by B T Litell
“I wasn’t asleep sir, honest!” the man replied, his voice quavered.
“The next person I catch sleeping loses their eyelids! Who is your relief?”
“Mathieu, sir. He should be here in an hour,” the guard replied.
“Not anymore. He will be here in four hours. Test my patience again,” Bruce yelled.
Before the man could protest the punishment, knowing he could have instead spent a night or two in the dungeon, Bruce turned and walked away quickly, with Michael and Joshua behind him. As they entered the staircase, Bruce stopped and turned around, shouting at the sentry that his relief would instead arrive in the morning…
Chapter Four
The next morning, Joshua and Michael walked along the wharf toward Queller. Everywhere along the wharf, seamen scurried along, as they began completing daily tasks. Some worked among the riggings, sewing patches onto the sails; others swabbed fresh tar onto the wooden planks which formed the ships’ decks. None of the sailors in the whole wharf paid mind to either Michael or Joshua as they walked along; the sight of two travelers appeared not to bother any of the barefooted deck hands. The wharf housed nearly two dozen ships, all of which floated beside their respective docks based on their size. The northern piers housed the brig ships, dwarfed by the frigates and man-of-war ships at the southern end of the dock. Michael and Joshua walked along the quay to Queller.
Randall stood at the bottom of the gangplank with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His bare feet were spread slightly wider than his shoulders. His appearance was the epitome of a sea-faring man. When his passengers walked up to the ship, he straightened his posture, revealing that he stood nearly as tall as the King.
“I was told you would be here before dawn. Why are you late?” Randall asked, his voice smooth but firm.
“We are here now. Let’s set off,” Joshua replied.
“I have one rule for you, priest. Remove your hood while aboard my ship. No man’s face is to be hidden while his feet touch my deck,” Randall said as he strolled up the gangplank.
Joshua removed his hood, reluctantly, and walked up the gangplank onto the ship. Michael followed his guide, unsure of what he should do once aboard Queller. The wood planks under his feet creaked as his weight shifted from one spot to another. Once aboard the ship, Michael noticed that the tar covered every portion of wood flooring exposed. The tar provided was less slippery than the smooth gangplank had been, and Michael watched as barefooted sailors ran here and there across the mighty warship.
“Quartermaster, are all supplies aboard that will be needed for the voyage?” Randall called to a man standing on the quarterdeck beside the helm.
“Aye, Cap’n,” the quartermaster replied, snapping his right hand to his brow.
“Make preparations to launch the ship at my command,” Randall shouted. Several sailors responded before scurrying off.
Randall led Joshua and Michael into his quarters and closed the doors behind him. He also pulled the curtains over the windows. In the middle of his cabin stood a small wooden table, on which sat a variety of maps, a sexton, and other navigational tools. Randall walked to the other side of the table and leaned over the map on the table then picked up a match to light his candle. With the candle lit, he pointed to the largest map on the table and locked eyes with Michael.
“This is Drendil. At least the part of Drendil I’ve charted through my various voyages. Our trip, without any adverse weather, conflicts, or other issues, will take two weeks. There is nothing I will return to that dreaded land for, so as long as you are surely ready, we will set off,” Randall stated firmly, hoping he made his point.
“There is no reason to stay longer than we must,” Michael replied.
“Very well. You are welcome to stay here in my cabin or come to the helm if you would like to watch the ship set sail. I only ask that you stay out of the way. I will leave that choice to you,” Randall said, standing up and walking toward his door. As he got to the door there was a knock. When he opened the door, the quartermaster stood outside.
“Report, Quartermaster,” Randall said.
“All members of the crew are aboard and ready to set off, Cap’n. Awaiting your orders,” he replied.
“Very well,” Randall called before he walked up to the helm. Michael followed closely behind having decided to watch the ship being set to sea.
“Bosun, ready the ship to sail,” Captain Randall called, looking at a barrel-chested man.
“Aye, Cap’n,” bosun said then brought a peculiar shaped brass whistle to his mouth.
