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Chapter One: Exiled

[715 AD]
[Sailing above the Dogger Bank]

The strengthening storm-clouds had chased them west for the last few days... but their small vessel was not fast enough.

Njord’s watery fist had caught up to them.

Dovindr Gormsson hauled on the stay-line with all the might of his eighteen — well, almost — years. Fought the woven-flax rope down towards the cleat, only for yet another wave-tip to crest in over the board. More icy salt-spray joined that already soaking his numb fingers.

But he did get the line tied off. Let that show all those who thought him a lesser boat-man than his father! Dovindr turned to the back of the vessel, ducking slightly so that his hood would shield his eyes from the ever-present stinging brine-wind.

His proud smile — albeit with chattering teeth — fell. Father hadn’t noticed. The towering and far-spoken presence of Gorm Haraldsson stood like a mighty oak at the steering-oar, his entire attention focused in glowering down at the shorter man before him. Who was evidently unaffected by Father’s weighty glare, instead continuing their argument in his insistent tone.

“Yet if we had gone south with Willibrord, you would already now have been tying up at anchor in a safe, friendly harbor! Not fleeing this storm and praying to your… your heathen idols!”

‘Uncle’ Lucas punctuated his words with a single finger, first pointed at the nearing storm-clouds and then jabbing into Father’s barrel-wide chest.

A brave move, one that Dovindr had seen cost other men their fingers under Father’s furious grip. But then, Lucas was said to be a rare match for Father in battle-history. A claim that Dovindr did not doubt: despite the Frisian missionary’s protestations of new-found pacifism, those remained a warrior’s scars that mapped out a bloody history across his skin.

Dovindr was yanked from his thoughts — literally — as a rattling gust of wind snapped the line taut under his hands once more. And pulled him up from the deck by it, only to drop him back to the briny planking with a wet thud.

And just like that, the storm which he had just finally managed to take his mind off for just a moment was back. Thor’s fury, Njord’s envy, all of it rolling hungrily across the lightning-lit night towards them.

He’d… better go check on the keel-water level. Could always use a bit more bailing, right?

Dovindr turned his back on the conversation, stumble-running downwind across the slippery and rocking deck and over to midships. Of course, just because he put distance between him them didn’t mean he couldn’t hear Father’s incredulous bellow. The same recognizable one that always cropped up when Lucas brought up religion.

“Those ‘idols’ which have never once led me wrong in my life, nor will they now!” Father retorted, his energetic ire somehow still stoked even after many hours of arguing around in circles. “And to the south is naught but Frisians! Surrounded by those cut-purses they call ‘honest merchants,’ we’d have been starving paupers within the year!”

The other boys in the village Dovindr's age — err, all ‘men’ now, of course — had often asked him how many of Father’s scars now came from Lucas, and vice-versa. Dovindr had tried telling them the truth, only to be doubted each time.

So he’d started making up a few, to wide acclaim. Nice to see that Aunt Frida’s admonishments on the importance of ‘honesty’ were followed by all, right?

What was actually nice to see was that only a small amount of water was sloshing about in the bottom of Harbor-glory’s open hull. Foaming as it poured over the ship’s ribs, yes, but doing little enough actual harm. And at a depth where he’d waste more energy clambering all the way down there and then back than it was really worth.

No, this may be the first time he personally was caught in a blow this bad, but he’d heard Father’s stories since he was a swaddled babe. A real Gods’-Argument of a storm like this one was a long battle. It surely must be, when Thor was clearly hurling his lightning against Njord's rolling waves, to settle some slight that mortal men could only guess at.

Dovindr had better save his energy… it wasn’t like that hold would stay near-empty for long after all, not with the seas picking up.

Much to his surprise, in the few moments he’d spent away Lucas had only stepped closer to Father’s intimidating bulk. Did the once-mercenary truly have no love left for his own life? Was he that secure in his Southern God’s protection?

Dovindr knew who he would put gold on, between a God of Peace versus Father. There was a reason he’d kept his own mouth shut all this time, thank you very much.

“’Frisians’!?” the Frisia-born man shouted, incredulous rather than cowed. “You’ve got a lot worse to worry about than Frisians, you old tree-tier!”

There he went again, poking at Father like that one time Dovindr had found Young Knut playing just outside the village, jabbing at a confused infant boar with a knobby stick he’d found.

Giggling merrily all the while… and completely unaware of the irate mother sow storming in towards him.

Dovindr still bore the scar from that day… but at least Knut still lived. Wouldn’t be much of a farmer with just the one hand, sure, but he didn’t exactly need them both to take over his father’s trade now did he?

Yet who would look out for Lucas?

Perhaps it was that same fearless — cowards would say ‘mindless’ — bravery and proven strength that had first drawn Aunt Frida to him? Into her marriage to a foreign follower of a jealous God, the choice which had cost the family their place back home?

Leaning his weight on the steering-board, Father kicked out one booted foot against the heavy oaken chests which crowded around the centerline of the family ship.

Even on the spray-slick decking, he did not slip for a moment. “You may still associate with such ‘men’ if you wish, Faramund, but the day you bound my sister to yourself was the day that you left your rough youth behind.”

Uncle Lucas’s eyes narrowed as he glared up at Father. He shook his head, droplets flying off of his sharp chin and tall nose. “A youth which I did leave behind, along with my old name from before my baptism. The pagan Faramund has retired forever; you know full-well that it is as Lucas Gerulfsson that I advise you today.”

Dovindr had heard this whole routine twice before already on this journey. But if Father were apparently so unconcerned over the storm that tossed the family’s ship, perhaps that was a good sign. Father’s many decades at sea certainly knew more than Dovindr’s far lesser experience.

Then again, perhaps there was just enough of a break in the argument for him to slip in. “Father, the sail’s secure! I’ve checked the keel-water, and we’ve a little time yet. Should I—!” he coughed, hoping desperately that his voice-break had disappeared into the winds. Father stood up-wind of him, right? “Should I go check on Frida?”

That was something to do, at least. Now, that he could no longer try to distract him from his problem with his other thoughts: he’d trudged all over the ship, tried breathing in as much of the salt air as possible, and still his stomach was somehow rolling worse than the waves around him!

Not exactly the mark of a seafarer, that, nor of a far-famed seafarer’s only son.

He would have to do better... and most importantly, not let his weakness be seen until then.

Father caught his eye, and shook his head. The hardness in his eyes abated for a moment, and Gorm the feared Farmathr was briefly replaced by Gorm the proud father.

Well, if Father of all people said that his doted-on younger sister would be fine even in a storm like this, then who was Dovindr to disagree?

And surely if his father and his aunt had such stout sea-stomachs then he’d get used to it all eventually? Eugh… even the thought made him queasy. Best not to let anyone see.

Squelching across the deck in wet boots, Dovindr plopped his waterlogged self down on the nearest wooden sea-chest. He ran his hands down each arm and leg, pressing as much of the heavy water out as he could in this brief break in the ship-labors. With the crew short by two men, he’d had to push himself to fill the missing four hands with his own two.

Father rounded once more on Lucas, dredging back their conversation like a fisherman hauling up the day’s catch.

...A thought that perhaps Dovindr shouldn’t have thought of, as his stomach revolted at the mere idea of fish-stench.

“Oh I’ve gone for a ‘dip in the river’ too, but you don’t see me making such a big story of it!” One meaty hand patted at the bright-white undershirt that peeked out at his neckline, half-drowned under heavy furred cloaks.

Heavy cloaks that Dovindr certainly missed right now, but at least he could move about the ship to keep his blood flowing. And to keep his stomach from usurping control over his legs and sending him running for the board. Meanwhile Father was all but tied to the steering-oar, that colossal board that none of the other men aboard could hope to control in surging waves like this.

Lucas retorted “That you regressed to your old ways is nothing to boast of; our Heavenly Father will be not so amused when you are called to account for your turning your back on Him.” His words were punctuated by a burst of wind that crackled through the bright cloth-tent erected behind him to cover the resting places on the ship.

Under his breath, Dovindr muttered thickly to himself “I’d praise a Heavenly Swineherd if he’d just take this seasickness away.” Who knew, by that wind-burst that had underlined Lucas’s words maybe such a far-off God was listening just now!

Err… perhaps he shouldn’t speak quite so loudly?

“Pah!” Father boomed, waving one hand in Lucas’s face. “So then I now have one god angry at me. I already have many more which I keep happy; I will be fine!”

Lucas’s thin face reddened, and he took one step forward across the overlapping planks below him on the stern’s half-deck. The hand that held onto the raised stern-post for balance whitened visibly as it clenched harder onto the creaking wood.

But before he could unload the flurry of angry words so clearly readying upon his tongue, a tired voice called from behind Dovindr.

“Lucas.” Frida’s voice, a warning tone cutting through her obvious exhaustion. With any luck, she could say what Dovindr wanted to say… and have it actually work. “Leave him be. God will surely wait until we arrive in Cornwall, yes?”

Lucas halted, grimacing. Father smirked back up at him… but only for a moment.

Because Frida clearly had words for her brother as well as for her husband. Shifting the cloth-swaddled infant in her arms, she glared reproachfully up from underneath the low oiled-cloth tent roof nearer the center of the ship. Hopefully, it kept enough of the freezing spray off of her to keep both her and the child warm. “Gorm. It is upon Lucas’s own contacts in our new home that you — that we all — will depend, once we arrive. Do not alienate him… too soon.” She sent a weary smile first at her brother and then at her husband, before a hungry cry from her infant son drew her attention back to far more important matters.

Dovindr hid a smile of his own. Father and Lucas bickered like old men, yes, but it hardly took a wise man to see that it was because the two had too much in common, rather than too little. Aside from matters of faith, at least.

“Dovindr,” Frida ordered without looking up from her infant, “get over here under the tent. You’ll freeze out there, sitting in the rain.”

“No I w-won’t.” Dovindr reflexively denied, only for his traitor lips — numb as they were — to betray him. Grimacing, he caught Father’s eye once more, begging without words for a counter-order. The seasickness only got worse if he went inside!

But Father only nodded again, one hand making a brushing motion.

His scowl intensifying, Dovindr crouched low to sidle in underneath the rain-shield without losing his balance on the lurching ship. Immediately, the shrieking wind was replaced by the thunderous barrage of rain onto stretched canvas… not much of an improvement. Angled planks nailed into the deck kept the worst of the rain-driven water slicking the deck from pouring into the shelter, but the travel-coats of those inside still stank like—

Ah. “Looks like Halfdan’s not so used to the waves.” Dovindr enunciated carefully around his cold lips as they burned hot in the not-quite-as-cold sheltered air, his wounded sense of pride fading aside as he watched Frida dab away the regurgitated mess on the swaddled infant’s face.

And feeling a bloom of empathy rise inside him. Looks like at least he wasn’t the only family member finding the rocking waves to be tough going.

...But if it ever came to Frida cleaning away sick from the someday-will-be-a-beard fuzz around his mouth, he thought he might just dive overboard instead.

“He’s his father’s son more than mine, at least in that.” Aunt Frida remarked with tired affection.

“Hah!” Came a joyful cackle from further forward, deeper underneath the tent where the faint cloud-filtered sunlight barely reached. Yet the recognizable reedy whistle of Anaoc the sailor carried sharply through the gloom, as always. “He’ll learn, soon enough. He’s got your family’s blood in him, at least half of it. Just look how the boy there has his feet under him, and he who’s never before left sight of the land!”

“I have sailed out with Father before!” Dovindr shot back with a curled grin, even as he sidled past Frida towards the shadows that crouched up against the swell of the mast-step underfoot. Lurching back-and-forth along the narrow walkway as the ship rolled under him, all the better to make a point of how he did indeed keep his balance.

Looks like he’d succeeded; they suspected nothing! These old sea-salts thought him a real sailor! It was the best day of the tr—!

His gorge rose as the seasickness chose to remind him of its presence. Nope, not the best day of the trip anymore.

Out of the corners of his eyes he could make out just enough movement to see where the last two men of the crew sat facing each other. And his ear, knowing what to listen for, caught the thunder-sound of wood rolling against wood.

He nodded, a gesture that doubtlessly went unseen in the darkness. “Playing for wagers, again?”

This time, the lower voice of Eadberht answered in his far-southern accented speech. “Anything better to do?”

Dovindr glanced over his shoulder at the sky outside, just in time for a bolt of Thor’s own lightning to flash in the distance. Enough to illuminate the waves charging past the ship, as Harbor-glory fought her way onwards through the storm that threatened to overturn her at any moment.

Not a sight that his stomach had wanted to see; a complaint that it registered quite pointedly.

So he forced his attention away from the looming danger. A boy fretted over the threats that he could do little to avoid; a man didn’t. Swallowing against both fear and rising bile, Dovindr did his best to pull his shoulders back and his voice lower as he answered “Of course not.”

“Hah!” Anaoc laughed again, but thankfully didn’t elaborate. His next words were clearly spoken to Eadberht “On the next rise, then? Double-or-nothing on this throw, don’t you forget!”

“Oh aye.” Eadberht grumbled. “I’ve already got it until sundown, why not try again?”

Dovindr crouched next to them, his eyes straining against the darkness to see. “Knock-the-tower?” He was mostly sure he could see the stacked wooden blocks in front of each of the two sailors.

“Bit dark to play at tables.” It was always hard to tell when Eadberht was cracking a joke or not.

“And too lively outside for hnefatafl!” Anaoc added. “The king’d get sea-sick before he ever fled the table!”

“That’s why kings don’t go to sea.” Eadberht observed calmly. Then, as the deck creaked underneath them, he added “That’s the rise, there.”

“So it is.” Anaoc reached out, and Dovindr backed up to give them room. He knew from experience that the carved wooden ball in the old sailor’s hand was heavy enough to bruise… and only nearly round enough to make it predictable.

Which was perhaps the point.

Just as Harbor-glory peaked at the top of one swelling wave, Anaoc released the wooden weight with a heavy clunk. It was too dark to see, but Dovindr thought he could track its meandering path across the heaving deck, swaying from side-to-side until—

“Øj!” Anaoc coughed, along with the recognizable wet smack of wood hitting flesh. Shadows flickered as he doubled over… followed by the clattering of wooden blocks.

“And the rest of the day’s watch is yours!” Eadberht crowed, with more triumphant energy in his voice than Dovindr had heard from the mercurial sailor in the entire voyage up to that point. “A lot of bailing awaits, too, by the weight behind that wave.”

Dovindr shook his shoulders, rising from his crouch. “I’ll head out with you.” Not because Anaoc was older even than Father and Dovindr put together, for none could doubt that the old man’s wiry frame still held far more strength than anyone would think.

But rather because the unexpected lurching underfoot, coming without any warning, had threatened to pull the morning’s meal — eaten cold, just as the first rain had hit them — up and out from his heaving stomach. A problem that clearly didn’t affect the two far more experienced sailors in front of him… and thus one that he certainly wouldn’t allow to affect him!

Or at least, be seen to affect him.

Frida only briefly glanced up as Dovindr and Anaoc squeezed past her, out into the wind-tossed spray. A gust of which caught Dovindr just as he straightened up, knocking him back onto his heels.

But at least the freezing blast smothered down the seasickness, just for a while!

“Rethinking it, boy?” Anaoc asked from behind, laughing even as the wind tossed his words far into the distance.

By way of answer, Dovindr pushed off towards the nearest gunwale, turning to make his way forwards.

In the lower-section amidships, between the raised decks, he found Lucas already standing in water up past his ankles. The mercenary-turned-missionary’s boots lay on the edge of the planking, turned to keep the rain from pouring into them.

A bucket-full of hurled water arced overboard, even as Dovindr doffed his own boots. Say what one will about the Frisian who had become his uncle, but he had never seen the man shy away from hard labor.

Bare feet splashed into freezing water, as Dovindr reached around underneath the decking for where the other bailing-buckets waited. A moment later and Anaoc lowered himself into the water rather more carefully with a quiet hiss of discomfort.

Lucas glanced up, nodding in silent thanks for the aid. And with three men working, even the wind-spray that sloshed in over the gunwale with each passing wave was not enough to keep them from rapidly emptying out the bottom of the hull.

Even as the ache built higher and higher in his muscles, Dovindr’s smile only grew. Turns out Father was right after all: — admittedly, he usually was — it indeed was impossible to be seasick and tired at the same time!

Work finally done for now, Dovindr stowed the bucket and crouched partway underneath the planking overhead. Now mostly shielded from the wind, he dared rest his weight against one of the cloth-covered containers there.

And promptly stood back up quickly, at the startled squawking that came from his intended seat. Right, he’d forgotten that the hens had been packed away down here. They’d no-doubt started to get rather worried at the rising waters!

The other two men looked over, Lucas halfway through climbing back up to the stern — no doubt to go check on his wife and infant son — while Anaoc bent over, wringing water out of his forked beard. “Startled by a small animal, you of all people?” Anaoc grinned, while Lucas disappeared silently out of sight. “I’d have thought you were past that, all the seasons you’ve spent out in the woods seeking fodder for your aunt’s stew-pot.”

“It’s, uh, been a while since once surprised me like that.” was all that Dovindr could think to say, too late to simply say nothing at all. But it was true enough; he was proud of his well-practiced ability to stalk quietly through the woods around their home village. He’d once gotten close enough to have all-but-touched a grazing deer, before it finally smelled him and bolted!

It genuinely had been a while since an animal had been the one to catch him off-guard.

“Hah.” Anaoc grunted a laugh, shaking his head to cast off what water remained in his thinning hair before sidling over into shelter. “I’d wager you miss the trees and snow, right now. A sailor’s life’s a bit more of a challenge!”

Dovindr shook his head. Perhaps denying the old sea-salt's observation as much to himself as to Anaoc. “More of an adventure, I’d say! Never a dull moment, not since we cast off. Far more exciting than the day-journeys I’ve been on with Father before!”

Admittedly, Dovindr had only been on exactly two such trips. But his knots showed that the rope-memory stayed with him even now, a year since the last one. So he felt that he could claim them as showing that he wasn’t a terrible sailor, for all that this was not the life he had once planned for himself.

Yet what an adventure it was, after all! Straight across the sea to the south-west, towards and through the narrow channel that he had only heard of in tales told by older sailors. If all went well, he would disembark on the land of cliffs and mines that was said to lie beyond!

And it would be in that strange, foreign land that he would spend his eighteenth summer. Only a few more seasons from now — and maybe one or two more story-worthy days at sea like this one, if Njord showed pity on him… or Thor ‘convinced’ him to — and he would be a man. One hand rose to cup the carefully-nurtured fuzz that grew around his chin, surely to one day match Father’s proper beard.

One day.

“Aye, and with Gorm at the steer-board we’ve little enough to worry about from a blow like this.” Anaoc shrugged, gesturing dismissively to the storm-black clouds raging overhead. And to the small but growing puddle of water at their feet that would soon enough need their attention once more. “And—”

A rumbling gust of wind roared across the ship from her starboard aft quarter. With a creaking groan, the mast — even with the sail lowered and stowed away underneath the forward deck — tilted ever-so-slightly.

And from further aft, a loud crack heralded one of the stay-lines giving way.

For a moment, neither Dovindr nor Anaoc breathed.

But no screams followed, thank the Gods; nobody had been hurt. But the mast kept creaking, a warning that another such gust would risk knocking it over entirely.

Both men exchanged a momentary glance, before lunging aft and swiftly clambering up onto the rear decking.

Dovindr ran unsteadily across water-slick planks to where Lucas had managed to snag the torn end of the line. The wind must have picked up while they had been bailing, for the single slap of earlier wind was now joined by yet further bursts.

Sea-spray drove horizontal across the ship, and even Father half-crouched behind what protection the gunwale could offer while still holding onto the steer-board! Under his steady hand, at least Harbor-glory kept her aft to the worst of the driving wind and waves.

Anaoc appeared a moment later, one of the reserve lines in his hands. Despite the cold and the danger, he flashed a gap-toothed grin at Dovindr. “Your knot there was a bit too good, boy! The rope gave way before the tie-off did!”

Indeed, it truly was the same stay that Dovindr had just finished a short while ago that had now been loosed! With a half-shrug, Dovindr took the offered end of the reserve line and grabbed the frayed rope from Lucas's grasp as well as the replacement from Anaoc's hands. “Then this one should hold, too! But maybe you should tie it off to the cleat, yes?” He grinned with perhaps a bit more confidence and composure than he actually felt.

While the two men worked, Lucas stepped back. One hand rubbed at his chin, kept as hairless as Dovindr’s own. The other, wisely, kept a careful hold of the nearest line. “At least with wind like this, I imagine that we should make it to Cornwall as soon as expected. Even with the sail down, that is… and your father’s blasphemy.”

Dovindr wasn’t certain about it, but Harbor-glory at least did seem to be scudding across the heaving waves about as fast as he’d ever seen her, and that even with her sails entirely stowed. But all the same, those angry-black thunderheads above them did look to him more like—

“Bah!” Father must have overheard his law-brother’s optimism. “Clouds like that aren’t helpful fellow-travelers!” Father waved one hand behind him, leaning into the steering-board. “They’re ill-tempered tricksters, straight from Njord’s backsi—” He halted, eyeing Lucas before continuing “They’ll back around on you without warning, is what I say. We’ll have a long and sleepless night come this evening!”

Well, if Father saw something in the approaching clouds that Dovindr didn’t… it was probably best to listen to him. Any man who had his fiftieth summer behind him — and almost all of them spent on the open sea, as he frequently boasted — was worth paying attention to. Like the cure for seasickness: exhausting, backbreaking labor that would have to be repeated again shortly! One did not live to be hailed as ‘Farman’ by being unfamiliar with sea, after all.

Besides, the amber-shock spice of danger was what made this an adventure!

///////

This was not an adventure.

The hull rose up and smacked Dovindr from behind, hard enough to painfully clack his teeth together.

At least that stopped them chattering, if only for a moment.

“Cheer up, boy!” called the beaming old sailor bundled up next to him. Discolored teeth — almost more teeth than gap… almost — glinted brightly amidst Anaoc’s cackling smile. “I’ve been through worse than this, and the seas haven’t taken me yet!”

“They’d have thrown you back if you ever did go overboard, Anaoc,” grumbled Eadberht, on Dovindr’s other side. “There’s three women in this world who’ve ordered you out of their homes already; I think we all know that the wave-spirits would think much the same.”

“Ah, but that is because the raging sea is my one true wife!” Anaoc boasted, the old Cornish sailor shouting to be heard over the howls and whistles of the hungry winds. “She just doesn’t want me home quite yet!”

Dovindr smiled. Or, he thought he did; his face was numb enough that he wasn’t quite certain. At the very least, he hoped that it didn’t betray the racing heartbeat and freezing terror — colder still, somehow, than the brine-wind curling around them — that filled his chest. Terror that surged with each cresting wave, each time his rolling stomach told him that he was looking straight down towards the front of their ship as she tumbled into the next trough.

From behind them, Father grumbled loudly “Then by all means tell her that we’re with you! If the ship goes down, we’re all moving in with you and your watery woman immediately!”

The men laughed, and if there was perhaps a tinge of hysteria behind their calls then it was lost amidst the crashing of waves against a stressed hull.

A hull which groaned with each hammer-blow of water. Seepage leaked through the planks in a dozen places, collecting in the lower central hull. And here it felt like it had been only moments since they had last bailed out the gathering water there!

Dovindr drew his waterlogged fur outerclothes tighter around his shivering shoulders. Then exchanged a knowing glance with his aunt, who had all-but-disappeared underneath her pile of each of the spare furs available to the small crew. The tent over her head kept out most of the water-spray… but that still left enough that all aboard had decided to give her their heavier sea-coats.

The men were tough old hands, after all, while it had been many years since Frida had ever been out riding the waves during such a storm. Oiled animal-pelts meant nothing to hale men of broad shoulders and salt-stained beards.

A pity that Dovindr had yet to grow either of his own, then.

Another burgeoning wave from astern lifted the creaking ship, her groaning hull flexing such that he could watch the rolling motion rush forwards towards the raised bow. A bow that curled back towards his position in the stern, so sharply that for a moment he swore the bow-strake would crash against the bare mast. As if the ship were turning her head back to glare reproachfully over her shoulder at the men who had steered her into such a gale! Dovindr leaned down, patting one ice-numb hand against the ship’s timbers. Hopefully a gesture more reassuring to the ship’s spirit than to him.

Harbor-glory uncurled her spine, creaking and groaning in understandable complaint as she arched over the top of the next wave.

And just like that, his seasickness came thundering back. Dovindr stuffed one salt-stained hand into his mouth, teeth digging into numb flesh as he fought his gorge back down. Oh, not now! Njord, let the waters take me before—

Err, better not to finish that thought. There were perhaps worse things than embarrassing himself in front of the others, after all…

Surely even Njord couldn’t have heard his foolishness above the thundering roar of the winds overhead?

All around them, waves curled and broke. If there was one good thing about their household being forced into exile — no matter how ‘politely’ the king had phrased it, that was what it was — it was that all of their remaining goods fit quite comfortably in Harbor-glory’s hold. The knorr rode light, her curved gunwales high and proud above the waterline.

That said, the lack of ballast also meant that she rolled in a way that Dovindr had never felt before.

And, gods willing, would never feel again.

If this was what a life on the sea was truly like, then Dovindr missed the snow-quiet comfort of the forest outside his village all the more! The way it had whispered gently to him with each creaking tree and each bird-call that told him where his prey — destined for the week’s stew-pot — was to be found.

But no, he had now turned aside from the land-bound life of a forester that his acknowledged talent with a bow had first drawn him towards. He had left behind his friends back in the village, Hammarsten the blacksmith and Elgiva the mead-maker's daughter, in whose house he knew he could have stayed for a while after Father left.

Sure, that would have been rather awkward to share a roof with the newlyweds, but he spent most of his time out in the forest anyways. It would have been yet more awkward still to be forced early into a man’s life alone without family or even his own home, but it would surely have only been a few years until he built his own.

Yet the fireside stories told by sailors and travelers, of far-off lands rich with treasure and nature’s bounty, had swayed him in the end. And perhaps their other tales — those of beguiling, exotic women most interested in hearty, well-proven sailors — had had their effect, too.

The roaring wind and encroaching waves all around him suddenly made the faces of the plain girls he’d grown up alongside seem perfectly fine!

Fits of moonlight peered down through the glowering clouds, glinting off of raised sea-swells to every side. Their vessel rolled on amidst ever-changing peaks, dashing down one side into a deep valley before riding up the steepening slope of the next wave.

He swallowed hard, fingers dancing where they huddled protectively against his chest. No matter how he tried, he could not get his digits to stop revealing the terror that bubbled within him.

A terror that somehow missed Uncle Lucas, seated next to him and leaning back against the mast. The Frisian’s eyes were closed, and for all the world he appeared as if sleeping. Yet he was clearly awake, for he muttered with an unnerving calm to Dovindr “Fear not, young man. God will not suffer we his children to die here today.”

“How do you know?” Dovindr mumbled back before thinking.

His accidental impiety passed by the foreigner with no more effect than the storm's fury achieved. Lucas simply nodded, as if to himself more than anyone else. “I have seen it,” was his complete non-answer.

Dovindr opened his mouth once more to form a proper objection, when he too ‘saw it.’ His eyes briefly locked onto something half-glimpsed over his uncle’s shoulder. Far ahead of the ship, something had danced amidst the waves pouring on before them.

Then, amidst a flash of god-sent lightning, he saw it again.

A breaking wave, far ahead of them.

Its crest breaking vertical, and then splashing back towards them in a rain of white droplets.

Against the wind.

The tiny spark of pride that he had been the first to spot the danger guttered out amidst a rising tide of horror, and Dovindr shouted with cold-fat lips “Breakers ahead! Rocks, or a reef, or something!”

Gods only knew what it could be, this far out at sea. There should be no islands here!

All chatter about them halted, and Father’s hand clasped hard against his shoulder. Pressed down, as the experienced captain stood up even with the deck bucking and rolling beneath his steady feet.

A few moments of anxious silence, and then a muttered curse half-stolen by the winds. “Aye, that it is. To the oars, and damn the ice-water! We pull to one side or another of those rocks, or Njord takes us all today!”

The men scrambled to the oar-loops, nerveless fingers scrabbling at the oars waiting besides their posts. It took Dovindr two tries to lever his own into its precious iron oarlock.

Then the sea had its own go, nearly yanking the heavy wooden pole from his spray-slick grasp the instant that wood met water.

But he wrestled it down. Jabbed the broad paddle-pole into the raging waters and waited. Only a moment later, and Father nodded to himself. Shouted a command, one stolen by the thieving wind.

Yet the men heard it all the same, every one of them waiting for the order. Strong backs leaned towards the bow, sinewy arms pulling the oar behind them in the same motion. Dovindr fought to keep time with the other men, having to push with his legs to match the full stroke.

A routine he had done many times before, though, — albeit under less alarming circumstances — pulling the knorr forwards against the seas. Feeling her surge forward in leaps as the men put their all into the rowing.

As the rearmost rower on the steer-board side of the ship, Dovindr could hear his father’s ceaseless chanting even above the driving wind. Prayers, mostly, with one hand on the steer-board and the other holding his hammer-necklace aloft before him.

And shaking, hopefully from the cold rather than fear.

“Thunderer, Friend of Mankind, watch over us. Trickster, wall-halter, persuade your watery comrade into forgetting whatever slight we may have dealt him! Wave-caller, god of merchants, forgive us who must have offended you!” Father’s soaked beard hung scraggly down into his furs, twisting aside as he glanced briefly over at Lucas. Then he inverted his hammer, lifting the now vaguely cross-shaped silver artifact slightly higher. “God of Israel and Father of Christ, see us safe to the lands of your followers!”

Lucas only continued his own quieter mutterings, doubtlessly echoing the same prayers. The last one, anyways.

With his back facing forwards, Dovindr could not see ahead of the ship as she fought to turn aside from her approaching doom. But he could see two sets of eyes widen, as another crash of lightning boomed directly overhead as if peering curiously down at the doomed ship.

At least one of those gods had heard them, evidently. It remained to see if he would help.

“The rocks approach! Hold on!” Father bellowed hoarsely.

“Hold and pray!” Lucas echoed, no less alarmed.

Dovindr tucked his oar into his chest, reaching aside to wrap one arm around the repaired stay-line which rose from the gunwale up to the mast. The ship struck not a moment later, the keel-board grinding hard across something. Yet somehow, not catching. Great fortune, then; perhaps a wave was carrying them over the rock that they had seen?

Then another wave slammed into them now from the side, hurling the groaning vessel onto her steer-board side. Father’s yell as the wooden handle under his experienced hand disappeared overboard was drowned out by an echoing crack as the mast split at its base.

The massive pole wider than Dovindr’s shoulders leapt up from the ship as if hurled by a giant’s sling… and yanked its stay-lines along behind it.

Anaoc’s knot worked as intended, and gave way before the rope did. But the thick fibers were still pulled beyond-taut, snapping away from the gunwale like a whip.

Tearing across his thick coat and slicing it open. As well as the flesh underneath.

Dovindr doubled over, his shout of pain lost amidst the tearing wind. One corner of his mind peered through the slashed furs and noted a rather shallow wound, but was quickly drowned out by the needle-finger pain nonetheless.

Not a moment later, and a louder bellow of agonized timbers came as the ship shuddered to a halt. A halt, held fast atop the rock even as the waves pounded at her side!

He gritted his teeth in a wry, rictus grin — at least he would have a wound, however mild, to show the valkyries and prove his bravery when death took him as it certainly must within only minutes! And if this life-and-death struggle didn’t count as a ‘battle,’ then he’d want no part of that fools’ afterlife!

That was when the light came.

A glow that illuminated water, spray, and dark cloud alike. Casting faces into shadow-lined masks of alarm.

A glow that came from below the ship, building stronger and stronger with each racing beat of Dovindr’s loud pulse.

“What in the Gods’ —!?” Father cried, louder even than the matching shouts from all others aboard.

Then everything went black.

[135 years before Loroi Reunification: -135 SYU]
[Taben, some distance north of the Amenalid archipelago]


The booming of cannon-fire fell silent at last, dense clouds of powder-smoke mixing with the cloying fog that surrounded her ship.

Leaving only the sound of waves lapping at two wooden hulls, sitting parallel now no more than a hand’s-throw distant from one another.

One rocked gently, her freshly-painted sides lined with marines cradling their cooling weapons. A final few wisps of smoke trailed from the two cannon perched in swivel-mounts atop her hull, their hard-eyed gunners swabbing out the well-used guns.

The other ship lurched lower and lower into the hungry seas with each passing solon. A growing circle of darker-blue surrounded her, as cobalt blood poured from the many rents in her hull to mix with the waters.

<Warlord, seven wounded crew-sisters have been taken below. The surgeons say that they are likely to recover. No deaths to report.> The ship’s master reported smartly and levelly, her sanzai calm even after the high of battle.

Nenarrir Besarbezi turned from surveying the wreckage before her, acknowledging her subordinate’s report with a brief bob of her head. And studiously ignoring the way that even that veteran officer visibly grimaced, bracing against the pained sanzai cries that drifted over from their stricken foe. And the charnel stench wafting across as well. <Understood. A good job all around, then. Most well-done.>

She returned to gazing upon the smaller craft that her own warship had utterly obliterated. And nodded in satisfaction. <A lesson that the Northern Barbarians will not soon forget, I dare say.> Her eyes lingered for a moment towards the stern of the shattered vessel, where a pile of bodies lay draped around and across the jagged ruin of its steering-tiller.

If one was inclined to be charitable, it was perhaps admirable in a way just how determinedly the enemy had kept that post manned through the one-sided fight, struggling to escape into the surrounding fog banks even as gunfire scythed down one pale-skinned pirate after another.

But Warlord Hornguard was not inclined to be ‘charitable.’

<A message which we will now teach to the other members of this raiding flotilla.> she added crisply, turning from the bloody wreckage to stride across the rolling deck towards the ship’s stairway. <Resume our course northwards, and have the lookouts report when they can sense the next fleeing raider craft. With any fortune, Captains Blazepool and Coalsand have yet left some more for us to catch.>

<Acknowledged, Warlord.> the veteran officer replied immediately. But there was a slight hitch of hesitation in her sanzai all the same.

Hornguard pressed in upon it pointedly without glancing back, and her subordinate explained herself <There... remain survivors aboard the Belerid ship, and they—>

<Not many survivors.> Hornguard noted idly, confirming with her own senses that only a few lives remained among her enemy, their ranks brutally sundered in the battle. Some lay within the wrecked raider vessel, while distant others clung to scraps of debris slowly drifting away from the battle. <And not for long.>

<Not unless we render aid to them, Warlord.> the officer noted with deliberate emphasis. Her spine stood as rigidly straight as one of the marines’ loading-rods, the warrior’s form crackling with tension.

Hornguard turned, regarding her subordinate coolly. <To pirates, Mallas? Your charity does you credit, old friend, but this is not the hour for it. Our surgeons are busy with our own wounded; let the Northerners feed the leviathans. The clouds thicken overhead and the waves grow ever higher; we may have only a day left before it becomes too dangerous to continue the pursuit in this weather. We will catch what we can in that time.>

With that, she descended down from the rain-slick upper deck.

Into the dimly-lit interior of her ship, hot air wafting up from the boiler-room below. Whose engineers hauled on the many handles and wheels that dotted their grimy compartment as they received the Mallas’s broad-sent command from above. Rendered leviathan oil surged into the boilers, pumping steam into the great pistons whose beams rocked to-and-fro overhead.

Blood-slicked water frothed underneath Wavestrider’s two paddle-wheels as the warship shoved her way forwards through the rolling waves once more.

In search of her next target.

///////

“By the Gods, what was that?”

Dovindr could not say just whose shocked voice had called out, as five weary men — and one woman — awoke together.

Alive, thank the Gods, and floating gently atop the waves. Albeit in a ship now devoid of her mast, and several of her oars.

But with a calm sky overhead… for the moment. However they had come to survive that grounding — and whatever it was that they had actually grounded on — it seems that their reprieve was perhaps to be only temporary.

For while the stars twinkled and glittered directly overhead, a foreboding darkness lurked off to one side. And upwind.

But just which direction was that, and more importantly, which direction was it to their destination?

Anaoc stood in the dim starlight, hands distractedly wringing out his forked beard as he craned his neck to stare upwards. “I… I cannot read the stars. They have changed, I would swear to it!”

“Swear all you want, just man the oars!” Father called, clambering over next to the older sailor. “We have no choice but to ride out the next storm with our stern to the wind-clouds; if it catches us from the side again we’re going over for sure!”

The older men set to the remaining oars, while Dovindr was shunted aside to do what he could to bail out the water that now sloshed around alarmingly down in the hold. While their brief grounding had somehow not sunk them — hadn’t even carried away any of the cargo, by his count! — it had definitely opened up a few of the seams between the ship’s overlapping planks.

Eadberht the carpenter would see to that; the raw muscle-work of scooping out water fell to Dovindr.

After what felt like an eternity of bailing, his bucket finally scraped against the wood below his feet and this time came up only partly-full. Pouring the water over the side, he found himself too exhausted to hurl the foaming brine with enough force to properly indicate how glad he was to have it on the outside of their vessel once more.

Pausing to catch his breath, he wiped one salt-encrusted hand across his brow and gazed up in wonder at the stars above him.

What stars were left, that was. The storm had indeed nearly caught up to them again, now blacking out half the sky. A first few wisps of brine-laced wind whipped around the heaving backs of the men pulling hard at their oars.

And off towards the distant horizon, lightning flashed.

Dovindr squinted.

No, not lightning. Not so close to the horizon.

There! Hazy lights flickered through the approaching wall of rain, definitely near sea-level. And they were too orange-red tinted for the normal blinding white flash of lightning.

What were the Gods playing at now?

“Father!” he called, pointing. “Lightning of some sort, I can only think, but it is down at sea rather than in the clouds!”

“Then let us hope it does not draw close to our patch of sea, here!” his father replied. But the veteran sailor did gesture for Lucas to take over the oar, who accepted without complaint. Crouch-walking across the rolling deck to Dovindr’s side, he shouted into his ear over the rising wind “Where did you say?”

Before Dovindr could answer, it struck again.

And this time, it backlit… something.

Sails?

But they were the wrong shape, triangles that looked far too neat to be normal ones torn diagonally in half. And two of them seemed to move as one atop the heaving waves, from what he could glean by the strobing illumination.

“There, I see it now.” Father followed his outstretched hand. “But Gods strike me down if I know what it is. Two ships, I can only guess, moving together like that.”

“Perhaps one ship?” Dovindr ventured. His eyes could not make out any hull beneath the intermittently-glimpsed sails, but that was the only explanation.

“With two sails? Even the King couldn’t fit two masts aboard his greatest longship — Njord only knows he’s tried! Can’t be done; not while keeping it possible to control, at least.”

Both men fell silent, as the surface-lightning flickered yet closer. And now with—

“Four sails, now?” Dovindr wondered, eyes aching from the strain of peering out into the flickering darkness. “On one ship?”

“No, definitely two.” Father corrected, his eyes far more used to the sea. “But two ships of two sails, each moving together. I don’t know whose ships those are, but they must be massive indeed.”

“Frisians?” Dovindr ventured. “We cannot have been blown too far along, even while each of us was out. We must still be along their coast, somewhere.”

“Not Frisians, certainly.” Father shook his head, waterlogged hair scattering droplets across Dovindr’s cheek. “If those motherless thieves had the craft to make ships like that, they wouldn’t be Frisians.”

And perhaps more to the point, the one Frisian whose company Father had ever — mostly — tolerated would surely have mentioned such legendary king-vessels. Uncle Lucas was no seaman himself, sure, but he’d traveled enough to know them somewhat. “Then whose?”

Another red-orange flash, this time seeming to come as if from the base of the farther pair of sails. How the cloth did not catch fire, neither man could say. The approaching rain seemed heavy, yes, but lightning cared little for such soaking.

But nor could they say why the nearer set of masts suddenly split apart, each tilting madly aside just as the distant thunderclap reached Harbor-glory.

Dovindr shrugged. “Whoever they are, they look to be having as rough a time as we in this storm.” He jerked his head backwards, towards where the jagged stump of their own mast-base stared mournfully upwards.

Father clapped him on the shoulder, before hurrying back to his minding the craft “Aye, and if a ship large enough for two sails is getting rolled hard enough to throw her masts like that, then we are really in for it this time!”

