CHAPTER 1: THE CHILD AND THE MAIDEN

Morning finds the rain much diminished but not dispelled.  Clouds hang low in the sky, misty tendrils mingling with the tops of trees and the masts of the privateer.

Morning finds Guiromélans more sober, more determined.  His accounts settled with his innkeeper, he now carries the only possessions left to him slung over one shoulder:  his knight’s saddle and a pack filled with simple supplies.  No more is needed for the likes of him.  Now that God has illuminated the path set for him, it is time to move on.  He is finished with this Muttese weihs.

He stands at the site of last night’s attack.  The bodies of the two Brackish sailors still lay where he left them, though someone has since robbed them of their boots and valuables.  Guiromélans steps over the naked corpses and makes his way down towards the beached sloop.

The rage of the privateer Captain is apparent in every tensed muscle of his body.  “Pwyo fe!” he roars in eastern accented Brackish.

The pirates around him snicker and fidget with excitement.  At their center, the boy from the bar cowers.  As one of the big Brackish sailors reaches for him, he wails, “Nage!  Fi crefu ar chi!”

Even as the first blows land, the Captain snarls again, “Pwyo fe dygn!”

The drama playing out on the beach captivates the rest of the crew as well as many villagers.  Nothing draws a crowd like a child being beaten.  Lining the beach, wizened Muttese fishermen, their faces burnt into blackened leather by the sun, sit on their haunches and chew their pipes.  Under their aloof gazes, Guiromélans stalks towards the ship.

“NA!”  The shriek of horror and outrage stops even Guiromélans in his tracks.  He watches with rapt fascination as a tall, dark-haired girl leaps from the ship and dashes out of the surf.  “Na!” she screams again, fury and surprise playing openly across her face.

The sailor hesitates in his punches and looks up as she approaches.  He glances uncertainly from her to his Captain and back again.

“Gorfodi i eteil!” the bleeding boy cries to her, straining against the sailor’s grip.

Stalking fearlessly up to the big Brack, she snarls, “Tog deth!” and lands a vicious punch right across his face.  “Tog DETH!”

The blow catches the sailor off-guard, allowing the whimpering boy to break free.  Gulping down his tears and sobs, he scampers to hide behind his guardian.

Guiromélans is surprised by her striking beauty.  He’d never expect such a fine creature to be on board a Brackish privateer.  She is dark-haired, tall, and muscular—the ideal Brackish bna—but a nasty, unfortunate scar mars her earthy features.  Starting at the corner of her mouth, the angry wound runs down her cheek and across her throat.  Frankly, Guiromélans is surprised the injury wasn’t fatal.

Though nearly as tall as the Brack she faces, the powerful sailor’s bulk still dwarfs her.  He grins at her with a mouth full of blackened teeth and wags his fist warningly just before it snaps out.  The punch knocks her backwards, toppling her over the boy, and she lands hard in the sand amongst the jeers and laughter of the other pirates.

She shakes her head and tests her jaw before leaping back to her feet.  What was once quite pretty, her face now becomes a mask of murderous fury.  Spinning around, she grabs the hilt of a surprised sailor’s spatha and pulls it from its sheathe.  With a flourish, she raises the huge broadsword above her head and stands ready.  “Deua!” she invites, blood running from her nose and staining her teeth.

The sudden rage surprises Guiromélans.  He has no mastery of the Brackish language, but he knows a challenge when he hears one.  This is no meek, tongueless inigena.  That she could lift, let alone wield, a blade like a spatha is testimony to her strength.  That she would face a warrior of this size is testimony to her courage.  There are many men who could not do the same.  Guiromélans picks up the pace and pushes into the circle of sailors.

“Connus oainjyr!” the sailor roars as he draws his own spatha and prepares to meet the girl’s sword.

Just as Guiromélans enters the circle, the boy spots his approach.  With a scream, he points and shouts, “E mae acw!  E mae acw!”

All eyes look to the Raven.  The surprised sailor turns just in time for Guiromélans’s heavy saddle to smash into the side of his skull.  The Brack staggers and falls to his knees.  Guiromélans follows quickly with a knee to the chest and a downward blow with the saddle that sends the sailor coughing into the sand.  Before he can recollect his senses, Guiromélans drops the saddle over him and takes a seat.

Fury ripples through the line of pirates.  An angry Brack dashes at the Raven with gully knife drawn.  Others trail close behind.  Without moving from his seat, Guiromélans’s saber leaps from its scabbard.  The initial downward swing stops the men in their tracks.  The second upward cut strikes home deep within the lead sailor’s groin.  Judging by his reaction, Guiromélans can tell its sharp edge has cut through his oilskin braca and probably into a good deal of skin as well.  Guiromélans maintains a steady upward pressure to make sure the whimpering Brack doesn’t get any dramatic ideas.

The message is clear:  Should the others decide to attack, this man will be the first to die screaming.

Even as the other sailors begin to back off, the Captain steps forward, shouting something angrily in Brackish.  Guiromélans’s other hand snap draws his wheel-lock pistol and levels it at him.  Worth a fortune, the firearm is already wound and loaded.  Any man who knows pistols would know it to be much more accurate and deadly than any matchlock or flintlock.

The Captain must know his firearms, because he quickly sobers and takes a step back.  The two men measure each other silently while the others look on.  Guiromélans can feel the excitement and fear of the pirates rising around him.  Soon, they will act with or without their leader’s blessing.

