At Sea, to Arkronia
Though the Arkronians had long banned the construction of large resplendent ships throughout the realm, so as to maintain a monopoly on large men of war and great treasure galleons the art of designing ships for inter-realm trade and travel was still permitted to travel. But the area of design that was left there was much room for experimentation and design of its own to meet the needs of the mostly autonomous realms. Of such designs and characteristic was the ship Waxward, one of the five royal ships owned by the crown of Cor for its numerous wants and needs.
Built with a low deck and a shallow hull, the low ship lacquered with slick black pine tar was a swift skipper across the icy black waves of the ocean. Filled with the wind, its white and red sails billowed and swelled with the wind. The ropes and yards of its rigging snapping in the wind with every billowing crack of the wind into the sails. The very movement of the ship over the waves was like a rock being smoothly skipped over the water, flying straight across the low white heads of a still and calm northerly sea. Towards pillowing white mountains of late winter clouds to the north west it bounded forth towards Arkronia, with its long spear tipped bow raised up over the sea directing the helmsman on ever more towards the seat of royal power.
With a light crew bustling across the deck, the atmosphere was calm as under a low plank-topped and open cabin the royal passengers and their retinues and attendees sat on dense woolen pillows. The spray of the water and the rush of the wind was cold and bitter and they covered themselves in blankets to guard themselves from the occasional light spray of the cold ocean waves. Likewise, the crew went about their meagre work, now within the middle of their voyage and with only but the tending of the sails to do to keep the ship flying straight they went about with idle work: cleaning the dock and mopping up the sea water to keep it dry, mending torn ropes, or sitting upon the ropes of the rigging and keeping a eye cast out over the boundless waters.
Compared to the heavy vessels of the Arkronian fleet, whose immense decks supported a great number of marines and could sail across the great expanse of the seas to foreign lands kept as stories from many of the common residents of the homeland the Waxward was a small frigate of no notable difference. It had no fighting decks or platforms, or emplacements for even any large engine to do series battle. It would be in naval strategy considered mostly a boarding platform, its small crews hanging out on the periphery waiting to attack on any hostile vessel to board and capture it from its crew as they struggled against the much larger fighting platforms. And even compared to the mighty treasure galleons of the main fleet proper such a ship could not hold much in the way of storage. But it was especially in defiance of this that the Cor's shipyards have had for nearly the passed century been turning these ships out.
So small and rudimentary to be quickly built by a small team of carpenters, Corvig schooners like the Waxward were cheap in all except for whatever luxury materials or fittings demanded of them. Built for speed, what they often lacked in terms of capacity they made up for in speed, capable of completing trips faster than the lumbering and mighty treasure galleons that circulated the immense wealth of the Arkronians. Sent out from port, they could deliver single loads of a single commodity with considerable speed and efficiency, and were slowly plying further up and down the west coast of the realm in the small inter-realm traffic that existed.
Their commercial advantages in this respect also made them well respected passenger transports among the nobles and guild burgers of the coasts who could readily at any moment take one to make a quick and fleeting voyage to some distant or semi-distant area at short notice.
“An' out t'ere abroad t'sea are a race o'people whose women go about bare-chested all te'time in the warm lucid sun of their aft'noons!” the captain of the ship exclaimed, warmly drawing a deep breath from his pipe as he laughed. He, captain Wallace Hair Dog Spitting Into the Sea was an old nobleman, whose family he claimed stretched back millennia. But over the eons they had waned from great kings, onto into barons, before being scattered among the hundred scots lands of the Hemden watershed to manage to the watershed lots of the area, a far cry from grand princley status but he had started young with the meager savings his family had acquired working a small free hold farm and the collection of fees to see to the upkeep of the levees and canals that protected the farming valley around Hemden and the city itself from seasonal spring melts and summer rains to pay his way aboard a ship as an officer, and then into his own ship. A crude cut gentlemen with a head of graying and black feathers that never lay down straight his beak was scarred and mired by many decades at high-sea adventures, from brief stints aboard Arkronian treasure ships to lands far and wide and then into the easy quasy retirement in the Coarsecrane court. His sharp black eyes shone in the sun, black pearls set in white and graying rings around his eye.
