As the longboat slowly drifts towards the waiting sloop, Guiromélans can already see glare of fury upon the face of his Quartermaster.

Quartermaster, Captain.  The relationships still seem strange and alien to him.

On land or sea, there are few titles quite as powerful as that of a ship’s captain.  No other station in the Seven Kingdoms would grant such power of life and death to one man over so many.  A ship Captain’s word is law, his judgment final, his decisions unquestionable.

This is as it should be.

As if to prove their own insanity—as well as thumb their noses at the very nautical establishments they prey upon—pirate crews have consistently rebelled against such reasonable practices.  Under the self-serving command of Captain Forré, the crew of the Knight’s Torment has proven to be no different.  When they went on the account, they even went as far as to draft their own Articles of Piracy.  Posted on the main mast as a reminder to all, the weatherworn oilskin document states the rules and rights each man can expect and be subjected to, and it bears the mark of every sailor on board, Guiromélans included.  The Articles cover issues ranging from selection of raiding targets, to rewards for exceptional bravery, to crimes and expected punishments, to the treatment of captured women and children.

There is dark irony in those words.  Women and children are to be treated with respect and not to be assaulted or raped, and yet sadly, Caidryn and Balen seem to be exempt from such protection.  Evidently, their only mistake has been becoming members of the crew rather than hostages.

Rather than practice the appropriate chain-of-command of a proper vessel, these pirates employ a form of mob-rule—one man, one vote—and two commanders:  the Captain and the Quartermaster.  In all matters pertaining to the ship and crew, it is the Captain who selects the destinations and picks the targets of piracy.  Yet, it is the Quartermaster who keeps the lock on the weapons, and so no assault upon any prize would be successful without his consent.  Whenever Captain and Quartermaster disagree upon a course of action, it is be put to a vote by the rest of the company, and the Captain’s and Quartermaster’s votes do not carry any extra weight.  Such is the madness of mob rule.  Little more than barbaric Synesi, it is a wonder this ship ever found its way out of its Ulbandi port, much less all the way to the Weaning Shores.

Ever since Guiromélans joined this company—and Captain Forré was deposed—the pirate model has been broken:  They have had no Captain to offset the Quartermaster.  Mogens has ruled with impunity, and Guiromélans has watched quietly as he has slowly tried to solidify his leadership among the crew.  Mogens claims to be content to remain the quartermaster, but thus far, no efforts have been made to elect a new Captain.  This makes sense to Guiromélans.  As it stands, the only logical candidate for the position right now is the Raven, something Mogens is loath to allow.  There is no one else strong enough or willing enough to face the Brack.  With Guiromélans his only opposition, it makes perfect sense for Mogens to seek to eliminate him.

Mogens desires power.  He desires wealth.  He desires infamy.  To achieve this, he believes he requires complete control of the Knight’s Torment and her crew.  He rules through fear and violence.  He puts down all challenges so viciously, no one would even risk the appearances of such.  Just days ago, he killed a sailor over a hand of maru-catu.  A simple disagreement over game of cards, that day it cost a man his life.  He nailed the corpse to the mast as a warning to others, and there it stayed for 2 days before Guiromélans persuaded some sailors to help him take it down.  Is this the shape of what is to come?  Mogens is trying to change this band of independent pirates into a more Brackish model, one more akin to a rix ruling over his dunum.  A reasonable endeavor, Guiromélans believes, but Mogens is the wrong man to lead anyone.

Since he joined the crew, Guiromélans’s place among them has been unclear.  Is he a prisoner?  Hostage?  Guest?  Leader?  He is worthless as a sailor—and most of the crew still resents him for being a Medianist—but few can deny his hand in the few successes they’ve enjoyed.  They respect him for his strength and leadership qualities, and his defiance of Mogens has become legendary.  Then there is the fact that he still refuses to join the rest of the crew in laying with Caidryn the oainjyr.  All considered, many among the crew have begun to view him with something akin to awe.