It is the Captain who blinks first.  Breaking out into an exaggerated magnanimous smile, he gestures to his men to relax… for now.  “Tog deth…  Tog deth…” he sighs as he waves them down.

Now that he’s closer, Guiromélans can see the Captain is not Brackish but Ulbandi.  It figures it would take an elephant wrangler to herd a bunch of Bracks this far south.  Slowly approaching Guiromélans, he spreads his arms and asks something politely in Brackish.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “I come either to fight or talk,” he says in Palpi.  “If you wish to fight, I guarantee you’ll suffer the worst of it.  If you wish to talk, I’ll only speak in the tongues of the Seven Kingdoms.  These are my terms.”

The Captain freezes, and his smile broadens.  Addressing his men, he says something sarcastic in Brackish that causes them to chuckle nervously.  Turning back to Guiromélans, he asks in heavily accented Palpi, “Me mosac tells me yer the boduus who killed me men last night, yäh?”

Guiromélans nods.

“Anâhita!” the Captain sighs in mock sorrow, “’Twas a sorry thing yä did, fer yä killed me stone-summoner.  That was a sore price tä pay.  Me ship must sail now without its stone, mâ!”

Guiromélans nods again.

The Captain frowns slightly and licks his lips.  “Sä what is it yer lookin’ fer now?  More blood?  Revenge?”

When Guiromélans doesn’t answer, the Captain takes another step forward.  “Yä says yä comes tä either talk or fight, but yer not talkin’.  Yä killed the two who attacked yä!  T’was the mosac who marked yä!  And afore yä came, we was punishin’ him!  T’was his fault!”  The Captain points at the boy as he shouts, “What more do yä want, khat?”

“Who are you?”

The Captain hesitates before speaking.  “Though there may be bounties on me head, I am not afraid tä tell yä.  I am Forré, Captain of the Artaithto-Cing.”  When Guiromélans frowns, he adds, “The Knight’s Torment.”

Knight’s Torment?  As he slips his pistol back into his belt, Guiromélans nearly laughs at God’s sense of humor.  “Well, Captain Forré, I come to accept your invitation.  I wish to join your crew.”

Forré looks truly surprised.  “What?  Yä can’t join us!  Yer na sailor!”

Guiromélans smiles at the boy.  “Sailor enough for the boy to pick me.  Had I allowed your men to capture me, I’d already be a part of your crew, yes?”

Forré glares quickly at the cowering boy before turning back to Guiromélans.  “We already have a full crew,” Forré says darkly.  “We have na need fer a orgetos like yä.”

“Really?” Guiromélans wonders.  “Funny that.  Just last night it looked like you were impressing new sailors for your ship.  And it seems to me, just last night, you lost two men as well.  Or was I mistaken?”

“We don’t need yä.  Navât!  Not na longer, mâ!”

Guiromélans stands, at last releasing the sailors pinned by his saddle and his saber.  “Then perhaps I can suggest a means of mustering out some of your men…”  He shrugs, “You understand?  To make room for me?”

“There are too many of us,” the Captain mocks, “What do yä propose?  Kill us all, khat?  Even if yä succeed, yä’ll have a ship with na crew.”

“Oh, no, no,” Guiromélans assures happily.  “Not all of you.  No, not all.”  He gestures at the bleeding boy who still hides behind the sword-wielding girl.  “Five blows were unjustly laid upon the boy, with one more upon his guardian.”  Guiromélans’s eyes narrow.  “I propose a duel with six of your men.  One for each blow.”

“Six?” Forré exclaims in shock.

“Six.  Or just one.  You.”

“What?”

Guiromélans turns to the watching crew.  “Which shall it be, hmmn?  Which of your six shall meet with me?  He scrutinizes the crowd of Bracks.  They look surprised, some of them impressed, but no one steps forward to accept the challenge.  “That would be about a third of your number.”

He looks back at the Captain.  “Or it can be just you and me.”

“Yer a fool!” the Captain spits.  “Yä’ll soak these sands with yer own blood.  There’ll be na duel.  Navât!  Just yer death, uh?”

Guiromélans turns to address the pirate crew.  “What’s the matter?” he shouts, “I know the rage that braces the Brackish blood!  I’ve spilt enough of it to see it for myself!  I have felt it burn my skin!  And I stand ready to spill more!  I invite you to shame me with your courage!  By the names of your filthy gods, Johlpa and Bàs, I make a challenge!  Are there any men among you?  Does the courage of cings run in your veins?”  He looks meaningfully at the Captain, “Or is it watered by too much Ulbandi blood?”

“Yä boduus son-of-a-bitch!” Forré hisses.  “I’ll see yä DEAD, mâ!”

Guiromélans smiles and extends his arms.  “The invitation has been made.”

“Kill him!” Forré shouts.  “Kill this boduus ard-vitchoor!”

The Bracks around Guiromélans look to one another uncertainly.  Others stare at their Captain with surprise.

“He is but one man!” the outraged privateer screams.  “Kill him!”

With a growl and a roar, the Brack that had been pinned beneath his saddle takes up his spatha and charges.  Guiromélans hardly moves his feet.  A simple circular cut serves to parry away the bigger blade and splits open the sailor’s knee, spinning the warrior halfway around.  Even before the first cry of pain can escape his lips, Guiromélans removes his head.

The Raven casually tilts his blade to let the blood run into the sand and looks back up at the Captain.  “That was one.  I’ll face five others, lest you choose to take up the challenge?”