Only moments later, the first early blast of wind hit them.

Without their own sail — or even the forlorn mast by itself — aloft, the low hull of the knorr barely caught the wind. And so the waves rolled quickly past them from astern, Father carefully directing the remaining oarsmen to keep the wind at Harbor-glory's back rather than her beam.

All while Dovindr returned to bailing, even as the muscles in his arms screamed in weary protest. His earlier unconsciousness, however long it had lasted, had been his only reprieve from constant work for what must have been over a day now! That ‘rest’ certainly hadn’t been long enough.

The good part was that his bailing left him enough agility to glance back at the thickening storm, each time his protesting muscles heaved another bucket-full of water over the side.

The bad part was that his bailing left him enough agility to glance back at the thickening storm.

It was not a promising sight.

The stars had hidden their faces long ago, and only intermittent flashes of lightning granted any illumination. Both ‘normal’ lightning and yet more of the strange sea-lightning. The former from above and to all sides while the latter only seemed to come from one direction, still astern.

But at least the accompanying thunder grew quieter over time, by his estimation. Maybe whatever angry god was causing it was now leaving the area, having sated his fury on whatever two-sail craft had been presumptuous enough to first draw his ire?

As if hearing Dovindr’s thoughts, another crackle of — normal — lightning roared across the sky directly overhead, thunder loud enough that it slammed his weary and sore feet into the thin layer of water sloshing around his ankles.

Thor must be really working his chariot tonight, evidently! Or had that just been one of the wheels coming loose?

Yet the flash had also illuminated— “There! Something in the water!” His heart skipped a beat, until his eye also identified the lack of breaking-waves against the thing. “Floating wreckage, I think!”

Nobody responded to his cry.

Still holding his bucket clasped to his chest, Dovindr crouched along the bucking deck to hammer one numb fist against his father’s back. And shout into his ear “Wreckage close behind us! The waves are carrying it closer!”

He nudged Father to stand up, taking the oar and adding “Go look, see if we need to maneuver aside as it bears down on us!”

A few seconds — an eternity — of hard rowing later and another crackling-rumble of lightning, and Father returned to cup his hands against Dovindr’s spray-soaked ear in turn. “It’s wreckage all right, and there’s someone on it! Leave the oar, help me pull him aboard!”

The two men made it to the stern, where the steering-board once had been. Not a moment later, and wood thumped against wood: a jagged near-square of what must be shattered hull-boards jostled up against the curved rear of their own ship.

And indeed a man lay spread-eagled upon it, face-down and unmoving, hammered by the driving rain. His boots caught each passing wave, and it was surely only through the scant mercy of Njord that the sea hadn’t already pulled him down into its hungry embrace.

As the two ‘craft’ ground against each other, Dovindr and Father both reached far out over the side. The uppermost plank of their own hull dug into his belly, but Dovindr let out his breath to reach further.

And grasped hold of the survivor, levering him aboard with the aid of a cresting wave.

Tossing the limp figure behind them, they used one oar to push the flotsam away. Eventually it drifted aside, disappearing into the splotchy mist.

“Now, who’s this fellow?” Father asked, heavy voice thin against the pounding storm. “No matter. See if he still draws breath, while I keep our stern to the waves!”

Pushing aside a thick-furred coat of some sort, Dovindr felt along the seaman’s neck for a pulse. He… thought he sensed a slow under his near-numb fingers, although it was hard to say for sure. Dovindr’s own nerves were far too numb to feel any faint breaths from the man’s purple-cold lips, and what skin he could see already seemed blue enough that removing that cover would surely doom him to a death by cold!

He also seemed to be completely limp. Almost at the point of cold-death, no doubt. But maybe not dead just yet, for all that he had not stirred at all as Dovindr felt along him.

Dovindr rubbed the stranger’s arms and chest, as much to heat himself by the motions as to work some warmth back into this fellow victim of the storm. Feeling the heavy, waterlogged furs shift and move under his hands, lumpy and—

Ah. Dovindr’s face heated as his half-numb hands confirmed what he’d found. Feeling her heavy furs shift and move across her chest, judging by the mounds he felt underneath there. Hopefully he was then working some sort of life-giving heat into her near-frozen self.

Well. At least he felt warm now.

“Look, there!” one of the other sailors called. Anaoc’s voice, if he could tell over the sound of crashing waves. “Another vast ship, it must be!”

Dovindr followed the man’s pointing arm — oar momentarily forgotten — to a shape looming closer through the darkness. Hunched at its middle, visible only as a slightly darker patch against the background of the storm that lurched ever nearer.

A very large darker patch.

Disappearing and appearing intermittently, as waves towered and disappeared between them.

///////

Warlord Hornguard scowled, doing her level best to hold the far-glass steady as the deck heaved and rocked under her.

A feat which was not quite within the abilities of even her many decades of nautical experience.

<Warlord, we must cut our speed! The engineers report that the waves are disrupting the engines, we’ll break them if we push on much longer!> The ship’s master sent from below, barely sticking her head out of the shelter of the deckhouse which covered the single companionway. In a softer sending clearly not meant to be overheard, she added to herself <We’re not going to hit anything with gunfire in a storm like this, anyways.>

Hornguard chose to let her old friend’s grumbling slide. But neither did she leave her self-chosen post out above the deck just yet, the only one of Wavestrider’s complement not currently huddling below out of the wind and rain. She needed those engines still humming, to keep her eyes on this target before it slipped away into the sheets of driving rain.

One foot tapped irritably against the narrow wooden ‘bridge’ that stretched between the two massive wheel-covers which flanked the vessel amidships. It offered the best views around the craft as she powered on through the heaving waves… but also the least protection from the weather.

Another flash of crackling lightning, another glimpse of her target.

Her maybe-target.

Finally making her decision, Hornguard collapsed the far-glass and stowed it in its coat pocket. Nodding more to herself than to anyone else, she sent <Very well. It seems that the reported craft out there is naught but more wreckage — no mast, cut down to the waterline, and with but a single life aboard. Some half-pulverized rowboat shot off of one of the Barbarians’ ships, no doubt. It will not make the return journey to their northern lair, not in this storm.>

Hopping over the rail, she dropped the three mannal to the deck below just as Wavestrider bottomed out in the trough of a great wave. Boots rang crisply against rain-slick wood, her timing such that she could calmly stride over to the deckhouse before the ship lurched into her next periodic roll. <Return the marines and gunners to their quarters. They will not be needed for some time, if I am not mistaken.>

A sending which would no doubt be most appreciated by the nervous armswomen who waited in the enclosed deck that the stairway led her out into. Cradling their rifles in their hands, stamping their feet to keep warm against the occasional storm-tossed spray of moisture that found its way down the stairway.

<At once, Warlord!> her Mallas sent with obvious relief. Then turned away, barking <Halt both engines! Prepare to raise the wheels, and—!>

The deck lurched once more, this time hard enough that even Hornguard was hurled bodily against the wooden wall to her side.

All air was forced from her lungs in one harsh-wet cough, the sound lost amidst a great crackling and crunching of wood. Heavy thumps and bangs echoed through the ship… and then an accelerating whirring, deep and ominous.

<We’ve lost the port-side wheel!> broadcast a voice from below, frantic and terror-lined. <Engine’s racing — open the vents, now!>

Steam shrieked loudly, as another engineer dove onto the pull-tab for the emergency release.

The pair of lanterns which dangled from the ceiling above Hornguard danced madly, Wavestrider lurching to one side as she lost half of her propulsion. The stricken ship heeled hard over at the sudden and unbalancing loss of weight. Water gurgled eagerly in as it poured through vent-holes that now dipped into the hungry sea.

<All non-engine crew move to port! Bring us level!> ordered the veteran Mallas. <Riflewomen, to the dewatering pumps!>

Hornguard grimaced, shoving herself off of the wall even as she drew steam-moist air into her lungs. It seemed that their — her — hunt of the fleeing Northerners must halt, at least for now. Even with the rudder hard over, a single paddle-wheel would not move the craft at any meaningful speed. Not enough for a continued pursuit.

No, she would have to gather the rest of the squadron and limp back south for repairs.

Yet the Northerners would be made to know just what they had unleashed, by their duplicity against her and hers! Their raids against the island — against all of the islands — would never come again; she would make sure of it.

By hunting them down to their source, if need be.

///////

With a gasping, pained cough, Notel Ridi Rozelsarad awoke.

Archbrook’s skull pounded, and one eye refused to open just yet. She rubbed at it, scratching aside caked-on blood. Tracing the crusted path up to her forehead, and the most tender wound that pulsed angrily there.

The same blow that must have been the one which knocked her unconscious, when the Southerner’s first great gunfire had slammed into her mother’s ship. Gunfire unlike any she had ever heard of, louder and deeper than any musket she knew of.

A mercy, that blow had been.

It meant that she had only seen a momentary glimpse of her mother disintegrating in a wet cloud of blue as something exploded right at her feet, before Archbrook’s own vision went dark.

Swallowing hard against the awful memory, she levered herself upright. Blinking against both the pain in one eye and the surrounding darkness.

She was alone.

No other life-signs were nearby, none aside from a few distant sea-creatures well below. But well-below; she was still on the surface, against all odds still alive. And… seated on a large rowboat?

Yet somehow, lifeless shadows moved around her. Hulking loroi shapes pulled at oars, angled absurdly shallow into water that could not be far below.

She shuffled backwards, away from these mindless creatures. And promptly fell off of a ledge down into the center of the small boat. Her hands splashed into water, a quarter of the way up to her elbows.

Noises, some sort of grunting and howling.

Wait… laughter?

A thumping blow to her back, and she turned to see another shadow-creature looming at her shoulder. Pressing a bucket into her hands, pointing at the water pooling around her numb legs.

Oh, for—! This was as bad as with Mother’s crew!

She angrily yanked the bucket out of the shadow’s grip, even as her heart twinged at the suddenly-painful memory.

But she fought it down thanks to a cresting wave of anger. She was a Named warrior of the clan, she had earned both of the leviathan-teeth that hung from her necklace, and this year was to be her seventeenth Truce! Sure, not as much as the warriors that Mother normally allowed onto her own craft when venturing south, each one veterans with more than twenty-five years… but she was still an Apprentice; not a child, to be given such basic work!

...then again, by the height of water around her elbows and the lack of hull-height to one side, perhaps she really should set to bailing all the same.

The sporadic bursts of lightning that cracked overhead — fewer and fewer, as the storm's spent wrath slowly faded — did nothing to explain where she actually was. Or just what these shadow-creatures were, even with what dim starlight eventually shone down through the thinning clouds.

But at least they seemed to have… rescued her?

All that she could verify for now was that she was aboard some sort of boat. Absurdly small for how far they were from Beleri — or any of the cursed Amenalid isles, for that matter — but at least it was floating atop the water.

For now.

...She bailed harder.

Her head throbbed, and eventually no matter how much she blinked or shook her head to clear her sight there were certainly four of her own arms before her, reaching down with a pair of buckets time after time. The curved wooden hull beneath her wobbled unsteadily, and she only barely managed to keep her footing.

Concussion — great.

Another tap at her shoulder, more grunting-sounds. No actual sending, though.

But the bucket was pulled from her hands, and a strong arm wrapped around her.

<Hey! I can move by myself!> Well, probably, anyways.

But despite her protests, she was lifted bodily out of the water and placed atop a large wooden box. It was hard against the leather of her pants, but at least it was dry.

Well, marginally less wet than the deck of this strange boat. Actually, if this craft was as small as it seemed, was that the outer hull down there, directly?

What sort of lunatics were these shadows, to be out at sea in a rowboat?

Either way, they were rude shadows. She could still work, didn’t have to just sit here! And they could at least send to her, not point and grunt like snuffling miros!

For one thing, as long as she kept pushing her groaning muscles to keep moving, it kept her mind too exhausted to linger on the memories now seared into her.

Why had that shredded Southerner attacked, the one whose ship rolled wheels against the waves? Everyone knew that the Amenalids were fat, lazy, and rich, yes… but bloodthirsty? Yet they had fired on Windshriek, even as Mother was talking to them with her most-polite sanzai! Fired first without answering her hail, murdering warrior and ship alike with those horrible big guns.

The grief-wrapped memory of a wet splash of blue flickered past her eyes once more, and Archbrook curled her hands into fists. Hammered them against her thighs, doubling over to shield her head from the weak rain. A rain just barely enough to absorb her tears, hide them from vision.

Hopefully the shadows couldn’t receive the sorrow that drowned her mind, black as the deepest of depths.

Black as the unconscious darkness which took her again, the wood of her seat thumping against her as she slumped over.

Interesting, a mix of Vikings and Tabenese northern barbarians VS the advanced southerners.

That's it in a nutshell, yes. Taben is interesting as per the Sister Worlds article it seems like the pre-Unification loroi on Taben were the least 'warlike' of the three worlds, since they spent enough energy 'fighting the oceans.' Which is interesting, since you'd think that Perrein would be even *more* inhospitable to a pre-modern civilization.

Either way, I've decided to play with several different societies here on Taben that span the spectrum from 'merchants who are willing to draw swords when forced to' all the way to 'House of Hohenzollern lording over the rest of the German states.' Add one warlord with an Ahab complex and things get fun quickly!

“So, who’s she?” Anaoc asked nobody in particular, as the mid-morning sun beat down onto the gently-rocking knorr.

Dovindr shrugged, too exhausted even the day after the storm to bother lifting himself off of the slowly-drying planks. “Someone with even worse luck than we, ‘s all I would venture.”

Of the weary survivors of yesterday, only Lucas stood upright rather than lounging tiredly and absorbing what sunlight he could. The Christian stood at the side of the great wooden chest atop which they had set the strange woman, with what furs they could spare — and wring dry — cushioning her against the hard wood.

Lucas hadn’t stopped rubbing at his chin for quite some time, clearly deep in thought. Eventually, he mused aloud “I think that I might know.”

“Oh?” Father called, from where he sat carefully measuring out the day’s food from their stores. “Does your Bible have much to say on the topic of blue women from the sea, now?” He snorted, shaking his head wryly. “It’s elf-work, clear as can see.”

“No such Paganisms need apply.” Lucas said again with a wave of his hand, his voice more confident this time. “This is a matter for worldly knowledge, nothing more than that.”

“Ah.” Father’s eyes twinkled. “So do your other books then say anything about—?”

“She is a Pict.” the once-mercenary declared.

“A what?” muttered Eadberht, the half-awake sailor still visibly exhausted from his hours of rowing last night, until the seas had finally spent their rage.

“A Pict.” Lucas said again. “Blue-painted pagans from the northern parts of the island of the Britons. They warred with the Romans long ago, it is recorded.”

“That’s a lot of blue paint, then. Faded to pale or no, she’s covered in the stuff.” Father noted, walking along to where the other men crowded around their ‘Pict’. “Meal’s ready, by the way.” After handing out the dried meats, he turned to his law-brother. “Blue paint isn’t cheap, certainly not enough to throw around like this.” One thick finger extended to pull the deeply-sleeping Pict’s hood back to expose her forehead. “Why, even under the hair here, deep under. That’s—“ he paused, leaning in. “Do these ‘Picts’ bleed blue as well?”

What? Dovindr’s mind voted to stand up and get his own closer look. A vote that his exhausted body promptly overrode. But he did open a second eyelid just a crack, his head pulling away from the gently-rocking board to watch better.

“I… it was not recorded, but I would not think so. They were men, albeit pagans.” Lucas leaned in next to the old merchant.

“Yet that is not paint, there. A blow to the head, and a heavy one by my judgment.”

“Very strange, indeed. Should we rouse her?”

Before Father could say anything, Dovindr quickly spoke first “I say we let her rest. Woman or not, she bailed as hard as anyone last night. Even until her arms couldn’t lift the bucket.” And woman or not, he’d been very grateful for the help.

“Aye lad, you have the right of it.” Father said, nodding. Then leaned in towards Lucas and muttered in what he clearly thought was too quiet a voice for Dovindr to overhear “Although by her size and slimness, a girl rather than a woman. No more than Dovindr’s own age, I would say.”

“A woman, then.” Dovindr insisted pointedly, raising his voice slightly.

Both other men at least had the decency to glance away from him.

“Well, we’ve one aboard already.” Anaoc said, his head resting against the only coil of spare rope left aboard. With his eyes still closed against the warming sunlight, he gestured in the general direction of where Frida slumbered as well, herself and the babe buried underneath all of the other furs available to the group. “Wasn’t bad luck then, won’t be worse now.”

The other men only glanced to him… and then turned as one to pointedly eye the jagged stump of their destroyed mast. Some ‘luck.’

But at least they were alive.

“Well.” Father spoke after a moment, “The horizon is clear, now, and we’ve the morning sun at our backs once more. We can rig a small-sail with what spare cloth we have and use two oars to hoist it. We won’t make good speed, but we brought food enough for a journey far longer than simply through the Channel, even with another mouth aboard.”

“Or,” Lucas emphasized, “we finally take heed of our senses and turn south to make for the coast. We find a harbor there, and trade for what we need for proper repairs.” He eyed his law-brother, and a thin smile flickered around his narrow features. “We surely must be beyond the lands of the hated Frisians by now, after all,” said the Frisia-born Christian.

Well, with the two of them going at it again, it wasn’t like Dovindr was going back to sleep any time soon. And it was approaching mid-day, by the way the sun stood overhead. Finally succeeding at forcing life into his aching — but at least partly recovered — muscles, he stood. Stretched, leaning against the crate which supported the Pict as he rubbed at his empty-feeling legs.

“To lands where all are strangers to us, when we carry with us all we own and with only a handful of able-bodied men to defend it!?” Father asked incredulously. He then pointed above the sleeping Pict, towards the south. “And besides, have you seen even a single shore-bird since the storm? Or so much as a smudge of coast on the horizon?” He shook his head. “No, we have been blown off-course. Gods only know how far north we must have been hurled, that no bird can be spotted overhead! It could be many days’ journey to the south at whatever slight speed we may manage, but with the wind coming as hard as it has been from the east we must surely be close to the western island by now. Its northern reaches or the islands there, to my guess.”

“Which are also lands foreign to us.” Lucas pointed out, only his mild voice softening the sting of the accusation. “Or do you have contacts for trade among the Britons, ones that you would trust with these ‘treasures’ you bring with you?” One boot nudged the nearest box, and it jostled slightly.

The Pict snored, stirring slightly. Dovindr glanced over at her, but she only rolled her strange-blue face away from him. Still deeply asleep, understandable for a woman who had worked as hard as she had last night. He snorted quietly even as he bent over to check if his boots had dried enough to be worth putting back on.

His searching hand came away wet, and so his feet remained bare against the stern-planking. Still wasn’t enough to bring down his mood this morning. They were alive, after all! All of them, from little Halfdan all the way to their hard-bailing rescuee.

He chuckled quietly to himself. Come to think of it, the pictish woman reminded him rather a bit of Elgiva from back home. The mead-maker's daughter, she who had been Dovindr’s and Hammarsten’s close friend since their shared childhood.

She who had finally chosen Hammarsten over Dovindr, in the friendly competition of several years that had started once both young men started to truly realize the ways in which their friend Elgiva differed from the two of them. Yet still they had remained his best friends throughout. The only two people who had come down to the shore, standing on the dock as Harbor-Glory had cast off for one final time, waving goodbye until they were out of sight.

A pity that this Pict would never meet Elgiva; by her insistent labor-until-exhaustion the night before it seemed that they were two of a kind indeed.

“I do not have any such contacts among the northern-most inhabitants of the Western Island yet, no.” Father admitted, drawing Dovindr’s attention back. Then a smile broke out onto Father’s ruddy face, and he waved one hand over towards their sleeping rescuee. “But I will soon! You say that these Picts fought the Romans long ago, and I believe you. So they must then be an established people, mighty enough to hold against a kingdom powerful enough to write their deeds so strongly as to be known today. And this one here is covered in enough of the paint which you say they favor that her actual skin cannot be seen; that can only mean that she comes from a family of no small wealth! A family which no doubt misses their daughter, thought lost at sea.”

Anaoc grunted “Unless the family went down in that doomed two-sail ship you saw in the night, and she the only survivor.”

Father’s face fell, but after a moment he shrugged. “Then we seek out any relatives who remain and who know her fondly.” One finger jabbed skywards again. “The point is, people to whom we have returned a child like this cannot help but be grateful to us, enough to perhaps help a passing trader!”

“Thus saving you the cost of a mast.” Lucas noted drily.

Dovindr turned to laugh into his shirt’s muffling collar. Only Father would have so immediately seized onto a course of action that should see him inveigling his way into the friendly graces of people he’d never even met, based entirely on a chance rescue far out at sea.

“Mast and sail, I can dare hope!” Father emphasized, his grin broadening further.

“Well,” Lucas shrugged, “it is at least a plan, and—”

The Pict coughed, turning over in her ‘bed.’ Dovindr reached over, laying one hand across her to prevent the sleeping woman from falling off of the wooden box. It wouldn’t do to have Father’s prize crash her small nose against the hull planks, after all!

Two eyes blinked open, red-orange irises turning to meet his own blue. Then, without saying a word, she batted his arm aside and snapped upright.

And immediately toppled off the side, as he had predicted. Only his hand quickly grasping hers kept the obstinate Pict from falling entirely.

“Bit of a fighter, isn’t she!” laughed Father, even as the gir— woman pulled her hand from Dovindr’s and hopped down onto the planking. Dovindr eyed her warily, but while she swayed slightly she didn’t topple over this time.

“That is often said about her people, yes.” Lucas nodded knowingly, even as a smile peeked out from his mustache.

For her part, the Pict quickly glanced between the men watching her. Those strange red-orange eyes widened slightly, and she took a step back. Bumping into Frida’s slumbering form, and nearly losing her balance yet again.

“Not much of a sailor, though.” chuckled Eadberht while the Pict whirled her arms to avoid toppling over. “No sea legs.”

Dovindr grinned to himself, thankful that at least the men now had someone else to focus on as the least-experienced seafarer. It had been some time since he had been as unsteady as this Pict at sea, yes, but he well remembered the laughing barbs of the other men.

“That head wound of hers, more likely.” Lucas said, turning to his law-brother and pulling one of the meat-strips from his thick fist. Then extended it to the Pict, palm-up and open. “Good food will help to heal that all the sooner.” A brief frown. “Blue blood or no, I should think.”

Their rescuee’s stare flickered between Lucas’s calm face and his proffered food, clearly suspicious. But eventually one small blue hand darted out to take the dried strip, which quickly disappeared in a flashing of bright-white teeth. And—

“Blue tongue, too.” Lucas grunted, clearly thoughtful. “Very... thorough, these Picts.”

Dovindr worked his own tongue against the inside of his teeth, trying to imagine how it would feel to have to dye the inside of his mouth. That surely must itch, or at least bring an unpleasant wax-feeling. These Picts must be a dedicated but strange people.

“Very hungry, I’d say.” Father glanced down at his own measured two strips of dried-and-salted breakfast, and after only a short moment held out one as well. “Gods know I’m not surprised, after what she must have been through.”

“Aye, you and me both.” Lucas agreed, apparently letting the minor paganism slide.

Still, the woman had not spoken so much as a single word since she came aboard. She seemed healthy enough, despite her dried head-wound, but… “I, ah, don’t suppose your books taught you to speak Pictish?” Dovindr asked his uncle, after the second strip of dried pork went down to chase the first.

“Now that you mention it, no.” Lucas frowned. “But if the Picts were known to fight the Romans, then perhaps...” he cleared his throat. “[Quis es? Et… unde venistis?]”

“Latin?” Father guessed.

“In the hope that maybe she knows the language of her ancient enemies.” Lucas confirmed.

All eyes turned to him, and after a moment the Christian added with some defensiveness “It’s not impossible, I mean.”

“Oh, sure.” Anaoc said, grinning, while silent Eadberht only shook his head with a thin smile. “Everybody studies ancient languages just because their God refuses to speak anything modern.”

“A very good point; I will try Greek too, then!” Surely Lucas had to be running with the joke, now. “Maybe Arama—?”

The Pict shook her head rapidly. Disagreeing, or simply confused?

“Perhaps not, then.” Lucas said, his grin fading.

“My turn.” Father pushed past his law-brother. Not bothering to speak, he slowly pointed to the Pict and then closed his eyes, pointing to the sea beyond. Put his hands together next to his head, laying it atop them and mimicking the rise-and-fall of a castaway adrift on a chunk of flotsam.

Then straightened up, pointing to her again and then straight ahead of the ship. Then off to one side, then astern, and finally the other side. “First thing is to see if she’s actually from the Western Isle. The sun’s still low enough to the south that she can surely tell her directions at midday.”

The Pict only regarded him quietly, her brows furrowed.

But made no effort to answer. Choosing not to answer, or simply confused? Dovindr wasn’t quite sure himself if he could have gleaned Father’s meaning from his gestures, without the words.

“I think,” Dovindr ventured, “that maybe we should start with names? Something simple, before we try mime-games.” While Father chuckled, Dovindr pointed to himself and enunciated carefully “Dovindr.” Then “’Gorm,’ ‘Lucas,’ ‘Anaoc,’ ‘Eadberht,’ and finally ‘Frida’ and little ‘Halfdan.’”

Still no answer.

“Not much of a talker, it looks like.” grumbled Father.

///////

Archbrook watched the Shadows grunt to each other. It was… most strange. They were there, and yet also not there. She could see them and hear them — could feel them, when the small one had put an arm over her — but she could not sense them.

They were dead. No life lived within those sanzai-invisible bodies.

And yet they moved.

...How!?

She wracked her mind for some sort of hint, some shred of a mention in one of Grandfather's many stories of ancient lore.

It... was said that the ancient Ancestors could summon ‘ghosts,’ which wore the faces of real people and sounded like them, but were not actually them. Nobody ever since had since managed such a feat, no matter the claims of deceptive Amenalid ruin-divers as they tried to sell their recovered artifacts to unwise travelers. Perhaps these were something similar?

But at least the food that the Shadows had given her was real, no matter how strange it had tasted. Its reassuring weight in her gut giving her the courage to stand here amidst the attentions of creatures that should not be.

Eventually the small one pointed to itself and then each of them in turn. Grunted some more, and whistled too.

Then repeated. A simple pattern, short and understandable for all its strangeness.

She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

...Spoken-names?

Then these were living people, as strange as they seemed. One thing that the old stories agreed upon was that Melor left their spoken-names behind as well as their life-sparks when they were pulled back from the embrace of death.

After some hesitation, she pointed to herself. Hesitated again, and then enunciated carefully “Notel Ridi Rozelsarad.” Making sure to emphasize her clan name; none who knew of Clan Whirlpool would doubt that her title of ‘Apprentice’ still put her at the level of a lesser clan’s senior warriors!

Then again, would these Shadows even know of Clan Whirlpool? Hers was the foremost clan of the Great Island… but did such fame extend to wherever these strange people hailed from?

At least they weren’t Amenalids. What skin she could see, as deathly-pale as it was, wasn’t the darker complexion of someone raised near the equator. Yet she had most certainly never heard of any such people as they anywhere on Beleri.

They looked to each other once more, and grunted — no, ‘spoke,’ no matter how meaningless their sounds were rather than actual language — again. Giving her a good look at their faces in profile.

Their male faces, she was now certain. Most of them with strange hairy growths framing their mouths, only adding to their strangeness. They were too tall and broad for normal males, except for the one, but there could be little doubt. Which only made the situation all the stranger, a rowboat full of males this far from—

Furs rustled, and another face blinked up from where it — she — lay near the center of the boat. Nestled against what appeared to be the ruins of a small mast.

That was two questions answered, then. These strange people had not rowed themselves out this far from shore, but had surely been hurled far by the storms of the last few days strong enough to shatter their boat’s sail-mast. And their leader, the only warrior visible, was clearly only now waking from an exhaustion no-doubt brought on by fighting the hardest against the attacking weather.

Archbrook nodded to herself. It was all beginning to make more sense, now.

///////

“That makes no sense.” Frida’s voice floated over from the rear of the ship, to where Dovindr sat near the former mast. Turning several small bolts of unused cloth — and what spare light-clothing the small crew of Harbor-Glory were not already wearing underneath their sea-coats — into a new sail was tricky work, and his fingers already bore a few red dots where he hadn’t quite judged the needle correctly. But still, a patchwork sail was forming… slowly.

Frida continued “Can we not turn south, and make repairs in harbor?”

“I have made that argument already.” Lucas said wearily. “Your brother insists that we make for the isle of the Britons… and of the Picts.”

“Because that is our best option!” Father called, from his usual post by the ersatz steering-board. “We bypass all those untrustworthy peoples of the continent, and deliver our rescuee to her thankful — and appreciative! — family with the greatest of haste.”

Dovindr snorted under his breath, finally trying off the thread and settling back for a brief break. Father’s talent for spotting opportunities to build his own wealth yet further had earned the man more than a few choice nicknames back home... but it had also made him rich enough that few dared voice those anywhere that he would hear. At least, not until they banded together to insist that the ‘Christian’s brother’ leave the village along with his sister and law-brother. An exile in all but name, using their sudden 'distrust' of the foreign religion to hide the naked envy that so-obviously was the real motive.

Still, here it seemed that Father had formed a plan to make himself again a man with connections now within Pictish society, even before setting foot on their lands! Or before speaking so much as a single understood sentence with the one Pict they had actually met, for that matter.

“Yes, this Pictish girl. ‘Notel,’ you said her name was.” Frida noted, voice hard to read. A rustling sound, presumably her shifting in the protective pile of furs heaped around her and Halfdan. “Lucas dear, did you not say that her people were known to paint the bodies of their warriors, not their women?”

Across from Dovindr, Anaoc leaned back from his own needle-work with a tired sigh. Nodding to Dovindr, he rested on his arms and slowly looked over the patchwork sail.

The sail that was now finally finished. It stretched between two oars that would hold it up, once they were lifted upright. His short rest over, Dovindr grasped the lines attached to the wooden poles supporting their makeshift sail and pulled them back. The bases of the oar-masts were already lashed to the oarlocks with room to rotate, which left only the stay-lines to go. Without a proper mast, they’d have to tie the top of this new assembly off both forward and aft of the sail, to keep it balanced and aloft.

With a grunt, he pulled the line taut, wrapping it around one arm to free his hand just enough to tie off the knot. If only the thin rope, not intended for this purpose, would stop sliding through his fingers and actually tie onto the cleat properly…

“Well, she’s certainly no simple house-woman.” Lucas chuckled from back nearer the stern. “Look there.”

The line slipped free for an infuriating third time, and Dovindr’s free hand lunged after it.

Only for a thin blue arm to dart past him, grasping the evasive line and yanking it back to the cleat.

Dovindr turned in time to see the Pict suddenly appear at his shoulder, tying off the line with motions far too quick to be the product of anything but long experience.

He slowly let off the tension, confirming with some surprise that her knot did indeed hold against the strain. Even gave it a few experimental tugs, to be sure.

Her tie-off did not give, but he did earn what was clearly a reproachful glare from the woman.

“Uh, good work.” He flashed her a sheepish smile.

“[Dishra.]” she said simply, as if the foreign word meant anything to him.

But she walked with him across the gently-rolling hull to the other side, helping Eadberht tie off the other three points. What soft winds there were today — as if Njord were apologizing for yesterday’s storm, like a drunkard husband to his wife after a bender — barely shifted the sail, but at least Harbor-Glory did noticeably move forwards over the water.

With what work could be done with the supplies on hand now finished, Dovindr took a seat atop one of the pelt-piles at the center of the ship. It was dry, and softer than the wooden boxes or earthenware containers that held the rest of the family’s possessions.

This ‘Notel’ took her own place on one of said boxes, her eyes flicking between the other people aboard. Lingering for a moment over Dovindr’s shoulder. He turned to see Father looking back from where he sat at the stern, one of the few remaining oars held in both hands to steer the ship.

Blue fingers tapped against one leather-clothed thigh. “[Lozener beso, deseir basen tobei?]” A question, by the inflection, but it wasn’t like any of them had magically learned Pictish since noon. A time that had passed much faster than felt right, come to think of it. Dovindr squinted his eyes, looking up to where the sun angled towards the western horizon. And he wasn’t looking too far up, now; the day had really raced past.

Even without an answer, the Pict nodded as if to a response only she could hear.

///////

Not the slightest hint of understanding. They really didn’t speak Trade at all, she was now most certain.

She’d honestly never heard of a people, no matter how isolated even in the most-remote of northern iced-over inlets, who did not have someone who could speak aloud. Spoken language was simply too important for communications between distrusted strangers to not have someone trained in it.

Especially since these beyond-pale foreigners here had kept their minds utterly hidden from her, not even trying to send to her at all. Only intermittent attempts with their own unknown vocal speech.

And, oddly, they really did speak aloud to each other as well. Were they working so hard to shield their minds that they could not send even amongst themselves? But why? She had announced herself as being of Clan Whirlpool, yes, so perhaps the males were simply afraid of her. That much was simple wisdom, a good precaution. Yet if they were from a clan so remote that they did not even speak Trade, then surely they could not have heard of the martial exploits of her own people?

Besides which, she genuinely wasn’t a threat to them. A boat crewed almost entirely by males with only one actual warrior, and her apparently so hyper-focused on a single infant that she let the males do all the work?

Even if they had been enemies of her people, it would have been downright embarrassing for any warrior to ‘boast’ that she had seized a vessel from such a defenseless group.

But as Mother had always put it, <Any vessel with a Whirlpool standing upon it belongs to that warrior. Belongs to her, yes… and is her responsibility.>

Which meant that this tiny craft with its backwards ‘crew’ was now hers to see safely to shore.

A tightness gripped at her throat at the memories of her slain mother’s sendings. Firm-but-gentle sanzai which she would never receive again.

Her fingers danced against her leg even faster, muscles itching for something to do. If only to take her mind off of unbidden memories.

She hadn’t had much opportunity to look over the maps even aboard Mother’s own ship, the papers hand-copied from recovered Ancient artifacts providing an unmatched guide to the seas and lands of the World. And, even more usefully, the prevailing wind patterns to be found at this time of year.

Junior warrior or not, Archbrook had worked hard to understand what she could of those arcane markings. And so she was mostly certain that the storm of the last few days — which had coincided with the awful attack of that murderous Amenalid — had blown them well to the west and perhaps a bit south. Which meant that from where this strange boat was now, it should be north-west to the Village.

A journey which she must see made.

That Amenalid craft which had hunted them down, with her sails furled yet somehow moving faster than Mother’s swift vessel, had been single-minded. Archbrook had had no idea what had instilled such fury and unheard-of bloodthirst into a crew of soft Amenalids of all people, but the rest of the Clan must be warned.

This last raid of the year, timed to return just before Truce for the annual fish-harvest, had been an utter disaster. It would not be surprising if Archbrook was the only warrior to return at all, assuming that Windshriek had not just had the terrible misfortune to be the only Whirlpool warship thus attacked. But that only made it all the more important for her to warn the rest of the Clan in time for next year’s forays south: that they should perhaps seek out one of the other islands of wealthy, fat Southerners. One whose fishing-ships would hand over their catches — and whose slow merchant-craft would give up the traditional tithe of their goods — with the customary minimum of resistance.

Not blast apart the smaller Belerid raiding-vessels in a burst of senseless violence that aided nobody!

She shivered at the memory, of a thunder-clap of force which had hurled her bodily over the side of the ship on which she had been born. Of glimpsing the horrors behind her in the split-second before the waters closed over her head. The dim light percolating down through the surface overhead, as debris — not all of it inert wood or metal, but all of it now equally lifeless — blasted high into the air came splashing down all around her.

///////

Dovindr pulled his heavy cloak from where it lay underneath him, and draped it around the Pict’s shivering shoulders. Doubtlessly she was still cold from however long she had been drifting half-immersed in yesterday’s raging waters. And it wouldn’t do to have Father’s plan ruined by their ‘passenger’ catching a cold before she could be returned to her people, after all.

Besides which, the brief look in her eyes at his gesture brought more warmth to his chest than the cloak would have.

But then the look disappeared, and she straightened her shoulders. Eyeing the sun, she turned to Frida of all people and spoke yet more Pictish. Then gesticulated with one hand towards the north-west. Clearly pointing, and there wasn’t many things that that could mean.

“Home, perhaps?” Dovindr mused aloud.

“If we haven’t been blown too far north already, at least.” Father noted with a nod. “Not like she could know any better than us just where we are: Gods only know where that storm threw us, and we’ve had no glimpse of shore since then.” He shrugged. “But as good a direction as any for now, all the same. Two days or so to the north-west, and if we’ve seen no islands by then we turn south. We will read the stars tonight, to better find our way.”

Anaoc muttered into his beard “I still say that they moved, but see for yourself.”

As soon as Father had confirmed the ship’s new direction, Dovindr had jogged over to kneel by one of the stays, carefully loosening the knot one-handed without losing grip on the line held tight in his other. Letting the sail out a bit on this side would help hold Harbor-Glory to her new course without exhausting Father at the steering-board. And taking it in on the other—

Ah. The Pict stood up from next to the cleat on the other side, the line shortened there already.

“A fast learner.” Eadberht chuckled appreciatively. “Careful Anaoc, or Gorm might decide she makes a better sailor than you!”

“If she’s willing to work, I won’t exactly mind.” the old Cornishman said with a shrug, grin half-visible through his beard. “But just let her try to make the stars see reason later, and we’ll see what experience still has over youthful vigor!”

///////

Archbrook cupped one hand alongside her eyes, shielding away as best she could the remaining glow of the sun that had just dipped below the horizon. The stars finally revealed themselves to her straining eyes, one-by-one.

Directly overhead, the Great Leviathan swam onwards, the three twinkling lights that were its gaping jaws ever chasing the fleeing bowl-arc of the Fisherwoman’s ship. Off to one side, the Huntress spanned her great bow. Ready to intercede, as the stories knew she would.

And off to the north, a handful of stars in two different lines rose above the horizon. Archbrook held out her other hand, using her thumb to gauge the distance between the four stars of the Once-Drowned Warrior’s upraised sword and the edge of the world-sea below.

She nodded to herself. Good.

The Once-Drowned Warrior herself was already recognizable above the waves; the stars that made up her belt should be seen within only a day or two even at this damaged boat’s mediocre speed. Which meant that home was not far, the proud land northerly enough for the Warrior to plant her feet firmly upon the horizon and gaze down upon her descendants. Ever standing watch, turning in place throughout the year on a sentry's watch while the lesser constellations shifted and moved around her.

That said, the raised spire of this boat’s bow was not quite pointed in the right direction.

Archbrook walked aft, careful not to trod on the few sleeping foreigners curled up near the vessel’s centerline on the raised deck. They were still wary enough of her to keep their lotai; their view of her would doubtlessly not be improved by her waking them from their rest.

With the pale strangers’ leader also asleep, she halted near the two males at the stern, one with his improvised rudder and the other seated next to him. Those most-strange face hairs of the rudder-male rustled, as he grunted a spoken-word remark to her.

An odd choice, as he clearly had to know by now that she did not understand him. Yet if he was still being so rude as to not actually attempt communication with sanzai, why use spoken words at all?

It was all most strange. But at least the Once-Drowned Warrior ahead of them was clearly visible this night, a good omen. If only such a marker of fortune had been visible through the storm-clouds yesterday, perhaps then Archbrook would still be aboard Mother’s ship having safely escaped the pursuing Southerners by using the mist as they had hoped. Receiving the relieved remarks of the warriors she’d known for so many years, as familiar to her as her long-dead sister had once been.

Minds so well-known to her that she could feel them right now.

Darting-Fish laughing, disparaging the poor-sailors that all Amenalids — indeed everyone not named ‘Darting-Fish,’ if you asked her — were of course known to be.

Morning-Spear insisting with clearly-false sendings that she had certainly never been concerned with the pursuit at all! Her smile only broadening and her sendings only growing more outrageously false with each laughing, doubting reply she got.

And Mother walking between them all, trading jibes and private-sent reassurances with equal skill. The very image of a Clan Whirlpool captain, the widely-admired future inheritor to Grandmother’s authority. Admired all the more for her close adherence to Clan tradition, in contrast to Grandmother's famous strangeness.

They were all gone, now. And she was surrounded here by nothing but memories... and lotai-mad Shadows.

Clenching her jaw against the ache in her heart, Archbrook tried gesturing first to the bow many paces forward, and then to the handle of the Drowned Warrior’s curved sword. Holding her own hands out, trying to show the gap between the two that should be there, for them to steer in the right direction.