Is he the new captain?  Certainly he challenged Captain Forré and drove him away, but even the implication of captaincy is something Guiromélans has adamantly denied.  Guiromélans views himself a balance for Mogens, a rational foil to his brutal lunacy.  He has no interest in the success of this crew or this ship.  He wants only to serve God’s will and to inflict as little harm as possible upon the Medianist laity as he does so.  This ship and this company are merely the tools to achieve those ends.  He needs only to steer Mogens and his rage in constructive directions.  He needs only to make sure Mogens’s goals don’t conflict directly with his.

Mogens’s petty dreams of conquest are of only passing interest to Guiromélans.  Many others on the crew have also watched this behavior with growing concern, and so Guiromélans knows he has growing support.  Thus far, he has bided his time; however, today’s treachery is unfortunate and unacceptable.  Today, the Quartermaster betrayed more than Guiromélans.  Today, he crossed God.  Steps will need to be taken.

 

The longboat knocks abruptly against the side of the ship.  Although he was eager to beach the Knight’s Torment when he was looking to get rid of Guiromélans, Mogens has since had a change of heart.  For “safety reasons”, he insisted on keeping his ship at the center of the bay and sending the longboat to retrieve the castaways.

Handing first Balen up to Caidryn’s waiting arms, Guiromélans follows next, quickly pulling himself up over the side of the ship.  He leaves the loading of the firearms to his grumbling Brackish escorts.

“Yä made it!” Mogens exclaims with false joy as he bears down on the Raven with arms outstretched.  His grin is an angry slit within his braided beard.  The cords of his violent scar writhe with the twitches of the muscles beneath.  Close behind is Abandinus the Bo’s’n and Gofannon their chief mechanic.  These two are Mogens’s lap dogs, and they at least don’t bother hiding their displeasure upon seeing Guiromélans again.  “When we saw the boduus search parties, we feared the worst, yäh?”

“Search parties?” Guiromélans exclaims, “What search parties?”

Mogens stops in his tracks, his grin frozen in fury.  “We saw villagers in the trees, sä we called our landin’ parties back.”  He inclines his head slightly.  “Too bad yä didn’t hear the call, yäh?”

“Yes, too bad indeed.”

Guiromélans looks from face to face among the crew.  The expressions he sees are familiar:  curiosity, animosity, bloodlust, and confusion.  His eyes finally settle on Caidryn’s.  “Lady,” he says, “I know you don’t care for me.  But then, I suspect you don’t care for most of the souls on this ship.”  There are smattering of chuckles throughout the crew.  Caidryn smiles, but her eyes remain wary and calculating.  “You remained onboard all this time.  See you any search parties?  Hear you Mogens calling back his men on their account?”  Guiromélans pauses for effect, “Or is he lying?”

The glare Mogens gives Caidryn is full of warnings, and she seems to take particular pleasure in ignoring them when she answers, “He lies.  The call was made—and made quietly—but not on the account of seein’ villagers.  I says, he meant tä leave yä here.”

Guiromélans nods as a ripple of excitement runs through the crew.  With that statement, he feels the balance of power subtly shift in his favor.  He wonders, how many among the crew knew of Mogens’s plan?

Guiromélans glances at Mogens before deliberately turning his back on him and stepping down to the main deck.  The crew parts silently as he approaches the main mast and the communal drinking barrel lashed to it.  “To me, it sounds as though our Quartermaster tried to maroon me?” he asks aloud, reflectively.  “Abandon one of his crew for no cause?  And the boy too?  Is this true?”

Again, murmurs sweep through the collected crew.  Men avoid each other’s eyes and shuffle their feet with nervous excitement.  Guiromélans doesn’t need to see the Brack to know that he is grinding his teeth behind that furious smile of his.  Dipping a ladle into the barrel, he drinks deeply from the soothing whiskey.