Forré suddenly pales as he feels the situation spiraling out of his control.  “There will be na duel!  Who are yä tä come here and start makin’ challenges, uh?  We’ll simply kill yä where yä stand.”

“Coward.”

“Yäh!” someone else shouts with feeling.

Guiromélans looks up to see a new Brack standing upon the deck of the beached privateer.  Holding a spatha in a fur-lined sheathe, he leaps to the sand and joins the circle of sailors.  This new Brack is heavily muscled, his left cheek and ear obliterated by a horrible scar.  By the reactions of the others around him, he is someone of importance.

“Yäh?” the Captain spits in shock.  “How dare yä—”

“I am Mogens, son of Horsa, son of Tollo, son of Ler.  I am Quartermaster of this vessel.”  With a look at the Bracks around him, he shouts, “I will volunteer tä be one of the five that meets this stranger!”  He looks back at his Captain, “If it should come tä that…”

“Mogens!” Forré sputters, straightening.  “Yä—”

“But it shouldn’t come tä that!” Mogens interrupts, thrusting his sword at his Captain.  “What does it mean when a Captain would rather risk the lives of six of his men afore he risks his own?  Cloart, I says!”

“This man,” the Captain snarls, “of unknown face and name, comes intä our circle and makes a challenge, and now yer callin’ me a coward?”

“Yäh!  Fer he speaks the words well and stands ready tä face us all if it comes down tä that.  The challenge was made proper—six men for a place aboard our more’da—but I’ll not see that happen, uh?”  He points at his Captain.  “Fer yä should take up the sword.  The challenge was made tä yä.  If yä refuse, yäh, I stand ready tä face this boduus, but forever more shall we know yä tä be a cloart and not fit tä lead pektus.”

With disgust, Mogens throws his sheathed spatha down at the feet of his Captain.  The Ulbandi looks down at it as though it is a venomous serpent.  “Four seasons we sailed together on the Artaithto-Cing,” he says.  “5 years afore that aboard the Kaamadhenu.  And this is the loyalty I receive, khat?”  His foot kicks sand over the blade.  “This is Brackish loyalty, mâ!”

Guiromélans turns, carefully plowing a bloody line in the sand with the tip of his blade.  “Tell me something, Quartermaster,” he says quietly.  “This Forré.  Is he a good Captain?  Has he led you well?”

Mogens grunts.  “Four months a sea, and hardly any prizes tä show fer it.  Big promises he made about Ceilbyrig, yäh, but when they dried up, we moved on tä the south.  Chased by the Palpi, mocked by the Ehrech and the EroBernacs and the other boduuses.  And here he brings us, storm-wrecked, starving, and penniless, without enough prizes tä earn us even a respectable bounty on our heads, uh?  Rather than gettin’ us back a sea and headin’ fer home waters, he looks tä waste time raidin’ boduus dunums, kidnappin’ drunken fishermen, and beatin’ our own mosacs.  And now he cowers like a tongueless inigena afore the first warrior tä show some calliacus.  Yäh, methinks its time fer a change.”

Guiromélans turns back to the Captain.  “Your Quartermaster is a harsh critic, don’t you think, Captain Forré?”

Forré is silent.  Slowly, he bends and picks up the spatha at his feet, his lips pressed into a tight, straight line.  The blade looks heavy in his hand as he draws it from its scabbard.  Raising it in salute to Guiromélans, he says, “I am Forré, son of Biren of the city Cathru-Gaoshem.  I stand ready tä meet yer challenge, mâ!”

Guiromélans raises his blade in reply.  “I am Sir Guiromélans of the Iron Fist, Vavasour of Ehre… and Raven of the Seven Kingdoms.”  He smiles at the Captain’s widening eyes.  “I mean to avenge the wrongs committed against your crew.  I mean to correct the mistakes made by your command.”

Eyes widen, and the Bracks on all sides murmur to each other in surprise.  Mogens laughs sharply at some private joke.  Forré takes a step back, his eyes darting from Guiromélans to the watching crew.  As Guiromélans walks forward, he witnesses the collapse of his opponent’s courage.  Without hesitation or dignity, the Captain throws down his sword and flees up the beach and into the village.

 

“Sä, Raven,” Mogens leers, “Yä won the duel, after a fashion, yäh?”

Guiromélans eyes the larger Brack carefully.  Their bloodlust denied, the rest of the crew has since dispersed from the beach, returning to their frantic efforts to repair the ship.  Only the boy remains, watching the Raven from a safe distance.  The girl watches him as well, trying hard to hide her curiosity with feigned indifference as she sets about her tasks on deck.

“What is a Brackish ship doing so far south, cing?” Guiromélans asks, using the Brackish honorific only slightly sarcastically.  “Why are you here, really?”

“The Gock-damned Palpi,” he moans angrily.  “Them with their cannon and their fast ships.  Forré had na clue how tä fight them.  All he could do was run.  Run away, run away, further and further south, ‘till we hardly saw na mesga city-states warships anymore.”

Guiromélans nods.  Yes.  The navy of the otherwise insignificant Abaisd Territories is a threat, even to the mighty EroBernd Empire.

Mogens narrows his eyes and steps closer to Guiromélans.  “And I tells yä somethin’, sä yä tells me somethin’, yäh?  What would a Cathubodua want with me ship and me luct-marvos crew?  What is yer plan, boduus?  What are yä here fer?  What are yä lookin’ fer?  Blood?  Gold?”

“No,” Guiromélans says carefully.  “Justice.  I seek only to further the cause of God.”