The younger male whispered something to the other, but neither made any other move.

Flaring her eyes in irritation, she tried again. With her own spoken-words this time, for all that the strangers seemingly could not understand her proper Trade any more than she could parse their strange gruntings.

///////

The Pict spoke again, her outline against the unfamiliar stars gesturing towards the bow. “[Sopis paiaro.]” One outstretched arm moved to point at a line of stars. “[Sizas nelain Erebas-eides.]”

Dovindr peered at the sparks twinkling amidst the rapidly-darkening sky, trying to see what Notel was clearly trying to convey. He muttered to himself as much as to Father “Still no constellations that I can recognize.” He raised one hand, forefinger tracing out two lights that glimmered off to the north-east. “I... think that those two might be Tjatse’s Eyes, but they should not be so close together.”

Repeating her words once more, the Pict again pointed between the stars and the bow.

“Well, she seems to know them.” Father noted.

“Yes, I… think she wishes us to turn.” Dovindr leaned forwards, the double-layer of furs guarding him against the cold night breezes rustling. Peering at the now star-lit woman, he nodded to himself. “A hand’s-breadth towards the steer-board side, I think.”

“She can set lines, adjust the sail, and read the changed stars?" Father rumbled a quiet chuckle. "Perhaps I really should offer her Anaoc’s place aboard the vessel once we reach land.”

“Convincing her father to give up such a daughter, in return for an old Cornish man?” Dovindr hissed his own soft laugh. “That trade might be beyond even your Loki-silvered tongue, Father.”

“Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps.” All the same, wood creaked softly as Father adjusted his oar, and Harbor-Glory turned her nose a few points further north.

And with the amazingly steady wind still blowing — gently, thank the Gods — from the east, that was probably the first use of the new steering-board that Father had had to use since noontime. Maybe it was these calm and relaxing winds and smooth seas that made the day seem to pass so quickly, by their soothing contrast with yesterday’s storm?

Either way, Dovindr reluctantly left his heavy cloaks behind as he padded forwards to the sail’s stays. Father was far too proud to say anything about it, but it was clear to anyone who knew him that even his near-boundless reserves of endurance had begun to run low. And after nearly two days now at the steer-board without proper rest, that was no wonder.

The least that Dovindr could do was keep the sail trimmed so that Father had little to actually do at his post. Let him catch some rest there every now and then, when he clearly thought nobody saw his eyes dip closed. And at least adjusting the knots to hold the ship onto this new course gave Dovindr’s cold fingers something to do, to work even a slight heat back into them.

He was no longer surprised to hear Notel’s footsteps following his own. Which was only probably her name; for all he knew that was her people’s word for ‘shipwreck survivor’ or something. Still, it was… interesting to set a sail working alongside a woman.

Dovindr smirked out at the passing gentle waves that lapped at the hull. Unintelligible language or not, Notel was a better sight than Anaoc’s wrinkled old face!

A statement which the experienced sailor had appeared to agree with earlier this evening, declaring after only a few minutes that since the stars had clearly turned their backs on him, it must be a sign that it was indeed time to retire from the seafarer's life. Which had been his stated goal at the end of their voyage in the first place: it was Anaoc’s promise of acceptance amidst his own people far off to the west that had selected Cornwall as the destination for their voyage, after all.

Just now with an intermediate stop at a Pictish village first.

Dovindr had never sailed quite as far as the western island, but Father had first said that it would only be a few days at sea. But that was before both the storm and their new detour; especially with Harbor-Glory much slowed by the loss of her mast, it might end up being a much longer trip than initially hoped.

A much longer trip with little to do but watch the waves roll past. And middle of the night though it might be, Dovindr certainly felt no tiredness just yet. It was as if it had still been late afternoon at most, even though the sun had set quite some time ago.

…

“Notel.” he said, to draw the Pict’s attention. With the full glory of the stars overhead now shining down, it was easy to tell when her shadows shifted to look at him. Would have been nicer if the moon had finally shown its face, but still. Sitting down on one of the wooden chests, he quietly tapped his foot against the wooden hull. Gesturing with his hand to take in the ship around them, he enunciated carefully “Boat.”

“’Båt?’” She near-mimicked after a few seconds, apparently having quickly caught onto what he was doing. “Boat.” Got it on the second try. One arm copied his gesture, knuckles tapping against the hull near her crossed legs for emphasis. “[Nasi.]”

“’Nati’?” he tried.

A quiet snort was his answer.

“’Nassi,’” he emphasized.

“[Nasi, annen.]”

Dovindr frowned. “’Annen?’”

Notel raised one hand, and starlight glinted off of her teeth in a mouth that paused half-open. Thinking how to explain what this new word means, no doubt. Then a hiss of air through teeth. “[Rabonzaro.]”

“Uhh...” he searched around for another target, ‘irritation’ being clear despite the language barrier. Then the obvious struck him, and one hand extended to sweep across the waters around them. “Sea!”

“Sea.” That seemed easy enough for her to copy. “[Memal. Lirran ‘lesoton’?]”

“’Lirran,’ uh, ‘memal’?” He tried to keep up with her quick speech.

“[Memal, lesoton, memal-lesoton.]” she repeated herself quickly, reaching one hand over the gunwale to splash water back-and-forth. “[Lesoton-memal, memal-lesoton.]”

Ah, two words for the same thing. ‘Whale-road’ wasn’t the same word as ‘sea,’ after all, to the delight of every skald stuck with a difficult rhyme to finish.

Notel reached out towards him, pulling on one of the treated furs that he sat on. “[Baro.]”

That seemed easy enough. “Pelt.”

“’Pellet.’” she declared with obvious satisfaction.

Which pulled a chuckle from him, a soft laugh that he hastily turned into a cough as soon as he felt — more than ‘saw’ — two eyes turn to glare up at him. “Pelt.” he spoke quickly, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.”

“[Tirot-seiodi.]” she grumbled, before carefully over-enunciating “Pelt.”

“Good!” He leaned over and reached out to clap her on the shoulder… only for the woman to immediately flinch back and away from his hand.

Ah, of course. Probably still a bit wary, being among strangers and all. “Uh, sorry.”

“’Sorry’?” she echoed.

That… was a bit beyond his ability to express by hand-gestures, any way that he could think of. “Never-mind.”

After a bit more back-and-forth, they eventually settled in to a routine. The night may have come on faster than he’d expected, but at least the bright starlight meant that there was enough to see by as their game of ‘Point-and-Name’ continued into the night.

///////

But not enough light for either of them to have seen the knowing smile spread across Gorm’s face, nor the calculating glint in his eyes as he watched his only son learn to speak with the young woman.

A young woman with laudable energy, clear sailing knowledge… and from a rich family, too.

The old merchant nodded to himself, fingers drumming softly against the ersatz steering-oar.

Yes, this would do very nicely.

Well, we already have an American settler who landed on the planet Loroi, now it's the vikings' turn to make some noise on Taben!

I hope that this story is also finished and published like the author's other stories, and doesn't freeze like many good things here...

So far it's not much text, but it's already intriguing, I'm waiting for the continuation with impatience.

Yup, no need to worry: I finished the whole story (and 2 epilogue chapters, one canon and one just for fun) before I started posting. All 120,000 words all set to go!

(I've made the mistake in the past of beginning to publish stories before they're finished, and it's bitten me. Not making that error again.)

But yes, this story is named in honor of New Frontiers, a story that tragically ended before its time.

It had been a most interesting several days, all things considered.

The strangers — ‘Dain,’ they had called themselves, and one ‘Frisian’ — continued to be utterly confusing. The lands which they insisted that they hailed from simply did not exist; Archbrook was perhaps not the most far-traveled sailor herself, but she had sat at Mother’s and Grandmother’s side ever since she was old enough to receive sanzai, and had learned much about the wider world.

There was no ‘eastern land,’ peninsula or otherwise. Nor was there a ‘western island,’ and she most certainly was not from any such place herself!

At the same time, the foreigners — should one really instead call them by a name that seemed to come only from their strange imaginations? — appeared entirely confused about the actual geography of the World. They knew nothing of Beleri, nor the Amenal islands.

Or at least, the crude spoken half-language which she had managed to get across the last few days seemed to convey that much. They still kept their minds from her, and even feigned confusion when she tried to ask about it. She had several times surreptitiously grasped an arm or hand by 'accident' and attempted to pierce their lotai by strength of such a physical connection... but had been unsuccessful each time. Yet she kept trying, now drawn more by sheer curiosity as to what these strangers were hiding from her rather than concern over any threat that they may pose to her people.

“Cliff there.” said the only male who looked at all near normal, the one without any strange face-hairs. ‘Dovindr’ stood near the bow, both hands wrapped around the sharply-rising central plank there as he gazed towards the northern horizon. “Not know far, short-maybe-long.”

Well, this was as good an opportunity as any for her to make her next attempt. It was hard to tell from their strange, stumped ears, but going by their noses she thought that this male was the youngest of his people. With the obvious exception of the infant still cradled by the strangely-lazy sole warrior, at least.

Archbrook cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, checking that ‘Frida’ was indeed currently fussing over her child and not paying attention.

Perfect.

The loroi stepped up to the bow, feet careful to find purchase on the increasing slope of the planking there. If anyone asked, she was just trying to spot the same ‘cliffs’ that Dovindr had seen, after all. Which mean that she would of course need to climb up next to him, for a proper view.

That it gave her an excuse to set one hand where his neck met his shoulder — and revealed a flash of too-pale skin not covered by his rough-furred clothing — was, of course, just a coincidence.

Pulling herself up, her eyes immediately — and distractedly — noticed that those were indeed the southernmost Belerid sea-cliffs ahead of them, not more than a day’s journey away… and not much farther still to Home. Excellent.

What was not excellent was that even with a skin-to-skin touch, she still couldn’t get past even this young male’s lotai! It was infuriatingly strong; had it not been for the most-warm flesh under her hand, she would have sworn that this being was indeed no living creature!

So much for her plan.

On the good side, at least Dovindr did not seem to have noticed her attempt to break into his mind. Was he truly that skilled that he genuinely did not even feel her probing at his defenses, or was he instead making a show of pretending such?

She stared aside at him, eyes narrowed.

His eyes turned aside to meet hers, widened slightly, and then flickered away a split-solon later.

Not exactly the knowing smirk of one who had apparently-easily slapped aside a Whirlpool Named Warrior's mental probe. But what was that emotion she'd glimpsed in his eyes? Guilt? Or…

Ah. It struck her then how else this might look, her standing here close alongside him with one arm halfway wrapped around the male.

Letting go, she dropped back down to the main level, — it wasn’t exactly a proper ‘deck’ — checking again that the sole other warrior in the ship had indeed not noticed a thing. Best for Archbrook not to provoke Frida into becoming actively defensive over her males, after all.

“Home is soon.” she spoke aloud. “Three day, no four day, west here.” The strange mix of Trade words alongside the ill-fitting foreign ones felt odd, but by the expressions on the faces around here it seemed to work.

Good. The last few days had proven most useful.

///////

“I think that this detour will prove most rewarding, most rewarding indeed.” Father said, one hand patting his gut with the same self-satisfied air that he always got when settling down for a good bit of haggling. A mood that had grown more and more obvious over the last few days of sailing west along the sharp cliffs, a mood that had continued despite everyone's building confusion as to just where they actually were.

All the while, the rest of Harbor-glory’s crew had traded hesitant guesses on where they were now going: had they missed the Western Island entirely, and disappeared out into the unexplored sea beyond it to the north? Were those intimidating cliffs to their north those of some strange and unknown land in the seas out past the Western Isle? Then why did Notel appear so certain that she knew where she was going, if her people were from the Western Isle?

But despite their worry-laced grumblings, Father had only appeared more and more confident of his choice to follow Notel’s guidance. A choice that did seem to have paid out, now that the Pict had directed them at last to sail into one of the fjords rather than pass it by like the others.

Dovindr snorted, lip curling into a knowing smile. Some of their neighbors back home — the pain of remembering that it would not be ‘home’ ever again had by now dulled almost completely — had said that Gorm Haraldsson could smell a deal… and Dovindr had never quite seen reason to disagree with them.

Especially not now, as he and everyone else aboard — save for one smug-faced Pict — stared open-mouthed at the sight off their port-side which had just been revealed around the curve of a cliff-side. After all, if whatever Pictish village Notel was leading them to could call something like that a ‘watch-tower,’ then they must be a wealthy people indeed!

The setting sun’s rays burned horizontally across the waters of the fjord-mouth, throwing a reddish glow across the towering rocky cliffs that reached skyward to either side of the narrowing inlet. Which only served to illuminate further the single island that stood near the center of the inlet… crowned by a truly mighty stone structure.

Harbor-Glory heeled slightly to port as the men got as close as they could to the impressive sight, as if the ship herself were bowing in respect to another great artifice of mortal men. The remaining oars were hastily pulled in and set aside, the knorr drifting to a near-halt.

“That tower must be taller than the king’s own mead-hall!” Dovindr breathed, trying to estimate the height of the imposing stone structure. ‘Tower’ was putting it lightly; the crenelations marking the top of the structure showed that this was a fortification, no mere watch-tower. No matter what Notel’s halting explanation had said.

“Taller than the town wall itself, I say, mound and all!” Eadberht added with unusual verbosity.

Lucas stood with one hand cupping around the front of his short-trimmed beard, eyes narrowed as he peered across the waters. “A commanding height over the small island it stands upon, small enough to be manned by a group tight-knit enough to stay loyal through a siege, and with the rest of the rocky island cleared of any trees which could shelter an attacker.” He nodded to himself. “It is a well-sited bastion, and wisely-planned. I would hate to be the one tasked to take such a place.”

“And she says it to be a ‘watch-tower’!” Father exclaimed. “Just think on what halls such a people must build for their own homes!”

“Yes...” Lucas let out a slow breath, turning in place. Dovindr followed the former mercenary’s gaze as it tracked across the narrowing fjord. ‘Narrowing,’ yes, but not quite yet ‘narrow.’ “But this tower is still well more than a bow-shot distant to the shores at either side, and so there appears little to compel any passing invader to actually offer combat to its garrison. So what use such riches, spent on a watch-tower whose only purpose could be to shelter sentinels who would have to row back into the fjord immediately upon spotting a foeman’s approach?”

All eyes turned to Notel, who returned their looks with a smirk. Standing near the bow, she briefly glanced back over her shoulder ahead of the ship. Nodded to herself.

Then the bow thudded against something submerged. Something hard, and unyielding. Harbor-Glory’s slow drift forwards halted immediately, her momentum gone in a heartbeat.

Lucas was the first to run forwards, Dovindr at his shoulder. And then peering past his shoulder, as the Christian convert bent over the bow to stare below into the dark water. He must have seen something that Dovindr didn’t, because he straightened up. “God’s Blo—“ he cut himself off, one hand tracing out two crossed lines over his chest. “A harbor chain.”

“A what?” Dovindr, Anaoc and Eadberht echoed.

“Splendid! Like that of only the wealthiest harbors of the world!” Father crowed. “And it is metal, then, to sit under the surface?”

“Yes, yes it is.” Lucas acknowledged, clearly deep in thought. His fingers drummed a thudding beat against the bow-strake that he’d grabbed hold of. “A truly great expense. And what a structure it must be mounted to, at either end.” He turned back to the watch-tower. “Perhaps, then, that is the true purpose of that fortification. It must contain a mechanism to raise, lower, and hold the chain. Hidden amongst those earthen mounds at the base of the tower, if I should guess.”

His eyes slid aside, and Dovindr followed the once-mercenary’s gaze to Notel. “I begin to doubt my proclamation that her people are indeed ‘Picts,’ of whom neither such constructions nor the great wealth to justify them are recorded.”

Dovindr regarded the woman... whose blue body-paint showed no sign of fading even after several days — however short they felt — exposed to the sun and sea-spray. “Then what is she?”

“I do not know.” Lucas admitted, clearly troubled.

///////

Archbrook’s grin widened at the Dains’ obvious surprise at the efforts which Clan Whirlpool had taken to guard their ancestral home. Let other daughters of Beleri each boast of their own Clan’s proud history and wealth; — especially those preening upstarts over in Sezabi — everyone knew that the only true descendants of the warrior Ancestors lived here, in Redrock.

Her eyes darted aside to the Diving Tower. Of course, some descendants were more attuned to their martial duties than others…

Only now as the twanging echoes of their small vessels’ gentle nudge against the harbor-chain faded did a faint sending came from inside the stone tower <Who goes there?>

Archbrook rolled her eyes, letting her disapproval leak into her sanzai as she sent across the distance <Apprentice Archbrook, and with a vessel light enough that it could have passed over the chain if I had steered closer to the center of the channel. That is why you have to look out into the channel with your eyes, not stay inside the warm-room and rely on sanzai senses alone. Braidbloom, please tell me that you were not left alone to man the tower.>

After a few solon of silence, the younger Clan warrior — still a Named warrior, but oh what a difference those few years made — belatedly admitted <Talas Blackbeach is down at the northern shore, fishing for dinner.>

At the same shore which had earned that older warrior her name, no doubt. Where the rapidly-receding evening tide would reliably strand a few unwary fish onto the dark, stony gravel. Easy pickings for a warrior seeking to augment her dried and preserved meals on lookout duty.

<Then tell your mother to return, while you light the signal fire now.> Sensing her clan-mate’s nascent question even before it had fully formed, Archbrook added <Yes, the second-highest one. I will need to speak to Goldenshawl herself immediately once I arrive at the town proper.>

<Of course!> lax in her duties or not, once she had been given proper instructions Braidbloom leapt into action with respectable alacrity. Only a few solon after the shock of off-pink hair had appeared atop the Fortress’s crenelations did the correct signal fire burst into flame. Its cone of leaned-together shaved branches soaked in leviathan-oil would burn brightly enough to be seen through the thickening evening mist. <I… think I can get the chain lowered as well, by myself.>

Which would, of course, mean that the girl would not have to interrupt her mother’s favored pastime. Blackbeach doted on her daughter perhaps too much, yes… but that daughter also doted on her mother in her own way. <It seems better for her to be the one to operate the machinery. Unless you are certain that you would make no errors?>

<...Mother is on her way.> was the indirect answer after a brief pause, the younger warrior clearly relieved despite herself that her elder would be there to take on the complex duty.

A pang of sorrow shot through Archbrook’s chest, and she worked her jaw to try and clear away the tightness rising in her throat. <And Braidbloom? Worry not; I will send nothing of your or your mother’s laxness to Grandmother. Just… ensure that it does not happen again, yes?>

Those two might not be the best warriors of the Clan, but mother and daughter clearly enjoyed living together on the largely-isolated island. A quiet life, devoid of the excitement and adventure that their cousins pursued.

But which also meant that the two of them could look forwards to a great many more years of placid friendship… a boon whose value Archbrook only now truly appreciated.

<Thank you most greatly!> her distant cousin sent quickly. Then something of Archbrook’s mood must have bled out onto her sanzai, because Braidbloom added <What small boat is that, and where is—?>

<Dead.> she sent, perhaps a bit more harshly than was necessary. <And also the reason why I need to speak to Grandmother.>

<Oh. But you alone sailed that boat?> A bright flash, and suddenly the Dains’ diminutive craft was illuminated by a beam of light reaching down from the fortress. Evidently Blackbeach had taught her daughter to use the far-lantern’s concentrating mirrors. Good. <Hey! There are people on that boat!>

<Foreigners who hide their sanzai extremely well, yes.> Archbrook’s dark thoughts lightened somewhat despite herself, as the Dains reacted with obvious — and amusing — surprise and confusion to the sudden illumination. <But only one is a warrior, and a most sedentary one at that. Five males, and one infant. No threat.> she finally emphasized.

<That—? What—?> Braidbloom collected herself. <But even the infant has no mind-signature that I can detect?>

That caught Archbrook short. She turned, glancing down at the Dain warrior and her small child, frowning. That… was a good point. It was theoretically possible that a group of people, even males, might have learned to hold a strong lotai for such a long period of time.

But an infant still at his mother’s breast?

Who where these people?

She shook her head. <I... would have the Elders examine them; they will understand this better than I.>

Yet why hadn’t she thought of the point which this younger and less-talented warrior had realized so quickly? One hand rose to rub at the tender spot on her forehead, the blood that had once crusted the wound long since washed away. A lasting effect from her concussion, perhaps?

“Now wait.” she spoke, as the Dains turned to her. “Chain down soon, not much long.” And Blackbeach probably was running fast, knowing the hard-working if easily-distracted warrior.

Sure enough, only a few dozen solon later a deep rattling echoed out through the water.

“Oars now use?” the one named Dovindr asked in the halting Trade that she had been able to teach him. For not many days’ instruction, he did learn fast. Then again, it was known that males have an affinity for spoken language. All the better to shield their less-sturdy minds... yet then why did these strong-lotai males seem to have the same proficiency?

“Yes use.” she ordered. And by now, it did not perhaps feel quite so strange to watch three males take to their oars and pull the boat onwards. Nor how the one warrior sitting off towards the stern did not even try at all to contest Archbrook’s de-facto taking command of her vessel.

Archbrook had seen that the female did indeed wear a knife at her belt, or else she would have thought that this ‘Frida’ was a civilian, a failed-warrior. Then again, each of the males also carried such a weapon…

These Dains were indeed most strange.

Dovindr returned to stand next to her at the bow, apparently having been rebuffed by one of the larger males in his attempt to take an oar. Which suited her just fine; he spoke much better Trade than did any of the others.

Well, ‘less-bad’ Trade.

“Town soon?” he asked, brows lowering as he stared out ahead along the narrowing inlet. Peering against the lengthening shadows as the sun slowly disappeared below the cliff-horizon to their west.

But strangely, he only looked horizontally. To where waves crashed against cliff-faces, lapping at the worn-smooth rocks with only a tiny fraction of the energy of a winter storm. Not to where any reasonable Belerid — the Sezabids did not count — would have placed a town that wanted to survive for more than a few seasons. The cliff-bases were worn smooth for many paces up from sea-level, after all; and there was a reason it was called the ‘Diving’ Citadel for much of the year.

Was he truly from such a far-off place that the ravaging mountain-waves of the inevitable winter storms were not a known danger?

“Town most soon.” she confirmed, and it was true enough. One could actually crane their neck back right now and see some of the spires that reached up above the bluffs off to the right, but that was perhaps only recognizable to one who knew Redrock’s peculiar architecture.

But the first proper view would come once the boat rounded the sharp bend in the inlet, just ahead. Only a few more bima of rowing.

Bima that passed one slow solon after another.

A tapping sound began to grate at her ears, and only after a moment did she realize that it was her own fingers, drumming against the raised sweep of the bow planks. Hurriedly pulling her arm back, she turned her focus inwards to quash the chilling anxiety rising in her chest. She had been putting off her worries over just how to tell Grandmother that Mother was slain for the last several days, distracting herself by teaching this most-strange crew how to speak.

But now the reality drew near. She would be the one, the sole survivor, whose duty it became to tell the Clan leader that her beloved daughter and chosen heir was dead. And not only dead, but killed by a Southerner’s cowardly explosive-weapon before she had even had a chance to draw her sword. The shame that Archbrook had not been able to bring Mother’s body back for a proper cremation was dulled only by the grim knowledge that there had surely not been enough left for any such ceremony.

The memory of a wet splash of cobalt-blue flickered across her sight, welling up from where it had been burned into her mind, never to leave. Only by great focus did she force it back down, even as the corners of her eyes burned.

Taking a deep and careful breath, she pulled her shoulders back as the boat finally rounded the final bend.

It was time.

///////

“By the Gods...” one of the sailors at Dovindr’s back breathed. He wasn’t sure who; it might even have been his own voice that gave word to the astonishment that every one of Harbor-Glory’s crew surely felt in that moment.

Around the sharp turn in the fjord, a great city loomed into view. Squatting atop a bluff perhaps a hundred paces up from the waterfront was a collection of steep-roofed buildings, from whose few windows a flickering torchlight could be seen even at this distance.

And most impressively, they each appeared to each be stone buildings. Even the roofs looked to be tiled with some form of slate! As with the homes of the wealthiest traders, rather than more affordable thatch. A redoubtable and ancient settlement, then, to boast of such construction.

Above the village — town, more like — loomed a yet taller mountain, one ridge reaching out into a cliff that towered overhead. From just below the cliff’s peak, some quick-flowing brook projected into a waterfall that arced well-out from the cliffside, dispersing into diffuse droplets by the time it reached the town’s glistening roofs as a descending mist.

Below, the weak last-light of the day played across a stone walkway carved into the cliffside, descending from the town in a broad curve around the small ‘bay’ to reach the water’s level at the opposite side. A procession of torches moved quickly down that path, perhaps halfway along by his estimation. It was hard to tell numbers at this distance, but no-doubt the approach of their vessel had been noted. That had been very obviously a signal-fire lit atop the fortified hall out on the island, after all.

Notel’s people were clearly very well-practiced at this, for her to not have even communicated with whatever sentry had manned that fort-tower! Although perhaps the strange great-lantern which had played its light upon Harbor-Glory from atop those battlements had been enough to verify her presence?

Oars rose and were withdrawn as the knorr approached the dock that awaited them. Apparently a floating structure, it bobbed gently atop the soft motions of the water sheltered by tall cliffs to every side.

No actual beach was visible.

“Guess we tie off.” grunted Father, pulling up the improvised steering-board. “Would have been nice to pull her up out of the water and check for what damage the storm may have caused, but we’ve seen no more leaks since then. She should hold for a while, at least.”

“Aye.” Dovindr agreed, glancing across the rolling docks to the only other vessel present. His eyes widened as they looked up… and up. “A pity, though; they must have a good supply of pitch on-hand for a monster like that! I’d have liked to re-work the seams before we go.”

And ‘monster’ was really the only word for a vessel of such size. Even had Harbor-Glory still had her mast, Dovindr doubted that it would have reached up even a third as high as those of the Pictish craft. Its several masts, at that, with sails furled and canted at a bizarre angle half-raised from the deck. Instead of a proper bow, its towering fore simply ended in a point from which some sort of horizontal mast stretched, bedecked in ropes that glittered with ever-present moisture.

Father stood, stretching and looking around his own ship. After chewing his beard for a few moments, he ordered “Frida, you will stay here. Lucas, you with her. Anaoc, you and—”

Dovindr quickly leapt from the boat to the dock, before Father got any ideas about keeping him on watch aboard the ship. He wanted a closer look at those buildings towering in the distance!

A chuckle, and Father finished “—and Eadberht stay here while Dovindr and I take our rescuee back to her people. She seems a good sort… but that’s no guarantee that her family is; be ready to push off quick if needed. With first their harbor-fort and now this cliff-town, they seem a… wary people indeed.” He dug one foot under the wrapped packages that had sat ever at his side during the voyage, and gave Dovindr a pointed look.

Which conveyed a message which he obviously hadn’t wanted to put into words; they all might have learned a few Pictish words... but Notel had learned some of their own language in turn.

Yet the point came through all the same. Dovindr nodded and turned back, now extending his arm to the Pictish woman as if to help her up from the boat onto the floating-dock.

And, just as expected, she gave him a dirty look before gathering her feet under herself and jumping up next to him.

Which meant that she didn’t see Father slip two short swords from their oiled-leather wrappings and quickly buckle them under the cover of his cloak.

Just to be sure.

///////

Archbrook walked slowly across the dock, focusing on keeping her footing. The last few days had acclimated her to the way the small boat rocked along to even the slightest wave, rather than the more gentle heaving of a larger vessel.

Or the soft motion of a dock in its protected harbor.

But from experience, it would pass soon enough as she got used to solid land once more. Which would remove her excuse-to-herself of claiming that the unsteadiness in her legs was caused by the sea… not the armed group approaching at a rapid pace down the Great Stairs.

No sooner had she and the two Dains behind her reached the point where great ropes thicker than her own body tied the dock to the base of the Stairs than a curt sending came down <Archbrook. Who are these shielded strangers with you, and what news of First Warrior Stormtoss?>

Grandmother skidded to a halt at the final step, nailed-sole boots casting brief sparks across the ancient stone. One hand rested on the sword-pommel at her right hip, while the other held a pointing-lantern in front of her, playing its narrow beam across the two foreigners standing behind Archbrook without ruining her own dusk-vision.

Archbrook took in a deep breath before replying as formally as she could <Teigo Tiris Sonitiie has gone to join the Ancestors in story. She lies slain by an enemy’s hand...> the formulaic thoughts of ancient tradition poured from her mind, souring bitterly as she finished <unavenged.>

A flicker of sanzai danced between the three in front of her, Grandmother and the two other Whirlpool warriors whose faces were too shadowed to see. And who shielded their minds from easy detection, doubtlessly wary of those in whose company Archbrook had arrived.

Grandmother's sanzai came cold and biting, as sharp as the well-worn sword buckled at her side. <What. Happened.>

Archbrook decided to start with the day before the Southerner ambush. Best to give the full description now, in case it made more sense to Grandmother than it did to her. Sending quickly, she described <Late in an otherwise empty-handed Expedition, we had at long last come across a Southerner leviathan-processing vessel, its hold fat with rendered oil. Her crew refused our offer of honest trade, and so we took from them as many barrels as could fit upon Windshriek’s own decks. We then sent them on their way and thought nothing of it, for all their fury.>

As was tradition, after all. Every now and then the fat Amenalids had to be reminded who the real warriors were, on the World of Seas. The Southerners were rich in ancient treasures and quick of mind, yes, but everyone knew that they lacked the spirit of true warriors. And so since their rendering-ship’s crew had failed to inflict any real harm on Windshriek’s boarding party, that crew were of course allowed to live with only a few bruises and survivable cuts to remind them to be more polite next time they met one of Beleri’s adventurers.

<We were returning homewards with a full vessel when That Southerner ran us down.> she sent next, a chill running through her sanzai as memories of that moment surged to the fore. The way that Windshriek’s crew had all looked up at once from their resting-places dry below deck as the signatures of a heavily-manned vessel lurched out of the nighttime mist towards them. Those distant minds already primed and riled for battle, even though there should have been no way for them to have seen the smaller vessel in a storm of such magnitude!

Yet they had needed no course correction, no adjustment as they had closed unerringly with Mother’s ship.

<Their vessel moved fast through the storm, advancing even with her masts bare and sails furled. I know not how it was done, some Ancestral artifact or other. Her captain gave no name: not her own, her vessel’s, nor her clan’s. Only demanded our immediate surrender.>

To her right, an intake of breath as Dovindr made to speak aloud. She quickly extended one arm across his chest, half-turning and shaking her head. His people’s part in this story was not yet at hand.

Ignoring the stranger’s near-interruption, Grandmother sent <You fought them.> It was not a question; any warrior of Clan Whirlpool would only ever give one answer to a demanded surrender. Especially the First — and only — Daughter of the clan’s chief.

<We did not have the chance.> Archbrook admitted, shame boiling through her mind and out into her sanzai. The memory of how she had only just emerged out onto the wind-swept deck when it happened. <They fired upon us not a solon later, with some sort of explosive-weapon. I did not see it fire… only its effect.> She closed her eyes, that same splash of cobalt blood playing across the insides of her eyelids. <Mother never felt a thing, no doubt.>

<And you?> one of the warriors at Grandmother’s side asked sharply, before Grandmother could receivably process and respond to her eldest daughter’s death. Revealing her mind-signature enough for Archbrook to identify Delota Tiris Lomiteshros.

Second Warrior Brightvoice, Grandmother’s oft-feuding cousin… and now first-in-line to inherit leadership of the Clan. With the former heir lying slain and unavenged, that family line could surely not inherit, leaving Brightvoice as the only remaining option.

Archbrook swallowed the bitter gall rising in her throat, and sent as dispassionately as she could manage.<I was bodily hurled from the ship by the explosion, and lost consciousness shortly afterwards.> It was a truly shameful thing to acknowledge, that she had contributed nothing at all to the battle in which her own Mother lost her life.

A pause, and then Goldenshawl sent levelly <I see.> The wise leader clearly had made the same realization about the future leadership of the clan.

Archbrook wilted under her Clan leader’s judging gaze, hanging her head. Fighting against the resurgent stinging in her eyes.

Grandmother sent again <You will describe this attack in further detail once we return to the hall. For now, who are these strangers that yet shield themselves from us?>

Not a moment too soon, as Archbrook had been watching the two Dains out of the corner of her eyes. While the sanzai conversation had taken only a few solon, the two males were already visibly fidgeting.

She quickly responded <I do not know who they are, but they rescued me in the middle of the storm. I owe them my life, them and the most-small vessel which they were sailing near the middle of the world-sea.> Preempting the obvious question, she added <They have not dropped their lotai even once, nor have I been able to pierce it even with skin contact. Yet I am most certain that they are not hostile, merely… strangely secretive. Yet their greeting gesture seems to involve hand-grasping.>

She reached aside to tap at the arm of ‘Gorm,’ who had clearly been waiting for such a signal as he held out his off-hand to Grandmother. Even without the use of sanzai, it had probably not been difficult to determine who was the senior among the Whirlpool warriors sent here — the famous armor which Goldenshawl wore glinted even in the early moonlight. A priceless set of flexible plates won in combat versus a Sezabid would-be conqueror many decades ago, who in turn had claimed to have bought it from a Southerner explorer of Ancient ruins.

Whatever its origin, the eye-catching set of soft-yet-weapon-proof armor which had turned aside many a foe-woman’s blade… currently served well as simply an impressive golden mantle that hung across Grandmother’s shoulders.

“I to be Gorm Haraldsson, Dane [Farmathr].” He puffed out his chest at that poorly-spoken introduction, as if a warrior boasting of great deeds.

Archbrook quickly explained <It seems that ‘Gorm’ is his person-name, and I am not-certain about ‘Haraldsson’. I believe ‘Farmathr’ is his people’s rank for a sea-traveler or merchant.>

Grandmother eyed the proffered hand suspiciously. But after a few moments, she extended her own off-hand and grasped that of the strange male. Then nodded faintly. <There truly is no mind-signature to be found. An amazingly strong lotai…> Her eyes narrowed. <...perhaps.>

<’Perhaps?’> Archbrook echoed, confused. An emotion that was matched by each of the other loroi standing around the clan elder.

<There are stories...> Grandmother shook her head, as if to dispel the thought. <A half-remembered mention from one of Nelo Mollei’s tales. I shall consult him later, for what he may know of these people.>

Ah. Archbrook turned to regard the Dains in a new light. They had certainly seemed most mysterious to her, but if people with a similar mastery over sanzai were mentioned in one of Grandfather’s ancient histories, then perhaps they were not so strange after all. Goldenshawl might not have sought out — and ‘acquired’ — the Sezabid male for his mind all those years ago, but it had not taken long for Sun Master to show his new Clan that his knowledge of history outshone even his renowned beauty. If anyone knew where in the World these ‘Dains’ came from, it would be him.

Gorm seemed to have noticed the slight pause as Grandmother took his hand, as he spoke again “We pull Archbrook from waves, bring here. Is perhaps daughter yours?”

“Daughter-of-daughter.” Grandmother replied after a moment, simplifying her speech to match Gorm’s crude spoken language. Then sent to Archbrook <For people who choose to forego sanzai for such a meeting, one would expect them to be better at verbal communication.>

<They seem to have their own language, completely different from any form of Trade that I have ever heard.> the young warrior shrugged. <They have learned to speak a proper tongue fast enough, though, especially the younger one here.> She nodded her head towards Dovindr.

And caught a glint out of the corner of Gorm’s eye, as he released Goldenshawl’s hand and waved his son forwards. “This son Dovindr, most good hunter. Did pulling Archbrook from water with own hands!”

After a moment — and a nudge from his father, as Archbrook noticed — the younger Dain held out his own hand. Grandmother took it, sending a brief formless question to her granddaughter. One whose point was easy enough to get, all the same.

<I cannot verify that claim; by the time I awoke I had already been carried onto their ship.> Archbrook admitted honestly.

<And without sanzai, we cannot tell if he is being truthful.> Grandmother noted. <All the same, it seems that one of them must have saved your life, and so we may as well assume that it was indeed this young one.> Her pale-gray eyes flicked towards Archbrook, and her sanzai narrowed into a private sending <It is to him, then, that you owe your own survival. A rare feat, for a warrior to indebt herself so to a male.> Goldenshawl’s thoughts were as controlled and level as ever, but Archbrook felt the sting of the message’s implied rebuke all the same.

<A capable sailor, male or no.> she sent back to her Clan leader, perhaps a bit more bluntly than would normally be wise or proper. But the private sending gave her more latitude — hopefully — to convey her thoughts. <These two males as well as two others were the ones who took on all of the duties of operating their vessel; the single warrior who accompanied them stirred from her seated place only to prepare frequent meals.>

That said, Goldenshawl had been entirely correct when she pointed out that Archbrook did now owe these strange males a great debt. One that the young warrior lacked the ability to repay properly by herself. She swallowed nervously, forcing her shoulders back and raising her chin to regard her Grandmother directly. Letting her mind sit open, wordlessly conveying her earnest request of the older loroi.

One that Goldenshawl, to no surprise, received and understood immediately. The far-feared warrior’s eyes narrowed once more, before turning back to scan both males in front of her boot-to-hair. Then past them, down to the floating harbor where the dim moonlight was just enough to outline the Dains’ diminutive vessel.

Goldenshawl nodded to herself, and opened her sending back to a public broadcasting <It seems that these strange males and their sole warrior have done us a favor, by bringing back young Archbrook and her news of this threat from the South. It would be dishonorable of us, then, to treat them as anything less than honored guests even though they still shield their minds from us most rudely.> Her head did not turn, but it was clear to receive that her next sending was aimed at the third loroi of her small group, the one who now held the lit lantern behind Goldenshawl and Brightvoice. <See that a guard is posted near their vessel, and that neither it nor its contents are disturbed.>

<As you order, Chief.> sent Tiris Toza Nalitotor immediately, the Clan’s senior-most warrior as businesslike as always. Diffused lantern-light flickered dimly off of her hair, kept to a short and pragmatic shoulder length despite her being one of the oldest warriors of the Clan. But anyone foolish enough to doubt the century-old loroi’s talents as a warrior — despite her repeatedly-proven lack of any ambition beyond her status as Senior Warrior — had been quickly sent to the healer’s rooms.

Or, in the case of one spectacularly-dense and persistent emissary from Clan Thundercloud, to her funeral pyre.

Grandmother spoke aloud again, “You and all who travel with you are invited to stay in our Hall. Rooms will be made available for you, and your vessel will be kept safe at the dock.” Her sanzai focused once more on Archbrook <Their safety is granted, as you requested. Five males traveling with trade goods and only a single indolent warrior for protection should count themselves fortunate indeed to have earned your debt by the time they made harbor.>

Left unsent — but clearly received all the same — was that Archbrook’s debt owed to these Dains had now shifted to be owed to Goldenshawl, instead. And with Mother dishonorably slain and Archbrook disgraced by defeat in combat, she knew well that even Grandmother’s favor would not be enough to shield her from the consequences of such a failure.

A heavy weight settled in Archbrook’s gut. That debt would be called, and sooner rather than later.

And there were few ways indeed for a warrior to repay something of that magnitude… fewer still that would see her still alive afterwards.

“Up and on your feet, lad! If that bed hasn’t eaten you up, that is!” Father’s words came amidst a hearty chuckle.

Dovindr blinked awake… and for a brief moment he was drowning, sinking into the warm clutches of the sea.

...warm?

He bent upright, pulling himself free of the thick padding of the beyond-luxurious bed that he had spent the night in. ‘In,’ that is, not ‘on’; a padded cushion as thick as his own leg covered the entire wooden structure and had seemed to half-absorb his weight. Truly a luxury fit for a king… or an emperor.

A point which clearly had gone straight to Father’s head. He stood in the middle of their room, feet amidst a puddle of light cast from the single east-facing window. Both hands distractedly patted his belly with satisfaction, as Father’s beaming visage glanced around the palatial room. “Had I known that these Picts held such wealth, I should have visited them far sooner! To think that I sailed past this all so many times, to-and-fro from the Cornish lands!”

Rolling out of bed with some reluctance, Dovindr shrugged on his over-clothes. “Perhaps Lucas’s god really did bless him, to lead him and Frida to such a land.”

“If that be the case, lad, I’ll kiss the next Christian priest I meet!” Father chuckled heartily, his grin only broadening as he took one last look back at the room as the two men departed. “He blessed us as well, after all!”