His arrayed guests laughed, and in the distance a few lewd comments were made by comfortable crewmen who overheard the story without receiving scorn. For his part, William took the story with an air of impassivity as he sat slouched under his blanket with his own pipe of smoldering herb. Along side him sat his eldest son Henry who laid with his head resting atop his hand on a pillow, a heavy blanket laid over him.
“Bare a day that I miss t'days not.” he said wistfully, “But m'body is worn an' I doubt I can bare the long voyages again. S'long at sea n'the salt gets into yea. Yer joints ache, yer mind throms. Even so long out, n'I feel that me stomach turns an'me. Short voyages'r fine. But t'long slog across th'great sea an' it hollows me out.”
“It sounds like y'miss it.” Henry said.
“Mhm” Wallace intoned, “But 'bou's much as an' old man misses 'es youth. Our lohrd here mayhaps 'as much t'speak there on it in that as much.”
William looked up from looking down in his mug. In the center of the group circle a small brazer had been placed were from a hook hung a kettle of brandy warming over the coals. It was a small offering from the hold full of the southern distillate wine, brandy that was in the ship's hold as a gift to the Arkronian court as soon as they arrived. But looking into his cup he could see it was still half full and a layer of ash puffed out from the pipe was floating on the service.
“Y'tell?” Wallace asked.
“No thank you.” William answered, and the captain shrugged.
Also there were William's other two sons. His second oldest, Coffey Spit In The Lake sat upright gently sipping the warmed liqueur. He resembled his father and eldest brother Henry, except for the broadness of his brow compared to the other two and the tufts of feathers that spiked up from the side of his head like short elf ears. And besides him younger still was the younger thirteen year old young boy with a lost look in his eye, Edward Joined The River At Seventeen To Seek Peace In Time. Joining them too were two knights of the court, who lounged separated from the group but none the less under the cover and holding onto cups of brandy, though they had foregone their armor to the hold, they did not go without swords.
“What's Arkronia like?” Edward asked, his voice tense and feeble. He looked about himself for a moment, and up at Wallace and his father, “Yea two have been there, right?”
“Right I 'ave.” Wallace said, “And s'far as I can attest t': it's a remarkable city. Well orderly, nea possible t' get lost in its streets fer y'can find yerself easily back t'where you found yerself. Much unlike Hemden, whose streets wind 'bout themselves oft', and far better than an dozen others. Would'a'ya say, m'lord?”
William nodded, “It's a very open place.” he remarked.
“T'aint never been up't th' palace 'fore though, only seen it from a'distance.”
“T'is an immense building.” William said for the captain
“Aye?” Edward said.
William nodded, taking a draw from his pipe and then saying, “Some say'yea can fit entire castles in'ta it. I've seen'em do whole parades inside. Nae a man it is said has thrown a royal coin in'ta t' air and hit t'ceiling.”
“Oy've 'eard a lad once tried t'shoot an arrow up into t'cieling and it never struck.” added the captain
William smiled, laughing for once. But it was a dry crackling laugh, “I know not 'bout that. But mayhaps t' great hall. May be why t'emperor sits so high so often.”
“Than how's it we don' have a castle s'large?” Edward asked.
“We don't 'ave the gold t'challenge the gods!” Coffey exclaimed. He had been there once, but had not seen the grandest parts. But William remembered for months after he had terrifying nightmares of being lost within it when they had left. Its size was imposing and existentially defeating to many who say it, so it was said. Though not many had ever laid eyes upon the great palace, with the realm being so broad, William believed that had any soldier of any rebellion ever gone to see such an immense palace they would have to lay down their spears and swords for they knew they would be doing battle with the avatars of some great terrifying race of gods. The thought of such a building struck him with considerable unease, and he had seen it before. Laid eyes upon its disorienting scale and proportions. It was a terror in itself as it was beautiful. By being, it defied any use of the term, “palace”. With the deft strokes of the architects and the engineers who had toiled for centuries to build it, rendered all other nobles mere peasantry in contrast. But mayhaps that too was the reason for the regular rebellion, it inspired by pure existence a jealousy that built in the hearts of lineages of ungrateful lords and set the heights for god-hood that can be achieved.
