The Return
Seven long years away from home. It had seemed longer. He had left with nothing. A mere child, spirited away from the only home he had known, the only people he had known. Seven years. Every night for seven years he had dreamt of what had been left behind, of the life that had once been his. Every morning for seven years he had risen in the vain hope that somehow it had all just been a dream, a cursed dream from a young mind. The truth was often too painful for him to dwell on that which had been. Yet that pain was what had kept him alive, driven him forward when all others would have given up. Seven years he had grown in a land that was not his, letting it mould him in to a man.
“Now I am home,” he whispered, hardly believing it to be true. If the words had been muttered any louder, Smarv feared that the sight before him would have shattered. If the gods had heard him, they would have taken it upon themselves to rip away everything before him and leave him ruined.
The sea was calm, a well-received gift. The sun was alone in the sky, with nothing by a flock of gulls for company. Yet the birds were more interested in circling the mainmasts than in ascending to the deep sky.
A score of warships cut through the water, oars raising and dipping in a wave out of sync with the ocean all around them. Trained sailors heaved with every movement, working in near-silent professionalism. Above their heads flags swayed in the gentle breeze, bearing the proud heraldry of a half-hundred clans from Flendria. The banners were as colourful as the sails of the warships, deep reds and oranges rivaling the sun itself in their warmth, greens as varied as the clans themselves and the violet which looked more skin than cloth. Blue and white designs adorned the sails as well as the flags, uniting the clans in at least tradition if nothing else.
The lands of Flendria had become a second home for him, for the boy who had had nothing. The vast continent had taken him in, provided him with everything a man could need. In return, he had fought for its people. Bled his very essence for them. A hundred allies had been made there, some becoming close friends while others were only bound by their oaths. Yet each had provided men and money, no small thing for the clansmen of the hills and valleys beyond the domain of the city-states. Many had been relieved at the news that he was finally returning home.
“At least it is a good day.”
Halrof was no small man, even if he was still a youth. The stress of being at sea for the first time had driven him in to a foul mood, merely amplified by those around him. He did not like to show any sign of weakness, a trait hard-learned from service to his chieftain and father.
“If all goes according to plan, then it will only get better.”
Most of his newfound allies had only looked at the debt they needed to repay. Smarv’s struggle was not theirs. Their responsibility was to their people, first and foremost. A foreigner’s doomed quest was of no interest to them. Yet, Smarv was thankful of the few who truly wished for success. Those like Halrof, who now wished for nothing more than to right a great wrong. To those few, such a mission was worth their own lives. Such honour had allowed Smarv to cast his eyes forward, towards the future. With such men at his side, how could defeat be possible?
“I still do not know how you can claim that those rocks offer any protection.”
Maytus’ Grasp. Was there a name which could have been more fitting? The young man was hard-pressed to think of one. The five islands were fingers of blackened rock, reaching out for the god’s distant mother. While from the direction they were approaching the islands, none of Smarv’s small army could see the harbors and fortifications built to join the five solitary juts of land together. However every man knew of their existence, and of the danger the garrison could wreck. They had been warned of the fighting which would result from their unannounced presence.
“Not the rocks themselves, my friend. Though we must rely on their weaknesses for swift victory.”
Accepting the king’s words, Halrof made his leave. Turning away from Smarv, the young chieftain began to bellow orders at his men, roaring in the thick Flendrian dialect which he had known all of his life. Leaving the clansman to his business, the young, throneless ruler fixated upon the distant mounds of rock and timber and stone.
“Your Most Honourable, we will be upon the islands before sunset.”
The ship’s captain was a stocky man, a thick mane of blonde hair framing a square face. Like most Flendrians, Abelard had not been sentimental enough to name his ship. As it was merely loaned to him from the military dockyards of Repluem, the lowlander had not thought that he needed to give the ship a name. However, with a toothy grin, he had accepted the suggestion of Honour’s Steed as a suitable title.
“Thank you, Abelard.”
Smarv had been drawn to the man. There had been no debt needing to be repaid. No promises had been made to buy his service. No, Abelard had offered his services to the king, and the services of nearly half of the other ship captains who commanded his ships.
“It is not too late to change the plan. We can take them on an even field. Our numbers would tell on the open waters.”
They will not face us in the open. Despite being considered warships by the Flendrians, the vessels were little more than transports, and heavy laden at that. Their high flanks and ponderous movements would be ill-suited to the narrow straits around the Grasp. A disadvantage both Smarv and the enemy would be well aware of.
“It was too late when we left the port, my friend. Iovus has not let me down yet, nor shall he do so now. Have the others make ready.”
The captain nodded, striding away after he had accepted the king’s final decision. He had a hundred duties to carry out before the ship was ready for battle, and they needed his entire attention. One mistake could prove fatal, and that was something neither Smarv nor Abelard could accept.
Looking past Maytus’ Grasp, the young man took in a deep breath. The salt cleansed his body, casting away the dark thoughts in his mind. Home . Off in the distance somewhere was a thing strip of land which was his homeland. A grey scar between sea and sky, it did not glow as he had expected it to. He had dreamed of something more.
Pushing himself away from the prow, the young man turned and made his way back to his cabin. As full as the ship was, Smarv had little need to weave his way across the swaying deck. Those who had a spare second dipped their head in the vague direction of their liege as he passed. As he passed the Flendrian chieftain, Halrof offered the exiled king one of his well-used phrases. It had been muttered and whispered and roared so many times that Smarv said it with his ally.