The two men walked down the surprisingly-empty hallway for a few moments. Then Dovindr noted “You know, I’d thought this place was empty last night because it was after sun-down, but the Pict’s hall appears just as deserted now.”

“A brave people, to leave such wealth unguarded.” Father nodded, one hand rising to rub at his chin. “And come to think on it, I don’t believe we’ve seen any of their men, either. That party which greeted us last night were all women, by their faces.”

Lucas’s voice joined them from an open doorway as they passed “Faces, yes, but they carried their weapons with the air of those accustomed to their use.” The scowling ex-mercenary stepped out, followed by Frida. “I had thought for a moment they meant to use them on my Frida, of all people, when she first tried to follow me to the room they pointed me to.”

Father embraced his sister, who returned the gesture one-handed while her other arm still held little Halfdan in the crook of her elbow. “Sister dear, it seems that even the Picts doubt your choice of husband!” The laugh in his voice robbed all sting from his joking rebuke.

“All the same,” Lucas continued, his tone that of a man who was decidedly less amused by the hostile glares that had been thrown towards his wife last night, “I think it best for us to stay together as a group when among these Picts for the time being.” He traced one hand down the side of his long robes, stressing his next words “Fully dressed, so to speak.”

Only for a moment did Dovindr see the faint outline of a sword hanging at the Christ-follower’s waist. His eyebrows shot upwards and he blurted out “I thought your God forbid you to—”

Lucas held one finger to his lips, a faint scowl tracing across his normally-friendly features. “Be careful with your words, boy! These Picts do not appear to speak any language known to us, yes, but I would not yet place my trust on that it means they do not comprehend your people’s tongue.” He tilted his head backwards, down the corridor.

Dovindr followed the gesture, to see now two of the Pictish women standing at the opposite end of the long room. One leaned back against the wall with her arms crossed, spear next to her, while the other had a short sword buckled at her right hip.

Both were watching the three men, eyes silently observing.

“They’re very quiet; I hadn’t even heard that they were there.” Dovindr noted. Perhaps part of it was the way that the thick leather of his boots thumped loudly against the solid-stone floor, the noise much greater than against good, honest dirt flooring. But these Picts were a quiet people: come to think of it, he’d never yet heard one actually speaking to another.

“That they are, and a very curious people as well.” Lucas agreed. "But to answer your question, boy, I have my duty to God... but also my duty to Frida. I choose to better protect her against any further hostility; I can only hope that He will be understanding. One cannot be too careful when among such a pagan people."

“A very wealthy people.” Father emphasized again, his good cheer forcibly returning as he turned away from their armed observers. Their ‘guards’? “Now, if I have the right of it from last night, it looked like the main hall was back this way...” he walked off.

Dovindr turned to follow, but his eyes caught a flash of movement. One of the many doors lining the corridor cracked open on silent, well-oiled metal hinges. Dim shadows danced in the room beyond, lit only by window-light filtering through some sort of light-purple cloth.

And glancing off of two eyes that peered out and up at him from the shadows behind that slightly-opened door. Eyes that widened, as Dovindr’s gaze met them.

One of the sentries turned her head towards that door, and though she again said not a word the door slammed shut immediately afterwards.

Dovindr only frowned, turning to follow Father and Lucas. Very strange people indeed, these Picts.

“Where are Anaoc and Eadberht?” he asked, noting that the two hired sailors had not joined them.

“Went off some time earlier, looking for, ah, the path out to outhouse.” Father replied.

Hardly surprising. Anaoc especially was old enough that it was surprising he hadn’t had to go searching during the night. And in an unfamiliar but gigantic building such as this, finding the way out might be something of a challenge.

A challenge that may be important to him soon, now that his body was fully waking up from his very restful sleep. “Uh, did you happen to see which way they—?”

His question was interrupted as the old sailor in question came running — running, at his age! — around the corner ahead, eyes lighting up as he caught sight of the group. “You won’t believe what I’ve seen, you won’t!” He beamed, his remaining teeth gleaming in the morning sunlight that filtered in through open windows far overhead. Windows that seemed to glint in the light... but surely even these beyond-wealthy Picts would not waste something as precious as glass on a mere light-window!

Lucas shot a brief, wry grin at his brother and deadpanned “Allow me to guess: the outhouse is also a stone-and-brick structure?” A nigh-unimaginable expense for such an ignominious building, but quite in-line with the grandiosity of the hall through which they strode right now.

“Hah!” Anaoc shook his head, both forks of his beard waggling. “Better still, young Dane! There ‘tisn’t an outhouse at all!”

Dovindr frowned. That really was surprising, given how much expense these Picts had evidently spent on building their town.

“Come, you have to see it!” the old man grinned, and darted back around the corner.

The three men and Frida exchanged bemused glances, before she said “Lucas and I will search out the main hall for where we may start warming our breakfast. The two of you go see what your man there was talking about.”

And so they split up, Lucas and Father following Anaoc down several more door-lined corridors. Gods above, this building must have more walls on the inside than on the outside!

But all thoughts of the architectural complexity of the building fled his mind as he finally came to a door leading into a small room.

A room largely filled by some sort of white-stone — marble? — pile of oddly-shaped glazed pottery. One large pot stood near the ceiling, apparently balanced atop a long metal-looking pole that ran to another near the ground. Some sort of semi-circular shelf jutted out from the lower pot, and it was in front of that one that Eadberht stood, staring down at it as if transfixed.

With one final smirk, Anaoc stepped past the other hired-hand and reached up. Took hold of a small chain dangling from the side of the upper pot, and pulled.

Which revealed that set low within the shelf on the lower pot was a pool of water, which swirled into a whirlpool that sank down out of sight. And then water re-appeared, slowly filling the basin from some unseen source.

“Have you ever seen the like of it?” Anaoc asked. He nudged Eadberht and added “The lad here and I were shown to it when we tried to ask some of the Picts where the outhouse was. We haven’t taken to their tongue as well as your boy has, but they managed to explain this thing here eventually. Laughing a bit, aye, but clear enough all the same. You just do your business, pull the chain, and the water carries all away!”

Dovindr cupped his chin with one hand to make sure it stayed shut, even as Eadberht pulled the chain once more just to watch the mysterious machine do its work once more. He glanced over at Father. “Lucas will have to see this. It’s Roman, isn’t it?”

“I… think I’ve heard the like of it in the stories he’s told, aye.” Father replied, his eyes glued to the sight. “More impressive than I thought it would be in-person, though, if I say so. To think that such a creation was made by mortal hands, though. You’d half think it were some elf-thing or a gift of the gods!”

Dovindr could only nod in agreement.

///////

Archbrook blinked, nonplussed. Leaning one shoulder against the wall at her side, she caught the eye of the warrior who stood off to the other side of the corridor and sent <They’ve… just been standing here? Staring?>

<For more than four bima now, yes.> the other Clan Whirlpool loroi replied, a thin smile flickering around her face. <It’s as if they’ve never seen a flush-closet before! Where did you find these males?>

<Far out at sea, in a craft barely any larger than a harbor rowboat.> Archbrook deadpanned. <Wherever they’re from, it must be some far-off island that’s been largely isolated from the world for generations.>

Which was an occasional fact of life, however infrequent, here on their storm-tossed world that the Ancestors had chosen to descend to. Every few years a particularly mighty storm would bring down a mountain along Beleri’s rocky coast and seal off a town from its access to the sea. Usually the survivors would trek overland to a nearby settlement that still could reach the life-giving bounty of the ocean, but sometimes there was no way out past vertical cliffs and over snow-driven wastes. Every warrior brave enough to spend years at sea had stories to share of towns that disappeared one day, only ever discovered again centuries later.

Or sometimes even longer — Grandmother had once shared the tale of how as a young warrior she and a few other Whirlpool Tiris had gone in search of a long-vanished town less than a day’s sailing west of Redrock. Had had to clamber for two days after making landfall in order to overtop the piled rocks across the narrow inlet of what had once been a bustling harbor, and set down ropes so that they could descend down into the ruins.

Ruins populated only by skeletons and empty, rotting houses.

Archbrook shuddered at the thought. Had Dovindr and the others with him come from a town named ‘Dain’ that had suffered such a fate? It would explain why so few of them were in evidence, having put to sea in a vessel clearly unsuited for such a voyage. Was their iron-hard lotai just the near-stunned shock of survivors fleeing such a disaster that had engulfed their people?

Shaking her head to banish the dark images, she stepped forwards. As amusing as it was to watch the males cluster around the flush-closet like wide-eyed children at their first weapon-lesson, they were needed elsewhere.

Specifically, the Great Hall, which Grandmother had ordered cleared of all others and prepared for a more private daily meal than was the norm. It would remain to be seen if these Dains took to the Clan’s food as ‘well’ as she had to theirs.

Her face soured. Hopefully they would not have to deal with the same stomach-cramps as she had, from the strangely-spiced miros meat that she had eaten of the last few days aboard their boat. Even if her personal debt to the males had been repaid by Grandmother on her behalf, she certainly did not wish to see them endure the same unpleasantness.

Although the way her stomach clenched still now had nothing to do with food. Goldenshawl had received her full and detailed account of Mother’s final journey and ignominious end last night without receivable reaction. Her stony face had given away nothing more than her iron-banded mind had, and Archbrook had been sent to her sleeping quarters without any hint as to what her own fate would be.

Which meant that the judgment would likely come down today, perhaps even before she had the opportunity to enjoy her day’s meal.

Her final day’s meal? Grandmother was not the type to call for such harsh punishment for a failure like Archbrook’s, but then there seemed to be few other ways to expiate the dishonor of her survival when the senior warriors around her had each perished in battle.

The worst part was that if Archbrook’s own life ended soon — under whatever circumstances — that would leave Mother’s own death forever unavenged. Even if that murderous Southerner was slain later, even if by another Clan Whirlpool warrior, such vengeance would not come at the hand of one who had seen the first deed. It would not be a proper repayment for Mother’s death.

She shook her head, trying to force the gloomy thoughts from her mind. Or at least off to the periphery. Stepping forwards, she spoke aloud “You are perhaps ready for eating now?”

The Dains turned at her approach, and Gorm surreptitiously nudged his son forwards. Which made sense – the young male certainly seemed to be picking up spoken Trade faster than any of his fellows.

“Yes, only soon.” Dovindr smiled sheepishly at her, before briefly glancing back over his shoulder. “Maybe some solon first?”

She crossed her arms, raising one eyebrow at the male. He was almost as tall as she was, so she couldn’t quite get the proper looking-down-her-nose angle. But still, it prompted a reaction. The male’s face reddened, a strange contrast to his already near-pink complexion.

Either way, not a healthy color. She would see if they could be talked into seeing the Clan’s healers after the meal.

She turned her back on the males to give them some privacy while they sorted out who would use the flush-closet first. Which meant that she saw the way that Apprentice Iceshard quirked her lips to one side, as if annoyed.

<?> Archbrook sent, frowning.

<I just lost an eighth-weight of silver thanks to you!> the other warrior complained. <Couldn’t you just… sway your hips or something?>

Confusion shot through her mind… for a moment. Ah. Archbrook sent a knowing look at her clan-cousin. <You and Flamedance extended your bet from last night, then?>

<Yes.> the warrior one year older than her replied. <Last night’s results were inconclusive, after all. The males clearly really wanted their warrior to go with them even into their provided rooms in the Males’ Wing, yes...> She pouted. <But with their lotai up, we couldn’t receive if they were doing anything in there, and Duskflame all but pinched our ears when we even thought of peeking inside directly!>

Archbrook sighed, smirking. <The male named ‘Gorm’ said that their one warrior is his sister; certainly neither he nor his son ‘Dovindr’ would do anything with her. And even over many days at sea, none of the others tried any pass at me or did anything with her. It was a small boat — I would know.>

<Yes,> the other warrior nodded, <so I figured that the males must have been really shaken up by the storm you said there was! You know how males can get frightened by loud noises. Which would mean that now with a night’s rest behind them, they should have been back to doing normal male-things.> She scowled past Archbrook’s shoulder. <I was most certain that that one would try something with you at least, even just a hug or a surprise kiss. I’m certain he’s thought about it.>

Archbrook turned to follow her clan-sister’s glare just in time to see Dovindr turn aside, to now face his father. While the younger male did not meet her gaze, the older Dain’s eyes did flick aside momentarily to her. And though Gorm’s face-hairs made it difficult to be sure, that did appear to be a small smile on the taller male’s face…

She narrowed her eyes, meeting his stare.

That one was up to something. But what?

Males were known to be better at plotting and intrigue than warriors were, after all, to make up for their smaller stature. Yet some of these males were larger than her; were they still as wily as most others of their sex?

While her mind processed, Archbrook walled off those thoughts and sent <Well, you’re also here. Perhaps you should go, as you put it, ‘sway your hips’ at them?> She forced a smile onto her face and glanced over at her Clan-cousin, waggling her eyebrows. <You may yet win your bet after all.>

<Me?> the distant relative replied, surprised. <But they didn’t even try with you, and you’re—>

Archbrook’s smile froze cold on her face. <A disgraced warrior, the daughter of a slain and unavenged mother. Nothing more, not any more.> Although the Dains would not know of the true import of that change in status, what it meant to the foremost warrior Clan of Beleri.

Iceshard lowered her head and turned aside, not meeting her eyes. <It… has not been truly sent by Goldenshawl.>

<Not yet. But it will soon enough.> Archbrook gave weight to the thought that had fought for release inside her mind for a long time. Her teeth pressed together, all but creaking under the force. <As I deserve.>

<You do not!> sent the warrior who had fought alongside Archbrook in their warrior-rites, years ago. In a flash, her blood-blue eyes blazed with the same icy fury that had led to her name. <From the story of how it happened, no warrior in your place could have done anything different than you did! Not after that Southerner ambushed you and your mother, attacking first without proper parley like the cowards they are!>

<Yet someone has to bear the blame.> Archbrook countered, using the counter-arguments that her own conscience had furnished to her own earlier private protestations. <Moth— the Clan heir was felled in battle, slain unavenged, and almost her entire crew went to the Depths with her. One of the Clan’s finest warships was likewise lost, or even worse perhaps taken as a battle-prize by a Southerner of all people.>

She swallowed, as the memories of peeking into the art of managing Beleri’s foremost clan while standing at Mother’s elbow as a small child returned. The warm mind-presence of Mother sending to Grandmother’s stern self, in the Decision-room where the future of Clan Whirlpool was plotted.

And where a young future-warrior had then been educated and prepared for a future that would now never come to be. Blinking hard against the strengthening ache behind her eyes, she added <The former is a blow to the Clan’s prestige, and will weaken our hard-won respect by the other Clans of Beleri. But the latter is a blow to the Clan’s strength, and of the two may have the greater impact. It will take many years for another of Windshriek’s like to be built, especially this year when the snows between us and the Forester Clans further inland are deeper than is normal.>

<You would know.> Iceshard admitted, followed by a wince as she evidently realized how the thought would be received.

Archbrook gritted her teeth and forced a thin smile that would fool absolutely nobody. With a jerky nod, she stepped away from her friend, saved from having to answer by the fact that the Dains seemed to be finally ready to move on to the day’s meal.

At least their ongoing refusal to lower their lotai — she was increasingly uncertain if they even could, as unimaginably strange as that seemed — meant that her shame and self-loathing were receivable only to her Clan-sisters.

///////

Dovindr leaned in close to Father and spoke quietly as they walked “You know, I’m starting to think that Notel—” he corrected himself, “that Rozelsarad was speaking the truth when she said that her people can hear each other’s thoughts.” His eyes darted from one Pict they passed in the corridor — all women — to another.

Each one utterly silent, with only Rozelsarad having spoken all morning. And only to him and Father, at that.

“Aye.” Father agreed, voice uncharacteristically subdued. Few who actually knew him would doubt that he was always ‘thoughtful,’ but normally his sheer joviality masked the keen mind that lurked behind his ruddy features. “Lucas may have to admit that he was wrong all those days ago, even. With each passing hour his guess at these people being ‘Picts’ grows ever less believable.”

The expected joke at his law-brother’s expense never came, Father only gazing around himself with a guarded expression. Taking in the sights of these strange people, ominous even when surrounded by their magnificent architecture.

“You well sleep?” asked the young maybe-Pictish woman, glancing back from where she walked just ahead of the two men.

“Yes sleep.” Dovindr answered, hoping that his incomplete grasp of her people’s language would get his meaning across.

Rozelsarad nodded and turned back without saying any more, her head focused forwards and down. As if anxious, come to think of it, and her tone was certainly more clipped and distracted than yesterday. If Dovindr wasn’t mistaken, she appeared to be at least as on-edge as Father, although she was clearly trying to hide it.

Then even if Lucas’s guess at her being a ‘Pict’ was wrong, perhaps Anaoc’s darker suggestion that she had lost a great many loved ones aboard her ship in the storm was true all the same.

None of the men had raised the topic with her ever since they had fished her out of the freezing sea-spray. At first because nobody was foolish enough to invite either gloomy despondency or a rash argument while aboard a small knorr out at sea, and then more recently because they had been too overwhelmed by the bizarre nature of her ‘home,’ here.

He nodded to himself, as a line from a half-forgotten poem presented years ago by a decidedly second-rate skald back home floated through his mind. Of Gylfi-king's learnings about the many worlds beyond the one inhabited by mortal men.

Yes... perhaps ‘otherworldly’ truly did fit this place better, with its soaring ceilings at least twice Father’s height overhead, its maze of internal stone walls, and the clever mechanisms that Rozelsarad’s people had built.

“Maybe they are álfar.” Dovindr quietly mused aloud, only half-joking.

“Elfs?” Father echoed, clearly surprised. His tone then dropped to match Dovindr’s, and he hummed thoughtfully. “‘People under the mountains and in the deepest forests, clever beyond mortal minds and with knowledge of arts that no others know.’ That… would explain much, yes.”

Dovindr eyed the back of Rozelsarad’s head in a new light. If she was Elf-kind and thus the ‘Notel’ people were some form of spirits rather than mortal beings, that might account for their strange appearance. The blueish tinge to their skin, the hair colors, the eyes, the ears…

Yet some things still didn’t add up. “What was an Elf-daughter doing awash out at sea, then?”

“Who can say?” Father replied with a small shrug. “But methinks that she would tell you, if you asked.”

Before Dovindr could actually do so, their guide led them through a double-pair of doors. And into a room that was, strangely, the most familiar to him of all that he had seen since waking.

After all, despite its vast scale a Great Hall was still recognizable by its features. He had seen the one back home — the Mead-Hall of King Skjöldr — a few times when visiting it at Father’s side; yet even that room built to hold the King and his family with plenty of room for his household guards paled next to this grand chamber of Rozelsarad’s people.

Elfs, indeed. He was increasingly sure of it.

But even they clearly must have some need for mortal necessities, for a recognizable fire-pit was present as well as a great many long tables. Why the fire-pit sat up against one wall with a sort of brick hood high above it and not in the center of the room, he could not say; but this was surely a place made for feasting.

It was also clearly made for far more people than were presently waiting there.

The same three Elf-women who had met them last night on that long road up the cliff-side sat at a high table near the center. Several lower tables lay before them, all empty except for one at which Frida and Lucas sat.

Dovindr would say that ‘all conversation stopped’ as he and Father led the two hired-seamen into the room and all eyes turned to them… but there hadn’t been any conversation when they entered.

No vocal conversation, at least. The way that Lucas protectively leaned slightly forwards and in front of Frida, glaring up at the golden-armored elf-woman, spoke volumes. An understandable reaction to the hot glare thrown his way from the right-most of the three Elf-women.

A quick glance from Father’s law-brother drew them to the table at his side, and the bench seats waiting there for them. To Dovindr’s surprise, Rozelsarad did not take a spot at either of the large, wooden tables that were presently occupied. Instead, she moved off to one of the empty ones and sat there alone, head bowed and gaze lowered.

And most strangely of all, while a fire did burn in the wall-pit off to one side, it bore no turning-spit to prepare proper food upon. And the outer tables, likewise, were each empty.

Father muttered under his breath as he took his place next to his sister, “I would have complained that they have provided us no food, except that they go hungry themselves as well!”

An oddity, indeed. Frowning slightly, Dovindr flicked his gaze between the three elf-women at the high table. Each one momentarily met his eyes in turn, before returning her attention to Father… and Frida? The three then turned their heads to each other, clearly conveying some sort of message — messages? — amongst themselves.

Yet still not a word was spoken.

A chill ran down Dovindr’s spine. Many were the stories brought from the mountain-lands across the water to the north of travelers who had strayed too far into those snow-capped highlands. The most unfortunate ones met trolls, those frequent enemies of men.

But even those travelers who instead strayed into an elf-hall were oft-times just as doomed. Wise and knowledgeable those strange folk may be, yes, but they were also known to be strange-minded and guided by their own morals. Morals that no mortal man could follow, understand, or predict.

And that was even assuming that these here were indeed álfar, and not the far-deadlier Mist Elfs or Huldra. He shuddered, gaze dancing aside to rest on Rozelsarad. Met her eyes, and saw—

Fear?

He frowned.

What did she have to feel fearful about?

///////

With the Dains directed to their seats in front of Grandmother and the ad-hoc tribunal, Archbrook herself marched rigid-backed off to a side table and sat there. Grandmother sent only a brief, wordless question over sanzai as the young warrior pointedly chose not to leave the room.

A question that Archbrook let sit unanswered. She didn’t trust herself to sanzai right now, as anxious worries about her fate fought with acidic self-loathing inside her aching mind.

After all, while the nominal reason that Grandmother had ordered the rest of the Clan to take their daily meal later and leave the Hall empty for now was because of the presence of males — albeit foreigners… or whatever they were — Archbrook knew the real reason. Such near-emptiness would minimize the number of minds that would directly receive Grandmother’s pronouncement of whatever decision she had settled on for Archbrook’s fate.

No hint of which was revealed by Grandmother’s hardened mind or her stony face.

Which only made Archbrook sweat all the more.

Under normal circumstances, the way to clear the stain of defeat from her name and that of the entire Clan would be to avenge Mother herself. Bring back the head of her murderer, and let that death-rictus face stand as testament to a defeat corrected.

But with the Southerner in question having disappeared off into the mist without Archbrook even having learned the vile attacker’s name, such vengeance was as good as impossible. She would never see the Southerner again, would never have even the chance to earn back Mother’s honor.

Which left Archbrook, as the only survivor of the doomed expedition, to bear the entire shame of their collective defeat. Even worse was that Mother had been the foremost candidate to succeed Grandmother as Clan Chief, and her ignominious end in one-sided combat heralded political consequences that Archbrook was all too aware of.

Her only real hope was to be allowed to lead another raid-expedition, in hope that victory there might crowd out the dishonor she currently bore. But with it being Truce-time for the next many, many days… that left only the other lesser clans of Beleri to target.

The same clans whose support Grandmother had spent a long lifetime corralling behind her, slowly and painstakingly gathering one city-clan after another behind her banner and storied renown. The clans which Archbrook would under no circumstances be allowed to harry and plunder as her more-distant ancestors had once done.

Only Sezabi still held out as an independent — and thus raid-worthy — power, those upstart merchants and fisherwomen… yet those wealthy upstarts had bought for themselves a martial force that could someday soon become a challenge even to the rightly-fabled Clan Whirlpool. And with the rest of the Clan’s warriors and warships still out and slowly returning from their pre-Truce expeditions in search of trade and battle both, there were no spare warriors or vessels to send on a raid anyways.

Grandmother spoke aloud to the Dains, slowly enunciating her words with care. “You are not-hurt this morning, yes?” A wisp of unconscious sanzai drifted from her mind, hoping that these strangers would learn to speak properly soon.

Archbrook frowned. It was an understandable wish, but why would Grandmother not have preferred for them to finally drop their lotai instead?

<Because I am now certain that they are not holding it intentionally.> Goldenshawl sent, her eyes darting aside to Archbrook even while she awaited the males’ slow spoken-speech response. <Sun Master and I discussed it overnight.>

“We not-hurt, yes.” the one named Gorm replied, about as quickly as one could expect for non-sanzai communication. He inclined his head towards Grandmother, adding “We thank you saying this question.”

Grandmother matched his gesture. “And I thank you for pulling Archbrook from the sea. It is good that she is returned to us here.”

It would have been better had I drowned out there. Whispered a venomous corner of Archbrook’s mind.

A thought that evidently had leaked out into sanzai, as both Grandmother and Brightvoice who sat as well at the High Table turned their eyes on her immediately.

Archbrook wilted under the new Clan heir’s judging glare… yet was that pity she saw in Grandmother’s eyes?

Only for a moment, before the aged leader’s gaze returned to its normal piercing stare.

Turning back to the Dains, Grandmother continued with a wave of her hand towards the door behind and to her right “In honor of which I have asked you here this morning.” A signal went out over sanzai, and the door to the kitchens swung open.

Despite the gloom worming its way through her mind, Archbrook still found herself barking a single laugh in surprise as Grandfather himself was the first into the room, carrying a serving-plate half as large as his own torso. His ever-present beaming smile, even though nearly hidden behind the whole roast miros on the plate, still warmed up the room.

<And an occasion as important as that calls for something special!> he sent, striding up to the main table. In his experienced hands, the serving-plate did not so much as shift as he walked. <It is not every day that heroic adventurers pull one of ours from the hungry waves,> his smile did not shift as he eyed the Dains up-and-down, but a curious glint worked its way into his eyes. <even as strange as these foreigners may be.>

For their part, the foreigners muttered quietly among themselves in their own language, brows furrowed as they looked over at the approaching male.

Grandfather reached the table, pirouetting around to make a show of displaying his artfully-cooked miros on its bed of island-grain breading. Bright tree-berries from the north surrounded the main meal to grant it color, and two great tuber-leaves had been placed in its mouth as if the food-beast were still alive and eating them in turn.

All together, a display that Grandfather must have spent many thousands of solon preparing, even with his assistants aiding him.

A thought which clearly occurred to Brightvoice as well. <Did you sleep at all last night?> a faint ray of humor peeked out through the normally-dour warrior’s sanzai, testament to Grandfather’s irresistible charisma.

He winked back at her, turning to set the meal at last onto the tabletop. <Well, once I finally managed to pull myself away from Goldenshawl, I found myself too worked-up to sleep!> He turned to regard Archbrook over his shoulder, and the broad smile for which he was so famous warmed even more, for a moment. <And I am glad indeed that young Archbrook has been returned to us,> the smile faded, <even if brave Stormtoss has gone to the Deeps.>

Then in a flash the smile was back, albeit perhaps a touch forced as he whirled on Brightvoice. <As we all are glad for Archbrook’s safe return.> the emphasis behind his sanzai echoed throughout the room like a cracked whip.

Brightvoice flinched back from the rebuke, delivered from a male perhaps half her height. The blooded warrior with dozens of witnessed kills to her name across decades of expeditions could do nothing but wilt under the withering glare of a male who had not left the Clan compound since longer than Archbrook had been alive.

<Of course.> She sent after a moment, clawing back her composure.

<Good!> Smile still gleaming from his merry blue-tinged cheeks, Grandfather spun on one foot to regard the Dains.

And immediately tripped over his soft, house-only shoes. Toppling forwards, he only saved himself from landing face-first onto the floor stones by grabbing hold of Gorm. Rolling against the tall stranger, Grandfather sprang back to his feet after only a moment.

///////

“Now this is what I call ‘breakfast’!” Father chortled happily, eyes tracking the roast pork as it was brought out by the elf-boy. “Fit for a king, this is!”

“...Yes.” Lucas answered distractedly, his furrowed brow conveying just as much confusion as Dovindr felt as both of them watched the serving-boy finally whirl to set the dish of some strange roast swine-animal down at the table.

Dovindr briefly glanced up, meeting his law-uncle’s eyes and exchanging a nod. It appeared that Lucas’s mercenary-trained intuition had caught on to the same thing that Dovindr’s (slightly) greater familiarity with Rozelsarad’s people had told him.

There was something… off about this child who had brought out the food.

Just then the blue-skinned elf seemed to trip over his own boots, falling onto Father before Dovindr could catch him. But as Dovindr leaned over, from only a few hand-spans away he caught the flash of thought behind this elf-boy’s eyes as the stranger collected himself and moved aside.

Dovindr halted, pulling back slightly and staring down at the diminutive newcomer in a new light. No elf-boy this; that was the gaze of a man which peered out from those brown eyes. An odd thing indeed to see, in one who could barely see above the table at which Dovindr sat.

Father quickly pulled his hand back and rubbed at his side, as if straightening out his cloak after the serving-man had briefly grabbed it. But Dovindr caught the brief impression of a short sword against Father’s side, hopefully hidden from their guests by his wide belly.

“A very… interesting people indeed.” Lucas muttered thoughtfully, as the Danes watched the elf-man turn to walk over to Rozelsarad.

///////

<They are not warriors, that much is certain.> Grandfather sent, approaching Archbrook’s table.

<Obviously.> Brightvoice evidently had recovered her usual acerbic tone, now freed of the male’s judging glare.

With his back to the High Table, Grandfather’s roll of his eyes was a secret between him and Archbrook. <What I meant is that they are not loroi, not of our people. They are warriors, that much is—>

<Not loroi!?> Surprisingly, it was Duskflame who sent then, shock coursing through the veteran warrior-leader's sanzai. <You mean—>

<Maoren, yes.> Grandfather replied, confirming Archbrook’s own stupefied thought even as he rooted around in the deep pocket of his apron. <Off-worlders, as in the tales of the Ancestors. I am certain of it.>

He leaned in close to Archbrook and pulled from his pocket a small, wrapped package. With sanzai soft enough not to be received by any others, he sent <A pozet stuffed with spiced miros, salted just the way you like it.> The gift of a doting grandparent, delivered to a slack-jawed granddaughter who had not yet recovered from his nonchalant earlier proclamation.

He wrapped her numb fingers around the hand-made treat and turned back to the Clan elders. <There can be little doubt about it. The ancient stories tell of those who are not-loroi, who were said to have different bodies, different builds, yet be living beings mostly akin to us all the same.> He chuckled. <Although I did not expect them to look quite this much like us.>

Unsurprisingly, Grandmother was the only one at the High Table seemingly unaffected by the explosive-bomb revelation that her private mate had dropped in all of their laps. This topic was doubtlessly what they had been conversing about last night, after all. <You said now that they are ‘warriors’ all the same, with such certainty? Did you sneak a glimpse past their lotai?>

<I don’t need to.> Even from behind him, Archbrook could still feel the smirking grin that he flashed to Grandmother. <Do you see any fear, any worry in their eyes or their posture as they sit here in front of three of the most-blooded warriors of the feared Clan Whirlpool? Even if they do not know of your people’s martial fame, surely anyone can recognize a trio of trained fighters when they see them.> He shrugged. <And besides, that largest one at least is wearing a sword at his left side. Just where I felt for it.>

This time, there came only a mild sanzai burst of outrage. After all, ‘merely’ bringing a weapon to a meeting-meal between Clans was only an ordinary shock, even if to a meal so extravagant that the Chief’s own foremost male prepared and served the food directly.

Archbrook shook her head in amazement. Still, aliens, on Taben! Right out of the ancient stories!

Brightvoice scowled across the table, her eyes dropping to Gorm’s side where Grandfather had discovered the duplicitous armament. <They offer insult, then?>

Grandmother intervened, waving one hand dismissively. <It may not be an insult, in their eyes. And if they are indeed so very far from home, one cannot blame them overmuch for being cautious.> She turned her head to Archbrook, and suddenly the disgraced warrior found herself once more on the receiving end of three pairs of unreadable eyes. <They were truly found on the open ocean, aboard that simple wooden vessel currently at our harbor?>

It was clear by the tone of her sanzai that Grandmother was asking merely for formality’s sake, rather than doubting Archbrook’s earlier report. All the same, the implied distrust added yet another sting to her raw and aching conscience. <Affirmative, Clan Chief.> The formulaic title rolled off her mind without thinking, and for a moment Grandmother’s eyes flickered.

Grandfather quickly interposed himself into the awkward emptiness by speaking aloud to the aliens “Eat! You are n -doubt tired after your ordeal, but good, warm food will fix that!”

The words may have been aimed at the Dains, but all the same Archbrook found her own hands moving without conscious thought to bring the warm pozet up to her own mouth. The same radiant heat and pleasant spicing that she remembered from so many fond childhood days. Happier days. The warm food that fought back the ever-encroaching chill of a Belerid winter was as nothing to the inner warmth that soothed some of the cold thoughts weighing down her mind.

And by Grandfather’s knowing glance and heartfelt smile back at her, that outcome had been most intentional.

It all became too much for her, hardened Clan-warrior — or whatever she was, now — or not. Her eyes stung, and Archbrook hung her head behind the small shield of her remaining half-pozet. Clamping down as best she could on her self-recriminating thoughts, to keep them from leaking out over sanzai.

///////

“It it’s pork, it’s the foulest pork I’ve ever tried.” Anaoc grumbled, the near-toothless old man nonetheless doing his best to gum away at a piece of their hosts’ proffered meal.

“And no drink to go with it, I notice.” Eadberht spoke around a full mouth. Complaints or no, no man here was foolish enough to turn down food offered freely.

“Yet it is warm.” Father and Lucas both spoke at once, before eyeing each other with a thin smile. Father continued “And this berry-water of some sort that they have brought is no mead, aye, but it is well-appreciated all the same.”

Dovindr kept quiet, chewing away at the fatty meat as thoughts raced around his head. The stories told of the risks of eating with Elf-folk, yes, but it wasn’t like any of them had better options. They had their travel-rations, aye, but he certainly did not feel brave enough to turn down the Elfs’ gift to their faces. And so while he agreed with Anaoc’s judgment on the oddly acid-tasting meat, he nonetheless wrestled his rising stomach back down.

And eyed the strange elf-man who had brought it out to them. Who returned the look, with one hand planted against his hip. Only the slightest tinge of blue colored his features, a sharp contrast to the charcoal-black hair that hung down past his shoulders.

“Strange little fellow, isn’t he?” Father murmured, chewing slowly. “If it weren’t for his eyes, I’d have said that he was younger than you. More an elf-boy than an elf-man.”

“Yet none of them look too much older at all, do they?” Dovindr asked, nodding across the table to their hosts. The three elf-women had only after a delay cut their own pieces off of the prepared swine — ‘elf-pig’? — and now sat now leaning back in their seats and clearly paying more attention to their guests than to the meal. Not one of them looked to be older than her thirtieth winter, if even that: no wrinkles, blemishes, or any other marks of age marked their pale-blue skin.

And if the sense of age behind the elf-man’s eyes was unsettling, that was as nothing to the piercing stares of the elf-women. Surprising, really; he hadn’t ever seen that in—

Frowning, Dovindr turned aside to look over the elf-man’s head to where Rozelsarad sat alone. Some sort of bread-pastry sat in her hand, held up as if to shield her face and hunched shoulders. Sure, the elfs seemed to be unsocial creatures who rarely spoke, but even for them such isolation must mean something.

And not something good. Dovindr leaned back to near his father and murmured “What do you think is happening with her?”

“Could be that she’s gotten some bad news, since we brought her home here?” The heavy furs at Dovindr’s back — say what one will about these elfs and their impressive building, but they did not keep it especially warm! — shifted as Father shrugged. “Perhaps it is as we feared, and all of her close relations drowned in whatever wreck led her to be picked up by us.”

“Hmm.” Dovindr grunted his agreement. That would explain why the elf-woman who had so surprised all of them by her energy and skill at seaman’s-work before was now all but curled-in on herself. Still, for all that he had known her for only a few fast days, the contrast between the Rozelsarad of then and the Rozelsarad of now was… sharp.

Sharp enough to make his chest ache.

He drummed his fingers against the table, thinking. As his friends had made him painfully aware, Gorm had long coddled him as the old trader’s only child. The only memory of Gorm’s beloved wife Ingehild who had died the day that Dovindr was born. Striving to escape his father’s doting ways had been one of the reasons Dovindr had taken to hunting in the wild forests around home, a craft that was well beyond Father’s stout frame and loud gait.

And so Dovindr was proud that, despite his upbringing and age, he was not as inexperienced in the ways of the world as he may otherwise have been. Therefore, it had only taken until the third day after pulling Rozelsarad from the cold seas for him to realize just why Father had taken over many of Dovindr’s tasks aboard Harbor-Glory, why he had made sure that Dovindr had the most time available to speak to the rescued ‘Pict’ woman.

Not that Dovindr had objected, to be fair. Yes, Father had pushed the two of them together because they had all thought her to be a wealthy chieftain’s daughter, — and perhaps she still was — but, well, just look at her! And she was also a woman with clearly much experience of the sea, and a strong will beneath those deep eyes of hers. Even his newfound certainty that she was an elf-woman rather than a mortal being like himself did little to shade her admirable traits.

The elf-man narrowed his own gaze at Dovindr, then bobbed his head slightly. And turned to Rozelsarad. It was no longer a surprise that not a single word was exchanged, but Rozelsarad briefly dropped the bread-pastry from in front of her face.

Two blue-rimmed eyes met Dovindr’s, flat and clearly in distress of some unknown source.

The pain in his chest intensified.

And Dovindr made up his mind.

That ambition of Father’s may be beyond reach now, — an elf-woman was surely a hard prize to win compared even to a chieftain’s daughter, making Dovindr painfully aware of his own youth and lack of battle-fame or trade-riches — but Rozelsarad was still someone to Dovindr. A friend, perhaps, after days of playing point-and-name, and sewing the new sail together, and her sticking that peculiar blue tongue out at him whenever he tried to take the heavier part of the work from her, and—

Before he could second-guess himself, Dovindr stood from his seat.

And leaned over with his knife, cutting a large chunk from high on the back of the elf-pig. It did not quite look like any of the creatures that wandered the village back home, but it was at least warm food all the same. Hot juices that stank of brine ran down his hand as he picked up the piece, larger than the one that he had earlier cut for himself and cut from the finer back-meat. Either way, it was far more of a meal than whatever small trifle had been given to Rozelsarad. And he knew well that she had worked as hard as anyone onboard Harbor-Glory; she must be as hungry as he was. Perhaps even more so, given her smaller frame.

He was well aware of every eye in the room following him as he walked over to Rozelsarad. Her own gaze was like a strong headwind blowing against him, and his leather boots stumbled against the amazingly-smooth stonework underfoot.

Then the confusion writ large on her face faded, and it was like a storm that disappeared in a heartbeat.

Dovindr had to reach out with his other hand to brace himself against her table as he nearly fell entirely, a hesitant smile dancing around his mouth as he held out the dripping meat. “Eat now? More eat?” His clumsy words embarrassed him even as they fell from his lips, their halting approximation of her people’s rare speech all the more obvious in contrast to the melodious speaking of the apparently senior elf-woman at the high table well behind him.

Many emotions flickered across Rozelsarad’s face, fast enough that he only caught a few. Surprise. Amusement. Happiness, then—

Anger?

Sorrow?

Before he had time to question his decision to come here, Rozelsarad finally smiled up at him. Even if it was clearly a mostly-forced smile, it still wiped away most of the tightness in his chest. “Yes… thanks.” That one particular word in her strange elf-language did for the rest of his worry as she took the ham-chunk from his grip.

“Sit here, no move.” He turned and walked back to his earlier seat, now much faster than earlier. The vast hall was now truly quiet, as even all eating had stopped to watch him in silence.

Throat too tight to speak, Dovindr only nodded tightly to Father as he grabbed his own half-finished food from earlier. He really, really hoped he wasn’t breaking some elf taboo by this.

But by Father’s answering nod, at least his calculated risk was approved of.

He worked hard to lift his feet and not shuffle across the distance between tables as he crossed it for a third time. The palpable pressure of eyes on his back was no excuse to walk like a child, after all.

Sitting down across from Rozelsarad, he glanced up to meet her eyes. His earlier offering sat untouched in her hand, her mouth hanging slightly open. As if reminded by his look, the elf-woman shook herself slightly and straightened up. Then, after a pause, nodded to him and gestured with her other hand to his own meal. “You eat, then I.”

A faint echo of Father’s lessons in politeness — a vital skill for a trader; less so for a hunter or any one of the other lives Dovindr had dreamed about in his youth — rang in one distant corner of his mind. Like a swimmer whose toes are brushed by an unseen great fish down in the depths, he sensed some unknown social custom loom threateningly over him.

He ate.

