Chapter Three: The Eternal Watch

“We were a-sent down Jodlund way

with shot and iron, a plan to stay,

but all what I want’s a local girl,

with a gleam in eye and hair a-curled.

We came with guns and pike and sword,

to bring a war from our home abroad,

but I just want to dance with my local girl,

to swing and jump and spin and twirl.

We fought them hard and we have bled,

with much of us and them lay dead,

but all my thoughts of that local girl,

as I gift her a ring with a stone of pearl.

We came back home, just half us left,

all honour is gone, our souls bereft,

but did just dream of my local girl,

as I lay on my back and I left this world.”

Local Girl, sailor’s chanty c.2850 S.F. onwards.

2nd day of Thorec’s Rest, 3042 S.F. - Three years since The End of All Things.

It was the second day of sail for Seacrow’s newest voyage, dawning with another spiteful stretch of drizzle that soaked the crew and wormed its way even as far down as the orlop, seeping through compromised tar between planks on deck with a drip drip drip that held the same endless quality of the rolling sea itself. Spirits were thoroughly damp, and any attempts at a rousing chanty  fizzled out and died before they truly got going.

The wind had been against them almost the entire way so far, the prevailing north-wester threatening to push the travel time for this journey to almost a week. At first, Brother Ole refused to lend any assistance, citing the foul weather, and only the assistance of the magi to create a barrier against the rain coaxed him out onto the deck. Even so, there had only been so much he could do. If they were becalmed, with not even a whisper of air to stir the cloth, he could summon a bluster to fill the sails and have them galloping along at a full twenty knots, but having to fight the wind could create such conflict as to risk damage to the ship. Or so he claimed.

‘There is only so much one can do against the will of Hass,’ had been his excuse.

With nothing to do, the Scavengers were becoming decidedly cagey, whiling their way through endless games of “Belay and Bust”, the painted deck of cards so worn that the pictures were almost faded into nothingness; Robin had found that deck in a tavern last year. Only Jenta was unperturbed, swarming the shrouds with the topmen whatever the weather, whatever the time of day, and seeming to thoroughly enjoy herself, coming back below dripping wet but grinning from ear to ear.

Aina was constantly expecting the girl to slip on water-slick ropes and tumble to her death in the frigid seas, but she had thus far lived up to her boasts. As for herself, there was little to pass the time with, her usual pleasures of reading taken away with the rest of the cargo in Havnoy. Only Practical Thaumaturgy remained in her possession but there was a long way to go until she could muster the will to open those pages and face the pain of her father’s words.

‘Any twos?’ Gannet asked hopefully.

Only he, Stork, Aina, Finch, and Alvard were playing. Grouse was head-down on the table, crossed arms for a pillow, her hair generally getting in the way of things, gently dozing, and likewise Goose was tucked up in his hammock, both of them fast asleep despite the creaking pitch and roll of the ship. Sleeping in the day was a skill Aina had never mastered. Robin and Scops were off somewhere out of sight.

Aina stared numbly at her hand of cards, trying to decipher the five creased rectangles clutched in one tired hand. That one might have been a two, but just as likely a particularly-weathered three.

Or is it an upside-down five...

‘Got one,’ Stork confirmed, beginning to hand it over.

‘Belay that,’ Alvard interrupted, lazily slapping a commander of stars down on the table and taking the card for himself. ‘Anyone else?’

Aina stared at her cards for a moment longer. ‘I have no idea.’

A half-hearted chuckle spread amongst the players.

‘Well give it over anyway,’ Alvard insisted, producing his most winning smile, the one that always sent a tingle down her spine.

Bastard.

In a pique of annoyance, Aina threw the two-three-five at him, ending up hitting Gannet instead.

‘Hey!’ the stout man protested.

Alvard laughed again. Aina’s cheeks burned.

Double bastard.

Suddenly, his mirth cut short. She had heard it too, an indistinct shout from somewhere above, and from the way the other players sat up straight so had they.

‘Quarters!’

The bellow at the hatchway from the Sailing Master had them erupting in a frenzy of activity, and on their feet in seconds and stowing the fold-out table against the wall, even Grouse and Goose were up and awake as soon as the call came down. Swiftly, the Scavengers were grabbing their weapons and heading up on deck. Though they were specialists, not expected to take part in daily shipkeeping, it was unspoken law that they would lay down their lives in defence of Seacrow, if needed.