“Now see here,” Master Carpenter Adalgis begins.  “We don’t know if—”

“Is there any man here who wishes to corroborate the Quartermaster’s account?” Guiromélans demands of the assembly.  “Did any man here see the þiudas too?  Any man in the search parties see them in the forest?  Step forward now and stand with your Quartermaster and swear by Aelle that he speaks the truth!”

The explosion of activity around him is surprising.  Sailors push and jostle each other, shouting in harsh Brackish.

“ENOUGH!” Mogens bellows.  “I says I saw the boduuses in the forest!  Clear as day!  And Abandinus was with me.  He saw them too!”

Guiromélans looks from Mogens, to Abandinus, to Caidryn.  The girl simply shakes her head.  Guiromélans smiles, “Excellent, Abandinus, excellent!  And here I feared you were looking to lure me off the ship and abandon me!  My faith in our ship’s raider ideals is reaffirmed.  Tell me, good Bo’s’n, that you too saw these villagers.  Tell me, and swear by Aelle that it is true.”

Mogens turns to his Bo’s’n.  Guiromélans can see that the man looks greatly displeased to be placed on the spot in this manner.  “Tell him!” the Quartermaster barks, “Swear it!”

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees, “Swear it.  Swear to Aelle that the tale you tell is true.  Invite Him to open the seas and crush this ship to splinters should you be lying.  Invoke the names of His sea demons and defy them to prove you wrong.  Condemn the souls of you and your mates to eternity among the waves of the Abyss Ocean.”  Guiromélans smiles.  “Swear it.  By all that is cold and dark and hungry at the bottom of the sea, swear it.”

The crew becomes deathly quiet.  All on board knows the risks of lying under the eyes of Aelle.  Sailors are a superstitious lot.  Brackish sailors are even more so.  They have more sea gods to fear.

The Bo’s’n sneers.  He shouts something in Brackish to his crew, but judging by their reaction, it is significantly short of the oath Guiromélans demanded.  Master Carpenter Adalgis looks away with disgust.  Caidryn smiles nastily.  Many are now looking to the Raven to see what his next move is.

“Marooning it was then,” he sighs.  He gestures to the Articles posted on the mast.  “What does it say here, on the matters of marooning?  What crime must I have committed to deserve such treatment?”

His eyes scan Captain Forré’s tight Ulbandi script, and he wonders just how many among this crew can actually read the words they claim to live by.  “If any man runs away in time of battle,” he reads aloud for all to hear, “he shall be marooned…”  He looks around him.  “Is this the crime I have committed?”

“Na,” Adalgis states.  “In all battles, yä have led the charge.  This we have all seen.”

Guiromélans nods, “Thank you.”  He looks back up at the Articles, “If any man steals anything from the company, he shall be marooned.”  He looks around.  “Is this it?  Have I been accused to thievery?  If so, have the man step forward and claim that which I have stolen!”

“Cathubodua Guiromélans,” Adalgis states, “We know you to be innocent of whatever crimes might be described on that writ.  We know you thus far to be an honorable, brave cing—and a faithful member of this crew—but this posturing is beneath you.  Speak to the point.”

Guiromélans points at him.  “Thank you, Master Carpenter, I will.”  Looking to the rest of the crew, he states, “I committed no crime deserving of marooning.  And yet, by order of Quartermaster Mogens, this ship prepared to set sail without me.  There was no consensus of the crew—no vote was taken—it was Mogens’s decision alone!”

“You speak of me unfairly, boduus!” Mogens yells.  “Such acts were not my intent!  I saw the Muttese in the forest!  I am at a loss to explain the silence of me witnesses!”

“LIAR!” Balen shouts, making the sign of the fig at Mogens.  Caidryn’s hand slaps hard over his mouth, muffling what other epithets the boy shouts.

“Intentional or not,” Guiromélans concedes, allowing Mogens some small room for escape—he doesn’t want the man lynched by his own crew—not yet at least.  “Such unilateral power is unacceptable among a company such as this!  For a long time has Mogens acted as your quartermaster.  Do you want him to be captain as well?  Who then would speak in the interests of the rest of you?”