The acidic elf-pork burned his mouth as earlier, but all he could think about was how he really hoped that he had not offended his inhuman hosts.

///////

<You are certain indeed that these are aliens?> Duskflame deadpanned. <That one certainly seems to think like a loroi male.>

A point which had not escaped Archbrook’s own notice. Although that still left her completely unsure on how to react. Days ago, she would have found it an endearing if unsurprising behavior from a male born to some unknown but of course loroi Clan. And only a few solon ago, she would have been simply confused by such behavior coming from an alien — a creature so strange, so long-lost in ancient stories that some thought them to be entirely fictional!

But now she was stuck somewhere in-between. This was a male before her, yet not a loroi. He had very clearly brought her an offering of food, yet that may not mean the same thing for his people as for hers. His body was misshapen, too tall and too muscled for a proper male, yet it seemed to… fit him.

She shook her head once more, trying to force her thoughts back into line. At least Dovindr had followed her instruction to eat first, so she would not further shame herself by eating before a male seated at her table. A point of custom which she noted that Grandmother, Duskflame, and even Brightvoice had followed as well, at the High Table.

<Then let him continue to act like a male, and let us finally turn to our duties as warriors.> Brightvoice, oddly enough, was the one to — unintentionally, Archbrook was sure — rescue her from the awkward situation. Carefully wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, she turned to Goldenshawl and fixed her cousin with a pointed look. <We have fed these strangers from our own stores, and even invited them to our own Hall. Now that any reasonable hospitality has been extended, there remains the issue of how we respond to this murder of your daughter.>

‘Murder,’ she put it. For a moment, Archbrook saw blue, her very vision tinted with rage. As if Mother’s death at that vile Southerner’s hand was some petty crime: a dispute over Clan authority, or even a boorish brawl over a male!

A faint echo of the fury twisting her own mind into a blood-hungry arrow flashed behind Grandmother’s eyes, but only for a moment. <This attack against Clan Whirlpool will be avenged, naturally.> She emphasized the obvious point that the Southerner could not have been going after Mother specifically. <But it will have to wait until after our warriors return, and for Truce to end after that.>

<The latter, certainly.> Brightvoice admitted. <But how many warriors do you expect to return?> Before anyone present could rise to the outrageous slight against the finest warriors in the World-Oceans, she added <For if there are rogue Southerners prowling the waves, attacking our vessels with weapons of such might as described by young Archbrook, we may have lost well more than a single craft.>

She… had a point, Archbrook had to admit. Sheer worry rose up and snuffed out the rising flame of outrage, at the thought of Clan Whirlpool being struck by such a mortal blow. The idea of so many cousins and relatives, lost to the sea.

Perhaps also disappearing in an eye-searing blast, like Mother?

An older, scabbed-over memory from many years before broke open, the raw wound rising to the fore once more. A vision: a sudden explosion, as the survivors had said, a warship glowing oh-so-briefly from within as her gunpowder magazine exploded. Light pouring from every seam, as millions of pilo worth of captured Southerner trade-ship leapt up into the air.

As did the remains of over four hundred loroi, gone in an instant. Half of them were Clan Whirlpool boarders caught mid-celebration at having captured such a large vessel of the effete Southerners.

One of those boarders had been Archbrook’s sister, all set to lead the prize crew back to Home.

They never found the body.

Just like Mother.

Twice. Her fist tightened around the chunk of miros-meat. That was twice now that Southerner treachery had taken the lives of those close to her! To the Depths with the code; the next time she crossed swords with one of those vile dirt-eaters she’d—!

Her heart fell.

She’d… never get that chance.

Her fury deflated, ebbing away like the receding tide.

She was in disgrace. Any vengeance against the hated Amenalids would come at another’s hands, not hers.

Her numb fingers slowly gave up their death-grip on the food given to her. In her other hand, Grandfather’s specially-prepared pozet had been reduced to a mashed ruin that seeped and bulged between her digits.

Conscious that the sanzai conversation had halted, doubtlessly because of her improper loss of control over her sending, she quickly finished off the remains of the stuffed island-grain bun. It was decidedly inelegant to clean her fingers this way, but she would not let her flare of temper waste Grandfather’s gift.

A chuckle from across the table.

Dovindr.

Another spike of anger, this time only fleeting. She still glared at him all the same, and the Dain’s smile dropped from his face.

And took her ire with it. What did he know, after all? Merely laughing at her licking her fingers like a child, no more than that. He could have no idea of the turmoil within her mind, the ignominious life — however little of it may remain — that fate and Southern treachery had now doomed her to.

<I am aware of the implications of my granddaughter’s report, cousin.> Grandmother replied, a hint of frost in her sanzai as she dragged the earlier topic back to the fore after a notable delay.

Brightvoice recoiled slightly at the barbed sending, bowing her head. <I would not ever imagine otherwise.> She raised her head just enough that now Archbrook could once more see her eyes as they darted over to the impugned once-heir. Then back to Grandmother. <But under the harsh blow of such bitter news, no-one could be faulted for… avoiding confronting what must be done.>

Archbrook sucked in a breath. One could hardly misunderstand just what the Clan’s new future leader was hinting at.

Archbrook’s fate.

Her gaze snapped to Grandmother, waiting with held breath for what would come.

<Then let it be decided here.> Grandmother snapped, glowering at her cousin. <You know what they have said, what they have failed to do.> There was no mercy in Grandmother’s harsh sanzai.

A deep pit opened in Archbrook’s gut.

Brightvoice, after a moment, nodded. <An example must be made, then.> In narrower sending clearly meant for Grandmother, so focused that Archbrook could barely intercept it, she added <Can you bring yourself to do so?>

Archbrook’s lungs ached, but she found herself utterly unable to breathe. Time stretched out into eternity as she waited on Grandmother’s answer.

A sharp nod. <I can.> Grandmother decreed, sanzai as cold as the polar sea. <I will see it proclaimed tonight, no matter the cost. When—>

Archbrook’s muscles gave way, and she half-collapsed onto the table before her. Numb arms only barely arrested her fall. An exclamation from Dovindr passed through her ears, unheard.

Then a sharp burst of sanzai cut through the despair, as pointed as any foe-woman’s sword. <Goldenshawl.> Sun Master growled, a warrior’s towering fury underlying the small male’s sanzai.

In a flash, Grandfather had appeared standing next to the high table, behind the three high-backed chairs there. Preferred mate or not, his presence at such an august place left several shattered taboos in his wake.

But by his irate expression, he didn’t seem to care. Briefly glancing back at Archbrook, his thin brows only lowered further as he turned to Grandmother <You will cease this misdirection immediately.> sparks of fury crackling off of his sanzai as he glared up at his mate. <It is beneath you.>

...What?

A question that seemed mirrored in Brightvoice’s mind, as an unfocused haze of confusion was all that came across in her indistinct sanzai.

A muscle in Grandmother’s jaw twitched, as she stared down at her male.

Nobody breathed. Even the Dains at the High Table paused in their eating, wide eyes darting back-and-forth though Archbrook was certain by now that they could not receive the sanzai argument.

<Very well, then.> Grandmother eventually sent. She leaned in not towards Grandfather, but closer to Brightvoice. Her raised hand jabbed one extended finger into Brightvoice’s chest, a gesture clearly meant to put the not-yet-a-leader in her place by the pointed physical contact. <The Forest Tribes will indeed be punished for their breaching of contracts publicly sworn, as I was just discussing with you. We will make an example of them, even if we must arm children from the creche to do it!>

Brightvoice tried to back away from her Clan leader, but the unyielding heavy timber of her chair held her pinned. Her brows rose and lowered, thoughts clearly trying to catch up with… whatever Grandmother was sending about now. <...The Forest Tribes?>

<Yes,> Grandmother stressed as if to a child, <the same Forest Tribes whose messenger you conveyed to me yesterday morning. The same Forest Tribes whose purported ‘honor’ has been bought by Sezabid silver, whose prepared timbers from this year’s harvest they say will now go to build merchant-craft for fat city-dwellers rather than our noble warships.> Only slowly did she relent, returning to her position in her seat and giving Brightvoice room to sit back up. <To whom else did you think I referred?>

The Clan’s Third-Warrior only slowly regained her composure, clearly still recovering from the sanzai assault. Her eyes darted aside to Archbrook, unreadable. Instead of responding to Grandmother’s question directly, she sent <And this one? Will she not be punished for her failure to defend or even avenge her very mother? Every moment that she stays under your roof brings shame to our warriors.>

<She will stay.> Grandmother’s sending was hard as stone. <You felt the truth of her report as well as I; there was nothing more that she could have done in the fight which took my last surviving daughter’s life. No dishonor attaches to her.> Her eyes narrowed. <Or did you forget her truthful account of the ambush, much as you sometimes forget that I still rule Clan Whirlpool?>

Grandmother’s thoughts flowed through Archbrook, but they brought her no relief from the crushing weight of her own conscience. Whether or not her family in the Clan thought ill of her for surviving where no others had mattered little, compared to how her own mind knew her guilt.

Not the guilt of having been able to act and shamefully cowering aside, no… but instead the heavy guilt of a warrior having been utterly powerless to save her comrades. Or even her own mother.

The shame of that weakness would never leave.

Brightvoice bit back. <It remains dishonorable to—>

Archbrook didn’t let her finish her thought.

Her knees barked against the table as she leapt to her feet, small pain ignored. <I will go.>

All eyes turned to her.

All eyes, but Grandmother’s.

Goldenshawl’s eyelids drooped tiredly closed, waiting for a heartbeat before finally her pale-gray irises met Archbrook.

Who swallowed against the lump in her throat, before sending <To the north, to the Forest Tribes. Alone. There will be no need to strip the Clan of what warriors — other warriors — it may have left.> She paused briefly, getting her thoughts in order for a formal declaration. Three blooded Clan warriors were here to witness it, after all, as required.

And Grandfather, whose face fell further with every thought that poured from Archbrook’s mind <They will deliver their materials to us as solemnly promised, or their heart-blood will taste my sword.> The fact that Archbrook was not currently wearing her blade was all that prevented her from drawing it, the way the oath-ritual should properly be done.

A bolt of hyper-focused sanzai nearly bowled her over, so sharp that even receiving it was borderline painful.

But it meant that none other than her received Grandmother’s thoughts. <You know what this may cost.>

Her life, of course.

That was the point.

But Archbrook certainly didn’t trust herself to even try to respond privately. Not with her mind awhirl, anxiety fighting against a rising tide of relief as she finally seized control over her own destiny once more. <If I return, then you will know that the tree-dwelling cowards have been forced back into line.> She swallowed once more, her mouth remaining stubbornly dry. <But if I do not, then you will know that the honor of Clan Whirlpool has been upheld all the same.>

That was the Beleri way, after all. If those dirt-eating Tribes who skulked in the great northern forests away from a proper warrior’s life at the coasts still dared to offer her combat, then all would abide by the result of that contest. Even they were Belerids, after all, as much as some true warriors may dispute that.

If their champion fell to Archbrook’s blade, then that would constitute a binding agreement to direct their now sorely-needed timber and other shipbuilding materials to Clan Whirlpool once more.

But even if instead Archbrook fell to their champion’s blade, then at least none would say that the mightiest Clan in the Great Island had taken this treachery lying down. And her death would be avenged in due time, as soon as the next year’s new warriors were ready in the late spring.

She wouldn’t die like Mother, unavenged and fed to the hungry Depths.

Still catching up, but damn do I like it. Just finished Chapter Three. I find it a humorous touch that Archbrook assumes that the only human female is their warrior and leader. And shocked to discover beards. I also love the mention of the Picts.

I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that the Tabenid Loroi here use constellations as well as humans. Then again a species bio-engineered in the likeness of another is bound to follow their human cousins' footsteps. Or in this case, the stars.

Snoofman wrote: ↑

Wed May 07, 2025 6:41 pm

Still catching up, but damn do I like it. Just finished Chapter Three. I find it a humorous touch that Archbrook assumes that the only human female is their warrior and leader. And shocked to discover beards. I also love the mention of the Picts.

I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that the Tabenid Loroi here use constellations as well as humans. Then again a species bio-engineered in the likeness of another is bound to follow their human cousins' footsteps. Or in this case, the stars.

Hehe, I'm very glad that you like it!

One of the fun things with writing 'aliens meet aliens' stories is having both sides make comically wrong guesses about the other. That's why I especially enjoyed writing this story (as neither Loroi nor Humans here have any experience at dealing with aliens, and only the Loroi even really have the concept at all): both sides get things repeatedly wrong. In this particular case, I'm having fun with both sides essentially patting themselves on the back on being so 'noble' as to not take advantage of the 'defenseless' other side: the Danes see "A bunch of women with lots of wealth and no men to protect them: they'd be easy pickings if we were violent Viking types" while the Loroi see "A bunch of males out sailing with only one warrior to protect them: they'd be easy pickings if we were violent raider types!"

As for the constellations, I figure that there's really only a limited number of ways for an ocean-going ship to navigate before modern-ish inventions. Taben's geography pretty much requires them to sail well beyond sight of land, and without many enclosed seas (e.g. the North Sea, Baltic Sea, Sea of Japan, Mediterranean) where you know you'll bump into land before you run out of supplies, even if you get lost and miss your original target. So the Loroi on Taben follow constellations for much the same reason as pre-modern humans did: it was a practical way of telling which way was North by tracking the North Star/The Once-Drowned Warrior (hi Tempest!) and also estimating your latitude.

It's also a fun excuse to come up with some more Loroi lore: what kind of constellations would they see in the skies? It didn't come up in this story (sadly) but it's especially interesting to wonder how a people who *know* that their ancestors once traveled among the stars would view them differently than has Humanity. E.g. the way that a lot of Human mythological heroes 'became' constellations after death as an explanation for their shape, maybe the Loroi came up with stories like <Tempest returned with the Bedein to bring fire and destruction to the home which had betrayed her. That's why that one splotch in the night sky (in actuality a nebula or a post-nova debris field) is like that: that's where she lived, and she blew it up!>

After… whatever-that-was in the main hall, the elfs seemed content to let them explore the building largely unbothered. Only a few rooms were clearly off-limits, with more armed elf-woman guards there to turn them away with a silent raised hand and shake of the head.

Dovindr had run into several of them already as he stalked the halls alone. Father and Lucas had stayed behind to talk with the Elf-leader, Frida had taken Halfdan back to their room, while the last two men had found a guide to take them back down to the docks to check on Harbor-Glory.

Which left Dovindr to his own business; fine by him.

Now if only one of these elf-women would tell him what he wanted to know. “Rozelsarad here?” He pointed to the tall wooden door behind this latest guard. After going through what felt like every other place inside this impressively-large building, he had ended up in the corridor outside the room that he and the others had been given for their own, last night.

He’d walked up to the single guard at the end of that corridor, pointing to each closed door in turn and repeating his question.

Only eventually did he finally get any response more than a silent shake of her head. The elf-woman grinned this time, and spoke “Certain no!”

He bit his tongue, barely holding back from rolling his eyes at the non-helpful ‘answer.’ The elfs had been gracious hosts thus far, yes, but he certainly didn’t want to be the one to earn their storied ire. Carefully controlling his voice, he asked “Then where—?”

The guard turned away, frowning past him. Dovindr turned to follow her gaze just in time for the door at which he had just pointed to creak open on its metal hinges — an elegant expense that nobody raised in Gorm’s household would fail to notice — and another elf to emerge.

The short elf-man, the one from the main hall. He nodded past Dovindr, to the guard, and then approached. “You look for Rozelsarad?”

Finally!

“Yes, I look.” Dovindr paused, uncertain how to phrase what he wanted to say next. For that matter, he was far from sure how he felt, himself. “She sad seem. At eating time. Not... hurt?” She’d appeared physically unharmed, but clearly distressed. Maybe the earlier guess that she was the sole survivor of a family shipwreck had been right? Unfortunately, he could think of no polite or gentle way to ask in his rough knowledge of their language. “Family not hurt, at sea?”

The elf took a few moments before answering. His eyebrows rose slowly, and those aged brown eyes — the only evidence that this elf-man was not the child his small stature would otherwise indicate — narrowed. “Perhaps. You care, then? She is not your people.”

Well, of course. Whether a Pict or an elf, it had been rather obvious from the start that she wasn’t from back home. Yet he certainly did care all the same. She’d pulled her weight — bailed many times her weight, for that matter — during the storm. And that made her an honorary part of Harbor-Glory’s crew, on their journey that had gone so far astray as to bring them somehow to elf-land. And thus, to some degree his responsibility. He was Father’s only son, and so the crew of his father’s ship were in part his to see after.

“Yes care.” He said simply, completely lacking the words in her people’s language to properly give voice to his other thoughts. “Where is?”

The short elf-man contemplated him for several seconds more, and then eventually bobbed his head. “Follow me. I will show you.”

Dovindr followed him out of the corridor, taking care to slow his longer strides to match the quick but short steps of the elf-man. Turning at the door, he noted that the elf-woman guard was now tailing them, her head turned to one side as if staring at something through the walls. Perhaps not surprising that she would accompany them, if this elf-man was at the very least a senior servant of the still-unseen chief of this elf-village.

He frowned, once more noting each blue face that glanced up to watch him pass as the three-person party wound their way through the grand building. It was said that elfs did not age as men did, yes, so he could not guess how many years they had; but certainly not a single one bore any wrinkles or other obvious marks of age. A few had their strange blue skin marred by scars, but he could not easily say how old those marks were. Most of the elfs seemed curious, others disinterested, a few amused… and all were women.

The sole elf-man he’d yet seen braced himself against a large door, leaning hard into it. Bemused, Dovindr extended one hand and pushed the — heavy, yes, but well-hinged — wooden slab open. Perhaps his guide’s short stature was the reason he had been left behind when all the other elf-men went… somewhere?

Come to think of it, “Your name is?” Dovindr asked. Servant or no, it seemed rude not to ask.

“Sun [Mollei].” came the answer.

“’Mollei’?” Dovindr repeated the unfamiliar word. He’d learned ‘sun’ from Rozelsarad days ago, but the other one was new to him.

The elf-man turned his head even as he led Dovindr — and their guard — onward, again frowning. But only for a moment, before he bobbed his head and spoke “Perhaps… ‘owner’? ‘Controller,’ ‘master,’—“

“Sun Master?” Dovindr echoed. A rather fierce name, really, for one so short.

“Yes.”

Shrugging, Dovindr let the silence that the elfs seemed so at ease with drop once more onto their small group.

Well, for a few seconds. Now that he’d finally found someone besides Rozelsarad who actually spoke back to him, he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. “What mean name ‘Rozelsarad’?” It hadn’t come up during the days of speaking with ‘Notel’ aboard Harbor Glory, but now that he had a better grasp of her people’s language he wanted to know.

“She did not tell you?”

“No.”

“Then I will not.”

Dovindr opened his mouth to object, but then thought better of it. It was difficult to be tactful in this crude half-language he currently spoke, and it seemed wise to be a bit cautious with how he spoke to the elfs. These ones, at least, those whom he had not spent many days at sea working alongside.

At the end of a narrow alley between stone houses, the trio approached a steep path that climbed the cliffside even higher up than the village already sat. It turned back on itself three times as it ascended, and as Dovindr craned his neck back to stare upwards he followed the thin line all the way to the small waterfall that poured into the open sky far above the sloped roofs.

Sun Master stopped there, pointing up the trail. “Rozelsarad is there. Alone.” He turned back to Dovindr, one eyebrow raised. “You want to meet her?”

“Yes.” Dovindr repeated, frowning. He’d said that much already, hadn’t he?

His guide’s eyes narrowed slightly, and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Only meet?”

“Only…?” Dovindr trailed off, not following.

A soft laugh from behind him, the first sound he’d heard from the elf-woman guard since they left the corridor a good while ago. What was so funny about him going to see Rozelsarad in such a secluded—?

Oh. “Yes only! Meet, talk, say!” he quickly amended.

Sun Master lowered his eyes, glancing aside. “Perhaps best.”

A thought struck Dovindr as he looked down at the short fellow in front of him. The one who seemed suddenly suspicious at the idea of him wanting to see Rozelsarad alone. “You her...” he guessed at the wrinkle-less elf’s age. And realized that he didn’t know the elf-word for ‘brother’. “Sister-man?”

His crude agglomeration of words was enough to bring a surprised laugh from Sun Master, a laugh and a smile. “No. I am her mother’s father.”

...'Grandfather'? But he looked even younger than she did!

Dovindr shrugged. Elfs.

Leaving the two behind, he began to climb.

////////

Archbrook’s thoughts whirled around her like the mountain wind. Frigid and ice-heavy.

Below, Redrock’s distinctive maroon roofs of local stone caught the afternoon sun. Reflected light played through the descending mist from the waterfall, casting a sea of glittering colors over the scene. Rainbow colors danced in the sea-breeze, airy and free. The sight from here, her childhood favorite spot, had never failed to buoy her spirits.

...

It failed now.

This was most likely to be the last time she ever saw her home, after all. She would go into the north, and she would all-but-certainly die there. The upstarts in port Sezabi were arrogant, not fools; they would surely anticipate that Clan Whirlpool would send a small force north to oppose their latest underhanded scheme. If they sent sufficient warriors to reinforce their Forest Tribe pawns enough to halt a detachment of Whirlpool warriors, then she by her lonesome would be hard-pressed to survive, let alone prevail.

Thus she did not expect to. Yet Clan Whirlpool’s honor would be upheld all the same, at the cost of the family line of its once-heir.

Her eyes drifted closed, and held there for a few solon. There were worse fates for disgraced warriors. That this one would at least restore both hers and Mother’s honor would have to suffice.

She sighed quietly, bending forwards and running her hands once more over the leather scabbard in front of her. Much smaller and plainer than it should have been, it contained one of Grandmother’s lesser swords. An heirloom blade with a storied history of its own, yes, but only the one that Goldenshawl had carried to battle before she won leadership over the foremost clan of Beleri. Archbrook’s own weapon, given to her years ago at her warrior-forging ceremony, had been lost to the Depths when she was blasted overboard from Mother’s ship.

And Mother’s personal blade, one only slightly less storied than Grandmother’s, had been lost there as well. At best, it had gone to join Archbrook’s; at worst it was now in the weak, grasping hands of some Southern murderer. It would never get to avenge its wielder, not even second-hand here by tasting Sezabid blood. It—

A faint disturbance played around the edge of her senses.

Two persons entering sanzai range, far below.

Grandfather and… Flamedance? Unusual for him to leave the Family’s house, at a time like this. Grandmother had shielded her mind well, yes, but Archbrook had still felt the pain echoing from the older warrior’s very soul. A pain that her status and position made difficult to express, lest any in the clan doubt their leader’s stalwartness at this dark time.

And so it had come as no surprise when Grandfather had announced that he would spend the rest of the day in his room at the Males’ Quarters. Left unsent — yet received by all — was that Grandmother would join him there once she was done speaking with their foreign visitors. Stories many uncounted generations old told of the well-known risks of a warrior and a male becoming entranced with each other as Grandmother and Grandfather so (in)famously had, yes, but they also documented the unmatched closeness of such a bond. If anyone could turn Grandmother’s focus back onto her duties as Clan leader, it would be Grandfather.

So what was he doing out here? He sent nothing to Archbrook, even though he must know that she sensed him. And at this distance, she would have to press into his mind to pull unsent thoughts to the receivable fore; an unconscionable rudeness.

So she drew her thoughts around her once more like a cloak, the time passing fast as her meditation-focus was filled by the familiar muted rushing of the brook alongside her. How the water leapt out from the tunnel carved deep into the mountain, each droplet hurling itself into the open air to plunge to its beautiful doom on the waiting rooftops far below.

A fate fitting for the life-giving stream that made Redrock so much more livable than other Belerid towns, and likewise a fitting fate for any of that town’s warriors. Archbrook drew in a slow breath, feeling her racing pulse slow with the calming movement.

Rocks tumbled behind her.

Archbrook spun where she sat, the muscles at her side twisting painfully.

A tall figure stood only a few paces away, invisible to sanzai and undetected until now.

Dovindr.

The alien male grinned sheepishly up at her, half-crouched and with a small scattering of rocks dusting his boots. It seems that only a slight misstep had revealed his presence. He had truly climbed all the way until then without making a sound? Most strange indeed, these aliens.

“You are... not-hurt?” he asked, gingerly stepping closer along the narrow trail. And, impressively, only glancing briefly down the steep cliffside to his left. Few even of Archbrook’s fellow warriors dared brave such heights, but this tall male did so only the slightest visible hesitation. Well, hesitation and a visible swallow as he glanced at the rooftops so far below, making the strange bump in his neck bob up and down.

“Yes.” she replied simply, finally giving up on her inward meditation for now. Invisible to sanzai or not, his presence in such a cramped space as this could not be ignored. Dirt scraped at the underside of her leggings as she shifted aside, making just enough room for Dovindr next to her. “You sit?”

“Yes sit.” He took the spot, and for a moment both shared a thin smile at the crudity of their broken half-language. Then again, was it not impressive that an alien, a creature from most-ancient stories, could learn to speak Trade at all?

A thought struck her. Did he… even realize what his people were? Where they were? The stories of old said that all aliens bowed in obedience to the Ancestors, her people, but then these ‘Dain’ people held themselves far more as equal-travelers than as awed servants. Yet if they were brave — or insane — enough to brave the open ocean in that tiny boat of theirs, perhaps they could justifiably hold their heads as high as any warrior.

Grandfather’s observation from this morning echoed through her mind. Gorm, at least, had been wearing a sword to the formal meal. That such was a towering insult was perhaps simply not known to him, but still the very idea of a male carrying such a deadly weapon in the first place was a great oddity.

Unless it was not so odd, for his people. But how to ask? “You are perhaps… warrior?”

He frowned, shaking his head. “I 'loroi-álfar'? Certain no.” He pointed to her, frown turning quizzical. “You loroi-álfar.”

Her expression came to match his. “What means ‘alfar’?”

“Mountain-people.” He said, clearly searching for words. “Uh, wood-people?”

It seems that his search hadn’t helped explain… whatever it was that he meant. Some name of his people, for hers? Perhaps stories, shared amongst his people for as long as the tales of the Ancestors had been retold amongst hers? No doubt one of the Clan’s story-tellers would dearly love to hear him speak of them, perhaps even Grandfather himself! What he could—!

She sobered, her thoughts heavily crashing back down upon the nascent bubble of enthusiasm.

For she would not be here to learn those stories. Not after she departed with tomorrow’s sunrise.

And did not return.

Her thoughts must have been plain on her face, for Dovindr spoke hesitantly “You… certain not-hurt?”

“Certain, yes.” She demurred, thankful that the male could not receive her thoughts. She had sought out the solace of this remote spot for a reason, after all. Now, what had been the previous topic? “Warrior-not-loroi. Fighter, hitter...” running out of clumsy spoken-words, she reached over and pulled Grandmother’s provided sword partly from its sheathe. Letting the steel blade glint in the sunshine.

“Ah.” He made one of those strange not-word sounds that she had heard before. “Stríðsmaður.”

She gave him a look. She wasn’t even going to try to pronounce something like that!

His cheeks dimpled with a thin smile, and he leaned partly over her and tapped one finger against the exposed blade. “Sverd-holder.” His breath tickled her chin.

She put her hand next to his. “Nol. ‘Sverd’ is nol?”

He nodded, such a strange loroi-like gesture. But then shook his head. “I not warrior. Not fighter. I, uh, small sailor.” He pulled his shoulders back, clearly proud of… something. “Big veiðimaður.”

Another strange word of his people… and another one that she hadn’t heard before.

Glancing over at her, he traced out a vertical arch-shape in front of him. Then held out his main hand, reaching after it with his off-hand and pulling back, first-finger and thumb pinched together. As if… drawing a bow? Which was a warrior’s weapon. Well, a warrior or a— “Maybe say ‘talas?’” Perhaps he was a hunter? “Animal-fighter?”

Neither of those words meant anything to him, clearly. So she mimicked his gesture, as if drawing a bow and loosing an arrow. Extended one hand to show an arrow’s flight. Jabbed her arrow-finger into one palm, and then — with a thin grin that was no longer quite artificial — mimicked holding both of her hands up to her face as if tearing into a juicy flank of miros.

Dovindr smiled in response, laughing.

And the storm-clouds looming over her mind retreated further. Not gone, no, only huddling sullenly over the horizon. A promise of a storm tomorrow, yes.

But today, right now, peace.

“Villisvín-talas I, yes!” Dovindr spoke. He pushed one finger-tip up against his nose, wrinkling the strange-pale skin there. Then, with a flashed grin, he made the most bizarre grunting sound… rather a lot like a feeding miros, actually.

Now it was Archbrook’s turn to laugh aloud, leaning back against the sun-warmed mountainside as the Dain then ran through copying her arrow-shooting gestures. More grunting, and then his arrow-finger traced through the air to poke himself in his wide chest. His lips pursed together, whistling somewhat like an arrow in flight.

Say what one will about his people’s apparent lack of sanzai, but their restriction to spoken-speech evidently had some benefits. The squeal that the male gave off as his finger-arrow ‘struck home’ was so much like that of a wounded miros that she could practically see the forest-creature sprinting around in a bloodied panic! Even when his squealing died off after a few beats into choking coughs, that only redoubled the humor.

It took many solon for their shared laughter to die down.

And a faint sending came up from below. <Archbrook?> Flamedance sent, her own laughter imbuing her sanzai. <Whatever you two are up to up there now, just make sure you tell Iceshard that I already won our bet fair!>

Not deigning to respond, Archbrook leaned past Dovindr enough to peer over the ledge. Grabbing a small handful of powdery cliffside scree, she threw the harmless projectiles down at her friend.

Who, far below, darted aside with an exaggerated shriek.

Which brought yet more snorted laughter from Dovindr. His heavy coat — made from some animal-pelt that she did not recognize, unsurprisingly — shifted over the bits of colored cloth that she could see lay underneath.

How strange, indeed, that his people seemed so similar to hers! Yet so different at the same time, if a male were indeed a hunter. The hunter-male in question met her eyes and his laughter stilled. Cheeks flushing red of all colors, he then turned aside.

She smirked. Perhaps he was indeed a male, after all. Although come to think of it, “What mean name ‘Dovindr’?” She pronounced his name with the ease of several days’ use, even as the strange sounds meant nothing to her. Well, nothing besides the friendly and humorous Dain-alien seated beside her.

He blinked, evidently not expecting the question. “Uh… dead-winds?” Not exactly a warrior’s name… but not a male’s name, either. “What mean name ‘Rozelsarad’?”

Well, that was easy to explain. “Arch-brook.” She dipped the fingers of her off-hand into the mountain stream at her side. “Brook here.” With a flick of her hand, she flung a spray of droplets out into the open air. Alongside where the small stream itself arced out over the town below. “Arch there. Arch-brook.”

An auspicious name, given to a young warrior expected to one day shield the Clan much as this mountain stream — with its waters reliably just above freezing even in the depths of winter — kept the village from becoming too cold to be livable.

The clouds in her mind lunged closer, darkening.

She fought them back. “Why name ‘Dead-winds’?”

His face also darkened at her words, and for a moment her instincts warned that her thoughts had leaked out over sanzai. But he couldn’t receive at all, couldn’t he? Her concerns boiled within her, for the several quiet solon where he did not say anything in answer. Instead, Dovindr seemed to shrink in on himself slightly.

And when he spoke, his voice was level… but cold. “Name at, uh… nothing-age?” Birth, then? A bit early to name a child. “Father and mother sailing home from trade-sailing. I in mother, then… sudden not in mother. Before she ready. She… hurt.” The near-evening sun glistened in the wet corners of his downcast eyes. “Need sail home most fast. Only no wind, no sail.” He swallowed, looking past her. “Dead wind. Dead mother.”

Oh. Oh.

Her chest clenched, understanding cresting over her. Complications during birth were rare, yes, but not so rare that a warrior would not worry about them. Especially if her duties called her out to sea even when she was expecting to soon deliver. Although for such ill fortune to take the life of the mother and yet spare the child was indeed unusual. Yet perhaps not for Dain-people?

Her jaw set. What she was certain was not common even for his people was to name the child who survived such a sorrowful event after said shame! “Why name you ‘Dovindr,’ then? That is not...” she reached for the simple words to express her outrage on his behalf. And came up empty. “...not.” she finished, lamely.

He nodded to himself, eyes still staring out to the horizon. “Not.” his empty echo barely came out above the burbling brook.

Then several more solon of silence, as both parties tried to think of what to say next.

Eventually Dovindr broke the silence. Swallowing audibly, he spoke “I think Father not then… all happy I survive, mother not.” His eyes slewed aside to hers, and then back out to sea. “Not then. Now yes, only not then. But name then, not now.”

A grim story.

The conversation died again. It would have been so easy to reach out to him over sanzai, convey her empathy for his sad story… but how to do so using spoken speech? Especially the limited half-language that he was still learning.

Fortunately, Dovindr helped her by breaking the silence himself. “Why you here? Up here, at arch-brook?” His smile was clearly somewhat forced, but at least it was a smile.

Which brought her up short. Answering ‘I am here for a last look down at my people’s home before I leave it forever to go seek an honorable death’ would certainly not help the male’s fragile mood. Or hers. But yet he had been uncommonly open and honest with her, revealing such a personal story of his earliest childhood to her. It would be most dishonorable for her to feed him some falsehood to stave off his curiosity now.

Picking her words carefully, she replied “I… leave next morning. Go north.”

“Leave?” He repeated, clearly surprised. “Why?”

How to explain? “Because duty.” She said simply. There was no way that she could think of to explain in their half-language the web of Clan domestic and foreign politics that had led to this being her only real option. The Dains seemed to accept their males as warriors, yes, but surely the world of politics was still beyond them.

She had, however, taught Dovindr the word ‘duty’ days ago, through some most-extensive pantomime aboard his small boat. Mostly because it seemed the only way to get him to cease trying to stop her — her! A Named warrior of Clan Whirlpool, rightly born on the waves! — from performing the routine work of any sailor out at sea. Adjusting lines, bailing bilge-water, repairing the sail, and a dozen other tasks.

“’Duty.’” He echoed doubtfully, fixing her with a look that mixed confusion with resignation. So he did remember. “Again duty?” After drumming his fingers for a few solon against the rock surface underneath him, he pointed to the sword laid across her own knees. “Then you are warrior?”

“Of course!” She fought down the spike of irritation at his evident surprise. Yes, his people would obviously not have heard of Clan Whirlpool, but surely he had the presence of mind to recognize a warrior when he met one?

Yet his frown only deepened, and he spoke immediately “But you are—” his hands rose to cup his flat, male chest. Then he froze, eyes widening as if his hands had acted without conscious thought.

Most different indeed, his people.

She snorted, which turned into a laugh as his cheeks reddened again.

Coughing, he turned back to gaze out to sea.

Archbrook made a show of crossing her arms under her own chest, pushing what she had there upwards and glowering at him even as her sharp grin resisted all attempts to push it off her face. “A warrior, yes.” She deadpanned, and was rewarded by a further bloom of color on his face. Although, that color couldn’t be healthy, could it? Red rather than a healthy blue.

Then again, if Grandfather’s guess was correct — which was usually the case — and Dovindr truly was an alien, maybe this really was just the blush reaction it seemed to be.

Her hand reached out to his cheek before she could think better of it. Tracing the back of her fingers along a face that was so familiar and strange at the same time. Almost ‘fuzzy,’ for one thing, with hairs too small to easily see. But above all else—

Warm.

How was he not overheating up here, wearing such heavy-looking clothes compared to her warrior’s garb?

Dovindr’s eyes flicked aside to hers, widening. Other than that, his entire body froze, unmoving.

She tried to read his thoughts from that one blue eye, a challenge with him being utterly dead to sanzai. A trace of fear, perhaps, at suddenly realizing how close he sat to a blooded warrior? Alarm, at such a touch? Or—?

Her smile deepened. Or maybe his people’s males truly were not so different from hers, even if they were sometimes warriors too.

On a whim, she changed her grip to now cup Dovindr’s chin, fingers rising up his other cheek and thumb at the corner of his mouth. A mouth that opened slightly, even as his breath caught. The warmth under her fingers intensified, even as more short face-hairs itched at her palm.

She smirked to herself. Definitely not so different from loroi males. Although this one was young, if she was not mistaken, and inexperienced.

“Archbrook?” he asked, voice rasping slightly. She didn’t need to receive his thoughts to know what they were.

With a long sigh, she dropped her hand and leaned back against the sun-warmed rocky slope behind her. Iceshard and Flamedance’s bet outcome would not be overturned here, not now. She would need her energy for the journey tomorrow… and especially for what she knew lay at its end.

After a beat, Dovindr sighed as well, doubtlessly reading her meaning. The immediate part of it, at least.

Which wasn’t really fair to the male. She shifted slightly, making room on the sloped face of the cliffside next to her. And patted it with one hand, eyeing Dovindr as she leaned back against the warm rock.

Who again showed that his sanzai-blind people could still read gestures well enough, as he reclined next to her. A most intriguing male, all things considered.

She nodded, smile drooping as a shadow of her inner sadness flickered to life. It really was true what the veteran warriors said, that the world and all within it became so much more interesting when one knew that life would end within days.

What mind lurked behind those questioning blue eyes, walled off from sanzai? One that was neither warrior nor male as she knew them. What alien world had he seen, known, lived in?

She would never know. Not unless—

She eyed the descending sun. Not unless she spent much of the time when she should be preparing instead speaking with this mysterious creature.

She pondered only a moment.

It was an easy choice.

“I go tomorrow,” she spoke, “to fight Northern Tribe, in forest. For boat-wood.”

And so she continued, describing in halting words the duty that called her forth, the destiny that was her only remaining option. Of the never-ending competition between the many clans of Beleri for the towering trees of the far north, those rare forest giants whose harvesting was under the absolute control of the loroi peoples that lived in the deep woods. Of how Clan Whirlpool had beaten all others and forced the Forest Tribes to give only to them the finest timbers. For the finest warships, to carry the finest warriors.

Only Sezabi was foolish enough to continue to vie for the thin supply of proper ship-building material. That den of upstarts and clan-less outcasts rightfully turned aside from all true Clans, no Family lineages among them. Of how they doubtlessly had agents of their own spreading lies and threats amongst the Northern Tribes even now, for the agreed-upon tribute of timbers to be reneged upon.

Agents that she would fight.

Agents that she would kill, fortune willing.

Dovindr, who had stayed silent aside from a few questions on new words, paled at that. Then leaned forwards slightly, pushing off of the slope, jaw set and eyes hardening. “You and who also?”

She briefly contemplated lying to him — could probably get away with it, with only vocal speech — but only briefly. She would not end her life as a liar. “I only. Duty says so.”

Duty and pragmatism, of course. Clan Whirlpool desperately needed those timbers before they were shipped off to Sezabi’s grasping, grubby merchant-hands… but Whirlpool’s warriors — surviving warriors — would not return for many eights of days yet.

With the best of fortune, she would slay Sezabi’s duplicitous envoys. But even with any fortune at all, she would at least fell enough of them before falling herself, and by her example remind the cowardly tree-dwelling Tribes of what honor they did have. Enough to overcome their fear of any surviving Sezabids, at least.

It seemed that something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Dovindr then asked in a strange voice “Only ‘duty’?”

She frowned at him. What did he mean, ‘only’? What else should motivate a warrior? And what was she, granddaughter of the famed Chief of Clan Whirlpool, if not a warrior amongst warriors? This final duty was perhaps the only thing left to her of the life she had been meant to live!

Archbrook pushed herself off of her stony backrest, glowering across at the alien. A thin wisp of wind, cold in the near-setting sunlight, wound its way around her and she shivered at its touch. Her rising anger fled with the disappearing breeze, and she forced herself to relax.

Had she really been about to castigate this male — an alien, yes, but still clearly a male who knew so little of the warrior’s life — over a mere misunderstanding? “Yes.” was her clipped reply.

Mulling over what to say after that, Archbrook’s eyes finally registered the way that the descending disc of the sun had just begun to kiss the western cliffs. How much time had she spent here, speaking with Dovindr? “It is late now. Return to building?”

The male’s mouth flapped twice without sound, before he turned to follow her gaze out to sea. Then he nodded, standing. “Yes return. Only...” he trailed off mid-sentence, in that most-strange way of speaking that his people had. Was it just his limited (but improving) grasp of Trade, or did they pause so in their own tongue as well? “...when you leave?”