“What?”  The Brack almost sounds outraged.  “Listen.  If yä thinks yer gonna—”

“I have no issue with you or your crew, Mogens.  The sacrilegious practices you pursue with your homeland gods are your own business.  I care not for or about the states of your souls.”  Guiromélans peruses the squat huts of the village and the knowing stares of the fishermen.  Somewhere in the village, he can hear the sounds of the þiudas making sport of the apprehended Captain.  “I seek retribution against more… personal affronts to my Lord and God.”

Mogens’s eyes narrow.  “What are yä meanin’?”

“God weeps, Quartermaster,” Guiromélans sighs, “Not that I expect you to understand or care.  He weeps when He looks upon the Weaning Shores.  Upon the heretical rites held in these lands and the deprecations performed by its occupants.  There are those who would feign to follow the laws of the Primate, who would pretend to worship the God of the Medianists, but in reality would commit nothing but heresy and sin.”

“Yäh?  Sä?”

“So I mean to avenge those wrongs,” Guiromélans says as he bares his teeth.  The fire of the fanatic burns in his eyes, and Mogens finds himself fidgeting nervously under that glare.  “I will root out the heretical evil festering in these lands.  I will lance those sores with my blade.  As the infection is cut out, so shall God’s strength be renewed.”

“Yäh?  And what be our part in this crusade?”

“I’ll not have you assaulting the pious people of the Seven Kingdoms, Brack.”  Even as outrage grows in the face of the Quartermaster, Guiromélans adds, “But those who are an affront to God, who abuse His gifts and malign His name, they are fair game to your crew.”

The Brack’s eyes brighten.  “Sä, we sport yä around, up and down these trougo Muttese shores?”

“And in return, I shall lead you to your prey.  And conduct you safely through Medianist waters.”

Mogens smiles and then laughs.  “Ha!  I see, boduus, yäh!  Yä and I, we shall make the Weanin’ Shores howl!”

* * *

The Knight’s Torment cuts through the storm-blackened waters.  As it pitches in the billows, winds and stinging rain thrash the sailors struggling with the rigging.  While not as extreme as the previous nights’ fury, the storm still keeps the crew on its toes.  Most will be grateful for the landfall planned before this dawn… and the bloody battle to follow.

Few men are on the deck.  Most of the crew has retreated below, resting themselves before the anticipated excitement.  Guiromélans forgoes joining them, choosing instead to face the weather, bracing against the icy spray and mentally preparing himself for battle.  As the vessel eases closer to the shore, Guiromélans stares at the lights within the tiny bay, first pitching into sight and then vanishing again behind a wave.  The homes just now coming into view are filled with unsuspecting þiudas, sleeping, dreaming, perhaps preparing to rise, perhaps measuring the weather before setting sail in their tiny fiskskips.

Guiromélans’s grin is blacker than any storm.  Before God opens His fiery eye this day, he will have struck a blow in His name.  The air around his skin is electric, as though lightning dances just beneath its surface.

The pipe of the helmsman glows dimly in the darkness, flaring with each inhalation as he leans into the wheel.  Like clockwork, those sailors on deck and in the rigging sing their lines from a Brackish sailing song, their voices confirming that they haven’t yet been thrown overboard.  Although he doesn’t understand the words, he enjoys the rhythmic pace of the sailors’ song as it makes its way through the stations of the ship.  It is well sung, and he feels the deep meanings carried in its foreign words.

Guiromélans grips the railing of the forecastle.  Though nearly deserted in this storm, normally a sleeping sailor would claim every available surface of the deck.  Tiny chests, bags, and other possessions mark each man’s territory.  As the newest member of the crew, Guiromélans could only take what was left to him.  The best he could find was a place near the anchor’s chains on the forecastle, near the cathead the crew uses as a privy.  It is here that he stands and watches.

Useless as a sailor, even at this early hour, he does his best to stay out of the way.  He is not quite sure how the Bracks feel about his presence among them.  He’s not sure if they yet know how they feel.  The Bracks of authority on board—Mogens; his lackeys, Bo’s’n Abandinus and Mechanic Gofannon; the violent, wrathful Sail Master Bellatumarus; reedy Rigging Master Lug; and Master Carpenter Adalgis—they have each met Guiromélans with mixed emotions.

The promise of profit, safe passage, and authority with the villeins of the Seven Kingdoms will impress this crew for only so long.  He must prove his worth quickly and continue doing so.  Thus far, they seem content with the provisions he was able to procure from the Muttese villagers.  That, and the anticipation of their newest destination, carefully chosen by Guiromélans from information extracted from the village elders.  For now, these bagaudas have blood on their minds.

Mogens is a different story, however.  The Quartermaster surely hates and fears him, and wisely so.  Under other circumstances, the two men would certainly come to blows, with one or both coming away with death-wounds.  For now, he seems content to wait and grant Guiromélans his crusade, but the Raven knows, at the first sign of weakness—at the first inkling that Guiromélans’s presence threatens his status as leader—Mogens will act.

This, of course, begs the question of why he would allow Guiromélans to join in the first place?

“Yer a real Cathubodua, yäh?”

At first Guiromélans thinks he imagined the question, nearly lost it was in the ship’s struggles with the storm.  He turns to find the boy watching him.  The child has somehow folded himself into the cramped shelter provided by some cargo lashed to the deck.  With each pitch and heave, the heavy crates rock and grind threateningly against their rope restraints, but the boy merely snuggles in tighter, ignorant or unconcerned about the danger around him.  He bears the stature of a warrior and the years of a boy.  Guiromélans wonders what kind of clay could be molded from this boy’s soul.