“What are yä sayin’?” Caidryn asks cautiously.

“It is time for this company to choose a new captain.  Too long have you been without one.”

“And who should we choose, uh?” Mogens shouts, “Yä?  A boduus tä lead this crew of proud Bracks?  Never!”

“It’s not yer decision, Quartermaster!” Adalgis shouts.  “This is a matter fer the crew tä decide.”

Guiromélans nods.  “The Captain is to choose the targets for this company, to lead you into battle, to be accountable for your successes and your failures.  Thus far, all of these I have done, and we all have profited.  Now, I bring you nine fine rifles, and I shall train you on how to use them.  With better weapons, perhaps we can take on better prizes?”

“Liar!” Mogens bellows.  “When yä first joined us, yä told me yä wanted nothin’ but tä kill yer boduus heretics!  And now here yä stands, lookin’ tä take command of the Artaithto-Cing?  Yer nothin’ but a cuall liar!”

“Hardly, Mogens,” Guiromélans remains calm, much to the bafflement of the crew around him.  “My goals remain the same.  But your lust for power, your ineptitude, your dishonesty has led me to believe that my goals are now in jeopardy.  Though I am loathe to do it, your own actions have forced me to offer my skills and my experience to this crew and lead them as captain.”

“Fine words!” Mogens spits.  “But it’ll take more than a couple lucky landings and some stolen rifles tä make—”

“Not stolen!” Balen screams, finally wresting himself free from Caidryn’s grip.  “I saw him!  Ten soldiers did he face alone with nothin’ but his sword!  And he killed them all and took his prizes!  More than yä could ever do, afron!”

Balen’s words ripple through the crew, and several men peer down at the stack of weapons still laying in the boat’s launch.

“So,” Guiromélans states.  “Now it is for the crew to decide.  Am I to disembark here?  Or are we to set sail with a new captain?”

 

“Yä made some enemies today.”

Guiromélans pauses in his work and looks up at Caidryn.  The persistent pounding of the ship’s struggling engine vibrates through the floor and walls and lends her voice a peculiar tenor.  “Not new enemies,” he sighs, “They’ve always been there.  I just can see them better now.”

Huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees, the Brackish girl snorts weakly and surveys the dim room with a mixture of emotions.  She’s trying hard not to show how much it bothers her being in here with him.  This was Forré’s cabin—the Captain’s cabin—and this is also where she’s performed her daily trysts with the crew.  The semen-soaked pad she had to lay upon has become known as the Captain’s Bed—it still lays on the frame in the corner—and her eyes try hard to ignore it.  Removing the vile thing will be one of the first things he’ll do as Captain.  The crew will have to find a new place on the ship to violate this girl.  Below decks he supposes.

Before becoming Captain, Guiromélans had to sleep with the rest of the company, either on the main deck or below with the cargo, with only a leaking tarpaulin over their heads for shelter against the storm.  Becoming Captain offers few creature comforts, but even with this room, he’ll still have to sleep upon the hard floor.  At least until he gets a new mattress.

Aside from the foul-smelling bed, the narrow Captain’s cabin has a small window (too small to escape through, Guiromélans notes) and a simple desk and stool.  The crew looted everything else of Forré’s shortly after his ignominious departure.  Beneath the light of a guttering lantern, Guiromélans sits at the desk, carefully cleaning his wheel-lock pistol of any invading grains of sand and telltale flecks of rust.

Outside the small window, lightning flashes.  Water steadily leaks through its worn seals and runs down the wall.  Now under Guiromélans’s command, the Knight’s Torment is once again at sea—sailing ever southward, deeper into the Weaning Shores—bound for a destination of Guiromélans’s choosing.  It is another Muttese weihs, rumored by his sources to be harboring a sect of Drungi kaves.