She stood as well, as he once more came about to meet Archbrook’s eyes. It really was most strange, looking levelly across at a male of her own height. Strange because on one hand he was so tall, yet his soft eyes were indeed not those of a hardened warrior. ‘Alien,’ indeed.

“After meal.” She leaned over to pick up Grandmother’s sword from the ground, conscious of Dovindr’s eyes on her. “So perhaps maybe you do not sleep in so late tomorrow?” Her smile was now less forced than it had been earlier. After all, the way that the five males and their one warrior had spent many thousand solon in their room this morning after Clan Whirlpool had awoken for the day had prompted quite a few surreptitious jokes about just what their strange visitors were doing with all that time.

Dovindr’s eyebrows bunched in confusion, clearly a bit left behind by her sudden change in topic. As intended, even if it was perhaps a bit unfair to so confuse someone conversationally crippled by their lack of sanzai. “...yes?” He shook his head, and some of the cold left his voice. “Days now seem most… ‘not-slow’?”

“’Fast?’” she supplied the word. It was not surprising if things felt like they were progressing faster for him, now, having somehow found his way to this world of Warriors. The old stories weren’t specific on just how the Ancestors had traveled between worlds, but however it was done she couldn’t quite picture Dovindr and his people doing so intentionally. It would be quite fascinating to learn how they had—

Her first footstep on the path down back to the village stumbled, rolling across loose rocks. That was a story she would not be around to hear, after all. If Dovindr slept in as she thought him likely to — his people seemed to sleep less often than Warriors did, but for longer at a time — then this was to be their last talk.

Best to put it to good use, then. Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she asked “What was your life like? Before sailing, before storm?”

For several moments, there was only the quiet crunching of footfalls against gravel. Archbrook glanced back to see Dovindr looking at her with what was definitely ‘concern’ on his face. He shook his head, briefly closing his eyes. “Uh, as hunter?” The darkness lying heavy atop his brows faded, in what she was most certain was a deliberate change. “Many days hunting, only I in forest. Not know names your language, many animals. Forest quiet, friendly, cold-but-warm?” He clearly struggled for the words, even as he spoke more about his strange world.

Yet now that it was her turn to listen to him speak, Archbrook found it… enthralling. Here was a story, however roughly described, that no Warrior — no Loroi — had heard for many, many generations: life on an alien world. His speaking of such exotic creatures: swift ‘harir,’ tall ‘hjörtu,’ stalking ‘úlfar,’ and even one terrifying case of running into a ‘björn’ face-to-face! The names meant nothing to her, sure, but Dovindr certainly had all of the gift of story-telling that was known to be found in males. Whatever these fierce creatures were, Archbrook could almost feel their hot breath on the back of her neck!

What she could also feel was a single sanzai presence, which moved away from the base of the waterfall-trail as she and Dovindr approached. Flamedance had chosen to give them some privacy in their speaking, then. Archbrook sent a brief note of thanks to her friend, although it jarred loose a few thoughts inside her mind.

After all, while Archbrook was not privy to Grandmother’s and Brightvoice’s private sendings, she was certain that the two of them had some plan for Dovindr and his people. Why else invite the strangers to such a grand — and private! — feast this morning? It had been a clear gesture of excessive hospitality, a grace that Grandmother was not known to indulge in without purpose.

So if Dovindr would likely find it… difficult to leave Redrock without Grandmother's permission, and Archbrook’s own fate called her away, then it seemed best that she find some way to make the male feel less of a stranger here. And his people, of course, but he was the one that Archbrook felt the most responsible for. He would always be limited by his lack of sanzai, yes, but Archbrook had noted that none of the other Clan warriors had spoken to him or his people.

That should change. After all, it seemed that behind the iron-bound wall of his seemingly-involuntary lotai lurked a soul as artistic as that of any loroi male. Such stories as he had told her these last few bima, and with such energy, should not be kept silent.

She chuckled to herself, waving off Dovindr’s questioning sound in response. Perhaps his entrancing stories of far-off lands and strange creatures could even finally pull Braidbloom from her infamous satiated lethargy! Although getting them to meet would require somehow extracting her from the island fortress that had become the young warriors de-facto home…

All too soon, the two of them found themselves outside of the imposing doors of the main hall. Off to the west, the sun set on one more evening… the last evening that Archbrook would get to spend speaking with this strange male.

A dull ache threatened to fight its way up from her chest and out from behind her eyes. But with the discipline expected of a Whirlpool warrior, she forced it back. She would not cry, not now.

Not even as the door to Dovindr’s room in the Males’ Quarters shut between them, cutting off her view of his worried face.

///////

“You were out a while. Where’d you go, lad?” Father asked, seated on an elaborate wooden chair as he warmed his hands by the fireplace. Only a few small logs burned there, but the massive brick structure more than made up for its meager fuel as it heated the room to a pleasant temperature.

One that failed to warm the chill that refused to leave Dovindr’s chest, however.

“I was, uh, speaking with Rozelsarad.” ‘Jumping-brook,’ what a strange name. Yet it surely seemed to fit her: the waters bravely leaping out into the unknown in an unstoppable surge... and then each fragile, beautiful droplet plunging down to their doom.

“She was showing you her people’s town, then?” Father asked, turning to give Dovindr a look. It was not hard to read his obvious thoughts lurking behind that appraising glance.

Then again, Father’s clear intent felt… different, now. Now that Rozelsarad had told him of how she would leave tomorrow. How she did not expect to return.

“Where’s Lucas?” blurted out of his mouth before he could stop it. Before he could even really examine the thoughts buzzing through his mind like disturbed forest-bees.

Father’s eyebrows raised, and the corners of his smile climbed up into his bushy mustache. “Looking for a priest already? I wouldn’t recommend it, though; the village headman’s say-so was good enough for your mother and I, after—” Dovindr’s glare cut off Father’s jovial humor. When Father spoke again, his voice was level, slower. “What do you need to see him for?”

Evidently, the sharp and analytical mind hidden behind Father’s ruddy, sea-worn features had turned to wondering just what Dovindr might need to speak to the Christian ex-mercenary about.

If only Dovindr knew.

“I—” he started. Stopped. Pulled in a deep breath, as much to center his own thoughts as anything else. Maybe he didn’t actually need to ask far-traveled Lucas’s advice. “Do you still have the salted journey-meats?” He was pretty sure they hadn’t all been eaten.

“...Yes.” Father replied after a moment’s pause. His eyes narrowed, staying locked on Dovindr even as he bent to pull at a cloth-wrapped bundle lying atop his folded travel-cloak. “Where are you planning on going?”

Best to start at the beginning. “Rozelsarad is leaving. Tomorrow morning.” Dovindr knelt at the side of his no-doubt expensive wooden bed, reaching under the blankets. Checking — double-checking — that the hidden sword still lay there. He had the feeling that he would need it, after all.

And so it finally came time for him to voice aloud the thought that had been relentlessly growing in his mind, ever since Rozelsarad had told him of her sudden departure. “I’m going with her.” The thought solidified as it left his mouth, growing that little bit more… real. “I’m going with her.” he repeated more softly, relief and surprise twisting within his gut now that he had revealed to himself what he truly meant to do.

For quite some time, there was silence. Only the faint snoring of Frida as she lay on her bed, underneath several blankets and one finally-sleeping infant.

“Where are you going? The two of you?” To Dovindr’s surprise, Father did not so much as raise his voice. Nor was there any explicit ‘reproach’ in his gravelly tone, only a distant timbre of something unreadable.

“North. I don’t know exactly where.” Dovindr stood from the bed, now with his own travel-cloak retrieved from Frida’s pile. Cloak, food, sword… which left only a few more items he would certainly need. “She said that she goes to fight some great enemy of her people. Alone.”

“She did not ask for you to go with her?” Again, Father surprised him by skipping the obvious questions and going straight to those that dug deeper into Dovindr’s mind.

And Rozelsarad hadn’t asked him, had she? He was no battle-veteran fighter, sure, but he was a man in good shape — no longer a boy! — who could handle a spear well enough. Why had she not so much as voiced the idea? Her ‘pride’ as she had put it, of course, that same ‘pride’ that had had her turn aside all of his attempts back on Harbor-Glory to aid her in some of the work that she had insisted on performing… alone.

Elfs.

Feeling the sting of words unsaid, Dovindr confirmed “No, she did not.”

“Yet there is no doubt in your voice, boy, when you say that you will accompany her.” Was that… approval in Father’s voice?

Dovindr turned, leaning back against his bed and looking down at his father. “You do not wonder why I have decided to go after her?” A question that Dovindr honestly wasn’t certain he could have answered, even to himself.

It just felt… right.

Father shrugged, and his thoughtful expression dropped back into the far more familiar knowing grin. “I was once a young man myself once, you know.” His eyes unfocused, staring through Dovindr. “And your mother was a young woman once, a fisherman’s daughter brave — foolish! — enough to leap from oar to rowing oar of her father’s little boat, just to impress us far-off travelers as we pulled in to the harbor.” His hazy smile broadened, briefly, before disappearing as he refocused his gaze on Dovindr. “I know what drives you, and—”

Dovindr’s face heated, and he interrupted “She is álfar, Father! I would not think—”

A touch of Father’s famous temper bled into his voice, and with one raised finger he spoke forcefully “I was not finished, boy.” After a moment to confirm that Dovindr had quieted, he continued “I know what drives you, and it is more than chasing after the latest girl — elf or no! — who flashed you a smile and a wink.” Father leaned back on his stool next to the fire, chuckling to himself. “No, if that were your way, I’d already have some fat farmer’s-daughter to call my law-child.” He eyed Dovindr with a briefly-narrowed gaze. “Or perhaps a mead-maker's daughter.” Before Dovindr could answer that that had indeed almost been the case, Father waved one hand. “But no. You are my son… and your mother’s. My heart called out to the ocean and to far-off lands, as hers did. As yours does.”

Father shook his head, and now when he pointed his finger at Dovindr it was accompanied by a proud smile. “It is adventure that calls out to you, boy, and what a skald’s-dream is this one that you have thrown yourself into even without hesitation! The Gods had always marked you out to be more than some deer-stalker, tramping around marshes and muddy forests merely to fill the week’s stew-pot.”

Dovindr bristled, but knew better than to interrupt Father again.

“I have sailed into more trading-places than most men can count, boy. I have met men who live in cracks between the northern mountains, men who command house-tall deer-creatures as we do mere dogs, men of horse and plain with naught but a single rope of hair left atop their shaven heads, and even men with skin like smoothened charcoal!”

Dovindr did have to admit that he could feel his heart reaching out at such fantastical descriptions. Perhaps Father was right?

…He usually was, even if Lucas might disagree.

“And over my life, I have heard so many skald-stories that I could tell them better than most of those doddering old fellows. Tales of the Gods’ wars, of battles between father and son across battle-lines, of troll-fights and dragon-hunts.” He nodded, knowingly. “And yes, also of men who wander, elf-lost, into the forests, only to return months later and decades older. Or sometimes the other way around. But!” He clenched his fist, grin broadening. “I have not heard even the most gray-bearded wise-man tell of a young man who went to fight alongside an elf-princess! You sail untraveled waters, my boy.” In stark defiance of the common sense of all good sailors — but perhaps not all good merchants — Father clearly approved.

Suddenly aware that his mouth was hanging open, Dovindr closed it with an audible clack. “I— Yes, I will go.” Shaking himself, he went back to his list. “In the morning, I will go down to the harbor and retrieve my bow from Harbor-Glory. Are our travel-skis still where we had packed them?” An indirect way of asking if he would be allowed to borrow the expensive snow-traveling tools. The ones that would surely be necessary for any journey overland, and at least he was definitely confident that his years-trained skill atop the two lengths of carved wood was a match for any elf-woman!

“They are, yes.” Father inclined his head, granting his permission.

“Good.” Dovindr’s pulse accelerated, and even though it was certainly dark outside now even the idea of sleep seemed impossible to him. He pulled his shoulders back. “Then I will go, tomorrow, to follow a story that the skalds will tell of for generations!”

“That you will, yes.” when Father raised his face once more, a sharp smirk pulled at the corner of his eyes. “But also to follow an elf-woman blessed with a physique that surely Freyja herself must envy!”

Well, yes, that too. But for form’s sake, Dovindr halfheartedly glared down at his chortling father.

At least she had gone from an ‘elf-girl’ to ‘elf-woman’ in Father’s eyes.

Since this is pre-Reunification Taben, I've tried to portray a loroi culture that's noticeably different from that of the Union we see in canon Outsider. In addition to Arioch's noted influence from pre-Classical Sparta, the Belerid warrior-clans here (in particular Clan Whirlpool) draw more than a little from early-Shogunate Japan. A whole lot of emphasis on individual noble-warrior's 'honor' and reputation, but the loroi are still pragmatic enough that instead of a disgraced warrior being ordered to commit ritual suicide by her own sword, she's tasked to make her death *accomplish* something.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy to follow Archbrook out of the elf-town. The elfs had not repeated their invitation to a breakfast feast, and indeed the main hall had been empty when Dovindr and the others had made their way to it. A quick, small breakfast of their own travel-foods, and then Dovindr had hurried away down along the cliffside path that led to the harbor below.

Again, empty. No elfs to be seen. The streets between the smaller buildings of their town were empty of anything beyond the soft haze of driven snow, blowing in the never-ending breeze coming from the waterfall far above.

With his unstrung bow safely in its protective leather quiver, slung over his back along with his short hunting-spear, Dovindr had walked the perimeter of the town, skis held under one arm. His bootsteps had thumped against the stone — stone! — streets, echoing into the silent distance.

It had taken some time — this village was certainly larger than the ring-wall back home! — but after all Rozelsarad hadn’t actually told him where she was to leave the village. By what route, that was, and he hadn’t had time to explore the strange place beforehand.

But in the end, it was easy enough. Just find the crowd of perhaps a hundred elfs standing in perfect silence, out at the north-eastern end of the settlement. Arranged in a rough semi-circle, all eyes watching as atop a raised rock in the center Rozelsarad stood facing the golden-cloaked elf that was their clan’s leader. Rozelsarad’s grandmother, even, as she had told him yesterday.

Stepping forwards, the older-but-just-as-young-looking elf held out both her hands. Offering two objects to the departing Rozelsarad. One was a sword; he thought that it was the same one she had shown him atop the waterfall. In the other hand, a cut trunk-segment of a tree, fresh enough that the sap dripped down her outstretched arm.

He knew ceremonial gifts when he saw them, for all that the meaning was hidden from him. He would ask Rozelsarad about it, later.

...Perhaps a good bit later. The elfs carried out their ritual in complete silence, and something in the back of his mind told him not to walk out in front of all of them to break that silence. No, he would wait for the crowd to disperse, and then catch up with Rozelsarad on the path afterwards.

He stood in the shadow of one of the outer buildings, with none of the elfs paying him so much as a backward glance. The path on the opposite side of the crowd led up the cliffs and off to the east at a shallow angle, so it should be easy enough to reach once the crowd broke up. Just wait for them to—

An unwelcome thought crossed his mind. With all of her talk of ‘pride’ yesterday, would Rozelsarad even want him to accompany her? Especially, would she want all of her fellow elfs to see him do so? She had seemed prickly enough about her sense of pride aboard Harbor-Glory, after all, as a particular faint-healed bruise on the back of his arm demonstrated.

He chewed his lip. And after a moment, stepped back around the corner. Moved to a person-sized hollow carved into the cliffside nearby, perhaps an old fireplace? Or a shelter for a town guard, to keep his head covered from the ever-present gentle snow?

Either way, it should suffice to keep him unnoticed by the elfs after they dispersed. Until then, though, his curiosity drew him back. Setting his pack and skis down, he returned — quietly, this time! — to watch the rest of the elf-ceremony. It meant nothing to him, sure, but it would be something to retell to Father and the others when he returned. And it surely meant something to Rozelsarad, of course.

The elf-woman in question buckled her sword on — at her right side, oddly — and took the sap-branch in both hands. Rubbed some of the sticky substance onto one thumb, and then painted it diagonally across each cheek.

Her grandmother nodded solemnly, stepping back and down. Leaving Rozelsarad standing alone atop the raised rock, with only a sword and a dripping branch.

His brows furrowed. She had what must be a travel-pack slung behind her, sure, but he certainly saw no skis! Not even any broad-boots, which were exhausting enough to travel by! Did she mean to walk through these deep wintertime snows, as if headed to market rather than to battle?

However incompletely-equipped she may be, there was no hesitation visible in Rozelsarad as she bowed to first her grandmother and then the group further away. Then turned and simply stepped off of the rock to the snow-flecked ground below.

As if a spell had been broken — and with elfs, perhaps one indeed had — the assembled crowd began to move again. Still without any sound besides crunching snow, of course, but they turned back towards the town.

Dovindr quickly ducked back around the corner before they should see him, padding quietly to his hiding-place. And waited, as the bustling — as much as that term applied to a group as silent as they — crowd filed past in twos and threes. Many with heads bowed, others glancing to each other in silent conversation.

None appeared to notice him, deep in the shadows of whatever this carven-hole was. Good. Now, just how long should he wait? The path that Rozelsarad had taken continued on for perhaps a hundred paces before it rounded one cliff-corner deeper into a mountain valley, and by the time it returned to being visible it was many times farther away and further up.

Still, that was a hundred paces where he would be easily visible to anyone in the town who turned back to watch their single daughter depart. Alone.

He worked his jaw, teeth tapping against each other in sequence. Would Rozelsarad object to his following her? Would she tell him to turn back, to a town still within vision?

Slowly, he sank down the wall to rest against the stony ground. Perhaps it was best that he wait a while, then, and catch up to her well after the town had been left far behind them. Which left him with some time to do nothing but wait, of course. Alone with just his thoughts, and—

Snow crunched under light feet.

Close by.

Holding his breath, Dovindr leaned forwards just enough to peek slowly around the corner of his hiding-place.

A single elf-man walked alone down the street, slowly. His head turning to and fro, pausing here and there to pace around door-places and peer down each side-street.

Walking Dovindr’s way.

Dovindr squinted against the frost-glare of the morning light. That was Sun Master, yes? He’d seen a few other short elfs like him — other elf-men? — in the crowd, but only a handful. The black hair of this one stood out as sharp as ever, against the snow-whitened backdrop.

Either way, Dovindr leaned back into his hiding-place. That elf-man seemed a friendly sort, but after hiding from the whole crowd it felt… odd not to hide even from one of the very few elfs who had spoken to him.

Which just raised the question: what was Sun Master doing here? He was clearly searching for something, but—?

A shadow appeared at the rim of Dovindr’s cove.

A short shadow.

Sun Master stepped into the ‘doorway,’ pausing as soon as his eyes locked onto Dovindr’s. Seated on the floor as he was, Dovindr found himself in the unusual position of looking up to match the diminutive elf-man’s gaze.

And from this angle, there could be no doubt. Behind that elf-young face entirely devoid of wrinkles or the bony sharpness of many years lurked a truly aged mind.

Dovindr opened his mouth to say something, explain why he was lurking in this shadowed corner of the elf’s village like some skulking house-thief. But found no words.

Sun Master’s eyes darted to several points, from the short hunting-spear across Dovindr’s lap to the leather satchel strapped over one shoulder. Then to the wrapped bow-tip protruding above Dovindr’s shoulder, before lingering briefly on the two skis at his feet.

Again without saying a word, the elf-man simply raised one eyebrow. Then bobbed his head as if to himself, and quietly walked away.

Dovindr let out a breath. What had that been about?

He shrugged, even as a chill worked its way down his spine. There was a reason why all stories spoke of elfs in such mysterious tones, after all. Who could know what motivates such spirits?

‘Pride,’ for one thing. His mouth clacked shut, grimacing.

///////

He was now quite certain that Rozelsarad did not even have skis. And yet she made good time, resolutely carving her way through the foot-high snow. Even while the sun had climbed high overhead, she did not pause.

Then now as the sun now descended, she had kept going. And he had trailed well behind her, up along the trail until it crested the clifftop and then out onto a broad plateau that widened out to the northern horizon.

Yet, even as the voice in his head calling him a ‘coward’ grew louder still, Dovindr hadn’t approached her. Had only followed on his skis, using the shorter one to push himself forwards while the longer held his weight — gear and all — lightly atop the packed snow.

All while his eyes tracked the elf-woman far ahead, rendered small by distance. What was she planning? Was she going to simply walk this way, through winter snow that no doubt would thicken as they went further north, as if this were a summertime stroll?

Evidently, she was.

Even as the sun kissed the horizon, she persisted. A small figure far-off in the distance. Easy to lose among the rolling, rocky hills; only easy to track because of the deep boot-prints she left in the snow.

At least it had been easy to follow her… during daytime.

And it was then that Dovindr realized just how dark it got at night, here in elf-land. The moon did not show its face above the horizon — as it hadn’t ever since that first great storm out at sea — and Rozelsarad lit no camp-fire that he could see. Eventually he simply groped his way to a tall rock near him, visible only by the stars that it blocked out, and slumped down at its downwind base.

This ‘adventure’ as Father had put it was not off to a good start.

The only good thing thus far was that his travel-cloak kept him comfortably warm, especially after he cleared out a small hollow of snow-free space to lie down in. He dared not light a fire of his own to properly warm himself or his evening meal of a bite of cold salted pork.

After all, if he still hadn’t come up with a good way to explain himself to Rozelsarad, how much worse would it be if she were the one to stumble upon him, visible to all on this open plain next to a lit fire! At least he had spied a forest off to the north, at the base of a steep mountain slope that he had been following the elf-woman towards all day.

Among the trees, he would feel a lot more at home. And it should only take another day’s journey to reach them, even if it certainly felt that every day passed so much faster now.

He chuckled to himself. Knowing Rozelsarad, perhaps she did keep trudging on through the night!

///////

The first glimmer of dawn brought welcome relief to Archbrook’s sore eyes, aching from squinting against the weak star-light to guide her way. She had slept the night before departing, so it was easy enough to march on unhindered by the sun’s absence.

If only she hadn’t mis-timed her journey. Perhaps if she had departed Redrock before dawn, she would have passed through the Island-Belt mountains still under the cover of dark.

She shifted the weight of her travel pack from one shoulder to the other. One hand reached into the pack, grasping at the pyre-seed log there. She sighed to herself, quiet against the silence of the lonely early-morning.

Perhaps it was better this way.

She did not expect to return, after all. The fact that Clan Whirlpool was desperately in need of the Forest Tribes’ timbers was easy to infer. Obvious enough, in her estimation, that perhaps even the Sezabids would be able to guess that her Clan would have to send a force — however small — north to correct the Tribes’ treachery that Sezabid silver had so dishonorably purchased.

A 'force'… or a single emissary.

And there were few places where one would have to pass through, between Redrock and the Great Northern Forests. Archbrook was taking the most-direct route, but no Sezabid scouts worth anything would assume that. Sezabids were cowards, not idiots. They would have put people watching each of the mountain passes.

And so she walked straight into Belt-Buckle pass, the by-far nearest route through the towering mountains to the highlands beyond. The first place that she would have sent her scouts, had she been the one told to watch for any warriors marching out from Redrock and into the north. Hoping only that her foes would have had to disperse their numbers enough that she could fight her way through any blocking force.

It would indeed have been better had she been able to make this part of the journey under cover of night. But that was not to be.

What waited for her, here among the first few trees at the base of the mountains? Or perhaps… who?

…

Only silence greeted her entry into the thickening forest. Nothing more than the crunch of snow underfoot, as the time stretched on and the forest lengthened behind her. Well, nothing had challenged her passage for the first thousand-odd solon of trekking past the ever-taller trees. How typically rude of a Sezabid, to not even—

<Halt, traveler.> a sending came from ahead.

Archbrook rolled her eyes, one hand lifting her travel-pack from a shoulder rubbed to near-blistering by the leather strap. Finally.

Her other hand, of course, dropped to the sword belted at her side. <What fisher-woman dares send to a warrior of Clan Whirlpool?> No reason to hold back her thoughts, now of all times.

One mind entered deeper into sensing-range, the one who had first hailed her. A solon later, and two more joined it. Well out of bowshot, but approaching at a walking pace.

<Three daughters of Sezabi.> came the languid reply, from the same mind. One that shielded itself with some skill, at that. Archbrook pressed in upon the distant link with only enough energy to determine that no cowardly bow-shot was to be attempted by them.

She would conserve her energy for now; she might need it very soon.

Out of the mid-morning shadows came three figures. The first, a head taller than her compatriots, boasted sharp features and a confident, rolling stride that sent her waist-length orange hair waving boldly behind her. Girded around her was silver-trimmed armor and a likewise-decorated scabbard at one hip, glinting as the forest shadows played over her. Behind her strode two who could have been sisters for how much they looked alike, with blue-white hair barely down to their ears. Heavy cloth armor granted the impression of more bulk than truly belonged on their obviously-young frames, and each one clutched a spear and shield with obvious nervous-anticipation.

Archbrook narrowed her nostrils in disdain, straightening her back — which protested slightly, after more than a day of unending walking — and staring down these trespassers who approached her. Other Clans may say that the wide lands between towns belonged to nobody, but each Whirlpool warrior knew that any place lying within reach of her weapons belonged to her people by default.

Still, that silver-trimmed armor… a member of Sezabi’s ruling Clan, then, ‘Purecastle.’ Those jumped-up shopkeepers who had gathered the various failed cast-offs of Beleri’s actual warriors and forged them into a ramshackle town more fond of precious metals than sharpened steel.

This was a fight that she would surely enjoy.

The three halted perhaps twenty paces distant, their obvious leader standing before her subordinates. <You have traveled far, Whirlpool.> sent the leader, her mocking thoughts clear in the background of her sending. <Perhaps you need a rest before we—>

Eyes flaring, Archbrook sent disdainfully <I am Notel Ridi Rozelsarad, here to correct the weak-willed Foresters and their corruption by cowardly merchants. Who are you that stand before me?>

The traditional challenge to a match-of-arms, delivered with all of the force of mind that had made all wise warriors throughout the world fear Clan Whirlpool.

...Of course, ‘youth’ and ‘wise’ rarely went together.

<I am Sentry Rainsquall!> sent one of the young spear-carriers, her indignant sanzai limned with burning anger. <You meet your match here, today!>

<And I am Sentry Windlash!> sent the other, full of pique. <You see no merchants here before you, but warriors of the City!>

Archbrook fixed them with a flat look, before turning to the one who actually may be a threat. Not these two over-eager Clanless children. They whose minds trembled even as they sent to her, their choice to communicate in sanzai — and thus leave their minds open to attack, should she have chosen to start the fight then and there — betraying their inexperience.

But still, there were rules to all of this.

<I am Innalrelloten Tiris Rosanallo.> To her credit, ‘Warrior Highsail’ at least lacked any of the bluster of her subordinates. Instead, the mind that could be faintly sensed through her combat-prepared hazy lotai was that of a veteran, one who was merely going through the motions before all involved would get to the fight that everybody knew was imminent. <I am here at the command of my Chief and her First Minister, to see that my duty to the City is carried out to the full.>

Nodding in grudging respect to her almost-analogue, Archbrook sent <My time is valuable, and so I tell you now: step aside, or perish by my blade.>

As expected, nobody moved.

Archbrook pulled Grandmother’s sword from its scabbard, holding it raised before her in one hand. Her other sat pointedly at her side, unencumbered.

She saw the way the two younger Sezabids eyed that open hand, as their own fingers whitened on the grips of their spears. Spears, of all things! A coward’s weapon, one that showed its wielder to be too weak of mind to dare fight her opponent at close range. A range where no shielding lotai could be maintained, and the stronger mind would batter its opponent into helplessness… after which the physical blade driven forcefully home was merely a formality.

Highsail waved her own free hand, and the two spear-women stepped out to either side while she drew her own sword to match Archbrook. But instead of holding it at an aggressive high-ready the glinting steel hung low, pointed to the ground. <My orders here do not require your death, Whirlpool, only that you travel no further. Return to your village, seek a wiser fight at a later day.> Her off-hand pointed to the flanking younger warriors. <Here, you are surrounded.>

Archbrook scoffed aloud. It seems that it truly was necessary for Clan Whirlpool to remind the lesser Clans of Beleri who the real warriors were. <All that surround me are cowards,> she sent, turning her head aside just enough to pointedly eye the spears and shields slowly moving to either side <and children.>

The calculated amount of pointed condescension that she had shoved into her biting sanzai did its trick.

With a vocalized growl, Rainsquall hurled herself forwards, spear dropping into a fierce thrust at Archbrook’s side. At the same time, her half-trained lotai dropped into place to shield her even as she closed to striking distance.

A pointless exercise, versus one of Clan Whirlpool’s foremost warriors. Mother would never have allowed Archbrook to be anything less than finely-trained, after all.

Archbrook stepped into the attack, twisting out of the way of the jabbing spear-tip at the last solon. Her off-hand crossed over to grasp the haft of the spear, and she yanked hard at it.

With a mental yelp that escaped through the fool’s own lotai, Rainsquall stumbled forwards. As she leaned further forwards over feet that were struggling to catch up with her center of mass, Archbrook’s raised sword came smashing down at the top of her head.

Handle-first, that is. The rounded pommel caught the overeager Sezabid at the back of her neck, and she dropped limply to the ground. Only unconscious, by the feel of her mind, but she would be out for the rest of this fight.

A fight that was now two-on-one. Still perilous odds, even with one fighter clearly most inexperienced. Best to even those numbers as soon as possible.

<Children.> Archbrook taunted again, even as she leaped back to avoid a probing slash from Highsail’s sword. That merchant could move faster than one expected.

Worse still was that Windlash quickly moved to take position behind Archbrook instead of falling for her bait. Even for her, it took quite a lot of concentration to track both opponents at once this way.

Too much concentration. She had to act immediately.

Archbrook jabbed the yet-dry tip of Grandmother’s sword at Highsail, forcing the real opponent back. In the split-solon opening thus made, she spun on the weak link of the three waylayers.

Windlash only barely raised her shield in time to deflect Archbrook’s questing sword, the metal circle as wide around as Archbrook’s forearm was long clanging loudly against the flat of the blade.

Which left open an opportunity to turn this two-versus-one fight into a proper duel, at least for a short while.

Long enough.

Archbrook thumped an open-palm offhand blow into the center of Windlash’s shield, right above where the young warrior’s grip must be. And lunged out with her mind, seeking to cross the finger’s-width of remaining distance between them. Searching for a—

And found it.

She hammered a mental spike into her target’s mind, bypassing the girl’s weak lotai by sheer force of proximity.

Windlash stumbled, her muscles briefly locking up under Archbrook’s interference. Panicking eyes shot wide as she realized her mortal error.

But Archbrook could herself sense Highsail’s presence behind her, enough intent leaking around that older warrior’s lotai to warn her. She had only a solon left for this.

It would be enough.

Archbrook swept one foot out at the same time as she shoved hard with her off-hand. Knocking Windlash’s feet out from under her and sending her tumbling backwards. What had started as a stumble turned into a full sprawl, the young warrior toppling over. Her spear fell from frozen hands.

She was out of the fight, at least for a few solon.

Yet a spike of pointed alarm drew Archbrook’s sword-arm to swing behind her even before she could turn her head.

Metal scraped against metal, Highsail’s rapid strike diverted just enough to not skewer Archbrook straight through.

Instead, a line of burning heat raced across her left thigh. Right where the shaped armor thinned over her hip.

Archbrook leapt aside, putting space between her and the remaining combatant.

And Highsail let her, standing still and faux-idly tracing one hand along her own blade. Whose leading-edge now shone blue in the strengthening sunlight.

The same blue that came up on Archbrook’s fingertip, as it quickly dropped to gingerly check her injury.

She eyed Highsail’s sword. Thin point in her armor or not, that was a well-crafted blade to cut through her protection with what was ultimately only a glancing blow. Perhaps—? <Your sword strikes well. What name does it bear?>

Highsail made a show of cocking her head slightly to one side. <A sword is a sword. But the warrior whose lifeless hands I first took it from called it ‘Leg-biter.’> Her eyes dropped momentarily to Archbrook’s stinging thigh.

Who smirked thinly. <Fitting.> A true warrior’s weapon, then, to have been named. Also worrying, that Highsail had bested the blade’s previous owner. Yet her sanzai bore no deception, only truth.

What was more worrying still was that this Sezabid merchant did not show any signs of concern or anxiety, now that she faced a warrior of Clan Whirlpool one-on-one. In duels, the mental discipline of each fighter counted for far more than her physical strength… and this one’s iron-banded mind was alarmingly close to being Archbrook’s equal.

Best to try to put her off-balance.

Without taking her eyes off of Highsail’s, Archbrook delivered a hard kick to Windlash’s prone form. A wet cough as air was forced from spasming lungs, and a sanzai groan of pain. She’d bought herself a few more solon of time, then. Archbrook quickly knelt, one hand darting out to her travel-pack where it had been dropped at the beginning of the fight.

Yanking it into her grasp and stepping quickly aside, Archbrook warily circled around. The two remaining combatants slowly swapped positions, Highsail now with her back to the south and Archbrook to the north. Mental barbs and lunges were exchanged, but neither made any physical attack. Yet the constant flicker of wordless sanzai probing for any weakness in the other’s combat-lotai was enough to confirm that neither would back down, not now.

If Highsail hadn’t been a Sezabid, Archbrook could have called the merch— the warrior her equal. A deadly resolve stared back at her through those yellow eyes. Eyes that dropped to the pack as Archbrook awkwardly searched through it one-handed without taking her gaze from her opponent.

Highsail only raised one eyebrow, politely letting Archbrook hunt for her prize. Then again, the Sezabid had plenty of time, waiting until Windlash regained herself and rejoined the fight.

That one eyebrow froze as Archbrook’s questing fist finally withdrew the sap-sticky branch from her pack, holding it out before her as the rest of the pack dropped to the trodden earth. Clearly, even this merchant’s-daughter realized what the ritual artifact meant.

Now to put her the rest of the way off-balance.

Solemnly, Archbrook dropped the highly-flammable chunk of wood onto the roughed-up dirt between the two fighters. <The seed of a warrior’s funeral pyre is thus planted here. Let one or the other of us find her storied end atop its flames.> The time-honored thoughts flowed from her mind, hammering home into the Sezabid.

And having their desired effect.

Yellow eyes widened, and an iron-rimmed lotai flickered.

Just enough.

Archbrook lunged forwards, sword lashing out before her. And clearing the way before it, a mind-blow that forced its way through that briefest of gaps in the Sezabid’s combat-lotai.

A split-solon late to respond, Highsail twisted aside just as the blade struck home. Sharpened steel scraped loudly across armored scales, ripping several of them from their place over the foreigner’s chest.

Minds exchanged flurries of sanzai attacks from near-touching range, the heat of Highsail’s mind flaring against Archbrook’s trained combat-lotai. A greater heat than Archbrook would have expected, from a Sezabid.

But still not enough.

Then Archbrook surged past her opponent, the inertia of her lunge carrying the two briefly away from each other.

Archbrook whirled around, in time to see Highsail scowling at her. One hand traced along the wound across her front.

Came away wet, despite her armor.

“Your sword strikes well.” Highsail spoke aloud, eyes flaring as she echoed Archbrook’s earlier thoughts. “What name does it bear?”

Archbrook dipped her head briefly in acknowledgment of the Sezabid honoring — however briefly — a warrior’s rite. But instead of speaking, she chose to send <It is called ‘Joyful.’> She also noted that behind Highsail, Windlash was stirring, one hand crawling along the dirt towards her spear.

There was time for only one more strike, before this returned to a two-on-one fight.

Her eyes narrowed. Highsail had chosen to speak aloud just now, rather than send. For all that Archbrook had not fully pierced her lotai in their close-pass, perhaps the Sezabid had realized that her own mind was not up to fighting Archbrook’s in a true match? That only distance kept her lotai augmented enough to shield her.

Now Archbrook had her plan.

She quickly stepped forwards again, copying her earlier lunge with Joyful leading the way, point-first.

But this time, as a feint.

One that Highsail fell for, her own sword Leg-Biter batting aside the thrusting blade ably enough.

And thus leaving her open to Archbrook’s true blow.

Archbrook’s off-hand lashed out, fingers splaying wide as she sought to outright grapple with Highsail’s exposed upper arm. A clear threat of direct contact, where no distance would remain to shield the Sezabid’s mind from hers. Highsail would have no choice but to instinctively twist aside, which would put her back into range of—

Highsail did not twist aside.

Instead, she turned into the attack, all-but-forcing her arm into Archbrook’s grasp.

Lightning flickered between them as skin met skin. Both loroi, both warriors froze. Neither moved a muscle as the lightning-shock of contact spiked at the base of their skulls. Sanzai blows hammered home against desperate combat-lotai, as each probed for a weakness in the other’s defense.

A defense that was much stronger than Archbrook had expected, redoubled from earlier.

Had that been a trick, a trap laid for her?

Too late to think about that now.

From a distance of barely a hand-span, both warriors glared hotly at the other. Neither moved a muscle, neither breathed. Neither could breathe, the entirety of her attention focused on the mental battle.

A battle that only one of them would survive. Could survive, at such distance. Both were aware of their respective swords, held frozen in locked-up hands. But whichever combatant lost the sanzai exchange here would remain frozen for precious solon, easily long enough at this close distance for the other to land a mortal blow on an unmoving foe.

Like two roaring fires each desperately trying to absorb the other, the warriors surged against one another. Flames licking at each other’s defenses, seeking to pour around them to the mind beyond. Minds that tired rapidly with the exhaustion of maintaining both lotai and constant attacks.

All the while, a spark gathered herself off to one side.

With what tiny fraction of her attention Archbrook could spare, she noted as Windlash stood, taking faltering steps towards the two warriors locked in a mutual death-grip. The young one’s groggy mind could maintain no more than a flickering combat-lotai, yet Archbrook could spare no effort to attack her as well.

But it was enough to feel the Sentry’s grim intent, as she approached with spear in hand. Stepped warily to one side around her superior, lining up a mortal blow.

One that Archbrook could not move a single muscle to parry or avoid.

Desperately, she surged all of her strength against Highsail’s determined defense. Her opponent’s lotai cracked under the blow, falling back.

But did not shatter.

Both warriors stood still as statues, neither able to move a single muscle as their burning minds spiraled about the other.

Only one of them would pay for it.

In those last few split-solon as her unsteady doom approached, Archbrook’s fury at the unfairness of it all bled away into cold acceptance. Say what one will about the Sezabids, even the two Clanless, but they had fought well. Highsail’s lotai would be worthy of any daughter of Redrock, and even Windlash had recovered from her beating far sooner than Archbrook had expected.

It seemed that the pyre which Archbrook had planted would bear her own body, today. At least this tougher-than-expected Fighter from Sezabi no longer seemed the type to forego granting her foe such a warrior’s honor. But still,—

Highsail flinched, her lotai shattering.

And behind it was revealed a mysterious spike of pain that had done what Archbrook could not, and broken the Sezabid’s defenses.

Archbrook wasted no time, driving home a mental lance into her opponent even as her own muscles, now freed from the rictus-grip of a close sanzai duel, burned hard.

And threw herself back, head frantically twisting aside.

The thrusting spear-point that should have sunk deep into her neck instead scraped along the side of her head, splitting skin and shearing hair.

But it was not a lethal blow.

Continuing her spin, Archbrook whirled around with sword extended.

And struck home.

Windlash’s eyes bulged wide, dropping to the blade that had sunk deep into her side.

Her spear dropped from numb fingers, clattering to the dirt at the same moment as Highsail’s frozen self thudded down.

Bright-blue blood flowed down along Joyful, disturbingly warm as it poured over Archbrook’s whitened grip.

Slowly, Windlash toppled aside. Wrenching the sword from Archbrook’s hand.

She let it go.

Windlash’s mind flickered, fading by the solon even as she coughed up blood. A shuddering breath, one that saw bubbles rise from where blade met flesh. A punctured lung, then.

Not that it much mattered — the blow was deep enough that the young warrior would not survive long, either way. A realization matched by the thoughts pouring from Windlash’s agony-wracked mind.

But no panic. Archbrook nodded to herself. These two had fought honorably, as warriors.

They deserved a warrior’s final honors.

Kneeling at the dying loroi’s side, Archbrook extended her hand. Two fingers gently met Windlash’s forehead. The lightning-shock of connection was weak, now, barely enough to feel.

But it still let Archbrook drive a numbing spike deep into Windlash’s mind. Instantly, the younger loroi’s frantic eyes slackened as she was forcibly driven into unconsciousness.