The bosun blew several blasts on his whistle. The sound carried well above the sounds of the harbor. Some of the sailors aboard Queller bustled about the ship, others took up their positions beside thick lines that held the ship to the pier. Others scurried up the masts and prepared to untie the sails for when that order would come. Bosun looked about when all the movement settled as if he were counting every man aboard the ship. When he saw everyone where they should be, he turned back to Randall, quickly clapping his fist to his chest.
“Ready to sail at your word, Cap’n,” bosun reported, letting the silver whistle hang at his chest on its thin, well-worn leather strap.
“Release the moorings and get us into the harbor, bosun,” Randall said.
Bosun lifted the whistle to his mouth again, blowing three short blasts followed by a trilling long blast. The men aboard Queller loosened the ropes that tied the ship to the pier and hauled the lines in quickly. A repeated clanging sound came from the dock behind the ship, and Michael walked to the stern and looked over the rail to see what made the sound. Shirtless, barefoot men walked in circles around a contraption with large handles that let slack into a massive rope attached to the ship. As they walked around the machine, the waves brought into the harbor from the tide gently pushed Queller away from the pier and out into the harbor.
Michael returned to the rail beside Joshua and watched as the men pulled the mooring lines onto the ship’s deck; the line would get drawn in, then doubled over as it formed a flat, neat pile of rope roughly two meters long and half a meter wide, one layer deep on the deck of the ship. Once they finished coiling the line, some of the sailors moved to other parts of the ship. Some stayed outside and a few others went below the main deck. Within fifteen minutes, Queller had drifted far enough from the pier and bosun reported the ship’s status to Randall.
“Very well,” Randall said. “Don’t unfurl the main sails until we are beyond the harbor.”
Bosun nodded and blew a few lasts on his whistle; men on the masts loosed the smaller sails, the thick canvas falling naturally and snapping as the breeze filled them. From the deck below, oars appeared where cannons would ordinarily stand, the smooth wood dipping into and out of the water as they helped push Queller into a stronger wind and open waters.
“When we fully leave the harbor, unfurl all sails and set a course due west. Retrieve me an hour after that point,” Randall ordered, clasping his hands together in the small of his back as he walked off the quarterdeck. His footing seemed very sure, even without shoes on.
Michael leaned against the rail, his back to the castle they left behind them. Joshua, a few feet to his right, gazed upon the city as they slowly drifted further away; the pennants that flew over the castle grew too small to see before he broke his gaze from the city. As they continued sailing away, and the sailors let the remaining sails open with the wind, Michael watched as a lone tear grew and left Joshua’s eye, slowly traveling down his cheek unhindered. He neither attempted to stop the tear nor did he acknowledge its presence.
Queller pushed through the water, small waves splashing from its wooden hull as the warship cut through the water in the small bay south and west of the castle. As the warship sailed through into the open ocean, Michael felt it rocking up and down as it cut across what would become waves crashing on the distant shoreline. Michael felt his stomach lurch briefly and wondered to himself how these sailors could do thi
s so often without feeling sick. Michael watched as Prikea grew smaller, faded into the distance.
…Six Days After Setting Sail…
Michael took a brief moment and gazed up at the sky. Light wispy clouds floated through the clear blue sky. Sweat that had collected on his forehead now dripped down the side of his face, into his ears. Breath came and went quickly, and his chest felt tight. He hadn’t fought with a sword before, and even though he was training, the sailors showed no mercy though they claimed to fight at half power. The ship rocked back and forth and that only made the whole situation worse. Michael lost his footing too often and caught the blade of a training sword, which while not sharp still hurt. His right side had taken a beating, which he knew would result in some bruises the next day, if not sooner. Muscles ached and he grew more exhausted as they continued to train. Randall was relentless with the training.