This terrible day has ended at last—although not quite in the way Guiromélans would have predicted—and slowly night has settled in.  The Brack morwrs move about the ship, lighting what few lanterns Guiromélans allows.  Provisions are low—lamp oil included—and soon, they will have to find a friendly port to resupply and carouse.

“Yä really kill 10 men back there?”

Guiromélans looks up from his work with surprise.  Caidryn’s voice has become different since this afternoon, reedy and shaky.  Looking at her closer, he notes her sallow eyes and pale complexion.  Her gums have turned dark and bloody.  She looked ill earlier in the day, though now it has become worse.  Frequently, just before she takes to the Captain’s Bed, he’s seen her like this—though never before quite this bad—and afterwards, she has always been much recovered.  Tonight is different for some reason.

Plus, he notices something new.  Though she tries to hide it, her lip is bloodied and swollen, as is the cheek above it.  Someone struck her?

“Did yä really kill 10 cings?” she repeats.

“Yes,” Guiromélans answers simply.  “It was an unfortunate situation forced upon me.  It was not an act I relished.”

She nods vacantly, rocking back and forth, absentmindedly sucking at the blood between her teeth.  “Were they good?”

“Good?”

“Good fighters!” she retorts with little energy.

“Ah,” Guiromélans answers.  He picks his words carefully, “They were… what you could expect… from these parts.  They were by no means the best.”

“Could yä have taken more?”

Guiromélans freezes in his work, staring woodenly at the wall.  “More?” he wonders.

“Fifteen?  Twenty?”

“Yes,” he answers simply, not looking at her.

“More?”

“Perhaps.”

Caidryn shudders and looks away.  “Better than Bracks?” she asks.

“What?”

“Were they better than Bracks?” she demands.  “Could yä take on as many Bracks?”

Guiromélans looks at her with a frown.  “Why are you asking me such things, Caidryn?  What kind of answers are you looking for?”

“Nothin’,” she mumbles.  “Ferget I asked anythin’.”

Guiromélans watches her carefully as her hands clasp and unclasp her knees.  “Then let me ask you a question…”  Setting down his tools, he turns to face her.  “What happened to your face?”

Ignoring her other ailments, her hand immediately rises to the new bruise.  “The bagaudas… Mogens, Abandinus, others… they goes hard on me sometimes… when they fucks me.”

Guiromélans looks around the room with surprise.  They didn’t do it in here.  Could Mogens have chosen a new place already?  “So you’ve done your… duty already tonight?” he asks uneasily.

Caidryn nods.  “Fittin’ punishment fer speakin’ out against the Quartermaster, yäh?” she laughs bitterly.

“And one of them hit you?”

Her eyes snap up, the old fire still burning deep within them.  “Only ‘cause I lets ‘em, yäh?  It’s ‘cause I ain’t sä mirain, what with me face lookin’ the way it does and all, uh?  I understand that.  They just gets excited sometimes…”

“And you allow that?” Guiromélans shakes his head.  “This I will never understand.”

“What?  Yä lookin’ tä judge me?” she shouts, “Yä thinks yä knows what’s best fer me?”

“I know you’re strong,” he observes, “and I know most of this crew respects and even fears you.  I know they only do this to you because you let them.”

“They don’t do nothin’ tä me!” she spits, batting away the observation with a savage swipe with her hand.  “When I’m layin’ on the Captain’s Bed, they’re only fuckin’ a cunt.  A piece of meat!  T’ain’t really me!”

She looks away from him, her eyes on the floor, but her voice remains strong, defiant, “When me ‘n Balen gets off this more’da, I’m goin’ tä find me a good man, a powerful cing and donios, and such things as this will never happen tä us again!”

“That is an admirable goal, Caidryn,” Guiromélans says solemnly, meaning it.  “It is obvious you care for the boy deeply.”

“I do!” she declares defiantly.

“Then tell me something.  Have you ever been lovers?”

“Me ‘n the mosac?” she asks with shock.  Guiromélans nods.  “A typical thing fer a boduus tä say.  Nage!” she snaps, “We don’t fucks our pektus like yä does in the boduus lands!  And I’d never give up me maidenhead tä a mere pektus!”

