He stepped away toward the ship captain, standing at the wheel shouting orders. His name was Ash Burton, though his men called him ‘Bloodhound’ for those droopy facial features and his uncanny ability to sniff out a beast at sea. “Captain Burton,” the prince called to him, hailing his attention. “What does your sea nose tell you?”
The captain was a Rasal Seaborn by blood, a master of the waves who’d spent his entire lifetime at sea. He had started young, like many of his kin, becoming a midshipman when he was just a boy of eight, and had spent the next four decades using that bloodhound nose of his to hunt monsters. There were few sea-hunters so decorated as Bloodhound Burton.
“It’s telling me plenty, lad,” the captain said, in his barking voice. There was something of the bloodhound about that voice too, Robb thought. “Aye, the seas are teeming. Fine days for a hunter like me.” A crooked smile warped his face.
Robbert Lukar was not smiling. “I asked to you be my captain to avoid these creatures, not hunt them. I asked you to get us home safe.”
“Aye, so you did. But orders don’t play well with my instincts. Hard to break the habits of a lifetime, lad.”
Robbert understood that well enough. Telling Bloodhound Burton to avoid the creatures of the deep was like telling a whore to put on a chastity belt. “Try harder, then,” Robbert told him. “If you lead us into trouble…”
“Lead us? Don’t need to lead us. There’s trouble enough out here without me having to find it.”
Robbert could never tell how much he was exaggerating. Sea captains and sailors infuriated him with their tall tales and seamen stories, and these Rasals in particular. “So what are we talking? Greatwhales? Krakens?”
The captain scoffed. “I eat krakens for breakfast. Killed more than one of those in my time, and big ones too.” He spat to the side. “Slimy bastards are my speciality, lad. Made that oath after King Lorin died.” He glanced over at him. “I sailed with him, did you know? When I was just a boy. Might have been on that ship the day he died if I hadn’t come down with a fever. When the news came through that a kraken had got him I was disconsolate. Lorin had been kind to me, you see. Said I had a rare wisdom for the waves, even as a nipper, that the creatures of the deep would fear me some day.” He looked out, glaring at the horizon. “Aye, and he was right in that. Been hunting monsters ever since, and krakens most of all. If I ever see Lorin’s Bane again…”
Robbert did his best not to roll his eyes. He’d heard this story before. “You have no fear of krakens, that’s clear, but I’d rather not run into one myself. Least of all the one that did for Lorin.” It was a monstrous kraken, the singers liked to say, and not an acquaintance Robbert wanted to make.
“Course. You’re a land-lover. Your lot always feel helpless out here.”
Yes, and I don’t much like it. “What of the krelia? Are we likely to meet it?”
The captain took pause, and that said it all about how feared the krelia was. “No. That one’s still lurking in the Solapian Channel, so far as we know. Unless it’s moved north, we should be well clear of it by now. And we’d better. I’ve fought most sea monsters that can be fought, but the krelia…that one’s best avoided.”
Robbert nodded in firm agreement. The prince was hardly an expert on sea monsters, but had heard enough to know that the krelia was a creature to steer clear of at all costs. It was the very reason why the ships had taken anchorage north of the Channel, east down the coast from Kolash, rather than sailing further south. Only a few vessels dared pass that way now, and most of them did so unaware of the threat. Some got lucky, others did not. Bones, Robbert thought. Floating bones was the sign that the krelia had been feeding.
He peered out through the mists and falling rains, looking for ships. Some were close enough to remain within sight. He could see Lord Gullimer’s fine vessel, Orchard, undulating along nearby, and Simon Swallow’s as well, a lumbering man-of-war called Shadow, built from the black timber of the Darkwood north of Blackhearth, his city seat. Lord Lewyn Huffort’s ship, Landslide, would be out there too, though right now Robbert couldn’t see it. Nor most others, he thought.
“We’ve lost sight of half of the fleet,” he said, turning back to the captain.
“More than half,” Bloodhound returned. “And won’t see most of them again until we reach our rally point at the Perch either. That’s the way of the waves, lad. I’d not be surprised to find us sailing alone by the time this weather clears up. Iulla can be a frightful bitch.”
Iulla was the goddess of storms, Robbert knew, one of many Rasalanian deities. “We’re in the south, Captain. Iulla has no power here.”
“All the seas are Rasalan’s,” Bloodhound came back. “I should know. I’ve battled Iulla’s fury all across the world and bested her every time so far. Tonight, though…”
Ahead of them, the seas were turning wilder, and the wind blowing harder, waves rising. Robbert could see the ship’s boatswain, a man called George Buckley, rushing up toward the forecastle deck, hearing reports of the state of the sails. Hammer was a powerful vessel, Seaborn-built and crewed, but still vulnerable in a storm like this. If a mast were to snap or a few sails tear loose, they’d be at the mercy of the winds and waves.
Captain Burton’s facade had turned more serious. “You’ll want to brace yourself, my prince,” he said, seeing the boatswain rushing back across the decks toward him. “The next few hours aren’t going to be pretty, and you’ll only be getting in my way up here. Gonna need my wits about me.” He looked past the prince’s cloak. “Best take off that armour too.”