“Well, I'mit that ay've nae been into t'palace me'self. But: I have heard a story. Mayhaps, m'honor you can confirm if you can: but have thee been t'the library in its halls?”
“I've never been interested.” William said.
“Ay well: Henry, y'like books do yea'not?”
“I fancy t'read now an' then: sure. Why?”
“Oy've heard it tell on good faith that th' library within defies all known scale. That oer'th'eons the great emperors an' great families collected within' it the entirety of t'world's written word. Copies o'originals, originals, copies o'copies. Ascendin' in great columns, set like a beehive t' infinite collection o' words spans all walls, inner and outer. From t' darkness of the corners to th'lights o'f t'windows an' th' lamp. But nae' all books within it are ever in t'same language fer t'span and greatness o't'empire gae far. An' in t'copies o'copies, there may exist a version o'any book with all'o t'error that it may have.”
“Astounding!” Henry exclaimed, “How is it though they 'ave collected so many?”
“Who knows but t'gods!” Wallace said with a loud booming voice, rolling into a laugh as he drew from his pipe, realized he let it go cold, and with a deft painless finger pinched a few smoldering embers into it before puffing it back to life. “Though, some say it only exists fer image.” he added with a wink.
“That is quiet t'collection. How does anyone find a'thing?”
“Well I hea' tell they 'ave a 'hole class o' men an' women whose entire lives are'in that library. From birth thro' life. Eat n' drink n' fuck in its halls. They die there, livin' like a society devoted t'th' Word. They learn ere' catalogue, memorize t'shelves. N' by th' end, they only know parts.”
“All 'o that, 'nd all of that work. Must cost'em a fortune, yay?”
“Ay, t'at do. But when'yea own a continent as does thee, yah learn not t'care.”
“The thought makes m'sick.” Coffey complained.
“I find it hard t'imagine.” Edward said, “How long till we are there?”
Captain Wallace leaned back and thought, and turning out over the deck shot, “Mastah Navigatah! How'fae 'we be!?”
“Tarry naught, a day in the likelihood m'honor!” a voice shot back, coming from a scrawny figure by the bow. Not an Avan, but a human dressed in slack dress and a heavy oiled cloak to protect from the water.
“Y'answeahed might quick. Y' confident!?” Wallace roared back.
“Aye, sah!” he shouted, “Was 'jus 'low deck t'check and calculate. We' holdin' pace steady as she goes. T'wind is strong.”
“T'gods bless spring winds!” Wallace laughed loudly, “Thank ye, ya a w'ight honahble gentlmen.”
“M'pleasure m'loed.” the navigator shouted back.
Kingdom of Cor
Collans
If one were to take the road from Hemden and keep pace somewhere to the south-east, in three to four days time depending on the weather you might make it into the duchy of Camienbrea. Here, at a cross roads that matches the main road with about half a dozen mule paths that trace up and down the border and spiderweb about is the village of Sulley, a border point recognized as being certainly on the Camienbrea side of the border of the duchy and county line, opposite of which is Lassex where Hemden rests. But continuing from here along the main road to the castle of Surrey where the Lord Breth resides over a respectable but small barony of a few hundred farmers you turn firmly west. But a summer travel the sun is often rising right from the middle of the road and travelers towards it often simply stop because the land here is flat and full of thistles and there is little escape from it except to sit slumped in the wheat until it rises enough to be hidden under the brim of hats. The same goes for the opposite direction, and it is that stretch that is considered the worst road in all the realm, or at least those that travel, and those still often only do such in the mid-kingdom so the legends of their terrible road are not spoken of in the north or south.