“Interesting words, Caidryn,” he says, frowning, “but how can you claim to be unknown to men when you are forced to disprove yourself every day?”

She leans closer to him suddenly, menacingly and jabs her thumb against her chest.  “I’ve given me body up tä many, yäh,” she hisses, nearly in tears, “but me maidenhead’s still pure, for I haven’t given up me heart tä na one!  When the time is right, I’ll divorce meself from Mogens and this crew and put an end tä me abuse!”

“Ah,” he says.  “The battle-cry of the sellâria.  The body is violated, but the heart remains pure.”

“Sellâria?” she snaps, “Yä means whores, uh?  And what does yä know of the hearts of whores?”

“I’ve known the heart of a sellâria,” he answers coolly.  “I knew her very well.  I loved her, and I believe she loved me…  At least until I was ordered to kill her.”

“Yä killed yer lover?” Caidryn asks with surprise.

Guiromélans smiles sadly, “No.  She beat me.  Turns out, I’m not as good of a general as many thought.”

“Worthless,” she spits.

“What?”

“Sä yä’ve known a whore, uh?”  Suddenly she is on her feet.  Naked rage shines her eyes, though tears stream from them as well.  “Then why don’t yä ever lay with me in the Captain’s Bed, boduus?” she demands bitterly, “Yä haven’t even tried!”

“Because, Caidryn,” he says quietly, “I don’t lay with pieces of meat.”

She spins away and throws open the door, a tiny sound halfway between a laugh and a sob escaping from her throat.

“Caidryn!” Guiromélans calls after her.  She pauses in the doorway and, then much to his surprise, returns dragging a long bag into the room.

“Here,” she gasps, as she wrestles it onto the bed.  “When Forré left, I thought Mogens was goin’ tä be Captain, sä I took these.  Didn’t want that vitchoor tä have ‘em.”  She shrugs awkwardly, “Seein’ as yer Captain now…”

The two stare at the lumpy bag on the bed.  “What yä did today,” she says at last sniffling past her tears, “I didn’t expect.  I didn’t think yä had those kind of calliacus in yä.”  She smiles awkwardly, “Mol!”

With a nervous smile, she slips out of the room, leaving Guiromélans to stare at the bag.  He is surprised by the lump in his throat and the quickness of his heart.  This Brackish urchin girl troubles him.

Slowly, he turns back to his table and continues his work.  As time passes, he becomes aware of quiet noises coming from the vicinity of his bed.  Guiromélans looks back at the bed and watches for movement.  When he sees nothing but hears the noise again, he rises and approaches, picking up his sword almost as an afterthought.

Standing over the cot, he stares down at the oblong canvas bag.  It is stained and misshapen, probably filled with some kind of linens.  Sheets for the Captain’s Bed perhaps?  How ironic!

He listens and watches carefully.  Rats or koboldes, Guiromélans wonders?  All ships have rats, but if they want to stay afloat, they had better not have koboldes.

There is a nearly silent sigh, and Guiromélans realizes it isn’t coming from the bag at all.  Dropping to his knee, he looks under the bed.  Balen smiles awkwardly out at him, tucked as he is into the space between bed and floor.  How the hell did the boy get in without him seeing?  Guiromélans shakes his head as he rises, “Come on out, boy.”

As Balen struggles out from under the cot, Guiromélans puts his sword back down and returns to his work at the desk.  “What are you doing in here?” he growls.

Balen dusts himself off and sits on the edge of the cot.  “I’m sorry, Cathubodua.”

Guiromélans grunts.  “Accepted, but that’s not an answer to my question.”

“I just…” Balen hazards.  “I just wanted to be nearby… in case yä needed help.”

“Really.”

Guiromélans begins reassembling his wheel-lock.  Balen fidgets in the silence.  “Besides,” he adds quietly, “Mogens is real angry—nearly ve’co—and I didn’t want tä be near him, uh?”

