigue. Tired or not, none of them would miss this moment for anything. Every one of Murdoch’s Mates held a mug of ale.

  Jensen appreciated their captain’s cordial demeanor. The long voyage back to Warvonia had only just begun, and spirits had never been lower aboard the Queenie. Starlina stood nearby, her hand holding tightly to his.

  “If there is ever a good day for bidding farewell to lost comrades, it is a day like this one,” Murdoch said. “Men, we have suffered much. Murdoch’s Mates are known for success, for being the best, for beating the competition. You may feel bested, like we have lost to Garrick Rummy…but there is no honor in being a turncoat and a murderous fiend. That is how the weak-minded think they win. That is how they dig such a hole that, eventually, they fall in and bury themselves.

  “You feel beaten, but let me give you this assurance: we are still the best!”

  “Aye!” roared the crew.

  Captain Murdoch pulled a folded page from his pocket.

  “If I’m being totally honest,” Murdoch said, “last night I had to make the most emotionally trying and painful updates of my life to a crew roster. All of you performed beyond your charge on this cruise. You fought like champions. You sailed like masters. You stared into hellfire itself and emerged stronger for it. Nine souls among us gave it their all, and today we put their bodies to rest. It is said that the ocean’s floor is of the purest sediment in the world, the first soils of creation. These bodies are but the corporal shells of our comrades. Today we commit these shells back to the sea…back to creation.”

  He positioned his monocle, lifted the page, and began to read.

  “Three souls lost to grimkin invaders aboard the deck of the Queenie. Redvers Hardy, age twenty-six, deckhand and one of the best sailors to ever man the braces. Tate Woodard, age twenty-eight, a boatswain’s mate who could’ve sailed us through stacks in the fog of a blizzard with both hands behind his back. Elihu Jones, age twenty-nine, deckhand and the reason half of Wigglebelly’s soups passed edible.”

  Jaxon sniffled and wiped a tear. “It’s true, man.”

  “Five souls lost to grimkin mercenaries in the cave of Gukhan,” Captain Murdoch said. “Ian Hopper, age thirty-two, ropemaster and none skilled the better at rigging. Winston Clergy, age forty-one, oarsman and coxswain’s mate, a true honor to have had in our crew. Sal Wiggins, age thirty, deckhand and the most eager lookout I ever did encounter. Jonas Singleton, age thirty-nine, one of the best deckhands I ever saw with a sword. Clement Gardina, age forty-four, deckhand and most honorable swab-master….”

  Captain Murdoch paused a moment, preparing himself to read the last name.

  “And Fulgar Geth, age fifty, lost in selfless defense of the crew against grimkins in the cave, physicker…healer…spiritual guide…and the reason we stand here alive today.”

  Every head lowered, every hat was removed, and solemn moments of silence followed. The captain raised high his stein. “Raise your ales and drink a toast! May their journey to beyond be one of fair winds and following seas.”

  “Hear hear!” shouted the crew with a coinciding draft of ale.

  Then, one by one, large stones were tied to the hammocks, and the fallen men were committed to the sea.

  It might’ve been the way the sunlight glinted in descent, but Jensen could’ve sworn he saw a nimbus of faint, white light surround Fulgar’s hammock as it splashed into the water.

  CHAPTER 14

  MURDOCH’S CHOICE

  8/22/3203

  They were, by Kasper’s calculation, about one week away from reaching Warvonia. The past twelve days had been hard ones at sea, with constant reminders of the crew they’d lost and the extra work everyone had to do. Still, amidst the fatigue, Jensen felt a camaraderie with those aboard the Queenie quite unlike anything he’d experienced before.

  Yes, they had lost their bounty—it might be the first time ever for a Murdoch voyage—but everyone was glad to be sailing home. Once back in Warvonia, there would be brief respite to see loved ones and settle affairs on land, and then it would be on to the next job.

  And, if many of the crew were being honest, it was a relief to be free of the pressures of trying to attain the mastery bar. For Jensen, the hardest thing was coming to grips with the reality that Seadread and his crew would be the ones to reach it.

  “Surely, once the guild hears of what they did,” he said one day to Kasper, “they’ll strip him of that privilege.”

  Kasper merely shrugged. “Crews never speak of how they win or lose their charges, especially if they lose to each other. That’s the seafaring guild’s tradition in Warvonia.”

  “Even if they did,” said Yancy, “the guild wouldn’t listen. They don’t bother their precious selves with anything that happens outside of Tuscawny, or even Rocknee for that matter. It would be the word of Seadread’s crew against ours. They’ll just deny ever having hired grimkin mercenaries—they’re all dead, anyway—and they’ll say the deaths on our crew are our business. No help to be gained from those goons.”

  “Aye,” said Rosh. “Lick your wounds and get ready for the next job. That’s all they’re about.”