The ship was beating to quarters, a potential threat had been seen, a rolling drumbeat from the stern-hatch, the martial accompaniment to their situation.

Up on deck and in the miserable haze, Aina quickly saw what had gotten everyone into such a state. Off to starboard could be just seen the white bloom of sails coming towards them a mile from the south, on a course that she thought would run parallel to the distant coast, still out of sight. Seamen not heaving at the sails or readying the sleeping carronades were crowded tensely at the rails, slung with weapons.

‘Change course six points to starboard,’ snapped Ulstea on the quarterdeck, his sharp bark of a voice cutting through the noise of weather and wave. ‘Run up the signals, get them to heave to.’

This was a momentous occasion. No vessel other than themselves and Otter had been seen in these waters since Cursed be Iron had gone down. No Navy ships, no civilian vessels, nothing. On various cruises the most they had found were burned and shattered hulks crowding some of the ports, broken and dead before they had been given a chance to put to sea, as much mass graves as obstacles. They had been given a wide berth, for both reasons.

Aina gripped the rail as the ship leaned precipitously, carving around on a course towards the mysterious new vessel, taking on a new breath of life as her sails caught the wind, leaping forwards like a champion racehorse and crossing the distance in two turns of a minuteglass. At the sight of the warship bearing down upon them the other frantically hove to, furling her sails and throwing up a white signal flag. As they approached, unsteady in the swell, they resolved as a mid-ranged merchantman, bigger than Seacrow in terms of displacement but nowhere close in weight of iron. A single well-placed volley could send that ship down to the slimy embrace of Njall.

The ship was weather-beaten and worn, showing evidence of a great number of ad-hoc repairs in the form of patches to hull and sail, and when they closed the distance it seemed that what she could see of the crew were in a similar state of dishevelment. Hollow-eyed men stared out from between limp, ragged hats and bird-nest beards. None were visibly armed.

‘Ahoy the vessel, identify yourselves,’ Ulstea hailed, his voice loud and tinny through the speaking horn.

A small commotion on the deck of the other ship precluded a man, as bedraggled as the others, coming to the rail with his own device.

‘RJS Hiksem, we are, and her master, Lorzen, I am,’ he responded. ‘Aware the Forsaran Navy still operated, I was not.’

At his accent and way of speaking, consternated muttering broke out amongst the crew. He delivered his words in the flat, nasal tones of a Jodlunder. That verdant country to the south-east, with only a narrow channel separating them, had long been an antagonistic neighbour, ever since the geographic upheaval that had separated what had once been a people united under Forsar’s banner. The citizens of Jodlund had taken their own path in life, their language similar but grammatically-distinct, their gods the same with the exception that they worshipped Jod as head of the Ninefold Pantheon, not the war-god Harnir.

Not one of their kind had been seen in over three years, let alone a shipfull of them, and not even this far north since before the last war. Aina had long wondered if they had befallen the same fate.

‘Not in so much words,’ Ulstea replied, ‘We operate on a... more independent commission now.’

Some hushed conversation on the other ship and Lorzen was back.

‘Pirates, you?’

‘No.’

‘Prove it.’

Ulstea looked to Maxten, who shrugged.

‘I shall come aboard, show you a gift of goodwill.’

Another conversation on the other side.

‘Alone?’

‘Alone.’

This seemed enough for the master and Ulstea was shortly across the divide in an awkwardly-tossed ship’s launch, hauling himself up the ladder on the other ship. A conversation played out between he and Lorzen, a minute stretching into five which doubled to ten. All the while, Seacrow’s company stood at arms, ready to jump to action and rescue their Commander from the foreigners. Thankfully, mercifully, he was back and giving the order to shove off and stand down.

‘What’d you do to get their trust?’ Aina overhead Maxten ask of him.

‘The lot of them were starved, Klause,’ he responded with an obviously sympathetic tone. ‘I thought Havnoy would be able to cope with only twenty more mouths.’

Maxten’s response was lost as they disappeared below, but when Aina caught the eye of Alvard she knew he was feeling the same uncomfortable trepidation. Havnoy was their home away from home, their haven, their safe harbour. Together at the stern rail, they watched the merchantman as it put about and set a course therein.