“It is dangerous, child, to be up here,” he warns half-heartedly, “and I am in no mood for interruptions right now.  There will be a lot of blood shed soon.  You should go below decks and wait it out.”

The boy looks hardly impressed by the warning.  “Are yä a real Raven or aren’t yä?” he insists.

Guiromélans pauses as he stares at the jagged coastline, considering whether he wants to entertain this child’s questions right now.  “Yes,” he says slowly, “At least, I was.  And I will be again…  Perhaps I still am.”

The boy frowns, the bruises from his beating days ago now looking all the more painful in the darkness.  Tiny rivulets of water run across his forehead and down his swollen cheeks.  “What th’ fuck are yä talkin’ about?”

Guiromélans’s stern countenance softens slightly.  “It is a complicated story.  Suffice it to say, yes, I am a Raven.”

“Yäh?  Prove it.”

Guiromélans frowns.  “How would you like me to do that?”  Kneeling next to the boy’s shelter, he opens his jacket and reveals his raven’s brooch.  “I bear this clasp.  Only Ravens carry such?”

The boy looks impressed for only a couple seconds.  “Yäh?” he sneers.  “Yä coulda stole it!  Killed a Raven and took his!”

Guiromélans shrugs.  “Perhaps.  But then at least I would be at least equal to a Raven, yes?  Equal enough to kill him.”

“Yä coulda snuck up behind him and hit ‘em over the head!  Or poisoned him!  Or had a gang help yä!”

Guiromélans frowns.  “No such a thing a Raven would ever do.  That would be dishonorable.  And cowardly.  As a knight, I must be without stain.  I must practice justice, speak the truth from my heart, and do not evil under the eyes of God.  If there was something or someone I wanted, I would face them man-to-man.”

The tone of his voice makes the boy uncomfortable, and now he refuses to meet his gaze.  Guiromélans inclines his head, “Know you of someone who would use surprise and numbers to unfairly get what he wants?”

“Nage,” the boy mumbles.

“Are you sure?”

When he doesn’t get an answer, Guiromélans decides to change his approach.  “What is your name, boy?”

“Balen.”

“Balen.  An EroBernac name!  I am Guiromélans.”

“Ghee-rhoo…”

“Guiromélans.”

“Ghee-rho-may-lah?”

“Close enough.  How old are you?”

“Ten!” he snaps, “Ten years!  This I know!”

“Where in Palpin are you from?”

“Cliffs Reach.”

“Ah,” Guiromélans sighs.  “A city I’ve frequented.”

“It’s the biggest city in the world!”

“Nearly so, I’m sure.  I had… friends from there.  Well, one for sure.”

“Yäh, me too!” Balen laughs, “But surely not the same as yer friends, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles sadly, grateful that the ice is broken but troubled by the memories that now flood his mind’s eye.  He shakes his head to clear them.  “No, I think not.”

“Yä talks big,” the boy mutters without much venom, “but yer ain’t much.”

“So I’ve learned.  God teaches tough lessons, Balen.  It’s best to learn them from others rather than experience them for yourself.”

Balen grunts and sniffs, and the two sit quietly for a while.  The child regards the Raven for some time, studying his face, studying his demeanor.  At last, he asks, “The sea illness, it don’t bother yä?”

Guiromélans glances around at their rocking ship.  “No.  Not really, not much.  I’ve been on board ships before.  Whenever I start feeling sick, I just stare at the horizon until it goes away.  And you?”

“Na,” he says proudly.  “Never had it.  Aelle loves me.”

“You are fortunate then.”

“Yäh!”

“So,” Guiromélans says, settling down against the groaning crates, “If you don’t believe I’m a Raven, what do you think I am?  A thief?  A mercenary?”

The boy laughs.  “Yäh!  Yä certainly are a piss-poor morwr!  I hears Mogens tell o’ that!”

“Morwr?”

“A sailor, uh?”

“Ah.  That’s what I thought.”  Guiromélans nods.  “So tell me, Balen.  If I’m such a poor sailor, why’d you pick me at the bar?”

All joviality suddenly drains from the boy’s face as he turns away.  Guiromélans is fascinated by this sudden turn.  It was a reaction he didn’t expect.  “Balen,” he presses, “Why did you pick me?”

Looking down into his hands, Balen’s face slowly crumbles into sorrow.  Lights flare across the ship, and Guiromélans watches as the crew slowly makes their way on deck.  The time for battle nears.

“I was hopin’,” Balen mumbles.  “I saw yä at the bar, saw how yä whupped those boduus bagaudas just by talkin’ at them, and I was hopin’…”

“Hoping what?”

“Hopin’,” he says in a tiny whisper, “that yä’d help us.”

Guiromélans nods.  He had suspected as much.  “Who needs help, Balen?  You and who—”

“What the fuck are yä doin’ out here?”

The angry hiss surprises them both.  Turning, Guiromélans sees a torch-wielding figure stalking towards them.  His night vision momentarily ruined, it takes a couple seconds for him to realize his assailant is significantly smaller than the typical Brack.

“Get the fuck away from this boduus!” the girl snaps at Balen.