Michael rolled onto his side and forced himself to stand up. As he stood, he saw Jasper, the sailor he was currently sparring with, standing a few paces away, the tip of his practice sword resting gently on the tar-covered deck of the ship. He stood with his feet apart just as he had when Michael first met the man. Everything about the man loudly pointed to him being a sailor, especially a regular member of the crew, including the patch he wore over his left eye. From the way he fought, it was apparent that he had been sailing for many years and had seen his fair share of battles on the open ocean. Michael thought the eye patch was curious, but it seemed that all the men aboard Queller wore a patch over one eye or the other, so there had to be a reason for it. Perhaps Michael would ask one of them.
“Ye’ve gotten faster, but yer footin’s still weak. Show me how you were standin’ right before ye fell, lad,” Jasper said, a slightly disinterested look upon his face. Randall stood off to the side as he watched over the training.
Michael got back into the stance Randall had shown him, his left foot in front of his body, the sword in both hands, held close to his right side, and his right foot behind his body. His weight shifted with the ship, but he kept most of it on his back foot. The worn leather wrapped around the wood rod they called a practice sword had grown slippery from his sweating hands.
“That’s yer problem lad. Yer feet’re too far apart, so ye won’t be able to stand when ye get hit. Try puttin’ this foot here,” Jasper said, pushing Michael’s front foot back with one of his bare feet. “Bend yer knees a little too, like this.” Jasper bent his knees slightly, as if he was trying to sit in a chair that was not behind him. Michael mimicked the man, which brought a brief glimpse of approval to the man’s face. “Now yer gettin’ it laddie!” he said.
They had been practicing for nearly two hours, with the only breaks being when Michael fell. Those were hardly breaks, though. Jasper still breathed normally, showed no signs of exhaustion. Randall stood on the quarterdeck watching the entire evolution from above, his posture unchanged from the first time Michael met the man, except for the eye patch he wore. Joshua also watched from the quarterdeck with Randall.
“How dead is he, Jasper?” Randall called from behind Michael. His voice carried across the ship well, showing his years of sailing.
“Well, Cap’n, the lad is pretty dead. He’s gettin’ a hang of it though. Maybe in a couple days he’ll only die four times instead of six,” Jasper said, laughing when he said that.
“Give him a rest, Jasper. You can spar again later, if you think it will help,” Randall called once more.
“Aye, Cap’n.” Jasper collected the practice swords and took them below with him.
Joshua walked down the steps from the quarterdeck and joined Michael, who stood by the bulwark, his elbows leaning against the rail. His breath still came rapidly; sweat beaded on his brow and rolled down his cheeks and nose. His shirt was wet and clung to him like a second skin. A light breeze blew across the ship from the south, and it carried a cool, salt-filled air with it.
“Your swordsmanship has improved since you first started. I know it is difficult fighting on a sailing ship, but it should help you later when you’re fighting on land,” Joshua assumed as he leaned on the rail of the ship beside Michael.
They stood at the rail for a few more minutes, letting the breeze dance across them, simply taking in the sight of the ocean. Far away to the south, a few small islands rose from the unbroken sheet of still water, the only sign of land they had seen since they had departed. Only a few fish and dolphins swimming in the water showed signs of life as far as they could see. Michael was enjoying the voyage, even if there wasn’t really anything to look at; simply being on the ship going somewhere new was exciting enough. Yet he knew he would never see Feldring again. That realization sat like a stone in his stomach.
The men aboard Queller followed orders whistled by the bosun. They pulled lines and adjusted riggings as needed, scurrying from here to there as they worked. The bosun was a large, tan-skinned man with piercings in his face and tattoos on his arms and hands. Thin gold chains connected several piercings together between his ears and his nose, the meaning of which was lost to Michael. He would wonder what they meant for the rest of his life, or at least for the rest of the voyage. The look on bosun’s face was not an inviting look, and the man was intimidating. Not as much as Bruce, but nearly so. It was unlikely he would welcome questions from a ‘land-dog’ as the sailors had taken to calling Michael.