A sleep that she would never awake from… but one that shielded her from the great pain of her mortal blow, all the same.

Standing and placing one boot against the Sezabid’s side, Archbrook carefully pulled Grandmother’s sword free. Her sword, now, having tasted victory-blood while in her hands.

Weary muscles protested as she half-staggered over to Highsail, after briefly checking that Rainsquall was still out cold from the first blow of the fight. Had it truly been that little time, then? It had certainly felt much longer.

Highsail’s eyes tracked her as she approached, the only muscles that the temporarily-paralyzed Sezabid could move. Widening only briefly, before relaxing into weary acceptance as they beheld Archbrook raising her sword once more.

But Archbrook paused.

Then, slowly, lowered her blade. And kicked Leg-biter away from her helpless foe.

<Blood has been spilled today. Let it be enough.> She sent. Highsail’s eyes flashed in surprise, and then narrowed contemplatively even as Archbrook continued with careful emphasis <A warrior has fallen honorably. Let her go to her ancestors atop her funeral pyre, alone, and we others disperse peacefully.>

More time-honored and formulaic thoughts, invoking a warrior’s detente. Not something that Archbrook would normally have bothered offering to Sezabid opponents, but one that she was now confident that Highsail would recognize.

And by the burst of understanding that indeed flowed from a mind no longer even slightly lotai-shielded, she was right to think so. Both sides had met each other in combat today, and both had upheld their honor as warriors.

Let that be enough.

A weary point on which Archbrook could tell that Highsail fully agreed, with complete honesty. The Sezabid’s mind lay entirely open before her, utterly unable to hide any intent of deceit. Full only of the weary acceptance of a complete defeat, and—

Archbrook frowned.

And a stinging pain in the back of her right shoulder.

Lifting Highsail with the toe of her boot and turning her onto her side, Archbrook’s confused stare only redoubled as the dirt beneath — now churned to a blue-brown mud by spilt blood — parted to reveal an arrow-shaft, of all things.

With its point snapped off and buried in Highsail’s shoulder. Not too deeply, as the broad wings of a crudely-hammered metal head still protruded out from the wound. A survivable blow, but one that had turned the tide of the battle by distracting Highsail at that critical moment.

But where had it come from?

Archbrook warily raised her sword, hurling her sanzai senses outwards as she stepped away from her neutralized foe. Who else lurked in these woods, interfering in her fight? A foe of the Sezabids was not necessarily any friend of hers.

Nothing.

The forest was utterly empty, save only for the rustling of wind-jostled needles and leaves. Not even so much as an animal’s faint mind-signature was receivable. Even as she pushed her senses out far past bow-shot.

Then who—?

Branches rustled, and her sword darted aside to point towards a stand of miros-berry bushes as they shifted. Were brushed aside.

A figure stepped out, cloaked and half-crouched with a short spear held in both hands. Freezing in place as her eyes locked onto Archbrook’s bloodied sword.

As his eyes saw her blade.

<Dovindr!?> Archbrook sent reflexively, before she fought down her shock and hissed aloud “Dovindr?”

The Dain, completely invisible to sanzai and utterly undetected even as he had closed with her fight, smiled sheepishly. A smile that then vanished, a his eyes dropped to the unmoving figures behind her. And the cobalt-blue blood that spattered the dirt around her. In a strangled voice, he asked quietly “Fight finished?”

“Yes finished.” she answered in her own exhausted voice.

Even as her mind whirred, thinking hard. He had not formally identified himself and declared his intent to join the fight as even the Sezabids had, but then could a male be expected to know of warriors’ rites? Either way, Highsail would surely balk at accepting that her defeat had come in part at the hands of a male, however foreign. That the bow which hung strapped to Dovindr’s back had precipitated her loss in the closely-matched sanzai battle. The fragile truce which had been negotiated at sword-point was now in danger of shattering.

Archbrook’s eyes narrowed. Then she lowered her sword, quickly stepping closer to Dovindr. Hurriedly she whispered “Return to the forest. Be not-seen. Wait for me.”

The Dain’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Yet the sheer confusion in his eyes was easy enough to read.

“Go.” she hissed. On a hunch, she reached out with her off-hand — the one not soaked in still-warm blood, cooling rapidly in the faint wind — and grasped his shoulder. Squeezing momentarily, before pushing him away towards the bush that he had hidden in.

Closing his mouth and swallowing, Dovindr finally did as she ordered. Faded back into the bushes, utterly undetectable behind his strange involuntary lotai.

Just in time for her to walk back to Highsail’s side, as the disarmed Sezabid weakly stirred with muscles only slowly returning to life. Hopefully, she had been distant enough that she had not heard Dovindr and Archbrook’s hushed speaking.

<Who aided you?> Highsail grumbled, even as she rubbed at surely still-numb arms to try and work some feeling into nerves that would still be spasming after a sanzai-blow such as the one she had taken.

Archbrook did not respond to the barbed rebuke in the Sezabid’s sending. Instead, she carefully replied aloud “Those who do not give their names lightly.” She made no effort to conceal her deliberate non-answer… but did choose to remain carefully vague on the definition of ‘Those.’ Not specifying ‘warriors,’ ‘allies,’ or even ‘loroi.’

A point that Highsail clearly caught, as the defeated warrior froze briefly. Then spun to stare up at Archbrook, eyes narrowed and searching. But finding nothing. Highsail then turned to glare into the forest around them, as if her mere eyes would reveal what mind-senses could not.

Archbrook snorted. Amusingly enough, those 'mere eyes' could have seen Dovindr, had the Dain not hidden as she ordered. But Archbrook, at least, had had quite a few days now to get used to the alien — literally — concept of people entirely undetectable by sanzai. To one such as Highsail, that idea would likely not even occur to her.

Finally, Highsail turned back to her. Brows lowered, eyes guarded, clearly and understandably mistrustful.

Intercepting her impending question, — one that Archbrook might find difficult to answer — Archbrook sent idly <As I explained before our battle, I am here for revenge. To right the wrongs inflicted against my Clan by both the Northern Forest-dwellers and the daughters of Sezabi.> One hand swept the forest before her, and she carved a thin smile onto her face as she stared down at Highsail. <And we warriors of Clan Whirlpool are the true daughters of the Drowned Warrior; she who values revenge above all else.>

And also the same storied ancestor who was known to command and be accompanied by the feared Bedein. Those vengeance-spirits born of the crashing sea-foam… whose minds were said to be so single-focused as to be nigh-undetectable.

Let Highsail draw her own conclusions.

The Sezabid’s brows furrowed for only a few solon more, before her muscles slackened and her eyes widened. This time in a moment of mixed shock and obvious terror. She stared about her once more, before scrabbling over towards where her sword lay in the dirt.

<No.> Archbrook sent forcefully, pointing her wetted blade at the unarmed loroi. <My vengeance against you has been sated by victory in combat. That will remain so… only as long as you remain disarmed.> She flicked the tip over towards where Rainsquall was only beginning to weakly stir. <Take your surviving arms-sister and return home, but your weapons stay behind. And tell your people of the demonstrated foolishness of their recent actions.>

To her credit, Highsail stopped immediately. Her eyes then darted over to Windlash’s cooling corpse, the slain warrior’s mind finally having guttered out.

Archbrook did not need to push into Highsail’s mind again to read what she was about to ask. <She will receive a warrior’s funeral, as promised. I and my… ally will see to it.> She softened her lotai just enough for the honest intent behind her thoughts to be clearly received.

After a moment, Highsail nodded. Slowly pushing herself to her feet, she staggered over to Rainsquall. Pulling the barely-conscious girl’s arm over her shoulder, and slowly walking away to the south.

And pausing, just as she was about to leave the small forest clearing. Without turning her head, she sent <This day will be remembered.>

Archbrook only dipped her head in response, easily catching the multiple meanings behind Highsail’s sending. That Archbrook’s — largely falsified — warning of ‘powerful allies’ would indeed be passed on to Sezabi’s rulers… and also that the metaphorical chastising-blow across the face from Whirlpool to Sezabi had landed true.

Exactly as she had hoped. It was as good as a promise that Sezabi would no longer seek to lure away the Forest Tribes’ promised deliveries… at least for a time.

The two wounded warriors departed, leaving behind a cooling corpse, an undetected Dain… and one Notel Ridi Rozelsarad, whose mind whirled with thoughts so quickly that her head practically ached.

Or maybe that was just the bleeding spear-wound above her ear.

///////
Anyways, I had to split this chapter into two parts again, so I'll post the second half later today.

Dovindr walked back into Rozelsarad’s clearing, chopped branches piled in his arms.

Ones that he dropped onto the pile, before plopping himself down into the dirt next to her. And carefully avoided the small muddy puddles that speckled the ground. There was certainly no longer any doubt: the elfs bled blue.

They bled quite a lot of it, in fact.

He hadn’t been able to find a nearby stream, and so the dried-tacky cobalt streaks that blotched his own forearms remained. But at least the dead elf-woman now lay atop the pile of branches, arms arranged peacefully at her side.

Rozelsarad had tried to stop him from helping her lift the corpse, but this time it had been his turn to insist on helping. After all, he had been partly responsible for this elf’s death.

The thought still brought a chill to his blood.

He’d heard the stories, of course. Not just the skalds’ tales of martial valor, no, but also those told by the older men around the feasting-halls and cooking-fires. The lauded, fearless men, whose faces and remaining fingers bore the scars of many battles fought… and won.

They who had told of the glory of a victorious fight, yes, but also the chilling sorrow of seeing one’s fallen foe bleed out at one’s feet. A grief that dimmed further each time, yes, but still a sadness. After all, while each honor-winning battle was a victory for one, it also heralded the end of another man’s tale.

Or another girl’s tale, as here.

Dovindr glanced between Rozelsarad and the slain elf. The way Rozelsarad held her face was different, yes, especially as she focused on breathing life into the faint sparks that she had scraped into being at the base of what was clearly a funeral pyre. But yet she did not seem so different from the one whose cooling body lay atop the piled wood.

Yet the dead one somehow still looked so much younger. If she had been a mead-server at the king’s hall back home, and had ‘fallen by accident' onto an admired free-man’s lap, she would have been rebuffed. Returned to her mother, told to seek a few more years of girlhood before seeking a man.

And now she was dead.

Not by Dovindr’s hand, no; the elf whom his carefully-aimed arrow — with a prayer to Ullr before loosing it — had felled had walked away with the other survivor. But still, his aid had clearly freed Rozelsarad to spin and drive her blade deep into the side of her fellow elf.

He felt her blood on his hands, in every sense of the term.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, dully watching Rozelsarad as she coaxed the growing flame to life. Cheeks puffed rhythmically, as she blew air into the crackling fire. He did not truly regret his action, no, for it was just as clear to him that he had saved her life. Again.

But at the same time, it only now had become truly real to him what her earlier words back at her town had meant. ‘Fight for pride.’ ‘Enemy of my people.’

Fellow elfs.

Of whom the only ones that Dovindr had yet seen bear weapons were elf-women… or elf-girls like this one dead before him.

For all that he was proud of saving Rozelsarad, this was not the adventure that he had sought. What skald’s-tale hero would boast of the death of a girl, elf or no, who looked as if she could not have even Dovindr’s own almost-eighteen winters behind her?

Chest heaving from her exertion, Rozelsarad rocked back onto her feet. And turned to meet his eyes.

Then frowned, glancing to the corpse atop the pyre.

Then back to him. Nodding, she spoke softly “Warrior’s death-fire. As demanded by pride.”

The same ‘pride’ that had pulled Rozelsarad out here in the first place. And him, come to think of it. He murmured listlessly “She... enemy of your people?”

“Yes.” Rozelsarad nodded, face drawn. “Prideful enemy. Prideful warrior.”

He turned aside, sighing even as the strengthening flame began to be too hot for where he sat. Scooting backwards, he muttered under his breath “Elfs.”

Whatever these strange pine-like trees were, they certainly burned well. What had been nothing but sparks mere moments before now surged upwards into a crackling fire, one that soon — thankfully — shielded the dead elf-girl from sight.

Rising to a crouch, he moved a bit further away yet… while also making sure that any of the tree-sap left on his hands was scrubbed away with handfuls of dirt. Whatever was in that stuff was clearly dangerous. At least it took some of the cobalt blood with it, dropping in chunks into the dirt.

Rozelsarad followed him back, wincing slightly as she took her seat once more. One hand dropped to her thigh, where a shallow-looking cut peeked intermittently from behind the torn leather of her flexible armor. Tacky blood crusted along the edges of that tear, but to her credit she did not make a sound even as she traced her finger along the wound.

A wound that she was also making no effort in cleaning, he noticed. “Fix hurt now?” Dovindr asked, hoping that perhaps now that her fallen foe had been sent off Rozelsarad would see to her own needs. At her blank look, he expanded “Uh… sew wound now?” He held out his hands, mimicking the motions of running needle and thread. Something that he knew Rozelsarad knew how to do, given how deftly she had taken her turn in assembling the ersatz sail back aboard Harbor-Glory.

Yet confusion remained plastered across her pointed face. “'Sew… wound?'”

He stared back in matching perplexion. She called herself a warrior, yet didn’t know the basics of treating an injury? It was a good thing he’d caught up to her when he did. Dovindr eyed the other blow that Rozelsarad had taken, the sharp line across the left side of her head just above the ear.

A very good thing he’d arrived exactly when he had, yes. “Sew yes. Else, uh, wound grow, become more-hurt.” He was starting to get a better grasp of elf-language, but fluency was still definitely a long ways off. “Have needle and thread, but only little.” He made to grab for his travel-pack.

Rozelsarad straightened her spine, enough that she was as tall as he was when seated. “Scar, then. Show warrior bravery!” Her eyes turned briefly back to the corpse-pyre. "Bravery of each warrior."

He rolled his eyes. Scarring should be the least of her worries, with cuts like that. He was certainly no læknir, sure, but he’d spent enough time alone in the forests to have to learn some small amount of the healing arts. Which was why he was proud to still have all of his ten fingers and toes, more than several other hunters he knew could boast.

“Clean wound.” he explained patiently, “Else wound become...” he searched for the right word. “wound-weeping? Foul-blood, death soon maybe.”

“Not so.” Rozelsarad cocked her head at him, while in the background part of the pyre collapsed in on itself. She held up one finger after another, as if counting. “Wound cut, wound heal, wound scar.” She paused. “Here, I show.”

Rozelsarad undid the ties holding the armor around her left arm, the thin metal plates and their leather backing falling down against her side. Blue skin seemed to glow under the flickering fire-light, and she traced a few lines in her revealed flesh. “See? Wound-scars. Healed yes, ‘sewn’ no. Not one.”

He eyed the indeed healed-over marks, counting in his head. That was… quite a collection, one that rippled atop shifting muscles as the elf-woman rotated her arm. Showing them off, as bizarre as that was for a woman to do. And yet indeed no pox-markings, no broader scars of wounds that had festered.

Perhaps she was right, then, and elf-wounds didn’t fester? Strange enough, then, since they certainly bled like mortal men.

Dovindr glanced back to the fire, only intermittently catching a glimpse of blackening once-blue flesh between the rising flames. And then looked higher at the rising, oily smoke, double-checking that the two of them indeed still sat up-wind. The smell — copper-tinged and sickeningly sweet — was bad enough already where he was.

His travel rations would definitely go untouched, tonight. Maybe tomorrow as well.

He crossed his arms, setting them atop his knees. And resting his chin on them in turn. Blinked against the heat of the fire.

And every time he blinked, a vision replayed before him faster than lightning and yet slower than life.

Rozelsarad spinning in place, blood flecking from the side of her head even as her sword darted around. Sinking it deep into the side of a spear-wielding girl, life-blood spurting from the mortal wound.

He swallowed against his rising gut. He was no stranger to animals’ violent death, of course, and he’d certainly heard enough bloody battle-tales from the older men of the village. But actually seeing it in-person, elfs or no, was something else entirely. A far better warning against a sword-wanderer’s life than any of Lucas’s lectures-turned-sermons had ever been.

“You not-hurt?” Came her question.

The faint fuzz of his surely-incipient beard scraped against the sleeves of his coat, as Dovindr turned to meet Rozelsarad’s red-orange eyes. Ones that showed only concern, leaning towards him with her hand outstretched. When he didn’t answer, she continued “Forest is maybe not-safe. Can cut, can trip, perhaps also hurt self?”

He shook his head. “No. Not-hurt.” Then turned his gaze aside, avoiding her eyes. The same ones that held compassion now had been so full of fury and anger earlier, when he’d stared out at her duel from the safety of a bush thicket. The eyes that had glared into the forest when she had searched for him, for whomever had fired the arrow which certainly seemed to have upset the balance of that fight. For a brief moment, that same fire had been directed at him as he had pushed the branches aside.

Only a moment, yes, but it had felt longer. All of the stories which warned of the fickle-fierce elf-folk who came and went with the nighttime mist had flashed through his mind. They whose lives were not those of men-folk, whose emotions flickered like sunlight through wind-shaken leaves.

They who were the reason why all wise folk closed their cottage-doors at night, shutting windows and hunkering inside until the protective sun rose the next morn.

Her eyes had softened in less than a heartbeat, but the memory of what he had seen in them remained.

“Certain not-hurt.” He repeated, mumbling. It was difficult to resolve the Rozelsarad who fought three other elfs at once, slaying one, with the Rozelsarad who now leaned over to him... almost protectively.

And her second-guessing his ability to ski through open woods wasn’t helping. If anything, the eerie emptiness of the forest had been the greatest ‘threat.’ He’d found himself unintentionally holding his breath as he pushed along, and for longer than he should. But the oppressive silence of the woods — no bird-calls overhead, no rustling of animals in what sparse undergrowth there was, not even a distant creaking of trees bending and flexing under snow-weight — had made it feel wrong to make any sound at all.

He had seen no birds, heard no brush-animals, and even the trees themselves stood each straight as a mast, unbending and unflexing under the snow that piled atop them. His every instinct had screamed at him that something was wrong, that some great danger lurked amidst the thin ground-brush between the unnaturally silent and still trees. That unseen eyes must be peering out from the shady darkness at the back of his neck… hungry eyes.

Until the distant clang and shriek of metal-on-metal had shot through the silence like a thunderclap. A sound that had drawn him onwards, all thoughts of hunting out a food-animal to bring to Rozelsarad forgotten.

“Good then.” She said, tying her armor back into place. Gone was the woman he’d briefly seen, not girded round by the hard metal and dark leather of her garb. The Rozelsarad whose flowing blue skin had shone under the firelight — even as she had traced a set of scars that any mead-swilling huscarl would boast of — was a very different sight than the armored warrior who now braced her arms behind her.

The conversation halted, bogging down in the silence broken only by the crackling flames.

A long time passed before it resumed.

///////

Days later, Archbrook strode confidently out of the forest-edge and into the cleared zone, many hundreds of mannal across. She halted a few paces past the tree-line, eyeing the wooden palisade in the center. Just on the edge of sanzai-range, and definitely out of bow-shot. The Forester-Tribes were cowards, yes, but they certainly were not stupid.

The minds faintly receivable far ahead of her took only a few solon to react to her presence. She did not send, did not do anything but push some force into her aura. Letting her glowing confidence communicate for her.

It did the trick.

A pair of Foresters soon came hustling out of the small gap between wooden timbers that served as their village’s protected entrance. Their broad-bottomed boots carried them swiftly enough over the snow, for all that such ungainliness would be both impractical and unseemly for an actual warrior.

She pulled one corner of her lip into a smile. Snow-boots were also not terribly impressive compared to the ‘skis’ that Dovindr had shown her. Most clever of his people to have devised such tools, however surprising it was. The Dains certainly seemed to be a people used to sailing on the ocean, by their confidence with which they had taken such a small boat so far from shore, but then why make specialized tools for traveling on land?

There hadn’t been quite enough time to get a full explanation out of Dovindr, with the two of them too busy arguing over what her plan would be once she — they — reached the Northerner’s village. Which was now.

With a snort, Archbrook eyed the two approaching Foresters. They had no idea what a debt they owed to one certain Dain alien. And would indeed never know, if the plan worked out as she hoped.

“We greet you, Warrior of Clan Whirlpool.” the left-most Northerner spoke aloud with only slight trepidation in her voice, pulling back her cloak’s hood to reveal off-green hair and matching eyes that stood out sharply against her north-pale skin. “I am called ‘Needle,’ leader of our assembly.”

“And I am called Stump.” Her tribe-sister did the same, meeting Archbrook’s gaze with crimson eyes and a short fuzz of orange hair. But only for a moment, before her wary gaze dropped down.

Archbrook nodded. Good – one hardly needed to press upon the Northerners’ minds to tell that they knew why she was here. And that they also feared just what form her ‘message’ would take. As was wise of them given her original plan, the one that she and Grandmother had agreed upon the night before she had left.

Perhaps that was why they had sent two of their number to converse with her. That would have made carrying the other one back to their village much simpler. A clear message, one that even undernourished Northerner minds that fed on a diet of leaves more than on meat would surely have understood.

But if she was being honest with herself, she actually liked Dovindr’s suggestion better. It was… clever. The sort of thing that Grandfather would have thought of, had he been here.

<I greet you in turn.> Archbrook sent broadly, pouring her complete lack of concern over the resulting gap in her lotai into her sending. As would be expected for any Whirlpool warrior, especially an emissary, speaking to the battle-averse Forest tribe. <Yet I bring a message that is not so civil.>

Reaching back over her shoulder, she mentally smirked as both Foresters flinched at her motion.

But instead of a sword or even a heavy club, she only withdrew the shaved-branch that she had cut fresh this morning. Shorn of side-branches and still dripping with sap, it stood straight as an arrow-shaft and as tall as her hip. Getting the stickiness out from under her shoulder-strap later would take a lot of time, but if this plan worked it would be worth it.

While the two Northerners warily eyed her in obvious confusion, she jabbed the stick down into the ground at her side. With the aid of its sap holding onto the knee-high piled snow, the pole stood upright well enough even as it barely entered the frozen-hard soil underneath.

Calmly, as if this were a normal part of her duties, she next pulled a helmet from her pack. A useful piece of armor for a fighter, albeit one that few warriors truly liked to wear and thus flatten the flowing hair that was the proud marker of her prowess. But it would serve her here in a more calculated role today.

The helmet with its leather base and woven-in metal strips was placed carefully atop the stick, bobbing slightly in the thin breeze and sitting at gut-level.

Four Northerner eyes darted between her and the displayed — but not explained — helmet, confusion clearly visible, but neither dared to speak. Wise of them.

<The rivers that lead down towards Redrock flowed perhaps a bit stronger this year than most. Perhaps even enough to make floating goods along them more difficult than is normal.> she sent idly, explaining nothing. <Which I am most certain is the only reason why the promised delivery of timbers has not yet arrived, yes?> Her sanzai made absolutely no attempt to hide the fact that she knew no such reason had entered into the Northerners’ decision. Her deliberate dishonesty served as a painful lashing across their minds, carrying the full strength of her burning contempt for their treachery.

Daring them to try to agree with her ‘explanation,’ as if spoken-speech would hide their duplicity.

“The rivers flow high this year, yes.” Needle’s eyes remained iron-locked onto Archbrook’s as she spoke slowly, carefully. Like a sailor in uncharted shallow waters, probing ahead of her with a sounding-pole before each hesitant oar-stroke.

Archbrook did not interrupt her.

And waited.

Nothing.

When it was clear that no more words were forthcoming, Archbrook raised one eyebrow in actual surprise. She had expected some excuse, or more likely a frank admittance of their guilt and a hurried plea for light punishment. A plea that, unknown to them, had already been granted before it had been asked... thanks to the blood-shy mercy of a Dain male.

Still, it seems that it had definitely been too long since the last time Clan Whirlpool had reminded the Northerners of the proper order of things. Today would see a ‘gentler’ reminder than those years-gone punishments, true, but hopefully one that should stick all the better.

<I see.> Archbrook sent, drawing her own lotai around her like a cloak. Not especially necessary, given how the two Northerners before her held their own minds quiet, but still a reflex when she was coldly staring them down. Pouring as much of the icy sea-chill of home into her gaze.

It worked.

They flinched first.

Good enough. Archbrook held out her right hand, gesturing to the helmet-on-a-stick. <This is the helmet of a leader of Sezabid warriors, who sought to stop me from… conversing with you. I took it from her cooling corpse, which I left rotting in the mud to feed the dirt-crawlers.>

A fabrication, of course, but one that the Northerners would not be able to sense. To properly receive her full-bore sanzai, they would have had to expose their minds to her more openly. Something that they were clearly too wise to do, as she had anticipated.

Archbrook’s gaze turned from the helmet with its elegant forged-steel bands, and to the crude hammered-iron strips that glinted in the evening light atop each Northerner’s head. A much more primitive and far less effective protection, but no doubt the best that the isolated Tribes could manage. They had no Southerners to trade with — or raid for — the more refined goods that those people’s admitted ingenuity could produce. A blow that would cleave a Forester’s crudely-fashioned ‘helmet’ in half would glance harmlessly off of the shining and smooth dome that stood displayed atop the pole here.

She raised her hand into the air, fingers splayed.

And dropped it sharply.

For a beat or two, the Northerners only stared at her in confusion. Then—

THWIP.

The helmet spun madly on its post, which in turn canted over sharply. All under the force of a blow… from an arrow that now stuck through both sides of the once-valuable metal dome.

Both Northerners scrambled back a few paces, wildly staring from side-to-side past Archbrook. And dropping their lotai, minds briefly forgetting the intimidating proximity of a stern Clan Whirlpool warrior.

But confirming that the treeline was empty. No archer lurked nearby, no hidden warrior, no life at all. As if the very forest itself had struck out without warning.

She carefully kept any expression from her face, double-checking that her own lotai remained strong. It wouldn’t do to reveal any hint of her amusement in how a single alien male had so well fooled these impudent Northerners.

Then, slowly, their eyes slewed back to the impaled helmet. Protection greater than any armor they bore, pierced through-and-through by an arrow they had never seen coming, loosed by an archer they had never detected at all.

Inwardly, Archbrook congratulated herself. The narrow war-tip of that arrow — so different from the broad hunting-tips that Dovindr himself carried, which had failed to do more than distract Highsail — had been an awkward thing to craft, yes. But by taking one of the small knives won from the defeated Sezabids and forcibly breaking off its handle, a serviceable-enough narrow arrowhead had been made.

One that turned even Dovindr’s 'mid-strength' — by his people's measure, at least; Archbrook could barely draw it — hunting-bow into a weapon deadly to an armored warrior.

Reaching over, she pulled the arrow out of the helmet. Then leveled her gaze at the two Northerners once more. <I see that my message has been delivered. To ensure that it remains understood, you will take this helmet back with you into your village.> She carefully sent the part she’d rehearsed in her mind, having practiced at framing a particular thought <If I must return a second time under similar circumstances, then you will meet That-Which-Lurks-in-the-Forest.>

That prompted another furtive set of glances past her, towards the trees. Where the late-evening sunlight, as she had anticipated, made the shadows seem to reach out from the forest’s edge. As if hungering for the village, ‘safe’ behind its walls and clearing that stretched beyond bow-shot.

But what use such a clearing against an ‘invisible’ archer?

“I—” Needle began, eyes darting between Archbrook, the helmet, and the treeline. Evidently startled enough that even her spoken-speech broke. Her neck muscles clenched taut and she glanced aside, silently waving her fellow Tribeswoman forwards.

Then doing so again, reaching out to push Stump forwards.

The presumably-junior Northerner took slow, hesitant steps over to the helmet. Then, as if afraid that it would scald her hand, she gingerly tapped at it with one extended finger.

The pierced helmet swayed, twirling atop the stick.

Archbrook crossed her arms, letting herself smirk down at the clearly-terrified Northerner. All knew that the Forest Tribes had fled the life of a coastal people generations ago, forsaking the better food found in the sea for the greater security from raiders that their newfound isolation gave them. Weak-willed fighters made even less dangerous by their meat-starved diet, yet their command over the forests in which they made their home was still known by all and even respected, in its way. For it was in this thick-snowed forest that their broadened snow-boots which made them too ungainly to fight also meant that they could easily turn and run from any raiding warrior-band, detected by sanzai before any weapons could be used against them.

Thus this demonstration that Archbrook had the loyalty of people — well, a person, but the Foresters certainly didn’t know that — who could strike without any warning whatsoever would no-doubt drive home into their cowardly minds all the stronger. As the wise thoughts went, ‘A heroic warrior dies only once, at the apex of her glory. A coward dies many times in her life, each evening when she dreads the darkness about her.’

Stump finally grasped the helmet, running both thumbs over the holes on each side. And quickly pulling one back, a slight burr of pain leaking from her subconscious mind.

Archbrook nodded to herself, her smirk shifting slightly. Into a smile of appreciation for Dovindr’s shot, one that she had initially doubted that the male could reliably make. But he had insisted that he had hunted animals smaller than that helmet and felled them at ranges greater than she gave him here. And then repeatedly demonstrated that ability, as well as the power of his bow and her modified arrow to pierce thinner sections of steel. The fragments of the other young Sezabid’s helmet lay buried at the bottom of Archbrook’s pack; no sense wasting good metal, after all.

And if it hadn’t worked, if Dovindr had missed the shot anyways, then she still had her original plan. But she was actually thankful that that had not been necessary, and only mostly because she now knew that Dovindr would have been upset by the resulting violence.

Turns out that he was a male after all, for all of his muscle and skill with the bow. A warrior’s bloody work was evidently not suited for him.

It seemed that Needle had finally found her words once more. With a deep bow to Archbrook — what she should have done in the first place, greeting a representative of the warrior Clan whose trust her people had betrayed — she spoke with fear thick in her hurried voice “We thank you for this warning, emissary of the Dread Clan Whirlpool. We will keep its… reminder in our meeting-place, so that all may see its message.”

Just as the Northerner began to raise her head once more, Archbrook sent sharply <Repeat yourself. Properly.>

Needle hesitated only a moment, visibly swallowed, and then sent <We thank you for this warning, emissary of the Dread Clan Whirlpool. We will keep its reminder in our meeting-place, so that all may see its message.>

<Very well.> Archbrook inclined her head slightly, simultaneously sending permission for Needle to rise. <Let this mark many years more of cooperation between our peoples.>

And it indeed would, as she could tell by her reading of Needle’s mind. The Northerner was evidently many decades older than her — an impressive accomplishment, really, given the harsh and impoverished life that loroi here faced in an environment lacking steady food supplies — but her mental strength was still a poor match for that of a trained Whirlpool warrior.

But she had sent the truth nonetheless, and it was clear that she recognized the wisdom of continuing the arranged trading relationship between Whirlpool and her people. What was also most clear was her fear-limned bafflement at just who had aided Archbrook with her little demonstration.

Departing, Archbrook chuckled to herself once she was out of earshot. Some of the budding ideas she had felt coalescing in the Tribeswoman’s mind were most entertaining indeed.

Just made it through Chapter 5 part 1. Still catching up. You write very long chapters.

I am amazed how amazing a writer can make a scene featuring the amazing discovery of a toilet. The most amusing, indeed comical part, was that the men considered such a device a gift from the gods! Which in retrospect at how filthy humans could be throughout our long history kind of makes sense.

I like long chapters! Gives me more room to play with concepts/characters/events without having to split things up between multiple chapters.

And writing stuff like "4 Norsemen are amazed by flush toilet" is half the fun of (effectively) time-travel stories: you get to show them struggling to sort all the amazing stuff they find into the categories they know of. In this case, for Norsemen of that era things they don't understand go into one of ~3 categories: "The Gods did it" "The Elfs/Dwarfs/etc. did it" or "The Romans did it." Amusingly, one of those is *kinda* correct...

Also, I imagine that the Soia-era loroi probably brought a few concepts with them when they landed on the three Sister Worlds. Given the common assumption that these were space-borne loroi evacuating to habitable worlds in escape pods & the like, I assumed that those pods would carry some basic form of 'survival guide' with them. Of course, those guides haven't exactly survived intact over ~300,000 years, but a few concepts here and there have been copied down through the ages. So compared to equivalent human societies, I've imagined that the loroi (at least on Taben, with particularly many Soia ruins near Amenal) have a few technologies/concepts ahead of where they "should be", thanks to having some fragmentary ancient records describing them.

Hence why even the sparsely-populated Belerid towns still usually have internal plumbing and machine tools (and Amenal has oil-fired steamships and breech-loading rifles): the concepts involved have been handed down through the generations, even if actual plans and designs haven't. But all that means is that a clever loroi engineer can sit and go "I know that [machine] *is* possible to make, since my ancestors had them. So I just need to figure out *how* to build them, not whether or not it's even *possible* to build them." That really speeds development (as several fascinating examples in human history have shown).

Almost completely caught up. Just finished Chapter 7 Part 1. And what a battle. I was especially impressed by your choice of words to describe a telepathic battle between two Loroi. Offers a new perspective into how Loroi duke it out, not just with brute force of blades or even plasma rifles. But by a clash of wills.

“Now with left leg, try push!” Dovindr called from several paces ahead of her.

Gingerly, Archbrook did indeed kick out with her left foot… and the short ‘ski’ strapped to that boot.

She drifted forwards, the longer ski under her right side gliding smoothly over the snow.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, half in acknowledgment of the Dain’s instruction and half in sheer ebullience at it actually working! The Island-Belt Mountains loomed close ahead, but even the cold breeze pouring down off of them only accentuated the smile that broke out across her face. The long days of her marching south from the Northern Tribes’ forest home through the thickening snow had been tiring enough that she’d eventually caved, and asked Dovindr to teach her how to use the wooden travel-planks on which he had rode along beside her.

After all, those days had also shown that even with the frequent breaks — sometimes three times a day! — that the male insisted on pausing to eat food, Archbrook was quite sure that he would have traveled faster than her had they separated. Entirely thanks to his ‘skis’, and the swift movement they allowed.

And now that she had completed her honor-mission and survived, the clouds which had hung low over her mind for many eights of days had finally begun to clear. More and more with every step taken southwards, towards home.

The whole world seemed brighter… and the importance of learning how his people made and used such effective travel-tools seemed all the more interesting. It explained, perhaps, how Dovindr could claim to be an ‘experienced hunter’ on land even when — without his skis — he stumbled through the snow like any trials-age child.

She pushed again, soaring past the Dain like a water-skimmer in flight. Grinned at him, which only redoubled as he turned to follow her with his own smile… and promptly lost his balance, toppling back into the snow.

Laughing aloud, she twisted to watch him.

And the toe of her left boot loosened in its ties... just enough to dig into the snow skidding past.

Her foot caught, and now Archbrook toppled into the soft white powder as well.

She fought her way loose of the unfamiliar mess of crossed-skis and tied-down boots to find Dovindr already sitting upright, laughing as well. Laughing at her!

Scowling in mock-indignation — and perhaps a little bit of actually-bruised pride — she instinctively sent out a mental flick across sanzai. Just enough to metaphorically tweak a friend’s nose… which of course had no effect at all on the mind-deaf male.

Well, if that didn’t work…

She dug both hands into the snow in front of her, cupping two handfuls of snow. Packing them together, and then tossing the bundle at Dovindr.

A perfect throw, and a perfect glimpse of his still-laughing face just a moment before impact, eyes crossed slightly at the approaching snowball.

“Direct hit!” She crowed aloud. Beaming as if she were a decade-younger child, to be playing at snow-throw.

Dovindr spluttered, one hand wiping the white powder from his face. His eyes danced, and faster than Archbrook expected he packed together his own projectile and loosed it.

But she was expecting the ‘attack!’ She ducked — couldn’t do more to dodge, with her feet still entangled in the skis — and the half-packed ball of snow missed her head.

Unfortunately, with the unfamiliar burden of the skis stuck to her boots she hadn’t ducked enough. Wet snow — not ice, nor cold hard-snow, but most chilly all the same — splashed over the back of her neck and coat.

Some of it found its way under her travel clothing, and even the layers beneath.

<!!!> shot out over sanzai as Archbrook leapt upright onto her knees, arching her spine in an instinctive attempt to keep the frozen slush away from her back. Her feet caught on the skis, and for a moment she felt her muscles straining to keep her upright.

And failing.

She tripped backwards, the snow underneath her pressing the melting slush up against the small of her back. The resulting even worse chill had her twisting and curling against the tickling cold for several solon, until body-heat finally met snow-cold halfway in between.

Still, an uncomfortable sensation… and a slight to her honor! Doubly-so when she glanced up to see Dovindr now laughing so hard that his arms grasped at his belly, the Dain doubled over by mirth.

Now grinning all the more fiercely, Archbrook quickly pulled at the boot-straps holding her to her skis. Loosened them.

And sprang forwards, her off-hand reaching out while her main hand scooped a large tuft of snow.

Dovindr’s laughter hiccuped as she grasped hold of his coat. Still grinning, she pulled it open.

And dumped a full palm of snow right down his back!

She jumped back to enjoy her handiwork, resting in a crouch as now he was the one to dance in place on his knees, arms frantically reaching behind him to grasp at the freezing slush working its tickling way down his spine. Making funny vocal sounds all the time, whooping and gasping.

He paused only long enough to shoot her a mock-betrayed glare, the effect of which was broken by his laughter re-emerging halfway through.

“Now we are even!” Archbrook declared with satisfaction, brushing a small area free of snow and sitting down.

And getting an eyeful of Dovindr’s gyrating as the alien male wriggled, working the cold snow down his body. It had been perhaps a bit much of her to snow-pour him like that, as if with one of her age-sisters many years ago. Yet the male had taken to the play-fight well enough.

Although by the way he still shivered slightly, even after finally shaking the remaining half-melted snow out from his trouser leg, it was perhaps a bit more cold for him than for her? Males weren’t as tough as warriors, sure, but he was physically larger…

Dovindr grinned at her, clearly struggling to pull his brows down into a proper glare. “[Litli-pík—!]” he cut himself off partway through what was clearly not an especially friendly proclamation. The slight blue tinge to his pale face reddened, and he barked another laugh, shaking his head. “[Óeiginn!]” Also not a polite term, by the way his eyes danced.

Her eyes danced. Two could play that game.

“Roshro!” she declared him to be.

Come to think of it, that joking insult fell a bit flat. Flat as his, well, roshro. “Saleh!” she corrected with a nod; he definitely had those, as he’d just demonstrated as part of his snow-fueled gyrating.

Despite her words clearly meaning no more to him than his had to her, Dovindr leaned back, grin broadening even as he shivered slightly. “I see that there is still more for me to learn of your language!”

He had indeed gotten far better over the last few days, helped perhaps by her own mood being so much higher than it had been since she first met this strange male. The world was brighter, the colors sharper, the smells better… and one ever-questioning Dain male was more fun to speak with.

Although, to be fair, he’d been that since the beginning. It was… interesting to converse with someone who — for all his warrior-like size and frame — was clearly a male, and yet did not complain about the minor hardships of land travel or sleeping out under the stars or any of the other things that normal males would understandably have objected to. Even his having nearly been outright sick at the earlier combat and death of that Sezabid warrior was only enough to make him all the more endearing.

She leaned back to match his posture… and a forgotten puddle of snow below her undershirt loosened, pouring down one shoulderblade. <!!> She snatched her cloak off, rolling the shoulder in question to try and work the still-cold moisture loose from underneath her armor.

And noticed how Dovindr’s eyes didn’t quite rise high enough to meet her eyes, focused... lower.

She smirked, taking her time in covering her shaped armor again. Definitely a male, yes. “Keep throwing snowballs with such aim, and you’ll hear more language like that!”

As if shaken from a trance by her words, he shook his head and glanced aside. Now looking towards the abandoned skis, beyond which the sun was beginning to curve once more down towards the horizon.

“You are learning fast.” He nodded, then turned back to her. Clearly changing the subject. “Are you planning to travel through the night once more?”

“Yes?” She answered. Of course. “Why not?”

He frowned at that, taking several solon to answer. When he did, he spoke slowly. “There… truly are not any night-animals, no threat to traveling in darkness? Not here, in Álflandr.”

“Well, yes.” She spoke bluntly. That last word he’d used was one from his tongue, but one she recognized. What he called her world. “This is not so, where you come from?”

She leaned forwards in interest. She’d tried to raise the question of just how the alien Dains came to her world several times over the last few days, only to find that Dovindr at least knew nothing of it. He could only describe having traveled here on that small boat of his, the only hint of how it was done a ‘bright glow’ from underneath the water.