Even as the boy meekly crawls out of his hiding place, Guiromélans smiles.  “Ah!  The child’s fair defender.  I must say I was most impressed with your swordplay the other morning—”

“Yäh?” the young woman sneers.  A missing tooth gives her words a slight whistling quality.  How old could she be?  “It served me purposes... ‘till yä interfered, yä boduus dubi-gnatos!  That it pleased yä means about as much tä me as the shit I wipes from me ass!”

Grabbing Balen, she presses closer to Guiromélans, causing him to step back.  “We don’t need yä fuckin’ interferin’ in our affairs, uh?  Stay the fuck away from us, yä buachar suckin’ cuall-vitchoor!”

Guiromélans is stunned by her unexpected venom.  All he can do is stare.  It is the closest he’s ever been to her, and the shadows cast by her torch highlight her scar grotesquely.  He marvels at the old wound.  How could such a thing happen to her?

Somehow, she senses the focus of his stare, and it makes her even angrier.  Without warning, she thrusts her torch into his face, singeing his eyebrows and beard before he can reel backwards.  “And yä fights like a fuckin’ inigena!” she snarls.

Guiromélans can only shake his head and try to clear his tearing eyes as she drags the boy back below decks.  The Bracks around him snigger and mutter to each other in their own tongue—no doubt, at his expense—but he hardly pays them any attention.  Dabbing gingerly at his scorched skin, he considers the boy’s plea.  The child and the maiden.  The two are in dire straits, but the boy’s proud guardian would most certainly refuse any assistance, and so he must beg for it in secret.

“I need a drink,” he sighs, as he gazes longingly at the heavy barrel lashed to the main mast.  He’s learned already that the communal drinking barrel is filled with decent EroBernac whiskey.

“Sä yä’ve sampled the tongue of our fair oainjyr, uh?”  Mogens leers happily at Guiromélans.  “Can’t say she’s chatty as a Brackish dona, yäh?  Believe me, the caresses from her other mouth are far sweeter.”

“I’ve been aboard for 3 days,” Guiromélans mutters as he tears his eyes away from the barrel, “and this is the first I’ve seen of her… or at least, the first I’ve spoken with her.”

“Yäh, well,” Mogens shrugs, “We keeps her pretty busy, yä knows what I mean?”

Guiromélans has to bite his tongue.  Oh yes, by God, by Gock, he knows how they keep her busy.  During these past days, he has watched her activities closely.  He’s seen the ways she’s serviced the needs of the crew—physical demands that, if she wasn’t on board, would almost certainly fall upon the boy, Balen, to provide.  At times, the queue of men outside the cabin seems endless—men entering in turn and leaving a few minutes later—and yet afterwards, she manages to stand her ground and work as a member of the crew, as though such humiliation never took place.

How could she maintain her dignity?  To be used like that?  Guiromélans knows the streets of Cliffs Reach are unforgiving to the classless villeins that live within them, yet here is one is fighting her way out and is even trying to bring another with her.

That this crew would do these things to her is an insult.  That Mogens would continue to allow it is unforgivable.

Yes, there is much Guiromélans wishes to discuss with Mogens on the matter, but instead, he only mutters, “What is her name?”

“Caidryn,” the Quartermaster grunts, “and never have yä met a more foul tempered, sharp tongued gwrach in yer life.”

“Girls shouldn't be evil-tongued beyond the age of 10,” sighs Guiromélans as he gingerly searches for his singed eyebrows.

Mogens barks a laugh.  “Sä says one of yer boduus Prophets, yäh?”

“No,” sighs Guiromélans, “So says common sense.  It would be difficult for her to curry the favors of a husband otherwise.”

“Ah, yäh,” Mogens sneers, “’Tis that boduus habit of marryin’ yer donas when they’re still hairless inigenas, yäh?  A snip here, a snip there, and yer all set fer a good night’s fuck, yäh?”  Mogens shakes his head as he pictures a Medianist wedding night.

“A girl is to have three masters in her life,” Guiromélans states, “Her father in childhood, her husband in adulthood, and her son in old age.  Wedding Day is merely her transition into adulthood.”

“Yäh?  And why sä young then?”

“Considering the lasciviousness of our neighboring Bracks,” Guiromélans mutters, “It only seems prudent.”

Mogens hesitates for a moment as he considers this answer and finally shrugs.  “Ain’t na matter.  Don’t claim tä understand yä boduus Medianists.  Don’t think I’ll understand yä any time soon.  Meself, I likes me oainjyr with big tits and hairy snatches!”

“And sharp tongued, rather than tongueless?” Guiromélans asks, inclining his head towards the hatch the girl disappeared through.

“Yäh, well, yä can’t have everythin’, uh?” the Quartermaster sighs.  “Well, don’t yä worry ‘bout that one, fer Caidryn’s far past marryin’ age.  Least fer yä Medianists, ha!  But maybe yä should teach her some manners, uh?  Me fair cings have tried, but the bna proves tä be stubborn like a caballos.”

“You mean the scar…”

“Nage!” he corrects quickly.  “T’ain’t one o’ me men that did that.  Na.  She don’t talk much of that.”  He leers at the Raven suggestively, “But maybe yä can wield yer Medianist ways upon her, yäh?  And melt the oainjyr’s heart?”

“No,” sighs Guiromélans, “I have neither the inclination nor the will to curry favors such as that from her.  Even if I should allow such a thing, I doubt she would.”

“Perhaps a strong Medianist hand can tame the bitch?” the Quartermaster wheedles.  “Come now, yä can’t tells me yä never plowed Brackish soil as fine as like that before?”