Far to the west, behind the warship, the sun drew closer to the horizon, throwing splashes of color into the sky. Red and orange streaks flew across the sky, painting clouds in brilliant shades. Never had Michael thought that he would enjoy a sunset more than he had while he lived in Feldring, watching the sun descend beyond the mountain city, changing the colors of the mountains themselves. Yet his time aboard Queller showed how wrong he had been. After they finished the voyage, Michael doubted he would ever see such a brilliant display again.
“Get some sleep, Michael. Randall wants to spar with you tomorrow, and that won’t be an easy fight. He likes the progress you’ve made so far. ‘His progress is promising,’ he said up on the quarterdeck,” Joshua stated, stepping away from the rail.
After a few moments standing at the rail, Michael turned and walked below to the hammock Randall had assigned to him. The cotton supported him, but was still soft, and the motion of the ship rocking against the sea put him to sleep quickly. As he drifted off, the same dream came to him as it had for many weeks now. Sven and James fought by his side; in a city he knew but only through these dreams. Creatures that seemed familiar, yet still terrified him. And the darkness that loomed like a blanket being thrown over the world, smothering every speck of light.
***
The next morning, Michael woke to the bustle of sailors getting ready for that day’s work. The men moved with purpose, threw on their trousers but left off their shirts and shoes, as was their practice while out to sea. Michael still found that walking barefoot felt foreign, but the tar on the wooden decks of the ship felt strangely comforting against the soles of his feet. A few meters away, Joshua knelt under his hammock, the cowl of his robe still draped over his shoulders. He complied with Randall’s wish on that aspect, as reluctant as it might have been for him to do so. The priest had spent much of his time in the mornings and evenings in prayer, as he always had since they had left Feldring. Michael thought it could be his way of coping with the reality of exile, a sentence he received for following his orders. Guilt simmered within Michael, even with reassurance from Joshua that a priest’s calling meant many changes in life, even those that were disliked. His eyes still bore a deep pain regarding that reality.
Michael sat in his hammock and let his feet dangle above the deck for a few more moments before he stood. He threw on one of the soft, plain shirts Randall provided after they set sail. Michael had the option, as the rest of the crew did, to go about the ship shirtless, but he was still uncomfortable with that idea. The first day out to sea he had tried it but caught far too much of the unadulterated sunlight. He now had a
reddish-pink hue to his chest and back. His skin stung under the weight of the light shirt. Perhaps the next morning when he woke up the pain would be gone. He had already noticed skin was peeling from the reddest of areas. The biggest difficulty he found was not scratching himself to relieve the itching sensations.
A few sailors remained in the cabin area, one sewing a patch over a hole in a pair of trousers. Another sailor was eating a piece of dried meat, fruit, and some bread. The food all looked tough to eat but none of the sailors complained about their accommodations. They ate simple foods, but that food kept the men alive and healthy, so none of them complained or found reason to, at the very least. Michael had certainly not heard any complaints during their time aboard Queller. He had grown to enjoy the food, but it would grow old if this were his daily rations for longer than a couple weeks. The sailors preserved as much of their food as they could to prevent such crucial food from spoiling. And as it turned out, dried fruit kept its flavor and made less of a mess to eat.
“Let’s head topside and see if Randall is ready to start sparring with you, if you’re ready. Perhaps there will be something more in store for us today,” Joshua suggested though he still knelt under his hammock.
“That sounds good to me,” Michael acknowledged as he walked toward the wood ladder that led to the outside of the ship. Well, it eventually led to the outside of the ship, after passing through another deck where the cannons were stored, ready for whatever unfriendly things may come their way. Michael hoped, deep inside himself, that they wouldn’t have to use the cannons on this voyage.
Reds, purples, and yellows scattered through the sky, much like the night before. However, the mood of the sailors seemed vastly different than it had when Michael had gone below deck to get some rest. Worry stained their faces, and several looked about, trying to find whatever scrap of hope they would need later.
“To see red in the sky during a sunrise is an ill omen in a sailor’s life,” Randall called from his cabin door. He leaned against the open door, watching his passengers as they emerged from below. “The sky should only be red when the sun sets. There’ll be a storm later. Hopefully we get away from it−”