Some machine-magic of the Ancients, was her bet. And each of her attempts to describe the concept of ‘planets’ to the male had been an abject failure: the language gap was too great to convince him of several underlying ideas that were plainly completely foreign to him.

Another pause, Dovindr looking at her strangely before his eyes cleared. “Many dangerous animals lurk in the night back home. Some eat food-animals, some eat men. Wise hunters try not to be in the forest after nightfall.” He gestured around them, finally nodding to the sun as it touched the peaks of the mountains to their south-west.

She looked back at him, now in a different light. Such dangers put his professed experience as a ‘hunter’ very differently: stalking a miros through the forest was perhaps not the most safe of tasks, yes, but they were only rarely known to turn their pain-maddened ire upon a pursuing loroi.

Archbrook cast her memory back. “Then these are perhaps the ‘björn’ and ‘úlfar’ you spoke of earlier?” She had pictured them as over-large miros — scary, certainly, but still food-animals first and foremost — but from what he said now…

“Úlfar, yes.” Dovindr replied, working his slow way to his feet and tilting his head towards the skis. Archbrook grunted, standing upright as well. He was right, it was best to keep going; their ‘rest’ had gone on long enough. “Bjørn are mostly a threat only in parts of the year: they prefer to eat eat...” he trailed off, brows pinching together in what she had learned to recognize was his ‘searching for word’ look.

“Slow hunters?” She suggested with a thin smile.

Dovindr laughed again, the sound echoing out through the open snowy plain. Shaking his head, he knelt down and reached for the ski laces. Then paused, turning to look back at her. “I ski and you walk, or you walk and I ski?”

“You ski.” She reflexively answered, giving the male the easier travel method. “I walk.” It wasn’t like it was an imposition, after all: even if the snow had piled up as tall as she was and loose enough for her to sink into, that wouldn’t have been enough to drag down her spirits. Not now.

After all, she was returning home, alive and victorious! She had certainly not expected that, not when she had departed. And it was only really now, that the Island-Belt mountains neared, that the reality of her accomplishment sunk in.

The Sezabids had been humbled, forced to retreat. The Forest Tribe had been cowed back into following their promised agreement of trade. And both of those, with the additional effect of convincing those two foes & reluctant partners of Clan Whirlpool that Archbrook had the assistance of a warrior whom they could not detect, could not defend against.

Cowards who had been beaten by a superior warrior may someday think of reneging on their agreement when said warrior is not present, after all. But cowards who had been made to now fear the very forest itself that surrounded them may take far longer to betray Clan Whirlpool once more!

And it was thanks to the male in front of her that this was so. He was no warrior, yes, but only she and her clan-sisters knew that. She watched Dovindr lace his boots onto the skis, her eyes narrowing in thought.

“Ready to go, yes?” The male in question asked, straightening.

“Yes.” She answered simply, walking alongside him as he notably slowed his pace.

And why hurry, after all? The future lay before them, one that glowed with potential. A far brighter place than where Archbrook’s mind had been for many, many days.

///////

Warlord Hornguard watched the glow fade, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. One eye on the last sliver of light as it was eaten up by the waves, and the other on the timepiece held in her hand.

She nodded, reaching out to adjust the machine’s setting slightly. Off by only a few solon, not bad for something of its age. She ran one finger along the long-familiar chips and dents in the protective casing… and lingered on the faded-yellow image tucked carefully into the inside of the lid.

Images faded, yes, but not memories.

Fond memories prompted to the surface by the signature below the image, written in his own elegant script: ‘Lomiminzan.’ A name that still sent a twin-bolt of emotion coursing through her: warm adoration chased by the death-cold of loss.

Both finally dragged down by the nerveless iron grip of determination, as she had done for so many years now. Yet the payoff to that discipline was coming soon, drawing ever-closer.

Clicking the piece shut, she returned it smartly to one pocket of her sea-coat. <With the setting of today’s sun, the period of Truce has now ended. Captain, you are prepared to depart?>

As expected, Mist Glass was ready with her answer immediately. <Affirmative, Warlord.> The veteran sea-hunter who had served alongside Hornguard for so many decades stared out to the ship’s left, eyeing the other two craft resting at anchor nearby. <All necessary stores have been loaded, and the crews are ready for sea.>

The remaining crews, as Hornguard noted that her old friend did not need to put into sanzai. It had been easy enough, after all, to find sufficient experienced sailors for her vengeance-mission earlier, before Truce. Some had borne the healed-over evidence of earlier battles against the Northern Barbarians: scarred skin and marred features. Others had glowed dully with the familiar ache of mental wounds: grief-sharpened minds lurking behind hard eyes.

Yet many of those had found that their thirst for vengeance, for justice, against the raiding pirates was not sufficient to keep them ‘idle’ throughout the long days of sitting in harbor while the storm-damaged ships were repaired and restocked. While other whaling-ships went out to sea riding atop the algae-flooded waves and returned with fat holds stuffed high with the valuable oil of leviathans which had gorged themselves on that yearly bounty.

A warship, after all, made no profit. And so neither did her crew, women used to the confidence-boosting weight of filled coin-purses at this time of year. Filled by each sailor’s share in the sale of their hard-won bounty wrested from the sea.

No, it was not surprising that many had left, slinking off by ones and twos to seek their habitual fortunes in the trade to which they had applied themselves for so many years.

Hornguard had let them leave. Those who remained, they whose anger and determination burned hotter than the cold greed surrounding them in the harbor, were the ones she truly wanted at her side. The three ships and their shrinking crews had spent the time well, using the emptied-out harbor during Truce to practice their maneuvering and combat-drills even as the complicated steam-machinery was slowly repaired.

A repair whose expensive outlays Hornguard had covered out of her own pocket. It had cost her dearly... but it was an investment, not an expense. One that her many decades at sea — the heady feeling of sailing back into harbor atop a Nazalat-arrir’s ransom-worth of rendered oil was most familiar to her — had left her well-able to make. Even if there now remained precious little left of her once-great fortune.

But that mattered little. She had found greater goals, starting with sating her vengeance upon the Northerners who had so upended her life.

<Then give the signal. We depart immediately.> Hornguard spun on her heel and marched to the other side of the bridge-walk. Behind her she could receive Mist Glass’ sendings to the crew, and only a few beats later a clattering as the signal-lamp flashed out her command to the other craft.

<The order is given, Warlord.> her captain confirmed. Then paused, while beneath both of their feet the warm rumble of steam coursing through cold pipes strengthened. When she continued, her sanzai had narrowed to a private sending <You are… certain that this is the best way forwards?>

Hornguard would not have taken such doubt from almost anyone, but Mist Glass was certainly among that trusted few. <Yes.> She answered with iron conviction. <Our goals each stand within reach, aligned such that we may fulfill them both by one single crashing blow. The Northerners have done us a favor, fighting savagely amongst themselves long enough to identify the two foremost cities of their barbaric peoples.> That much was easy to infer from both the rumors born along on peaceful-enough trade routes between the barbaric Northern Continent and the civilized Equatorial Isles as well as from the few prisoners taken in her earlier interceptions of Northerner raiders.

She continued <Thus we strike at one, and overwhelm them so utterly that the other is frightened into submission. The Northerners will never again imperil those who work the seas, not while we stand astride their beaten people with our boot upon their neck.>

Hornguard nodded to herself. She had amassed a sizable fortune atop the corpses of a thousand leviathans, their spear-studded bodies floating belly-up in the ocean while her crews flensed the valuable blubber from their hides. The fortune — or rather, the life which she had used it to purchase — which had been stolen from her by the Northerners.

Therefore, she would now build her new life atop their corpses. Let their people float dead through the waves, their hopes and dreams shatter under her vengeance, their loved ones disappear in flashes of gunpowder and bl—

<Is that what he would have wanted?> Mist Glass sent, almost too faintly to receive.

Hornguard stiffened, her hands clenching tightly where they grasped each other behind her back. Without turning around, she raised her chin and sent <He is not here to tell us. And that is because of the Northerners.> She forced herself to relax taut muscles, and one hand drifted off of its own accord to trace across the weight of the time-device in its pocket… and the precious portrait-image held secure within it. <Their bloodthirst cost you a brother… and I my future.>

Not that she needed to remind Mist Glass of that, of course. The captain — as experienced a seafarer as Hornguard herself — was one of the few people of the City whose penchant for ambition could match her own. Or, as many others would say instead, whose penchant for ‘obsession.’

They were wrong, of course. Mist Glass had indeed turned aside from the life that her mother had planned for her, yes, letting instead her younger cousin take the family seat at the head of the City Council. But what fools derided as an ‘obsession’ with the seafarer’s life was known to Hornguard to be nothing of the sort: Mist Glass simply knew where her true talents lay. It would have been a gross misuse of her unerring knack for seafaring for her to have been anything else than first a junior officer on then-Captain Hornguard’s first command, then rising to become her first-officer, and now for more than two decades the senior Captain of the vessel from which Hornguard had commanded her growing flotilla of leviathan-hunter ships.

Just as it would have been a misuse of Hornguard’s own talents to—

<Talents which you have set aside.> Mist Glass sent, plainly and without reproach repeating thoughts that both of them had received before. They’d been over this many, many times in the last few years… but now the final hour was drawing nigh. <Is ‘vengeance’ truly enough to set aside the life of a seafarer, all to become… what? A ruler of barbarians? A king in the North?>

<A solution.> Hornguard pressed with insistent finality, supplying the answer which she knew well she had already imprinted into her long-time friend’s mind many years ago. <We have all suffered by their attacks. Let this be the end to it.>

For many solon, no answer came but the faint whistling of salt-stained wind playing through the bare masts and rigging overhead. A counterpart to the rhythmic thrumming of engines below, growing slowly faster and louder.

Then, <Let this be the end, indeed.>

///////

“Are you sure about this?” Dovindr asked, his alien voice muffled by the wind as he called back to her.

“Certain.” Archbrook answered, as she pulled the rope taut. Tucking her chin over his shoulder, she added with some difficulty “Like we practiced earlier, yes?”

“...Sure.” the Dain answered, his voice more easily felt through the back of his body pressed against her than via sound. “Your feet are ready?”

“Yes, ready.” she confirmed, wiggling her boots slightly where they were both tied down to the larger ski, checking the ropes there. All good. “Kick when you want.”

Dovindr’s answer was to — slowly — push back with his right leg, propelling the heavily-laden larger ski and its two riders forwards. The slightly-curved front dug into the snow more than it had earlier, but the two of them did move… and it was indeed faster than walking through the knee-height drifts.

“I know to be out of the way.” she emphasized, nudging her shoulder into his back with just enough force to be felt through his heavy coat. “Kick harder!”

The Dain shoved snow aside once more, and the two of them picked up speed. Just in time to top the crest above the land-route down into Redrock. The gentle rushing sound of snow under polished wood changed pitch, as even the shallow slope was enough to boost their speed.

Well, for a while. Dovindr — controlling the skis, while Archbrook was more of a passenger — slowed as they approached the first turn of the cliff-road. Not a bad idea, to be fair: it was a long way down to the rocky shoreline below the edge.

“This is good?” He asked, after stamping his skis to slowly turn into the bend.

“Most good, yes!” She answered, grinning broadly as the distance flew past. Not as fast as a single person on skis could go, yes, but with one major difference… “Wait when you get to the next turn; I will try there!” That should give her enough room. And it would also be the last turn before they entered sight of Redrock, just in case she ended up eating a face-full of snow.

And in the meantime, while the two of them moved on she set to loosening the rope that wrapped around both of them, binding them together chest-to-back. Pulling it off, and tucking the loops into her belt.

The two riders on skis that had not quite been intended for this use neared the turn, an inner-curve of the path as it rounded a small inlet that cut into the cliffside. The booming, rhythmic crash of wave against mountain echoed up from far below, and through her open mouth her tongue could just begin to taste salt in the air.

She bent her knees slightly, one arm holding tight against Dovindr’s waist while the other reached down to the ropes around her feet. In particular, the quick-release end she’d carefully left there. “I try...now!” she called just as they reached the bend.

In one motion, she let go of Dovindr, yanked hard on her boot-strap, and leapt free of its bindings as they fell behind into the snow.

By the time she landed, her sword was in her hand. Waving through a two-loop circle, slapping aside the imaginary defense of her surely-shocked foe!

Dovindr had coasted on a few paces before stopping, turning to watch her. Perhaps from the exertion of pushing two people along by his own muscles — slope or no, it clearly took work to keep the skis moving — he breathed somewhat heavily as he asked “It worked, then?”

“Yes!” she declared, raising Joyful skywards in gleeful emphasis. “No problem jumping off, no problem drawing sword, only sudden attack!” Images danced before her eyes, scenes of Clan Whirlpool warriors finally dominating their foes on land as they always had at sea. “Imagine warriors, two-per-ski, moving most faster than any can walk through snow. One warrior is tired from ski-pushing, yes, but the other is fresh and jumps off onto opponent’s face!”

It would make warfare most different, that was for certain. Normally a warrior seeing that she or her arms-sisters was losing a battle could cast aside her sword and shield, strip off her heavy armor, and flee unencumbered over the snow much faster than her heavier foes could chase through the snow. That was not something that Clan Whirlpool warriors were known to do, of course, but it made it most difficult to force a decisive confrontation with those ever-flighty cowards in lesser clans. Lost steel-weapons could be replaced more easily than slain warriors, however cowardly.

But what happens when upstart Sezabids, Elerids, Ometanids, or any of the others who periodically challenged Clan Whirlpool realized that their warriors could not flee Whirlpool warriors working in ski-pairs? She certainly doubted that they would suddenly find courage to stand and fight: no, they surely would simply not fight at all!

Which would make things much simpler for Whirlpool, and also of course “This will mean many fewer warriors dying, I say strongly.” She nodded firmly, walking up to Dovindr. “Fewer fighting, fewer dying.”

A heartfelt smile spread across the male’s face, drawing a matching bloom of warmth from her own chest. “I am very happy to hear that.” He inclined his head towards the boot-straps tucked into her belt, and then back behind her where the other rope sat atop the snow. “But, uh, do you want to walk from here? Or should I give you the skis?”

“I will walk.” She nodded down the slope, towards the last turn before the path made a spear-straight dash down to Redrock’s land-entrance. “It seems that it might be difficult to stop with us both on skis, and—” a thought flashed into being before her eyes.

An excellent thought. Her lips curled upwards.

“...Rozelsarad?”

“On second thinking, wait there and we will both be on skis.” On light feet, Archbrook jogged over to snatch her boot-bindings from the snow. With the tip of one foot she kicked the bundled leather-strands into the air, snatching them mid-flight. She spun around, and Dovindr frowned slightly when his eyes flickered down to her cheek-wide smile.

Stepping up behind him once more, she held onto the Dain’s waist with one hand while the other looped the cord around her left boot. “Do you think that you can ski-move faster still down a slope, without falling?”

“Uh...” he took a moment to answer, “Yes, I think so.” The male squirmed against her, until she could just barely see the corner of one blue eye looking back over his shoulder “You want to go fast into your town? Will that not make the entrance-warriors, uh, worried?”

“Yes, I think it will.” Archbrook smiled to herself, carefully placing her right foot resting directly behind her left atop the longer ski. “That is the point!”

After all, if ski-warriors could run down fleeing enemy warriors… they could also run into a town well before the sentries could raise the alarm properly! A team of attackers on these clever Dain devices could probably get well inside a town’s gate before the enemy warriors could form up to oppose them in proper battle. Even better still if some way for the ski-pusher warrior to quickly release their own boots could be found, but her attempts earlier hadn’t been promising. Either the ropes were too tight to quickly remove, or they were too lose to safely steer the long planks of wood. Still, it was yet one more idea inspired by these strange foreigners. A way to perhaps make land-warfare as decisive as sea-warfare.

She straightened up, patting Dovindr on one broad shoulder. “All good. Now go!” She trusted that her voice would carry the giddy excitement through, even despite his lack of sanzai.

As they picked up speed down the slope, she grinned to herself. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Grandmother’s face when Archbrook showed her this new idea!

The wind whipped around Dovindr’s hunched back to throw her hair across her face, twice-blown by the sea-breeze and by their rapid descent. Indeed, just as the two sentries watching the Landward Gate came into receiving distance, Dovindr seemed to lurch forwards in sudden acceleration. The long-ski under both of their feet lifted higher atop the denser snow, now gliding over it rather than bulling its way through under the weight of two riders.

Which most evidently came as a surprise to the Dain. His right foot dragged behind briefly, pulling him back and to the right. Threatening to send the both of them sprawling into the snow in full view of the sentries.

Quicker than thought, Archbrook threw her weight out to her left. For a moment, she and Dovindr each leaned precariously away from the long-ski, connected only by her straining right arm as it held fast to the male’s belt.

Then both of them snapped back upright, just in time for the final approach to the town gate. Racing ever-closer, the stone arch several mannal high looming overhead. …How were they going to slow down?

A thought that seemed to have struck Dovindr’s mind at the same time as hers. He stamped his right boot and ski into the snow at an angle, grunting aloud with what must be a good bit of effort to keep his leg near-straight.

Which did slow them down, but also twisted the two to their right more sharply than was safe. Archbrook instinctively tried to mirror his movement, but her boots remained tied to the ski. And at this speed, if she loosened the straps enough to shake one foot free…

Instead, she crouched down, lowering their shared center of balance. Hopefully it would work much like shrinking low on a small rowing-boat, and keep them from capsizing.

Snow flew high around them as the long ski turned almost side-on to its direction of travel. Wood groaned and shuddered underfoot as they now skidded sideways through the Land Gate. Ahead of them loomed Warrior’s Rock, the very stand on which she had stood proudly not so many days ago before leaving on what all thought to be her final duty as a warrior.

And whose rough-hewn edges now threatened to make good on that fate, if she did not slow down soon enough!

With one hand wrapped tightly around Dovindr’s lower leg, Archbrook dug the other into the packed powder at her right side. Hard-snow hammered against her forearm, quickly piling up and burying her limb. An icy chill shot through her nerves as snow found its way in under her gloves, wrapping around the thinner skin over her wrist.

But it worked.

Surrounded by a self-made haze of snow, she and Dovindr finally skidded to a halt. The glistening edges of Warrior’s Rock waited patiently, barely an arm’s-length away. Far enough… although perhaps she and Dovindr would have to think of a better way to slow down in the future.

Now she did yank at the boot-straps and kick her way free, jumping to her feet. Brushing the snow from her arm and unslinging the travel-pack from her shoulder.

And only now, with her pulse still racing in her ears, did she fully receive the sentry’s sendings.

<—ow did you do that?> The awed sending came from the nearer one, running closer through the snow from her post around one corner.

Archbrook frowned as she turned to this Clan-sister. One whose mind she only barely recognized.

She found herself staring in confusion down at a loroi of far fewer years, holding in both hands a spear that was almost taller than the girl herself! Her helmet rattled and twisted as it tried its best to fit on a head that would not grow into its size for quite some time yet, chin-strap shortened as far as it went but still hanging loose.

This was indeed a Clan-sister, sure, but not properly an arms-sister just yet. She should be back inside in the children’s-creche, not out here as a guard!

<What are you doing here?> Archbrook asked, with perhaps a bit more bluntness than was polite.

The child, too young to have yet earned a name, twitched. Her brows briefly frowned, before she snapped the spear-haft into her shoulder in a salute.

A gesture which resulted in the weight of a weapon much too large for the child nearly overbalancing her. <Guarding the Land Gate, Apprentice!> the young future-warrior sent with as much force as her paltry few years could provide.

Blinking, Archbrook only dimly noted that the other sentry running up from behind her was also a Nameless child. What was going on!?

<Where is Chief Goldenshawl?> she asked, her senses playing over the detectable minds nearby and noting that Grandmother was not among them. In fact, those she could sense were almost entirely the very-young, the males, and only one or two full warriors. <And the other warriors?>

The second child-sentry sent from behind her <They went to sea, Apprentice!>

<Yeah, two days ago!> Added the first. <No, actually, three days. I think.>

The growing weight in Archbrook’s stomach deepened into a pit. Grasping hold of her buoyed spirits — lifted by the last few happy days of returning victorious and alive — and pulling them down into the shadows. <...Why?> she asked, even as her mind collided against the few plausible answers.

There were, after all, quite few good reasons why Grandmother would have left Redrock with so sparse a garrison.

Instead of dropping her weapons gained in battle onto Warrior’s Rock as was custom, Archbrook threw her entire travel-pack onto the plinth. And raced back out through the Land Gate, turning sharply around the corner towards the overlook over the harbor below.

All while sanzai from behind chased her, a child’s excitement clashing with the ominous implications of her thoughts. <They went to fight the Sezabids, of course!>

Panting, Archbrook skidded to a halt at the cliff-edge of the path. Far below, waves crashed against the cliff-base, hurling briny foam upwards to patter back down. The highest signal-top of the Diving Citadel could be seen in the distance over the intervening cliff-wall… and the floating harbor below sat empty except for one tiny Dain-boat.

Grandmother’s own Rozain-Serran was nowhere to be seen, the spot where the old warship had lain at anchor for so many years now empty. The ship whose name struck fear into lesser clans across the Great Island, long having sat threateningly idle in reserve while her famous commander took on the duties of a Clan Chief-among-Chiefs without time for personal expeditions at sea.

Gone. And with it, no doubt, the warriors whose absence Archbrook had noted.

<No other vessels returned first?> Archbrook asked, even as the iron-heavy certainty settled deep in her gut. If the half-dozen other warships and their crews who had set out alongside Mother all those many, many days ago had indeed returned, then the defense of the town would most certainly not have been left to armed children.

<Only Foam-Wreathed, and she lost control in the channel and wrecked on the shore by the Diving Citadel.> The child answered, a faint puffing coming from behind Archbrook as the young future-warrior ran after her on half-grown legs. <Great-Grandmother sent that she would order Curve-knife’s crew to reinforce the Citadel, while we here guard the Land Gate!>

The child’s boasting slammed into Archbrook’s mind, carrying a weight clearly not quite understood by its proud young sender. For if Grandmother had directed for the Diving Citadel to be fully-manned, then that meant that Goldenshawl thought that Redrock itself was in danger of attack… and that she was not certain that she and Victory-crown would be able to stop them at sea.

<What exactly happened?> Archbrook asked. <How did Goldenshawl come to know of this Sezabid threat?>

A threat that had come while Archbrook was away, evidently, or else Grandmother would certainly have sent something of it to her. Was the timing coincidental… or planned? If Archbrook had not been so desperate to clean the stain of dishonor from Mother’s memory and her own name as to volunteer for a single-warrior suicide expedition, then a full team would have been sent instead. Thus almost none of Clan Whirlpool’s warriors would have remained here to confront this second Sezabid attack. Either way, Clan Whirlpool would not have been able to respond properly to both of Sezabi’s intrigues… leaving at least one of them to face little opposition no matter what.

Exactly the sort of underhanded cleverness that those upstart merchants were known for.

<I don’t know.> the child admitted unhappily. <But the warning-beacon on the Diving Citadel said that there were ships outside the Channel, and then Great-Grandmother called all of the warriors with her down to her ship!> Her sanzai was lined with all of the eagerness and excitement of one too young to know what those events truly meant.

The Sezabids had tricked them all. That could be the only explanation for the timing of it.

“What is it?” A spoken voice joined them, Dovindr walking quickly up beside her. One hand batted the child’s spear aside as he crouched down to also peer over the side. Even though he could not receive their sanzai, it took the Dain only a moment to realize “Your ship is not there.”

“Yes.” She answered, all that she trusted her mouth to speak aloud at the moment. Archbrook pulled in a deep breath, and stood. Pulling Dovindr up with her, and then back towards the inner town. “A battle. Sea-battle. Against the Sezabids.”

“Those that you fought, back North. More of them?”

“It seems that the ones sent North were a...” — had she explained to him the word? — “distraction. Warriors to make our warriors go there, while more of their warriors attacked here.”

“Oh.” was his response, that not-word which he had explained could have many meanings in his people’s tongue. But by the easily-understood emotion in his voice, it was not hard to guess what he meant.

“Yes, ‘oh.’” The two of them left his skis and her travel-pack behind in the snow, Archbrook sending back to the child-guards to put both in their snow-shelter. Making an arrow-line for the main hall, Archbrook reached out over sanzai for those few warriors left in the town.

And confirmed what she had suspected. Those left behind were generally either too young to truly fight — like those watching the gate, a simple duty — or too physically-marred to do much. Older warriors missing legs, hands, arms, feet; they whose minds remained sharp despite their body’s limitations. They quickly filled her in on the details that the children had missed.

Four Sezabid ships had been spotted by Foam-wreathed’s crew as that stricken vessel staggered home having barely escaped an Amenalid murderer-ship, her rudder shot away and half her crew too wounded to handle her sails properly. The Sezabids had — pointedly — not even deigned to pursue them, instead letting the ship and crew limp back towards Redrock.

An insult, and one that sent a clear message. In the eyes of the traitorous Sezabids, Clan Whirlpool’s warriors — thinned by combat with murderous Southerners or not — were not even worth a fight. It was the greatest insult that could be sent to a warrior Clan such as the daughters of Redrock, the proper heirs of the Once-Drowned Warrior herself!

But it was also a calculated move. This soon after Truce, there would be many vessels out at sea from the various Clans and tribes of Beleri. Enough would pass by the entrance to Redrock’s narrow bay that they would see whose warships waited outside… and whose warships did not emerge to oppose this threatened-blockade. If Clan Whirlpool did not dislodge the Sezabid craft quickly enough — and with enough force and violence visited upon the upstarts — then the carefully-crafted awe-and-fear mix which Grandmother had spent decades inculcating into the neighboring peoples’ views of her Clan would weaken.

All because of the power-hunger of those merchants at Sezabi.

And it was that rank arrogance that Grandmother had gone to sea to correct, much as Archbrook had gone into the north. But Dovindr had snuck after Archbrook, saving her from only regaining her honor via the warrior’s-death whose inevitability she had embraced fully, in those near-final moments of her duel with the three Sezabids.

Who would go to Grandmother’s aid?

Archbrook caught herself, yanking her thoughts to a halt before they got too far out ahead of her. Grandmother was Grandmother; surely she needed no aid? Even in a battle of four ships against her one? With every nerve of her body still intermittently flaring in anxiety, Archbrook shouldered open the doors to the Great Hall.

And saw the backs of four warriors leaning over the High Table, faintly-receivable sanzai flickering between them. Sanzai that paused only long enough to briefly acknowledge Archbrook’s presence, without anyone so much as glancing in her direction.

It seems that she was not the only one on-edge over the situation.

After a moment’s hesitation, Archbrook pulled Dovindr inside after her. Pointed to him, and then held one hand over her mouth. The male nodded, apparently understanding her gesture. Good.

The two of them walked quietly up to the table, to find one of the Ancients’ beyond-precious maps stretched out atop the aged wood. The strange material — almost slippery to the touch, tough and yet pliable — was held open while the gathered warriors traced fingers carefully above its surface.

Toza-tiris Duskflame jabbed one finger into the tabletop. The only hale warrior left behind in Redrock, the grim-faced veteran who would hold here no matter what happened out atop the waves. <The timing of this attack is… suspect. For the Sezabids to have arrived within our waters at such a time, they must have departed many days ago. Perhaps long enough that they would have found it difficult to have received a report from any observer of theirs to confirm our losses.> Her hand turned to gesture to the warrior who stood at her side. <Talas-lesein, how long would a journey from Sezabi to here take?>

<At this time of year?> The former-hunter reached across her chest with one arm, to rub thoughtfully at the decades-healed stub of her left elbow. <Eight days from us to them, tacking into the late-spring easterlies. Perhaps four in the other direction, sailing with the wind.>

Their sanzai came in clipped, brisk thoughts, but was not sent with much force. Archbrook noted with grim understanding that they no doubt wished to make sure that they were not received by anyone outside of the room. The children and wounded-warriors who guarded the Clan’s home right now did not need to immediately have it made plain how much danger they were in; they would be told soon enough, when the time was right.

<Then,> suggested a third warrior, who leaned against the table to better balance atop her single remaining leg, <they must have departed before any of our vessels would have returned. They were taking a risk, not knowing if we would be here in strength to crush them.>

<As I suspected.> Duskflame sent, her brows darkening as she glared down at the extremely-valuable map before her. Her finger tapped slowly at the Ancients’ wonder-material. <Such a risky undertaking is unusually bold for the Sezabids… unless they had some way of knowing beforehand that we would be short of warriors.>

Archbrook bared her teeth in a silent hiss. That would be just like those treacherous foreigners! Yet, —?

<How?> Talas-lesein Wildwind echoed Archbrook’s unsent thoughts. <Even if they stooped to working with this Southerner who has attacked our ships out on the far seas, — something that I cannot imagine even the Sezabids doing lightly — they would have to be addle-minded to trust that their Amenalid conspirators would actually be able to cripple our fleet.>

<This is true, yes.> Duskflame acknowledged. <Unless...> Then she turned her head slightly, not-quite looking back at Archbrook. <were you followed or observed as you left the Town, Apprentice?>

Archbrook frowned, carefully reviewing her memories of all those days ago. She had been in… not quite the best mood when she had left Redrock on what she had thought to be a suicide mission. Yet she had kept her eyes on the horizon, had seen no sign of any distant observers watching the town. <I neither sensed nor saw anyone, Senior Warrior.> Only as the thoughts left her mind did she realize her oversight.

One that was also noted by the other warriors around the table. <Did you 'see' this Dain male following you? He was observed leaving the gate some time after you, and we note that he was not sent back to the safety of the town shortly afterwards.> Talas-lesein Wildwind observed with some humor.

A note of humor thrummed between the elder warriors, drawing heat to Archbrook’s face. <I did not look behind me when I left upon—!>

Duskflame waved aside the defensive thought, turning now to properly face Archbrook. <No insult was intended, Apprentice.> The aged scar which cut across her face — right eye down to the left corner of her mouth — crinkled as she gave a rare, thin smile. <Yet the possibility remains that—> she paused, frowning past Archbrook.

Who turned to see Dovindr poking at the corner of the Ancients’ irreplaceable and priceless wonder, where one semi-transparent corner sat in front of him. A pink-pale finger rubbed slowly, curiously, at the strange smooth texture.

Archbrook reached out and grasped his wrist, carefully pulling it away from the artifact. He was not likely to damage something that had endured for countless generations, certainly, but there was a proper amount of respect that should be shown to the handiwork of her Ancestors! Even if its mysterious material was indeed most strange to the touch...

The Dain turned to her, a question upon his lips. One that clearly died as he caught sight of four loroi staring back at him. He closed his mouth, swallowing, and took one step back from the table. Which also put Archbrook between him and her fellow warriors.

Turning again to her Clan-sisters, Archbrook sent <I have good reason to believe that no Sezabid watched me depart Redrock.> She considered how much to send, and decided on a full report. It seemed that she would not be able to send to Grandmother just yet — ‘perhaps not ever’ a traitorous corner of her mind added — and so Duskflame was the designated local authority. <I fought three of their number at Belt-buckle Pass, slaying one and forcing the other two to acknowledge Clan Whirlpool’s right to this season’s timber shipments.> She gestured behind her. <That I won this battle against an opponent whom I declare to be a near-peer fighter was thanks to the intervention of Dovindr.> Sending quickly, she added <He did not know what he did by interfering in a declared duel, but he also went unobserved by the Sezabids.>

<A most interesting male indeed.> Duskflame noted drily, one eyebrow rising minutely. <But what did this—?> She cut her thought off mid-sending, eyes narrowing. <I see. Any observer tracking you leaving the Town would have noted the male as well — if they were distant enough to not be detected by sanzai, they would have mistaken him for a second warrior — and warned their interception force.>

<Indeed so.> Archbrook nodded.

<That is a good observation.> Duskflame sent, turning slightly aside to stare through the Hall’s wall out to sea. <Well thought.>

Archbrook smiled thinly at the complement from such an experienced warrior, her worry-weighted heart lightening slightly despite the Clan’s grim situation.

<Yet the fact remains that the Sezabids have—> Duskflame began, before a distant sending trailed in from the south.

<Signal from the Citadel! A ship returns, not hostile!> came the youthful sending of whatever child was manning the lookout spire that granted vision down to the distant fortification.

But what was clearly sent as happy news instead sent a pang of anxiety ricocheting between the four warriors present. For while a child yet unproven by battle might think that of course Goldenshawl and her lone vessel would have easily triumphed over a mere four Sezabid craft… those within this room knew better.

That Grandmother had won — or else she would not have returned — was only expected; the cost of that victory remained to be seen.

///////

Dovindr hurried after Rozelsarad as she left the room, both of them following behind the one elf-woman who had clearly been the leader of the group within their large hall. The elfs were indeed not mortal men, yes, but seeing the battle-marked fighters in that eerily-large room had driven that point home with finality. He had thought Rozelsarad's death-mission to be an abnormality; perhaps instead such violence was normal for her people?

The shudder that ran down his spine had little to do with the cold front of wind that struck him as he left the warm building. Had Rozelsarad not been the only elf-woman to depart on a blood-crazed mission?

Rozelsarad explained “Grandmother and her ship went to fight the Sezabids, and only now are returning.”

Quieting his voice even further as the group reached the top of the path leading down to their floating harbor, he asked “Was hers a mission, like yours? For ‘pride’?”

Rozelsarad’s mouth shot open to retort, but paused for a moment. Then, almost as quietly as he had spoken, she said only “Yes.”

He hadn’t seen her this… distant since the day before she had left. When the two of them had spent all that time talking at the waterfall overlook.

Seeing her this way still pulled at something deep inside him. After only a moment of hesitation, he reached out to briefly grasp her shoulder as they descended the spray-slick stairway. Giving her a reassuring squeeze.

She did not dislodge his hand.

///////

Victory-crown drifted slowly in, only a double-handful of oars still rising and lowering to guide the vessel to her harbor berth. The other oar-ports low in the hull remained closed, their stoppers pulled in tight.

Archbrook’s heart sank — there must be few warriors remaining fit aboard for the ship to be handled now so poorly. She and the others waited on the gently-rocking harbor, each warrior’s mind ringing with anxious stillness.

Grandmother’s ship turned her bow only belatedly as she neared, and a thrown mooring-rope arced out onto the dock so late that it hung down into the water. Archbrook hurried forwards, grasping the heavy fiber line before it could fall back off of the harbor entirely.

As expected, Dovindr was at her side immediately, both of them tying off the great ship and pulling in the slack. The male said nothing aloud, clearly picking up on the worry which coursed back-and-forth between all in attendance.

After all, the warriors aboard the ship had yet sent nothing. No report of their battle, neither the boasting of the victorious nor the mourning of survivors after their arms-sisters.

Only the fact that they had returned — and the black-lined victory banner hanging limp in the faint breeze — showed that anything lived at all within the ship.

But life did stir atop Victory-crown’s deck.

A procession, four warriors carrying… half a water-container? They climbed slowly, carefully, up from the shelter-deck. Turned towards where others quickly set the docking-boards in place.

And as they neared, Archbrook saw what was carried within that water-container.

Who.

Grandmother lifted her head, the only part of her body that stirred from her canvas supports within the cut-in-half barrel. It took a moment for Archbrook to recognize Goldenshawl’s sending, her sanzai so bleary with suppressed pain and sheer exhaustion. <The Sezabids are no longer a threat.>

Yet all the same, the eyes that peered out from underneath her matted hair were as sharp as ever.

Archbrook stepped back, pulling Dovindr after her to make room at the base of the planks. The four warriors sidled down the swaying timbers, each one with her own mind clamped down hard. Yet even that discipline served only to accentuate the bandaged-over fresh wounds that they bore.

Of course, that was as nothing compared to Grandmother.

With a mirthless, rictus grin, the Clan leader sent as she was carried onto the harbor’s creaking deck <Duskflame, they seem to have done it at last.> Her left arm twitched, before lethargically dragging fingers up and down her blood-bandaged chest. <My backbone is shot through.>

<!> A formless spike of angry sanzai shot forth in response to her sending; Archbrook could not say who had sent it. Perhaps Duskflame, perhaps herself, or perhaps simply all present reacted as one to the devastating news.

‘Shot’, she had sent. A rifle, then, a coward’s weapon beyond even the longest spear. No surprise that the Sezabids had finally achieved what they had attempted — and failed at — for so long with proper war-arms, and crippled the peerless leader of the foremost warrior-Clan of Beleri.

<But you yet live.> Duskflame sent, the muscles in her neck taut.

<Only barely.> Grandmother replied, her head finally dropping back onto the cushioning placed behind her. With her eyes closed, she added <I can feel nothing below my chest; that the wound is not entirely fatal is thanks only to the barest vagary of fortune.>

<To the Depths with Dalid!> burst from Archbrook’s mind before she could stop herself. It was so— so — so unfair for this thunderbolt to strike her Clan now, of all times! Barely a thousand solon before, she had been returning home in gleeful triumph from a mission that had succeeded beyond her faintest hopes! With Dovindr beside her, both of them having worked together to slap down the upstart Sezabids and conceive of this new ‘ski’ travel’s utility for her people!

Yet even as they had tumbled into the snow just inside the Land Gate, Grandmother had been returning home a maimed cripple. Having fought a battle completely unknown to Archbrook, purchasing her own victory at a cost as high as that which Archbrook had been prepared to pay when she had left all those days earlier.

A cost which may yet prove as destructive to Clan Whirlpool as it had to Chief Goldenshawl herself.

<Inform Brightvoice.> Grandmother sent after a quiet moment, in which none present acknowledged Archbrook’s irate breach of decorum. <She will see to the Clan’s business while I recover.> A wet cough, blood flecking onto pale lips. <And then afterwards, if I do not.>

Archbrook’s gut spasmed, and she leaned to one side to place her unsteady balance atop a guide-pole rising up alongside the dock from the harbor-bottom below. For Grandmother to send such a thought so openly meant that she truly believed that grim — unthinkable! — scenario to be possible.

Perhaps even likely.

In comparison to which, the point that Rozelsarad no longer stood in dishonor, — that she could once more take her position as a prominent warrior of the Clan with her head held high — seemed to be not worth mentioning just now. Grandmother would learn of it once she was able, after she recovered enough for her mind to be fully-capable once more, if not her body.

And if she didn’t recover...

<Of course.> Duskflame sent, and if the familiar crisp ring of her sanzai held perhaps a tinge of hollow worry behind it then none present chose to comment on it.

///////

Dovindr stood quietly at Rozelsarad’s side, watching as the elf-women carried away their supine leader. The one who, only days before, had sat opposite a feasting-table from Father and appeared an even match for his iron drive and imposing presence. Yet now deprived of her stalwart bearing and straight-backed presence, she was simply one more bloodied elf-woman.

He’d seen far too many already.

The slow-moving procession stepped carefully off of the rocking dock, their boots clacking quietly against the stone steps. The four carriers, and the other elf-women who had come down the path with him and Rozelsarad. Yet still his friend did not move from where she stood as if rooted in place. Her eyes blinked rapidly, her face paling so that it almost matched the color of a mortal man.

Dovindr swallowed to clear his throat. “She is—” his voice cracked, and he coughed before trying again “She is alive.” He tried hard to keep the rising question-inflection out of his tone, knowing that surely Rozelsarad heard it nonetheless.

But this certainly appeared to be a moment when she may just need someone to keep a hard face and pretend that everything would be all right. Even if he had more than his own share of doubts, carefully kept deep inside.

Red-orange eyes snapped aside to peer into his own, and for a moment something dark flashed behind those elf-irises.

But then it was gone, and the thinnest possible smile hesitantly flickered its way onto lips whose blue now stood out all the more against a paling skin. A smile that was clearly faked. “Yes. No… ‘sewing’?”

He likewise faked a quiet laugh, to match her own obviously-forced joke.

It didn’t last, and silence descended once more. The two of them, now alone on the dock with only the creaking of wood from the ship next to them. A few more elf-women stirred atop the vessel, slowly tying off lines and otherwise going about securing the massive craft in her place.

More by instinct than by conscious thought, Dovindr found his arm reaching around Rozelsarad, pulling the despondent woman gently to his side. But hesitating there — it was evident that elf-women like her were far different from the women and girls he had known throughout his life; would she object?

Yet after only a quiet hitch of breath quickly stolen away by the harbor breeze, she tightened her own arm around him.

The silence stretched on, but it was perhaps not quite so oppressive as it had been.