Robbert didn’t like the sound of that. It could only mean that the captain feared they would founder. “Is that necessary?”
“It’s sensible. We go down, and you’ll not stand a chance in godsteel. It doesn’t float well, so far as I know.”
If we do go down, we’ll all die anyway, Robbert thought, looking to the coast once more. By now it was gone, the rains too thick to see through, at least ten miles from where they were. Perhaps a man like Bloodhound might stand a chance if the ship capsized, being Seaborn, but no normal man would survive in this. We’ll drown, sure as sunrise, or be picked off by sharks or worse. The notion didn’t hold any appeal to him. I’d sooner just sink in my armour and be done with it.
“As you say,” Robbert said. “I trust you to see us through this storm, Captain Burton.”
“I’ll do my best.” Bloodhound looked over to the pitiful form of Sir Lothar, clinging desperately to the port side gunwale, like a frightened girl clutching at her mother’s leg. “And take your lanky friend with you. He’s too tall to be out here. One bad jerk and he’ll go over.”
Robbert nodded to that. The man was stupidly tall. “Fine. You get us through this and there’s a lordship in it for you.”
“A king doesn’t need a lordship,” the old Seaborn captain said to him. “Every captain’s the king of his ship. And I’m the king of these seas.”
“Then rule them,” Robbert said, stepping away.
He took Sir Lothar down belowdecks, as advised, the pair thrown about from side to side as they descended into the tight, claustrophobic corridors, squeezing past the sailors rushing up and down the stairs.
“The captain said to take off our armour, Lank,” Robbert said, as they went. “In case the ship goes down. I suppose we ought to heed him.” Whatever he’d thought about preferring to get it over quickly, that wasn’t really true. More than that he wanted to live, and if that meant clinging armour-less to a bit of wreck like a limpet, floating helplessly in the raging seas, so be it. Let the sharks come. I’ll still have my sword.
They found Sir Bernie Westermont in the prince’s cabin, head in a bucket, heaving up his guts. He groaned as they entered, lifting his eyes. “I hate the sea. Hate it,” he moaned. His skin was pale as milk, hair sweaty, body unburdened of his armour. That had not been the case when last Robbert had seen him.
“You fear we’ll go down as well, Bern?” he asked, trying to stay chipper. Somehow the terrible distress of his friends made it easier. I’m not as bad as they are, at least.
“I’ve feared that from the start, Robb.” Bernie tried to smile, though quickly returned his head to the pail, retching.
The others set about removing their armour, collecting the plate in chests that were strapped and bolted to the floor. The weight of it was considerable, though these ships were all adapted to carry Bladeborn men to war, and good sense dictated that only a certain number of armoured knights and soldiers be permitted on any one ship. Robbert had thus spread his forces accordingly, or what forces he had left. Many thousands had died during the fighting in Aram, and many thousands more had deserted during and after the battle, but he still had the bones of a functioning army to call upon.
And my army, he thought. Mine, at last. With his uncle gone, those who remained had sworn him their loyalty and agreed that returning to their ships and sailing home was the right option. Well, all except Sir Gavin. He’d gone off with a hundred men one night, steadfast in their loyalty to Lord Cedrik even now. And good riddance, Robbert thought. Let them bake to death out there on those plains, we’re better off without them.
Robbert Lukar would not have the rest of them drown at sea on account of this cursed storm. We’ve men enough here to make a difference, he told himself. Twelve thousand of them, all eager to get home. All eager to rejoin the fight. They knew little of what was going on in the north, though that there was fighting to be had, Robbert had no doubt. It would give the prince a chance to restore some sense of purpose and pride, after the long disastrous campaign here under the command of his odious uncle.
Bernie continued to retch as they undressed, holding the pail between his tree-trunk legs as he sat forward on a chair, cursing his fate. He wore linens, simple garb for the heat and humidity here, soaked through and sticking to his skin. Beneath was a body thick with muscle. Bernie Westermont had the shoulders of an ox and the back of a bovidor, arms as big around as Robbert’s thighs. He had some bandaging on him as well, covering the cuts he’d suffered in his duel with the Wall. They were flesh wounds only, nothing major. His armour suffered worse, Robbert knew. Both Bernie and Lank might have been killed a dozen times over were it not for the resilience of their plate. Lesser godsteel would have given way. Or perhaps the Wall was holding back?
Robbert would not say that to his companions, though. Sir Bernie was proud to have stood against Sir Ralston for so long, even cutting at the giant’s armour himself once or twice to add to the Whaleheart’s scars. When Lothar had joined the bout, they’d put the giant on the back foot. But even then, I’d fancy the beast to best them, Robb thought. Again, he kept that thought to himself.
The big man was retching again, though looked to be onto the dry heaves by now, spewing up nothing but gouts of bile and the odd bit of porridge from their morning meal. Robbert did not suffer from seasickness himself, thank the gods. Nor Lothar, and he was grateful for that. He could barely conceive of how much the tall knight would moan if he had to battle this nausea as well.