But all annoyances aside it is simply a day or two's walk or a day's ride along the unpaved road to the village of Sumdale were you leave the direct stare of the sun and turn south. Here along this road you walk into the Stonewood and the land of the old estates of the ancient Craichol family and its cadets who were entirely murdered after the first rebellion for trying to usurp Arkronian rule in the Cor, the then ruling Cashawk family finding their act of chicanery an affront and emblematic of the unworthiness of their rule and as servants. The estates were entirely divided up but so numerous were the divisions that in the generations since the land owners simply abandoned any pretense of rule and through vacancy the land became free making the first of the free peasant realms in the thick of the forest. But here and there throughout the are persisted stalwart barons who continued to rule from castles nestled in deep dark forest and woods. Of which were the Blackbarrow family, who rose to rebellion in the Little Rebellion in the aftermath of the peace of the Third Rebellion.
In the time of the Little Rebellion, then king Paul Blackarm Who Burns Out The Enemies of Justice Coarsecrane, the father of present king William sought out the entire destruction of the family. Those who did not flea were impaled on spikes and burned. Petitioned to house a new royal family in the territory, he refused muttering the line, “I trust a self-interested peasant before a self-interested noble.” With that, the area drifted into what some considered lawlessness, but is considered the largest stretch of largely passive country side owing to the life style of the peasants here who intermittently clear and farm the forest and are left unabated except for the royal tax duties to the king himself. The old castles and estates of the barons largely growing cold and empty in the intervening seasons and three generations now have grown up knowing no direct liege except that of the distant king, who long left the area to its own devices and came to be considered gentle and noble for his patience in their self rule.
And that is why a pickax was being swung against a wall plastered over with hard clay, the burn marks of a large fire scorching the wall around it from the previous season. The rest of the castle looming overhead as a haunting ghost of a time now feeling long distant. Seated on a gray stone in the cold sun of the early spring a studious Avan with a narrow graying face sat chewing idly on a pen in his beak as he clutched a folio to his lap. Sharp academic eyes watched heavily as the work crew in front of him chipped away at the sealed wall.
There were others with him who stood about waiting. There only needed to be so many to swing a pick and a hammer, it was not a herculean labor. But they were needed. But for now they waited for the simple work to finish. A breeze shot down from over the ruined ramparts of the castle into the court yard and the seated gray-topped Avan pulled at his coat, an old and out-of-style caribou coat from the northern Epha.
When the wall did finally fall he shot up in readiness as it came down in pieces, shooting up clouds of dust and dirt as it came down, “Ah, splendid!” he exclaimed.
Walking into the door now made he swept the air with his folio, fanning aside the dust as he searched for a torch. He found one readily in the silver sunlight that arced in and took it, holding it out. “Ol' Creft, can I ask ye fer a strike?” the grey-headed Avan asked, holding out the torch, “I left my light at home.”
“Certain', your honor.” another said, and pulled a flint and steel from his pouch and with a few knocks lit the torch. The gray headed Avan smiled wide as he went off into the heart of the leaning keep with the others following him, along the way reaching out to light more and more torches as they went along, bringing light to the ruined hall.
This was really a side-corridor, the old gate house and great hall that would have been the main point of interest had long since collapsed after several winters. The fire set in it by the old king had greatly threatened the integrity of the building and after many violent southerly storms and heavy northerly snows had finally come down one year without anyone around to see it. This hall was a mere supplementary access, and the hall went down. Winter pooled up in the floor and the cracks between the stones, shining brilliant gold with the torch light.
They stopped their voyage where the air fell still and smelled of mildew and wet. The far-reaching light of the torches just barely reaching out into the darkness to light the corded bulk of a number of casks. The gray headed Avan moved forward, and lit a brazer and began filling the chamber with light.
Shadows were thrown against the wall from rusting iron bars. Iron chains from the ceiling hung limply or haphazardly across the floor, and in the dozen of cells in the old gaol. But now instead of bodies in its cells, there sat a number of large casks with a series of numbers written on them, years. Opening his folio the Avan went to work searching the years.
“Ay, hear lads. This 'ere's the splendid lot!” he exclaimed and tapped the face with his knuckles. It did not sound. It was full. It was twenty years old.