“This had better be worth it. I expect the women to be as wanton as they are beautiful!”
Those within earshot who had the time and energy to give up a ragged cheer.
“I am certain that you will discover that for yourself,” went the reply.
Laughter, half forced half genuine, sounded for a few moments before the men’s attention was drawn back to more pressing concerns. Blades were sharpened to an unmatched edge and armour was stitched with practiced hands. Food was handed out between friends, each many grimacing at the poor quality they were still not used to receiving. However they did not complain loud enough for Smarv to hear, so he put it from his mind.
The cabin was a small affair, only large enough to house a bed and a small chest. However, it kept out the worst of the salt spray and that was good enough for Smarv. The alternative had been a hammock drawn between posts down in the dark hold. At least here there is some light .
Casting aside his heavy cloak, the youth worked at his shoulders. Glancing around him, Smarv tried to find something to do. His feet took him to one side of bed, before turning and leading him to the other. Settling on the lumpy mass, the king tried to rest, closing his eyes in a false imitation of sleep. There he lay, listening to the world outside, trying in vain to drift off in to sleep.
“Your Most Honourable?”
The voice was not accompanied by a rap upon the weak door. However that gruff noise needed nothing to help express the urgency. Smarv called Icarus in as he accepted the futility of sleep and opened his eyes. The man entered at once, pausing only long enough to offer his king a deep bow.
“Your Most Honourable, Abelard says that it is time.”
Before the youth could rise from his bed, the man was already diving in to the royal’s chest. Pulling out his liege's well-wrapped armour, Icarus examined each piece with an expert eye before laying it out on to the simple bed. It was done in silence, a ritual older than the kingdom which Smarv was destined to rule.
Although Smarv could hear the oars dipping in and out of the ocean, and scores of burly men moving to-and-fro throughout the ship, his attention was focused solely on the equipment laid out on his recently-vacated bed. Stripping, the king raised his arms out to each side. At a barked command from Icarus, two servants entered carrying towels and deep bowls. One bowl held steaming water, the other a rich oil.
“Welntos, King of Gods, your servants call upon you once more. We beg forgiveness for the weakness before your all-bearing sight. Of ice you formed our souls and of rock our will. That we fall is not to spite you, but to honour you with our spilled essence.”
The two servants worked quickly as Icarus spoke, first using soaked towels to clean Smarv’s body. Then, with practiced hands, they lathered the oil over their liege. Massaging as they went, the two servants covered Smarv in the gleaming liquid. Using the dry towels and frantic movements, they dabbed off the worst of the shine.
“Lend me your voice, great Welntos, and that of your sister-wife’s son Epartos to speak to souls of the metal.”
Now Icarus approached Smarv, aiding the two servants in dressing their king. First went a knee-length robe of cloth, bound tightly by a broad rope around his stomach. Then the leather armour Smarv had worn during the bloody skirmishes across the countryside of Flendria. It was supple leather, able to bend but nigh impossible for a man to tear. Aside from filling out his chest and hiding his shoulders, a skirt of leather strips, strengthened by oil and bronze studs, offered a little protection to his near-naked thighs.
“Spirits, we beseech you for your aid. Lend your strength to the armour of one of your own. Protect him as you would your own son. Defend your king, your protector, your champion.”
As each piece of armour was fitted, Icarus muttered a different prayer, a different request to the souls of the men who had found their final resting place while wearing the armour. Greaves were held in place by a dozen knots. His vambraces ended in the sharp claws of a Flendrian big cat the king had once slain. Then went on the cuirass, the bronze held in place both with knots and by attaching to the leather underneath and at the shoulder guards.
When he was finally clad in his armour, Smarv bowed to Icarus and the servants for their service. However they were not finished, and the king had to allow the servants to approach him again with their oil. Icarus had fallen silent, having retrieved his liege’s helmet and sword. Waiting patiently for the bronze to once more gleam in the weak light of the cabin, Icarus remained motionless.
“After the battle, seek me out. You will be both honoured at the victory feast.”
The servants, older men from the courts of the Flendrian city-states, thanked the young king with a deep bow and muttered gratitude. They were the first to exit the cabin, fleeing back to whatever dark corner Abelard had earmarked for the non-combatants.
“It is good to be home,” Smarv told his friend, leading him towards the prow of the vessel.
“It would have been better under different circumstances,” replied Icarus, pausing to allow a clansman to get out of his way.
No , the circumstances are just right . He was an exiled king returning come. He was the rightful king coming at the head of an army of warriors seeking vengeance. The people would see him and remember the stories they had been told as children. He had Welntos’ blessing.
“The Grasp will be your victory,” Smarv told Abelard as the Flendrian turned to acknowledge the king. “Your name will be remembered by my people for years to come.”
The captain accepted the honour with a toothy grin. However it quickly disappeared as he called the king forward. Casting his hand out towards the five islands, the man pointed towards a dark shadow shifting like smoke. Despite the short distances, Smarv needed a moment to focus his eyesight.
“They are reacting as quickly as you and your men boasted, however they are gathering in the wrong place.”
The king tried to spot the positions of the enemy, but without the aid of the sun, he could not tell for certain what his eyes saw.
“Where would that be?” Iovus asked, as unused to naval actions as his younger liege.
“Between the middle and fore fingers. They should be over by the index.”
They should indeed . For a moment, Smarv did not know what to say. Licking cracked lips, he allowed a thousand thoughts to settle.
"They think they have the strength to face us on the open sea?"
The king raised his head up to the heavens. Thank you Welntos .