  “Bottle in your afflictions, and they bottle in their questions,” Jensen said, knowing the ways of Warvonia’s guild. “It seems ghastly.”

  Harsh as it was, however, he knew it was reality, particularly within the league of specialized, high-value seafarers that counted Murdoch among them.

  “It goes both ways,” said Dippy. “It’s just as well for us if the guild never knows that we had to rescue the captain from a Gukhanian prison, taking down dozens of their soldiers in the process.”

  Simply losing to Seadread was one thing. Jensen felt especially concerned that Garrick Rummy was about to be deemed a grandmaster in the guild. This had not happened since well before any of their lifetimes, so it was hard to know with certainty how this would affect their crew. It was a designation supported by ancient kingdom decree—not officially above the provincial guilders, but Chief Pratt might have limited influence should the grandmaster appeal to higher authorities.

  Thus, Jensen wondered with grave concern how Seadread’s new status could influence the jobs they took, the oversight received, changes to the crew, provisions allowed, and any other matter of guild business. Life in Warvonia’s seafaring guild might be much tougher from here.

  As much as that bothered Jensen,
life otherwise aboard the Queenie had turned some interesting corners. Relationships managed to develop, if even in a furtive, hole-and-corner sort of way. Evette had been seen passively stroking Kasper’s beard, endearing him with the occasional coquettish smile.

  “Fishin’ for more daggers, Shrew?” Yancy called out one afternoon as Evette hung about the helm for no conceivably productive reason.

  “Only to shove it down your grog-hole,” she answered with mock geniality.

  Boomer seemed to be having the time of his life. He’d fashioned himself a headscarf out of scrap cloth and strutted about the ship holding his miniature cutlass, echoing orders issued throughout the ship.

  “Steady the braces there!” Dippy called out.

  “Stee-ka bracees, keekeekee!” Boomer repeated, adding his animalistic cackle.

  “Heave ho the starboard lines!”

  “Hee-ho star-sta leens, keekeekee!” And so it went.

  Boomer also had an enduring infatuation with the chickens. At first Jaxon shooed him away. “Get down, furball!” he shouted, waving a ladle. “Those chickens aren’t snacks, man!”

  Boomer shook his head fervently and chittered back at them as though trying to make a serious point.

  Then one morning a chicken managed to escape as Jaxon gathered eggs. He squealed in panic as Boomer ran up to it. When Boomer delicately stroked its feathers and carried it back to its cage, cooing all the way, everyone realized that he meant the poultry no harm. It turned out their fitful little mascot didn’t want to eat the chickens. He was simply being affectionate.

  Captain Murdoch, for his part, spent more time than usual in his cabin. This job, most assumed, had been especially hard on him. His biggest rival had prevailed, and they had suffered heavy losses, with no prize but a pile of battle-used Gukhanian swords and armor to show for it. Most days he emerged from his cabin, made his rounds with curt greetings and status inquiries, and then no one would see him again for hours.

  On one occasion the captain approached Jensen. “How fares the leg, young sir?”

  “Slower recovery than I’d like, but coming along,” Jensen said.

  The captain lifted his left pant leg, patting the dark-gray graphenite beneath. “Keep it up, and you’ll soon earn one of these beauties.”

  “I’ll consider it an honor, should it come to that.”

  “Everything copacetic with our course?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Jensen said, a bit tentatively.

  Zale grunted, lingering a moment. “There’s a matter I wanted to speak with you about, related to this resilite of yours.”

  Jensen swallowed. “Captain, I don’t mean to cause a stir by having it, but—”

  “Say no more,” Murdoch said. “Fulgar informed me of your talk before the whole cave debacle. I just wanted to apologize for giving you grief about it.”

  Relief swept over Jensen. He had worried that punishment was coming for his having the resilite. Now the captain was actually apologizing to him. “Oh, please, sir…think nothing of it!”

  “Also…I want to thank you for helping to protect my daughter through all of this. I know she can be headstrong and contrary, but you always stuck by her.”

  “I’d give my life for her, sir. Please know that.”

  Murdoch nodded. “I know you would, and I take comfort in that.”

  Jensen felt he should tread carefully here. Through experience he knew that this was a delicate subject to speak of with Murdoch.

  “She is much conflicted about being with a sailor,” Jensen said. “I had hoped, perhaps over time…”

  “…that she might change?” Murdoch said with a light chuckle. “We Murdochs are a stubborn lot, thick-skinned as hippos.”

  “Yes, I have noticed.” He said this to be lighthearted, but truly his heart felt heavy, worried about how he could ever truly be the man Starlina deserved.

  Murdoch looked out over the railing. “Starlina wants someone she can feel close to, someone accessible. If I’m being truly honest, she wants what I haven’t been. It’s not unreasonable for her to want that.”

  Jensen looked down. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “An old wise sailor once told me,” Murdoch said, “that enough time spent on the sea will give anyone a new perspective on life. Add that to the already profound effects of love and, well, I guess you just never know.”