Friend Bone Splinters In The Knee of the old House of Cribknoll, the gray headed Avan who stood back to write in the log in his folio as the others assembled to help haul out the casks was a scribe, or would be described as one in the courts of the Arkronians. With a tradition of the letters he had adopted from his father and his associate who was a noble man of letters in the region's old noble houses and escaped the fires of Paul Blackarm. In the Avan tradition of the Cor, he was what was referred to as a Lecturner; scribe, lawyer, jurist, educator, and mediator. With a tall build he looked as though he could have been a warrior and he joked that when he was a youth his father said he would have rather have named him Reach Them With A Spear for he had a reach as long as he was tall. But even so, with no court to tempt with knightly prowess and often only boar to shoot with arrows there was no particular reason to give to him any martial skill and so he was trained in the letters over the sword, though he still knew how to fight.
But with the whiskey loaded they made their way. The door left unsealed, they would come to get it another time. It was not a long wagon journey, and though the road was rough they had strapped the kegs tight to the rustic wooden wagon as they pulled through dark sleeping trees. The buds at the tips of their branches having hardly broken through to show before the first leaves burst forth. And snow still covered the cool earth. Even the grass yet had yet to unfurl and show its green colors though the sun had begun the melt.
It was clear in the sky and overhead as they rode out from the cover of the forest into the first open fields. A small number of isolated farm houses dotted the area with troublesomely high stone walls built around them. But further yet ahead was the village of Collans.
Collans was a village of at that time thirty wood and wattle and daub hovels, built on the gentle sloping embankment towards a small river that ran black over the dark stones underneath it. The surrounding fields equally as black with upturned sod from the previous year and where over the winter the cuttings of the last harvest still lay intermixed with the ragged rich ash blankness of the earth. Gangs of pigs prowled the barren fields rooting through the thick sopping mud searching for the eggs of beetles and bugs that would hatch in the warmer weather to come. The small village straddled either side of the rocky stream though the water was not deep enough nor ever violent enough to so much as warrant a bridge to cross it and as such a dozen foot paths entered the waters to come out again elsewhere and the daily crossing of the stream meant that often the women of the village never took to wearing skirts or when they did to hike them high up to prevent the lace from getting wet, and thereby defeat the point of modesty. At the center of the village a tall moss covered pillar rose, latched to it a few dozen or so ropes that were being covered now with a wide array of brightly covered ribbons for the moment to soon arrive.
The laborers and Bone Friend entered the town with a muddy splash from a puddle in the road, made from the melting snow and a flock of white and mottled bread-brown geese parted, protesting loudly with their clamorous honks. In the yard of the farm house they passed a small group of children sat playing and singing a spring time song. All the group waved as a tired Avan woman with her back arched over looked up and smiled, hailing the worthy men with the look that paid the graces but was too far gone in its own work to really commit.
The group stopped suddenly at a house whose fence was covered in ivy. An Avan woman, with a head of blue feathers like a jay stepped out and looked at them. “Well iffi' yea weren' gonna take any longe'.” she said with a sarcastic grin in her voice. “You can take'em in an' set them aside.”
“Ay ma'am.” one of the workmen said. Bone Friend stepped over and bowed, taking her hand and placing it to the side of his beak.
“Don' act like a gallant, wordy.” she said laughing, “They's not he'e anymore.”
“Doesn't matte'.” said Friend, “But it's all set an' finished. We'll be 'an back up once some clay is ready to fill up the hole again.”
The Avan shrugged, “T'is a real shame we have t' get yea all involved in t'is affair.” she said, “If it wan't for the Carriers...”
“Don' bring it up. Ah'm dealing with it.”
She huffed, and crossed her arms. She watched the kegs pass into the house. Broodily she said with a sneer, “Really t'is our whiskey. It's pah'ticallily theft.”
“No, it's just a'property dispute.” Bone Friend said with a long sigh.
“More like pride.” the Avan said under her breath, “You hea' what 'ey hea'd?”
“No.”
“ T'aht Cleary means t'kill my son. I'm thinking to have a'knife on me.”
Bone Friend rolled his eyes, shaking his head, “That won' be neccesary. I'll have t'speak with him 'bout this. Before t'holy-day.”
“Y'betteh, or it'd be mo'e'than m'son's blood on t'village square.”
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