Guiromélans nods, “Now that I understand.”

“Yä really made him mad, uh?”

“Yes.  Yes, I did.  And so did you.”

“He gonna hurt Caidryn again fer sure.”

“What?” Guiromélans asks with some alarm, turning halfway in his stool.  “Again?”

The boy shrugs.  “He always goes hard on her, whenever things don’t go his way,” Balen says sadly.  “Probably won’t give her the bay either.”

“Bay?”

“Yäh!  He gives her bay tä keep her happy… usually after she does the deed, uh?”

“What is bay?” Guiromélans asks, now interested.

“We gets it from Cliffs Reach.  Everyone likes it, but Caidryn really likes eatin’ it.  Eats it most of her life, she says.  She gets real sick if she don’t get it.”

“It’s a drug?”

“Yäh!  Medicine, I guess,” Balen shrugs.

“Then, maybe it’s best if she doesn’t get it.”

“What?” Balen exclaims with some dismay, “Yer not goin’ tä help her?”

“Help her?  How?”

“Why don’t yä make Mogens give it tä her?”

Guiromélans reflects briefly on the question.  “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for Mogens to have that kind of power over her.  Maybe it’s best if she doesn’t need it quite so badly.”

“How can yä not help her?” Balen demands.

“Balen,” Guiromélans says, “As a Raven, I must fight injustice wherever I find it.  I must aid the needy and comfort the injured.  I am happy to help you whenever you need it, but Caidryn doesn’t seem to either want or need my aid.”

“But look how sick she is!” the boy pleads, “Look at what they make her do!”

“Such is the foolishness of women,” Guiromélans advises.  “It is as Guiot teaches us:  Nearly all of them are obstinate in their folly and refuse to accept what it is they really want.  If she needs my help, she needs to ask for it.”

“Who care what yer Prophets say?” Balen cries, nearly in tears, “Sä what if she doesn’t ask fer help?  Can’t you help her anyway?”

Guiromélans crosses his arms and looks away.  “Let me tell you something, Balen.  Who can know why anyone does the things they do?”  He pauses for a long time before continuing.  He is surprised by how painful the words are to speak, “I once heard of a witch who actually chose to lay with a Leper King and his entire court.  Despite the disease, despite evil of it, she chose to do it because of the power over them it leant her.”

Looking into the boy’s face, Guiromélans immediately feels bad for the things he said.  He smiles.  “Tell you what.  Perhaps it is time to speak with Mogens on this bay issue.  I’ll see what can be done, OK?”

 

The ship creaks and groans in the swells of the nighttime storm, their effects amplified in the tiny room.  Guiromélans wonders if staying in the Captain’s Cabin is such a good idea.  He doesn’t get the sea illness easily, but this tumult is definitely a challenge to his constitution.  Rest is nearly impossible, much less sleep.

The hour is late, the watch just sounded 3 hours before sunrise, and nearly the entire crew has retired.

The attack comes without warning, catching Guiromélans completely by surprise.  The large Brack bursts through his door and storms the room.  In the near-total darkness, the wild swings of his heavy spatha frequently miss their mark, sinking deep into the wood of the bed as often as not.  The Brack grunts and sweats with effort, splinters of wood ricocheting off the walls and ceiling.

He stops only after the bed collapses in complete ruination.  Without a second glance, he leaves the room and closes the door.

Guiromélans stares at the wreck from his resting place on the floor.  Scraps of cloth and chips of wood lay strewn across the room.  Lint drifts through the heavy air.

Rising, he approaches the wrecked bed and investigates the slashed ruins.  Remains of bag and mattress have become indistinguishable.  It’s a shame about Caidryn’s bag.  He never got a chance to open it.

Looking towards the door, he smiles.  It’s good to see that Mogens has taken to sharing his power so well.  Let him have tonight to celebrate his victory.  Come morning, he wonders how he’ll take to Guiromélans’s resurrection?