  “Indeed, sir. You never know.”

  Murdoch clapped Jensen’s arm. “Things have a way of working out, Jensen. And, just perhaps, it could be possible for a sailor to sit out a voyage every now and then. A captain’s daughter must be well looked after, you know.” He winked. “And we have the needs of Starlina to consider, don’t we?”

  Jensen felt a spark of hope at the possibility that Starlina’s father might actually be rooting for him. “We absolutely do. A huge responsibility, to be sure.”

  “One more thing,” Murdoch said. “You once asked for my blessing to propose to her. I want you to know…you have it.”

  Jensen felt like leaping as high as the crow’s nest. “Thank you, Captain! That…means the world to me, sir.”

  Murdoch clasped Jensen’s hand in a firm shake. “Ah hahaha! You’re a good man, Jensen!”

  “Not so good as you, sir!”

  “You just might get there,” said Murdoch with a chuckle. “Right. Good luck, sailor.”

  With that, Murdoch walked back toward his cabin.

  Amazing as that was, Starlina had perhaps surprised Jensen most of all. She had, during most of the voyage to Gukhan, kept to her quarters and to herself. On this voyage home, she actually pitched in as one of the crew. She helped to pull at the sailyards. She helped Wigglebelly in the galley. She helped swab the deck and coil the lines.

  The cut she’d received across her abdomen from Seadread stung severely and often for a while. Yancy, who had learned some basic medicinal remedies in his time as quartermaster, helped her to bandage it with a poultice of herbs and honey.

  “And when you’re done with it, you could eat it,” Yancy said. “I wouldn’t, personally, but you could.”

  The cut itself was no joking matter to Starlina, though. It was most likely to leave a lifelong scar.

  Late one evening she stayed upon the quarterdeck with Jensen as he took his shift at the helm. The breeze was warm and pleasant, the sky a beautiful twilight banded by the rings high above, and the closest crewmembers were busy down around the mast.

  Jensen had much on his mind, not the least of which was his earlier conversation with the captain. He felt inexplicably nervous. Although he had the blessing of Starlina’s father, Jensen still worried that it wouldn’t be enough. Jensen was still a sailor. He would still be gone for long voyages. She might never be able to accept that, and he realized it might not be fair to expect her to.

  “It really doesn’t look all that difficult,” she said.

  “Is that so?” Jensen laughed, holding the wheel steady.

  “You’re just standing there.”

  Jensen made a show of indignation. “It’s not just about standing here.”

  She stepped up closer. “How do you know where you’re going?”

  “Are you asking me how to be a sailor?”

  “I merely wonder how you know we’re going in the right direction, that we won’t end up ashore on the tip of Akkadia.”

  “Ah,” said Jensen, “then you’ve taken an interest in how to navigate at sea.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “We are at sea, aren’t we?”

  “That we are, milady. Very well, then—a crash course.”

  Starlina chortled. “So long as we’re not crashing, of course.”

  “The rings, you see, are our primary navigational tool. We can measure their position from the horizon to determine where we are against Kasper’s maps and charts.” He looked into her bright, gorgeous eyes. She was watching him intently, so he continued. “We’ve oriented our map and compass, and using that Kasper currently has our bearing at two hundr
ed twenty-five degrees, which happens to be southwest. Visually, a bit to the right of the rings’ apex, which of course mark the south.”

  “How fascinating,” she said, smiling.

  “And so, this is me—standing here, yes—but also ensuring we stay on our determined course. Sometimes it takes quite an effort to keep it steady, you know.”

  “May I give it a try?”

  It was a question he never thought he’d hear from her. His heart pounded with joy.

  “Starlina the Anti-Sailor, asking to steer the ship. Now I believe I’ve seen it all.” He stepped to the side, taking care not to allow the wheel to careen.

  She took hold of the wheel, momentarily struggling against its pull. “It really doesn’t like to stay in position, does it?”

  Jensen laughed. “Staying on course is ever a balance between the wind, the sail, and the currents. Veering even a small amount could take you miles in the wrong direction. Here, allow me….”

  Reaching from behind her, he placed his hands over hers. Her hair streamed about his face, and he breathed her in, a scent remarkably exhilarating despite the limited hygiene of sea life.

  “I can feel that you are very much in control, Jensen Karrack,” she said.

  “Of our ship’s navigation, I suppose you’re right.”

  “But of nothing else?”

  “Of the rest of life, who am I to say?”

  He inhaled deeply of the warm breeze. He watched his hands upon hers, together, and in this moment, solely responsible for the direction of their course.

  “I suppose only time will tell,” he said.

  Starlina entered the captain’s cabin to find her father sitting pensively at his desk, looking over papers.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said after a moment, “pleasant afternoon, Starlina. Is everything okay?”

  She took a seat in one of the cushy armchairs. “You tell me.”