Guiromélans glares at the braided Brack.  “Do you seek to insult me?  To mock my manhood or my resolve?  I have higher purposes to work towards than coupling with a common whore.”

“Uh,” grunts Mogens as he leaves to review the landing parties, “Methinks this Raven believes his shit don’t stink, yäh?”

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow.  “Perhaps.”

Yes, he decides, there is much he wishes to discuss with this man.

 

At this early hour, only a handful of fishermen were present to witness the landing of the marauders, and they were easily silenced.

The Brackish warriors slip between the sturdy Muttese huts like wolves, spreading out, carefully, quickly choosing their positions.  Time is short.  Soon, their beached ship will be seen by other villagers.  Soon, the alarm will be raised.

“Wolves in holy places,” Guiromélans mutters quietly as he stalks through the sleeping village.  He peruses each door and arch closely.  Occasionally, he checks the object he hides in his cloak before moving on.

“What?” Mogens snaps, impatiently keeping pace with the Raven.  His voice is a barely suppressed hiss.  “What do yä mean by that?”

“A Söderkarl oath,” he murmurs, touching the hexes carved into one frame.  The deep gouges seem angry and frantic.  Much of Muttese life is.  “It means we are an evil where evil is not welcome.”  Stepping back, Guiromélans carefully pulls the silver artifact from his cloak and alternately studies it and the rest of the hut.

“Yä callin’ me men wolves, boduus?” Mogens growls, only partially interested in what the Raven is doing, his mind primarily focused on the imminent bloodshed.

Returning the artifact, Guiromélans smiles grimly and draws his weapons.  “Hardly.  Though I see now how you could take it that way.”

“And what are we waitin’ fer?” Mogens demands.  “We were tä land like Johlpa's Lions and make this hamlet our own.  And now we stand about with our calliacus in our hands?  Need I remind yä that our numbers be small, and should this dunum get wakened and organized—”

“There is no need for concern, Brack.  Your waiting is over.”

“What?”

Guiromélans nods at the hexes on the door.  “This is the abode of the heretics’ Thunderer godi.  Here is where God’s business begins and ends.  Your men may take from this village whatever they desire, but touch not the women and children.”

“Of course,” the Brack murmurs, sounding almost disappointed.

“Then, I care not what you do from here.”

As a leering Mogens turns to give the signal to his impatient men, Guiromélans steps forward and kicks.

The door rocks back off its worn leather hinges, and the Raven storms in.  A young man laying on a simple palette wakes with a start at Guiromélans’s entrance.  Before he can even rise from his covers, the Raven runs him through the throat.

There are several men in this hut—others are merely boys—and as they rise, Guiromélans’s blade cuts quickly and mercilessly.  A cluster of women near one corner begins screaming as the cramped home fills with the stench of blood and death.  Guiromélans pays them no heed as he focuses in on the object of his fury.

The old man is only just struggling up from his slumber as his sons and grandsons rush to his defense.  These Muttese fight fiercely, but they are only fishermen and farmers.  Guiromélans cleaves through them effortlessly, slowed only by the press of their bodies.  His movements are efficient and brutal.  One cut, one kill.  His targets are the throat, the eyes, the heart, the kidneys.  Quickly, the floor of the home pools with Muttese blood.

In moments, there is no one left other than the old man and his shrieking women.  The Raven watches impassively as they rush to the side of their godi master.  Weeping and spitting epithets in Low Muttese, they cluster around him as if to offer protection with their own bodies.  Guiromélans feels strangely empty as he studies the display of self-sacrifice.  Outside, he hears the sounds of the Bracks slaying the village’s men folk.

“Who are du, banesman?” the old man asks in Söderkarl-accented High Muttese, “that du would put me and my family to the sword in such wise?  Who are du that du would send us to the Great Lords?  I see by dine eyes that du have sucked the blood of many a cold corpse.”

“I am Sir Guiromélans of Ehre,” Guiromélans answers simply.  “I am a Raven.  I come here to avenge outrage to God you have committed here.”

“Ah, a Raven!” the old godi’s eyes widen with recognition.  Though shocked and horrified, he does not appear frightened.  “A black herald of death, Thunderer bless du.  A Korp.  A true eater of the dead.  One who sits upon the shoulder of the Thunderer, jâ?”

“I am nothing to your Thunderer other than His executioner,” Guiromélans spits.  “Do not mix my name with His.”

“To deny the place of the Thunderer within dine rage will do naught but diminish it,” the old man warns sadly.  “Look to the past of dine Medianist God.  Look to the habits of Hoël and Bredbeddle and Ekunaver.  Are they so dissimilar?”

“Silence!  Your time is short, old man.  Save your breath for more appropriate prayers.”

“Du send my sons and brothers to Kogr’s black hell,” the old godi presses, “and yet du deny ditt Thunderer’s rage?  Look to the past, and tremble at what it might tell du—”

“Silence, old man!” Guiromélans snarls, stepping forward with his blade raised.  “This day, you are to die by my hand.  To not make it such that your daughters and wives must die as well!”

The godi blinks in the face of the naked threat and finally nods.  “As du wish,” he says quietly.  “There is little du can do to me, Raven, beyond what du have done and plan to do, but I shall respect ditt wishes.”

Guiromélans sneers at the priest’s courtesy and composure.  Slowly, he uses a cloth to carefully wipe the blood from his blade.  “You are fortunate, priest.  I know little of you or your actions.  Are you a good man or an evil one?  Lest you be the former, my strike shall be swift and clean.  You need hardly feel it, if that is your wish.”

The old man blinks.  “How can du slay a righteous man, banesman?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “Good or evil, righteous or corrupt, you are still the enemy of God.  So, still you will die.”  Taking the artifact from his cloak, he holds it close to the godi and observes its changes.  The old man’s eyes follow the artifact closely as it vanishes back within Guiromélans’s cloak.

“Du seek answers, ridder?” the godi asks.

“Spend not your breath speaking to me, old man,” Guiromélans mutters, “but use it to make peace with Thunderer, Uspak, or whatever other god you hold dear.”

“Du wish me to pray to the Thunderer?” the godi asks with surprise.

Guiromélans nods to the nearest woman.  “Dress him.  I shall not slay this old man sitting naked in his bed.”  He then looks back to the priest, “Pray for your soul, heretic.  To whom, I care not, but I’d rather not kill a man who hasn’t made peace with God.  To do so would send his soul straight to Gock.”

With a nod from the old man, the sobbing women get to work.  Even as they dress him, the godi’s watery old eyes stare up into Guiromélans’s.  After a time, the stare grates on Guiromélans’s nerves beyond their limit.  “There is something sticking to your tongue, heretic?” he snarls, “Then spit it out!”

“I see turmoil within ditt spirit, Raven,” the godi says.  “I smell the spirits of man on ditt breath, but the spirit of the Thunderer resides in ditt blade!  Du are lost, confused!  Dine soul lays wrecked like the Weaning Shores.”  He blinks and lets the women help him to his feet, so they may hang his robes across his shoulders.  “What is it,” he asks sympathetically, “that would shatter ditt faith so basely?”

“What are you?” Guiromélans growls dangerously, “Stone-summoner?  Häxa?  That you should see into men’s souls so clearly?”

Even as he straightens his robes, the old man shakes his head.  “I am neither.  Nej.  Nej stone, nej whispers from the Thunderer or the Swords.  I merely see into the souls of karls like du, and I see dine pain.”

“Pain?” Guiromélans sneers.  “There is no pain!”  The sword he holds in his bloody fist begins to shake alarmingly.  It is something about the godi’s voice.  Guiromélans slaps his other hand around the hilt in an effort to steady the blade.  “My soul is whole!  My soul is pure!”

The godi shakes his head.  “I see pain, ridder.  Ditt soul is empty and seeks filling.  Why do du fear to admit this?”

Something flashes within the old man’s mouth, and it takes several seconds for Guiromélans’s muddled mind to recognize what it sees.  Black runes are slashed across the flesh of the muscle.  The devious old man bears tattoos upon his tongue!  Even as he realizes this, his head clears of the calming words that tried to ensnare it.  “NO!” he bellows, knocking aside the women who were gently disarming him.  His pistol discharges, sending one woman pinwheeling across the room.  Her body smashes against the wall and falls to the floor like a broken toy.

His teeth clenched in fury, Guiromélans grabs the old man by the throat and throws him against the wall.  “Lies come easily to you, witch!  But your spells help you naught!  Now you die!”

“Please!” the godi gasps, his toes desperately reaching for the floor, his old hands desperately pawing against Guiromélans’s grip.  “I only sought to save my karlines lives!  Please do not let ditt rage dishonor them!”

“They are welcome to plead to God for mercy,” Guiromélans says as he slowly forces the tip of his blade into the flesh of the godi's stomach.  “Should He choose to hear, He will stay my hand…”

The old man’s eyes roll in their sockets, and blood vomits from his lips.  Guiromélans watches the old man’s reaction carefully as he twists his blade within his bowels.  The godi’s body begins to spasm against the steel impaling him, yet despite the pain, he does not cry out.  Guiromélans is impressed.  “Hear me, Raven,” he gasps weakly, his voice suddenly taking on a very wet quality, “for in truth I am häxa, and my words carry power.”

“Yes, I know.  Coward, liar!” Guiromélans answers, twisting his blade once more before tearing it from the old man’s belly.  At last, he lets the Thunderer priest fall to the floor.

The godi lays in a crumpled heap, blood spreading from his wounds and mixing with that of his sons.  Despite his growing weakness, he stirs and lifts his head up to Guiromélans.  “He who gets a death-wound may yet avenge himself, nonetheless, Raven,” he gasps.

“Use your last breath,” Guiromélans sneers.  “Speak your final words.  God shall protect me from your filthy curses.”

The godi looks at him, his eyes suddenly bright, and he begins to laugh.  “Be merry and glad on the day of ditt death, ridder, for du shall never be as close to the Thunderer as then.  The light du see in the eyes of ditt slain enemies is merely a spark in comparison.”

“You death quickens, old fool,” Guiromélans sighs, “and now you speak foolish things.”

The dieing godi levels a steady bloody finger at Guiromélans.  “I lay this claim to du.  Du shall serve as böndi to ditt worst enemy.  Ditt faith in ditt god shall find du axe-sitting at the right hand of ditt enemy.  May ditt crusade for ditt God lead du to take the geirr-brand of the Thunderer!”

Guiromélans roars with outrage.  The women scatter as he lunges forward.  Grabbing the old man by his robes, he shakes him violently and screams, “Your venomous lies will NOT deter me!  They do NOT frighten me!  They are only LIES!  Do you hear?  DO YOU HEAR!”

But the death-spark in the godi’s eyes has dimmed.

In the fury of his frustration, Guiromélans throws the corpse across the room.